A/N : I'm experimenting a bit with this story.
Situational awareness is always important when trying to get out of a wankering mess you've put yourself into. Then again, if I did have said situational awareness, I probably wouldn't be in this situation in the first place.
But sod it, I'm going to try anyway. Let's see if I can survive this arsebucket of a predicament without losing my neck, shall we?
The Pacific, true to its name, is as calm as always as if mocking my dire condition. None of my comrades is in sight. I am more alone than a decent human being in the House of Parliament. In retrospect, I shouldn't have let myself be lured out of the formation by a single enemy battleship like I did. I'd like to justify myself by saying that said battleship had managed to hit my dear little sister Haruna, thus vindicating my cause in the court of law by virtue of sisterly wrath, but no, I was just being an idiot.
There are currently about three Abyssal post-dread battleships in front of me. One of these gigantic arsenuggets completely outclasses me in every way, and now I have to face about twenty-seven high-velocity sixteen-inch deathcannons each able to hurl super-heavy doom from Dover to Glasgow in six minutes with terrifying accuracy.
A less experienced lass by this point would simply turn their rudder and run, but I, being the genius that I am, know very well that turning right now would only serve to expose my side, thus giving these blasted spawnlings of questionable parentage a clear shot at my delicious, premium quality boilers and machinery. Now, I think we can agree that the world would be a much lesser place than it already is without me, so let's not do that, shall we?
One of the many guns being pointed at me suddenly sings. I can hear the booming sound long before I can see the giant water column forming right beside me from a straddling shot. They're trying to judge the range.
One thing to remember when it comes to naval gunnery is that we can become more accurate the more we try to hit the same target over multiple salvos. Given that I am currently the only target on the sea for these cockblasted Abyssal to shoot at, I have to think quickly if I don't want my name to be added to the Sunday obituaries.
Acting like a newly minted young battleship, (that I most certainly am not, mind), I sail in a straight line, giving the enemy the perfect firing solution. I know they have taken the bait when the sound not unlike that of the wail of a dying god echoes across the ocean, signalling a full fleet salvo heading my way.
Straining my gears, I put myself into full reverse, decreasing my speed even as I whip my helmsman fairy back into the stone age in an evasive manoeuvre more aggressive than Margaret Thatcher's foreign policy. The twenty-six shells miss me just by mere metres, creating a blast so strong it's making me somewhat sympathetic towards Miss Nagato.
If my knowledge of high calibre naval cannons is dependable, and it is, mind, then I should have about thirty seconds to turn tail and run like a bloody mad hound before they finish their reload. Keeping my rudder angled, I break the wave and sail against the wind, running away. Now, as a Japanese proudly bearing the (modified) Rising Sun, some might expect me to face the impossible odd and fight on for my country in some sort of a dramatic last stand.
But seriously? Bollock that.
Salt and water fly all around me as enemy shells rain down, fully intent on giving me a gigantic structurally superfluous new porthole. These new Abyssal battleships are troublesome. I am faster than them, but only by mere three knots or so, and the one thing that you'll rarely encounter on a clear sea is a place to hide.
Bollocks.
It takes me only about five minutes of desperate running to realise that I am screwed. My boilers are exhausted, my rudder is heavy, and each close call is getting closer and closer. My two back turrets fire in defiance, but my measly fourteen-inch shells are easily deflected on the enemy's curved armoured bows.
A flash of memory crosses my mind, the memory of my death. My previous death. Then I realise something.
I've been given a second chance, and I've properly buggered it like a right gibbon.
When my ears catch yet another tell-tale explosion of a naval gun being fired, it comes from in front of me, meaning that there's a fourth ship firing at me from the other direction of the others, completely blocking my escape route.
I smile sadly, oddly content with my own second death. It is over now. Might as well take it with a grin.
But then my gloomy acceptance of death is rudely interrupted by the sight of one of the Abyssal battleships exploding into million pieces.
I blink. I probably look like an idiot right now, but blinking with my mouth open in surprised disbelief really is the only thing I can do right now. Sue me.
Another explosion sound comes from in front of me, and I can feel the familiar sensation of a heavy shell flying past me at supersonic speed right before yet another of the battleships behind me explodes.
It doesn't take long for the last of the Abyssal to join its comrades.
As the sea slowly becomes quiet again, only leaving the sound of the waves, I realise that I am still pushing my machinery to keep me at full flank. I quickly slow down, but keep my guns raised in case of hostiles. Nevertheless, I let out a relieved sigh, for I've expected to be sinking right at this moment.
Now, since I do not see the heaven opening up for the gods to reach down and give me some sort of a divine quest, I assume that my survival is not as much a divine intervention than the fact that I really, really should thank somebody right now. I quickly scan the horizon for my saviour.
It does not take long, for her long blond hair clashes readily against the reddening evening sky. On the horizon, way further than the effective range of my main battery, a battleship I do not recognise waves at me among her cadre of escorting destroyers. Even from where I am, I can clearly see her massive grin filled with pearly teeth that seem to reflect the sunset.
The distance almost makes me doubt that this girl is the reason I am still afloat. The event of my rescue was a one-shot-one-kill affair, and a battleship cannons are not sniper rifles. But as we're getting closer, her victorious, almost smug expression and literal smoking guns wipe away all doubts that yes, I do owe this person my gratitude.
She is wearing what looks like a combination of a grey corset and a miniskirt plus an asymmetrical set of knee-socks, though like some Kanmusu I know her clothing is rather hard to describe in words. To make things simple, I would've said that she had the look of your typical nymphomanic yankee cockwrangler, yet her face tells me otherwise. I see in her purity that no one can possibly match, reaching almost to the point of innocence. She's huge and muscular and is certainly battle-tested, yet still, I feel an irrational desire to protect her every time her literal starry eyes look at me.
These, however, are not the only feature of the girl that I notice.
'Jubilees, fun bags, jugs, mammaries, STONKING. GREAT. TITS.' are the words that suddenly pass in my mind. I do not say them out loud, of course, for I am a dignified gentlelady of perfectly marriageable age. Instead, I bow politely, or at least as far as my cumbersome rigging allows.
"I thank you for my rescue." I say in English. Proper English, of course, pronunciation and all, not the gibberish those traitors spew in the colony.
"That was close, Nana!" the foreign battleship says in a cheerful and brash tone, almost as if she had not heard me speaking at all.
"Nana?"
"Yes! Because you're old!"
I admit. I am somewhat taken aback by this comment. Perhaps I am too used to the politeness of my fellow Japanese. But then again, I know that they still secretly talk about my age behind my back, so in a way, I appreciate her honesty.
Her sincere, childlike smile as she says the words does not hurt her cause, in any case. In fact, it makes me want to act like her actual kind grandma.
"I am, aren't I?" I say, laughing playfully. "I do not know how long these old bones of mine can keep on fighting. Well, the more I'm glad that you're here. You are Iowa, I presume?"
Our base has been expecting the first wave of American reinforcement for a while now, and apparently, they have chosen their most advanced battleship as a vanguard of the new alliance. In fact, my battlegroup initially has been sent out as a welcoming party, before all that fiasco with the Abyssal ambush.
"Yup! Yup!" Iowa nods her head up and down in an overt manner that shakes her entire torso. Another part of her body also goes up and down, but I'm actively trying to ignore it...them.
"USS Iowa! Birthed proudly by the hands of the people of New York!" Iowa almost shouts. "And some from New Jersey, probably."
"I see, Iowa from New York, huh?" I say, holding down a giggle. There's just something about her youthful enthusiasm that makes me feel almost half a century younger.
"Correct!" Iowa shouts again. I wonder if she's unable to say anything without an exclamation mark?
"Well, then, Japanese battleship Kongou, at your service." I say, offering my hand.
To my surprise, my offered hand is suddenly answered by a full-on glomp.
"Nice to meet you!" Iowa says directly into my ears as she bends down to meet my height.
'Ukh...they look big, but they feel even bigger...' I quickly bury this thought, focusing instead on the fact that I'm slowly being strangled to death by the massive American ship. I look around to the destroyers, seeking help, but all five of them merely snicker at my situation. Cheeky buggers.
Then, for the first time ever, I see the constant smile on Iowa's face disappears.
"You're hurt!"
My hand promptly moves to the place where Iowa is pointing at, and indeed, when I pull my hand in front of my eyes, my fingers are wet with blood.
"Huh...must've been a shrapnel." I say, somewhat perturbed. The fact that I haven't noticed my wound up until now means either it is a small wound, or the shrapnel that had cut me was extremely sharp.
"Stay still, please."
"Wha-"
Without warning, Iowa grabs me by the back of my head and leans her face closer to mine.
"What are you doing?"
My question is answered by an uncharacteristic silence as Iowa pulls a lock of her blond hair and starts wiping my cheek with it. The pristine gold colour is quickly stained by the dirty brownish-red of my quickly oxidising blood. It makes me feel somewhat guilty, as if I had tainted her somehow.
"You don't have a handkerchief or something?" I say even as I reach for my own wiping fabric. Then I realise that my pocket has been torn cleanly open. Blasted.
"Nu-uh." Iowa shakes her head as she continues cleaning my wound, and I find myself making a mental note to knit her a handkerchief later.
"Don't worry, my fairies always keep my hair clean." Iowa says, as if hygiene is the highest in my priority right now. After she is satisfied with wiping my wound, a fairy wearing an engineer uniform pops out of her exposed cleavage, bringing a standard, store-bought band-aid in her tiny hand.
An American damage control fairy, the envy of many navies, emerges out of a giant bosom to offer me a cocking band-aid. Brilliant.
Iowa takes the band-aid from the fairy, who quickly sinks back into her breasts. As she gently sticks the band-aid on my face, I notice that Iowa's fingers are more delicate and agile than their size would suggest.
"That should do for now!" Iowa smiles, wider than ever. Her expression is so that I can readily believe that, in her mind, the pride of helping a friend easily equals that of any military victory. I find myself unable to not smile with her.
"Thank you." I say, trying to keep my composure. "Again, I mean."
"You're welcome!" Iowa puffs her chest out in pride, making her-no, I will not let my mind strays there again.
"Uh, excuse me."
A new, authoritative voice suddenly enters the conversation. I turn to see a Fletcher-class destroyer with short, messy blond hair. Aside from her rigging, she is wearing a cream shirt and a black trouser, all worn neatly with a belt, giving her an androgynous look that many girls tend to fall for.
"As difficult it is for me to break off such a sweet interaction, we really need to get going." the destroyer begins. It is somewhat jarring to hear such a powerful voice coming out of such a small vessel. Though the Fletcher-class is rather large for a destroyer.
"I assume you're not the only one sent out to escort us?"
I nod, swallowing the bitter pill of my own failure that has gotten me separated from my own task force. "We have a set rendezvous point to use in case of separation. I'll give it to you."
A few minutes of radio transmission later, Iowa's entire group have received the coordinate, ready to sail out.
"Is standard formation alright, Miss Iowa?" asked the boyish destroyer, clearly not willing to jump the probably higher ranked battleship.
"Eh, can I just leave it up to you, Cassin?" Iowa says lazily, clearly not willing to bear the burden of command.
"As you wish." obeys Cassin as she starts relaying orders to her fellow destroyers.
"Miss Kongou, could you sail behind Iowa? That way your wakes should be more manageable for our rear guard."
"Of course." I answer.
When the formation begins to move, I quickly position myself inside of Iowa's wake, covering a small destroyer behind me. Said destroyer, however, quickly sails away from her position and then forward until she is sailing right beside me. She's wearing the exact same outfit as Cassin, and their faces are similar, as you'd expect from sisters. Her hair, however, makes her easily distinguishable. It's long, yet looks stiff like cement, flaring upwards and red like a bonfire she wears on her head. It's not helping that she wears an expression that suggests that she's the kind of person that wouldn't mind lighting an actual bonfire on her head, with her maniacal smile and wild yellow eyes.
"So, are you smitten yet?" the destroyer asks.
"What?" I ask back, confused.
"Iowa, of course!" the destroyer declares as if that were an obvious fact. "I saw how you're looking at her."
My eyes quickly dart towards Iowa, making sure that we're sailing far enough apart that she can't possibly hear the destroyer.
"See? You're eyeing her up again."
Oi, buggers.
"I did not!" I almost shout. I know that being so spirited in my denial will only serve to add to the suspicion, but my fast beating heart does not allow me to be the calm and collected battleship that I usually am.
"Oh, you so did!"
"Gatling! Get back in the formation!" I can hear Cassin's powerful voice barking from the front of the formation.
"Whoops, busted!" Gatling says mischievously, jutting out her tongue. She quickly slows down, going back to her position at the back of the formation.
"In any case, she seems to like you. Your life will be much more exciting in the next few years, guaranteed."
I must say that her naughty smile does not instil confidence in me.
()
A/N: Damn, I had a lot of fun writing that.
