A/N: I KNOW. I SAID MORE This is Not The Earth We Know WAS COMING, but my friend Compass on Discord threw an idea into a shared discussion a bunch of us authors share and I absolutely had to take this one. Again, this might not be familiar territory for a lot of you, but it's something I'm incredibly happy to write, and well...let's just say… "Monarch, you, solely, are responsible for this…"
Emergence
Bermuda Triangle, Siren Mirror Sea, Azur Lane Atlantic 3rd Fleet
The first indication that something was really fucking wrong was when the massive flying vessel, nearly as big as one of the more modern manned Aircraft Carriers, came careering out of the vortex that dominated the horizon. Trailing flames from a dozen impacts on its hull and massive engines shrieking, the flying behemoth roared overhead and slammed into the water, throwing up waves of at least 20 feet and detonating in a strangely violent manner, the colour of the explosions a deep orange as opposed to the usually brighter yellow flames of detonating fuel and ammunition.
Shangri-La felt something in her chest tighten as the strange vessel went down, some small part of her mind sensing that this was an omen, that the war was about to change forever. With all that in mind, when what appeared to be a full-sized modern fighter jet came tumbling out of the clouds, engines stuttering and half of a wing missing, Shangri-La took a risk. The Sirens were closing quickly, well-monitored thanks to the spotter planes both she and Essex had sent up earlier, and the easily readable path of descent for that plane was almost directly in their path.
If the pilot was still alive, and that was almost assuredly the case by the way the plane was tumbling, trying to stabilize itself and counter its own twisting fall, they wouldn't survive long in the rough waters, doubly so if the Sirens came across them. To the surprised calls of the other Kansen behind her, the normally rule-abiding Union Carrier broke formation and darted forwards, towards the area she anticipated the plane would fall. Hellcats roared off the two strips on her rigging, her will dictating that they act as a screen against Siren forward elements and to monitor for any parachutes, should the pilot bail or eject.
From her mind's eye, as the Hellcats buzzed past the stalling plane, she frowned in consideration. The camouflage pattern and roundel emblazoned on the aircraft didn't belong to any country she knew, and the Jester's mask painted on the tail was an unusual calling card. The plane looked like something the Union deployed with its Air Force, but she couldn't bring the name to mind, and as the plane hit 10,000 feet, typically the soft deck for dictating if an aircraft was recoverable or not, it began to stabilize despite the damage, an impressive feat of skill, and a testament to the bravery of the pilot.
Even if the pilot had gotten the plane back in the air, it likely wouldn't stay that way missing a wingtip and the related control surfaces. As the fighter jet slowly limped up to a sustainable altitude, Shangri-La began searching through standard radio frequencies for anything to indicate they were calling for help. Whispers echoed across the empty frequencies, not an unusual occurrence in Mirror Seas, but these were more clear, more understandable…
"W̷̼̅e̷̘̿ ̸̝͠a̴̻͋r̴̛̮e̶̬͑ ̷̡̈́t̷̤̎h̶̺̿e̸͘ͅ ̵̜̌d̷͈̈́e̵̪͆s̸̳͑c̸̰͘ȅ̸̢n̶̙̐d̵̜͛a̴͚͐n̷̳̈́ṫ̶̻s̶̨̀ ̵̯̀o̴̼̅f̸̺̾ ̸͇̾t̶͍̒h̸̖͠o̶͔͊ş̶̋ȇ̴̳ ̵̢́w̸̫͠h̸̪̍o̷̞͠ ̶͓͐w̶̭͘o̷͊͜ù̴̳l̷̹͠d̵͙͛ ̷͕̄n̷̜̂o̶͍͆t̶͗ͅ ̸̥̒b̴̛͍ȇ̷̢ ̴͇͂r̴̜͗u̵̱͂l̸͍̊e̶̦̓d̵̻̾.̶̚͜"
"Ḯ̵̹ ̴̱̌d̶͖̍i̵̻̅ḏ̵̊n̵͚̚'̴̤̍t̷̖͐ ̵̝̌ľ̸͇ī̵̖v̸͕̈́ȩ̸͋ ̴͍̀t̶͇͌h̵͈̊r̶̗̐õ̵̖u̵̝͆g̷̛̯h̷̤͘ ̵̦̑t̶͓̅h̴͌ͅẽ̴̗ ̸̞̈́B̸̜̈́é̶̗r̷̤̎ì̶͙n̵̖̕g̵̺͑ ̴̲̇S̷̪̐t̴̬͗r̷̺̈́a̴̫͐ị̶̓g̶̪͆h̶̠̒t̸͎̾ ̵͉͗t̷̮͗ọ̶́ ̸̝͛g̸͉̑e̵̢͐t̵̜̓ ̶̹́ŝ̵ͅh̵̩̒o̵͉̓t̵̻͘ ̷̮͐ḏ̷̈́ô̴̤w̸̤͝n̴̼͠ ̶͚̈́h̷͎̽e̴͈̎r̷̠̃è̷͓!̷̗̊"
"̷Y̸o̸u̷.̶.̶.̷s̸o̴l̶e̶l̶y̴.̶.̴.̴a̷r̵e̴ ̶r̶e̶s̵p̸o̶n̷s̷i̵b̷l̷e̵ ̸f̶o̷r̴ ̶t̶h̶i̶s̵.̸"̵
...And then she found the right frequency if the loud and obviously human shouting was any indication. "Monarch! Dip! Where the hell are you two? Galaxy...? Is there anyone out there…? Where the hell am I?"
Shangri-La kicked off the surface of the water into a mighty leap, her rigging flashing and reforming as the Essex Class Carrier Shangri-La beneath her feet. Touching down on the flight deck, she prayed that her deck was long enough and strong enough and that Essex wasn't too angry for her going off-script. "Unknown Pilot, this is the Aircraft Carrier Shangri-La, I have received your distress call and my deck is open for an emergency landing. These waters are not safe, I cannot protect you if you keep yourself in the air."
There was an obvious moment's hesitation on the other end before the pilot finally replied. "Shangri-La, my plane's pretty much fucked, I touch that deck of yours it won't be pretty. You sure about this? I didn't know there were any operational Carriers in the Cascadian Theater still, CIF or otherwise…"
Cascadian Theater…? Questions to ask later, the Carrier decided. "What's your callsign, pilot? Can't have a nameless nobody crashing their jet on my deck, now can I?"
"Ah, right, Hitman Three, Comic, requesting permission to land, Shangri-La?" The Carrier cracked a smirk, nodding to herself as she adjusted her glasses. "Granted, Hitman Three, where's the rest of your flight…?"
"I-" was the only syllable the female pilot known only as Comic could get out before the sky flashed orange, and a guttural scream broke through the static of the Mirror Sea. Streams of golden and red light flashed out of the clouds, ending in massive explosives just short of or on the surface of the sea, coincidentally slamming into a small formation of Siren scouts, their sinking forms revealed a moment later. Explosives and roaring engines echoed through the clouds above, as two shadowed shapes shot past in the thick clouds. "Ah, well, there's my Flight Lead."
When a large portion of Presidia had been turned into rubble by a blind flash and a maddened laugh, Captain Chad Woodward had thought it was the end of them all. When he'd blinked back from momentary unconsciousness with a tall woman with long brown hair and a ragged black cloak slumped over him, he'd just been plain confused. When he'd realized that they were somehow now in the middle of a typhoon, he'd been concerned. When he noticed they were drifting towards a menacing black and red twister, he may have panicked, just a little bit. Muttering an apology to the unconscious woman he still didn't recognize, he shoved her off of his own rather large form and pushed himself onto his feet.
Stumbling towards the helm controls, he realized that the whole bridge crew was unconscious, and if the way the forward guns were twisting in their housings was any indication, the gunnery crews were as well. Despite the rough seas, he quickly regained his balance and bearing and pulled the helmsman from his seat, shaking him and hopefully waking the younger man up. Restarting the engines took an unbearably long sixty seconds, and rebooting the basic sensor systems was taking even longer.
That being said, when the electrical systems that had been, until that point, offline began whirring back to life of their own volition, and the forward guns pivoted back and locked themselves in place, he thought that the majority of the crew had begun to wake up just as he had. However, instead of status reports or requests to know what was going on coming across the intercom, a single set of footsteps behind him signalled that there was something more afoot.
Long brown hair tied in a ponytail that trailed down her back and cloak waving as she moved, the woman who'd been atop him when he woke up swept past him without even acknowledging him. She stopped just short of the forward windows, gazing out across the water as high waves crashed across the ship's heavily armoured bow. "These are not Cascadian waves, Captain Woodward. The water feels...different here. Warmer, but oh so quiet beneath the surface."
Woodward stood, a flash of confused anger whipping across his face. "I know every man and woman in this crew, yet your face is not one I recognize. Who are you, woman, and how did you get aboard this ship?"
She turned to him and frowned slightly. Ocean blue eyes matched his in sheer intensity, "Do you not recognize me, Captain? Since you stole me from the young and brave crew the Federation so foolishly staffed me with, wiped away the name Sojourner for that of Eminent Domain?" She spreads her arms wide, something between anger and sadness behind her glaring irises. "Do you not recognize me as that which you stand aboard? The steel and cordium that you took from your enemies so as to match them gun for gun, missile for missile, and to make them pay for the destruction they had wrought on your homeland?"
She sighs and turns away from him, back towards the windows, even as he gaped wordlessly at her. "I- This place has given unto me a gift which I never expected; free will, and a means to see that which I never would otherwise. You are far more merciful than even my former crew, young and bright as they were, and you regret every life lost, even as you would not spare those who would not surrender. I will follow you now, Captain Chad Woodward, to the ends of this new Earth and back, so that we may both find whatever peace remains in this faithless world."
Her back straightens and her hands clasp behind her back. She doesn't turn to face him, but her words are clear regardless. "Wake our crew, Captain. We are not alone, and this is an enemy I do not recognize, yet something within me instinctively recoils at their presence."
Woodward knew for a fact that there was no one manning the helm at that moment, so when the bow pivoted to starboard and cut through a heavy wave, it nearly threw him on his ass. This situation was so far beyond FUBAR that he couldn't even begin to describe it, but, well, the scary lady that may or may not be the spirit avatar of his ship knew just what to say to get him in gear. Battle klaxons sounded throughout the ship, jarring many a crewmate awake, even as lights shifted to crimson so as to reduce bridge visibility.
The flash of light that was one of the main battery railguns firing showed just how much control over the ship she had, even if he couldn't see what they were shooting at. Now at last the intercom was filled with confused communications, and Woodward got to work at doing what he did best, coordinating his ship. "All hands, this is Captain Woodward speaking! We face a new, unknown enemy, and while I myself am not sure how this has come about, we have with us a new guest. Trust me when I say this; the Eminent Domain has gained a life of her own, so to speak, so stay out of her way unless something breaks. Brace for rough seas, and get to your battlestations! Specific stations will hear from me soon for more instructions, for now, that is all."
Putting the microphone down with the message sent, he immediately turned and grabbed the grasping hand of the younger navigator, grunting and pulling the man to his feet. "Up and at 'em, Jack. Get to your station but don't touch the controls, I think most of us are just along for the ride at this point."
Giving Eminent Domain another look, he gives a forced cough to get her attention. "Can you show what's happening on our sensors? Who are we fighting, and how many of them are there?"
She nods in turn, waving a hand even as several computer displays around the bridge shifted to show high-resolution camera footage and radar scans. "There are more than a dozen contacts en-route to our position, and while they are inside our extreme range, we appear to be as of yet outside of theirs. As for who we are fighting, I do not know, Captain, but they appear to be fully autonomous ships, drones, to be more specific."
"Drone ships? And you're sure they're not Pacific Federation ships?" He asks, a mighty frown on his face.
"Quite sure, Captain. They do not match any known design pattern, and their behaviour thus far is outside normal Federation tactics." She answers in explanation, pointing out the erratic formation the ships were in, with the faster ones forming a basic screen but little organization beyond that.
"Interesting...I'm not quite sure how you would like to go about this, now that you're...well, you." He says, unsure on whether or not she would be receptive to taking orders from him, now that she was a thinking being.
She raises an eyebrow and sighs, "I told you, Captain, I am yours to command. Give me orders and I shall follow them."
"Right. Eminent Domain, task the #1 and #2 guns to keep hitting those pickets, tear them apart before they can get close enough to use whatever armaments they have aboard. Guns #3, #4, and #5 hit those main-line ships, heaviest ones first. Once they're inside the effective range of our ASMs and standard Kinetics, pick your targets and fire at will. Be conservative with ammunition though, I don't know the next time we'll be able to resupply!"
When the orange streams of light started flashing through the clouds, then moments later across the sea, Baltimore feared that they'd stumbled upon some kind of Siren Experiment, or they'd unveiled some new technology. What she wasn't expecting was for the Siren contacts on radar to start disappearing one by one, consumed by more of the orange beams, whose origin was still hidden by the heavy waves closer to the heart of the Mirror Sea.
Waving Charles Ausburne, Cleveland, Montpelier, and the others forward had Baltimore's fleet closing towards the rapidly dwindling Siren forces. With the lack of any Humanoid Sirens for the moment, they shifted to their Hulls from Rigging, so that they would have that extra bit of firepower in comparison to the increased mobility and smaller target that Rigging provided.
Smashing through the heavy waves, the Light Cruisers and Destroyer rolled and teetered, their Kansen pilots somewhere between hanging on for dear life and keeping their balance enough to remain aware. Baltimore's own heavier hull was less affected, waves splitting on her bow as her keel groaned under the uneven strain. She was too strong to let some waves do away with her, though, and as the minutes drew on, what was previously hidden among the waves was slowly revealed.
Waves smashing ineffectually against it's hull, a massive battleship sat among the waves, spitting shrieking orange beams from four turrets atop its hull, missiles roared from silos across its superstructure, and kinetic rounds flashed from smaller guns spread across its surface. Even as it tore into the rapidly closing sirens, blue and purple shells and beams from enemy guns streaked out and smashed against incredibly thick armor, melting or denting the ship's hull, but never penetrating.
Wind whipping through her hair and shockwaves taking her breath away, Baltimore shouted into her radio, knowing that the others would hear her regardless. "Charles, Montpelier, follow me and engage those Destroyers on the flanks! Cleveland, get aboard that ship and figure out where the hell it's from! I've never seen anything like this!"
With replies echoing across the radio waves, Baltimore spared the Dreadnought one last glance before she directed her hull to change its course, Charles Ausburne taking the lead, and Montpelier right beside her. It was in Cleveland's hands now, but she carried no doubt that the charismatic Light Cruiser could get the job done.
Dismissing her Hull in favor of Rigging, for a myriad of reasons, Cleveland leapt from the waves and aboard the looming hull of the giant Battleship. Of course, as soon as she landed, she was greeted to the surprising sounds of shock from a human crew. A measure of shock was of course perfectly understandable, considering that human crewed vessels were a rarity nowadays, and nothing this powerful had ever been made public. Even as she pondered this, one of the absolutely massive turrets mounted on the ship shifted to the side and let loose a nearly deafening bass blast, a stream of orange light streaking across the water to annihilate yet another Siren vessel.
A bullet pinged off her rigging, jostling her to the side ever so slightly as she coiled the segmented hull around herself protectively. Of course they'd have security personnel aboard, and with nothing to explain her presence or who she was, it was understandable that they'd react aggressively. As she turned to face the source of the shot, she was greeted by a single crewman in a grey uniform, a shaking handgun held in his grip. He fired again, but the bullet whipped past and out to sea, torn from its course by the heavy winds from the storm. She stuck her hands out in a gesture to stop and shouted, "I don't want to fight! I'm a friend!"
Warded in steel plating, carrying miniature naval guns, and backdropped by the lightning and storm, Cleveland must have cut a more intimidating figure than she'd realized, if the way the poor man dropped his gun and threw up his hands was any indication. He said something, but she couldn't hear him over the guns firing and the wind. Flaring out the plates of her rigging and locking her guns back in a reversed position, she rapidly closed the distance and grabbed him by a shoulder. He wasn't much taller than she was, as sad as that might have been. "I'm here to help! Take me to whoever's in command!"
She saw some color return to his rain streaked face, and he nodded quickly. He grabbed her wrist and practically dragged her towards a bulkhead into the superstructure. Uh, oh. With a rather solid clank, her rigging wedged in the door before she could dismiss it, and the wet sailor lost his footing and slammed to the ground at the sudden resistance to his movements. As he groaned in pain and embarrassment, her rigging flashed blue and reformed into its namesake Hull, a stable distance away and silently standing by at that distance with a mental command. She reached down and picked him up, patting him down for a moment and looking for injuries.
With a wry smile, she pats him on the shoulder. "Sorry about that, Sailor, you caught me a little off guard. We're good now."
Eminent Domain looked up to Woodward and frowned. "Someone new is here."
Before he could ask what she meant, the bulkhead leading to the bridge clanked open and a rain streaked sailor he recognized a moment later as one Petty Officer Redin stepped in, leading a young woman clad in a white cloak, with a blue shirt and red skirt beneath it. Her bright red eyes and irreverent grin gave her an eager and powerful aura. Before he could say anything, she patted Redin on the shoulder and stepped past him, waving to Woodward. "Hey there! I'm Cleveland. My partners are intercepting the Siren Destroyers on your flank, it's the least we could do considering you tore apart that Battle Group for us!"
Emmy, as Woodward had (silently and hesitantly) begun to refer to Eminent Domain as, swept past him, again interrupting him before he could speak. "You are like me, a ship given human form. What are we? Where did we come from? More importantly, where are we?"
"Oh, you're new! Uh, where to start…" The woman apparently named Cleveland responded, completely distracted from his presence. Woodward frowned and coughed loudly, "Excuse me, can we focus on who's shooting at us, why they are, and where we are, right now? I'm Captain Woodward of the Eminent Domain, Cascadian Independence Force Navy. You said your name was Cleveland, yes?"
"Correct, Captain Woodward! U.S.S Cleveland, Hull CL-55, and Lead Ship of the Cleveland Class Light Cruisers, at your service! That's my hull out there, off your starboard side!" She exclaimed proudly, pointing towards a smaller ship holding position off their side, rolling easily through the waves as it kept pace with their movement. Four triple guns of a much smaller caliber were visible in addition to a myriad of old style AA guns.
Woodward licked his lips and nodded, "Right… my other questions, please? I'd like to know we're not starting another war out here, and where here is."
"Right, sorry." She said with a barely detectable note of confusion in her voice. "You don't know what the Sirens are? The entire planet's been at war with them for nearly a decade! Long and short, since apparently you guys have been living under a very technologically advanced rock, is that they're aliens who showed up and took over the oceans, like to prattle on about strength and stuff like that, kinda cocky honestly…"
"Anyways, as for your other question, you're currently stuck with us in a Mirror Sea, sort of a pocket dimension Sirens can create under certain conditions. Mid-Atlantic, near the center of the Bermuda Triangle." She explains, rattling off the answers almost distractedly as her eyes are drawn again to the flashing orange light of the #1 gun firing.
Lightning flashed outside, even as Woodward paled slightly. The Atlantic?! "I don't suppose you're familiar with the Pacific Federation, or the Cascadian Civil War?"
She raises an eyebrow, giving him a quick shrug. "Never heard of either of 'em, unless you're talking about Azur Lane or the UN, and as far as I know there's no ongoing civil wars happening."
Alright, one last thing he could ask before he made his conclusion. "...What is today's date?"
Humoring the odd question, she answered without hesitation. "Today is October 21st, 2023. Why?"
Well, shit. He cracked a wry smile, hopefully hiding the concern he felt from his crew. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, I think we just became some of the world's first Time Travelers…"
The helmeted head in the rear seat of the F/D-14 Tomcat lolled to the side and thunked against the canopy loudly, causing Monarch to flinch and wince, silently apologizing to the unconscious WSO in the back. She'd passed out in the beginning stages of the fight, before this storm had come out of nowhere, and hadn't woken up yet. The G-Forces they were pulling were enough that Monarch was barely able to keep up themself, yet Crimson was still quicker than them, more maneuverable than the reliable old beast, too.
The bass hum of Railgun fire burst past as Monarch slammed the stick to the side, wrenching the plane out of the way of the trailing shots and forcing Crimson to overshoot. A missile shot out from under the wing of the Tomcat as the rogue ace shot past, detonating against countermeasures but still dealing some damage to the prototype superplane he was flying. One Sidewinder and two Phoenix missiles left, then it was down to guns, which themselves only had a few hundred rounds left, maybe a few seconds of fire.
A dozen alarms warbled in the cockpit as Crimson launched more of the damned cluster-missiles that he never seemed to run out of. A flare burst trailed from the tail of the Tomcat, disrupting the tracking on the missiles long enough for the old plane to slip away and back into the clouds. Airframe rattling as it accelerated, its lone pilot brought the aircraft around and started active-pinging on radar knowing full well that it would give away their position, but willing to risk it for a direct hit with a Phoenix.
Finding him below and closing quickly, Monarch flipped a switch and toggled both Phoenix Missiles, verifying that the lock was established and strong, then launching the first. The missile tracked well for how quickly Crimson wasa closing, and came within a kilometer before the other pilot launched countermeasures, chaff and electronic jamming briefly disrupting the radar lock, and the missile overshot. Monarch grinned, Crimson had played directly into their hand. With the click of a button, the final Phoenix Missile dropped from its position under the fuselage and ignited, roaring off into the clouds. The transit time was less than three seconds, and Crimson, based on everything Monarch had seen and analyzed thus far, had at least four before he could use any of his countermeasures again, including the damned AOA Limiter.
There was a flash of light in the clouds, and Crimson cursed once more over the radio, having tapped the Sicario frequency upon entry into the fight. Whatever damage had been inflicted to his plane was seemingly critical, given the way he yelled across the radio. "No, no! Not yet! God damnit!"
Flames streamed from both of his plane's engines as he roared past, yet somehow still retained the ability to maneuver and fight. For the next several minutes, it was all Monarch could do to evade incoming fire and keep the plane in the air. Cluster missiles detonated early or missed the plane entirely, peppering the fuselage with debris and in one case blowing a small hole in one of the rudders. Railgun shots shook the air and singled the wings with close explosions, while the corrosive spheres that he occasionally launched disrupted electronics and jammed mechanical components.
Finally, the perfect opportunity came. The Tomcat was falling apart around them, the stress and damage putting so much strain on the plane that it simply couldn't keep up much longer. Crimson obviously saw this, and in a cruel mockery of his own jabs and barbs earlier, came in for the kill like a dog eager for a bone. Monarch's final Sidewinder signalled its mournful tone at the same time the trigger was squeezed one last time, the missile sliding off the rail and shooting almost straight forward as cannon rounds slammed into the superplane's fuselage. Crimson attempted to abort his run using the AOA Limiter mounted on the plane, flipping it around in a physics defying twist, but that simply presented the dual engines as a bright target on the infrared missile.
One last explosion signalled the fate of the last pilot of Peacekeeper Team Crimson, and as the plane spiraled towards the ground, his voice came over the radio one last time. "Monarch… When you hear the thunder…"
He coughed, the sound ratcheting and rough, "When the storm comes for you…"
He sighed, resigning himself to his fate, "Remember me."
In that moment, Monarch for the first time in close to a decade, activated the input function on the plane's radio, and the pilot known as Monarch, Hitman 1, and least widely Anahera Kuini, spoke to her enemy. "I will."
Dominic Zaitsev, more popularly known as 'Galaxy', cursed as the console in front of him sparked and refused to turn back on. Currently elbow deep in the electronics of the long range radio system aboard the FC-8 AWACS Plane he operated aboard, the radio operator was having little luck with returning the aircraft to functionality. With a sigh and grunt of effort, he disentangled himself from the wires and circuits of the equipment and slid out back into full view of the Ops Center aboard the plane. Across from him, the RADAR Techie gave him a similarly defeated shrug, "RADAR's screwed, boss. We're blind and deaf outside the short-range."
Currently cruising at an altitude of 20,000 feet, the AWACS plane was safely hidden inside the upper atmospherics of the storm, clouds obscuring any sight of what might be happening above or below. Inside, Dominic gave another disgruntled sigh and sat himself down on the short-range radio station, typically unused outside extenuating circumstances, which he would say this counted as. Flicking several switches and tapping every available frequency, he took a deep breath, then spoke. "This is Aerial Warning And Control Systems Aircraft Galaxy, broadcasting in the blind. We have lost RADAR, Satellite Navigation, and Long-Range Radio. Hitman, Assassin, Gunsel, if anyone is out there, please respond. I repeat, this is the Aerial Warning And Control Systems Aircraft Galaxy, broadcasting in the blind…"
"...This is the Aerial Warning And Control Systems Aircraft Galaxy, broadcasting in the blind…" The radio message tickled at the edges of her range, her not inconsiderable communications systems struggling to pick up the message on an otherwise unused frequency. Helena twitched as the signal strength wavered, the sensation of receiving a radio message almost directly into your brain giving her the feeling that it came from her left, between one and three o'clock. Dropping her speed slightly, she let her group's carrier, Enterprise, catch up to her. "Enterprise, I've got a signal on the radio, it's not one of ours, sounds almost like a distress call."
Enterprise, a tall and serious woman, gave her a curious look. "A distress call? Give me details, Helena, time is of the essence."
The Radar Cruiser nodded quickly, "An AWACS Aircraft under the callsign 'Galaxy' appears to have suffered several critical system failures and wandered into the Mirror Sea. They report loss of Radar, GPS, and long-range communications, and are requesting a response from several unfamiliar callsigns on open frequencies."
"What are the callsigns they're reaching out to?" Enterprise asked, and Helena took a moment to listen to the repeating broadcast, just to be sure. "Calling for Callsigns 'Hitman', 'Assassin', and 'Gunsel'. Those aren't standard Flight Callsigns from any military I know."
The Union Carrier frowned, taking a moment to consider their options. "Have any of the other Fleets reported anything unusual?"
Helena shook her head gravely, "No, I haven't gotten anything from the others in near 20 minutes. There's jamming or they're occupied. The first option doesn't make sense considering I'm picking up signals still."
"Alright," Enterprise replied, "Contact this AWACS Aircraft and try to communicate with them. If I remember correctly, those planes are usually the size of medium passenger liners, so we'll have to guide them to the nearest airbase, or pick them up if they decide to bail out."
"AWACS Galaxy, this is the Union Cruiser Helena receiving your call. I am currently unable to ascertain your exact position, and you are likely outside or above the range of my Radar, please respond." Helena sent, given the appropriate permission.
There was no response for a few moments as (unknown to the Kansen) the FC-8 circled around in an attempt to search out the source of the responding signal. "Union Cruiser Helena, this is Galaxy. While normally I'd give some kind of snarky comment or something along those lines, just answer me this; where the hell are we, and who's side are you on?"
"Galaxy, you're currently somewhere near or over the Bermuda Triangle in the Atlantic, what was your last known position?" Helena answered, leaving the second question to be addressed after a location could be fixed.
The response from the AWACS plane was unusual to say the least, and visibly threw Helena for a loop, getting a questioning look from Enterprise. "Uhhh, this might hard to believe, but we were over the Cascadian Coastline on the Pacific about half an hour ago..."
When Robin Kuo, better known as Prez or President, woke up to find the cockpit around her trying to shake itself apart as clouds whipped past, she thought she was about to die. Of course, there was a strong possibility that she was right, given that the only things keeping the F/D-14 Tomcat in the air at that moment were fully deployed control surfaces, and a not insignificant dive angle. Grasping at her helmet with one hand as if to stave off the incredible headache she was experiencing, she flipped on the intercom and asked the question. "Monarch, you alive up there? What happened?"
Monarch was, at the time, rather occupied with keeping the plane steady. When Prez spoke up, a grin spread across her face despite their situation. "Robin, good to hear you're awake! I killed Crimson 1, again. The plane's, ah, a bit damaged though, we might have to ditch into the sea."
It was rare for Monarch to speak at regular times, even more so when on sortie. When she did, there were always Tac-Names involved, so her going straight to real names was a big red flag. "Where are we? GPS is dead, and I'm not getting anything on the radio."
There was an almost sad chuckle from the front seat, "I've got no clue what's up with the GPS, but the radio antenna got taken off during the fight, and I haven't seen anyone else since I killed Crimson. This storm's something else though, there's a big funnel or tornado near the center, Red lightning, the whole shebang, I don't think we're over Cascadia anymore..."
Robin almost laughed. She would have if the situation wasn't so dire, if it wasn't Monarch, no, if it wasn't Anahera speaking to her. "What do you mean, we're not in Cascadia anymore? We don't have the fuel to get anywhere else, especially in how short a time it's been!"
"You can't see them now, but the stars are different. And I'm reasonably sure it was still daytime when we went into this operation. Ocean's a different color too, now, I think it's the Atlantic, not the Pacific. Been a long time since I've seen the Atlantic outside coastal waters, but it seems about right. There's the storm too, never seen anything like it where we were before." The Sicario pilot answers, rattling off information like she was giving a briefing.
The WSO's mouth went dry, the full implications of the situation becoming readily apparent. When the Flight Lead of the Hitman Team was sure of something, she was usually correct. "Alright, what's the call then? We're blind, deaf, and crippled, so that doesn't give us many options."
Just then, they broke through the bottom layers of storm clouds, fresh gusts of wind rattling the plane concerningly, but Monarch took one hand away from the struggling flight stick and jabbed it downwards, pointing out the canopy towards the sea. "That's the plan."
Craning her neck to peer over the side of the plane, Robin caught just the barest glimpse of a rolling flight deck and smashing waves. "You want to try an emergency carrier landing in the middle of a typhoon?"
Robin couldn't see Anahera shrug, but she knew the other woman did. "Do you want to risk the waters in this weather, or better yet, pray the plane floats long enough for someone to find us?"
She knew the Ace Pilot was right, but it still grated on her nerves to have to do something this risky. "Fine, what do you need me to do?"
"Pop the canopy," came the unexpected reply, "Not enough of the plane left for aerodynamics to matter much, and if we need to punch out I don't want to wait for it to clear us, or risk someone colliding with it."
Left unsaid was the possibility of the canopy jamming, trapping them in the cockpit, and most any pilot's worst nightmare. Reaching down and slamming a lever back, she triggers the explosive bolts that eject the canopy, detonating with a sharp crack, flinging the transparent bubble off the plane and past the tail, tumbling out of view.
When the unfamiliar fighter jet had slammed down onto her deck, Shangri-La had winced in pain, the feeling of metal tearing up her flight deck resonating through her body. When the pilot failed to emerge from their plane afterwards, she'd pried open the cockpit to find them unconscious, having hit their head on their instrument display, leaving them unconscious and probably concussed, but alive.
When, a few minutes later, an absolutely giant shockwave had blasted away the clouds overhead, and nearly knocked her off her feet, she'd grown concerned. Comic, as she'd introduced herself on the radio, had been tucked away in the otherwise empty infirmary below decks and Shangri-La had returned to the deck in order to coordinate with Essex and the others.
Even as the other ships reformed around the errant Carrier, their own Hulls deployed in lieu of Rigging, Shangri-La watched a second plane drop out of the clouds. Larger and heavier than the plane Comic had come in, it looked, quite possibly, even worse for wear. With radio calls on the same frequency Comic had been on returning nothing, there was nothing she could do except watch as the plane circled slowly above, dropping altitude quickly.
When what looked like a large part of the plane whipped over the tail and spun slowly towards the surface, her brow furrowed in confusion and concern, and she prepared to call on one of the Destroyers to prepare for water rescue operations. When instead the plane swung around and vectored almost straight for her flight deck, she realized they were going to attempt a landing, and had probably jettisoned their canopy.
Calling out over the radio, she warned the rest of the fleet that there was an aircraft approaching for an emergency landing, and that they should not open fire on it. In addition, having two wrecked jets on her flight deck meant she wouldn't be able to launch any planes for any upcoming combat, until she could clear them away or put them below decks.
Problems to be dealt with when actually relevant, she decided as the aircraft sunk through the air, engines roaring with an odd tone that even someone who only knew propellor aircraft knew was a bad sign. As the jet drew closer, it's landing gear began to deploy, a problem arising when only two of the three legs deployed, the left side fuselage gear refusing to move. At the same time, the right side engine cut off or triggered a safety override, going silent with no warning whatsoever, and twisting the plane in the air as its thrust was thrown off balance.
For a moment it looked like the plane would fall short of the deck, dipping half out of view even as it sideslipped to the right. Whoever was flying the plane, however, knew what they were doing, and with a sudden roar the afterburner on the remaining engine ignited, pushing the plane back up and slamming it bodily onto the Carrier, landing gear splintering and the wing on the side without gear buckling, snapping upwards at a 45 degree angle.
Red lightning flashed overhead as Shangri-La ran towards the bow, where the second plane was just barely aboard the ship. A radio message in the back of her mind let her know that Essex was coming over to help, and she replied with her own confirmation and thanks. One person had already tumbled from the massive jet, and was seemingly helping a second out, though she was at an angle where she couldn't quite tell which was the pilot and which was the copilot or navigator.
When she practically skidded to a stop at the wrecked aircraft, the woman already on the deck flinched at her sudden arrival, even as she struggled with the safety buckles holding the pilot in place, as was likely indicated by their occupying the forward seat in the cockpit. Gently pushing the aviator out of the way, she reached into the cockpit and simply snapped the safety straps, the significant strength of a Carrier Kansen finding nearly zero resistance in the strips of synthetic material.
The pilot stared at her with wide eyes hidden behind a tinted helmet, breathing mask hanging off the straps on one side. The other woman tapped her on the shoulder, "Thanks for the assist, and for, uh, not shooting us down. Hitman 1-WSO, Callsign President."
Shangri-La nodded and offered a hand to shake, the other woman's grip gentle but firm. "Call me Shangri-La, welcome aboard. I've got your #3 below decks, called herself Comic? Wrecked her plane about the same as you two did, knocked out cold when I pulled her out. She's below-decks in the infirmary."
The other woman spoke up for the first time, introducing herself as well. "Hitman 1, Monarch. Can you take us to see her?"
Straight to the point then, this one almost reminded her of Enterprise in a way. The woman pulled off her helmet, revealing black hair cut raggedly short, a scar over one eye that screamed of a story, and a pair of almost electric blue eyes. The black and white butterfly/crown design on the temple of the helmet was eye-catching, and was a clever play on her callsign. Shangri-La nodded, feeling that Essex was almost here, and knowing she'd need to get them below-decks quickly if she wanted to greet her sister. "Of course, follow me."
Peter Kennedy, better known as Hitman 2 'Diplomat', had been much luckier than Comic in that he'd managed to evade the missiles sent after him by that madman Crimson 1. In the process though, he'd gotten separated and now found himself in the middle of what seemed like a freak storm. He'd stuck below the clouds when he could, regardless of the winds, and managed to locate Eminent Domain stuck in the middle of a fight. Granted, it hadn't been difficult to find the super-battleship, it tended to be very noticeable in a fight, and the constant railgun fire streaming over the waves did little to dissuade that thought.
He wasn't quite sure who Woodward was fighting, but they looked like some kind of futuristic sci-fi designs really. Twin-Decked Carriers, absolutely huge battleships, and everything in between, all with glowing purple and blue stripes up and down their hulls. Even then, his weapon's director had little trouble designating hardpoints, reconnecting to the auxiliary uplink the Cascadian ship broadcast to its allies. He still had about half a dozen 500lb bombs slung under his fuselage, part of the multi-purpose payload for the assault on Presidia.
Flicking on his radio and swapping it to the Navy Frequencies, he figured he might as well let them know he was there. "Eminent Domain, this is Hitman 2 on-station. What's the situation, and where the hell are we?"
The voice that returned his call was not the aggressively bombastic Captain Woodward as he expected, or even one of the regular radio-operators. Her voice was smooth and measured, with an accent befitting more the Federation core states than a Cascadian National. "This is Eminent Domain, Hitman 2 our location as currently known is in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle, in the Atlantic Ocean. We have been engaged by several waves of Naval Forces designated as 'Sirens'. What is the state of your fuel and armaments?"
Shooting a quick glance towards the HUD on his visor, his response was quick and concise, even as he tilted his MG-29 to the side, circling to get a better view of the battlefield. "I've got two AAMs, half a dozen 500lb bombs, and two SRAAMs. 1500 rounds on the cannon."
The woman on the other end met this with a "Roger, Standby." and nothing more, the radio going silent once more. As he circled, he spotted three decidedly more regular ships engaging the 'Sirens' on one flank, while a fourth cut through the waves from the direction of the Eminent Domain, evidently trying to link up with them. For how outnumbered they were, and their more conventional armaments, they seemed to be making a very good showing of themselves, with a myriad of wrecked enemies sinking or floundering around them.
The radio returned to life as he watched some kind of blue barrier appear around one of the ships, deflecting a volley of blue shells from the Siren ships. "Hitman 2, designating four friendly surface contacts on your screens, retasking you to support them until further notice. Conserve ammunition and fuel and do not risk yourself unnecessarily. They are currently operating on frequency Zulu."
He watched as IFF tags appeared over each ship on his HUD, Cleveland, Baltimore, Montpelier, Charles Ausburne. "Roger that, Eminent Domain, before I go, have you heard from any other Sicario or Cascadian elements?"
Silence for a moment, then "Negative, Hitman 2, we're alone out here as far as I can tell."
Damn, that was unfortunate. He hoped the others were fine, wherever they were. Hell, Monarch was probably off repeatedly killing Crimson until he stayed dead or something, if anyone could bring back the dead just to kill them again, it would be her. Flipping his radio over to Frequency Zulu, he called out on the line to introduce himself. "This is Hitman 2, Callsign Diplomat, on station and ready to assist, how copy?"
What he was most definitely not expecting was four young sounding and peppy women to answer the call almost at the exact same time, one shouting about Justice while the others greetings were mixed together into an unintelligible mass. This was going to be...interesting...
Deep underwater in the Pacific
Empress III was awoken by a surprisingly panicking Observer Zero. Zero had been one of the most stalwart of the Sirens sent to make humanity strong, and to see her panicking was nothing short of alarming. Laying a firm hand on the synthetic woman's shoulder, she practically forced the other Siren to calm down. "Observer Zero, what is happening? What has caused you such alarm."
"Empress!" the Siren cried in relief, "There are new variables! One's we've never seen nor anticipated! The prediction algorithm for our victory has dropped by 30% just from their appearance!"
What.
"This is unprecedented, Observer, what makes these new variables so powerful?" Empress asked, her mind burning with plans and schemes as the Siren minion outlined what she knew. New weapons systems powerful enough to vaporize production ships with one hit, unfamiliar aircraft and energy signatures, and most of all, a new Kansen, one never seen before, and one that existed in no prior records of this world or those before it. The previous offensive plans would need to be thrown out, and new ones made from scratch in order to assure their victory, something that hadn't been done in many timelines.
An idea sprung to mind almost immediately, and a devious smirk spread across Empress IIIs face. "Perhaps, Observer, it is time we introduce this iteration of Humanity to the Infiltrators…?"
A/N: Alright, I think it's done! I've really been on a roll with this Azur Lane stuff, aye? I know I promised more work on my other story, and I've got some of the next chapter done already, but I wanted to get this out first instead of having multiple WIPs to juggle. Again thanks to Compass, Renegade, Perseus, Lonewanderer, Matrex, and half a dozen others for the help and inspiration! This is a good sign, though. I'm getting quicker in my writing while maintaining quality, and while I intend to keep chapters for TINTEWK around their current length(3-4k per chapter), being able to punch out 8-10k chapters in a shorter amount of time means that I am improving, which is a good thing for me. See yall next time!
PS: For anyone curious, Anahera Kuini is from the Native Language of New Zealand, Maori. It roughly translates to "Queen Angel", with Anahera meaning "The Majestic and Powerful Angel", and Kuini being the word for "Monarch" in Maori.