Daily life with Admiral Old Iron

Chapter 1: Why can't I hold all my standards?

"Wake up," a voice sliced through the haze clouding Iron's half-asleep mind like butter rent by a hot sledgehammer. It was a kind voice, soft and feminine. But unquestionably strong and almost inhumanly imperious. Like a kind schoolmarm offering a gold star and bowl of sweets with one hand and a wicked switch with other.

"Muh." Was the most eloquent thing the sleeping programmer could manage. It Saturday. Morning. Probably. It was… he could barely open his eyes and he certainly couldn't get them to focus, so he settled on assuming it was "early" o-clock.

"Now now," said another voice. One identical in timbre and inflection to the first, but at the same time unmistakably different. Sweeter, gentler, without the face-hardened edge of the first. "He's had a long day."

"That's no excuse," said the first voice. It scowled audibly—Iron didn't know that was possible—and trailed off in a huff.

"Let him sleep a while longer, Oakie should have breakfast ready soon."

With what little cognitive ability his still sleep-shrouded mind could bring to bear, Iron idly wondered when he'd purchased such a talkative alarm clock. And what possessed past him into thinking that would be a good financial decision. However, he could agree that sleeping for a little bit longer felt like a grand idea.

"He's slept long enough!" Said the first voice with a snap.

Right, he had to hit the snooze button. Slowly, a hand reached out of the covers and Iron reached for his nightstand. He managed to find the corner with the fleshy part of his wrist and a muffled yelp of surprised pain slipped past his lips. But at least he had a reference point. If the corner was there, than his alarm should be—

"Goodness!" It was the second voice, but with a startled shriek that almost kept Iron from noticing how soft and squishy his alarm clock had gotten. And how warm. And round. And how it faintly smelled of vanilla and heavy fuel oil.

Instantly his eyes slammed and slewed wildly to his outstretched hand. Standing beside his bed with her face nearly as red as her shoulder-length hair and smartly tied neckerchief was a girl. A woman, really. She couldn't have been much more than five and a half feet tall, but her plump face was—schoolgirl blush notwithstanding—looked developed and mature. Her chubby figure was the very definition of matronly, and her pronounced bosom…

..was currently being fondled by Iron in his attempt to find the snooze button.

"Please," said the other voice with icy calm. Its owner could've been the first girl's twin. Or failing that, her sister. This one had her hair up in a folded-over ponytail, and the look on her face was far more aggressive than the first. "Remove your hand from my sister's upperworks."

Iron had the distinct impression that failure to do so would cause certain parts of his anatomy to telescope into other parts of his anatomy that they were not intended to telescope into. He hastily removed his hand from the first girl's chest and slipped it back under the covers with a hasty apology. "Sorry," he said honestly.

The first girl somehow found another shade of red to blush and vanished out of the room as fast as her stocky legs could carry her.

"It's best," said the second girl, rolling her sleeve up an arm that bristled with enough corded muscle to make Popeye the sailor man hang his head in shape. "That you don't remember this."

Before Iron could ask any of the many clarifying questions that were on his mind, the girl balled her hand into a fist and brought it straight down on the crown of his head like she was swinging a hammer. The last thing he remembered before blacking out was a strange desire to repaint everything he owned the same shade of gray.

—|—|—

"Gooood Morning, Admiral." A quiet voice, barely more than a murmured whisper roused him from his bed. Iron blinked back into the land of the living, rubbing at a throbbing bump on the crown of his head as he slowly propped himself up on his elbow.

"Wha?" He grunted, glancing at the girl standing by the foot of his bed. She wasn't what anyone would call tall, but she was certainly big. Wide and curvy, and more stacked than the frankly implausible pile of syrup-drenched pancakes on the tray she was holding.

"I made you breakfast," Said the girl, her distinctly native features still and while not quite gloomy, at least lightly speckled with clouds. Her bobbed chestnut hair was decorated with a single feather, and she seemed delicate in a way her solid build belied. She was standing firm before his sleepy gaze, but he got the distinct impression that she was close to the limit of her abilities. "I hope you like it," she added.

Iron blinked, staring at the busty and frankly beautiful woman at the foot of his bed. "Who are you," he asked, "and why are you in my house?"

The girl blushed nervously and glanced at her fingertips. "Isn't it… I'm the battleship Oklahoma. And I've been sent here to live with you."

Uploader's Note: "Well, why CAN'T he hold all his Standards?" "Because they'll break something you'll need if you try, silly."

Needless to say, I was really surprised when this came out. It's by Old Iron, who pretty much wrote half of this story. Perhaps it will serve to motivate Jumper; if you didn't realize, he's been slowing down for reasons I can only guess. (Nevermind that I'm a hypocrite for not updating my OWN stories that often...)

Review! (And maybe we will get a Flapper-dancing Ari like I had hoped...)