When Crowning made his way to the mess for breakfast, Jersey was already at a table working on what looked like her eight plate of syrup-drenched waffles. Which was strange considering Crowning liked to eat an early breakfast around six or seven, while Jersey was well-known as being all but incapable of forming a coherent sentence if you made her get up before noon.
Even stranger, the towering battleship was actually sitting up straight – more or less, she always had a bit of a slouch to her – and shoveling down waffles with such vigor Crowning swore there was a slight breeze from the displaced air. Normally when she got up this early, she slumped over in her chair and mewed pathetically in the hopes that her food would deliver itself to her mouth.
Stranger still was that Crowning knew she didn't have a mission scheduled soon. That was the only reason he could imagine she'd get up this early for. Well…besides maybe a date, but that seemed even more improbable.
She didn't even notice his presence until he'd already gathered the fixings for his breakfast – oatmeal with a dash of brown sugar and cream with some fresh Washington apples. Even then it was a just a nod in his direction. Her mouth was visibly bulging with waffles, but that hadn't stopped her before.
"Jersey," Crowning smiled at the big battleship but stopped before he got close. There was a time when the thought the Amazonian warship was an impenetrable, unstoppable force. That was before he learned how terribly fragile she was anywhere but on the waves.
"Doc," Jersey wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her chipmunked cheeks squished in a smile that forced her into squints.
Crowning chuckled to himself. He did love her. Maybe not as…reverently as he had before. Maybe not even romantically anymore. But the battleship was more than a ship given form. She was funny, and brash, and sometimes even sweet. She had a soul. She deserved to be protected and cherished, even as she protected everyone else. "You're up early."
"Fuch yuh," Jersey swallowed.
"It's barely seven."
"I repeat myself," Jersey flipped her middle finger and skewered a pile of waffles with her fork. "Actually, this is still my dinner."
"Mmm?" Crowning cocked an eyebrow, still standing a close but respectful distance away.
"I got in –" Jersey blinked. "Doc, siddown. I don't have fucking cooties or shit."
Crowning chuckled and did as he was asked. "Rabies perhaps?"
"I –" Jersey's eyes went wide as the waffles she was wolfing down. Her free hand clapped to her head so quickly the ringing sound of metal-on-metal chimed through the mostly-empty mess hall. "Oh fuck," she cursed, frantically shoving one of her uncontrollable little hair tufts back under her hat. "You saw nothing."
Crowning made a show of zipping his mouth shut. Of course, he thought the little tufts looked adorable.
"Anyway," Jersey said with a rather sharp crack to her rich contralto. "Uh, I got in really damn early this morning. I was real fucking hungry, so I had to eat before I could crash." She took another huge bite. "Akually –" she swallowed just enough to speak. "Uh, actually, I had to read Shina down before I could eat. Poor girl was beat, but still wanted a bedtime story."
"And you put off dinner for that?" said Crowning. Somehow it didn't surprise him, although he was sure her choice of bedtime story might.
"Hell yeah," said Jersey, "Girl's precious as fuck when she gets tired. Also, strong as hell. She kinda commandeered Hoel as a teddy bear."
"I'm sure Hoel didn't mind," said Crowning.
"She had no choice in the matter," said Jersey pointedly.
Crowning chuckled, and for a few minutes the two ate in silence. Or rather, they ate in silence accompanied by the syrupy slurping sounds of an Iowa-class battleship devouring waffles with all the gluttony of a quarter-million turbine-driven horses.
"I meant what I said, by the way," said Jersey at last.
"Hmm?"
"I…" Jersey blushed and muttered something under her breath. The only words Crowning caught were 'limey cunt.' "I don't have cooties."
"I figured as much," chuckled Crowning, unsure of where the Iowa was going.
"I mean…" Jersey shuffled awkwardly on her bench. "I'm horny as goddamn fuck all the time, and I haven't been laid fucking once since I got back. I'm fucking desperate to get some goddamn action 'tween my shafts, okay?"
Crowning almost choked on his oatmeal. "Um…"
"Look," Jersey put one of her monstrously strong hands on his. "I know we're not a thing anymore. And if you want to say no, I won't hold it against you in the least. I'm…sure I can find someone who wants some of this amazing American Ass." The battleship paused for a moment. "That sounded really fucking arrogant, didn't it?"
Crowning shrugged in the affirmative. To tell the truth, it barely even registered compared to her usual air of playfully arrogant smugness.
"Anyway," Jersey shook her head. "Just…after all the shit we've been through – the shit I put you through, figured I should at least offer. Okay now I'm done."
Crowning steepled his fingers for a moment. He'd be lying if he said he didn't have any interest in taking the battleship to bed. He'd be surprised if there was any straight man who wouldn't want to see the Iowa's magnificent figure in its raw, unclothed beauty. She was, quite objectively, gorgeous.
But she was also his friend. And she was, in her own words, desperate. To take advantage of that…it just wasn't right. And he wasn't just any straight man. "No. Jersey, I…no."
For a moment Jersey was silent. Then she breathed a huge sigh of relief and smiled. "Okay, I…yeah. Okay. I didn't really expect…I just had to ask, you know?"
Crowning nodded, idly thinking back to the days where grading a particularly interesting paper would be the most exciting point of his day.
"It's 'cause you're into Kirishima, isn't it?" said Jersey.
"What?" Crowning blinked. "No."
Jersey narrowed those terrifyingly blue eyes of hers. "No, it's not because of Kirishima?" she asked. "Or no, you're not into Kirishima?"
"No, it's –" Crowning coughed, caught off-guard. "Kirishima and I are just friends."
"Fucking why though?" asked Jersey. "Have you seen her ass in that miniskirt? Mini-Dess is hot as shit."
"Jersey, we –"
"Deny it," said Jersey. "Fucking deny it, bitch."
Crowning closed his mouth.
"That's what I thought," said Jersey with a smirk. "Besides, she's a total fucking nerd and she's got the short-hair / glasses thing…" the battleship trailed off with a whistle.
Crowning had to agree with her on that one, although he at least kept it to himself.
"It's a miracle you haven't railed the kessen out of her kantai yet," said Jersey, giggling at her own stupid joke. "Look, if you want I could go see if she's interested."
"Jersey, you really don't have to –"
"No." Jersey planted a finger on his nose and pushed him back into his seat. "When you've got the libido of a battleship, not getting properly fucked sucks. I have fucking suffered for months because of this shit. No one else."
"I have no choice in this, do I?" said Crowning.
"Actually, yeah," said Jersey. "Look me square in the eye and tell me you don't wanna bang the littlest Kongo."
"I…" Crowning locked eyes with the Iowa's icy glare. "I…you're right."
"HA!" Jersey cackled.
"I'm going to regret this, aren't I?"
"Briefly," said Jersey. "But then you'll be too deep in inexplicably British-themed heaven to care."
—|—|—
Meanwhile on the Gulf Coast, it was three AM and battlecruiser Saratoga was slowly melting into bedding. Well, maybe not really, but that's what it felt like. She'd stripped every piece of clothing – save for a thick black scrunchy valiantly struggling to keep her bushy ponytail under control and her little red neckerchief – but it hadn't really helped. Every inch of the cruiser's sun-kissed skin was coated with a thick film of sweat, and she could barely tell where her body ended and the muggy Louisiana air began.
She'd experienced heat before. She'd served in the subtropical waters of the Pacific, and even had two brief but intimate encounters with man-made suns that'd left her with a permanent but slightly uneven tan. But she'd never experienced such an all-encompassing, sweat-inducing, totally draining heat like this.
Maybe it was because all those other times she hadn't had a body. Or…she had, but it'd been made of steel instead of shapely girl. Maybe it was related to Crossroads. The radiation had changed her somehow, made her less tolerant to heat. Maybe it even made her a heater; her tummy had become prime destroyer-cuddling territory recently.
Or maybe it was just some deep Cajun magic in the muggy Louisiana air that sapped her turbo-electric energy. Whatever the cause, Sara was too exhausted to do anything but stare at the impassively glowing lights of her bedside clock. Even falling asleep was too much effort for the overheating warship to manage.
Hey! It was three-oh-one now!
Sara used that momentous occasion as justification to roll onto her back. Her breasts audibly peeled from the sweat-soaked sheet she'd been laying on, but it was nice to get some airflow over her massive stack, even that air was brutally hot.
"Oh, my God," Sara forced a wet breath through her throat. It was so hot, and she knew she wasn't going to get any sleep tonight. She was starting to think it wasn't worth trying in the first place.
Of course…her shower was just down the hall…
The former carrier closed her eyes. Just thinking about nice cool water splashing against her skin made her smile. One of the greatest pleasures of being a girl was taking nice cool showers.
Finally, Sara found the energy to pull herself to her feet. Her shower caddy – a bucket in the shape of her old hull with a handle where her stack had been, courtesy of Alaska and Atago – was just across the room, and finding a clean towel only took a moment.
Sara hastily tucked her towel around herself and padded down the hall to the showers. Everyone else was either on patrol or asleep at this hour, so she'd have the whole complex to herself. She picked her favorite stall, and turned the water as cold as it could get.
"O-oh~" A moan of pure ecstatic bliss crossed her lips as sweat was blasted aside by cool, clean water with just a hint of salt. She slowly slid to her knees and closed her eyes, letting the water pound down against her head and run down her face in soothing rivers.
Mmm…showers were definitely the best part about being a girl.
Sara stayed in the shower for almost an hour before her stomach started to rumble. As a capital ship, she was in a constant state of being kinda hungry. But this was different, a deep rumbling need in her tummy demanding to be sated. Luckily, Sara was based in Louisiana, and those Cajuns knew things about food that mere mortals could only dream of.
The battle-cruiser shut off the water and quickly dried herself off. She was hungry, but it wouldn't do to go prancing around the mess naked like she was fresh off the slip, so she made a detour to her room first.
It was too hot to wear much, so she settled on an airy white sundress. No need for a bra, even if she could've tolerated that much fabric on her bare skin in this heat, her long sixteens were study enough to keep their shape without external support.
After adjusting her neckerchief until it was just so, Sara took off for the mess hall. Breakfast proper hadn't been served yet, but there was a constant buffet area set up for hungry shipgirls just getting back from patrol, so Sara was able to build herself a hearty pre-breakfast of bacon, sausage, biscuits, corn bread, pancakes, and lots of blueberries.
But when Sara went to find a table, something caught her eye. There was a small gaming lounge in the corner of the mess. It'd started when Alaska smuggled in Cameron's Game Cube so she could play Mario Cart with him. But over time, more and more systems and games had been left for bored shipgirls to play with.
Of course, the mere existence of the gaming area wasn't enough to catch her attention. But someone had left one of the televisions on. A beautiful blue sky speckled with clouds scrolled by to the sound of pleasingly baroque strings while a banner proudly displayed "Skies of Arcadia." Below that, a pulsing message invited her to 'press play.'
"Hmm," Sara munched on a hunk of cornbread. "Don't mind if I do." It took her a moment to find the right controller, but once she did she was hooked. She'd been so focused on learning how to be a surface warship, she'd forgotten the sheer joy of flying. And not just flying, but being a pirate of the air!
Sara was so enthralled, she almost forgot to eat. She did forget to keep track of time. She was still sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, eyes glued to her characters when Alaska walked in with a yawn.
The large cruiser was dressed in her pajamas with her stuffed Washington plushie tucked under her arm. Under normal circumstances, she'd have made a direct course to the cereal and poured herself a bowl of Fruity Pebbles before the destroyers got to it and broke the machine. But she stopped when she noticed what the busty former-carrier was doing.
With a tiny smile, Alaska fished a notebook out of her pocket and scribbled something in it. A notebook labeled in her trademark messy printing 'Operation: Get Mom Laid."
—|—|—
"G'morning, ma'am." Yeoman Bowers couldn't help but smirk. It was just past eleven in the morning, and Jersey was clearly holding onto consciousness only by the very skin of her teeth. She squinted into the midday sunlight, her icy blue eyes narrowed to crusty slits. Her vast mane of shimmering strawberry-blond hair was an untamed shrub given some modicum of control only by its immense length.
Her pajamas hung low over those awesome hips of hers, exposing a good chunk of her panties – antifouling red with a thick black stripe at the top. Her cropped t-shirt was lopsidedly stretched over a bosom far too filled out for it to truly contain, and her cottony mouth slowly opened and closed. "Muur?" mumbled the Amazonian woman.
Bowers stifled a giggle. The way she heard it, Jersey had stayed up all night. First to get Shinano tucked in and read her a bedtime story, then to sate the legendarily gluttonous appetite that a woman with her chiseled stomach should in no way have. "I got you coffee, ma'am."
Jersey slowly blinked. Slowly the gears in her mind started turning, and she stiffly reached for the tall cup Bowers was holding. Her fingers closed around the warm cardboard and with immense effort brought the steaming liquid to her lips. Her head tilted back and her long, thick neck rippled as she downed the whole thing in one long sip.
"Hmm." The battleship crushed the now-empty cup in her massive hand. Her eyes were still lidded, but at least there was some visible spark of life behind those icy portals. "'s good."
"Thank you, ma'am." Bowers glowed with pride. She'd made something that could wake up a battleship – albeit only just. Jersey still looked tired and hungover. "It's espresso, but instead of water, I used monster."
Jersey squinted at the sailor. "If I were human, this would've killed me wouldn't it."
"Oh, by the first sip at least."
The battleship cracked a sleepy smile. "I like you, Yeoman."
Bowers smiled. "Thank you, ma'am. And…about that," she handed the battleship some paperwork. "I'm your new Yeoman, Admiral Williams' orders."
"Eh?" Jersey grunted and looked over the papers. After about ten minutes she scowled and turned them the right way up. "Yeoman?"
"Yes, ma'am." said Bowers. "You're a Commander, you rate a staff. Technically, you have for a while, but we've been so short-handed and…"
"And after that shit in Tokyo, the Admiral wants an adult holding my leash?" said Jersey with a bitter smirk.
"Uh," Bowers bit her lip. "I…not in so many words, no ma'am."
The battleship shrugged. "I probably deserved that."
"Whatever you say, ma'am." Bowers hoped it was a proper answer. Jersey was…a very nontraditional officer. And also, she was a ship, which was kinda weird.
"So," Jersey yawned and scratched at her rock-hard stomach. "If you're my staff, I can make you do shit, yeah?"
"Well…" Bowers shrugged. "To an extent."
Jersey giggled to herself. "'m not gonna pull a Wash on you, don't worry. Just…I got my bunkers enlarged in Japan."
"I'm aware, ma'am." Said Bowers. Her best friend Gale had been indignant when the news first came back that Jersey's awe-inspiring hips were now paired with an aesthetically equivalent – and equally biologically impossible for a woman with her degree of muscle tone – bustline.
Bowers hadn't seen the problem though. Jersey wasn't a woman, she was a blatantly supernatural personification of American Naval Might. She wasn't bound by the same laws as mere mortals, nor should she be. Also, Bowers considered the Iowa's new balanced hourglass to be far more visually pleasing than her prior bottom-heavy build. Maybe it'd finally get Musashi to shut up.
"Heh," Jersey smirked and for a moment looked like she was going to grope herself. But then she seemed to realize the amount of effort that would take and thought better of it. "Anyways…I need new clothes. Well…shirts and bras, nothing I have fits anymore."
"I'm certain," said Bowers. "You didn't get anything in Japan?"
Jersey rolled her eyes. "Like they have anything that'll fit American grown triple-Ds."
Bowers blinked and stared at the battleship's breasts. Her big, round, and most assuredly not triple-D-cup breasts. "Uh, ma'am? Do you know how bra sizes work?"
Jersey narrowed her eyes. "From your tone, I'm going to assume no…"
"You…" the sailor cupped her head in her hand. "You can't just list your cup size. There's a band size too."
Jersey stared on with utter comprehensions. Bowers couldn't exactly blame her, everything the battleship knew about the female body came from the memories of male sailors, none of whom were probably eager for a lecture on the finer points of bra fitting.
"It's…like your rifles," continued Bowers. "You've got bore diameter, but also caliber."
It was like a switch flipped, and the Iowa's face lit up in a smile. "Ooooooooh." A moment later though, her confusion returned. "Wait. Yeoman…how the fuck did you know that?"
Unlike the Amazonian battlewagon, Yeoman Jennifer Bowers did not possess an hourglass figure of swooping feminine curves. She was a living twig, devoid of any curves – feminine or otherwise – save for her admittedly inexplicable hips. If it wasn't for uniform regulations, she might not even wear a bra on the daily. "Ma'am, you know I do cosplay."
Jersey nodded. "But…"
"Just…" Bowers fished a phone out of her digis and found the picture she was looking for. "This is my friend Kitty."
Jersey blinked at the picture, her eyes suddenly going as wide as her mighty rifles. Kitty might not have the battleship's colossal stature, but she more than made up for it in curves. Plus, Bowers was exceptionally proud of the seam work she'd done on that Power Girl suit. "W-what?"
"Yeah," said Bowers.
"Did you show Musashi?"
The sailor shook her head. "And make her even more anxious to rub her Kantai Kessens in everyone's face?"
"Point," said Jersey.
"You know…" Bowers cradled her chin in her hand. "With your figure, a new outfit might have to be made to measure…"
The battleship narrowed her eyes again. "Yeoman, you're almost drooling."
Bowers shrugged. She might not have much in the chest department – something she was eternally thankful for, considering she didn't have the superhuman spines of the shipgirls – but tailoring a complex outfit over such an enthusiastically feminine shape as Jersey's rack was the kind of technical challenge she lived for.
"Whatever," Jersey shrugged. "I'm gonna take a shower, just make me look hot."
"Shouldn't be hard, ma'am."
The battleship smirked. "Oh, and Bowers?"
"Ma'am?"
"You do admin stuff and shit for me, right?" asked the big Iowa.
Bowers nodded.
"I hear there's a plane museum in town."
"Yeah, Flying Heritage," said Bowers. "They got a lot of WWII stuff."
Jersey nodded, her hands reflexively going to her wide hips. "That's the one. Think you could arrange transport for Shina and I? And like…" she held her hands a few feet apart, "yea much destroyers?"
"No problem, ma'am," said Bowers with a stifled giggle.
"And…" Jersey bit her lip. "See if you can arrange a tour at an odd hour. Either really early or really late or something. Shina's not gonna have fun if she's too busy hiding from a crowd."
"Awwww," Bowers cooed, earning her a sour look from the battlewagon. "I'll get right on it ma'am."
—|—|—
Meanwhile on the Gulf Coast, large cruiser Alaska was enjoying her breakfast of Pebbles and boxed apple juice. Some might call her childish, but considering she was wearing her Hot Wheels footie pajamas – a gift from Cameron for no particular reason – while her Wash plushie was propped up next another, somewhat smaller bowl of Fruity Pebbles…they were probably right.
In her defense though, by any reasonable standard except the actual physical age her hull would have been if she hadn't been decommissioned when she was three and scrapped when she was fifteen, Alaska was a very young ship. Also, footie pajamas were super comfy and Alaska would unironically wear them on patrol if she could.
That was beside the point, though. Alaska wasn't merely eating her breakfast, she was observing the former carrier who she'd adopted as her mother. Sara had finally learned not to hunch over so much in front of the television, but for hours she'd accidentally hit a button with her breast and then be very confused about why her character did something she didn't expect. She'd eventually figured it out though, complete with an exasperated "Oh, my God~" delivered to nobody in particular.
A few faeries were resting on her shoulders – and one very smug gunner's mate was reclining in the battlecruiser's excessive supply of cleavage. Alaska was too far away to make it out clearly, but from Sara's irritated reactions they were trying to back-seat play.
"Morning, Alaska." Daniel Stewart, the man who was closer to being Alaska's adoptive dad than any man – save the Admiral and Cameron's dad – smiled at her with his meager breakfast all laid out on a tray.
"Hello," Alaska drew out the last syllable a bit in the hopes of disguising her ploy. It was a very effective disguise. She was so practiced in not knowing what was going on or what she was doing that she could act like it at a moment's notice. After a second's wait, she put on a pout and subtly pushed her plushie forwards.
"And hello, Wash," Stewart, to his credit, didn't skip a beat. He smiled and gave the little doll a pat on her felt-covered head.
"Thank you," said Alaska with a giggle.
"You wanted to talk to me?" Stewart set his tray on the table and idly buttered a slice of toast.
"Hmm?" Alaska knit her snowy brows in confusion and let her mouth stay slightly ajar as the question mark slipped from her lips.
"I got a text from you this morning."
Alaska shook her head. "I don't think so…" She shrugged and fished her phone from her pocket. Her real phone, not the burner she'd had Texas help her rig up. After fumbling in her lock code and stumbling her way through the menus, she got to her message log. "Yeah, no message."
"Huh," Stewart shrugged.
"Sorry," said Alaska.
"'s nothing," Stewart took a bite of toast. "Don't mind being on the base anyhow."
"Cameron visits me all the time," said Alaska, subtly implying a ship's significant other was welcome on the premises.
"So I've heard."
Alaska purred at the thought of Cameron cuddling her. Cameron cuddling was like wearing footie pajamas on a cool evening, only it smelled better and brought with it a possibility of potato wedges. "Do you know video games?" she asked.
"Pardon?"
"Video games," said Alaska innocently. "Cameron's shown me a few, but…" she shrugged. "I'm not sure what Sara's playing. And she was too invested for me to wanna ask."
"Well…" Stewart set his toast down. "I'm not much of a gamer anymore, but…" he trailed off, and a smile forced its way unbidden onto his face. "Heh…look at that."
Alaska wasn't sure if he meant the situation in general, or Sara in particular. She hoped it was the latter. "Hmm?" she said innocently.
"Sorry," Stewart was blushing, but didn't seem to care. "That's, uh, Skies of Arcadia. I used to love that game."
"I think Sara loves it, too," said Alaska with just the right level of innocence to spout out-of-the-mouths-of-babes wisdom. "She's been playing it since I came down."
"Really?" Stewart smiled a lopsided grin that didn't really fit on his face, but tried its best anyway.
"Yeah," said Alaska. "For hours. I haven't seen her eat much."
"Huh," said Stewart. Everyone knows how hungry capital ships could get.
"And they have cinnamon rolls today too," said Alaska. "Her favorite."
"Really…" Stewart glanced over at the serving line.
"I was gonna get her some, but 'tago wanted me to save a seat while she did her hair," subtly implying that she'd have company soon enough and Stewart didn't have to feel obligated to sit with her.
"That's nice of you," said Stewart, too enthralled in watching Sara's sun-kissed body hunched over her controller with her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth to catch on.
Alaska sighed. Some people needed it spoon-fed to them. "If you're going that way, could you grab me one?" she asked, hoping to stir him into action.
"Huh?" Stewart blinked. "Oh yeah, no problem."
"Thank you!" said Alaska. "And one for Wash, please."
"You got it," Stewart ruffled Alaska's snowy hair and made for the cinnamon rolls. Atago came wandering in almost the moment he got up, and just like they'd rehearsed Alaska flagged her down. While Stewart was up, Atago took his place across from Alaska.
"Here you go," Stewart handed Alaska a small plate of frosted rolls – and picked the smallest one out for Wash.
"Oh," Atago let out a little gasp and put a hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry, did I take your seat?"
For a moment, the world slowed to a crawl. Alaska was on the edge of her seat waiting for Stewart to respond. Not literally of course, she was carefully maintaining her quiet, confused large cruiser image on Stewart's behalf.
Then Stewart glanced past the bubbly blond cruiser to the flagship of his heart. "Nah, I was gonna talk to Sara."
Atago smiled. "Have fun!"
Stewart was already on his way. And while his back was turned, for just the briefest fraction of an instant, Alaska and Atago shared a sly grin.
—|—|—
As usual, Sarah Gale was eating. It seemed like that was all she ever did nowadays. Sure, sometimes she'd do some paperwork or read some destroyers their bedtime stories while she ate. But the only time the sailor didn't have something edible within arm's reach was when she slept. And even then, she usually woke up famished and made herself a hearty breakfast before she was even fully conscious.
That in and of itself didn't bother her; she was pregnant after all, pregnant with the child of another woman who was also a battleship. The little tyke – or tykes; Borie was certain she was having twins at least, and thus far no doctor had been able to prove the little shit wrong – was as hungry as her mother. Or…her other mother, that is. Gale has happy to make sure her growing child was well-fed.
It helped that Gale never really felt starving. True, almost the moment she stopped eating she started feeling peckish again, but it was a mere nagging feeling that she could ignore if she had to. Not like Wash, or any battleship for that matter. She'd seen shipgirl hunger pangs first-hand once, but she knew they were bad enough to reduce the normally stoic Wash to tears. Compared to that, feeling a mildly under-filled was a gentle burden to bear.
The frustrating part was that no matter how much Gale ate, her stomach didn't change in the slightest. Her appetite had almost tripled, her tummy felt like it was perpetually full of lead shot, and she spent every waking moment munching on something or other. But her belly was still as flat as it had been the day Wash proposed!
Mutsu had gotten obviously, visibly pregnant almost on day one! Even Wash was showing in her own refined, understated way! At this point, Gale would've settled with a bloated food-baby from all the spinach she'd been devouring if only it gave the world some unmistakable display, some message to all who looked up on her that she was indeed carrying the love of her life's child!
But no. The universe had decided her baby would be anonymous. She knew she shouldn't be so caught up in appearances, but…dammit…she wanted the world to know!
"Hey, Sarah." Yeoman Bowers smirked a devilish, vaguely submarine-like smirk. A far less heavily-loaded tray was balanced on one hand, with a tall mug of coffee in the other.
"Jen," Gale stared enviously at the coffee. She'd cut herself off from the gritty brown beverage that had once made up more of her blood than actual blood. Nobody could tell her if a baby shipgirl would be harmed by caffeine – including Vestal, who was looking increasingly queasier the more she read about childbirth – but Gale could never forgive herself it she accidentally harmed her and Wash's child.
Bowers took a long, slow sip that made Gale's mouth water. "How's the kiddo?"
"Hungry." Gale waved at the mountain of salad she was slowly working through. "How's working for Jersey?"
Bowers shrugged. "You know her tits got bigger?"
"Oh, goddammit." Gale ceremonially buried her face in her salad and screamed into the leaves. Jersey's figure was the unrealistic body standard feminism had railed against for so long. But at least her chest wasn't quite proportionate. Or at least it hadn't been.
Bowers chuckled, and reached over to gently stroke Gale's hair. "There, there, Sarah."
"She's going to be insufferable," moaned Gale.
"She wasn't already?"
Gale slowly pulled her face out of her lunch. "Okay…that's…accurate."
"Besides," Bowers shrugged and popped a cheese puff into her mouth. How she managed to stay so skinny when all Gale had ever seen her eat was junk was a mystery she'd been promoted too far to understand. "She's good people. You know the first order she gave me was to arrange a tour of Flying Heritage for Shina?"
Gale cocked her eyebrows. "Really?"
Bowers nodded. "Even made sure I knew to pick a slow day, so the poor girl doesn't get spooked by the crowd."
"She does know Musashi's on base, right?" said Gale. "Didn't even want to brag."
"Well…" Bowers shrugged. "Yes. But she's got priorities."
—|—|—
Meanwhile in the base library, battleship Musashi hunched over Military Blunders of the Imperial Japanese Navy (Volume IX, 1943-44). It was, much to her chagrin, an immense book filled with unbiased and exquisitely detailed breakdowns of each and everything her beloved country had done wrong during the war.
Her blood boiled as she devoured the words. Her teeth grit until she tasted copper and steel, her hands balled into fists with only the sturdy leather of her finger less gloves saving her palms from the savaging her fingernails would've inflicted. It enraged her that some foreigner would spill so much ink over the failings of a country that, for all intents and purposes, had ceased to exist decades before he was even born.
But every time she felt ready to snap, when she knew she'd tear the book into a pile of flaming confetti if she read one more word, she screwed up her eyes and thought of home. She thought of the country she loved. A country now facing an enemy far more terrible than even the mighty US Navy. A country that would fall again if they allowed the mistakes of yesterday to happen again. And this time, there would be no MacArthur to save it.
To save her country, the fiercely patriotic battleship had to destroy it. Or at least…destroy the pedestal upon which it stood.
"Yo, Mushi."
Musashi's chocolate features split in a sly grin. She'd know that rough, dusky contralto anywhere. It was a voice dripping in firer oil and the stench of gunpowder and gasoline, a voice whose owner had recently become unattached in the romantic sense.
"Mmm," Musashi slowly closed the book. "New Jersey," she said, pushing her glasses up her slender nose. "It's good to see you again."
The towering American said something, but Musashi honestly didn't hear a word. Her crew was too busy struggling frantically to clear for action and stem the hammer of progressive flooding before half her precious oil came flowing out her nose.
New Jersey had changed since the last time Musashi laid eyes on her. Her hair was longer than even before, the tips a more vibrant red. But that was only secondary to the singular defining change that defined the American's refit.
Musashi and Jersey – or rather, their respective classes – were two of a kind. Not just battleships, but the battleships. The last battleships. The ultimate expression of the concept of an armored fighting ship. The be-all, end-all, last-word in total naval gunfire supremacy.
Yes, in Musashi's personal and objectively correct opinion, the Yamato class was vastly superior to their American counterparts in every meaningful and/or conceivable way. But she would admit without reservation that the American titans had a place beside (and only slightly below) her and her sister as ships that superior to all else the oceans could offer.
That assumption, however, had been challenged the first time she laid eyes on New Jersey in the flesh. The American was fast, yes. Strong and tall with fine lines and a monstrous propulsion plant growling away beneath her rippling middle. But her main battery left…something to be desired.
Musashi knew the American's long-barreled sixteens were inferior to her own forty-centimeter special-type rifles. But when she first saw New Jersey's rather pathetic endowment, even she couldn't believe her Type 94's were truly that much better.
That was no longer the case, however. The American had changed on her last deployment. Musashi had to assume the healing hot springs of her home had worked magic that American industry could simply not comprehend.
Jersey's chest had filled out magnificently. So perfect were the American's breasts, so mathematically precise was their gentle wobble and jiggle with each breath, so entrancing was their beauty, that Musashi couldn't even force herself to tear her gaze away to the Iowa's shockingly blue eyes.
"Ay!" Jersey grabbed the zipper of Musashi's shirt and abruptly yanked it up. The Japanese battleship's rifles were too objectively and undeniably awesome for her shirt to ever close over them, of course. But the Iowa's immense strength was at least enough to get the forged steel teeth to bite painfully into Musashi's chocolate skin.
"Ow!" Musashi shrieked in pain, but for some reason none of the sailors sharing the building with her tried to shush her. "This!" She stopped her roaring fury and sheepishly waved an apology. "Pardon," she continued at a stage whisper. "This Musashi will not tolerate such insolence."
"Says the boat struck dumb by American tiddy," Jersey cupped her breasts with her hand and squished her mighty mark sevens together. "Not that I blame you."
Musashi pouted, forcing her stare to bore into Jersey's icy eyes. "Have you come simply to torture me?"
Jersey chuckled. "That's always fun, innit? But no. Shina and I are gonna hit the flight museum soon, figured you'd like to come."
"I…" Musashi bit her lip and glanced back at the mountain of reading material she still had to get through. "Perhaps –"
"No," Jersey planted her hands on her hips. "It's your sister, you're coming."
"Hmm," Musashi crossed her arms and nodded. A moment later, she dipped her chin and smiled. "Thank you, Jersey. For inviting me."
The American shrugged, now it was her time to glance at her toes. "Eh…'s the least I could do. By the way…"
"Yes?" said Musashi.
"Think you could talk to your admiral about something?"
Musashi cocked a snowy eyebrow. "About what?"
—|—|—
Battleship Kirishima yawned as she walked aimlessly through the base. Wash had, predictably, torn off on a direct Gale-wardly course the instant they'd finished their debrief, but Kirishima couldn't decide what she wanted to do. Unlike her best friend – or her beloved big sister, for that matter – Kirishima didn't have a lover to welcome her home.
At least…
Kirishima bit her lip, lazily turning to port for no particular reason. She liked Crowning, she really did. He was sweet and gentle, and always made the big battleship feel safe and secure. She might even say she loved him. Maybe. What she couldn't tell was if he loved her back. It certainly seemed like he did, but at the same time, he was as gentle and kind with all the ships at Everett!
It was part of the reason Kirishima felt so secure when she was around him, and she wouldn't trade it for the world. But she had to admit, it made this whole relationship game vastly harder to piece together.
Of course, there was also –
"'Shima!" Heavy footsteps pounded against the concrete behind her. Kirishima looked around only to see a towering American Amazon smash into her at upwards of thirty knots. She had just enough time to contemplate why this kept happening to her before she landed hard in the grass with fifty thousand tons of American iron atop her and two half-gloved hands planted squarely on her tightly-bound breasts.
"Uh…" Jersey bit her lip and tore her hands away with a blush. "Sorry about that."
Kirishima coughed. "W-wha?"
"Look, I needed to catch you 'fore you and…" the big Iowa trailed off. "Anyways, I know about you and Crowning."
Kirishima's eyes went wide. "Jersey, no –"
"Lemme finish," said Jersey. "I know…and I don't blame you. He's a good guy, and…and I didn't want him waiting on me to get someone he loved into his bed."
"Jersey, I swear –"
"I said let me fucking finish!" snapped Jersey. "Do you know how fucking hard it is for me to say this? I love him, alright? I still do. But…I'm not good for him, you are. Okay? Just…be good to him." She closed her eyes with a scowl. "Or I swear to SecNav I'll rape you to death with your own fucking keel."
Kirishima blinked. She'd never been so touched by such a violent an imaginative threat. "Jersey…I…I like him, yes. I think every ship here does."
"Hell yeah you do," said Jersey.
"But…" Kirishima gingerly smoothed her nontraditional miko blouse. "I've known him for a few weeks. That's…that's not enough to build a relationship on. Not really."
Jersey blinked, then flopped onto the grass next to the littlest Kongo. "Fuck," she cursed under her breath. "Stupid fucking excuse for a fast battleship."
"Jersey?"
"Not you," said the American. "Just…go. I'm gonna…fucking…wallow here for a bit."
—|—|—
"I'm sorry," Vice Admiral Samuel Williams glanced up from his paperwork in stone-faced shock. "You want what?"
Across the desk, battleship New Jersey stood at parade-ground perfect attention. Her hands were smartly by her sides, the zipper on her vest was lined up neatly with the massive buckle of her gun belt, her eyes were locked on the horizon, and her shoulders were squared and steady. To be honest, Williams was quite pleased by how she'd shaped up after her talking to in Japan.
He'd hoped her outburst had been a one-time occurrence, an outlier cause by the extraordinary trying circumstances of learning her littlest sister had died while she was away at sea – and at Christmas no less! And thus far, he'd been right. She was still the same loud, brash battleship as before. But from what he'd heard, she'd been going above and beyond to look after her fleet – especially young Shinano.
However, all those hopes he had for his mightiest battleship had died a quick but extraordinarily painful death mere moments before. His last shred of hope that he might somehow retire with his sanity vanished when he looked at the beautifully-typed and thoroughly official-looking paperwork the Iowa had handed him.
"Sir," Jersey puffed her chest out, muscles in her monstrous thighs visibly tensing with nervous energy. "I want to fuck Musashi."
Williams scowled and glanced at the paper in his hands. A very official request – in writing – for permission to have carnal relations with a warship of an allied country. Yes, that is still what it said. "Jersey…" The admiral sighed, rubbing at the migraine that hadn't fully gone away for three years.
"Sir," Jersey bit her lip. "With all due respect, I have the libido of almost three thousand men. And she is real damn hot."
"I'm aware, Jersey."
"And last time was a mistake," said the Iowa. "If you say no, that's it." She planted her hands on her hips and scowled. "If I don't get your express permission, in writing, that's it. I ignore it and never bring this up again."
Williams pursed his lips and stared at the mighty amazon before him. Under normal circumstances, he'd never have humored a request like this from one of his sailors – let alone one of his ships. But that was before sea monsters rose. Before ships were girls.
Jersey noticed his moment of hesitation. She wanted to speak, to argue her case. He could see it eating her up inside. Finally, she could hold her tongue no longer. "Sir, I've talked with Musashi. She's already cleared this with Goto."
Williams nodded, only mildly worried that one of his warships telling him she'd gotten another warship's admiral to approve of a sexual relation between them didn't even register as unusual. "That so?"
"Yes, sir." Jersey fished a file from under her arm. Somehow. Williams was pretty certain it hadn't been there a moment ago. "Signed and approved."
"Mmm," Williams scanned over the paperwork. He couldn't read Japanese as good as he liked, but it did resemble official JMSDF paperwork he'd seen before, and the signature matched Goto's.
"Sir?" Jersey rocked on her heels, looking eerily more like a nervous schoolgirl than an Amazonian incarnation of naval might.
"Commander," Williams scribbled his signature. "You have my permission."
—|—|—
Uploader's Note: Well, that was a long chapter. You guys sure are spoiled ;)
It had nothing to do with the fact that I couldn't decide where to cut it off. Nope, never had that problem. Never.
On the other hand, I did promise some action (in more ways than one) last time and….I kinda lied, so I made it longer than my planned schedule to make up for it. *coughing ensues*
Caboose Out