Chapter 75: The Dragon And Her Hoard

Admiral Goto shuffled through the darkened hallways of his own command center like some kind of coffee-fueled zombie. A steaming "World's Best Admiral" mug of strong, half-burnt coffee hung half-forgotten in his hand. Every so often, the mug—a present from Kongou on the one-year anniversary of her return—would wander seemingly on its own initiative to his lips and offer him a quick sip of the life giving elixir.

On the one hand, his secretary ship had returned. Judging by the muffled kissing noises and gooey, giggling "Kawaii~" coming from Nagato's office, the battleship was cuddling the hell out of the hamster everyone on base knew she kept but pretended not too.

On the other hand, Ooyodo, one of if not the most mentally stable shipgirls in the entire JMSDF had flown into a rage like a dragon guarding her precious treasure horde. He'd never seen the old command cruiser get quite so agitated, especially without a twenty-slide powerpoint presentation to back up her anger. But, he'd also never seen the girl get upset over nothing.

Goto made a mental note to check in with his logistics ship as soon as possible. If there was some new fire he had to put out, he'd rather know of his impossible task sooner than later. But first, the Admiral allowed himself a brief moment to check in with his secretary ship.

And by 'check in', he meant 'bully.' The Admiral cracked a tired grin and tapped his knuckle against the heavy wood door, "Nagato?"

The battleship's voice stopped mid "chu~". Goto could hear her tense up. Her heavy fabric and steel uniform rustled as she furiously checked for anyone who might have seen her unbecoming antics. Then she coughed, "Yes?" she asked, her voice back to its normal dusky rumble. "Come in."

Goto slapped at the handle, shouldering his way through the door with gross motor functions only. "Morning, Nagato."

The battleship nodded at him. She was every bit the picture of a stern battleship of the big seven: back straight as a ramrod, shoulders thrust back and chest held forward, fingers laced over her heavy wooden desk. Only the tiny tuft of hamster fur protruding out of her cleavage ruined the illusion.

Goto coughed, and glanced at the battleship's torpedo bulges.

Nagato cocked an eyebrow at him before glancing down at herself. Her face instantly flushed a brilliant crimson, and she frantically shoved her beloved animal deeper between her breasts until there wasn't any evidence of it at all.

"Smooth," said Goto. "Smooooooooth."

Nagato tossed a lock of ebony hair back with a flick of her head, her pink-red eyes glowing in frustrated defiance. "Can I help you, sir?"

Goto smiled at her flustered face. Really, genuinely smiled. "You just did, Nagato."

The Battleship's chest puffed out with pride. Then it quivered a little as her hamster squeezed up until its tiny face hung out between her generous breasts. The tiny creature yawned happily and settled against the battleship's surprisingly soft chest pillows. Goto would have sworn he saw the tiny thing wink at him.

But while the hamster was making itself comfortable, Nagato looked like someone just shoved an ice-cold iron bar up her stern. Her eyes were wide as dinner plates, and the muscles in her neck tensed. "A-admiral…"

"I saw nothing," Goto leaned over to give the hamster a little scratch between its ears. "Just wanted to make sure you were settling back in well."

"I am." A crash of steel on steel rang through the office, the tell-tale sign of a battleship scuffing her boots together to snap herself out of a moe-induced bluescreen. "Thank you, sir."

"Anything I should know about our allies?" Goto gave the hamster a final scratch before pulling his hand back. "Or Musashi, for that matter."

"The Americans are…" Nagato put a finger to her chin, looking every part the stoic samurai she so often claimed to be. Other than the tiny animal shooting Goto a shit-eating grin from between her breasts. "Loud," said the battleship. "Boisterous in battle, boorish on shore leave. Their sense of decorum is as limited as their bravery is limitless." The battleship took a breath, "They are warriors of the highest caliber, and I would be honored to fight alongside them again."

Her hamster nodded sagely.

Goto cocked an eyebrow, "High praise, coming from you."

"You expected anything less, sir?"

"Point," Goto sighed. "And Musashi?"

"Her Ego is boundless and her skills dull and unpracticed," said Nagato. "But she is brave, and I believe she'd found a cause worthy of her immense talent." The battleship clasped her hands on her desk, "I can have a full report on your desk by the end of the day, sir."

"Excellent." Goto raised his mug to her. Even in all the craziness that came with running a naval base full of warships who were also girls who were mostly admiral-sexual, Nagato never failed to be polite and professional. At least as long as small animals weren't involved. "I'll leave you to it."

"Thank you, sir," Nagato nodded, and Goto would've sworn the tiny animal reclining in her cleavage offered up an equally tiny salute.

The Admiral didn't stop to ponder that little sighting. Nagato needed her alone-time if she was going to keep sane, and Goto had other girls he had to check in with. He closed the door behind him, and the gooey sounds of Nagato cuddling and kissing her beloved animal followed mere split-seconds after the deadbolt slammed home.

Goto shook his head and shuffled over to Ooyodo's office. He raised a hand to knock against the door, only for it to swing open at the lightest tap. Inside was… not Ooyodo's office.

Inside was a disaster area.

Coffee, and the shattered remains of at least three of the command cruiser's prized sixty-four-ounce coffee mugs splashed against the floor. The monitors mounted to every wall glowed with arcane spreadsheets that even Goto's twenty-first century computer knowledge couldn't decipher. And square in the middle—seething with a rage so furious moisture in the air flashed to steam when it touched her bare skin—was a wild-eyed Ooyodo.

Goto blinked, and took a long drag from his mug. A year ago, this kind of thing would have sent him into a blind panic, but the months had hardened him, tempered him against the insane realities of shipgirl command. The admiral let a mouthful of burnt coffee sit on his tongue, savoring the familiar—not pleasant, but familiar—taste. "Sup?"

Ooyodo let out a hissing breath that warmed the room by five degrees. Her nostrils flared as her gaze flicked from Goto to her spreadsheets. "Admiral," the cruiser spun one of her monitors around on its mount and gestured furiously at the impossibly arcane spreadsheet. "Our stockpile is gone."

Goto blinked. "Run that by me again." He set his coffee cup down on the cruiser's desk—only to have her immediately steal it and chug the remaining contents in one long gulp. Goto didn't say anything, the girl looked like she needed it and then some. "You've been building that horde for… what, six months now?"

"Yes," hissed Ooyodo through gritted teeth. The cruiser's protective husbanding of her supplies was legendary among the JMSDF. She was a logistical god among men who treated her spreadsheets with the kind of tender care and devotion that put a mother to shame. "And it's all gone."

"Where did-"

"Shinano." Ooyodo pointed at a spreadsheet cell labeled 'jlkhjfh;lkl.' "She ate almost a quarter for breakfast today. Her gluttony is…" Ooyodo stopped and forced some shred of composure into her shaking voice. "I could feed Akagi and Kaga and their plane guards for that."

Goto scowled and rubbed his temples, "She's fresh off the yards, Akashi said-"

"Akashi said" Ooyodo slapped a file against her Admiral's chest, "that whatever dent in Shinano's insatiable appetite completing her rebuild makes will be canceled out by maintaining her aviation element."

Goto's scowl deepened, "How bad we talking?"

"Bad." Ooyodo tapped though her multitude of tabs—the girl apparently didn't believe in ever closing one—until she found a report she'd done months back when the Akizukis came back. "She's a late-war ship. The ruined state of Japanese industry at that point-"

"Makes it that much harder for her to reconstitute planes." Goto sighed, "Yeah, I got it. Where does that leave us?"

"With enough food to last this country until the next convoy," Ooyodo tabbed up another graph. "With absolutely no margin for error."

"Damn," Goto rested his knuckles on the cruiser's desk, his fists finding the helpfully placed divots Ooyodo's slightly smaller but much studier fists had made in the hardwood. "Alright… let's find some room."

"Where, sir?" Ooyodo shook her head. "We're already fishing the Sea of Japan at capacity. I've got whaling ships working the Bonins 24/7, but their crews need sleep, and with this… Tosa-princess we might lose them as well. There is no room for me to give you."

"Our allies then," Goto bit his lip, trying to think of some stone he hadn't turned the past thousand time he went looking for a rock to look under.

"America has more than we could ever need," said Ooyodo, "But it's five thousand miles away along the Arctic route. Six-five via Hawaii. That's a hell of a long trip to make, even in peacetime. Factor in escorts, hostile action, turn-around time-"

"Okay, I get it," Goto held up his hand. "There's not any slack?"

Ooyodo shook her head. "The same as the last nine times you asked, sir. The docks can only manage so many ships."

"Fine," Goto stared at the map tacked up on Ooyodo's corkboard. "Russia then."

"Russia's fully committed to supporting Europe."

"Damnit," Goto wasn't surprised. He read the newspaper the same as everyone else. But in a world where literally magic warship spirits fought monsters from the deep, he kept hoping for a miracle. "China-"

"The last anyone heard from China, the country was one big food riot," Ooyodo didn't even look up from her spreadsheet, "That was six months ago, sir."

Goto bit his lip and hissed out a frustrated puff of breath. "Australia then."

"They have the calories," Ooyodo said as she tabbed over to yet another window. "But how do you propose to get them here? The South China sea?" Ooyodo pointed at a section of her map marked with the bloody red of Abyssal-owned waters. "The Banda perhaps?" More red. "Perhaps the Bismarck or the Solomons," Ooyodo slashed her hand out at the Abyssals' latest conquest. "We're damn lucky we didn't lose the Coral sea too. And that Haruna made it down there in one piece."

"I know," Goto's voice was little more than a murmur as he stared at the map.

Ooyodo blinked. "Sir?"

"If we take the South China Sea—if we even punch a corridor, we buy a whole mess of breathing room."

Ooyodo stood up, her hand cradling her chin as she stared at the map. "Uh huh…"

"Riau-" Goto circled a cluster of islands at the very southernmost tip of the sea, "Paracel-" he circled another cluster at the north-west corner, "And Spratly islands."

"Sir?" Ooyodo fingered the hip openings of her skirt.

"Those are their bases, they have to be," said Goto. "Reports said they were sorting shorter-ranged ships. PT-boats and coastal battleships, right?"

Ooyodo nodded, "Yeah."

"If they lose those, what's the next closest place for them to launch from?"

Ooyodo squinted at the map, then consulted her spreadsheet. Then back to the map. "Palau, sir."

"Fifteen hundred miles just to get to their hunting ground," breathed Goto, "And there's no way they can slip past the Philippines without getting spotted."

"I see where this is going, sir," Ooyodo smiled. It was the first time Goto recalled seeing her look honestly happy in… months.

"Have Nagato meet me in my office in half an hour," said Goto. "And tell Richardson I want a report on his battle with the Tosa Princess the moment the battle's over."

"Sir!" Ooyodo snapped off a crisp salute. "Oh, and Admiral?"

"Hmm?" Goto wheeled over on his heel.

"About Shinano…" Ooyodo scuffed her boot against the floor, "She came back with just one outfit. I've called every store in town, but nobody has her size. At least not anymore."

"I'll…" Goto smirked, "I'll call Richardson. He's got a suu-" he caught himself, "-upply expert who can help us out."

"We still have to feed her, sir," said Ooyodo. "That's a lot of rice for forty-seven planes."

"Easy enough," Goto shrugged, "Williams' been begging me for a carrier. Let him pick up the tab."

Ooyodo's face flushed with joy. "You mean-"

"You don't have to worry about her, no."

Ooyodo blinked, then threw her arms around her Admiral in a tight hug. "Thank you!"

—|—|—

Jersey hunched over her CIC's mapping table and smiled. It was a vicious smile, a slasher grin that ripped across her aquiline features in a mess of glinting teeth and predatory rage. The battleship, one of the last battleships stared at the tiny symbols wandering around her plotting board and allowed herself a brief moment to laugh.

Before, she was little more than a glorified barge. First a platform for anti-aircraft weapons, then a hauler of cruise missiles reactivated for reasons more political than military.

But not anymore. Now… now she was queen. There were no aircraft to worry about, no submarines lurking to mess up her day with a well-timed spread of fish up her nonexistent skirt. Today, it was just her, her targets, and nine of the finest rifles ever forged by human hands.

"Kongou," The American's voice seemed calm, but there was an edge to each syllable, a tension in her breath signaling the furious bloodlust pumping though her veins at a thousand psi. "Kirishima, you ready?"

"Hai!" The two Japanese battleships answered as one. They might not share Jersey's hatred of the Nazi-ships with their flags of blood and ash, but there wasn't a shred of hesitation in their voice. All business, ready to hunt.

"Open fire," breathed Jersey.

The two battleships spoke their acknowledgements over the radio, but they needn't have bothered. The titanic report of their sixteen fourteen inch rifles thundered over the water, a booming report the world had gone too long without.

Jersey allowed herself a brief moment to soak in the supernatural power of a battleship's full broadside before turning back to her map. Kongou and Kirishima sat off each flank of the fleeing Panzershiff division, hammering them with ragged brackets from twenty-thousand yards.

The battleships weren't scoring hits—yet—but they didn't need to. The two Japanese battleships formed the sides of a long tube, funneling the abyssal pocket battleships down the center as they fled from the fourteen inch might of a pair of realbattleships.

"They're right on course, dess," Kongou's sweet accent cut though the air like honed steel. There wasn't a drop of the murder-happy bloodlust filling Jersey's veins in her voice. Just limitless amounts of utter righteous anger.

"We're straddling them," said Kirishima. Where her sister's voice oozed with the upper-class anger that only a truly outraged Englishwoman could truly summon, Kirishima's voice was cold as frozen iron. A mathematician warrior bringing her foe down with cold indifference. "A few more salvos and we'll have the range."

Jersey smirked. The Abyssal pocket battleships were fleeing as fast as their exhausted turbines could push them. They weaved and dodged between the splashes, frantically buying time as they ran their genocidal little hearts out.

Ran right down the funnel Kongou and Kirishima formed. Right into Jersey's guns. And unlike them, she wouldn't miss.

The battleship narrowed her eyes, her gaze locked on her targets as she slowly brought her twin revolvers into her field of view. Her target was turning hard in, finishing off a zig at sixteen-thousand-five-hundred yards.

The American held her fire, her mechanical brain whirring away as every instant new data was fed into the fire-control computer. Range, gravity, wind-resistance, Coriolis force, roll of the ship… every variable was measured and accounted for by the computer. She just needed the ship to sit still…

And then it did. The pocket battleship straightened out from its zig, smoke pouring from its stacks as it tried to mask its position from Kongou and Kirishima. Not that it mattered, even if the smoke had been between it and Jersey, her radar saw though smoke like glass.

Jersey smiled, her fingers closing around the triggers of her guns when BOOM!.

Nine mark seven rifles spoke in glorious harmony, cratering the ocean with their thundering voices and momentarily turning the deary winter evening into a burning summer noon. Shells ripped though the air as the battleship's turrets dropped back to their loading angles. Gun crews scrambled with carefully-ordered chaos, bringing fresh shells and powder up from the magazine in prepration for the battleship's next salvo.

Her fist was a tight bracket, splashing salty plumes dyed ice-blue by her shells high over the pocket battleships' masts. The ship shuddered, shaken by the mere concussion of Jersey's colossal rounds landing nearby. Spooked—no, terrified—the twisted mockery of a warship turned to flee.

A pointless gesture, Jersey's next salvo caught it square on. Sixteen inch shells punched though its three-inch belt like tissue paper, tearing vast holes in the internal machinery with their sheer mass. Turret Anton exploded out of the hull, toppling head over tail on a towering pillar of burning powder as the forward third of the pocket battleship simply vanished into fine steel mist.

Steel crunched and screamed as eight more of Jersey's enormous sixteen-inch mark thirteen high-explosive shells tore though the mockery of armor before tearing the hateful abomination of a ship to shreds with their explosive filler. The flag the pocket battleship flew so proudly held on just long enough to burn to cinders in the explosion before it too slipped beneath the waves, leaving nothing but an oily slick as memorial.

"Boom," breathed Jersey, her sighs already slewing to her next target.

The Abyssals were pouring on whatever speed they'd held in reserve in a frantic bid to be anywhere but in front of the bloodthirsty American monster. The bravest of them held its turn a second longer, swinging its bow around to fire a full salvo of six eleven inch rounds at Jersey's oncoming hull.

Jersey didn't dodge, she didn't even try. The six-hundred pound shells slammed into her armor with all the murderous hate of an entire Reich behind them. And then they bounced. Their penetrators utterly defeated by Jersey's belt, the swords of hate blunted by the shield of Freedom.

Only freedom didn't just have a shield. Freedom had big-ass guns. "RUN SOME MORE!" bellowed Jersey as her fore six guns thundered in chorus. Jersey smiled as she felt the concussion rip over her slender bow, blasting all the surf that'd piled up on her deck flashing off the sides.

Shells arced though the air, splashing down in a bracket straddling her target. Most missed, but one hit just ahead of the torpedo tubes and burrowed its way deep into the pocket battleship's hull.

The explosion was muffled and muted, a deep fwuMP more felt than heard as the ship's bottom blew out, lifting the ship by its center up before smacking it back down into the freezing North Pacific. Jersey lined up a second salvo just to be safe, but there was almost no point. The ship was listing heavily to one side and belching smoke from every orifice. Flames poured across the decks as burning diesel sloshed around the torpedo tubes and boat davits.

Jersey put the writing warship down with a final salvo of high-capacity shells. Two down, two more running for freedom at the other end of the rapidly closing pocket created by Jersey and the two Kongous.

Only… there wasn't freedom waiting on the other side.

"Yo, Mushi," Jersey smiled as her gun crews slammed fresh shells into her hot guns. Adrenaline coursed though her veins, mingling with the traces of barbarian fury still lingering in her system to form a deadly cocktail of pure freedom-fueled ferocity. "You ready to sling lead?"

For a second, nothing. Then the horizon erupted in a silent ball of flame. With the colossal range of the fourty-six centimeter rifles, it took more than a minute for the sound to catch up.

But the sound the glorious music was well worth the wait. "I, MUSASHI!" the big-titted Japanese super-battleship's voice thundered over even the report of her own rifles, "WILL FIGHT!"

Her shells landed short, their diving noses keeping them steady as they plunged under the water, gouging enormous holes in the pocket battleships' bellies before exploding against their keels. Pocket battleships they may be, superb firepower and value for their size.

But they were nothing against the sheer firepower of the two most powerful battleships that had ever or will ever exist on this earth. One ship split into four chunks bleeding burning diesel as they slipped beneath the waves, while the other sagged pathetically amidships but somehow kept itself together.

Jersey's guns were the first to reload, and she hammered a six-gun salute into the limping warship, pulverizing its bow into nothing more than twisted metal scrap. Musashi replied a second later, tearing the already weakened middle section apart with a precise salvo before Jersey savaged the sinking hulk with her own rifles.

The battle had lasted less then two hours, and all that remained of the four fleeing pocket battleships were a few puddles of burning diesel.

"Well," Jersey held out her fist to Musashi, who obligingly smacked it with her own. "We're fucking badasses."

"Aren't we just?" Musashi threw her head back in a howling laugh. Her breast heaved as she came down off the adrenaline high, her chocolate skin slick with sweat and salt as she howled to the sun.

Jersey swatted the super-battleship's stern before turning her mind to more important matters, "Anyone hit?"

Kongou shook her head.

"Two hits." Kirishima held up the end of her flowing sleeve, poking her fingers though the two neat little holes punched at the tip, "Through-and-through, shouldn't take long to fix."

"Good," Jersey ruffled the Japanese girl's hair and grinned, "What about you, Pagoda-boat?"

"I was hit-" Musashi clawed at her stomach to keep herself from devolving into another bout of uncontrollable laughter. "I- I was hit thirteen times!"

Jersey rolled her eyes, "Did even fucking one of 'em pen you?"

"Nope!" Musashi arched her back, her deliciously tanned arms flexing in a gun-show that Jersey just knew she could beat if she wasn't wearing long sleeves. She puffed out her chest until her bandages looked like they were nanometers away from giving out and thundered "I, MUSASHI, AM INVINCIBLE!"

Kongou offered an earnest golf-clap and a huge smile before pouncing at Musashi with a hug.

"Good lord," Jersey rolled her eyes, "You people have no fucking decorum what so-fucking ever."

"You're just mad you didn't think of it first," countered Musashi.

Jersey rolled her eyes even harder. "Look… let's just, uh… form up on Frisco, eh?"

The four battleships and their assorted destroyer escorts lazily formed back up into line astern. Jersey led the formation, both because she was flagship, and because her radar was unquestionably the best. Also, she had the nicest stern. Not bragging, just being objective here.

It wasn't long before the fleet caught sight of Frisco happily steaming towards them at a solid twenty-eight knot clip. But as the shockingly pretty Nesai shipgirl closed the distance, her speed dropped to a crawl until she dropped to nothing a few thousand yards away. Her eyes narrowed even further and her head tilted to one side, sweeping up and down Jersey's towering hull with utter confusion painted on her fine features.

"Uh… Frisco?" Jersey felt her heart skip a few beats before roaring into overdrive.

The cruiser held up a finger.

Yuudachi poied.

"Jersey," Frisco glanced up at the towering battleship, "the hell are you wearing."

Jersey gulped, her gently-tanned skin suddenly flushing to bone-pale. "Uh… Uh, clothes," she stammered. "Clothes, you know… like some people," she shot a glare at Musashi's bandage bra, "Wear."

"Should she, like," Yuudachi waved her hand to ask permission to speak, then went ahead anyway, "Wear something elseish?"

"Is there something wrong with her outfit, dess?" asked Kongou.

"According to my calculations," Kirishima looked up and down Jersey's body, "Her current outfit fits her very well."

"Hey!" Jersey flipped her middle finger at the littlest Kongou for lack of anything more intelligent to do. She turned to Frisco, her hands clasped in supplication as she pleaded with the heavy cruiser, "Frisco…"

Frisco ignored the battleship's pleas with a smile, "You know, I'm sure you wore a dress last time we hung out."

"Friscooooooooooo!"

"A really nice blue dress," Frisco dragged her hands across a bustline much bigger than her own treaty-compliant bosom, "With like, your tits all hanging out-"

"Please shut up," begged Jersey.

"-And white thigh-highs and everything!" finished Frisco with a smile.

"I will cut you," hissed the battleship..

"Nah," Frisco smiled and tossed a lock of that beautiful raven-black hair over her shoulder, "You love me."

Jersey snarled at the cruiser, her brows knit into a dense line above her mirrored aviators. Then she shrugged and ruffled the cruiser's hair. "You're right, I do," she said. "But still…" the ruffle transitioned into a playful noogie.

"Ow! OwOwOwOw!" Frisco yelped and slid out of the battleship's grasp. "You know, your old look's in Janes'."

The battleship froze again, "Did Cr-"

"Yes."

"FUCK!" Jersey kicked the water.

"He thinks you're cu~te~," teased Frisco.

"FUCK YOU!" thundered Jersey.

"Excuse me," Kirishima wandered over to the cruiser, notebook held at the read, "San-Fransisco-sama?"

Kongou and Jersey shared a resigned sigh, while Musashi slapped her palm to her hand with a loud grunt.

—|—|—

Yeoman Gale ducked out of the mess hall with a belly full of Bannie's special loaded baked potatoes and an equally hearty portion of Lou's delicious pizza. She could feel the fat starting to form around her middle with every step she took, and she figured she'd regret her decision in the morning. But right now, she couldn't imagine herself being any happier.

Those girls could cook. It took every bit of self-control she had left to excuse herself before she gobbled down seconds, thirds, and fifths of everything they'd made. Note to self, never make shipgirls thankful during bikini weather. At least her turtleneck and fatigue blouse did a decent enough job of hiding her belly pooch. She'd the gym… later.

Right now she had to…

Had to…

Um…

Gale's train of thought was suddenly and utterly derailed by the single most beautiful sight she'd ever seen in her life.

A few feet away, Wash jogged down the chilly concrete in athletic wear. Her snug-fitting heather gray T-shirt hugged her body tightly enough to hint at the lime-green fabric of her sports-bra. A bra that really wasn't doing enough to support the battleship's big round upperworks as she ran. The battleship's whole body swayed with a kind of precise, rhythmic grace. Swoosh, Swoosh, Swoosh.

Gale clutched at her chubby belly, instantly regretting indulging herself at dinner. Or at least almost regretting, Lou and Bannie were amazing cooks. It was like watching a dozen virtuosoes play a concert. Only instead of a symphony of music, this was a symphony of curves in motion. Gale was so entranced with the way Wash moved, she almost missed the battleship's swinging hips in those short, tight shorts. Almost missed the way her russet brown hair streamed out behind her like a ship's wake.

Almost missed the way Wash's foot hit the ground a little funny near that one bit of sidewalk that was tilted a little bit, sending the battleship off her balance and flying onto her belly.

Wait.

"Wash!" Gale yelped and bolted for the battleship.

"Ow," Wash let out a pathetic moan as she rolled onto her back. The concrete was scored with deep gouges where her immense mass had carved furrows in her wake.

"Wash, are you okay?" Gale dropped to her knees and tried to help the battleship up.

Wash panted in response. Her colossal chest heaved as she struggled to suck down enough air, jiggling just enough in that lime-green bra—that looked suspiciously like one Gale had lost a few months ago—to short-circuit what few neurons the sailor still had. She held up a finger, her pale skin drenched in sweat as she struggled to get her wind back.

"W-wash," It took everything Gale had not to leer at the sweat-slicked battleship, and even then her imagination was running away with her. But… but that was an activity for another time. Right now, Wash needed her to be a friend. She could lust over theNorth Carolina's curves later—that was what Janes' was for.

But right now, Gale needed to love the battleship, not lust after her. She needed to be more like Crowning. "Are you okay?"

Wash panted in return, her cheeks flushing red from exertion as she flopped forward. Her breasts piled up against those toned thighs as she clutched her head in her hands, her face contorted with the pain of a mean stitch in her side.

Gale bit her lip, tore her eyes away from the interesting way Wash's figure squished, and gently pulled the battleship's sweaty hair out of the way. Even drenched in sweat, the battleship's russet brown mane fel- NO! No time for that!

"I'm…" Wash's voice was little more than a dusty croak, "I'm okay," she panted."

"You want some water?" asked Gale.

Wash nodded glumly.

Gale looked around. She wasn't about to leave the battleship all alone, not like this… but… ah! "Hey, Sailor!" Gale waved down a gangling kid with the deer-in-the-headlights look of a freshly-minted E-1.

The kid gulped a few times like a goldfish abruptly torn from its bowl and patted his chest.

Gale nodded, and waved him over. "Run into the mess hall," she ordered, "get me a jug of ice-water and a salt shaker."

The kid nodded, then bolted for the kitchen in the gangling all-limbs run of someone who hadn't quite grown into their body yet.

Gale sighed, then looked back to the utterly gorgeous battleship quivering on the concrete. Her back was arched, showing off not just the masterfully sculpted muscle of her back, but the quivering of a scared, exhausted girl in the midwinter chill.

"Oh, honey," Gale muttered to herself and draped her NWU blouse over Wash's shoulders. So what if it was chilly and Wash might get a peek at her squishy winter belly pudge. If Gale stood a snowball's chance at getting with Wash, it hinged on her beingnice to the poor girl. "That better?"

Wash nodded, her breast still heaving as she struggled to get her wind back.

"How long were you running?" asked Gale. She hadn't seen battleships run much, especially proper, demure miss Washington. But she had seen Jersey sprint a few times. That girl could run mile after mile at a dead sprint without even panting.

"Thr-" Wash coughed, "Three hours."

"Dammit, Wash!" Gale scowled, but her face softened when the rating popped back with the pitcher she'd asked for. Gale hurriedly dumped a goodly amount of salt, stirred the water with her fingers, then offered it to Wash.

Wash smiled sweetly—even drenched in sweat and shivering in the cold, she still managed to be a proper lady—mumbled a few words of thanks, and gulped down the entire thing in one long drag.

"Better?" Gale smiled and brushed a loose strand of hair that was glued to Wash's brow by sweat.

Wash nodded sheepishly. "Thank you."

"So," Gale slouched back on the concrete next to Wash, letting the battleship's curvy bulk rest against her side, "We wanna talk about why you were running for three hours?"

"'m not fast enough," said Wash.

Gale blinked. "Dammit, Wash, you can do like…twenty-eight knots."

Wash shook her head, "No… I… I can do twenty-seven. On a good day." The battleship wiped at her soaking brow, "My powerplant, my screws… they never worked right."

"It's still fast," mumbled Gale.

"I can't shoot at speed," said Wash. There wasn't any indignation in her voice, just glum acceptance. "I shake too badly to find the range. If… I can't help thinking that maybe if I was a little bit faster, those pocket battleships wouldn't have gotten past me."

"We caught 'em in the end, though," Gale wrapped one arm around Wash's sweaty shoulders and pulled her into a sideways hug.

"Maybe next time you won't," said the battleship. "So… I was… running."

"Wash," Gale bit her lip.

"I know," the battleship hung her head, "that's not how it works for us. For me. But… but it's all I can do."

"Oh…" Gale screwed up her face and pulled the battleship into a full-on hug. There was something she knew she could do. Something that never failed to cheer up a glum shipgirl. And unfortunately, it was murder on the poor sailor's waistline. "Uh, Wash?"

"Hmm?"

"Do…" Gale bit her lip, "Do you wanna swing by my place for movies and ice cream?"

Wash shook her head, "I'm a mess, I wouldn't want to-"

"No!" Gale shook her head even more vigorously. She kicked herself for even proposing it, then started making a mental list of the shirts she wouldn't mind getting horribly stretched out by her battleship friend's first-rate torpedo bulges. "I'll, uh… you can borrow something of mine."

"Really?" said Wash, her face brightening for the first time that evening.

"Mmmh,"Gale nodded. "I'll even let you use my shower." The sailor glanced over Wash's sweaty body in a way she hoped didn't come off as lecherous, "You kinda reek."

"I know," said Wash with a small laugh. "And thank you. You're the best friend a battleship could ask for."

"Well…" Gale's face blossomed a brilliant crimson, "Uh… yeah…" she bit her lip. "Room," was her eloquent response.

"Of course," Wash somehow managed to curtsy in skintight running shorts, then fell into line-abreast with Gale, one arm hooked though the sailor's arm and a tired smile on her face.