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Omakes & Extras
Taffy vs the Center Fleet (Non-Canon)
By Jon Berry
Yamato had made it quite clear to the other heavy ships that it would be she who would be giving the orientation tour to the American Task Force that had arrived at the base to reinforce their position against the Abyssal threats. Nagato had accepted her offer, knowing full well that if she tried, she would give up within minutes of being surrounded by the cute American Destroyers, Destroyer Escorts and Escort Carriers. Instead, she had assigned herself the task of assisting the Admiral as they briefed the New Jersey and the Lexington on the strategic situation around Japan.
Quite a few people were tip-toeing around the fact that there was a mark of pride to be settled between the Iowa-Class and Yamato-Class for who was the better ship, despite New Jersey's protesting otherwise, citing her years of service with IJN allies. It wasn't like she was Missouri, who still bore a grudge.
The Yamato-led tour was mostly quiet. The Battleship was the picture of perfect politeness as she led the thirteen smaller ships in formation around the base. That they themselves were respectful for the Battleship - out of terror or awe - only made things easier for everyone involved. She showed them the docks, the repair bays, the machine shop, the mess and other sundry locations for the day-to-day living on the base.
When it came time to show them to their living quarters, she led them into the building set aside for the Americans. Yamato had led the efforts to get this building ready, getting certain other ships to work with her without much in the way of arguments.
"This," she said as she reached the first room, opening it to show to the Destroyers, "is for the New Jersey." She turned to the lead Destroyer, Johnston, and smiled. "Please let her know when she comes in." The Destroyer nodded silently, gazing in awe at the large, well furnished room, fit for a Battleship.
She then led them down to the next room, and opened it up. "For Lexington," she said, and the Destroyers took in the room meant for the Fleet Carrier.
Then Yamato came to the third room. "Johnston," she said, addressing the lead Destroyer. "For you," she opened the door into a room every bit as well prepared as the two previous. Ignoring the stuttering from behind her she advanced to the next room. "Roberts," she opened up another full sized room. Then the fifth. "Hoel."
"Stop!" Johnston finally found her voice, even as she shielded her eyes under the cap that bore her name, registry number and silhouette of her hull. All the smaller American ships had those to help identify who was who in larger groups. "Those are rooms for Battleships! Not Destroyers!"
Yamato glared at her, which was extremely effective given that she herself had more displacement than all the other ships combined. "What is your point?" she asked. "I remember you. All of you." She let her memory drift back to that fateful day, then returned to the present. "I don't care what guns you may have. I don't care for your tonnage. I remember fighting you, and I know that you are all Battleships and Fleet Carriers. And so long as I have any say in the matter, you will be treated as such to the best of our ability, am I clear?"
The swarm of Destroyers giving her hugs in thanks was all she needed to know that she had done well.
A Certain Lady (Non-Canon)
By Old Iron
"Her birth had been celebrated. Hailed as peerless, donning arms of thunder and armor of titans. Her life had been mediocre. Training for battle, yet never once firing her guns in anger. Her deeds had been few. A rescue, a film, a glorified deterrent and tour guide. Her death had been wretched. Rent asunder and left to a slow, agonizing end. He-" The man's voice was cut off abruptly as the rather thick tome which had served as the source of his oration was plucked rather forcefully from his hands. He looked up towards the source of the theft with a baleful gaze, one not so different from his usual visage were one to ask any number of his contemporaries. A small squeak came from the door before it slammed shut with no small amount of haste.
"To start, stop glaring. You're going to give Fubuki a heart attack." A feminine tone, low and with an undercurrent of constant exhaustion cut through whatver complaint the man behind the desk was about raise. The plundered book was thrust forward towards his face and came quite close to flattening his nose. With a sigh, he slumped back into the highly subjective comfort of his chair and waited for the voice's owner to continue. "To finish, didn't I tell you to stop reading such romanticized garbage?"
"I've given up counting if you want to know how often." The remark was not quite snide, but certainly not amused. He crossed his arms as he finally took in the sight of the irate woman who so often barged in on his down time. Tall and with the build of a boxer, the copper haired woman seemed to radiate a kind of never ending tension. It was hard to tell whether it was the caffeine she consumed almost non-stop or just a state of self inflicted hyper-awareness. He supposed the fact she rarely ever seemed to sleep might have something to do with that. The dark rings under her eyes would at least attest to the notion.
"Four hundred and eighty two as of now." She slammed the heavy book onto the desk with a gloved hand. Both it and her other hand were covered in heavy gloves that led into the sleeves of a well worn, but still well cared for longcoat. The man guessed that any number of the excuses she wore to adorn herself with such a coat regardless of the weather worked. However were he to put money on it, he'd say it was to keep prying eyes away from the fact most of her left arm and no small amount of her flank on the same side bore vicious scars and malevolent looking burn. It was rare for a girl to hang onto such wounds, but she did.
It didn't account for the portions that crept up her neck and cut into her chin, but there was only so much her blue and gold colored handkerchief could hide.
"When was the last time you got some rest?" The man with captain's panels on his shoulders finally groused out as he sat up. He reached out and grabbed a pen, ignoring the woman's tired glare. Looks like it was time to have the base doctor throw her weight around a bit. Again.
"I don't have time to sleep and you know that. There's too much to do around here and the enemy won't wait until we're all nice and prepared." Left unsaid was the answer to the captain's question. She hated sleeping. The last time she took a nap that lasted too long, she was awakened by fire and death. Her alarm clock had been the screams of aircraft, the howl falling ordinance, and the tortured ends of her crew. She refused to be caught unawares ever again. It was a duty she made damn well sure to live up to. And if she needed to grind that same notion into those around her, the ones who would lead, who would follow, and would stand alongside, then so be it.
Regardless of personal cost, she would make amends to those she believed she had failed.
She would bring up those behind with knowledge gained.
She would storm on ahead with furious guns and raging torpedos.
She would do now what she could not do then.
Such was the will.
Such was her will.
The will of Battleship Arizona.
The Humble Man (Non-Canon)
By Chilord
When they had told him that they had finally summoned forth spirits from America's seas, he'd felt a great surge of hope pass through him. The men and women of the Naval forces had fought, bravely, desperately to overcome the enemy that had risen up from the depths to take back the great seas that covered most of their planet.
They fought valliantly, defiantly, and it had seemed almost futilely. They fought against an enemy that was slowly, steadily eating them alive, feasting upon their sacrifice and seemingly turning every victory to ash in their still, even knowing this, they still fought.
It had left him a humbled man, when he had been to their bases and watched as the ships had sailed full of brave sailors and marines. It had almost left him broken, when they returned, less than they were, faces worn and grim and tired. He'd spoken to them, offered what encouragement he could.
Then they turned, a hot meal in their bellies and a single night's rest in warm beds, and sailed out once more without complaint or hesitation.
When he'd been elected to the Presidency of these United States, he had thought to himself he had achieved the greatest of achievements, and proven himself worthy of praise.
It was a bitterness now to realize how arrogant he had been. How foolish and prideful. It was power, yes. More power than he now thought a man should have, and with it, a crushing responsibility.
Their lives had been in his hands. And when the first detachment had returned, he almost made it the last. To see the wounded. To have the loses so plainly lain before him. To realize how many brave lives had been snuffed out under the orders he had given.
And it had been an almost physical blow to realize that they demanded he give them again.
And again.
And again.
He had played the part of the politician for so long. He had spoken the words praising military men for their service their sacrifice. He had offered hollow, empty words as simple platitudes to sooth what he thought of as too easily ruffled feathers.
Only now, he was starting to realize just how foolish he had been. He was begining to understand how much he had needed to be humbled. And he wished, so very badly, that the price had not been so many lives given so bravely and so willingly.
So, now he stood there, on a podium emblazoned with a familiar seal. Behind him, Old Glory flew, flanked by a vanguard of the Naval Jacks and the Marine Corps Standards flying proud. Before him, two sharp lines of dress blues tall and proud and at full attention. He wore a simple suit, made by a humble tailor in the town near the base.
His lips were dry and his throat tight as he took a moment to review the words he had labored so long to write. They told him that they could not expect them to rise up out of duty, that their situation, for all the cost and bravery, wasn't the same as the Japanese or the British. They could not demand their return to a fight when their country did not live completely by the whims of the sea as the others did.
They had to give them reason. They had to make their case. They had to give them cause.
His eyes turned to the ships standing there, tall and proud and at attention. But if you did, they would come. And they would fight, and they would, by God, win.
The snap of the snare could be heard behind him, before the sharp beat of a drum cadence rolled through the air. When it faded, the Marine Corps band took up their instruments, and softly the notes of Eternal Father, Strong to Save filled the air.
He closed his eyes for a moment, taking one last deep breath, before opening his gaze and staring at head, as his voice rose up and and rolled through the air.
"You have earned your honored rest. Your honor, your glory, your service unquestioned. Through your struggles, your sacrifices, your will, our people, our nation, our world has known a peace like no other. You have earned your rest, in the halls of glory.
"We have no right to ask this of you now, but we watch, helpless as our world faces a threat that seeks to break our spirits by forcing us to watch as the seas you paid so dearly to break peace and justice to become home to a threat that wishes nothing short of our destruction.
"We have no right to ask this of you, for this is not our darkest hour. We have our god given prosperity, we have our bounty, our plenty, and we could watch and do nothing as the world around us is swallowed by despair.
"But that is not who we are. That is not our way. This is America. The home of the Free. The land of the Brave.
"So, we ask of you, to lend us your spirit once more. Your honor, your valor, your service. We ask of you, to help the giant wake once more and help us Avenge the lives that have been taken from us. Help us to take back what has been so brutally stolen. We ask of you to fight with us once more."
And with a solemn bow of his head, he added in a soft voice caught by the microphone. "Please. Do not let them have died in vain."
New Jersey's Log Entries (Semi-Canon)
"To Watch: 'Battleship', 'The Final Countdown' (get White), 'Star Wars'(Yes? no?)"
[messy graphs and lots of math. Caption: "Club haul?"]
"PLUSHIES!"
"Remeber: 'Reddit'."
"BA BA-BABA! John Cena's theme!"
[doodles of smilies]
"Get Naka something nice."
"Get Crowning something nice."
[doodles of fish]
"The F is Soy Milk."
"Soy Milk is 'food'."
"Do *not* eat the soy milk."
"todo: show White Top Gun + Star Wars (IV)."
[doodles of F-14 Tomcats with "woosh" scribbled around them.]
[doodle of X-wing.]
"NEVER SHOW WHITE ANYTHING! EVER! BAD JERSEY!"
"What the hell does 'poi' mean?"
"don't ask Naka what 'poi' means."
"don't ask Fubuki what 'poi' means."
"fubuki + rice = funny?"
[doodle of Fubuki]
"Lenin Statue Fremont?"
"todo: acquire spray paint, fish, White."
"NO MORE SPONGEBOB!"
[doodle of "SPAAAAACE BATTLESHIP NEW JERSEY!"]
"Shopping!"
"Don't take Crowning shopping."
[scrawled note added on to above: "Don't take poi anywhere."]
"COOKIE DOUGH ICE-CREAM! NOM!"
"What the F is 'Dess'?"