AN: Scarcely two and a half weeks later, here we are again. I was on a roll with this one, though, unfortunately, I still can't say my personal situation is improved any. If there's anything to take at all from it, I implore you: save when you can, because holy shit it's been one hell of a lifeline. Onto something a little more on-topic: I'm debating doing a (very) late Valentines oneshot. If that sounds like something you'd be interested in, by all means let me know. Otherwise, I'm afraid it's kind of business as usual. As ever, I hope you enjoy.
Solace: A Commander's Tale
Chapter Fifteen: A Test Concluded
The weather had taken a foul turn.
Graham shielded his eyes from the spray as the ship's bow cut through the waves, dipping and bobbing in the increasingly turbulent ocean. With the roiling, dark clouds above, and the imminent rain, he could almost close his eyes and take himself back to the waters around the home isles. Of course, the Atlantic was only ever as warm as this during the very peak of Summertime.
"I would advise against standing out here, Master," said Sheffield, rarely ever more than a handful of paces away even aboard her own ship. "Even I cannot guarantee your safekeeping, should you pitch overboard."
Graham considered for a moment, looking out once more at the shifting waves, dark as though in response to the souring weather. He nodded, "You're right. Let's go inside."
"A sensible decision, Master," responded Sheffield, dipping her head and letting her Commander enter her bridge first before dutifully following him in.
"I presume we're still on course?" he asked, setting himself down in one of the handful of chairs available to him on Sheffield's bridge.
"We are indeed, Master," confirmed Sheffield. "We should find ourselves within visual range of Miss Kaga's fleet within the hour." She paused, "Provided, of course, that neither fleet has cause to divert."
"That shouldn't be the case," Graham mused. "Conditions only started souring ten or so minutes ago. I can't imagine someone like Kaga allowing even a storm to throw her off."
Sheffield's response was a noncommittal hum, which could have been either a negative or positive. The maid stood attentive at a respectful distance, though in the confines of her own bridge, Graham found himself feeling a little claustrophobic. Much of this, he knew, was simply because he was far more used to being on Hood's, which offered twice the amount of space at the very least. He took in the sight of the command consoles and the wealth of instruments to pore over, knowing that years and years ago, before he had even been born, each station would have been manned by an officer. In fact, the vessel would have been crawling with hundreds of crewmen, all vital in keeping even a vessel of Sheffield's modest size operational. How cramped would he have felt then, he wondered.
"Something the matter, Master?" inquired Sheffield, cocking her head and arching one thin eyebrow at her.
He shook his head, "No. Nothing."
Sheffield hummed, but said nothing more, instead casting her amber gaze out through the windows. A sudden wave buffeted the hull, and Graham found himself lurched forwards by the unexpected force. Sheffield, however, kept her balance, reaching out and catching him as though she had expected just such an event would occur.
"My thanks," said Graham, settling himself back into his seat.
"It is what I am here for, Master," Sheffield responded. "Think nothing of it."
"All the same, thank you."
Sheffield offered another hum and stepped back to her prior distance.
"I have to say," murmured the young officer, "this wasn't quite how I imagined the day might go when you woke me up this morning."
"War follows no schedule but its own, Master. Expect the unexpected, as the saying goes."
Graham sighed, "I've never understood that one, myself. To try and anticipate anything and everything that might happen—our freak storm, for instance—seems like it might drive a person to madness."
To his surprise, Sheffield chuckled.
"What?"
"I believe, Master, that you are perhaps taking it too literally. As you say, to try and anticipate any little thing will no doubt lead to complications in planning and execution. What I believe it is supposed to mean is that one should keep an open mind, and try not to let anything that might fall outside your preconceptions halt or stall you in your tracks. Adapt and overcome."
Graham kept his silence as Sheffield fixed him with a knowing look. Eventually, he conceded the point.
"As you say, Sheffield. I suppose that makes sense."
"I'm pleased you think so, Master," she said, and Graham thought he detected a note of satisfaction in her tone. He squinted at the maid but Sheffield betrayed nothing of whatever she felt. As ever, the light cruiser proved to be an enigma. Strangely enough, though, Graham found himself intrigued the more he spoke with her. He wondered what exactly he might find if he peeled back the layer of impassivity woven around her. If there was one thing he liked to think he'd learned during his time serving alongside shipgirls, it was that they were rarely as simple as they appeared.
He was snapped from his thoughts, however, when Sheffield suddenly cocked her head, as though listening for something. A frown spread across her face as she turned to stare out into the increasingly dismal weather. He knew that it was likely a broadcast from one of the fleet they had attached themselves to, sent from one ship and, through whatever strange blend of science and sorcery that created them, directly to Sheffield's ear.
"What is it? What's happened?" asked Graham, a growing sense of apprehension building in his gut.
Sheffield turned to face him, her stern features taking on a grim shade.
"Something unexpected."
Takao grunted as the shell burned a hole through her portside. The pain was intense, but, mercifully, her armour belt had absorbed most of the damage, and prevented any significant damage to the vulnerable inner workings of her ship. Her katana was unsheathed, hanging low at her side and clutched in a white-knuckle grip. She burned with the desire to hack and cut at the foe who had dealt her harm, but knew that to act on such a wish was folly at best.
What was she really going to do? Walk on water and smack her blade against the unearthly steel hull of the colossal Siren warship? Certainly a romantic notion, she would admit, but reality was seldom so accommodating.
"This is so not fair!" wailed the Union destroyer, Sims, as her ship pulled a sharp turn in to avoid a spread of torpedoes. "We're supposed to be the ones doing the jumping! How did they even sneak up on us like this?"
"If you have time to complain, you have time to shoot," barked Kaga, who launched another wave of Zeroes from her pockmarked flight deck. Their formation was in shambles, each element of the fleet having to take action to avoid getting shredded by the additional enemy fleet, and Takao could only guess at the smouldering humiliation that Kaga felt at having been caught so flat-footed by their enemy.
To be perfectly fair, it wasn't like she could have anticipated that a second Siren fleet might materialise out of thin air in the middle of the storm they had been forced into. Takao found herself wondering if that might not have been the plan all along, and wondered darkly if this was some unearthly power the Sirens possessed. Certainly, she recalled that older shipgirls who had fought in the first Siren War had remarked that strange weather formations had plagued the oceans of the world during that conflict. Of course, it seemed to most experts at the time to be a mere side effect of the invasion—something the Sirens brought with them from whatever world they called home.
Now, she was forced to consider that it was something altogether more sinister. She didn't doubt for a moment that Kaga was experiencing similar thoughts.
"California! On your starboard side! Destroyer!" yelped the Iris destroyer, Le Temeraire.
"I see it, damnit!" gasped California, panic creeping into her voice as she registered the alien vessel's proximity. "It's too close! I can't—"
Takao watch as the daring enemy ship burst into flame as a wall of shellfire bracketed and ultimately obliterated the alien vessel. Through the torrential rain and surging waves, Takao saw the distinctly squat, ugly shape of Gangut's ship, all four main turrets pointed at the sinking remains of the stricken Siren vessel.
Contrary to her fleetmates, the Northern battleship seemed to be having the time of her life.
"Heart, sisters! This is what we were made for!" she cried, her loud, booming laughter somehow echoing over the din of battle and the rush of the elements. "And look, my comrades! The enemy is kind enough to bring themselves to us! They can't possibly escape us now!"
Takao wanted to blanch, but however misplaced she believed the foreign battleship's confidence was, she couldn't deny that, in the heat of combat, there was a hum—a buzz—beneath her skin. She hadn't been able to place it at first, chalking it up first to nerves at first. She had fought the Sirens before her assignment to Azur Lane, but those had been mere skirmishes compared to the raging warzone she found herself in now. Here, every single moment had to be spent carefully, her every sense stretched taut in order to best discern how to navigate the field in order to keep not only herself, but her fleetmates alive. One wrong move and she might collide with another hull, or place herself in the path of a volley of shellfire.
While she wouldn't ever go so far as to say she was revelling in the melee, Takao found she agreed at least partially with the foreign battleship. This was what they were made for. As though sensing her shift in mood, her turrets tracked a cruiser-class Siren ship, its turrets blazing at the cackling Gangut, rending great gouges in her thick armour plating and scoring her upper deck with shrapnel. In an instant, Takao registered a firing solution and unloaded on the abominable invader, six 203mm shells arcing over the roiling sea to smack against the oncoming vessel's foremost turret. The weapon was reduced to a ruin, and a devastating series of secondary explosions blew out the Siren's bow, halting it in its tracks and causing it to sink beneath the waves.
As though raging against its inevitable death, the wing turrets sought out the source of its torment, shifting from Gangut to track her. Takao felt her heart still. At such close range, even stricken as the Siren was, it would be near impossible for it to miss, and her hull was already cracked and pitted from dozens of other rents inflicted by the sudden ambush. The angle might cause one shell to ricochet, but four? She couldn't see any scenario where the Siren would not core her like an apple.
There was nothing she could do, and Takao felt her arms hang at her side as she prepared to meet the old gods of her homeland, murmuring an apology to her younger sisters for having gone on ahead of them.
Salvation came from a most unexpected source.
A Zero, screaming through the rain, skirted over the waves before dropping a bomb right into the flank of the cruiser. The explosive buried itself into the hull before detonating, ripping open a gruesome wound in the dying vessel's flank. Immediately, it listed to one side, upsetting its aim, and sparing Takao's life. Even in the face of such inimical flying conditions, Takao found herself struck by Kaga's command of her planes. Truly, she thought, Kaga was in a league of her own among the carriers of Sakura.
"You are not done until I say you are, Takao," snarled the kitsune. "Now wipe that pathetic expression off your face and come about to these coordinates. Our… reinforcements are imminent, and I will not disgrace myself more than I already have by allowing even one casualty from this fleet, am I understood?"
"Yes, Kaga-sama!" Takao responded, almost on instinct.
She felt a deep sense of shame at what might have been her final moments before Kaga's intervention. She was a heavy cruiser of the Sakura Empire, eldest of the four finest warrior women to have sailed the Pacific. She was strong. She was fierce, and despite her bloodying, she was still afloat. Resolve flared anew, and immediately, she began pushing her boilers to flank speed, shifting her rudder in order to accommodate the orders of her fleet lead.
"Better," noted Kaga, before directing Exeter and Yat Sen to strike at an overly opportunistic Siren cruiser which was closing on Le Temeraire. Already, thanks to her skilful orchestration, a quarter of the Siren ambush fleet had been eradicated, but they were not free and clear just yet. The counterattack Kaga wanted to execute could still very well flounder and fail if the Sirens concentrated their firepower, and for all her strengths, Kaga was still only a carrier, and intensely vulnerable at close range without her fighter-bombers commanding the skies.
She heard Shigure yelp as a wave of Siren shells bracketed her. One tore off her aft turret, ripping a shriek of pain from the poor girl. A battleship had closed in, likely the flagship of the second Siren fleet, and was wreaking havoc with its armament at such close range. Shigure was too close and her torpedo armament was facing entirely the opposite direction, having launched a spread to silence a cruiser. California was nearby, but she was dealing with her own problem: two more Siren cruisers hemming her in from different angles and raking her hull with gunfire. She would not be able to help.
It was all on her.
Righteous indignation filled her at the thought of the merciless alien warship gunning down the hapless destroyer, and her boilers roared as she pushed on, shifting from the course designated by Kaga. The carrier would doubtless be unimpressed with her flagrant disregard of orders, but then she had been the one to express her desire for the whole fleet to survive. She could hardly be blamed for ensuring that directive, right?
Her guns, though, would not be quite enough. Not against a foe of that size. Fortunately, she had other armaments to call upon. Eight torpedo tubes, separated into two quad launchers sat at the ready on either of her flanks, miraculously having avoided damage thus far. Two now trained on the otherworldly monstrosity bearing down on Shigure as she accelerated to top speed. The waves churned beneath her and she felt her prow cut through the chopping seawater as she charged her prey.
As though sensing the danger it was in, the Siren warship's turrets began to track her instead of the reeling destroyer. It was too little, too late. She was scarcely a hundred metres from the Siren—practically point-blank range in terms of naval warfare, and there was nowhere for it to run.
"Die," Takao hissed as all eight launchers fired their lethal payloads. The warheads knifed through the water like hunting sharks, and all eight detonated against the flank of the battleship. Explosions gutted the alien warship, shredding its innards and ending the threat it posed forever. Already, the angry red glow of the Siren was muting, before it finally died forever, leaving nothing but a hunk of lifeless, alien steel that even now began its languid journey to the bottom of the Pacific.
Satisfied as Takao felt at the kill, she had little time to enjoy it. The first Siren fleet was in range, and, heedless of their own allies, had begun to fire on them as the PT-class vessels charged like war dogs having slipped their leashes. Her sense of triumph died immediately. The smaller Sirens would be on them in minutes, and their torpedo armaments would wreak indescribable havoc on the Azur Lane fleet. Kaga's gambit to extricate her fleet had failed, and now all that remained was how dearly they might sell themselves before the end came…
A voice tickled her ear. For a moment, she thought it might be Kaga, but it was not. It was someone else. A foreigner.
"Jean Bart to all surviving Azur Lane ships. Pull back east as best you can and mark your positions with flares. I'd rather not end up sinking the ones we sailed all this way to save."
Jean Bart stood atop her bow with arms folded underneath her modest chest as she surveyed the distant battlefield. Though dogged by the ferocious storm that was even now sweeping through the engagement zone, Zuikaku's scout plane was up in the air, ready to report the exact positions of Kaga's fleet the moment the flares were fired while her fleet stood watch, standing by to receive targeting coordinates. Reluctant as she was to admit it, the Commandant's was proving more… adequate than she had first assumed. When they had learned of the Siren ambush, they had immediately began discussing how to best remedy the predicament faced by Kaga's beleaguered fleet. The Commander had immediately decreed that firing into the swirling melee was an unacceptable plan, as it ran the risk of hitting their own allies.
She had scoffed then. Typical Royal hypocrisy, she thought, given they had been quite happy to do so at Mers-el-Kébir. Instead of berating the battleship for her flagrant display of insubordination, however, he had surprised her by pointedly asking what she would do in his place. Her response was blunt and—some might even argue—callous, but if the Royal was so against trying to pinpoint the Siren combatants embroiled in such a close-range deathmatch with their allied fleet, then they would simply ignore them, trusting that Kaga could direct them to safety on their own.
Instead, they would focus on the first Siren fleet—the one that had yet to arrive to support the ambush party. The plan was inelegant, but with the array of firepower they possessed, coupled with Zuikaku's almost fanatical drive to either impress or show up the older Sakura carrier, putting up almost every squadron she had despite the stormy conditions they faced, she believed it was their best hope of ensuring the torpedo threat never reached Fifth Fleet.
Second Fleet would lay down a withering barrage, guided by Zuikaku's scout flight, at the approaching PT-class Sirens. The idea was to create a lethal wall against which the light ships would be crushed. Any surviving PTs would be hunted mercilessly down by Zuikaku's fighter-bombers.
"All elements, confirm status," she demanded, as the first of the flares from Kaga's fleet arced into the air. Scarcely a heartbeat later, she heard Zuikaku confirm the coordinates from which they had been launched.
"Standing by, lead," came the soft-spoken declaration from Massachusetts.
"All guns cleared hot," chirped Bremerton.
"Let me loose, bitte?" cooed Roon, and Jean Bart felt another stab of suspicious concern. Despite the airy, lackadaisical tone of voice with which the Ironblood cruiser spoke, Jean Bart detected an undercurrent of what she could only think to describe as bloodlust. She was looking forward to this, thought the battleship, and not simply because she would be fulfilling the role for which she had been created…
Was this Z46 had been so wary of, during their joint exercises on that first day? Did she fear, one day, that Roon might turn that same desire for slaughter on her countrywomen?
Unfortunately, at this stage, all she really had was conjecture. Bringing it up to the Commandant, now of all times, rankled. For the time being, she would continue to observe, and take whatever action required taking only once she had the facts, as opposed to suspicions.
Jean Bart coloured as a voice broke her from her thoughts. She had been so preoccupied over the question of Roon that she had almost missed the final call from her fleet.
"Bunny—er, Bailey, standing ready, ma'am," said the airheaded young Union destroyer, the last member of her Second Fleet. Bremerton giggled at the little girl's slipup, as did the Northern cruiser, Avrora.
"Enough!" barked Jean Bart, taking the reins of control once more. "We have our allies, and now we have the enemy. Zuikaku, continue observation and report the position of the closing Siren fleet. Make sure your squadrons aren't blown off course by this storm. The rest of you girls will pick your targets. Aim well; I do not want a single one of those PT-class Sirens to slip through the net we're about to cast. That goes for you too, miss Maid. Don't think you're getting out of this just because you happen to be ferrying our glorious leader."
A chorus of affirmatives followed her orders, including a curt response from the Royal Maid, Sheffield. The next moment, every single gun in her fleet turned to track their chosen bombardment area. A heartbeat later, Zuikaku reported the PT boats were nearing the exclusion zone she had designated. It was time, she decided.
"Fire!"
The first wave of PT boats never saw the doom that came crashing down upon their heads. Shellfire from dozens upon dozens of guns of varying calibres rained explosive death upon the alien craft. Fully three quarters of the PT-class ships vanished in seconds. The few surviving ships scattered, and were immediately set upon by Zuikaku's aircraft, which raked them with bursts of machinegun fire, or even scored a lucky hit with dropped ordnance. The ride was far from smooth, however, and the adverse conditions smashed many of the Sakura carrier's aircraft into the water. One plane managed to turn its demise into a pyrrhic victory of sorts. Unable to pull up in time to avoid crashing into the ocean, the Zero swerved and managed to crash itself headfirst into the hull of a Siren cruiser, savaging its hull and destroying its portside wing turret.
By the end of the bombardment, scarcely a handful of what had once been a sizeable flotilla of a few dozen PT-class Siren ships were still afloat. The survivors, however, pressed on in spite of the hellish fire they had incurred, but didn't get far as Zuikaku's remaining flights gunned them down. The carrier whooped, barking an oath in her native tongue that Jean Bart could not understand. The Vichya woman allowed her to celebrate her success, but only for a moment. Now came the main Siren warships, and they would prove harder to kill than their vanguard.
"Focus targets," ordered Jean Bart, feeling the breeches of her two main quad-turrets slot eight armour-piercing shells home, ready to fire. "Roon, Sendai, and Z46, we have the lead Siren battleship. Massachusetts, Bremerton, Sheffield and Bailey will target the starboard-side escort. Avrora, Kinu and Ikazuchi, you will finish off the other wounded escort. Zuikaku, I want you to force these dogs to scatter. We'll pick them apart piece by piece."
Satisfaction thrilled up her spine as she heard her fleet, plus Sheffield, acknowledge her commands. As she handed out directives, the Royal Commander had not interjected. This wasn't too surprising. It had, after all, been his suggestion to buddy her fleet up into distinct groups through which they could focus down and destroy their targets. Curiously enough, he seemed to have guessed well which of her fleet would work the best together at almost a glance. Was this why he had been picked over the others?
Irritated, she turned her thoughts away from the foreign Commander. She had more pressing concerns to address.
Like how she was going to break the Siren fleet, and exact her bloody revenge for the atrocity at Brest…
Graham watched the battle unfold, a frowning Sheffield ever present at his side. The maid had been displeased at Jean Bart's demand that she participate in the engagement.
"I am here to safeguard your person," she insisted. "No more and no less."
"You're a shipgirl under Azur Lane's command—my command—and of the Royal Navy after that," he had pointed out. "I rather think your extra guns will come in handy here. Besides," he added after a brief pause, "wouldn't you find it odd to see one lone ship in an enemy fleet hanging near the rear of the formation not doing anything?"
The implication was clear, and Sheffield had, however reluctantly, conceded the point.
"The instant I feel we are being targeted, Master, I will be pulling us out," she informed him bluntly. "Regardless of what Jean Bart—or anyone—might say, your safety takes priority here, and if necessary, I will take whatever action I see fit to ensure it."
Graham sighed, feeling already the frustration he feared would come when it came to addressing the peculiar grey area the Royal Maid Corps occupied within the hierarchy of the Royal Navy. He supposed this was just going to have to be good enough.
"As you say, Sheffield."
Now, he watched as the light cruiser's twelve rifles rained hell upon the closing Siren fleet. She might not have possessed the greatest firepower among the fleet, but her guns were relatively quick to load, and Sheffield possessed a markswoman's eye. Few of her shots found themselves crashing into the waves, as opposed to Siren hulls, a feat some of the foreign cruisers appeared to have taken as a challenge.
One, however, seemed indifferent to the competition, and was instead steaming ahead as if to close with the Sirens. It was, he noticed, flying Ironblood colours.
"Sheffield," he said, gesturing in the direction of the advancing cruiser, "who might that be?"
"The Ironblood heavy cruiser, Roon, Master Graves," Sheffield answered. "A recent construction if I recall correctly. A prototype, similar to Drake and Cheshire, and Lady Monarch."
Graham did not know either of those, but he had heard vague rumours floating around of more recently created shipgirls. One of a kind prototypes; experimental and—some whispered—even dangerous. Having met with Izumo earlier in the day, he had wondered if the rumours were simply the typically exaggerated scuttlebutt that tended to spread among the enlisted men like wildfire. Now, he started to wonder if maybe there was something to it after all.
"Get me on the line with Jean Bart, please, Sheffield."
"As you wish, Master."
Her radio instruments crackled and fizzed into life; an act purely for his benefit, as Graham knew full well that, through the unearthly science that fuelled her creation, Sheffield was able to hear each and every radio broadcast from the allied ships on shared channels as though the speakers were all whispering directly into her ears. Moments later, Jean Bart's curt, sharp voice cut through the hissing white noise.
"What is it, maid? We've a battle to win."
"One of your ships is breaking formation, Jean Bart," said Graham in place of his bodyguard, pointedly deciding not to remark on her dismissive tone of voice. "I think I might like to find out why."
A short moment of hesitation, and Graham thought he heard a muttered curse in Iris on the other end of the line. "Roon," said the Vichyan battleship. "I'll get her in line."
"Focus on maintaining your fleet cohesion, Jean Bart. This sort of thing is the reason I tag along."
Jean Bart grunted, clearly unhappy, but equally unwilling to contest the point.
"Do as you wish, Commandant," said the battleship. "Not like I've got the authority to stop you."
"Glad you see it my way, Jean Bart. Carry on."
One final grunt, and the brusque Vichyan cut the link.
"Such insubordinate behaviour would have seen her sharply disciplined, were she a member of the Royal Maids," Sheffield remarked, turning a sour look through the gloomy weather towards the distant form of Jean Bart's ship, whose guns flared as they catapulted more explosive death at the distant foe.
"I rather think she'd have faced charges even if she weren't," said Graham in a dry voice. "Even so, things might well be different in Vichya. If she is indeed Cardinal Richelieu's sister—"
"She is," confirmed Sheffield.
"—then she might be afforded more slack than, say, one of our own might be."
Sheffield seemed dubious but chose not to pursue the topic.
"I could be wrong, of course," he admitted, "but at this point, such conjecture means nothing. Besides, we have a ship to hail. If you would, please, Sheffield?"
Sheffield sighed, but acquiesced, patching him a link to the advancing Ironblood cruiser.
Roon decided that she was having a good day.
Since the day she first gained awareness, she had felt an itch, deep in the core of her very being, that could not be satisfied. She had tried a great number of things within her homeland to try and scratch that itch. She ate and drank, tried to know her peers, read, slept, and more besides. Yet the itch refused to abate, always scratching at the edge of her thoughts.
It wasn't until she first encountered a group of Sirens on a routine patrol of the North Sea that she discovered the means to finally satisfy the urges she felt.
She was not a total stranger to combat. Exercises were conducted at regular intervals, and these helped, if only slightly. Each time, however, she felt on the cusp of satisfaction, however, the ventures would end, and the itch would return again.
Not that time.
Her blood sang as her hull danced its lethal waltz with the aliens. She could feel each individual shell she fired. When she missed, she wanted to howl and scream. When she hit, she could have sung, such was the ecstatic thrill that coursed through her like a jolt of lightning. Here, she thought, finally, was her purpose. Others had been created in the past to defend her homeland, but Roon was a new breed. She was built to attack.
To kill.
To finally find herself unleashed once more, after so many months of agonising peace, was like living in a dream. The reason for their being here was secondary. She cared ultimately little for the plight of the allied fleet. All that mattered was the enemy in front of her. She had sent a number of the Siren PT-class ships to the bottom of the ocean, but more remained. Her blood was up, and there was more to fight; more to kill.
A buzzing in her ear distracted her from the thoughts of blissful slaughter running through her mind. Then, the buzzing was replaced by a voice. One she recognised as belonging to her new Kommandant.
"Ironblood Cruiser Roon, this is your Commander speaking. You are breaking formation. I am asking you, nicely, to return to your designated position."
"You have a nice voice, Herr Kommandant," said Roon.
"I—what?" responded the voice.
"It's a nice voice. Matches your eyes, I think. Green is such a rare colour, hm? Exotic."
"That's… very kind of you to say, Roon, but that's not—"
"Did Prinz tell you anything about me, at all? I hope she didn't say anything mean. She can be such a bully, picking on her cute sister, Hipper, all the time."
"Roon," the voice sounded tighter than it had before, curt. Roon decided she didn't like it when when it sounded like this. "Consider this a direct order: place yourself back in formation, or you will find yourself sanctioned upon our arrival back at home port. Please don't test me on this. I don't really want to play the villain, and I don't think you'll want that, either."
Roon considered, humming to herself as she thought on the merits of simply ignoring the voice and its suggestion. She knew that frowny-faced battleship, Jean Bart was probably involved, somehow, in this. The Vichyan really needed to lighten up, she thought, but Roon neither knew nor cared how exactly her fleet lead might go about doing that. She then considered the Siren fleet, within range and so tantalisingly close she could almost taste the unnatural steel of their hulls. What sweet music would echo through the waves when she rent them apart, she wondered?
But the voice had commanded her to return. Reluctantly, she decided this was the better option for her. Sanctions, she knew, could mean all sorts of things, and one of them might be that she was never allowed out on the waves again, cursed to endure the constant itching in her soul. That simply wouldn't do at all.
Besides, she reasoned, it wasn't as though he was telling her that they were about to withdraw without firing a shot. The slaughter would still come. The waiting would just make the impending bloodshed all the sweeter.
"Okay," she said, in a sing-song voice. "Coming about, Herr Kommandant."
Jean Bart listened quietly to the exchange between Commander Graves and Roon, breathing a faint sigh when it appeared to be over. If she had any doubts before, none existed now: the Ironblood was unstable. Why, then, she had been assigned here was a mystery… or at least, it would be for anyone who didn't have as keen an insight to the inner workings of the nation as she believed she did. Roon was, clearly, a problem. What better way to solve that problem by sending her far, far away from the homeland and hoping she might pass away in the firing line?
It would, upon reflection, also explain why Graf Zeppelin had been sent. Jean Bart knew not the specifics, but she had heard many a rumour that a schism still existed between the Luftwaffe and Kriegsmarine over the latter's development of aircraft carriers. Yet, somehow, in spite of the Siren debate, and the mere existence of shipgirls as a viable fighting force, the Luftwaffe retained a higher standing over the Kriesmarine. How long, she wondered, would it be before Peter Strasser and Weser showed up, too?
Exhaling softly through the nose, she decided that ruminating on events that might very well not even come to pass was a pointless exercise, and redirected her focus on the battle ahead of her. To her private satisfaction, she noted that, with Roon now back in position, they were perfectly poised to strike at the first Siren fleet. Her guns had spoken already, but now the PT screen was gone, they were up against real foes, those against whom she could truly test her mettle.
"Jean Bart to all fleet elements," she spoke, smirking as she addressed her fleet, "fire away. Send these Sirens to the depths."
And, because she just couldn't resist...
"Kaga, tell your girls to duck."
A thousand miles away, a solitary figure—a woman, any passer-by might have observed—stood on the waves, borne aloft by equipment that would have baffled most human geniuses as she observed the distant combat through a wholly alien spyglass that clicked and whirred like the little device had a mind of its own. Impassively, the figure watched as both Siren fleets were dismantled by Azur Lane. The first fleet picked apart by the reinforcements, and the ambush fleet hastily annihilated by the very ones they had been set against.
The entity—for despite all that it appeared, the being would in no way describe itself as female beyond its chosen physical appearance—sniffed. As expected, Azur Lane had prevailed. The Sirens failed to inflict even one fatality, though the Fox's command was horrifically savaged by the brutal close-range fighting. The entity found that vaguely amusing, given what it had known of other Foxes, and wondered how this one would react to so narrow an escape.
Overall, a successful test, it thought to itself, watching the two enemy fleets link up with each other before departing for their base. The response time was up a whole eight-point-three percent from previous iterations at this stage of the renewed conflict. Most impressive, though it wondered why the human Commander insisted on allowing his subordinate to dictate moment-to-moment strategy, instead of simply taking outright command as a leader ought. If this persisted, the being predicted the human's growth would slow to a crawl, compared to other instances. Disappointing to learn, but there was time yet. Perhaps they would throw up a Mirror Sea or two outside their headquarters in a week's time. Maybe that would speed things up.
It dismissed the thought as soon as it cropped up. Observer would likely take offence at so drastic an escalation, to say nothing of the others. As always, they would discuss the results, and plan from there. As they had learned to their detriment in the past, too swift and brutal an assault, and humanity swiftly caved and begun to try, however vainly, to reach out to their otherworldly adversaries to sue for peace. Neither, however, could they take too soft an approach, else the entire point of their doing this would be rendered moot.
Eventually, the being decided there was nothing more to be gained by continuing to watch, and collapsed its observation tool with a snap of its fingers. The device shrunk in on itself until it was roughly the size of a coin, and the being pocketed it without another thought. Turning away, the entity cruised along the waves, travelling scarcely a handful of meters before it vanished in a flash of cyan light, its job done.
For now, at least…