Rebooted Battleships

[CompassJimbo]

For professor Arthur Crowning, today had been a rather difficult one. Even as he slowly picked at his slice of apple pie, he couldn't bring himself to actually eat it. Not after what happened. The sounds of glass being swept up filled the chilly air behind him, each brush and crinkle cutting him further.

Just a few blocks down had been one of the greatest symbols of American military might, and one that was needed again. After the Bush went down, the public needed something to restore their faith that the Navy could keep their shores safe. Indeed, across the street, he could see a family packing their bags into their car, uncaring at how the windows on it had been blown out, as well. Hundreds of 16" shells cooking off at once did that.

Of course, nobody expected suicide boats to get this far upriver, nevermind past Norfolk.

But that family was one of many, most around here making their way to the Rust Belt. Such was the nature of the war. An enemy purely from the sea itself, without borders to cross, nor factories to bomb, nor leaders to pick off. They just popped up, attacked, and were either destroyed, or slipped away. Once-shining cities like New York were becoming ghost towns as a result.

"Everything alright, professor?"

Crowning's eyes rose up. It was one of his students, who he knew worked in this diner. "I was hoping to see her one last time, before she got sent off to the breakers."

"Yeah. I feel you. My grandfather served on her, back in the eighties. Said their biggest fear during a shooting war with the Soviets were their subs and Moskits."

"Mmm…"

That battleship had such a storied history, and now all of it had been reduced to scrap metal, courtesy of the Abyssals. Those creatures seemed determined to destroy or consume everything mankind had built, and if the rumors were true, even people suffered the latter fate.

"Hey, at least there's a chance she'll come back. Nobody expected something as ugly as Yamashiro to return as someone easy on the eyes. Fuck, even Nelson's hot." A pause from the kid, as they realized their use of rather foul language. "Uhh, sorry, professor."

A chance. Crowning snorted at that. America had a few of its ships return, yes, but none of those graceful, powerful sea queens, those castles of steel. The biggest one back was Alaska, and she was described as more of an oddball above all else.

Crowning barely even noticed the little jingle of the bells on the front door. Of course, why someone would open it instead of slip through the shattered glass pane was beyond him. But something about this new person's raw presence caught his attention. He could even tell, without even looking around, that everyone else in the diner was also staring at the new arrival.

Turning around, something hit him, as he laid eyes on the woman, as tall as she was bruised and bloodied. "I have a couple questions," she began. Even though it sounded somewhat hoarse, there was still a noticeable contralto to it. Authoritative, silencing. "First, what's the fuckin' date?" She held up a finger, uncaring that it had been cut open, before a second flipped up. "Second question: Who? In the fuck? DISTURBED MY FUCKING SLEEP!?"

Without pause, and ignoring his widened eyes and gaping mouth, the woman— no, the battleship —swiped Crowning's plate, tipped it over her mouth, and swallowed the apple pie whole, before the stool she was sitting on collapsed from her weight, suddenly realizing it had been supporting over 50,000 tons of Special Treatment Steel, and sending her sprawling all over the floor.

Well, one didn't simply argue against hungry battleships.

As Crowning stared at her passed-out form, mouth agape, he knew that while many like her had made memorable entrances, this one was going to stand out— for its lack of dignity, if nothing else. Ironic considering New Jersey was supposed to be a graceful queen of the oceans. Perhaps her namesake state had rubbed off too much on her.

---

Belated Battleships (A Reboot)


"Firepower for Freedom!"

–Motto, USS New Jersey (BB-62)

[=]​

The sound of a soft chiming woke New Jersey up, a groan escaping her as she felt the warm and curiously-soothing waters part with each motion. A few things still fucking ached, as was expected when her magazines cooked off. Jersey let out a bitter laugh. Woken up only to get blown up, just like poor Arizona. Couldn't have been from an air raid, though, considering she was sitting still in the middle of a river, and the hits she felt were definitely around the waterline, not her deck.

And somehow, she wasn't surprised that she and her physical hull shared the same form now. As she looked at her reflection in a mirror above, she knew that a lot of boys and men, and hell, probably a few women, would find her much easier on the eyes. Strawberry-blonde hair, icy blue eyes, and a well-toned body with some definite muscle in her arms and torso. Definitely took that kind of strength to wield naval rifles as awesome as hers.

A smile crept across her face, before she noticed a tiny figure, no doubt one of the dockworkers, run up to her, clipboard in hand. Looking over the papers, she saw damage reports and a list of fixes, including the restoration of her secondary battery and anti-aircraft suite.

"Dammit, I fucking liked my Tomahawks…" she groaned to the worker.

"Hey!" It replied.

"Yeah, fuck you, too."

"Hey!"

"It sure as fuck ain't meant for the enemy we're expecting nowadays."

With a huff, the worker marched off, all while she felt her crew make their way to their posts. On the plus side, she did like the fireworks show she could put up back then. Wouldn't mean jack shit against anti-ship missiles, though.

Last she remembered, with Ivan passed out on the floor and looking unlikely to get up anytime soon, the Chinese were looking to be the next big threat. Wouldn't be her fight, though. Everyone, including herself, knew she was at the end of her ropes after Desert Storm. Whatever fight the Navy found must've gotten fucking nasty if they tried to get her back up and into fighting shape.

Something like that shouldn't have happened. The Navy was better than this. Better than the enemy, too. A low sigh escaped her. Americans like her weren't meant to mope around and instead do something.

Looking around herself, Jersey noticed a towel and a set of clothes, clothes that were uniquely hers. It was the outfit she had last left off with. Navy Whites, matching short shorts, and that black 'BB-62' ballcap she had a fondness for. She sighed. Better than that fucking gown.

Drying herself off and throwing her clothes on, Jersey found the exit in short order, as people snapped to salute. "New Jersey?" Someone called out. Looking behind herself, the battleship noticed someone with stars on his shoulder boards, combo cover in hand. Middle-aged man, definitely shorter, too, but they were all shorter. Snapping to salute, the Admiral smiled before waving her along. "At ease, sailor. Now come along. There's obviously a lot to discuss."

Following him at an exact distance, she felt herself duck her head below the doorframe, before standing at attention. She knew that while there was a chair there, it would snap and break.

"Afraid of breaking another?" The Admiral asked, seemingly picking up on her thoughts. A chuckle escaped him as Jersey raised her eyebrow. "Surprised you don't remember, nor that poor college professor's apple pie you swiped."

"I got fucking blown up, sir."

"Indeed." He said, before taking his seat. Jersey saw the nameplate on both his chest and desk. 'Michael Black.' He grabbed what looked like a clipboard, before tapping it a few times, like one of those… things from Star Trek… fuck, she couldn't remember the name! "I'm gonna lay it out, Jersey: shit's fucked. Our navy got hit hard over the past couple of years, and not by the Russians or Chinese, either." He handed the thing over to her, before making a swiping motion with his finger.

Jersey imitated the gesture, as pictures came up on the display. Warships, from her day. But they were all fucking wrong. Blackened and twisted and crusted over. "THE FUCK ARE THOSE!?" She roared. "AND WHY DO I WANT TO NOT JUST SINK THEM, BUT VIOLENTLY MURDER THEM!?"

Each breath of hers was heavy, as her grip tried not to tighten and break the computer-thing displaying those unholy images.

"The others like you share those exact sentiments." Black remarked. "We call them 'Abyssals.' Bastards popped up a few years ago and began giving us trouble. Nothing we couldn't handle, 'till they decided on launching a massive blitz attack." He pointed over to a map, marked with all colors of pushpins.

He explained the details. New York. Miami. LA. Portland. And that was just in America alone. Across the world, twenty million people were killed in the course of a week. The Navy's counterattacks were blunted, but others like her came and held the line when it seemed nobody else could.

"You're the first battlewagon of ours to return, Jersey." The Admiral said, before looking out his window. Looking past him, Jersey could see the form of Wisconsin in a drydock, next to a Nimitz under repair. "The plan was to scrap you, Iowa, and Missouri, and hope that was enough spare parts to get Wisconsin back online. We didn't expect to find your magazines fully stocked, though. EOD techs were trying to clear them out before those suicide boats broke our cordon and got you."

Jersey felt herself tense, as emotions churned within her. "Suicide boats, sir?"

"Like the ones deployed against the Cole years back. Abbie didn't summon anything, either. Instead they grabbed a couple of speedboats and packed them full of things that go boom. We're still not sure how they slipped our pickets, especially Ranger, considering that you girls can tell where they are from miles away."

Brought low by such cowards. At least the Kamikazes were willing to brave the flak, but this? Jersey clenched her fists and gritted her teeth. This was not how someone like her should go out.

"I'm getting the feeling you want to go out and kill something?" The Admiral asked.

"An understatement, sir."

He grinned, before leaning forward, hands clasped. "We've had someone giving us trouble off the Carolina coast. They haven't threatened us yet, but they made an attempt against Wilmington a week back and managed to put a hole in one of North Carolina's turrets and another through her bridge. While she's not exactly in danger of being blown to pieces, the less local problems we have to deal with, the better."

Fucking hell. Showboat was as bland as a loaf of bread, but she was a good ship regardless. Girl earned her rest, even if Wash was the one who deserved the museum spot for nailing that crazy-ass Japanese battlecruiser. But it was better that she not wake up just as angry. "When do I leave?"

"As soon as you assemble a task force. We've got a few of our girls here, and a Royal Navy squadron that might be willing to help. Pick who you need. I'll handle the paperwork. Dismissed, and godspeed, Jersey."

---

On Jersey, Reboots, and My Take on the Setting:

Since the original author lost interest, but I had invested time and energy into trying to expand upon the worldbuilding (the TVTropes article mentions an "exploration of issues in a Post-Abyssal world," and I'm fairly sure I was the only one trying to do that), I've taken upon myself the task of redoing the whole thing, hopefully without repeating too many of the mistakes.

As stated, America has its own shipgirls, including carriers, but none of the important ones like the Yorktowns or Essex horde. Meanwhile, Jersey is still Jersey, outfit aside. Highly brash and unashamedly patriotic, but still prone to fuck-ups and with her fair share of baggage. For now, she's the only American battleship back, but nobody's complaining. She's an Iowa— the pinnacle of American battleship design —with years of experience and the finest rifles ever put to sea.

Meanwhile, things are a little different in this take, when it comes to the War. America's taken much more direct hits, which I'll expand upon in due time. Suffice to say, things are far from cozy.

And finally, the other characters. Richardson and Jane are still in play, as is Gale, and also the characters Admiral Corgi and I came up with. They'll be introduced and expanded upon as this whole thing moves forward. Crowning, however, is very much a one-off, hopefully avoiding the mistake that was shipping Crowning/Jersey when it was clear they didn't have the chemistry for it.

 

[Nicholas]

Hey everyone, the Battleship Iowa museum has a weekly gaming stream, NovemberEchoPapaMike! Usually running on Thursdays at 2PM Pacific time, we stream World of Warships while talking about the game, historical trivia, cool stuff going on the battleship, interviews with veterans and museum staff, and more.

Follow us on Twitch to be alerted to new streams, check out our Facebook page for announcements and cool stuff about the ship, and look up our YouTube channel to watch old interviews.

Join us!

 

[CompassJimbo]

"New Jersey, our recon elements say that there's a hostile task force bearing one-two-zero off your position. Range is about sixty klicks. Unfortunately, fighters from what appears to be an escort carrier shot down the drone trailing them. Friendly sub nailed the bastard, but you're gonna have to rely on your own spotters for support. How copy?"


"New Jersey copies. Hostile task force at one-two-zero at sixty klicks, beware of hostile aircraft. We'll be sure to nail them before dinner. Out."


Jersey silently cursed under her breath. Drones were not cheap, last she remembered, but at least it meant nobody had to write a letter to someone's parents. If it wasn't the CAP that nailed the poor drone, it would've been the weather. Towering squalls were rising up above the oddly-warm waters off of Cape Hatteras. She wouldn't complain, though. Her task force, including Prince of Wales, certainly weren't. Many were veterans of the Atlantic in some way or another, and had faced far worse before.


"Is everything alright, New Jersey?" She heard Wales ask over the radio.


"We lost a drone to enemy aircraft, so stay heads up. We might have an air raid coming in."


"Thank god I was just refitted, then." There was a certain relief to her voice, which was understandable.


Jersey laughed. She, and probably everyone else in the group, knew of how Wales went down. Thankfully she had an Iowa with her, and Iowas were geared quite heavily towards owning a particular patch of airspace. Indeed, her 5" mounts had flak rounds loaded, ready to form a wall of black puffs to shred anything that didn't belong. Radar reported nothing back at the moment, however, so there was a possibility that they were managing to sneak up on the bastards who tried to kill Showboat.


There were two groups sent to hunt down the so-called 'Carolinas Demon'. A battleship group, with Jersey herself and Wales, and a carrier group consisting of Ranger and one of the more modern British carriers, Implacable.


Her lookouts reported a handful of surface contacts, just outside the squall line, most likely cruisers and escorting destroyers. A small grin spread across Jersey's face, knowing that she had them outranged and outgunned. "Yo, we got enemy surface contacts bearing one-one-zero, range at about thirty-thousand yards! Wales, I'm engaging first!"


She felt the energy run through her as shells and powder bags were hoisted up and slammed into the breeches, while the crews assumed their stations, and her fire control computers worked on a solution. Moments later, her guns were trained and elevated, everyone in the fleet silent in anticipation.


"The hell are we waiting for? FIRE!"


Raw thunder erupted, alongside long, powerful blooms of fire and smoke from her rifles, each gun sending what may as well have been small cars across the distance. Wales followed a moment later, her ten 14" rifles erupting with her fury as her radar tracked the whole thing. It was a shame they didn't have access to the fancy datalinks that the Navy was exploring when she was sent into the mothballs. Wales' own FCS wasn't worth shit, and Jersey couldn't share her solutions with the other battleship.


The set recorded the splashes from her guns, and she could make out blue columns firing up in the distance, just ahead of the plumes of smoke rising as the hostiles raised steam. Her guns lowered to their loading angle, as the needed corrections were made. She also suspected they might retreat back into the storm, and so made adjustments to that, as well.


Another call. Another salvo out, while Wales still worked on her solution. "What's the matter, Wales? Trouble with math?"


"Not all of us have those fancy electronic calculators!" She barked back. "Nor can we literally solve our issues by throwing more money at it!"


Jersey let out a hearty laugh as her rifles lowered to loading angles. Her radars were reporting straddles, perhaps even a hit or two. Fuck yeah, American technology at its finest!


Wales opened up moments later, her 14" rifles spewing out an impressive display of smoke and flame. Of course, if there was one thing Jersey hated other than this enemy, it was the scent of that damned propellant the Brits used.


Salvo after salvo went out, the straddles turning to hits as the enemy tried to retreat. However, Jersey saw a flash and a truly spectacular explosion on the horizon. A wide grin spread across her face. "Fuck yeah! Nailed that bastard's mags!"


"Excellent shot, Jersey!" Wales reported. The others congratulated her over the radio, as she felt her crew's morale soar. However, splashes several hundred yards off her starboard, ten or twelve of them, and from some pretty big shells.


"Motherfucker!" She grunted. "They've almost got a bead on us!"


Her crews worked to identify the target, as her rudders shifted to spoil the next shot. Bright flashes and distant thunder erupted from the squall, which had now taken a rather ominous shape, clouds flattening against the edge of the stratosphere. The shells roared over and splashed behind Jersey, while Wales buckled over.


"Dammit, I'm hit!" She cried out. "God, that hurt…"


"Wales, talk to me!" Jersey shouted. "Gimme a damage report!"


"Hits to my belt and funnel. I'm taking on a bit of water but damage control should have it taken care of shortly. Sorry, but I'm going to have to reduce speed!"


Shit. Probably a below-waterline hit. "Understood, Wales. Suffolk, Wichita, cover her!"


"I'll make roadkill out of them!"


"Ahh, I copy, Iowa!"


Really? "It's Jersey, dumbass!"


Crying could be heard over the radio, and a sense of annoyance radiated from Wales. "Great, you went and made Suffolk cry, even if she is a little slow to pick up on things."


"Whatever. Radar's getting degraded from this storm, but I think my rangefinders can pick up the slack!"


The experiences of her crew, and even those who tried to prep her for her final voyage flooded her memories. Anvil clouds. Supercells. Indeed, there was a certain intimidating beauty to the storm, even as more shellfire rained in. Layers of clouds were stacked like plates, while lightning rippled across the increasingly-dark sky.


"That's practically alien…" she heard one of the destroyers radio. "I d-don't feel too good about this one…"


She had a point, as the seas started to pick up. The wind was at her back, air being sucked into the growing storm, all while it slowly churned away. "Cygnet? Porter? Get yourselves and the other tin cans out of here. Fall back to the second group. Wales, the cruisers, and I will take this one."


She could feel the air pressure dropping, even though she hadn't hit the thick rain bands yet. But there was a certain sense of intimidation as she eyed the sheets of falling rain, with flashes erupting from lightning, and possibly hostile gunfire.


"I have a bad feeling about this…" One of the other cruisers said. Boise, if she remembered right. "I really hope we don't run into hail."


"If I can survive this, I can survive whatever the hell the rest of the world can throw at me! Bring it on, you coward!" Wichita shouted excitedly. "Woo! I get to experience one of these babies firsthand!"


"New Jersey?" Wales asked, tone concerned. "I've talked to the weather people back in Norfolk. They're saying to proceed with extreme caution on this one."


"Cobra was worse." Jersey nonchalantly popped back. "It's a nasty-lookin' bitch, but what's a thunderstorm compared to what Halsey's ego forced us through?"


What felt like too short a time later, Jersey regretted those words, as hail pelted her and the others. While none of it would punch through her deck, it was wrecking the directors for her AA mounts, even if she didn't need them for a surface action. Suffolk was faring worse, the poor girl, who lost one of her primary directors and couldn't use her secondary battery at all. 'And that's why enclosed mounts are way better.' The battleship thought to herself.


Of course, the hailstones still stung, and tried hard to distract her from her search. Radio contact with Norfolk was finicky at best. Radar was a mess. "Oh big bad Abbie~, where the fuck are you~?" Jersey taunted. As if in reply, a break in the driving rain and hail allowed an impressive display of flashes and thunder. Jersey returned with a snap shot from turrets X and Y, as shells landed all around her, and she took the first hits from an enemy warship in her career. One through the stacks, another skipped off her deck. A third took out one of her 5" mounts before detonating in her superstructure.


She grimaced, as blood seeped down her skin. "Motherfucker!"


Not the worst hit, granted, but she had found herself at dangerously close range. Those were 16" shells that hit her. Not her own, but they still hurt. Another break in the rain came up, as New Jersey finished loading her rifles and took aim.


"Come to mama!" She shouted, before catching a glimpse of the monster. 5 turrets, tripod masts, no trunked funnels. South Dakota, but not the one she worked with. It was the one Battleship X sometimes talked about, the one cancelled by the Treaty. A small curse escaped Jersey, who would've preferred a Standard or an Amagi, if one was going to throw unfinished ships at her.


She still had her speed advantage, though, as her boilers kicked into action, steam running hot through her veins. It was never a bad feeling, as a grin spread across her face. Didn't hurt that the waves weren't too bad, either.


As she got a clearer visual, her rifles erupted before she began breaking off, return fire punching through her upperworks and above the belt, while another round went right into her stern, thankfully not detonating and blowing her shafts off. But her pain was nothing compared to the unholy scream that came from the rain bands.


"Fuck yeah!" She yelled. "How's that, you stupid bitch?"


Radio signals interrupted her train of thought. Something static-y from the others. The rain bands had separated them, but she felt confident taking this one alone. Somewhere in the distance, bright flashes pierced the falling curtains, no doubt the others caught in their own fight. Hopefully they wouldn't get blown up on her.


Shifting her focus back to the center of the storm, she felt the winds kick up, stronger and stronger, drawing the waves inside. Something didn't feel right about that, and so Jersey began falling back, almost wondering if she should pray to God or Neptune or someone else that whatever was going on wasn't as bad as she thought. Even as she slowly gained the distance and evaluated her damage, she couldn't help but feel a pit in her stomach.


Something wasn't right about the core of that storm, unholy battlewagon aside.


"-ar is picking—ing up!"


"Bar—ping rapidly!"


The barometer inside of her spun like mad, as lightning came down near her, its loud crack and shockwave rattling her even to her citadel. Some part of Jersey knew that whatever she did to that Abyssal pissed it off something fierce. It was time to regroup, and—


CRACK!


Jersey saw her vision go white for a split second, and a buzzing through her body as everything returned to focus. Her radars had shorted out, and she wasn't sure if those could be brought back online. Something also smelled burnt, and something felt frayed. A mildly pained laugh escaped her. Lightning had nothing on a battleship.


"Nice fuckin' try!" She yelled behind her, as the curtains of rain continued to churn.


Splashes came down around her, tons of water spilling onto her decks amidst the rain. Smaller-caliber ones, though. Not the worst to deal with. Looking around, she saw a shadow in one of the rain bands, a facsimile of one of the interwar-era cruisers. Might've been a New Orleans or a Brooklyn. Maybe something else entirely. Whatever it was, it had to die, and so Jersey engaged with the 5" mounts, pelting it with shellfire while her main battery was brought to bear.


Another salvo rippled out from the cruiser, a few rounds going right through Jersey's superstructure, sending more streams of blood down her skin.


"Fuck you, too!" She yelled, as her secondaries continued engaging. This one was becoming a pain in the ass, but the range was point-blank, and all she had to do was point and shoot. More rounds pelted her, two bouncing off a turret while another went into one of the 5" mounts, the rounds inside the gun cooking off. Jersey yelled in pain as the flash fire died down, the safety doors thankfully doing their job. "Nice fuckin' try!" She called out, gritting her teeth. Her main battery had finally finished traversing, and with the snap of a bloodied finger, her rifles roared louder than the thunder, drawing out an unholy scream from the cruiser.


The shadow fell back, its boilers no doubt out of action, though how many hits she scored was unknowable with her radars out. Beyond, she could make out what she hoped was Prince of Wales, and as fire and more haunting screams echoed above the storm, she smiled. "Wales! Do you read me!?"


"I copy, New Jersey!" Came her reply. "The storm's picking up, and Boise and Wichita had to fall back from battle damage. I've sent Phoenix to cover them. Suffolk is trailing behind me and managed to torpedo an enemy cruiser."


"Good for her!" Jersey shouted. One less small bastard to deal with. "I've gotten into a brief shooting match with a South Dakota. Not the ones I worked with. The older ones."


"From the twenties?" Wales asked, tone shocked. "Bloody hell, if this weather were better I'd feel more confident taking her alongside you."


"She still needs to die anyway! Managed to land what I really hope were a few decent hits on her. If you're still in fighting shape, I want you to detach Suffolk, and follow me in and do dirty, dirty things to that bitch!"


"How lewd of you, New Jersey! Such conduct unbecoming of a battleship such as yourself!"


Jersey laughed as the two fell in, reducing speed to match Wales as they made their way further into the storm. The skies had been cast in an almost alien green glow, as layers of clouds churned above. Lightning continued to arc across the sky, bright white bolts rippling through the clouds. Her mood shifted from confident to uneasy. She was used to nasty storms, but the sheer ominousness of this one didn't sit right with her. The vague memories of those who served aboard floated through her mind, of storms such as this on the Plains. That kind of shit didn't belong here, in the fucking North Atlantic.


Still, it was easy to get lost in the skies above, each bulge and layer clearly defined, and the lightning show was admittedly impressive. Focusing back forward, Jersey could see the core of the storm, wrapped in torrential rain, and something shadow-y beyond. Something fairly large, too.


"Is that a waterspout?" Wales asked. Her voice was almost hollow, and even Jersey felt strange about what she was seeing.


"Worse." She replied. Her gut told her that was no ordinary waterspout, and that her shellfire was bound to suffer quite heavily in accuracy, and anything that wasn't her main battery was going to be torn off. "I hope you're not gonna miss those anti-air mounts of yours."


"Shit."


The winds kicked up as they drew closer, and the rains came to a stop, revealing a bright white funnel stretching skywards, and a shadow in the center. Jersey felt her eyes widen. A fucking tornado covering that thing. "Man, I don't think I'm gonna get paid enough for this shit." Still, she had something to nail, and maybe if she threw enough shit at the wall… "Wales! Try and synchronize your fire with me! Aim behind! Pray that we don't get hit by our own munitions!"


The two adjusted course, putting them parallel to the funnel as their main batteries got into position. Fire erupted from the storm, black puffs vanishing quickly as shellfire rained around them. Their reply came a moment later, 14" and 16" shells arcing across the angry sea. Jersey could make out a few being blown well off course, while a handful landed inside. Columns of water shot up moments later, as the Abyssal made her own response. Jersey counted the splashes. 8 rounds out of 10. She nailed a turret during their last duel.


The monster began closing the distance, and Jersey knew Wales couldn't face that thing alone, and so she kept course, enduring the howling winds as water sprayed across her decks, almost blinding her with sheer ferocity. She could barely even think, nevermind yell and taunt the freak who summoned this thing that sure as hell didn't belong. Pressure dropped and popped her ears. Bolts keeping her AA mounts to the deck creaked and groaned, before finally giving way. The roar of her main battery was barely audible above the wind.


The battlewagon they were squaring off against was making a critical mistake, however: it was splitting its fire between them. Two against Wales. Two against her. Bright flashes erupted from the center, and Jersey soon felt the sting of water entering her hull. Bulkheads sealed themselves with brutal struggle, or failed to do so at all, the wind too much. The hits were nowhere critical, and she still had her guns. Wales opened up with two of her main battery turrets, while Jersey responded with another broadside. She could faintly make out the mast being ripped off, vanishing into the funnel to be tossed off to God-knows-where.


But the thing howled. She was scoring hits, somehow. Probably not many, but it didn't matter. Local fire control was doing its job, and they definitely deserved drinks for this one. Another round of broadsides saw the loss of her primary directors, and the loss of another turret for the enemy battleship. Something smacked against her head, but Jersey didn't care. One word was on her mind:


Die.


Another broadside, under local control. Didn't matter at this range. Another round of maddened howling, as the thing began to list, and the winds began to die. Shells splashed around her, one punching right through the roof of her back turret. Jersey screamed as the round detonated, realizing it was one of her own. Turret Y was out of action, but it didn't matter as her gunners registered more hits against the enemy battleship. The winds died down further, before her 5" mounts joined in, peppering the thing as it continued its list, before it rolled over and the funnel that had been giving them so much trouble vanished.


The ceasefire order was given. This one was threatening nothing again. Showboat was safe for now. A small smile spread across her face, knowing that she had done her job and survived.


Jersey could barely make anything out past a few hundred yards, however. It was up to her lookouts or one of the smaller ships to guide her home.

[=]​

Jersey groaned as the techs dug out shrapnel from where her Y turret was. The thing had to be lifted off for repairs, which meant it would be a while before she got out of this thing, and back into action. On the plus side, her directors were replaced with surprising speed, which meant she could see more clearly. Wales was in about as bad a shape as she was, the blonde passed out in the dock next to her.


"What a fuckin' mess…" she groaned to herself. One of those things she saw the Admiral use, a 'tablet', had been placed next to her. It was surprisingly easy to use, and certainly leagues above her own fire control systems. One of these guiding her fire, and she'd be planting golden rounds all the time.


The so-called 'Carolinas Demon' had sunk, and the remains of its group had been picked off by Ranger and that Royal Navy carrier, according to the news article she read. Everything about it, however, said one thing above all else: people wanted to interview her. A small laugh escaped her, and a smile spread across her face. She was the best of her kind, after all, though hopefully they wouldn't bash her.


One of the many aches just melted in the bath as she flipped through, a happy sigh leaving her as she cracked her neck. Yeah, that was the spot. Focusing back on the news, she heard reports of refugees in Europe, nasty storms in the South, and a bad winter in the Great Lakes. Fucking hell, those people were in for a bad time.


Part of her wondered what was going on in Japan, though. Their fleet was back, and probably had to learn that no, shooting prisoners was not okay. She found an article soon enough, although it was in the Entertainment section. Apparently one of the light cruisers, Naka, had released an album of some sort and it was making a wave on the charts. 2.2 million copies sold here in the States alone.


Jersey's lips curled into a frown. Naka was in some sort of cutesy getup, backlit by what were probably the brightest searchlights the Japanese could procure, blowing a kiss out to the crowd. Fucking hell, she hoped none of her sisters came back like that.


Her sisters…


Iowa and Missouri were being towed here to get Wisconsin up and running again. Maybe. All she knew was that they were going to be scrapped to do so. They might come back, but she had no clue how long it would be. Would they return once their scrapping was done, or would it be months, years, even? The question caused a pit to form in her stomach, as round after round of 'what if?' came to mind. What if they were sunk on the way here? What if they weren't enough? What if her youngest sister didn't make it?


Focus.


"What can I control?" she quietly muttered to herself. It wasn't much at the moment, with her repairs still underway. Each bolt driven in to fix a new AA mount in place pinched, annoying her something fierce. Fucking hell…


Tapping to see what else was going on in old Sunrise Land, an article caught Jersey's eye.


'The Story Behind the First Warship to Become Pregnant.'


She recognized that form. 8 16" rifles, double-stacked casemates, and a pagoda mast. Nagato-class. She stood only a slim chance against Jersey, but she might get a few decent hits in if she was lucky. Her more womanly form sported swept-back copper hair and deep green eyes, with a headband resembling a slug's eyestalks. But she was pregnant, from the swell in her toned belly. The outfit certainly didn't hide it, either.


Jersey's grip tightened slightly, as a crack formed on the screen. Mutsu. Pregnant. With twins. To an American Admiral.


Well, she wouldn't argue against that last part. Of course, that raised all sorts of questions if the kids turned out to be ships as well. Would they be ships, though? The thought gave her a headache, and as she scrolled through the comments, it appeared people were doing a fine job of figuring that out in as angry or panicked a manner as possible.

[=]​

Fleet Activities Sasebo, around the same time…


Hiei pumped her fist as she heard the news wire come in over the telegraph. Sure, she had a computer on her desk, but she couldn't let her operators slack off.


ABYSSAL DEMON TYPE SUNK OFF US EAST COAST. KILL CREDITED TO USS NEW JERSEY AND HMS PRINCE OF WALES. RECORD SET FOR LARGEST WATERSPOUT IN THE WORLD.


That wire also meant not just a victory that would impress Ashigara, but also news that she had won the wager she had placed with Mutsu. She had suspected that America's greatest martyr would return first. Perhaps in due time, and hopefully not full of rage, but not today. It was an Iowa-class day, as she happily hummed to herself and examined the closet. Jintsuu had picked out so many interesting things the loser would have to wear, and she found one that would suit her just fine.


Satisfied, she hung the outfit on the opposite rack and closed the door, before heading out to the hall. She was in the mood for a shower, and so grabbed a towel and her usual miko getup. Stepping outside, she could see John in a towel, and only a towel, before he noticed and silently fell back to his bedroom, heat radiating off of him. Her lips curled into a smile. While he was a married man nowadays, the sight of his well-defined muscles was easy on her eyes, and he was certainly in better shape ever since she finally convinced him to accept Mutsu.


Oh, that evening had been an interesting one, as she took care of Jane and left the two to their own devices.


Shaking her head, she peeked into the bathroom that Richardson had exited from, revealing Mutsu slipping into a babydoll that so perfectly accented her pregnant form. The woman was proud of that swell in her midsection, and not hesitant to show it off. Another two-and-a-half months, give or take, and the first children conceived by a warship would be brought into the world.


The phone calls from Nagato were practically non-stop by this point.


"Do you need something, Hiei?" She asked, an eyebrow raising.


"America got its first battleship back~." Replied Hiei with a sly smile. Taking out the telegraph report, she handed the paper over to Mutsu, and felt a certain level of smugness as those green eyes widened.


"I lost the bet, didn't I?"


A laugh escaped Hiei, as she patted the other battleship on the shoulder. "The price for losing isn't the worst, you know~."


"Mmm~…"


Mutsu wasn't the only one who knew how to get their Admiral going, but it was her show nowadays. All Hiei and Jintsuu could do was support her the best they could. Perhaps if the circumstances were right…


Hiei dismissed the thought. Just as Kongou wouldn't intrude, neither should she. "I've got an outfit picked out for you~." She sing-songed, wagging her eyebrows. "I think the Admiral will quite enjoy it."


Mutsu leaned in. "Do tell~, what do you have in mind?"


Hiei excused herself, returning a moment later with the planned outfit. "Will this suffice?"


Green eyes narrowed, as Mutsu let her lips curl into a smile. "This will do quite nicely~. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to prepare coffee for John."


"Of course. I'll handle breakfast."


"With supervision, obviously~."


Hiei pouted, her mood sunk slightly. "Come on, that was one time!"


Mutsu left with a laugh, hips swaying in a more exaggerated manner than usual. Hiei wondered once more as to how John didn't give in so easily with motions such as that, as she entered the bathroom and began to freshen herself for the day.

[=]​

On Abyssal Classification and Weather Manipulation:


Common Abyssals cannot manipulate the weather. Princess-type Abyssals can to a certain extent, but can't generate storms out of nowhere. They require existing squalls to seize and enhance into something truly their own. Abyssals based off of ships named for existing weather phenomena will usually create storms based off of them (so an Abyssal Fubuki would create a nasty blizzard), and Abyssals named for locales known for storms will also whip up similar ones, except usually nastier. Otherwise, it's just expected bad weather from their expected Area of Operations, depending on which nation they base themselves off of.


In this case, Abyssal!South Dakota can turn an ordinary rain squall into the meanest Supercell thunderstorm (and that "s" is capitalized for good reason) given that her namesake state lies in the northernmost parts of "Tornado Alley", where spring thunderstorms can grow to truly epic proportions in addition to spawning the very devils the region is named for.


More powerful Abyssals have no restrictions, and can even affect the local climate. Many prefer colder conditions, however, and it's not uncommon to sight icebergs around places like Rio de Janeiro or Oahu, having split from the Queens' domains elsewhere and lasted unnaturally long. Nobody knows if this is intentional or not.


With mentions of "Princesses" and "Queens", I suppose I should introduce the classification system. Abyssals are named for where they were first spotted, though those names and classifications can and do change as the circumstances surrounding them change also.


"Demon"-type: The most common "Elite" Abyssal, she is always mobile, with a small escort flotilla, and never stays in one area for too long.

"Princess"-type: The next step up from the "Demon"-types. Princesses will usually have a preferred AO, as well as a larger escort fleet. The stronger ones warrant the formation of dedicated task groups to hunt down and destroy before she makes a permanent base and becomes a…

"Queen"-type: The Abyssal in question has made landfall and established the surrounding area as her own domain. Seldom mobile, she instead creates a base protected by her experienced units and foul weather patterns, and spawns ships which will follow her orders to the letter, but usually one specific set, such as commerce raiding, or hunter-killer missions against conventional forces or shipgirls. The most powerful type encountered thus far, but one more has been made, just in case.

"Empress"-type: Never encountered (yet), but reserved for a scenario in which an Abyssal is able to gain near or total control over a significant stretch of ocean. Nobody knows what kind of resources would be required to uproot such a force from her throne.


Also, Richardson is a lucky bastard, and this next chapter shall introduce him and his fleet, including a new guest that I think will intrigue people.