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"Intense feeling too often obscures the truth."
-Harry S. Truman
Chapter 27: The Things Normal People Do
As was often the case with Las Vegas, he was now beginning to try and get a plan together for the new objective. Even though he and Nashville still sat in Roscoe's office, he began to ask himself in thought, "How does one stop a cult?"
He considered what he had at his disposal. He had himself and Nashville, and he also had access to the world's ship girls. Even though he had a mighty military force at his fingertips, he felt like ship girls for the most part aren't very well suited for the subtlety required to tackle organized crime in the shape of a terroristic cult. Besides, Las Vegas was more of the opinion to use them for superweapons, which was his original objective, instead of risking their deaths to human hands when they are so vital in the struggle against the Sirens. Therefore, with the ship girls no longer being an option, it looked like the Heralds of the Deep are a problem that will very likely be larger than what only him and Nashville can handle. So, what is to be done?
The answer was obvious to the codebreaker. Who is better to counter criminals than the police? And if the criminals are internationally based, then international police would be needed. Las Vegas asked Roscoe, "I know that we want to keep the Heralds on the down low, but if the problem is bigger than what Nashville and I can handle, would it be alright if we involve Interpol?"
Interpol, or the "International Criminal Police Organization," as it's officially known, is as the name suggests an internationally based agency that takes to tackling crime on a scale larger than national police forces. Their biggest way of getting things done is facilitating cooperation between local police forces. Las Vegas's logic was that by employing their services, the forces of good can cast a net large enough to catch all the Herald strongholds outside of wherever Las Vegas and Nashville find themselves.
This recommendation was particularly clever, because even though the supreme commander, the codebreaker, and the light cruiser didn't know it, each Herald stronghold had a level of autonomy to act for themselves, just as long as they answered the call of The Deep Seer when the time comes. So, this meant that each holy house or other Herald facility was a loose cannon just waiting to go off with the right stimulation. If the united efforts of the law enforcement of the civilized world were brought to bear, then no criminal organization would be able to weather the strength of the long arm of the law. Bit by bit, here a little and there a little, the Heralds would be systematically disassembled until they and their faith became extinct.
But there was a problem that Grayson Roscoe noticed that made him share a less positive outlook on the possibility. He countered, "As much as I desire to keep this secret, I can understand the need for more manpower. But we cannot dedicate groups of ship girls to tackle the Heralds as a few of those who went with you two weeks ago have offered me. They are meant for fighting the Sirens and their super weapons. And while involving someone like Interpol is a good idea on paper, there is a mighty flaw that makes me reject that request. As a large organization, they are too easy to infiltrate. Need I remind you that I suspect there is treason in Azur Lane ranks with the falling apart of my own investigation? The same is likely a problem in other large entities."
Nashville saw what her commander was thinking of by involving the law, and she agreed. Her and her commander could handle any threat in front of them, but that was the problem, this threat was too big to keep everything in front of them. They needed help. She asked Roscoe, who she figured had some sweet hook-ups, "Well, do you know of any other, more trustworthy groups of international cops?"
Roscoe shook his head and then Las Vegas had a thought that might help. "What if we broaden the search to unofficial avenues? Like what about private investigation agencies? Something tells me that the Heralds wouldn't bother to waste time with them."
"A small group of mercenaries enforcing the law extrajudicially?" Roscoe attempted to clarify. This clarification was misguided though because there is a big difference between a private investigator and a mercenary.
Nevertheless, Las Vegas confirmed, "Yeah, that's the idea." Of course, he recognized the difference between a private eye and a mercenary, but he honestly thought that a mercenary would be better in this situation given how the Heralds have demonstrated a proclivity for violence.
The supreme commander hummed, not having ever considered the possibility. As a military man of an official organization, he held resentment for mercenaries whom he accused as being "pretenders." But given the corruptible nature of nations and their officials, maybe a small group of devoted mercenaries playing the role of vigilantes wasn't a bad idea after all. And for the right price, loyalty wouldn't be a problem. So, he combed his mind for any possibilities.
After a minute or so, a big smirk contorted his mustache slightly and he recounted something to Las Vegas and Nashville. "As I am sure you two are both aware, the last war with the Crimson Axis forced the mass mobilization of armies to mainland Europe but when the war suddenly ended and only about a week later, the current war with the Sirens began, that left a number of soldiers from different nations stranded with no way home because of Siren control of the seas. This humanitarian crisis mainly affects soldiers from North and South America, nevertheless these men and women continued to serve their home countries that they could not return to. But eventually, the governments of the western hemisphere simply could not support them anymore, and the majority of them were folded into the militaries of countries foreign to them, mostly the Iris Orthodoxy. Many continue in this fashion to this day, but I know of a small group of ex-special forces operatives that got out of the military to form a private detective agency in Switzerland that specializes in hunting down high value targets in organized crime and apprehending war criminals from both sides of the conflict. Both Hara and I have tried to have them disbanded and arrested for their morally grey actions, but I think that they are exactly what you are looking for."
Nashville was pumped. An off-the-record international band of ex-special forces super cop badasses?! She was instantly sold on the idea. They're exactly what her commander and her are looking for.
Even though he was interested, Las Vegas wasn't quite as sold as his companion. He asked, "But are they trustworthy?"
Roscoe surmised, "To my knowledge there are about one hundred of them. So, they are definitely a small enough operation to have slipped under the Heralds' noses. Given the secretive nature of special forces, these people will be well accustomed to handling secrecy. And if we buy their loyalty, I am sure that they will hold firm."
"Well, what's their name?" asked Nashville, still excited at the prospect of super cops for hire.
"They call themselves, 'The Transatlantic Investigation Agency,' referring to the fact that most of them are from across the Atlantic. And while they are mainly from the Eagle Union and Canada, they attract a small number of retired special forces and counter terror police operators from European countries."
Something else came to Las Vegas's mind so he commented, "Interesting. But you mentioned morally ambiguous?"
"Historically, they have been guilty and then exonerated of several crimes. Unlawful detainment of suspects, obstruction of justice, trespassing, intimidation, illegal possession of firearms, assault, occasional justified murder, and so forth. The reason that they get away with this is that almost all official agencies that investigate them agree that they fight fire with fire, and that it saves lives without the bureaucracy. Under-the-table-deals are what typically saves them from legal trouble. But they are not popular. If memory serves, the Iron Blood Federal Criminal Police Office calls them, 'The Bastards of the West.'"
In defiance of what would typically be considered possible, Nashville got even more excited. But Las Vegas concealed his emotions and observed, "They sound like quite the band of cut-throats…I think that they're exactly what we need to counter this threat."
Roscoe sighed before giving his final thoughts on the matter. He said, "I cannot overstate how hesitant I am to bring any additional people into this ongoing fight against The Heralds of the Deep. But at the same time, I have added one nearly impossible task on top of another, and I understand that we are limited in what we can do on our own. Commander. As much as I wish for you and Nashville to take care of the Heralds and the Superweapons on your own, if you truly feel that you two are not sufficient, contract these mercenaries. Pay their price and then some. I leave the decision up to you. But please understand that the very fate of humanity rests upon our decisions, so do not make this choice lightly. Do you understand me?"
"I understand you, sir," answered Las Vegas.
The old man looked to Nashville to wordlessly repeat the question. She also responded, "I understand."
"Good," he accepted. Then he continued, "I do not have all the information that you need about the Transatlantic Investigation Agency, but I will include all the information that I can have Leftenant-Commander Larcom find when I have the computer parts delivered to Nashville's hull. Have you spoken with Larcom about appropriating supplies for you two yet?"
"Yes, sir," spoke Nashville.
"Excellent," concluded Roscoe. "Now I must wish the both of you the absolute best luck in the upcoming battles. I wish you success with the superweapon in the North Atlantic and may you both be victorious against the Heralds of the Deep. Is there anything else that you two wish to discuss?"
Both Unionists shook their heads, so that let Roscoe finish. He did so by standing up as a signal to his guests that it was time to depart. The Englishman leaned across his desk to give a handshake to both of his visitors and he bade them one final blessing of good luck. "God speed," he said.
And the duo left Roscoe's office.
XXXXXXXX
Curfew was still a few hours off and that left the duo with some extra time on their hands and nothing to fill it with. Nashville declined to commence doing the promised "normal stuff," but it was obvious that she was quite excited to do it tomorrow. And as they were talking about it, Las Vegas felt to correct the fairly awkward term and inform Nashville that normal people doing normal stuff is normally called, "hanging out."
"Hanging out?" asked Nashville, thoroughly befuddled. "Like what you do to dry your laundry? Where does, 'hanging out,' come from?"
Las Vegas was fighting back laughter from the surprise misunderstanding, so that left him a little unable to answer Nashville's question for a few moments. Nashville pouted a little at his failing struggle to be respectful of her ignorance. But eventually, he did bring himself back under control and that let him finally answer her question. "I don't know why they call it that. They just do."
"That's a pretty bad reason," she pointed out.
"If you want, I can make something up," her offered back as a joke. He didn't much think about what he said before he said it. But it was too late to take it back.
Nashville took the opportunity and singsonged, "Okay then Las Vegas. Why do they call it, 'hanging out?'"
It was time for Las Vegas to break out his improv skills. Without missing a single beat, he stated matter-of-factly, "Because 'Hanging in' was already taken."
Explaining one non-sensical term with another made Nashville blink dumbly with how dumb that answer was. Her response was sarcastic, "Of course. Why didn't I think of that?"
Las Vegas simply shrugged and the duo passed a few steps in silence. But they were both replaying the brief exchange with a small measure of amusement. Las Vegas found himself smirking at his comic genius and at the same time, Nashville was smiling jovially. The smallest chuckle rapidly snowballed into a shared moment of snickering between friends.
This suddenly turned into an odd moment for the codebreaker. His mind flashed throughout the day, all of his revelations and recollections. This was a good day, all things considered. Sure, he and Nashville had a mission that was increasingly daunting, and he had to sort out his own feelings about Cheshire's almost confession, but his mind kept coming back to the same fact. At least he had Nashville with him. He noticed that she was the focal point of his thoughts. He noticed that he had a dynamic with her that was different, more familiar, than with anyone else, including Cheshire. And that felt right with him. He now knew what he felt about Cheshire's own feelings—assuming that she is indeed infatuated with him—he thought of her as a friend, but he wasn't interested in pursuing anything deeper because he still didn't know her all that well. Now he just had to think of a way to let her down gently. Easier said than done for a guy who had virtually no experience with women, much less romantic relationships with them.
Because his thoughts had transitioned from thinking about his relationship with Nashville, to his relationship with Cheshire, it was natural that his thoughts returned to Nashville. But this time he asked himself a question internally. Would he be willing to pursue something deeper than just friendship with Nashville? His thoughts came to a full stop, and he took a sideways glance at Nashville as she was walking beside him. She was still giggling at the joke. Wow, she was amazing. But what about him? He sure didn't think that he was amazing.
All his life, he had conducted himself expending the least amount of effort possible, living his life or doing stuff only because he felt like it, always looking out for himself. He still felt like he and this flawed person who was unable to look outside to try and get more friends or more experience or do anything meaningful was the same, and that they were cursed to remain as such. His selfish self wasn't worthy of someone like Nashville, who was always willing to help or encourage. He was honestly just glad to have her as a friend. He recognized how lucky he was that she was even willing to talk to him. Of course, this whole discussion of being good enough was done independently of possibly ruining a good working dynamic, but that was a different can of worms entirely. But he still hadn't even answered his own question.
Las Vegas considered himself a man of reason and given his recent desires to help people instead of helping himself, he tried to look at this question in the context of the big picture. Say something does happen and friendship becomes something deeper. What then? It makes crises less about humanity and more about Nashville. It's something that can be easily exploited. And say the relationship turns awkward for some reason or another, which would be a big possibility, then a good team dynamic is ruined and quite possibly all of humanity suffers.
In this context, Las Vegas couldn't in good conscience place his personal happiness above what is best for humanity. He decided that it would be for the best if he and Nashville remain only friends.
But like any good person would want for their friend, he wanted her to be happy. For now though, he was unfortunately convinced that them being a thing wouldn't be for the best. So, unknown to him, her happiness was to continue suffering under the current status quo.
Such was the folly of a man too accustomed to being correct. Only time was powerful enough to prove him wrong.
He was broken from his thoughts when she asked what they wanted for food before they got back to her hull. They found a pub that wasn't the Gilded Lion and ate there. His bad experiences there made him label it as a place to be avoided if possible. Nashville was inclined to agree. But with food in their bellies, and the excitement of having fun the next day, they duo returned to Nashville's hull where they passed the time not really doing anything at all.
Eventually, the time to retire for the night came, and they did so.
XXXXXXXX
Las Vegas found himself back in the restroom of the Gilded Lion Pub confronted by four cultists that he recognized well. Giovanni's weight was right where he expected it to be, so he'd defeat these men just like he did last time. Wait? Last time? Was this some sort of Siren or Herald time warp voodoo? He didn't know, but the lead cultist that had led his fellows into the restroom reasoned, "Look we're not here for trouble. We just have a few questions."
The gunfighter found himself oddly defiant this time around and he challenged back, "I seriously doubt that."
"Are you armed?" inquired the cultist, seemingly unconcerned with the defiance.
"Wanna find out?" Las Vegas spat out.
The cultist ignored this defiance as well. It was as if Las Vegas was speaking with a recording. "Are you, 'The Magician?'"
"Yeah. And that makes you the Heralds? I got serious problems with you lot." Las Vegas began to grind his teeth with growing anger.
"Yeah. We were here to kill you, bu…"
The cultist was interrupted with words that came from what had to be Las Vegas's mouth, but the words came out in a way that he'd never talk. He provoked the cultist with, "I'd like to see you try. I'll blow your fucking heads off."
The cultists didn't respond, much less draw their knives when Las Vegas's hand dove for Giovanni in it's holster with a speed that was much faster than his usual capabilities.
Fear registered on the cultists' faces by the time Giovanni cleared leather and the muzzle leveled with the lead cultist's head. The trigger was pulled and then the cultist's head exploded in a display of viscera that coated his fellows and the surrounding walls.
A scream of fear from the man immediately beside the leader began to register and that was reason enough for Las Vegas to level his pistol and fire again. Another head exploded spectacularly. This time, some blood spattered on the gunfighter's face.
One of the cultists finally drew his knife and he was similarly gunned down to his fellows.
That left one standing. This one had a name. "Albert," if the gunman remembered correctly. Albert's knife slid down from where it had been concealed up his sleeve, but it missed his grip entirely to plop into an ever-deepening pool of blood that came from his brethren. The final cultist fell onto his rear from fear of the murderer. The murderer smiled sickeningly, and that make Albert crawl backwards. And so, backwards he went with his brothers' murderer following him until Albert hit a wall. There was no more running, and he couldn't fight back, so all he could do was beg. "P-p-p-please don't kill me." He began to repeat this over and over again through tears born of pure terror.
This whole experience was nauseatingly intoxicating to the gunman. It was something sublime to hold your enemies' lives in your hands, and then snuff them out mercilessly while they watched, fully aware of their helplessness.
Guided by a newfound lust for blood, the murderer leveled his pistol to the last head that needed to be torn off. But he faked hesitation and said, "…Okay. Get the hell out of here."
Hope came to Albert's eyes. "You really mean it?" He had already started to raise himself out of the pool of blood to beat a hasty retreat.
"I lied," informed Las Vegas quickly, to let Albert know that he had just been tricked. Giovanni barked again to tear off the last head.
Victory proved to be just as intoxicating as the power over life and death was, and he closed his eyes to savor the feeling of the bloody pool becoming deep enough to come up to his ancles.
The door to the restroom swung open, and that made the murderer open his eyes as he swung his aim for the door to kill the cultists that were entering.
He didn't confirm who he was shooting at, but he pulled the trigger. The muzzle flash was brighter than usual, and the gunshot louder and more disorienting than the ones before. So, it took him an extra moment to see who he had just shot.
Nashville was leaning against the doorframe, clutching at a gunshot wound in her chest. Their eyes met and he saw it all. She felt betrayed and abandoned. But somehow, she wasn't angry at him. Even while dying from his hand, she was patient with him. Her eyes wandered to the scene of gory bloodlust in the restroom.
Pain from both her body and soul apparent in her voice, she asked the murderer that was once her commander, "Why?" Tears came to her eyes, and they fell to mix with the blood on the ground. "I thought I could trust you. I thought you cared for me. I thought I knew you."
Nashville sank to her knees, and she gave her final words, "But I was wrong…" She fell face first into the bloody pool, and she died.
Las Vegas couldn't bear to look at his dead friend, so he found the gaze of Belfast. The maid who was accompanying Nashville didn't say anything. But she shook her head, turned around, and then left him alone.
Surrounded by death that he had wrought, he dropped his pistol into the pool of blood and lost sight of it in the continually deepening sea of red. He sank to his hands and knees and wailed with all the sorrow of a damned soul. He choked out to nobody, "No…No…NOOOOOOO!I TAKE IT BACK! I WANT TO TAKE IT ALL BACK!" As he screamed, he pounded his fists into the puddle making splashes of crimson until one of his hands smashed itself onto a form that was familiar to him.
Giovanni, his tool of death, was the last friend to abandon the murderer. It was coated in blood now, just like his hands were, but the weapon would still do it's job.
There was nothing left, and Las Vegas had no interest of sticking around for nothing.
Giovanni's muzzle found it's last target—Las Vegas's temple.
The murderer pulled the trigger one last time, and he died instantly.
The last victim of his bloodlust was himself.
XXXXXXXX
Las Vegas awoke with a start, gasping for air.
It took him a few seconds of looking around his cabin to reorient himself from what felt like a metaphysical vertigo, and it registered with him that what he had just experienced was a dream.
"Just a dream," he whispered to reassure himself as he laid back down onto his pillow. It was sopping wet with cold sweat. But as a practical man, he found a practical solution and simply flipped the pillow over to reveal a dry side that let him lay his head down. He forced his eyes closed, but sleep was still eluding him, so he committed the cardinal sin of trying to get back to sleep, and he looked at the time. 0238 hours. Too much time to simply get started on the day, and not enough time to somehow lull himself back to sleep and expect to be rested by the time his alarm goes off at 0600.
So, he laid there, not knowing what can be done. On one side, he understood the reality of what he had just dreamed didn't happen, but on the other, it was so vividly real that it might as well have happened.
Being thoroughly unaccustomed to such terrible nightmares, he decided to do something that he had never tried before. He'll take a walk around Nashville's hull. And with that decision made, he threw off the covers, put on a shirt, and he debated putting on shoes. Forget it. Most of Nashville's deck is sanded wood anyway, and he wasn't going anywhere that would have surfaces painful to step on. The hard part was exiting his cabin without making excessive noise that might wake up Nashville. He hadn't had occasion to test it before, but just opening the hatch slowly allowed it to open with just a little bit of creaking. He left to begin wandering the ship with no apparent destination in mind.
His attempts at stealth were fruitless, however. She had indeed been sleeping, but while the woman herself was asleep, Nashville was like all ship girls in that they always retain a level of awareness in the hulls. This lets them "man" the radar or sonar despite being asleep, but it also lets them know when something is stirring in their hull. And right now, Nashville was being figuratively jostled awake with movement around her hull when there shouldn't be.
As was reasonable, she initially assumed that she was being boarded, but before she gave any sort of alarm that would alert the single intruder that she felt, she tried to find her commander, because he was her biggest priority. He wasn't in his cabin. So, a moment of deduction showed that the intruder wasn't an intruder at all, but Las Vegas.
He never does this. So, that meant that something was up, and she had to help. Without any hesitation whatsoever, she got herself out of bed, made herself reasonably modest by her standards, and left her own cabin to go to her commander.
At least from what he could see standing on Nashville's hull, Las Vegas thought that London was a beautiful city. And while he did find the city pleasing to the eye, he knew that there were some scars. Some decades or even centuries old, some only two weeks old. But he supposed that in the grand scheme of things, a place is just a place, it's the people who matter. He just hoped that Londoners and their city along with them can recover.
He was dwelling on these thoughts as the best alternative to what was truly weighing on his mind and heart. That dream had felt so incredibly real, like there was no separation whatsoever between him in the waking world versus him in the nightmare. It wasn't like he was trapped inside a body that looked like his as the body murdered it's attackers and then Nashville. It was like he had wanted to do such horrible things and then he let Nashville fall victim to his carelessness and blood-fueled drunken stupor.
He didn't want this. Well, obviously he didn't want to hurt Nashville. But it went further than that. When he had been in college and had been backed into a corner about joining the military whether he wanted to or not, the main decision came down to either being in the Marines, the Navy, or the Merchant Navy. The Merchant Navy had been the easiest to disregard on account of his distaste for apparent helplessness when things go bad.
He was terrified of the Sirens, of what they could do, and by natural extension, he was afraid of dying. He wanted to avoid the Navy if at all possible. But it was the Marine Corps that was the biggest gamble. Whether or not the Sirens were there or not, war could restart with the Crimson Axis with little provocation, and as the saying goes, "Every Marine is a rifleman." Then as a marine he likely would have been forced to actually take part in what he was most afraid of—combat. He had been scared of dying, but even more terrifying was the concept of killing someone. Because everyone who would die is someone with hopes, dreams, likes, dislikes, and a home that they wanted to return to. Twenty years maybe more or less of someone living their life just to die? And have himself to blame for their demise? Just thinking on that made him conclude that there was no way he could handle killing someone. Even now, that sickening feeling in his stomach that made him choose to risk death against the Sirens in the Navy over the idea of possibly needing to personally kill someone while still risking death in the Marine Corps returned to him. He had chosen what he thought to be the lesser of two evils. He was just lucky that he got a shore posting with his math skills.
He didn't want what had happened that night and he definitely didn't want what had happened in the dream. Then it struck him. Even though what he did in the dream frightened him, what was truly soul rending in it's horror was the fact that he enjoyed what he did, and that he wanted to do it more. He was afraid of losing himself to a monster that only feeds on death.
After all, he had already lost his name—a significant part of himself already. What's to say that more of him is to be lost before this mission is complete? How much of himself would he be able to keep?
That realization made the sickness in his stomach worsen and he fled for Nashville's stern where he leaned out far enough over the railings so as to not dirty anything while his stomach vacated it's contents.
A popular anti-war song took on a whole new meaning to him.
"Some folks inherit star-spangled eyes
They send you down to war
And when you ask 'em, 'How much should we give?'
They only answer, 'More, more, more.'
It ain't me, it ain't me
I ain't no military son, son
It ain't me, it ain't me
I ain't no fortunate one, one."
But regardless of whatever realizations he was having, the reality is that he was where he was. Having to do the very thing that he wanted to avoid, even at the cost of a possibly one-sided death. He had chosen to risk dying a guiltless death over risking to live a guilty life. But that decision proved ultimately pointless, because he had to kill or who knows how many would die? Oh yeah, billions, if his mission really is that important.
But wait a minute. What if?... No that's crazy. It's impossible. He stopped himself. There is no impossible, only improbable. This slight emboldening allowed him to finish the thought. What if he didn't have to kill people to accomplish his mission?
Nashville had been making good time to get to Las Vegas but when his pace suddenly quickened to get to the railing over her stern, she began to run to get to him. Whatever was going on was an emergency.
Her own barefoot state coupled with the sound of Las Vegas's retching and then coughing was cover for her approach and suddenly she was at his side. One of her hands found itself in the middle of his back while the other was placed on his scarred forearm as he continued leaning over the railing to finish his business. She noticed that he hadn't been surprised by her presence like she was expecting. Still, she hurriedly asked in a panic, "Oh my God, Las Vegas! Are you okay?"
He really wasn't okay, and there was no way to disguise the fact that he wasn't. So, he surrendered to the futility, and he shook his head. Then when his final cough was completed, he answered in a ragged voice, "No…I'm not okay."
"You're coming with me, right now," she ordered softly. He didn't resist as she began to lead him from the railings, while still keeping her hands right where they were as if she was afraid that she would need to restrain him from getting away if he took off.
She didn't have a distinct destination in mind, but her initial thought of taking him to the infirmary was shot down quickly. In her darkest hours after being hit by a kamikaze in late 1944, a third of her crew became casualties, and many of them succumbed in the infirmary. She had lost them. And she refused to lose Las Vegas now. Not while she can help it. So, she avoided the place, somewhat fearful of a personal superstition that death resides in the sick bay.
The bridge was too far, so she took him to the next best place. The officer's mess where they eat their meals together. No words were exchanged between the duo as they walked. Both were really too shaken up about this whole experience to have any words at the moment. But eventually, they arrived, and Nashville finally let her commander go when they approached the table that they always sat at. "Sit down," she ordered.
He pulled out his chair while she crossed the table to reach the seat directly across from his. Before she reached her seat though, he finally spoke dismissively, "This is stupid. Sorry for bothering you." He scooted his chair back in, having never sat down, and he turned to leave, but Nashville wasn't having any of that.
"I said, 'sit down,'" she ordered again, but with much more force.
He turned to look back at her and their eyes met. The duo proceeded to wage a battle of wills over this disagreement of theirs. No words were said for the few seconds that it lasted, but as it turns out, Nashville is a lot more forceful than Las Vegas is when it comes to personal matters such as this. He envied her for that. He caved, returning to his seat and sitting down. She can be forceful and make him talk, so why can't he do the same to her when she's clearly bothered about stuff? It seems that he's just too soft.
Nashville pulled out her own seat and sat down. He got a look at her own disheveled appearance. Dressed in nothing beyond a t-shirt and panties, her hair wasn't styled in the slightest, though she was fortunate to have most of it go in the same general direction. But in the same manner as always, her ruby red eyes were the most entrancing aspect of her. Even when caught off-guard, she was beautiful. But his appraisal was terminated when the woman in question sighed deeply and began to speak, "Sorry for being so upfront, but you're never like this. What's going on?"
Nashville couldn't help but realize that she's doing nearly the exact same thing he does when she gets mad about other women doing stuff with Las Vegas. The only difference was that she wasn't going to take "no" as an answer. At the same time though, she felt like a total hypocrite for demanding to know what's up when he let her be. Granted, she doesn't feel the need to throw up when her feathers get ruffled. But whatever the case may be, she really, really, hoped that he doesn't call her out on this hypocrisy right now.
Having grown up with siblings, Las Vegas was able to spot differing treatment a mile away. The classic line of, "Why does she get to do this, but I can't?" came to mind. But he considered himself a realist, and the reality was that he and Nashville were different. Whatever her problem was, its best handled in her hands, or so she believes. But on the flip side, he had a feeling that keeping what was eating him up inside to himself would prove absolutely disastrous with time, so he opened up to the one person on the whole earth he trusted for something like this, while skipping any accusations of hypocrisy. "I think that I'm having an identity crisis."
Nashville considered this confession for a few seconds. She couldn't think of any sort of signs that this sort of thing was getting to her commander. Then she noticed something about herself. For being in love with her commander, she sure spent a lot of her time thinking about her own feelings, and not about what he might be feeling. Maybe there were signs of the impending "identity crisis" as he called it, but she never noticed them due to her own internal fixations. As much as she was upset at herself for such selfishness, she decided that there was no time like the present to fix this problem. She said, "I had no idea that this was a problem for you. Sorry for not paying attention."
"It wasn't a problem for me until yester… erm, two weeks ago. But you see…" he trailed off trying to think of a way to properly segue into how this situation spiraled out of control. He decided to just wing it, instead of planning his words like he usually does. "This might not make much sense, but you've only known me as, 'Las Vegas,' while I've known me my whole life. I still remember what you said the day we met. You said something to the effect that I should treat this as an opportunity to start fresh and be a better person that I was before. So, I tried. And if you'll let me toot my own horn a little, I think that I was doing a pretty good job. But even with a new name I was still the same old me, just with a few improvements. And to be honest, I was getting used to being, "Las Vegas" or "The Magician," or "Calico Jack," and I was perfectly okay to continue because all those characters are people that I liked, that I wanted to be. But then we walked into the Gilded Lion that night…"
He trailed off again, and his gaze gradually fell to look at the table in front of him instead of Nashville. She was beginning to get the picture, so she picked up where she thought this was going, "You did something that made you ashamed of what those names mean to you." He nodded and she tried her hardest to remember what she saw that night. His panic when he realized that he killed someone came to her mind, and she asked, "You feel bad for killing those men, don't you?"
"I feel terrible for killing those men. Worse than I thought possible."
"Would you agree with me if I said that they probably deserved to die?"
"I don't know. I seriously doubt that they had clean hands because they were with the Heralds. But as you may have noticed, the idea of being someone's judge, jury, and executioner is sickening to me. Self-defense or not, people are dead, and their blood is on my hands. But this goes even deeper." Instead of trailing off this time, he flat out stopped talking and hesitated to continue. His eyes were now boring a hole into the tabletop because of his shame to look Nashville in the eye. His fear of confessing what had sparked this crisis compelled him to silence.
Nashville leaned forward over the table and reached out with one of her hands. It came to a rest on top of his interlocked hands that rested on the table. He looked up to her eyes, and what she saw made her mouth open slightly with sorrowful surprise. His shame had driven him to silent tears that ever so slowly leaked from his eyes. Now that was a way to make her own heart break and try to reach out to the man she loved. She softly requested, "Please, tell me what's going on."
He nodded and confessed, "I had a dream that showed me what I'm most scared of."
"What happened?" she asked. To be honest, she wasn't that surprised that it was a dream. She happened to have a bit of experience herself with nightmares or fantastical dreams too good to be attainable.
Las Vegas began to recount his dream while Nashville leaned back to her side of the table. He spared no detail whatsoever as he explained what made this dream different than what had happened that night and as he continued his tears grew in proportion to his guilt. Nashville's own tears of empathy followed. But once the dream was finished, he concluded, "What scares me the most is the thought of losing myself to some monster who kills for fun. So, the identity crisis. I'm scared that what happened two weeks ago is the first step to becoming like that."
Nashville had to take a few moments to absorb all of this information, but when it was processed fully, she said, "You really are a good man, Las Vegas, to be concerned about stuff like this. But I'm sorry if this comes off as trivializing what's tearing you up, but I think that the fact you're beating yourself up about this means that you'll never become like that."
"You're probably right, as usual," he conceded. "But that still doesn't make me unafraid of this ever happening."
"Then what do you want to do about it? Because just thinking about it or trying to justify it don't look like it's cuttin' it for you."
Thanks to Nashville, he remembered that he wasn't completely a victim to fate. He could still do something. But he didn't know what that was. He shrugged a little and answered, "I don't know what to do. But just before you showed up behind me at the railing, I was wondering if we could find a way to fight the Heralds of the Deep without having to kill anyone."
Nashville hesitated a little here. She understood that this was important to her commander, but there is no denying that killing the perpetrator is the most efficient way of eliminating a threat. Who knows what the ramifications of inefficiency in this case would be? More dead civilians most likely, so exactly contrary to what Roscoe ordered them earlier.
Her next thought totally overrode the previous one. In comparison to her commander, she didn't give a damn for whatever Roscoe had to say or order. She posed a question, "So, say there's a way with every skirmish we have with the Heralds to beat 'em without killing 'em. Is not killing any of them worth a civilian in the crossfire? Or is getting slowed down worth failing any objectives we could have?"
Hard situations make hard questions that need hard answers, and it was Las Vegas's situation, question, and answer. He thought on it and had to confront a cold hard truth. "I would rather save the civilian and achieve the objective." He paused and thought on it a little more before tacking on, "But whenever humanly possible, I want to spare instead of kill, or even harm them. If we could even scare them away, it would be just as good to me."
Nashville had to smile with some amusement at that declaration despite the serious subject. She asked, "Is it just me, or does this sound like the setup for a superhero moral code?"
Las Vegas smiled back and chuckled, his tears wiped away by this point. He agreed, "Yeah, it kinda does, doesn't it? I mean, Batman always was my favorite superhero."
"Captain Marvel was much more common aboard me back in the day, but I can tell what you're getting at. So, tell me. What's in the code?" (Author's note: The Captain Marvel from the WWII-era is what we now call, "Shazam.")
The codebreaker thought on this for a time. It had to be concise so that it was easy to remember, and likewise, it had to be clear enough to be easy to follow. Eventually, he had something that he thought was workable:
"If a threat can be subdued with words, use words;
But if a threat must be subdued with injury, use injury;
But if a threat must be subdued with death, use death."
Nashville nodded in understanding at the code. She pointed out, "It sounds a lot like how police are supposed to do their thing."
"You're right. There's just less paperwork and no risk of being accused of police brutality because we don't have to keep the trust of the public. We just have to take out the enemy."
Nashville had some doubts about being able to pull this off, but for her commander, she was willing to give this a try. So, she consented, "Okay, I'll go along with this moral code of yours, so you'll have to give orders for what's appropriate force. But if things go bad, I'm not pulling punches."
"That's good enough for me," he responded. With that concluded, the duo slipped into a companionable silence. It was remarkable to the codebreaker. He was now at relative peace concerning the matter. While he felt like his desire to become better didn't completely absolve him of the blood on his conscience, it was the best he could do, and that's all he could reasonably expect from himself. He believed himself to be a truly lucky man though. There is no way that he would feel this way if it hadn't been for the help of Nashville. She was the best. He had to give his thanks, so he offered, "I'm a lucky man, Nash, to have you here. Thanks for listening, and for going along with this."
She reddened slightly at the pet name, still unused to hearing it. He was amused by this shift in color, and it reminded him of the playful teasing that they entertain themselves with on occasion. But when her color disappeared and she was completely under her own control, she replied, "You're welcome. You've been there for me, so I'll do the same for you."
They passed some more time enjoying the simple yet fundamental pleasure of not being alone.
Eventually, something occurred to Las Vegas. He asked, "Sorry to sink the good vibes we're having right now, but since we're having a good heart to heart right now, would it be a bad time to talk about me being left behind?"
Nashville gulped audibly. She had accurately predicted that this is where the conversation was going, and unfortunately, she had to concede that this was probably the best time within the agreed upon timeframe to talk about this before tomorrow night. "Yeah, let's talk. For once I can see the appeal of wanting to get it over with instead of possibly ruining tomorrow."
"Now you're talkin' my language," he joked as a way to try and make her more comfortable for the impending chat. He sobered slightly before continuing, "But in all seriousness, this discussion doesn't have to be as hard as you think it'll need to be."
"How so?" she inquired incredulously.
"Well, uh, we exchange opinions and then we find the best solution to the problem at hand. You know, how disagreements are typically solved? Do you expect this to turn into a war of words without any middle ground?"
"I kinda was expecting a war of words. Or at least a tongue lashing."
"No tongue lashing, I promise. Well, there would have been, but what can I say? Almost dying is a pretty good way to put things into perspective."
"Hear, hear," she readily agreed.
Then a surprise awkward moment passed between the duo where they both just kind of stared at each other. Las Vegas coughed into his hand and asked, "So, do you want to start this or should I? It kinda feels like I've been dominating the conversation so far."
"Yeah, I'll start," she voiced, "I mainly wanted to protect you. But I also wanted to get back at them for hurting you, and the easiest way to do both was to leave you behind. It even would have accomplished the objective, so at the time when I left the pub, it seemed like the best idea. I knew you'd be mad, but I figured that it wasn't anything I couldn't handle."
"That's kind of what I figured you were thinking. And you are right, I was pretty mad after you left. In fact, I was so mad that I was prepared to go after you alone. Pretty stupid in hindsight, I'll admit. But part of convincing Javelin to let me leave was me extending an offer for her to come along. She accepted and she was also the one to recommend bringing more along. If things went like how we both initially expected, I would have to agree with you and say that you were justified in the decision, despite my misgivings. But things didn't go as expected."
Nashville agreed with that last part and explained further, "They sure didn't go like we expected. That's why I'm torn. I still want to protect you because you can't do what I can or take the hits that I can. But then the cultist in red with his red wisdom cube showed up and destroyed my argument to leave you behind for stuff like this."
"Yeah, that guy trashed everyone's plans. Because of the possibility of stuff like that in the future, I think that I should come along. The fact is that there are things that you can't take on alone, or with just ship girls as company. And you are right though, I can't do what you can, or tank what you can, but I want to protect you too. I can't even begin trying to describe how desperate I was to find you once Duke of York explained what a mirror sea was to me."
Nashville could empathize with his desires because they pretty much mirrored her own. She sighed and spoke her mind, "My rudder is jammed and my hands tied. I can protect you in the short term by leaving you behind, risking my own death to the red-robed cultists of the world, but keeping you out of harm's way completely. Or I can keep you in my sight and keep you alive who keeps me alive, but that isn't without risks either."
"Gambling abounds," observed the man from Las Vegas. "It looks like we're all from Las Vegas now."
"Yeah~," she chuckled without an iota of amusement.
Las Vegas met her gaze and then put out his thoughts, "I think that you already know what we should do from now on. You just don't want to say it."
Nashville ran her fingers through her hair and caved to the man. "You're right… It's playing with fire, but for some reason we don't know, it looks like you can resist the cultists' wisdom cubes, while I can't. And when reality is breaking down, I think that your resistance is a huge advantage. I'll take you with me, but that doesn't mean that I'm gonna like it."
"The preferred way would be if we could call them by phone and ask them to surrender with them complying. But let's face it. If we gotta do things the hard way, we gotta be prepared for everything." She nodded in agreement, and he gave her a thumbs up gesture with a questioning look on his face as a way to ask, "We good?"
She smiled thinly and answered with her own thumbs up.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" he asked.
"No, it wasn't," she stated as she stretched her arms above her head with a yawn. A few inches of her midriff became exposed, and her shirt tightened across her sizable bosom. Las Vegas was again reminded that she's incredibly hot.
He forced himself to chuckle as a way to distract his mind from the barrage of inappropriate thoughts brought on by the sight before him.
"What's so funny?" she asked, having finished her stretch.
"We have got to be the weirdest military unit in history." Not a bad improv, if he thought so himself.
"No arguments here. But here, you all good? Nothing left on your mind?"
He shook his head and spoke, "Nope. We should get some sleep for tomorrow. And hey, since we're both up this early, wanna make an exception to the rules and set alarms an hour later?"
"Let's do it," she consented quickly. "I need to recover from all this."
"Like, same."
With that, the duo left the officer's mess hall to return to their personal cabins, where they arrived after not much time.
Stopping between their cabins, Nashville extended her arms expecting the normal goodnight hug. How was any man to resist such a radiant smile and innocent request? The hug was given, and he noticed that with both of them barefoot, Nashville only came up to his mouth, instead of her usual height of his eye level. He had to bend down a little extra to accommodate this change in height. But during the embrace, he spoke, "Thanks, Nash. For everything."
"You're worth it," she said without having to think about it. "And thank you too, for being you."
"Anytime," he said easily. But then he paused, realizing that he had neglected to say something very important over the past day. "And I'm sorry for almost shooting you. It won't happen again."
She squeezed just a bit tighter and forgave him. "It's okay," she said, "I know you won't do it again. I trust you."
A further weight came off Las Vegas's shoulders. Forgiveness sure felt great.
Goodnights were exchanged for a second time as the hug broke and they separated for the remainder of the night.
It took some effort, but Las Vegas managed to fall back to sleep. Though a little apprehensive of having the same dream, it didn't return.
XXXXXXXX
The next morning began an hour later as agreed upon. And even though the duo had decided to set aside the day to hang out, they still felt that some routines are better upheld, like morning exercises for instance.
The morning began and ended completely normally, save that the duo decided to get breakfast somewhere else. Be that as it may, Las Vegas was painfully aware that the hardest days of his life began normally. Both the Battle of the Thames and the London Incident began as humdrum days. So, he was somewhat wary, but something told him that the worst dangers that London had to offer were behind them.
At the moment, something completely unforeseen was happening to the man with no name as he was preparing in his quarters to go out and about. He was nervous.
Why was he nervous?!
Was there the possibility of something bad happening? Naturally. He was waging a shadow war against alien invaders and a cult that can bend reality. But still, he could tell that neither the Sirens nor the Heralds were the cause of his heightened alert. He was just going to spend a day hanging out with Nashville. What's so nerve wracking about that?
Wait.
Hanging out. With Nashville.
Las Vegas found himself sitting down on his berth with his face in his hands. It seemed that while last night had been the case of mistaken identity, today was a case of mistaken intentions. He was literally just going to pass a day goofing off with his friend and subordinate, but his subconscious sure thought that this was a date.
That simply wasn't the case. Today was a day to work off some steam from a few weeks of high stress and high stakes, even if those weeks had only been a few days for him. They were just going to go and mess around London. There was no objective of getting to know one another better. "How ridiculous!" thought he, "There is no way this is anything serious." His thoughts slowed somewhat and then he postponed any sort of progress in the relationship department for a while longer by thinking, "Besides. It just…wouldn't work out. Her and I. Not to mention the greater good."
He didn't dare trying to make a more extensive mental list of things that would justify his conclusion out of fear for proving himself wrong. But now that he could identify what was making him nervous, he was able to get about calming himself down. With the same determination and iron will that carried him through the threat of the Sirens and the Heralds of recent memories, he focused himself on the task at hand. Having fun. They were going to spend the day hanging out and it was going to be fun, and nothing could stop them.
He finished getting himself ready by donning his gloves, tying his bandanna around his neck, and making absolute certain that Giovanni was secured it his concealed holster in Las Vegas's right rear waistband with extra magazines in his front left. Then another weird thing happened to him. Giovanni was already inside his holster but for some reason, he held Watson in his hand and inspected the revolver, debating on whether or not to bring the second weapon with him. Surely one gun was enough? Why would he bring a second one along?
He had a flashback. It was the entry hallway of the Heralds' hideout and he had just dropped Giovanni to catch Nashville as she collapsed and seemingly died. Then he got attacked by an emboldened cultist in red. A second pistol would have been real handy in that pinch. He just got lucky that the coyote that lead him and his companions decided to save the day. Relying on luck is always a bad strategy, so it looked like Las Vegas would start carrying two guns.
Las Vegas transitioned Watson to his left hand just to see how the pistol handles in his off hand. He had to contort his thumb slightly to depress the lever to open the cylinder, but it was completely serviceable. He'd have to practice with his left hand though to reach the accuracy of his right hand. Nevertheless, he filled it with ammunition, and he stuck it inside the inner pocket of the waist length coat that he was going to wear today. Just like the day before, he couldn't come up with any alternative to dropping a few speed loaders along with Vorpal into another pocket. He seriously needed to come up with a better solution that simply sticking stuff in his pockets.
Maybe today he could buy some supplies to fashion something that could hold and conceal all his extra stuff. Fortunately for him, Nashville has a machine shop where a crew would have been able to enact repairs on the vessel or fashion other parts while at sea. Since Nashville had the perk of being her own damage control that all but eliminated the need for a machine shop to enact repairs, that left the shop inert and it remained mostly as a formality—a backup, just in case. If he could buy some leather and maybe get some sheet metal, he could find some way to fashion a shoulder rig that will hold Watson, Vorpal, and a few speed loaders under any jacket he wears. Easy enough. It he took his time and kept it simple, he figured that he'd be able to overcome his lack of knowledge around power tools. No matter. That was a problem for later. Right now, he had to go out with Nashville. Erm, go out to meet with Nashville to get the day going. Yes. That's what happening. They're just hanging out.
While Las Vegas had been unable to come to terms with his own feelings, Nashville, on the other hand, had absolutely no delusions as to what her desires were for this, "hanging out," thing. She was going to do her very best to win over her commander. Cheshire had made her move, now it was time for Nashville to make hers. Or at the very least, start setting herself up for success in the long run.
The first step of that was to dress for success. And finally, with some experience and observation, she thought that she finally had an idea of what Las Vegas likes. What she had noticed was that when he's with the ship girls of the royal navy is that he's often stiffer due to their mannerisms and the constant desire for formality. This was the danger of Cheshire—she's anything but formal. The fact is that the kind of relationship that Nashville was looking for does best in less uptight situations so, she put together an outfit to come off as normal as she possibly can.
She chose the same skinny jeans from that day two weeks ago. Well, that's actually misleading. She chose a pair just like them because that first pair was covered in blood—an attribute that makes any clothing generally unsuitable for hanging out. From there, she found a tee shirt that she personally thought of as, "super-cute." It had short sleeves and it had a cool pattern with several different shades of purple. She threw it on and became aware of something that she didn't notice when she got it all that time ago in San Francisco. This shirt was a little small. The design distorted a tad as the fabric stretched over her breasts, and the shirt itself was threatening to show her midriff. If she stood straight, it was all barely covered, but if she bent even slightly, slivers of skin became apparent. It didn't show cleavage, but it didn't hide her size. She considered finding a different shirt, but then she had to shrug and admit to herself that this was still much closer to "normal" than what she normally wore, so she'd make it work. Besides, she would still wear at least a jacket. She did this not so much out of fear of the rain, but so that her commander, who was seeking to hide his new scars, wouldn't feel singled out or conceivably be judged falsely for not giving his jacket up should it rain and he have one but not her. The final thing she did was grab her jacket and tie her bow in her hair.
When she exited her cabin, Las Vegas was already waiting for her, and they both spent a moment to regard one another.
"Ready to go?" he inquired simply.
With a nod and a smile, she confirmed that she was, and they left for a day of fun in one another's company.
XXXXXXXX
"My disappointment is immeasurable, and my day is ruined," accused Las Vegas to the innocent mug of coffee in his hand.
Nashville knew that he was only being overdramatic. Still, she pointed to the nearby River Thames and joked, "You should chuck it into the water as protest."
Las Vegas understood the uniquely Eagle Union joke and with an understanding smile, he replied, "That's not a bad idea."
Nashville smirked satisfyingly. Nevertheless, she opted to change the subject instead of commenting further on Las Vegas's disappointment. She asked, "What sort of stuff do you want to do today?"
He set down the coffee mug with only a single drink taken and he turned his view to his companion. Las Vegas hummed in thought for a few seconds, and he said, "Well, I guess that there is a thing or two that I should do, but from there I'm down to just take the day as it comes." He laughed a little at himself and added on, "Sorry. I guess I'm just not that fun of a person."
Nashville had to smile at that admission, but she wasn't too bummed out by that fact. After all, that let her take the reins for today's activities. She responded, "Well count yourself lucky because you're with me, I'll take care of sniffing out all the fun stuff. But what is it that you need to do?"
Las Vegas ran his hands through his hair to prove his point while he spoke, "I need a haircut. But I also have a question."
"Shoot," she ordered.
"Is there scrap sheet metal in your machine shop?"
"Yeah, there's like a ton. Literally."
"Sweet. I was hoping to buy some leather today so that I can make a rig and holster to carry the stuff that Belfast and Queen Elizabeth gave me yesterday."
She nodded slowly in understanding and acknowledged a few things. "Good idea to fix something up about that stuff. But you make a good point about getting a haircut. I should do something about that too." She said that last part a tad slower, as if she was reluctant for some reason.
A thought occurred to the man from Las Vegas despite having failed to pick up on Nashville's reluctance. As an average man, he doesn't give much thought to his hair because it's short pretty much all the time, but Nashville had long hair that no doubt needed much more upkeep than his. He asked, "Just wondering, how have you taken care of your hair? Like, what do you do when it gets too long?"
"I actually take care of it and cut it myself," she stated as if it was completely obvious.
"Dang. You do a pretty good job," he replied sounding impressed.
She grew a little bashful at the complement and she thanked him, yet she added on, "But what I always do is my limit. For some reason, I can't make anything else look good. And after some of my hair got in the way that night, trying something new seems like a good idea."
"Fair enough," commented Las Vegas. Then he had a look on his face that showed some thought. Nashville could tell that he was debating on something. She couldn't guess exactly what, but she had a feeling that she'll find out momentarily. He didn't disprove her appraisal because he said, "Well. Since you've volunteered to sniff out all the fun stuff, I'll follow along, even if it's outside of the comfort zone." He said this because despite being the kind of guy that sleeps in and lounges about on his days off, he knew that with the developments of last night, the last thing he needed was idleness, otherwise he'd start thinking too hard about his lot in life. With this conclusion in mind, letting Nashville take the lead made sense to him.
Said woman grinned widely. That is exactly what she wanted to hear, and she voiced her approval to this with, "Good choice, Las Vegas. But I hope you're ready. Today's gonna be a blast."
He gulped. In his opinion, it is possible to get tired of having fun. But it was too late to turn back. Nashville was the commander now. And it was time for her to flex her newfound authority. She noted that both were done eating, so she said, "Anchors aweigh. It's time for fun."
With that, they got going from the restaurant. Not long after leaving, Nashville made a strategic decision and ordered her navigator, "Set course to get hair taken care of first."
"Yes, ma'am," complied Las Vegas, playing along. And so, he led the way to find a hair salon for Nashville. Of course, a problem arose that Nashville hadn't foreseen. Professional haircare is generally taken care of by gender and based on the one-hundred percent female clientele inside the business as seen from the window into the street, it seemed like it would be considered taboo for the woman to bring a man inside. This problem snowballed into a greater issue, and it was tied to Nashville's reluctance to get her hair done. In all her life as a ship girl, she had never gotten her hair done professionally. She didn't know what to say or what to look out for or even if the person doing her hair would do something that hurt or not.
If her thoughts had been made bare to onlookers, it would be considered quite funny for someone that looks like they're in their early twenties to have a frankly childish apprehension. Nashville looked over to Las Vegas to see what he was doing on his phone because they had been standing there for a few seconds without him saying anything. But just as she was going to ask what he was doing he said, "Well, it looks like a barber shop is just up the road. Is it cool if I meet you back here once I'm done? Something tells me I'll be ready before you are."
As much as Nashville was tempted to ask him to go in with her, something told her that he was only marginally less clueless about this as she was. He probably wouldn't be much help, so she surrendered to her circumstances and said, "Okay then. I'll see you in a bit."
"Awesome. See you in a bit," he said and then he left her there completely oblivious to her apprehension.
She turned for the entrance and she found herself chanting internally, "I can do this. I can do this. I can do this." It was time to do it, so in she went, ready for battle.
The next forty-five minutes proved to be one of the best experiences of her life so far. As flattering as it was to get compliments about being the most beautiful woman anyone in there had ever seen, Nashville found the whole experience to be incredibly therapeutic. She realized the ridiculousness of her ways because there was nothing to fear.
But when she left the salon to meet Las Vegas as he waited outside, a thought that she never imagined going through her mind did just that. It wasn't so bad being human. In fact, she had been missing out. And it wasn't just because of how much she now loved to get her hair done. She was beginning to understand that being who she was could be a beautiful thing. Life could be a wonderful adventure if she let it. She knew perfectly well that she wouldn't have ever been able to find out about all the incredible parts of being human if it wasn't for one person in particular.
Said person was busying himself watching people go about their business so he didn't notice her as she exited. She took a look at his haircut before he noticed her. It wasn't anything adventurous, but he definitely looked more professional. More than anything, she thought that he looked cleaned up. It was time to get his take on her new hairstyle. She hummed loudly to get his attention and she complimented him, "I like what you've got going on. It's clean."
Las Vegas turned to look at his companion and, in few words, he liked what he saw.
Nashville's former hairstyle let her naturally wavy hair cascade down her back with little in the way of accessories to control it. The only exception to this was a small bit of her hair diverted to tie her bow before letting it rejoin the rest of her locks as they flowed downwards. But now, the most apparent thing was that Nashville had a ponytail that held her hair backwards out of the way of her face. But instead of having her hair straightened in the ponytail, her still wavy hair made itself known by adding enough volume to come off as stylish. It reached down to her upper back, and it was held in place by the ribbon that Cheshire had gifted her. But now, the bow looked a lot less like cat ears and more like a normal bow. Meanwhile in front, her bangs had intentionally been left a tad longer to cover the majority of her forehead, yet they were still out of her way, and they had the added benefit of further emphasizing her unnatural, albeit alluring, eye color. As if her ruby red irises needed anything else to appear even more striking.
Las Vegas really liked it. In fact, he liked the new hairstyle enough that he failed to school his impression so that he could try and gauge what Nashville felt about it.
"So, you like it?" asked Nashville, even though she more stated than asked.
He was caught red handed so he didn't even endeavor to hide his feelings. He nodded and confirmed, "I really like it."
"Awesome," she replied. "I like it too. But I'm happier to finally have something different."
"Makes sense," he concluded. But then he asked, "Where to now?"
Nashville brought a finger up to her chin to think for a few seconds about what would be the next fun thing to do. Her mind began racing with possibilities. A part of her considered trying to find Las Vegas the leather he wanted to buy. Another part wanted to see if they could catch all the London sights that they had missed that first day they were there in the city. She tried to think of what her sailors would do when there was down time. She found herself smiling widely with the perfect idea. She asked Las Vegas, "Remember when I asked Prince of Wales about Cherbourg a while back?"
Las Vegas looked puzzled and he replied, "Not really. But go on anyway."
She was only momentarily put off by his lacking memory, but she started to share a story, "I had docked in Cherbourg in '38 as part of my shakedown cruise. While I was there, I remember these two sailors," Nashville smiled nostalgically before she continued, "John Carmichael and Steve Carpenter, who took their nine dollars pay each and spent their shore leave in Paris. They laughed about it back aboard me, how they had to run through the Louvre looking for a head, because they had drunk too much before going. They got through the whole art gallery in a record setting half hour."
Las Vegas knew what she was getting at, but he decided to try and be funny. His smile was plenty warning to Nashville that he was about to say something snarky. "So, you want to go drinking and then go head hunting inside an art gallery? I don't think that's legal in the UK." (Author's Note: Head is the nautical term for a restroom.)
Nashville gave the appropriate are-you-kidding-me-expression in the face of Las Vegas chuckling at his own pun. But once he was done, he pulled out Mr. Bond to begin searching and asked, "An art gallery then? I didn't take you as an artsy type. Music notwithstanding."
"Well, have you ever been to an art gallery?" she countered. He shook his head and that made her continue. "Me neither."
That was all the debate needed to get a course set for a gallery. There were a few options, but Nashville thought that it was a good idea to go to The National Gallery. Her logic was thus, it has "National," in the name, so it has to be big and full of the best that the nation had to offer. So, with her explanation given, the duo set off for their destination.
Nashville was particularly excited for this experience. The fact that she hadn't been to an art gallery before was symptomatic of something so much more fundamental than one would initially think. While some sailors might be able to draw, one typically doesn't find artwork aboard a warship, and she had never been exposed to any artwork with her own eyes. She had only seen photos before in her one year of life as a ship girl or seen glimpses of things in the television inside Las Vegas's hospital room. Even Roscoe's office only had photographs as decoration. This opportunity to go inside The National Gallery would be her first time ever seeing actual art.
Her companion noticed her excitement and he smiled to himself but didn't comment on it. Instead, he dutifully and cheerfully picked up the pace when Nashville's anticipation spurred her to walk faster to get to the gallery sooner.
It was like having her eyes open for the first time. She could never have guessed that such beauty could be produced my human hands.
Her vocabulary became limited to short phrases of amazement and bliss. "Las Vegas, you gotta look at this." "Isn't this the best one yet?" "This is the greatest thing I've ever seen." "We've been missing out." "You mean there's more?"
In utter astonishment, the light cruiser thoroughly inspected what seemed like each and every painting without a hint of that sense of wonder diminishing.
While his own enthusiasm for the artworks on display was easily outshined by Nashville's, Las Vegas followed her around and he made sure to never rush her. That wouldn't be fair to her because he had rapidly picked up that this first-time experience was a much bigger milestone for her than it was for him. He has had his whole life to live. Nashville has only had a year of living. And when he ran out of things to point to as things that he liked, he began to point out things that he thought that she would like. He found himself being happy just because she was happy. And for that, he'd totally be willing to peruse an art gallery for hours on end.
And so, they spent hours, the whole morning in fact. But eventually, the grandeur of The National Gallery ran out of artworks to show the duo and they made for the exit. After they had left, Las Vegas asked, "So, was it everything you hoped it would be?"
"It was soooooo much better," she answered. "I had no idea that stuff like that even existed." In the end she wasn't too bothered that taking photos hadn't been allowed inside. Fortunately, Trafalgar Square outside would give plenty photo opportunities.
"I take it you wanna go to another one in the future?" asked Las Vegas as they began to take photos of anything and everything.
"Oh yeah, totally," she answered without thinking.
"There are more art galleries in London," he stated, implicitly offering to use the day to just look at art.
That was very tempting to Nashville. She knew that they wouldn't be staying in London forever, however she also wanted to do other stuff today, so she turned the option down. But before any of that stuff happened, she had some photos to take. After an hour of that, she suggested lunch time. They purposefully chose a place a bit further of a walk away so that they could talk about their favorite pieces of art that they had seen. Neither were particularly knowledgeable about art, but that didn't stop them from enjoying it.
But eventually, they arrived at the place they had decided to eat. As they ate, both were able to enjoy conversation about menial topics that don't really matter in the grand scheme of things. Opinions of music, funny stories from both of their lives, that sort of thing. They didn't try to talk about the trials that had happened, nor did they talk about the tribulations that might happen. The union duo was fulfilling the objective they had originally set out to accomplish—do something normal people do. Go somewhere together, see the sights, eat a meal or two together, and enjoy each other's company.
You know, like a date.
But while one was unfamiliar with the term, the other was in denial, so this outing was more platonic in nature.
Nevertheless, despite several onlookers knowing exactly what was going on, nobody spoke up. But with time, the opportunity to speak up passed, for the duo finished their meal and left to go to their next diversion for the day.
Nashville already knew what they should do next. Because while Las Vegas busied himself with looking at the people as they walked for the restaurant where they had eaten lunch, Nashville had kept her eyes peeled for anything fun. And given that they had spent most of the past few hours on their feet, maybe something a little less involved would be nice. She said, "I saw a movie theater on our way here. Let's see what's showing."
"Sounds good. Lead the way," beckoned her commander.
And so, she did. They arrived in not that much time at all. But of course, they had to stand there inspecting the movie posters to see which one caught their eyes.
"The Revengers 9: The Final Frontier?" asked Nashville.
"Let's not. I'm too lazy to bring you up to speed for more than thirty movies," rejected Las Vegas.
"Thirty? Not nine?" she amazed. He nodded slowly to show that he wasn't joking. She looked at another one and asked, "How about 'The Rapid and the Raging 12?'"
"The first five were good. It's just spiraled out of control from there. It's pretty bad now."
Nashville now pointed at a movie poster that she found particularly funny. She said the name while somehow laughing at the same time, "'The Man Who Killed Hitler and Then the Bigfoot and Then the Loch Ness Monster.' They can't be serious, can they?"
"The poster sure looks like it's taking itself seriously. But something tells me that with a name like that, we pretty much already watched the movie."
"Yeah, the title's it's own adventure," she agreed. But then she practically huffed, "They gotta have something good."
They went down the line of movies. Las Vegas shot down what was obviously a horror movie and Nashville lightly teased him to see if she could get him to watch it so she could laugh at him during the show. He was too smart to fall for the trick.
Eventually, they settled on a movie whose title sounded like a comedy movie. Knowing that sometimes names are misleading, Las Vegas looked up it's name to confirm that it is indeed what they were looking for. So, they entered the theater to watch a movie called, "The All Stars."
It turned out to be nothing groundbreaking as far as cinema is concerned. But still, for every moment that a predicable joke was said, a disparity between the duo showed itself. Las Vegas was jaded for comedy, so he only laughed on occasion. But every single comedy trope that showed up on screen was Nashville's first time, and her laughter filled the auditorium, at times joining the other movie-goers, at times rising about them.
Even though the movie turned out to be perfectly fine on it's own, Las Vegas's own enjoyment mainly came at his companion's wide-eyed love of her first time in a movie theater.
She talked incessantly about how awesome her experience was on their way out of the theater and she continued marveling at how far cinema had come since the forties, or even the eighties all the way to their next destination. She had seen a bowling alley too when they were going to lunch.
Bowling was decidedly less fun than the other activities of the day because both of them were terrible at it. Las Vegas's tendency to overanalyze things instead of doing things by feel meant that every attempt he made to try something fell flat. Nashville just had plain old bad aim. Her strength was plenty to keep the ball going straight, but straight off target is still a miss.
Only two games were played before the duo saw that this sport wasn't for them. But it was alright. Nobody can be good at everything. They left fairly promptly, and to get the bad taste out of their mouths from sucking at bowling, they decided to find Las Vegas the leather that he had been wanting to buy.
The literally just had entered the craft shop that Mr. Bond had directed them to when a message appeared on the smart device's screen. Las Vegas looked and informed his companion, "It looks like the stuff Larcom ordered for us is gonna arrive at the dock in an hour. We should probably get there asap."
Nashville nodded in understanding and said, "Then let's get this done quick."
It only took a few minutes to gather a large supply of thick dark brown leather that was far more than Las Vegas anticipated ever needing. But it was better to be safe than sorry when it came to supplies. He did anticipate making a few mistakes during construction anyway. With the addition of a few tools, they made the purchase and since Nashville's hull was too far away to walk and make it in time, they caught a taxi and thanks to the local traffic, they got there only a minute before a nondescript white van pulled up to the sidewalk and three men exited.
The leader of the three men confirmed who he was making the delivery to. Once that was done, the other two men took out a large wooden crate and began to carry it up Nashville's gangplank. The leader of the men also took out a much smaller cardboard box that still took up both of his arms and he followed after the codebreaker and the ship girl up the gangway as well.
The first two men had set down the crate that had to be about four feet (1.2 meters) square on each side and the leader set his cardboard box on top of the crate. Las Vegas noticed that they didn't offer to carry it any further, and he didn't press the issue because he didn't want anybody poking around Nashville's hull without a regular crew to make it seem like this was a normal warship. The duo thanked the trio, and the men left to return to their van.
The union duo looked at what had been left on Nashville's deck. Referring to the larger crate, Las Vegas said, "Roscoe either hooked us up with tons of ammo or tons of grenades."
"It could also be medical supplies. And don't forget the body armor." added Nashville.
"Oh yeah. But here, wanna help me carry the crate to the armory? Just so that it isn't in the open?"
And so, they moved the giant crate without too much difficulty. Even though it was big and cumbersome, having a superhuman do a significant portion of the heavy lifting was pretty convenient. They decided to not crack it open on the day they were spending time hanging out. In a like fashion, the cardboard box was dropped off on the bridge because it seemed like the best place to drop it off.
It was only early evening, but by virtue of not being able to come up with anything else to do that would be fun, they got going for a pub to get some dinner. Both had found themselves fond of pub food over the time of their stay in London. But secretly, Nashville finally felt comfortable enough with how things were in London that she can let her guard down and get herself a drink or two as a very belated celebration for the success at The Battle of the Thames and in the London Incident. Besides, she had along with her the person she trusted most on the face of the planet to take care of her should she go too far and drink too much.
They found a pub that caught their fancy, which wasn't that hard all things considered. Nashville was more interested in a strong drink, a completely normal criterion. But on the other hand, Las Vegas just wanted a plate of food without having to worry about creepy-darts guys or cultist hit squads—a decidedly less normal requirement, but one that shouldn't be hard to fulfill.
As it turned out, both had their wish fulfilled. Las Vegas got his plate of shepherd's pie and for Nashville, the alcohol flowed in proportion to the money presented. A few drinks in, she asked for permission to go all in for the booze. She asked permission as a gesture to the person who would tend to her hangover the next day, not to mention the person who might just have to carry her unconscious body back to her hull.
He gave an over-the-top sigh and consented on the condition that she finish her food first. He justified the condition by relating something that a roommate in university had told him, that being that alcohol typically is handled better with food in the stomach.
The already slightly inebriated light cruiser huffed and puffed out, "Okaaaay, Dad."
"And don't forget to eat your vegetables," tacked on Las Vegas to jab back at the snark.
With an exaggerated annoyed look, she played along further and somehow pulled off dramatically eating her vegetables. But once that was done, it became open season in the pub and Nashville went all in. Drink after drink disappeared down the hatch while Las Vegas sat there astonished at his companion's ability to handle such high volumes of liquid, much less alcohol. He ordered more food to pass the time. And then he had to order even more food as more time passed.
At the same time, Nashville held the line against drink number God-knows-what. But still, they kept talking to each other. As expected, Nashville's actual southern drawl started to show through, and her speech became slurred. Las Vegas was about to pull the plug and call it a night with how things were going but after looking up from his plate, he saw that Nashville was glaring daggers over his shoulder to another part of the pub.
He looked over his shoulder in the direction that she was glaring and all he saw was more pub-goers. He turned back and asked, "What are we looking at?"
Nashville gave a one-word explanation. "Stalin," she stated. Her tone denoted just how certain she was that a dictator of the former Soviet Union was in the pub with them.
"Stalin?" asked Las Vegas, thoroughly confused.
"I fuckin' hate commies," declared Nashville, completely ignoring the question. This hate wasn't too surprising given Nashville's own experiences. In 1947, the President of the Eagle Union, Harry Truman, announced what came to be known as, 'The Truman Doctrine,' which would guide the Eagle Union through the Cold War against the Soviet Union. The policy of containing the perceived spread of communism occurred in several ways. The most directly applicable was that on January 9, 1951, Nashville was sold to Chile to strengthen the South American nation against Soviet influence. And there she remained until her scrapping in 1983. Most of her sisters shared similar fates.
What alarmed Las Vegas is that because communism has been Nashville's enemy for almost all her life, her deep-seated hate of communism could really ruin some guy's day just because he looked like Joseph Stalin.
Las Vegas looked back over to find the Stalin look-a-like to try and disprove his identity to the drunken superhuman. Never mind the fact that the Soviet Union has been replaced by the Northern Parliament, or that Stalin has been dead since the early fifties.
Trying to conceal his alarm he asked, "Is it the guy in the red shirt? He does have a mustache." In Las Vegas's opinion, he didn't look like Stalin at all.
"Nooooope. In the blue man group."
Sure enough, there was a group of men in blue coveralls who looked like they were just enjoying a drink after a day's work. The second man in the group was slightly stockier and from the back of his head, one could see a head of dark brown hair with a light dusting of grey. But his face was turned away. After a few seconds, he turned to say something to one of his co-drinkers and Las Vegas got a good look at him. He had a thick mustache and had an air of intensity.
Las Vegas gulped at the impending crisis. The man kind of did look like Stalin.
"I gotta kick his ass," informed Nashville while she stood from the table.
In a near panic at the prospect of witnessing Nashville destroy a guy, Las Vegas stood up too and rapid fire ordered, "WhoaWhoaWhoaWhoaWhoaWhoaWhoaWhoa," while holding his hands out to obstruct her advance aimed at crushing the perceived threat of communism once and for all.
Nashville stopped and gave him a look of suspicion. She accusingly asked, "Ur not a commie-lover, are ya?" This accusation also reflected a portion of Nashville's experiences. Not long after President Truman's announcement, a period of rampant fear of communism coupled with the political witch hunt for suspected communists began. Spearheaded most famously by a senator in the Eagle Union Congress named, Joseph McCarthy, many people had their lives ruined and a decent portion of those caught up in the hysteria were accused of and tried for espionage. It seemed that drunk Nashville was possessed of the "Red Scare."
Time seemed to slow for the codebreaker who had to quickly consider his options for how to handle this. A few options came to mind:
"I'm no commie-lover. Let's sit down and talk about this."
"I promise you, that is not Stalin. And I double promise you that I'm no communist."
"Stalin's been dead for a long time, and the Soviet Union doesn't even exist anymore. And screw communism anyway."
"Let 'em have it, Nash. Just don't kill him."
Las Vegas chose to say, "I promise you, that is not Stalin. And I double promise you that I'm no communist."
[FAILED] "That's just what a commie would say. I'll think a somethin' ta do with ya once Stalin's gone."
With that, Nashville began to go around his outstretched hands with the purpose of ruining, and perhaps ending someone's life.
The codebreaker had to think quickly, so he did something that he never did before.
Concealed by the ambient noise of the business he spoke as forcefully as he could at his companion, "Nashville, I order you to stop and listen to me."
He had never given such a direct order contrary to Nashville's desires. It was as if his words erected an invisible wall in Nashville's path. She stopped and turned around to look at her commander with a face of drunken shock.
"Sit. Down," he ordered, with an expression so overpoweringly intense that it killed every single fiber of Nashville's resistance to following the order given to her.
Numbed by both surprise and alcohol, she complied while she whimpered, "Yes, sir."
Now with her undivided attention, Las Vegas began to reason with her in a hushed voice so nobody would overhear, "You're not in the late forties anymore, Nash. Stalin has been dead for decades, and the Soviet Union has been gone for over thirty-five years now. And listen to me very carefully when I say that I. Am. No. Communist."
[SUCCEEDED] "You sure?" she inquired, still hoping to vanquish communism.
"One-hundred percent certain, on all counts. And besides, even if he was alive, do you really think that Stalin would visit a pub in London?"
"No, guess not," she admitted. Her posture became hunched over with her hands in her lap under the table between them. Her ruby red eyes avoided the power of his armor-piercing stare. But she mumbled, "Sorry for thinking you's was a commie."
Las Vegas sighed out, "It's okay, Nash. I'm just glad nothing bad happened. But it's safe to say that I'm never letting you get this drunk in public ever again."
Nashville began to pout at this new rule. Even though her judgement was obviously clouded by drink, she had a feeling that this was for the best. And while she didn't say anything in agreement or contrary to this declaration, she found herself looking at her half drank glass of ale, and she decided that maybe she had indeed had enough tonight. She requested, "Can we go now?"
With a thin smile and a nod, he consented, and they left the pub.
Leaving the pub, Nashville was at a level of drunkenness that permitted her to walk for a time, but straight lines were beyond the realm of possibility. Gradually, as they made the approximately twenty-minute trek for her hull, she found herself less and less able to walk unassisted. So, naturally, she began to lean on her commander and when she wrapped her arm around him for stability, he did the same in return.
To the casual glance, it just looked like a couple walking the evening streets an hour before curfew, but to anybody taking just a moment to actually look, things didn't appear nearly as benign. A completely sober man guiding a drunk woman looks pretty bad no matter how one looks at it.
"Oi! Stop!" called a voice unrecognized by the duo.
Somehow, Nashville despite her drunken state found the source of the voice before her commander. She said in a loud whisper, "Oh shit, it's the cops. We gotta skedaddle."
"Let's not," immediately rejected her companion. So, they stopped, and he was able to find the source of the voice. Just as Nashville had said, it was from one out of a duo of approaching police officers.
"Good evening," greeted the one who had ordered them to stop.
"Evening, officer. What can I do for you?" replied Las Vegas as cordially as he could. At the same time as he was speaking, he became aware of how bad it must look for him to be practically carrying a drunk Nashville while he's sober.
"Well, you're definitely not from around here," noted the bobby, having been tipped to that fact from the difference in accents.
"Obviously not," interjected Nashville. She looked back to her commander and bluntly asked, "Can we run now?"
"No, we cannot run now," he denied. He looked back to the policemen. One of them looked about ready to crack out the handcuffs while the other looked at the union duo with increasing suspicion but didn't make any aggressive actions. Las Vegas tried to defuse the situation by saying, "I know that this looks bad, but I really am just trying to get her back to our ship."
"Ship? Just who are you two?" quizzed the policeman.
"We're both in the Eagle Union Navy. Our ship is docked in the Thames."
"Pardon me for saying that you two don't look the part."
Las Vegas looked down at himself and Nashville and he completely agreed with the officer's appraisal. "Fair enough. But since my hands are kinda tied at the moment to reach for an ID, can I give you a service number for you to punch into that handheld computer I see you got?" He internally cackled at this request of his. These British Bobbies were in for a surprise.
"As a benefit of a doubt, we can do that," replied the bobby whose partner took out his computer from a pocket.
The partner spoke for the first time and asked, "What's the number?"
The number was given and a few seconds later, the service record turned up to give the officer the foreshadowed shock. "You should take a look at this," the partner stated to the first officer.
Visible confusion led the way before incredulous looks climaxed into stunned expressions at seeing the part where they can get legally prosecuted for obstructing the man that they had stopped in the street. Both bobbies agreed in a glance to one another that they'd be better off if they just let the guy and his subordinate leave without further fanfare. But just letting a no-name man carry off a dunk woman would be completely irresponsible on their part as public servants.
The first officer said, "Well, you know what we just read, and that we can't touch you, but would it be alright if we accompany you to your ship?"
Las Vegas looked to Nashville out of habit wanting to get her opinion. She shook her head vigorously. Oh yeah, she's drunk. He looked back to the officers and nodded.
So, with police escort, the duo arrived at Nashville's hull just in time for Nashville's drunkenness to begin asserting sleep over her consciousness. The bobbies and Las Vegas exchanged well wishes and they excused themselves.
The duo still hadn't even gotten onto the dock when Nashville's final seconds of consciousness came. But having grown wiser than the time before, Las Vegas knew that this was the time to pick her up. She might not be completely out of it, but the man took comfort in the fact that the last time she got plastered, she didn't remember much. Before she became completely limp in his grasp, he fully wrapped one arm around her shoulders, and the other arm went under her knees, and he picked her up in a bridal carry. Having been able to mentally prepare himself for this possibility, he wasn't nearly as embarrassed as last time, but that isn't to say this it was completely diminished.
In her very last moment before falling asleep, Nashville internally reaffirmed her love of his touch, and she wished that he'd touch her more.
He carried her to her cabin without incident and he repeated the setup from last time. Nashville laying on her side in case she vomited, a glass of water on her desk next to her now framed photos and a bucket beside her bed.
He turned to leave and once he reached the hatch he whispered, "Goodnight, Nash. I had tons of fun today. I hope you did too." And he left, closing the hatch as quietly as he could.
But instead of turning for his own cabin, he went for the bridge where the duo had placed the cardboard box from earlier. He was afraid to go to sleep, fearful that the dream from the night before would return to him.
After arriving and opening the box, he inspected it's contents. The two most obvious things were two books, both decently thick. He could only remember Nashville's emergency first aid manual. He inspected the other book to see a bright yellow cover labelled, "Eagle Union Navy Explosive Ordinance Disposal Manual."
He scrunched his eyes, perplexed as to why this would be included. Either Larcom or Roscoe decided that they needed this, for some reason. And somehow, they found a manual specifically from the Eagle Union. He tried to come up with a reason he would need this. Eventually, he came up with an answer. According to his knowledge, Nashville's damage control couldn't deal with unexploded ordinance that might get lodged into her hull. He smiled, knowing exactly what he would use this manual for. If it comes down to it, he can save her. While saving his friend is a great cause and motivator to learn a new skill, a part of him wasn't too thrilled to have more homework after graduating university and grad-school. He set aside his new skill book on top of Nashville's book, which also happened to be yellow.
Aside from the manuals he found a small flashlight that he could easily hold in one hand along with all his requested parts for Giovanni, save the hollow point ammo, which meant all the actual munitions were in the crate now in Nashville's armory that would have been used by on-board marines back in the day. But at the bottom of the box was a note that said, "The computer, it's parts, and information about the Transatlantic Investigation Agency will be delivered tomorrow at 1000."
Deciding to postpone sleep further, he retrieved his tools for maintaining Giovanni from his cabin and returned to the bridge. Because he knew his weapon's ins and outs, he began to incorporate all the modifications that he had requested, while cleaning the weapon at the same time.
While he worked, he thought about how things have been, how they are, and most importantly, how they might be.
Some consider him mystical and larger-than-life, but the fact is that he's just a man. He understood his mortality, that everything might be gone in a flash and he's dead and all is lost to him. But he no longer feared death. He only feared what might happen with him gone.
He finished modifying Giovanni and he screwed the silencer onto the new match-grade threaded barrel. Making sure the gun was unloaded, he slapped a still empty thirty-round magazine in, stood, and then he assumed a firing stance. The tritium night sights made aiming in the dark London night easy. He pulled the trigger, and just as expected, the double action trigger pull was significantly lighter than before, and the single action pull was the same way. The low profile decockers were a bit harder to reach for, but they got rid of the biggest thing on Giovanni's slide that would get snagged on something during a fast draw.
As he stood there, he came to an important conclusion.
He swore to himself at the same time as he challenged fate, "No matter what the future holds, I will be ready."
You know, we'll never see it because Azur Lane is from China, but I think that a number of the Eagle Union girls would have strong opinions about communism. I also really look forward to seeing the Transatlantic Investigation Agency later on. But other than that, I'm really glad to have a fluff chapter after all this time of seriousness. It really was a breath of fresh air to be able to write a chapter that focuses almost entirely on Nashville and Las Vegas. I guess that I don't have much more to add on besides my apologies for taking so long. I was anticipating releasing this a week ago but school work has definitely demanded more and more time this past week. We're not through the woods yet, but I'm glad that I found time to get this out. Anyway, I see some comments that need responses.
Hi SomeRand0m. It's really funny that you should mention building Cheshire. I still have to finish building her too. I'm getting close, I just have to grind more XP. No sweat about the superweapon. By the looks of things, you aren't the only one that forgot the real reason that they are in England. But yeah, I too am really looking forward to getting into the superweapon next thing. I've been thinking on this one for a very long time. I'm glad that you caught the humor. Concerning Las Vegas's inability to read Nashville's feelings. I thought that I had established that he actively tries not to jump to conclusions. He has to "decode" stuff to find the truth. Noticing Cheshire is just the first piece of his decoding. No comment about the dick joke. I love breaking the forth wall, but you probably already knew that. To be honest, I'm expecting that the new skill will extend beyond just saving Nashville. I was just making the childhood friend reference as a joke. I don't intend for it to go anywhere. Not right now at least. Thanks for the affirmation about the Cheshire segment. I do look forward to dealing with the fallout in the future. No problem about the fluff. I hope that this chapter was good too. No comment about the progress of the relationship. I honestly don't know how I find time. I guess that I just get lucky. I'm glad that you caught onto the fact that the cult is much more extensive than at first glance. I really look forward to expanding on this starting in the next arc. I already have an idea for how the Iron Blood arc will shape up. I try to keep a consistent schedule. But it's not as consistent as I would like. Your comments are a big help to me. Because you say what is on your mind, it's really good at pointing out the things that I have to clarify in the next chapter. It's a pleasure to be able to interact with readers. Engaging you makes the story that much more personal for the both of us, and plus, fun things are best when shared. Ouch. Calc 2 was hard for me. I really wish you the best of luck on that one. Thanks for the luck though. I hope that all is going well for you. Take care of yourself.
What's up, Touhoufanatic? I don't want to give any sort of timelines, but I expect that the climax of the Nashville versus Cheshire conflict won't occur until after the superweapon battle. Thanks for pointing out the superweapon thing though, I tried to mention that at the beginning of this chapter.
Greetings, Zander22122. Well, as far as superheroes are concerned, everyone's gotta have an opinion. To be honest, I'd be more put off if you told me that you don't like superheroes at all. Thanks for all the comments but a few things in particular stick out to me. I am soooo glad that someone got the picture that Las Vegas isn't so much dense as he is inexperienced. Thank you for getting it. Your Longbottom leaf comment made me laugh. Also, I was intending for the childhood friend to be a throwaway joke. I doubt that I'll ever do anything with that. If anything, I'd have a part for the college friends that Las Vegas mentioned to QE a few chapters back. I hope that the chapter was worth the wait. Take care.
It's so good to see you again SafetyDoggo. I was wondering what happened to you, so it's great to see that you're still around. I hope that everything is going well on your end of things. Anyway, their time in the UK hasn't come to an end quite yet. No comment about there being more than just Sirens or cultist to deal with. But an answer won't be coming for a long time though. Again, it's really great to see you again. And yes, I'll definitely be trying my hardest to keep it up.
Hey there, DearUncleHermit. I'm usually pretty bad at reading people, so I'm kind of surprised that I'm right about the deduction. But you said something that I want you to clarify on if at all possible. You said, "Yes, I do agree juggling two different instances of action is tough but done well, can achieve a higher level of tension." While I don't have any specific plans for splitting up the group like I did, that doesn't completely push the option off the table. Is there anything that needed fixing to make the juggling better? Thanks for the concern about burnout though. So far, so good as far as ideas are concerned. What's hard is juggling an engineering degree with fanfic writing. As I'm sure you can guess, education is the priority. I guess that all I can say about that is, "So far, so good." It's funny that you mention "Calcio Jack," though. I've misspelled that so often in my word docs that the program stops trying to correct me, so some fall through the cracks. Good point about Las Vegas not being forceful though. If I were to describe the situation as a third-party onlooker, I would say that what we are witnessing is a prime example of the nice guy finishing last. Las Vegas's saving grace is that there isn't any more forceful men present. So, I guess you could say that nice guys finish eventually? Another source of doomsday? We're just getting started. I LOVE SCP! I am so inspired by their repertoire of reality benders and with the inclusion of the Transatlantic Investigation Agency as a Mobile Task Force stand-in, I think that things are really looking to heat up in the near future. But thanks for the suggestion about the anti-memetic inclusions. I'll definitely look for places to work in stuff like that. Btw SCP-610 is scarier than most horror movies. SCP-173 might have introduced me, but 610 is what told me to take a closer look at the universe.
Hello, HeronLsL. I'm glad that you liked the chapter. And while she didn't directly say it, Cheshire's nuke will be interesting to deal with. As I'm sure you already know, we know what the outcome will be, but seeing it come about will be the interesting part. Oh, and Roscoe being a loveable grandfather? That's intentional. I've been hyped about the superweapon for months. I can't wait to get into it. I hope that you liked this chapter. Take care.
As usual, it's late where I am and I have classed tomorrow morning, so I'm going to get some sleep. Take care, friends. If you're having a bad day I hope it gets better, and if you're having a good day I hope it gets even better.
