Chapter 59: The Ecosystem!
Iowa Versus Yamato was one of the great historical hypotheticals of the modern age. Armchair historians had been arguing the "what ifs" of history for millennia. But never had there been so many arguments of such a heated nature over such a narrow topic. The frequency and intensity of such arguments—be they forum posts, imageboard threads, or just person-to-person verbal brawls—had exploded exponentially when Jersey and Musashi returned to the line of battle. According to Naka, Iowa-vs-Yamato arguments had "completely eclipsed the F-35 shitposting ecosystem."
Jersey wasn't sure what that meant. But she did consider herself the foremost expert in the field. And it was her informed, educated, expert opinion that any battle between her big sister and the seagoing Tokyo Hilton would end in a decisive American Victory. A ROFLstomp. A fucking Arnie-In-Commando murderizing his way through countless goons like a freedom-fueled buzzsaw made of patriotism and sheer AMERICAN courage.
Jersey's guns could match Musashi's shot-for-shot in perfect weather. In anything less than perfect clear-blue-skies-all-the-way-to-the-fucking-horizon, glass-still water weather, the genius of American radar fire control would leave Musashi's primitive optical systems in the dust.
Jersey could take hits just as well as the Japanese super-battleship. Her belt might be thinner, but it was proper American steel. The kind of steel that gleamed red, white, and blue when you shone a light on it. Steel forged in the greatest foundries the world had ever seen. Steel capped with STS decapping plates no other nation on earth could even begin to afford. Steel that rang with the tune of the Star Spangled Banner when you struck it.
She also had two entire Fletchers worth of 5"/38s strapped to each hip, and more Bofors and Oerlikon cannons than some nations. And they were good-ass cannons too, not those crappy-ass "Hurr Durr I have a tiny-ass box-magazine because JAPAN" 25mm Hotchkiss knockoffs Musashi preened herself over.
Oh, and Jersey also had so much freaking horsepower it almost wasn't funny. She could maintain the distance even with half her boilers cold. She could force Musashi to fight at a place and range of the American's choosing, force the Japanese battleship into situations where her advantages counted for nothing. In short, an Iowa-class battleship would utterly and totally maul a Yamato-class battleship any day of the week, from midnight to dawn..
Unless, of course, said Yamato-class managed to lure the Iowa-class into a knife fight. At close enough range, even Musashi could land hits though foul weather. Without room to use her stellar maneuverability, Jersey was forced to tank hits on her belt. Hits that Musashi's armor was kinda… sorta… maybe… in some small way… slightly better at absorbing.
But there was one last damming point in the Japanese battleship's favor. In such a close-quarters brawl, Jersey's faeries couldn't focus on their duties. They were too busy gawking at the Japanese battleship's stupid overly-large pagoda-stacks bouncing around in that tiny little black swimsuit.
Seriously, how the fuck had she not flashed literally every-fucking-one with those things? Fucking how!? Jersey and Musashi had been waging their splash-fight for almost a solid hour. That much time spent thrashing through the water frantically trying to soak the other should have lead to some kind of spillage.
Hell, Jersey almost popped her own superstructure out of her Amerikini a few times, and she was perfectly fucking proportional.
"Fuck this shit!" barked Jersey as she porpoised over the snowy-haired Japanese battleship's excessive bow wake. She kicked hard, her long, muscular legs thrashing through the water with trained grace. Her feet were just starting to bite into the water when she felt a hand close around her ankle.
"You won't get away from MUSASHI that easy!" bellowed… well… taking a fucking guess.
"Fight from range!" barked back Jersey. "Every heard of fucking Tsushima?"
Musashi's response was a thundering belly laugh and a powerful tug on Jersey's leg. She might not have the sheer strength of the American, but even Jersey couldn't make any speed worth mentioning with a huge fatass Japboat hanging off her.
"GAH!" Jersey growled. As exhausted as she was from their fight—and she was exhausted. Her back and arms were sore and her belly was starting to feel annoyingly not-stuffed—she was having too much fun to simply call it a draw. And besides, she couldn't stop fighting. Not until she'd secured a win for her big sister!
But fucking still… she had shit she wanted to get done before turning in for the night. Shit like talking to Naggy about that creepy-ass dream. She just needed some kind of.. covering force. Someone to keep Musashi fully engaged while Jersey slipped off to do battlethings somewhere else.
Then the battleship smiled. That'd do.
"Yo, Kiddos!" Jersey waved at the pair of Japanese Akizuki-class destroyers happily lounging by the poolside.
"Hmm?" said the dark-haired one.
Jersey kicked off Musashi's body as hard as she could. It wouldn't buy her much distance. But she only needed a few seconds for what she was about to do. "I'll give ya a gallon of ice cream each if you keep Mushi occupied."
"A gallon?" the dark-haired one almost dropped the burger she'd been nibbling on for the past hour into the salty pool water.
"Each!" The russet-haired one blurted out the word in sheer awe, her slack jawed stare focused on Jersey.
"That's cheating!" bellowed Musashi at the top of her enormous lungs.
"Is not!" said Jersey, "So, you girls in?"
Before the awestruck AA-destroyers could respond, Johnston thrust her hand into the water. Even her feathers were quivering at attention. "Can we help?"
"Fucking yeah!" Jersey let out a rumbling laugh as Musashi tried to shush her with a splash.
"TAFFIES!" Heermann pulled herself up against the side of her hot tub like a mermaid pulling up to a passing boat. "ATTAAAAAAAAACK!"
At the thrust of Heermann's tiny hand, her sisters exploded into the air.
"DEPTH!" barked Hoel as she arced through the water like a frantically giggling shell.
"CHARGE!" replied Johnston as she belly-flopped mere feet away from Musashi's fatassed… ass.
Musashi let out a surprised, very un-Musashi-like 'eep' and let go of Jersey's leg. Probably from the perverted Fletcher pinching her stern right where the fabric of her skimpy-ass bikini bottom didn't cover, but that was neither here nor there. Jersey didn't contemplated it any further as she kicked off for the pool side.
At first, Musashi tried to follow. But the combined efforts of four giggling destroyer girls was too much for her to overcome. She made a show of shaking her fist at Jersey before rolling over to engage the giggling destroyers.
Jersey just kept extending away from the splash-brawl towards where Nagato was sitting.
The super dreadnought sat quietly in the corner of the pool, her crimson eyes focusing intently on the soggy blob of wood pulp that'd once been her light reading material. It almost looked like she was trying to intimidate the magazine into reforming into something readable. But for all her efforts—and Jersey didn't doubt she was giving her all; Nagato was a terrifying woman at times, even when she was wearing a swimsuit—the paper remained firmly wet.
"Hey," Jersey smiled as she glided into a spot just a few feet away from the stoic battle wagon.
"Hello," Nagato glanced over and shot Jersey a polite nod.
"So," Jersey glanced up at the skylights. Partly to help get her thoughts in order, but mostly to avoid having to look at the waves gently lapping against the Japanese girl's… areas. Stupid fucking Japanese Engineers! At least Mutsu was on the other side of the pool. "Whatcha reading?"
"Warship Review." Nagato turned the soggy mass towards Jersey so she'd be able to read the cover if it was still legible. "It's fascinating seeing what technology can do."
"Can say that again," said Jersey. After a quick check to make sure Freedom wasn't spilling anywhere it shouldn't be, the battleship spread her arms on the tiled pool side. She might not have Musashi's chest, but her lats were second-to-fucking-none. And she'd be damned if she didn't show them off a little.
"More and more, destroyers are eclipsing the role we once held," said Nagato. Her lips split into a tiny smile and her cheeks started to flush a pale pink. "It's… like watching a child toddle around in her mother's shoes, saying she wants to grow up to be like her mommy."
Jersey shrugged. That wasn't the first image that came to mind, but whatever. "Hey, Naggy?"
"Hmm?"
"You ever have," Jersey bit her lip and stared at the ceiling again, "Dreams? And I mean like… the fucking meaningful kind?"
The hint of pink in Nagato's cheeks died in an instant. "I have," she said quietly, "why?"
"Okay," Jersey closed her eyes and tried to think back. "I had this dream the other night. I was… fucking in the middle of this huge-ass frozen sea. It was just fucking ice, no matter how far I looked."
"Did you-"
"Yeah. Even tried my floatplane." Jersey stifled a yawn. It was getting late, and that splash fight had tired her out more than she'd thought, "Fucking… nothing but ice. Then I see someone. He-and I'm fucking positive it was a he-"
Nagato cocked one eyebrow.
"I don't fucking know how, I just know." Jersey shrugged, "Anyways, I see this guy right…" She reached out like she was trying to reach something on the horizon, "Right at the edge of my vision. So I take off running. Running as fast as I fucking can. But then I trip and-" Jersey rubbed her temple, "And right fucking there in the ice I saw- I saw…" she trailed off.
"Saw what?" said Nagato. There wasn't a hint of a smile on her face, her brows were knit into a dense palisade and her gaze seemed to bore through the American's armor.
"I-" Jersey shook her head. It'd all been so clear! "I don't know. I don't remember. But it was really fucking important."
"It's possible it means nothing," said Nagato.
"Yeah, I gue-"
"But it is also possible," Nagato locked Jersey's icy blue eyes in her own crimson ones, "that it does not."
"Uh…" Jersey gulped at the fucking torrents of authority washing of the short Japanese girl.
"I'm not… skilled in such things," admitted Nagato, "But I understand you have one who is. A shaman working with the Navy who has brought many of your girls back."
Jersey blinked, her mind mentally freewheeling. "Uhh… There's the doc, but he's no shaman."
"Is he now," said Nagato. "It seems," she shot a steely glare at her sister, who just preened with a teasing smile in return, "I was misinformed."
Jersey snorted in a very undignified way.
"Still," Nagato brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "I would suggest discussing this with him. He's certain to know more than I."
Jersey nodded. She would've said something in return, but a yawn haijacked her mouth and ruined any chance of getting something intelligible out. "Ahhh…" the battleship closed her eyes as her mouth slowly levered shut, "Yeah… mebbe… mornin…" She leaned back against the pool side and closed her eyes.
"Good night, Jersey," said Nagato.
Jersey's only reply was a muffled snore.
—|—|—
Yeoman Gale felt her whole universe come crashing to a halt so furiously she swore she got some kind of whiplash from it. Mere instants ago, the concert hall had been roaring with the harmony of rock anthem, classical orchestra, and chanting fans. Now it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
The air was so quiet and still she could hear the squeaking of one guitarist's shoes as he tried to slowly edge away from the impossible girl standing at parade rest at center stage.
Beside Gale, Wash was already on her feet, her eyes squinting ever so slightly as she focused on the new arrival. The muscles in her arms tensed under the fabric of her snug-fitting sweater. If she wasn't all the way to general quarters, she was at least in condition two.
Everywhere Gale looked she saw the same thing. People standing silent and confused, but preparing themselves for some disaster to break out. Nobody had ever summoned a shipgirl with such a massive audience. And only one girl had shown up without a ranking officer around, and that had nearly ended in disaster. But Gale was a sailor of the United States Navy. She was trained for this.
Actually, no she wasn't. They never covered "Introducing the spirits of WWII warships incarnated into smoking hot girls to the modern world" in any of her training. But they had covered damage control drills. Basically the same thing.
Step one, communicate!
"Wash, I need to get down there," said Gale as she fished around in her pocket for her phone.
The battleship offered a tiny smile and curt nod. "Make way," she barked with the kind of thunderous, commanding volume that only a battleship could manage. It wasn't so much a yell as a calm, soft-spoken command said in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS.
And just in case her booming voice wasn't commanding enough, Wash held her hands before her in an approximation of her own bow. A wedge to drive though the crowd and force them to part before her.
Gale happily formed up in line astern of the battleship's… rather noteworthy stern. Gale allowed herself a split-second to appreciate the way it moved and swished as Wash walked that graceful sashay of a walk, but only a split second. She had important things to do.
She quickly flipped through her contacts to find the Admiral's Shipgirl-Bullshit-Emergency number. The one that could pull Admiral Williams out of a meeting with SecNav himself.
Gale quickly typed out a message outlining everything she knew. It wasn't a very long message. As an afterthought, she sent a copy to Professor Crowning's number, with the note "Whatever you did, it worked."
But she couldn't just stand back and let the situation unfold. Even if Williams left the instant he got her text, it'd still take him at least an hour to get down here. More, if the traffic was the typical Seattle shitpile.
"Wash," Gale tossed her phone back into her pocket, "I need to get to the stage."
"Of course." The battleship angled towards the aisle and put on steam. Gale trailed behind, and the trio of Fletchers took up the rear of the formation. By the look of it, they'd appointed themselves as Gale's personal bouncer squadron. Each girl was sporting a sour look and had their little arms crossed across their chests.
Kidd was even wearing a gold chain around her neck to compete the look. Gale made a mental note to look into that… later. Right now, she had to husband what sanity she had left. If she didn't reach out to that shipgirl, things would go wrong.
Gale's little formation marched towards the stage, only for the sailor to stop short a few feet away.
The girl waiting for her was… well, she was obviously a cruiser. She was tall—almost as tall as Gale, but a few inches shorter than Wash—with a lean, womanly build. Her deep blue shorts showed off sinewy legs. Her cropped crackerjack top framed a chest not much larger than Gale's own and showed off a stomach that, while not as insanely shredded as Jersey's midsection, was noticeably toned. And noticeably scarred.
But none of that caught Gale's eye as much as the girl's face. Her jet-black hair cascaded down her back in a lazy ponytail. Her honey-brown eyes were fixed on Gale's. This girl… whoever she was… was Japanese. With her alabaster skin and almond-shaped eyes, she looked more Japanese than freaking poi.
"You, uh," Gale gulped. This could go so wrong so fast. "You're-"
"Japanese?" The girl moved her hands to her hips. Her face cracked a grin that hovered somewhere between cocky and wary. "Yeah, I get that a lot. I'm Nisei. Second generation. I was born down in Cali."
Gale winced. Japanese immigrants got shafted pretty damn hard during World War Two, and by their own damn country no less. "Shiiiiiiit."
"Yeah, pretty much," said the girl. "Look, I don't care what I look like, I'm a fighting ship. An American fighting ship." She huffed out a stiff breath, the scars on her muscled belly dancing with the motion. "Let me fight. Don't stick me in one of those damn camps, let me fight."
"Yeah, uh," Gale stammered. She wasn't prepared for any of this. Just greeting a shipgirl back to the world was hard enough. But greeting one that already didn't trust her own government.
"There's a war on," said Wash in that calm, commanding voice of hers. "We need ships like you."
"Aw… hell," The girl's face tinged a few shades redder, "I'm just an old cruiser. But I'll do my best." She moved to offer a salute, then paused as she realize she was both uncovered and indoors.
"What's your uh," Gale scratched at the back of her neck, "What's your name, sailor?"
"Oh shit," the girl slapped her hand to her face. "The hell are my manners, USS San Francisco, CA-38 reporting!"
Gale blinked. "San Fran-"
"Call me Frisco," said the cruiser.
"Frisco!" Dee bolted for the heavy cruiser and threw her arms around the bigger girl's scarred-over stomach.
"Oof!" Frisco grunted from the unexpected destroyer-hug. But judging by the smile on her face, she didn't mind the surprise one bit. "Hey there, kiddo." She ruffled Dee's hair with a happy chuckle. "It's good to be back."
Dee let out a happy Fletcher noise and backed off to join her sisters.
"So, uh," Frisco shrugged, "You my Admiral, ma'am?"
It took Gale a minute to realize the heavy cruiser was talking to her. "What, uh… no," she stammered, her face getting redder by the minute. "I… I'm just a Yeoman. Admiral Williams is on his way down."
"Well then, do we wait or-" Frisco stopped as a thundering rumble echoed from her belly. Her hands instantly clamped down around those scared-over abs and her almond eyes went wide. "Uh.."
"Perhaps dinner is in order?" said Wash. The battleship's own hands were hovering somewhere around where her stomach would be.
"Yeah," Gale nodded. Now that was a plan she could get behind.