AN: So: general situation update. For starters, despite what some might have been wondering over the period of silence the last two and a bit months: no, this is neither dead, nor on hiatus. Short of actually copping it IRL, if anything were, hypothetically, to get me to put this on the backburner, I would make sure to notify you all via an AN. Without boring anyone with the details, my job kind of fell through, and as long as money continues to pay for all the little things like food and board and utilities, scrambling to find a new one has been the priority, which I'm sure you can all guess has been a pain in the current climate.

Things have gotten marginally better of late, but until I fix my IRL situation, I can't and won't make promises I might not be able to keep regarding a consistent schedule of updates. All I can offer is that the next update is unlikely to take as long to get out as this one did.

Thanks for bearing with, all. As ever, I hope you enjoy.

Solace: A Commander's Tale

Chapter Fourteen: Approaching Storm

The alarm shattered the silence like a sledgehammer striking a glass window.

Sheffield awoke with a start, and was up on her feet in a heartbeat, pushing through her waking fatigue with sheer, brute force of will. With a quick slap, the alarm clock was silenced, leaving the cruiser in the gloom of her modest bedchamber with only silence for company. She paused to check and arrange her thoughts, then nodded to herself, and began what had already become her normal waking routine as part of Azur Lane.

Sheffield picked out from a modest cupboard one of her many impeccably pressed uniforms and folded it neatly in half over one arm before stepping out to make use of the communal bathing suite on her floor. Her shower took five minutes precisely, and once she was done, she applied a dryer to her long, wheat-blonde hair before tying it into her distinctive, looping braid-and-bun combination. When the light cruiser checked a slim little pocket watch—one of her scant few personal possessions—she found that she had taken ten minutes and twenty-two seconds. Almost thirty seconds longer than the previous day.

Sheffield frowned, but did not spent time moping or griping with herself. She would do better tomorrow morning. That was all. She promptly got dressed, and after double-checking herself in the mirror, she nodded, satisfied that she appeared presentable. Exiting the bathroom, she turned left, striding past her quarters before knocking on the door next to hers.

"Yes?" called a voice from within. A few moments later the knob turned with a soft click, and the door swung open a fraction. Dido peered out, curious. Then, she registered who her caller was, and the buxom cruiser stiffened. "Miss Sheffield!"

"I was simply checking to see if you were awake, Dido," Sheffield explained.

"Oh, y-yes indeed, Miss," Dido nodded emphatically. "I set my alarm a few minutes early just in case."

"Good," Sheffield nodded. "You'll find a task list in the communal lounge for you and your sister for the day. I expect all of them to be finished to a decent standard by the time I return from my duties tonight."

"Oh," Dido's brow furrowed. "Does that mean you're going to be—"

"I will be attending to Master Graves today, yes," she confirmed, before arching an eyebrow. "Is there a problem?"

Dido paled. "No, no, ma'am! I just…" she shook her head. "Never mind. Sirius and I will have everything done before the day is out."

"I expect no less," said Sheffield, before turning to leave. "Have a good day, Dido."

"And you, Miss Sheffield, thank you. Please give Master Graves my regards."

"I shall," she said, before moving on to Sirius' room just next door. There was, predictably, no response to her knock. Sheffield waited a few moments longer, just in case, before sighing and pushing the door open.

As ever, the luckless maid's room looked as though a bomb had been set off inside. Loose articles of clothing—undergarments, mostly, to Sheffield's consternation—littered the floor, and one of her uniforms had been haphazardly left to lie at the foot of her bed, where it was almost certainly creased and wrinkled far beyond what was appropriate. Sheffield certainly hoped that Sirius did not think she was going to get away with wearing that today.

As expected, she found Sirius still fast asleep in her bed, arms and legs wrapped around her pillow, which was crushed to her chest like a child hugs their favourite teddy bear. She was entirely naked, having either forgone wearing anything, considering the heat, or her typical luck had reared its ugly head, and she had somehow shorn herself of her garments in her sleep. Even having known the girl as long as she had, Sheffield found it impossible to know for certain which was the more likely scenario.

She was murmuring in her sleep, a dopey grin upon her normally soft, placid features. Curious, Sheffield leaned in. She retreated, however, when she caught a murmur of the sinfully lascivious dream that so entranced her fellow maid. Inhaling through the nose, Sheffield drew back and sharply clapped her hands together.

Sirius awoke with a start, gasping at the sudden noise and flailing her limbs wildly. Stepping back—Sheffield knew better than to try and come to her aid—the impassive cruiser watched as Sirius tipped over the edge of her bed with a panicked squeak and landed on the floor in a heap.

"What?" groaned Sirius, cheek planted on the carpet. "Where…?"

"You are late getting up, Sirius," Sheffield informed her with a sigh. "Again."

"Oh."

"I have taken the liberty of assigning you and your sister your duties for the day," Sheffield continued. "Dido knows where to find the task list. As I have informed her: I expect them all to be completed by the time I return this evening, and to a sufficient standard."

"Yes, Miss Sheffield," mumbled Sirius, picking herself up from her pitiful position on the floor.

"Speak louder, Sirius," chastised the more experienced maid. "You are a Royal Maid. Conducting yourself with a little more dignity is not a crime."

"Yes, Miss Sheffield!" Sirius repeated, with more force. Sheffield allowed herself the barest hint of a smile.

"Better. Now dress yourself. You only have another fifteen minutes at most before reveille."

"Yes, Miss Sheffield!" Sirius answered, before racing out into the hallway to make for the showers.

Three, two, one…

Sure enough, Sirius returned scant moments later, shoulders slumped, a sheepish expression on her face as she opened her closet to retrieve a set of clothes and a towel before taking her leave once more.

Satisfied that she had done as much as she was able to here, Sheffield made one last inspection of the Royal Navy dorms before setting off for the main HQ building.

It was, she decided, quite a nice sort of morning. Already, the sun began to crest the distant horizon, and a soft, pleasant breeze tickled at the warm, tropical air, bringing with it the familiar scent of saltwater, spliced with a dash of metallic tang and acrid smoke—the ships of the returning patrol fleet, returning from their night's watch.

Sure enough, moments later, as she stepped into the bay, and the massive harbour that had been dug out, she saw the ships of Third Fleet deftly manoeuvre into port. London began berthing nearby, and Sheffield saw the shipgirl give a languid wave from her deck, even as her mouth stretched open in a wide yawn. For such a diligent and attentive cruiser to display such unladylike behaviour spoke to her exhaustion, and Sheffield returned the wave with a courteous nod of acknowledgement as she made her way to the pristine white HQ building.

HQ was as sparsely populated as it ever seemed to be. The only signs of life she saw on her way upstairs were a handful of the Bullins mopping up what looked like a coffee stain on the ground floor, and a brief glimpse of the Eagle Union quartermaster, Smith, before he shut himself inside his office. The Union man was clearly an early riser, and Sheffield wondered if she should perhaps do some digging. Filing the thought for later, she carried on her way, soon finding herself in front of the set of double doors that led her into Commander Graves' quarters.

She was early by five minutes, but that was fine. Taking a slow, measured breath, Sheffield quietly unlocked and then opened one of the doors and slid on inside with scarcely a whisper. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom in moments, though she recalled with perfect clarity the position of the furniture anyway, and thus had no need to fear a collision. She swept the chamber with a cursory glance, noting with satisfaction that everything appeared just as neat as it had the last time she had set foot here.

Turning her attention towards the bed, she saw a familiar glimpse of short, brown hair peeking out from under the sheets, and exhaled softly. She did not approach her slumbering master, though part of her did indeed wonder what it might be like to reach out and—

Sheffield sucked in a short, sharp breath, willing herself into a tranquil frame of mind. She was a shipgirl, and a maid at that. Such luxuries were not for her to desire, neither should she aspire to them. Duty, she reminded herself, was its own reward.

Even so, the memories returned unbidden: the lashing rain, the bellowing thunder and the roar of shellfire. The excruciating pain and the hazy blur that followed, blood staining her vision and stinging her eyes. A hand reaching out to brush her rain-slick hair from her torn face…

Sheffield ground her teeth and banished the recollection with a thought. It was in the past. Forgotten, she reminded herself with bitter vehemence. Besides, five minutes were up. Turning, the maid prepared to open the curtains and help her master prepare for another day, when a sudden noise stopped her.

A groan, quiet and soft—too soft to belong to Commander Graves. Sheffield ran through and discounted a dozen different possibilities in a heartbeat before settling back on the large double bed. Now that she looked a little more closely, the profile established by the sheets seemed a little too large to belong solely to her Commander. Disbelief carved itself into her heart as she reached for the duvet and pulled it gently away, exposing a head of long, lavender hair. Sheffield felt her doubt grow as she beheld the slumbering form of Unicorn, curled up next to Graham Graves, the hem of his thin, white undershirt clutched in one of her tiny fists like he was a living, breathing charm.

Sheffield found herself rooted to the spot; such was her befuddlement. A hundred different questions raced through her head. Was this some sort of illicit relationship? Did his preferences lie with the little carrier? Had she so thoroughly misjudged her master? Swallowing, she fought to focus, and tried to take a step back in order to calm her thoughts, and inspect the scene with a more critical eye.

With a more level perspective, she found that, with a proper look, there was not anything truly suspect about the sight before her. No strange smells to indicate coitus had ever occurred, and neither of the pair's clothing looked especially dishevelled, which would suggest that they had not disrobed. Their unconscious body language, too, did not indicate—at least to her—that anything untoward had occurred here. Knowing Unicorn's service record, as she did all the Royals on-base, she suspected that she had an idea of what might have brought the young carrier to Commander Graves' quarters, and her master's response was all too obvious.

"Honestly, though," she sighed, muttering under her breath, "You really ought to be more careful. Someone else might have drawn a different conclusion for certain."

Commander Graves inhaled suddenly and groaned as he awoke. Sheffield would have cursed her slip, but it was time for him to be up anyway. Slipping back into her usual persona, the light cruiser fixed her master with her typically impassive stare and prepared to receive him.

Graham felt certain something was different as he woke up. For starters, he felt a fair amount warmer than he usually did, for starters, much of it emanating from his left side. The next thing he noticed as he yawned and stretched his arm out was that, through his blurred vision, there was the familiar, slender outline of a figure standing at his bedside. Blinking to clear away the sleep, his gaze settled upon Sheffield, who seemed subtly unimpressed. Frowning, he wondered what could have earned him such ire.

His query was answered scant moments later when he heard another yawn at his side. Turning, he was momentarily stunned to find a gradually stirring Unicorn, who blinked up at him, before favouring him with a smile that could have melted ice, such was its pure hearted sincerity.

"Good morning, Mister Graves," she said in her soft, gentle voice, before yawning again.

Graham felt his heart sink as he turned to Sheffield, who hadn't so much as twitched.

"Sheffield," he said, as carefully as he could manage. "I can assure you that, despite however this might look—"

But Sheffield cut him off.

"I believe I can guess, Master Graves. Lady Unicorn came to you in the evening, yes?"

Not sure if he was perhaps being tested, Graham elected simply to nod his head to confirm.

"As I recall, she was attached to your combat flotilla before being reassigned to Lady Illustrious'. Furthermore, I seem to remember that you took measures to look out for her, even despite the relatively short amount of time she was under your command. I surmise, then, that something of this nature has happened once before."

Graham nodded again, noting out the corner of his eye the way Unicorn, now fully awake and considerably bemused, glanced between the maid and her Commander in childish curiosity.

"There was a thunderstorm, just before she transferred to Commander Hastings' command," Graham explained. "Neither Illustrious or her sisters were on base, as I remember. She, ah, came to me. Nothing happened then, either." He added hastily.

"I believe you," nodded Sheffield, and Graham felt a deepest sort of relief that she understood the connection was purely an innocent one. "All the same, I think I'd rather this not become a habit, Lady Unicorn. After all, I'm sure Lady Victorious would—"

And then, as if on cue, the doors to Graham's quarters were thrown open, and in the doorway stood a typhoon in the form of a shapely and very thinly-dressed blonde.

"Commander!" cried Victorious. "This is simply awful! I awoke this morning and couldn't find…" she stalled, coming to a sudden, unexpected halt as she laid eyes upon the little carrier kneeling on the bed.

"Unicorn!"

In an instant, Victorious had swept past both Sheffield and Graham to scoop up the little carrier in her arms, practically crushing the girl against her chest.

"I was so worried when I found you missing!" wailed the older woman. "Oh, I would never have forgiven myself if I had found out that anything had happened to you!"

For her part, Unicorn tried to respond, but her tiny voice was entirely drowned out by the nigh on suffocating embrace that Victorious subjected her to. Extricating the poor girl took a combined effort from both Graham and Sheffield, but, eventually, the young carrier could breathe once more. Graham then took the liberty of explaining to the now calmed Victorious what had occurred. He decided to leave out the fact that the older woman had allegedly terrible sleeping habits—a gesture Unicorn seemed grateful for—choosing instead to infer that the girl had sought out an old friend, of sorts.

"Oh, so that's what it was," hummed the Illustrious-class carrier, pressing one hand to her cheek. "You know, dearie, I really wouldn't have minded you visiting if you'd just told me you were going. I had quite the fright when I awoke, you know."

"I'm sorry, Miss Victorious," mumbled Unicorn, shuffling her feet, hands wrapped around her ever-present stuffed companion.

"Well," smiled the blonde, "no harm was done, and all's well that ends well. Now!" she stood, suddenly, "I believe you and I are due on patrol this evening. If that is the case, then you and I shall need our strength. Come, Unicorn, and let us take breakfast. After we have dined, we shall continue your lessons," she turned to face Graham with an innocent look. "I trust you have no pressing tasks for either of us?"

Graham made a show of trying to think of something, and Unicorn giggled at the myriad of expressions he shifted through, before eventually, he affected a sigh of defeat, "Alas, I can think of nothing. Have fun today, you two, and take care out there on the open water."

"Splendid," beamed Victorious, before she darted in and planted a chaste, innocent kiss upon his cheek, much to the surprise of all present. "Thank you for looking after her, Lord Commander. My sisters and I appreciate it."

"It's not a problem at all," Graham replied a moment later, half-stunned by the unexpected gesture. Unicorn gawped at Victorious with wide eyes, her face ripening like a tomato, which she then hid behind her stuffed friend. Sheffield, on the other hand, seemed as impassive as ever, though Graham though he detected a subtle stiffness to her posture, which was then gone the instant he tried to focus on it.

Victorious took hold of Unicorn's hand and led the girl from the Commander's quarters, the shy little carrier casting one last glance at him over her shoulder before dutifully allowing herself to be escorted out.

"Sweet girl," Graham remarked as he watched them disappear, absent-mindedly rubbing at his cheek.

"That she is fond of you is quite plain," Sheffield agreed. Graham paused.

"Unicorn?"

"Who else?"

For reasons he couldn't fully explain, Graham decided against bringing up Victorious. Instead, he cleared his throat and turned to face the maid.

"I assume then," he said, addressing Sheffield directly, "that you'll be the one shepherding me today?"

"You assume correctly, master."

"Anything in particular on today's agenda?"

"None that especially sticks out."

Graham hummed, feeling faintly surprised, "Well, in that case, I suppose I should probably finish up where I left off yesterday. Best I get dressed, hm?"

"You should indeed, master. I shall wait for you outside. Please do not be too long."

"I know, I know," he said, offering the light cruiser a wry grin, "it would hardly do for the Commander to be tardy."

"Quite," Sheffield confirmed with a nod, before turning smartly on her heel and leaving Graham to prepare himself for the day ahead.

The day proved to be a mostly humdrum affair, passing in similar fashion to the previous. He had breakfast and was then more or less confined to his office under the watchful eye of Sheffield. Paperwork, he was swiftly discovering, was the bane of his life. Readiness reports, reports on Siren activity, request forms for all manner of equipment and materials…

When the door to his office opened, he could have cried in relief.

There were three of them. The first two he recognised: the first being Hood, much to his unspoken delight, and Zara. The third was unfamiliar to him. Tall even for a shipgirl, her hair was a deep violet, and she was garbed in a black and white leotard that hugged her ample curves in a way that suggested either supreme confidence in her appearance, or the most baffling innocence. Dark, layered armour like a beetle's carapace hung from her hips, and adorned her shoulders, and a thick, white oriental cloak, embroidered with faint, stylistic patterns distinctive of the Sakura Empire, was thrown around her shoulders, billowing out behind her like a cape as she strode into Graham's office at the head of the trio. What he found most striking, however, was not her garb, or even the two enormous, sheathed swords belted to her waist. Rather, it was the pale, curved horns that jutted from her upper forehead, and her long, pointed ears that put him briefly in mind of the description of an elf from Tolkien's works.

"Lord Commander," greeted Hood, curtseying politely. "This is Izumo, from my fleet. I believe I informed you the other day that she would be imposing upon you today."

Izumo's passive frown displayed nothing of her thoughts. She neither confirmed, or denied, instead choosing to scrutinise her new Commander. Whatever she might have made of him, though, Graham couldn't begin to fathom. He hoped, however, that it wasn't anything too scathing.

"I see," Graham mused. "And you, Zara?"

"I simply happened to bump into Signoras Hood and Izumo on their way here," replied the Sardegnan cruiser with a demure shrug. "I thought it would only be polite to help show them the way." The redhead cast her gaze around, once more taking in the expansive space on offer, the great flag hung up on the wall behind Graham's desk, and the currently empty bookshelves that lined one flank of the office.

"My, my," she sighed. "Still as opulent as the first time. They really spared no expense for this facility."

"A fact I am quite grateful for, Miss Zara," remarked Hood.

"Oh, just Zara, please," purred the cruiser. "We are allies, si?"

"As you wish, then, Zara," Hood giggled with a gentle incline of her head. Graham listened to the exchange with a faint smile upon his lips. Then Izumo cleared her throat.

"Shikikan," she barked, her voice tight and controlled, and the unexpected volume made Graham jump. "On Hood-san's suggestion, I stand before you now to present to you my blade."

Graham blinked, wondering if her statement was perhaps terminology for something else. From Hood's puzzled expression, it seemed she had little idea what the Sakura woman was referring to as well. Sure enough, however, Izumo reached down to one of the massive blades at her side and unstrapped it, before bowing low from the hip and presenting the impressive sword to him with both hands.

Graham found himself at a loss. What on earth did he say or do here?

"Regretfully," continued Izumo, her head still bowed low, "Takao-san is out on patrol with her own fleet, and cannot be here to join me, but she sends her compliments, and vows to represent our homeland, and serve this joint venture with honour and dignity."

Swallowing, Graham glanced back at Sheffield, hoping the light cruiser might have an inkling of an idea as to how he should proceed. He was to be disappointed. Sheffield merely fixed him with an expectant stare, as immovable as ever. Lacking any sort of context, Graham did the only thing he believed that he could.

Clearing his throat, he stood up from his desk and returned the bow, albeit stiffly. "I thank you for the gesture, Izumo," he responded, "and for your taking the time out of your day to do this. Please, keep your weapon."

Hood concealed her expression behind a gloved hand, though he could see the corners of her mouth peeking out in a way that suggested she was trying extremely hard not to titter. Zara, for her own part, held no such compunction, openly giggling at the display, and serving to make Graham feel distinctly more awkward than he already did.

Fortunately for all involved, Izumo either decided his response was acceptable, or realised that her new Commander, at best, had little knowledge of Sakura customs. Taking her sword back, she stood up straight once more and nodded, her expression serious.

"I request permission to discuss the composition of my fleet, Shikikan," said the battleship. "And some manoeuvres I thought might benefit us in the fighting to come."

Graham paused to consider. As lead element of her fleet, she most certainly had the right. Even so, the young Commander could not help but flick his gaze towards Hood, who stood demurely to the side. He had initially come to Hood, suggesting the fleet should be hers to lead, but she had turned his offer down.

"You cannot show favouritism here, of all places, Lord Commander," she had told him, and however reluctant he had been to accept her wisdom at the time, accept he had. Of course, with the benefit of objective hindsight, he knew now that she had been correct: a diversified command structure would send the message that no one member nation was above the others. From all he had observed thus far in the mock engagements, it wasn't as though any of his chosen fleet leads were especially poor leaders, either. For all her scowling and curt language, Izumo seemed to possess a keen insight as to where to best strike an opposing formation, even despite her relative inexperience as a recent prototype.

Now, if she could perhaps work on trying to greet people with even a vague smile, as opposed to a stern frown…

"Shikikan?" Izumo inquired, her frown deepening. "Is something the matter?"

"No," replied Graham, chastising himself for his inattentiveness. "My apologies, I was merely pondering. Please, continue."

What followed was an almost hour-long discussion, Izumo pointing out various ways she could make use of her fleet's different traits, such as Hood's abnormal swiftness, or Chapayev's incendiary shells, all the way to screening manoeuvres for her three destroyers. Graham found himself impressed. Izumo had evidently put a lot of thought into how best to make use of each individual in her fleet, and if there was any particular problem, then he certainly couldn't find it.

"Good," he said, once the Sakura battleship had finished. "You said you wanted to discuss fleet composition, but from where I'm standing, Izumo, you seem to have things well in hand."

The violet-haired battleship straightened, and Graham thought he detected a spark of pride in her light pink eyes. It was swiftly smothered seconds later by the rigid control and poise he was starting to expect of those who hailed from Sakura.

"I thank you, Shikikan, for your acknowledgement."

"It's not a problem," replied Graham. "I've always got time to address the concerns of my fleet. Was there anything else?"

Izumo shook her head. "No. With your permission, I shall take my leave."

"Granted. Take care, Izumo."

Izumo nodded by way of a response before bowing once more and turning smartly on her heel to leave. Hood made to follow her out, and as she did so, Graham called out to her.

"Would you like to join me for a spot of lunch, Hood?" he asked. "I find myself desiring a break, and I wouldn't mind some company."

Hood paused, and Graham fought to keep a frown off his face. She seemed almost awkward.

"Ah," she said, glancing towards Izumo, who had hesitated at the exit to the absurdly spacious office, "I'm afraid I promised to take tea with King George V and some of the other ladies of the fleet, Lord Commander. I hoped to introduce Izumo to them. I'm sorry."

"Oh. Right," disappointed, Graham nodded. "I see. Well, ah, don't let me keep you. Go. Enjoy yourselves. I'm sure there'll be other days."

"Quite so," Hood smiled, though something about it seemed brittle, as though she were plastering it on. "Good day, Lord Commander."

And with a final curtsey, she and Izumo took their leave. Zara, however, lingered near Graham's desk.

"That was a surprise," murmured the Sardegnan. "Given all I've heard, I'd have thought she might have jumped at the chance."

"Heard about what?" inquired Graham curious. Zara fixed him with a look lingering somewhere between piteous and amused.

"Oh, nothing, nothing," she said, waving one gloved hand dismissively, before parking herself on the edge of his desk, glancing at him over her shoulder with a flick of her scarlet hair. "Would you like me to keep you company for lunch, instead?"

Graham pondered for only a moment, before deciding he wasn't opposed to the heavy cruiser's offer. Any opportunity to learn a little more about those who made up his various fleets was not to be squandered.

"I don't see why not," he conceded, before turning to face Sheffield. "I presume you'll be joining us, Sheffield?"

"I shall," confirmed the light cruiser with a curt nod.

"Splendida!" chirped Zara, clapping her hands together. "Shall we go, then? I hear the Sakura have command of the kitchen today, and I am most curious as to how their cuisine compares to that of my home."

As it soon turned out, Sakura food compared quite favourably to Sardegnan, or so Zara professed.

"Oh, it is delectable!" sighed the red-haired cruiser in delight as she polished off her plate. Graham, for his part, had found it a slightly less pleasant affair. He had ever had a sensitive tongue, and the many sharp flavours on offer somewhat soured his experience, which was not to say that any of it was bad—not if the way the various other shipgirls occupying the canteen devoured their own meals was any indication—rather that it was probably simply not to his own personal tastes. For the most part, at least.

"Master, if you do not eat, you will not take in enough nutrients, and your health will suffer," Sheffield remarked, having cleaned her own plate in the time it took to blink. Not so much as a speck remained and, somehow, she had done it all without dirtying her uniform. "If I must feed you myself, I will," she warned.

"Ohh, that could be fun," teased Zara, turning her gaze on her bewildered Commander, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Would you say 'ahh' for us, Commandante?"

Graham felt a flush creep up his neck, even as he quietly acknowledged Sheffield's point. The idea of being babied by the two cruisers in full view of a sizeable chunk of his command sat ill with him. Sullen, he picked his food and began to finish the rest of it off, wincing each time the sauce-covered sushi, he believed it was called, stung at his tongue. Every bite he had to wash down with water, but, eventually, he was done.

Zara giggled, while Sheffield merely watched, a faint hint of satisfaction upon her normally placid features.

"Bit strong, huh, boss?"

Graham turned at the voice to find three newcomers standing over the table. The one who had spoken was unmistakably Eagle Union, and her Southern drawl put him immediately in mind of Hornet. He found himself staring up at a tall, raven-haired shipgirl with striking, mismatched eyes, a thin, blue and white waterproof shrug jacket worn over a thin, white corset with a dark blue breast. A curious blue hairpin was fixed to her upper fringe, and seemed to emit a soft, neon glow.

The second remained silent but was dressed in the manner of one who hailed from the Northern Parliament. White, it seemed, was the order of the day with this one. Save for a pair of long, black leather gloves that extended to her upper forearm, and a thick, midnight belt upon her waist, she was clad entirely in white: a thick, fur-trimmed cloak that shrouded a formal, double-breasted coat, complete with a towering ceremonial hat, from which flowed a waist-length river of shimmering, snow white hair. Her skin, too, was a flawless porcelain, save only for a little mole underneath her left eye. That, in addition to her unblinking, ruby red eyes, lent her an exotic air at odds with her otherwise icy exterior.

The third, meanwhile, stood out by far the most, wearing scarcely more than even Victorious, with only a thin, white halter top with a vertical blue stripe and yellow star pattern on each breast respectively. Her fit, toned stomach was on full display, and only a pair of white short shorts, cut so scandalously tight, she might well have worn only her underwear for as much as they concealed. Two sharp red leggings adorned her legs, one extended up to the middle of her left thigh, while the other ended at knee level. The letters 'USN' were tattooed onto her right thigh in bold white, and another tattoo, this one the symbol of the Eagle Union Navy, was bared proudly on her upper arm, signifying to all the world where her allegiance lay. Her ocean blue eyes were alight with mirth, and her short, blonde hair styled into two spiralling drill patterns, save for a noticeable cowlick.

"Georgia," greeted the Union battleship with an easy wave.

"Sovetskaya Rossiya," said the other shipgirl, inclining her head in acknowledgement.

"Chicago," grinned the third. "We interrupting anything?"

"No, not at all," said Graham, eager to be behind his period of embarrassment.

"Mind if we join you?" asked Georgia.

"Oh, please, do!" chirped Zara.

"As the lady says," Graham shrugged, seeing no reason they couldn't.

"Lady, hm? My, what a gentleman," tittered Chicago. "I know a few boys back home who could stand to take notes."

"Eh, I don't think they were that bad," said Georgia, who Graham now noticed had piled up a small mountain of assorted food onto her tray. "All the staff at my old home in Dahlgren were friendly enough."

"Lucky you," sighed Chicago. "The attention was nice at first, but then some of the sailors started getting excessively touchy, and that was just a turn off."

"Strange," hummed Zara. "Our sailors in Sardegna were always quite polite to us." She turned her gaze upon Sovetskaya Rossiya, who thus far, had spoken only her name. "What about you?"

"We were mostly segregated from the human personnel," said the Northern battleship. "Most of us only had regular contact with a few of our flag officers. Mechanics were vetted intensely and were not permitted to come into contact with us whilst they were carrying out maintenance on our vessels."

The mood at the table dampened, and Graham found himself wondering how this alarming topic had even come about as swiftly and unexpectedly as it had. He also couldn't help pondering what other stories the Northern Parliament shipgirls might tell, or even those of Ironblood. Rumours abounded as to the state of the leadership of the two rival nations, in particular the state of their navies. Where Ironblood flaunted their own advances, however, the Northern Parliament had ever been silent. Indeed, their decision to throw in their lot with the allied nations of the world during the first Siren War all those years ago had come as a surprise, combined with the unveiling of their own shipgirl project.

"I am confused at your sudden silence," remarked the red-eyed battleship, sweeping the table with a puzzled glance. "Is it that you believe I am mistreated?"

"Well," Georgia shifted in her seat awkwardly. "Not being able to wander, even around your own home port?"

"We are relegated to a small corner of our naval facilities, this is true," conceded Rossiya. "But those men of our Parliament Navy we do meet are never anything less than respectful of us; of the power we wield. Never have I heard tales of abuse or harassment from my comrades," she fixed Chicago with a look, and the blonde cruiser looked away. "I find myself more concerned over stories I am hearing from my foreign counterparts."

"Might we talk about something else, perhaps?" Zara requested, a faint hint of pleading in her voice. "I would not wish to sour everyone's meal with talk of such things."

The Northern battleship blinked, and then nodded. "As you wish, Gospozha Zara. I apologise for… darkening the mood?" she glanced sidelong at Georgia. Her Eagle Union counterpart favoured her with a smile and a nod. "Darkening the mood," repeated Rossyia. "Yes. I am sorry."

"It's quite all right," said Graham, "though you'll have my express word that no one need fear such treatment here. If they do, then I shall be having words with the involved parties."

"Hmm, cute and noble," purred Chicago, recovering quickly as a wide grin spread across her face, a spark in her eye that was not dissimilar to Zara's. "You got a lady back home at all? I'd be happy to keep you company on a cold, lonely night."

"Chicago, quit teasing our boss," chided Georgia. "Pretty sure he'd be within his rights to send you out on patrol without an escort."

Chicago pouted at Georgia before shooting Graham a wink. Unlike her decidedly forward and flirtatious comment earlier, however, this held no hint of salaciousness. Graham began to suspect she was a kindred spirit to Zara and Surcouf, a suspicion he believed proven when the red-haired Sardegnan turned to face her blonde counterpart and began to talk fashion.

"So, Chicago, do tell me how you achieve those curls in your hair. I just love what you've done with them," gushed Zara.

"Oh, it's really not anything too special, actually. All I do is…"

As the pair got chatting, Graham fixed his attention on the two foreign battleships instead, who were devouring the contents of their plates with the sort of gusto only two exceedingly hungry battleships could muster.

"So, how exactly did you two get acquainted?" Graham inquired.

"Oh, I approached her first," answered Georgia, in between mouthfuls. "I was curious about her armaments."

"Four-oh-six millimetres," Rossiya interjected softly.

"Not as big as mine," said Georgia, with no small amount of pride.

"Is there not a saying in the west about size mattering little?" returned the Northern battleship.

"Well, I guess you do have more rifles," Georgia conceded, chewing down on a rice ball. "But I bet I can load mine faster."

A competitive glint shone in Rossiya's eye as she spared the Union shipgirl a sidelong glance. "Oh? This I would like to see."

"I'd be happy to school your fat ass any time of the week," grinned Georgia. Rossiya, however, flushed crimson.

"M-my—" she rattled off in her native tongue, fixing Georgia with an expression of scandalised outrage. Graham didn't know a lick of Parliament, but he thought he could guess what she was saying. Georgia, for her part, appeared to realise as well.

"Woah, woah, easy there. It's a figure of speech. I'm not saying you actually have a—" she paused and glanced around her chair to peer at Rossiya's waistline. After a moment's inspection, she made a thoughtful hum. "Actually, it's kind of hard to tell with that cloak of yours."

At that point, Graham decided he should probably interject, before this became a diplomatic incident of some form.

"I don't believe Georgia meant any offence, miss Rossiya."

The Northern battleship cut him a look of disbelief, before squinting suspiciously at Georgia.

"He's right," nodded the raven-haired shipgirl. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you'd take it so personally. Most Union gals would just sort of laugh it off."

"I am not of the Union," pointed out Rossiya, huffing indignantly. "But I thank you for clearing up my… misunderstanding. For this, I will apologise. We have few opportunities to practice tongues beyond our own in our Northern Parliament, so focused are we on other things. Usually." She then regarded Graham with a respectful nod. "I thank you as well, Comrade Commander. Starting an incident over a… joke, yes?" she glanced to Georgia, who nodded. "A joke, would have been…" she shuffled in her seat, pursing her lips, "embarrassing. Especially as lead ship of my contingent."

"Well, it all got sorted out," said Graham, shrugging his shoulders and offering what he hoped was a comforting smile. "And, for whatever it might be worth, I think maybe the two of you might work well together. Maybe some joint exercises between your fleets?"

"Maybe," nodded Rossiya.

"I wouldn't mind," agreed Georgia. "Though I'd probably need to ask North Carolina, her being my fleet lead and all."

Rossiya smiled, "I can wait, Comrade Georgia. I fear that our food, however, will not."

Georgia winced, "Ah! You're right. Supposedly Sakura grub tastes better when it's chilled. If we let it get warm, it'll lose its flavour."

Rossiya blinked in puzzlement, "Are you sure it is not the other way around?" she wondered. "I was told it is better warm."

Graham left the pair to their deliberations, downing a glass of water and enjoying the more relaxed atmosphere of the table. Even watching the two foreign cruisers shoot him a furtive glance before sharing a giggle didn't dampen his mood.

It would be nice, he thought, if these sorts of days could just last forever…

Takao grimaced at the horizon. She did not doubt for one moment that Lady Kaga would have exaggerated the threat they faced, but she felt marginally better now having confirmed it with her own eyes.

"There they are," murmured the foreign battleship, California, over the fleet's shared radio channel. "Just as you said."

"Indeed," replied Kaga. If she felt offended at the doubt in the tanned shipgirl's voice, the fox-eared carrier did not express it. "At their present speed, I estimate they will be within range of us within the hour."

"Plenty of time to present arms, Comrade Kaga," boomed the ever-enthusiastic Northern battleship, Gangut. "I recommend we close and—"

"We will not," interrupted Kaga, to Takao's unspoken relief. Much as the idea of looking their otherworldly foes in the eye, so to speak, appealed to her personal sense of honour, she could not deny that to engage at Gangut's preferred range would see the rest of the fleet cut to ribbons. There were at least four battleship-class Sirens, all escorted by two cruiser-class each, and a veritable swarm of PT-class boats, who would dance around even their destroyers, all presumably loaded with torpedoes. Thankfully, they seemed to lack a carrier-class, though given the Siren's propensity for materialising out of thin air, the Sakura cruiser didn't want to tempt fate by assuming there wasn't one hidden somewhere nearby.

"Where is our submarine?" barked Kaga. "I want her monitoring for her Siren counterparts. The last thing we want is to be forcibly driven towards the guns of the enemy fleet."

"Already on it," responded the Ironblood U-boat, U-47, in her soft, quiet voice.

Takao heard Kaga grunt in satisfaction, and wondered what the carrier might be scheming. For all she had dismissed Gangut's plan out of hand, Takao could well imagine the kitsune chafing at the idea of showing the enemy their backs. If the prideful shipgirl allowed her instincts to dictate their course…

"Kaga-sama," said Takao, with all the due deference her position demanded, "I do not believe an engagement here would end favourably for us. Requesting for reinforcements and falling back towards Azur Lane would be the more prudent course of action."

Subtle static hissed back over the open channel. A burst of sapphire fox fire burned on the flight deck of Kaga's ship—a clear testament to her displeasure—and Takao fought the urge to frown, quietly willing for the stubborn fox to heed someone's advice beyond that of her sister's. Both, she thought, were far too used to serving alongside the other, and neither's personality particularly complimented the other, in her own opinion. Off the waves, they were calm, almost serene. As soon as they took to the seas, however, it was like someone flipped a switch. They became aggressive. Too aggressive, Takao would argue; and though monstrously powerful in their own regard, the same could not always be said of the fleets accompanying them.

Fortunately, it seemed the Kami smiled upon them this day, for despite an audible grinding of teeth, Kaga opened the channel, "All elements retreat. U-47, surface immediately and rejoin us. I will provide air reconnaissance and defence if need be. Takao. Summon me some assistance, and when our… reinforcements join us, we will strike the heads from these filthy snakes for daring to sail within range of our facility."

Takao closed communications and breathed a sigh of relief as the fleet made to come about. Kaga had come around, but the dark-haired cruiser was under no illusions that the trial was over yet. For all her strategic brilliance, Kaga was notoriously difficult to reign in once she had the scent of blood, a trait she very much shared with Akagi. Keeping the retreat on track, as opposed to turning about in order to win a no doubt excessively costly victory, would be no mean feat. Once again, Takao sighed, running her fingers over the grip of her katana, a foreboding feeling of trepidation gnawing at her as she beheld the Siren fleet once more.

She hoped that aid would arrive soon…