Chapter 2 - Cautious
It wasn't easy being a (ship) girl in the big city, and nobody knew that better than Aoba. Daring journalist, dashing reporter, and intelligence gatherer extraordinaire. Wherever there was a story to be found, she'd find it, no matter the danger involved.
And this story looked to be her biggest one yet.
The meeting took place in her office, which was not a repurposed janitorial closet no matter what those slander-spreading hussies down the hall claimed. The lights were dim, a single desk fan slowly rotating as a tactically positioned lamp put the backdrop of its silhouette across the far wall. The air was heavy, as if saturated with the imminent drama she knew was coming.
That was when her contact walked in. A creak, a brief glimpse of light from the outside world, and the door shut behind her. She was a slight girl, too short to be anything other than a destroyer, but she'd carefully masked her identity with a pair of heavy sunglasses, long, baggy clothing and a pot of all things covering the top of her head.
Aoba knew this girl was dangerous. Good. Danger was part of her job.
"Welcome." The journalist said. "I'd offer you a seat, but I'm told you want this taken care of as quickly as possible. Names won't be necessary. You'll remain perfectly anonymous. Now, I heard you had something for me?"
"Yes." The girl confirmed, her voice muffled and devoid of inflection. "I have it on good authority that a rogue manga artist has gotten loose in the base."
Manga artists. The one enemy that both Shipgirls and Abyssals fell prey to in equal measure. Their degeneracy knew no bounds. Their actions were without mercy. No girl, no matter how plain or unassuming, was safe from the embarrassing clutches of their ink-stained ambitions. Absolutely nothing was sacred to them. Nothing at all.
Aoba grinned. This was a scoop if ever she'd heard one.
"I take it you have proof?" She prompted, earning a nod from her masked contact.
"Two days from now, a deal will be going down at midnight." The girl confirmed. "The artist has set up a meeting with one of her biggest customers out back behind the storage warehouses. You'll find all the proof you need then."
The reporter shivered as the thrill of what she was about to do rolled over her. Another job. Another mission. Once more into the breach in the name of unparalleled journalism. There was just one more thing she needed to confirm.
"And… the subject of this manga?"
Her contact hesitated, seeming conflicted for an instant before clenching her fists together and looking up.
"A book… featuring the Sixth Destroyer Division."
The knowledge was like a metaphorical brick through an insubstantial window. Destroyer Division Six. Some of the greatest victims of the manga threat next to the First Carrier Division, the legendary tsundere Akebono, and the famous skimpy destroyer Shimakaze. People paid big money for those kinds of books. She couldn't afford to miss this opportunity.
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention." She said, rising to her feet. "Rest assured, this matter will be exposed for the travesty it is and justice will be meted out as soon as possible. Your payment will be left at the same dead drop as last time."
"The amount?"
"Four coupons for free deserts at Mamiya's." Aoba said, earning a pleased nod from her aide. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you."
"Khorosho." Replied the anonymous girl.
Aoba was a ghost in the pale moonlight. She slipped through the shadows with skills born of a lifetime or investigative field experience, blending as easily as the famous ninja of ancient Japan. Her weapon, an old and battle-tested camera, still kept in prime condition for the job at hand and maintained with a slavish sense of devotion. The only weapon a reporter needed.
It was a heavy night. The wind had stopped, as though the world was holding its breath. The ocean was sleek and calm. The only noise was the gentle lapping of the water's edge, and the flickering of the street lamps lining the corners of these dreary back alleys.
She'd staked the place out long ago, mapping out the entire location a day prior, and had arrived a full two hours before the designated time. Now, she waited in the darkness, eyes open for the slightest clue as to her target's location.
Her patience was rewarded as the sound of footsteps echoed across the warehouse district. Peering out from her hiding place, Aoba spotted her mark. A lone girl shuffling her way into the open, glancing nervously to each side as though knowing just how much trouble she was in.
Her furtive looks didn't concern Aoba. No, she'd been careful in selecting her position. This was a dangerous line of work, and those who couldn't keep their heads tended to lose them. What interested her far more than the girl's demeanor was her identity.
Akigumo, carrying a hefty briefcase. The class-confused art enthusiast of the fleet. Hardly a surprise to find out she was the one behind this sickening deal given her background, but Aoba couldn't help but feel a sense of profound disappointment in the girl. Where had she gone wrong? What had led to her selling out her own sisters for the twisted amusement of entertainment-starved moe-addicts?
Aoba's head snapped up as a second set of footsteps approached from the far side. Before her eyes, the buyer showed themselves, walking with a false sense of confidence through the open ground. To any other, they might have looked like they belonged, but to the professional journalist of the Japanese Navy, the tells were obvious. The way their shoulders were just slightly hunched as though trying to hide form the prying eyes of the world. The over-regulated spread of their footsteps. The air of excited tension that lurked just under each movement.
And if those weren't good enough signs, the oversized trench-coat and face-masking wide brimmed hat were a pretty good indication that something shady was going on here.
Aoba readied her camera, dialing in the distance with practiced ease as she waited for her chance.
"Did you bring the goods?" Asked the buyer. A woman's voice. Deep and powerful. Yakuza maybe? Or even an Abyssal proxy? Oh, Akigumo, what have you gotten yourself into.
"Of course." Assured the wayward manga artist. "Did you bring the payment?"
The woman replied by reaching into her coat and pulling out a decent sized stack of bills. Aoba's eyes lit up at the sight.
"Right here. Now… the book."
Akigumo laid her briefcase on the ground, popping open the clasps and drawing out the oh-so-desirable contraband.
"Got it. 'Hibiki's bad hair day.' The fourth and final in the series." She said. "It's all yours."
The buyer stepped forwards, her mask of stoicism cracking in the face of the book. One hand reached out for her prize while the other moved to hand over the bundle of cold, hard, cash. But as the two met to complete their underhanded transaction, a flash of light stopped them in their tracks.
The click of her camera's shutter snapped through the nighttime air like a gunshot, leaving the pair frozen. Akigumo's mask of horror at the realization she'd been caught was mirrored by the rigid posture of her dirty dealer.
And like that, Aoba was off, sprinting back into the night as cries of panic and sounded from behind her.
Another day, another scumbag caught in the act. Just the latest in a long line of success stories from the greatest reporter of all time.
The next day, after she'd given enough time for any potential hunters to die down, Aoba slapped the developed photograph down on the desk of Secretary Ship Nagato.
"Here it is." She declared. "Proof that illicit manga dealings have been going on in the base behind the scenes."
The battleship eyed her picture with a serious gaze. As the one in charge of most base-wide operations, all of Aoba's publications had to be run past her before going to print, but she had no doubt that this one would be in all the papers by that time tomorrow. Maybe sooner depending on how quick she was able to finish editing.
"My word, this is really something." Nagato whistled as she stood from her desk. Akigumo's face was unmistakable in the image, and though the buyer's face was hidden, Aoba knew it was only a matter of time before she was caught out. "You've outdone yourself Aoba. You really have."
The reporter grinned, leaning back in her chair as Nagato walked past her to the door. The satisfaction of a job well done was settling in, and while she knew better than to let things go to her head, she-
The sound of a lock being flipped snapped her out of the momentary self-congratulations.
"Really Aoba. You have."
It was in that moment that she recalled something she probably should have paid more attention to earlier. Namely, the voice of the buyer. She'd been so focused on getting her shot, she hadn't realized how… familiar it had sounded.
"But you know…"
A pair of hands clapped down on her shoulders as she tried to stand, keeping her in place with a keenly insistent pressure. Realizing her mistake, she began to tremble in her chair.
"You should have been more careful."
Final report. The stakeout for the illusive manga artist came up unsuccessful. No evidence was found to identify the person or persons responsible for these dealings. Further investigations may be carried out at a later date, but the affected parties are urged to keep a stiff upper lip and try to maintain their dignity as best they can at this time.
This has been your impartial news journalist, Aoba, with word from the front.
Until next time.