Chapter 85: Lollipops Solve Everything

The paper-covered vinyl exam table felt cold against Prinz Eugen's bare legs. Everything felt like that now that she was back. Too cold or too hot, rough when it should be smooth or smooth when it should be rough. Everything felt wrong.

Sometimes it was so subtle it was all but unnoticeable, like a shadow all the way in the corner of her peripheral vision. Sometimes it was more obvious. Prinz Eugen couldn't shake the feeling that the universe itself was trying to send her a message. "You are not welcome."

The cruiser bit her lip and shook her head. Lies. Lies. She might be German-born, but she was American now. She was part of an American cruiser division, she was friends with two treaty cruisers. She had a family again. So what if reality said she didn't belong? Her family said she did.

Now if only she could get rid of this stupid cold.

Prinz Eugen fished a handkerchief out of her uniform blouse and buried her nose in the slightly-damp material. She blew as hard as she could, so hard she almost let her foghorns go off indoors, but it didn't matter. Her nose still felt like it was teetering right on the edge of a cliff. Like she'd be dripping any second not, but not quiiiiite yet.

She dabbed at her nose, and put the handkerchief away. And then realized she wasn't alone in the room anymore.

"Hey," a short, grizzled American with more silvery steel in her hair than coal-black gave her a quick nod. It didn't take Prinz Eugen long to recognize her design.

"Frau Doctor," Prinz Eugen dipped her head in respect.

"Call me Vestal." The old American's voice slipped though her lips like a thief in the night while she fished a battered wooden pipe from one of the many pockets on her tool belt.

"Frau Vestal then," said Prinz Eugen.

Vestal shrugged, and struck a match against the exam table's heavily reinforced leg. After a moment's fiddling, her pipe let out a thick, coal-fired black puff of smoke.

The old repair ship took a deep breath of the sooty vapor and held it in her mouth. Then, with a hissing puff of breath, she exhaled though lips opened only just enough for the gas to slip though.

"Is… that healthy?" asked Prinz Eugen. There were many many reasons the Nazi party disgusted her. But after German scientists linked smoking with lung cancer, they'd been the first in the world to condemn tobacco.

"Used to be a collier," Vestal shunted the pipe to the corner of her mouth, then seemed to forget it was even there. "And anyways, I'm a ship not a woman, so…"

Prinz Eugen nodded. "I… guess that's okay."

Vestal shot the cruiser a look. "You always this flighty?"

She shook her head. "No, Just… the last experience I had with shipwrights… was not a good one."

"Crossroads?" Vestal scowled, her pipe almost—but never quite totally—falling from the corner of her mouth.

Prinz Eugen nodded sadly. "Not even the test, I don't remember anything about that. But when they were preparing me for it…"

Vestal's scowl deepened, and she shushed the cruiser with a look. "Well, I'm here to make you better."

The cruiser nodded.

"Lollipop?" Vestal fished a plastic-wrapped treat from one of her coat pockets. Then banged it against her thigh a few times to shake the worst of the coal dust off the packaging.

Prinz Eugen smiled a smile that could light up a continent. "Danke!" she said, tearing the plastic off and sticking the candy in her mouth in almost one smooth motion.

Vestal cracked a wry smile for a moment, then it was gone again. "Now, let's get you checked out."

Prinz Eugen just nodded. She was too busy sucking on her new treat to say anything coherent.

Vestal fished something out of her tool belt, a bright yellow box with a short silver handle that crackled quietly when she waved it around. A Geiger counter. Prinz Eugen knew that crackle all too well, even if the exact design was new to her.

"Well," Vestal set the counter down on a table with a heavy thunk. One of her faeries darted down her sleeve and helpfully flipped the thing off for her. "You're not hot anymore. At least not any hotter than you should be."

Prinz Eugen popped the sucker out of her mouth just long enough to mutter a quiet "Danke," then popped it right back in again with a sniffle.

Vestal frowned. The heavy leather of her open welding jacket creaked as she crossed her arms with a huff. "We've gotta do something about that cold."

Prinz Eugen sniffled, and nodded.

Vestal leaned over and unbuttoned the front of Prinz Eugen's uniform blouse. Her pipe almost touched the cruiser's treaty-breaking breasts, but the old repair ship's gaze didn't have the slightest hint of lustful intent.

The cruiser coughed, and blushed a little. She still had her bra on, but she didn't expect Americans to be so forward.

"Easy, girl," Vestal put the head of a stethoscope against her chest. "Just breath normal."

Prinz Eugen nodded, and let out a few rasping, rattly breaths.

Vestal's face twisted up into a scowl. "Damn high-pressure boilers," she muttered, letting the stethoscope fall around her neck. "Be easier if I had a manual for the damn things."

As if on cue, a tiny faerie in an equally tiny Kriegsmarine uniform came crawling out of Prinz Eugen's decidedly non-tiny cleavage. The little creature trotted up to stand on the crown of her breast and saluted.

Vestal raised one bushy, coal-colored eyebrow at the tiny sailor. "Hi."

The faerie produced a stack of itty-bitty books with tiny, but distinctly German, writing on them.

Vestal took the book between her fingers—it was hardly bigger than her own gritty fingernail—and flipped though the pages with careful precision. For almost twenty minutes, she just flipped and read.

Occasionally, she'd mutter a quiet "huh", or "so that's what that does," or even more rarely, "kraut boat magic." Then she closed the book and turned to face the cruiser's confused face.

"Prinz Eugen?" asked Vestal.

"Ja?"

"You've had these aboard all along, yes?" asked Vestal.

"Since I came back, ja." Prinz Eugen nodded. "And a few Kriegsmarine advisors too."

"Hmm," A fire glowed behind Vestal's eyes that Prinz Eugen hadn't seen before. "Prinz Eugen, would you please assemble your crew on your quarterdeck?"

The cruiser nodded. "Done."

Vestal nodded, and leaned over the cruiser until her nose was mere inches from the gentle divot in Prinz Eugen's belly marking her navel. How the Germans got a uniform blouse to fit so snugly over her figure was a question for another time.

"You have manuals now," barked the old repair ship. "I expect you to read them and know them by heart."

Something very quiet wafted up from the cruiser's tummy, but it was quickly quenched.

Vestal blinked. "YOU HAD THEM ABOARD THE WHOLE TIME? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!" she thundered at the cruiser's tummy. "READ THE GODDAMN MANUAL, YOU SHITS!"

A very quiet, timid mumble wafted up from Prinz Eugen's belly.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S NOT AMERICAN?" bellowed Vestal.

"Vestal, are you—" Major Solette froze in the doorway, one hand clasping a tall travel mug while the other was still planted on the handle. For a moment, the nurse tried to comprehend the sight before him. But no matter how much he blinked, thought, or tried to rationalize it, all he could see was a confused German-who-was-also-a-boat getting her belly screamed at by an old American-who-was-also-a-boat.

Vestal was too busy with her furious tirade to notice him.

Solette blinked. "oooookay."

—|—|—

"Good evening, Washington-Sama."

Wash glanced up from her fifty-third helping of Salisbury steak with potatoes and gravy, the dabbed a napkin against the corners of her mouth. "Kirishima," she gave the Japanese battleship a polite nod. "It's nice to see you again."

"And it's nice to see you," Kirishima smiled and sat down. Or, to be more precise, she poured herself into the seat like honey sliding across hot metal. There was definitely some extraneous swooshing in those curves of hers, "For the very first time."

Wash blushed a shade, and took a gulp of her milk to cover it. "Yes, our first engagement."

"It was…" Kirishima let out a breathy sigh. The Japanese battleship crossed her legs, drawing her already short skirt scandalously high until Wash caught a glimpse of her anti-fouling measures.

It surprised the American, but Kirishima was, after all, Japanese. She came from a very different culture. If Wash was going to work with her allies, she'd need to learn to work around her new friends' eccentricities.

"Very what," asked Wash, eager to get the conversation back on track.

Kirishima smiled, and adjusted her glasses with one slender finger. "Enthralling."

Wash shrugged. That's not the word she would have chosen, but she couldn't bring herself to correct the Japanese fast-battleship. It's just not kind to correct the word choice of someone who's already going the extra mile to speak in your native tongue, not hers.

"You know what they say," said the American with a bashful shrug.

"No," Kirishima leaned forwards, her arms framing her chest and squishing her breasts up just a smidgen. "No, I don't." Her eyes locked on Wash's. Her lips hung not-quite-closed and glistened with freshly-applied lipstick.

"War is weeks of utter boredom," said Wash, "Followed by hours of sheer terror."

Kirishima tilted her head to the side, a confused noise slipping though her teeth.

"Our engagement was the latter," said Wash.

The littlest Kongou sat back in her seat with a huff, then begrudgingly accepted the compliment with a bow of her head and a smile on those freshly-painted lips. It was so nice of her to clean herself up before sailing into American waters. Wash would have to make sure she did the same if she ever visited Japan. "You must teach me sometime."

"A night battle?" Wash placed a morsel of steak in her mouth and chewed happily.

Kirishima nodded eagerly. "Of course! A night battle!"

"I would be happy to," said Wash, eliciting a squeal of excitement from Kirishima. "But without radar, I'm not sure much I can teach you."

Kirishima blinked. "O-oh…" she hung her head. "R-right, yes. Of course. A night battle."

"What did you think I meant?"

"Nothing!"

Wash shrugged, and resumed eating her meal.

"We're divisioned up, you know," said Kirishima. Wash got the definite feeling that she was mounting a verbal counter-offensive, but she couldn't for the life of her figure out why.

"Mmm," Wash nodded. It wasn't polite to speak with food in your mouth after all.

"That means we'll be sharing a room, right?" said Kirishima with an almost pleading lilt in her voice.

Wash swallowed. "I don't see why not."

Kirishima let out a most un-battleship-like squeal. "Excellent, Washington-sama!"

Wash shrugged, and took another hearty bite of her dinner. She was going to have a roomate now, excellent. She always did find it hard to fall asleep while alone, and she couldn't exactly ask Gale to borrow her tummy for a pillow every night.

And on the plus side, Janes' said the Kongou sisters were all experts in the arts of love and romance. Maybe Kirishima could help her win Gale's heart—and soft, cuddleable tummy!

—|—|—

Admiral Williams stepped into the briefing room, and immediately froze the moment his brain caught up with the images his eyes were sending him.

Musashi sat at the back of the room with a distinctly childish pout on her face. The towering super-battleship was at least nominally wearing a shirt, but the combination of how low she'd zipped it and how she insisted on hugging herself made it almost a symbolic gesture. Williams was sure if she so much as took a breath her breasts would go spilling out everywhere.

And that was the least weird thing that was going on.

Frisco and Lou sat flanking Prinz Eugen, but both cruisers wore frilly Octoberfest dresses while they chowed down on pretzels heaping with mustard Williams could smell from the podium. Where they got those dresses was utterly beyond him. Meanwhile, Prinz Eugen just sucked contentedly on a lollipop without a care on the world.

Speaking of cruisers, Naka was trying frantically to brush down Yuudachi's hair tufts—earning a confused 'poi?' from the destroyer every time they popped back up fresh as new.

Further back, Kongou had produced a full tea party out of thin air. Not only was there heaping plates of oven-fresh scones, cake with strawberries, fine china teacups, and dainty little pitches of creamer, but she'd also somehow managed to produce enough English-style wood-back chairs for all of DesDiv six to join her.

Well, most of them at any rate. Inazuma was busy tottering around with a comically oversized carafe balanced on her head, doling out coffee to any girl that needed it. Her place at the table was taken by Tenryuu, who appeared to be using her sword to cut the cake.

Which would be fine if she didn't scream a hearty Kiai every time she swung.

And speaking of swords, Hoel's DesRon and Kidd's DesRon had apparently decided the room wasn't crazy enough and started an impromptu sword fight. It was a messy, chaotic battle where the only casualties—besides peace, quiet, and general dignity—were chairs.

Well, most of them anyway. Johnston had instead shoved her face into Jersey's chest. Apparently she'd been like that for quite some time, because her skin was starting to get noticeably blue.

"What," was all the coherence Admiral Williams could manage.

The shipgirls froze.

Slowly, a slain chair toppled over between Dee and Heermann.

Jersey was the first to react. "Attention on deck!" she barked.

There was a loud scuffing as girls snapped to attention.

Johnston fell out of Jersey's cleavage with a quiet 'fumph' and snapped to.

Williams blinked, "Be seated."

The girls settled back down into their chairs. Inazuma tottered up and offered him a steaming mug of coffee that he gratefully accepted.

When the room had quieted down to a baseline level of utter insanity, Williams flicked the screen behind him to a map of the South China sea. A map drenched in the bloody red of Abyssal controlled waters.

"As I'm sure you're all aware," said Williams, "The supply situation in Japan is… dire. We're doing what we can, but shipping food all the way from CONUS to Japan takes time. Loading our ships takes time and our docks are already overworked. And escorting those convoys pulls ships away from other duties."

There was a quite murmur in the briefing room.

"The Abyssals own the South China sea," continued Williams. "They sink anything that steams though, and strangle the path between the farmland Australia and the hungry mouths of Japan."

The Admiral flicked to the next slide; the same map, but with three island groups circled. "Their control of the sea flows from these three points. Woody Island in the Paracels, torpedo boats in Spratly islands, and bases in the Riaus."

He folded his hands behind his back and turned to the assembled girls. "I intend to seize these islands, and force open a corridor of safe waters clear from Taiwan to Sunda. A corridor to be held open by destroyers and slow-battleships from Naval Activities Sasebo."

Jersey hunched forwards until her chest squished against her desk and scribbled a note on her notebook. The other battleships did likewise, and Tenryuu started absentmindedly polishing her sword.

"Our analysts," Williams tried not to put to much weight onto that word. The first few months of the war had been nothing but bad calls from the intelligence branch. But they were finally starting to hit their stride. "suspect the Riau islands are being used as a distribution hub for supplies ferried in from the Celebes and Bismarck seas."

"Supplies, sir?" Jersey raised her hand. "Since when do fucking demons from the deep need logistics?"

"Since now," said Williams. "Observations from Albacore—" Tenryuu shivered "—and Shioi confirm it. The Abyssals have a logistical train. Or at least they act like they do."

Jersey flashed a razor-toothed smile. "Submarine feeding frenzy?"

"Ideally, yes," said Williams. "But we've got precious few submarines with any experience in commerce raiding, nor do we have the time to simply starve them out. This is going to be a surface-only operation."

The battleship smiled even wider.

"Admiral Kirkpatrick," said Williams, "is dispatching a fleet centered around Haruna—"

"Go Imoto-chan!" cheered Kongou.

"—Tiger—"

"Go Imoto-chan!" cheered Kongou again.

"—to punch though Sunda and take the Riaus."

"Question." Kongou raised her hand. "How are they going take the island with ships?"

"Kirkpatrick has a contingent of Australian Marines at her disposal."

Jersey let out a cackling laugh. "Oh hell yes!"

Kongou shot her a confused look.

"Those guys are badass!" explained Jersey. "They come from a place where everything is actively trying to kill them."

Kongou chuckled. "Emus, Dess."

"What?"

"Emus." Kongou looked at her and chuckled again. "Dess."

Jersey stared at the giggling Japanese girl for a moment.

"You two done?" asked Williams.

"Yes, sir." Jersey blushed, "Sorry."

"As I was saying," said Williams, "the Australians are taking the Riaus, and the Spratlys are too small and scattered to support anything bigger than torpedo boats, or possibly destroyers. Mogami will lead Kuma, Tama, and their DesDivs, along with Akitsu Maru to secure them." He turned to his girls, "That leaves the Paracels up to you."

The screen flipped to a satellite image of a tiny island dominated by a runway that thrust into the azure water surrounding it. "This is Woody island as it looked two years ago," said Williams. "The PLAN were busy converting it from a nameless island rock to a forward operating base. With a one-and-a-half mile runway and an artificial harbor that can support steel-hulls up to five-thousand tons, it commands the entire northern half of the sea."

Williams flipped to the next slide. It was a shallower angle of the same island, shot on black-and-white film from an airplane instead of a satellite. "This was taken two weeks ago by recon planes from Shioi."

"Fuck me," breathed Jersey.

The island was the same, only it wasn't. The harbor'd been dug out further, and there were three iron monsters anchored off the atoll ring. Battlecruisers, probably.

But the island itself was… wrong. It exuded evil and malevolence, like a giant festering wound in the middle of the sea. It was a mockery of everything the navy stood for, a rotting coal-back bit of hell transplanted to the Pacific. Even the water around the island looked gritty and foul.

"Mein Gott," breathed Prinz Eugen. "I… I know those ships."

All eyes swung to her.

"Derfflinger," the cruiser's voice was barely more than a whisper. "Lutzow… Hindenburg."

Williams pursed his lips. "Prinz Eugen, I'm afraid this isn't the only picture we've got of them."

The cruiser steeled herself. The muscles in her legs tensioned like steel cables, and she stared straight ahead. Then she gave a gentle nod.

The image flipped to another picture. A telephoto image of the battlecruisers. They were changed, modernized. Their masts were cut down and their sides bristled with anti-aircraft mounts.

The picture was just close enough to make out… something manning the rails. But it was too grainy to see more than dark, slick shadows. Like animated oil slicks commanding the hateful warships.

Warships which each displays with arrogant pride a red-banded swastika on their bows and flew from their masts a bloody red ensign.

Wood shattered as Prinz Eugen's fingers bit into the armrests of her chair. "Tell me," she hissed, her voice shaking with rage, "Tell me we're sinking those… traitors."

"That's the plan," said Williams. "You'll link up with LHDs off Korea, and take back our island."

"Sir," Jersey glanced back at the assembled kanmusu, "That's a hell of a lot of firepower, isn't it?"

"Perhaps," Williams shrugged. "But this mission cannot fail." He paused. "And the Tosa-princess was last seen retreating in this general direction."

"We'll kick her ass, sir," said Jersey. For once, there wasn't any bombast in the battleship's deadly-cold contralto.

"Outstanding." Williams smiled at her. "The next convoy for Japan leaves on the twentieth. You're be sailing with them. In the mean time…" Williams cast a worried glance at the furious Prinz Eugen, "Consider yourselves on leave. You've earned it."

Johnston's hand shot up.

"Yes," said Williams as he rubbed his temples, "The Navy got you tickets to Star Wars. There'll be a truck convoy waiting to take you on the eighteenth. Yeoman Gale has the details."

Johnston put her hand back down.

"Questions?"

The room was silent except for the sound of shipgirls looking around to see if anyone else had something significant to say.

"Outstanding, dismissed." Said the Admiral. "Jersey, hang back a moment."

Jersey pointed a finger at herself and shot him a confused look while the other girls filed out. "Sir?" she asked, "Am I in trouble?"

Williams looked at her, "Should you be?"

Jersey thought. "No?"

Williams sighed. "Look, Commander, you've only been back a few months, and so far you've acquitted yourself excellently."

Jersey blushed, "No, sir I-"

"Jersey," Williams held up a hand. "This is not up for debate."

"Sorry, sir."

The Admiral smiled. "Good, now… you'll be commanding a far larger fleet than you have in the past. In recognition of that, and your outstanding performance in past missions, the Navy has seen fit to promote you to the rank of full Commander."

Jersey blinked. "What?"

"You're an O-5, now Jersey."

Jersey shook her head, "Sir, uh… there's no way I've got the kinda time-in-grade for that."

"Jersey," Williams offered her a slightly more teasing smile, "When where you commissioned into the navy?"

The battleship shot him a quizzical look. "May twenty-third, sir."

"Of what year?"

"Nineteen-forty-three." The battleship blinked again, then she stiffed with a kind of military respect Williams hadn't seen in her before. "Ooooooooooh, okay. Thank you, sir."

"You earned it. Dismissed."

The battleship smiled, and turned on her heel with a squeak of rubber against flooring. For a moment, as she walked out of the briefing room with that hip-swinging gait of hers, Williams almost let himself think Jersey'd found the military discipline and candor hiding deep within her frame.

Then, mere seconds after the doors closed, a familiar roaring contralto thundered out. "HELL FUCKING YEAH, BITCHES!"

Williams sighed. She was going to be insufferable.