Chapter 117: Reunion

Everyone had their pre-battle rituals. From steelhull sailors, to Marines, to ships who were also nominally girls, despite a frankly terrifying inability to girl properly, everyone was trying to sooth the pre-mission jitters as best they could.

Sailors aboard Mustin, Fitzgerald, and Evens were double-, tripe-, and quadruple-checking every weapon, system, and weld aboard.

Buck-toothed ratings in coke-bottle glasses squinted at their consoles, coaxing function out of magic-jammed electronics with computer-wizardry of their own. Deep in the magazines, ordnance techs lavished every missile with the kind of in-depth attention every girl dreams of.

On the Bonnie Dick, Marines zeroed rifles and boresighted tank canons. Helo drivers went over every inch of their whirlybirds with a fine toothed comb, and Harrier pilots poured over recognition charts and armor diagrams. Nobody had ever fought the Abyssals on land and lived to tell the tale. Nobody knew what the monsters could do. Once again, the United States Marine Corps would be charging valiantly where no man had gone before, to seek out new live and smite it.

Back ashore, the taffies, plus Poi and Fubuki and the Duckies—although apparently they had to be coerced at gunpoint into participating—had consumed their own bodyweight in sugar products, and passed-out in a hallway halfway though some stupid-ass Jap cartoon about drills or something. There was a reasonably attractive sniper chick that Jersey idly considered asking Bowers to help her cosplay as, but that was a thought for another time.

Arizona and Pennsylvania were running laps around the base to work their boilers up and loosen up their ancient turbines a bit. Jersey couldn't quite blame them. Arizona at least had next to no combat time at sea, and even Pennsy spent most of the war hating islands into oblivion.

But the Iowa couldn't get over how cute the short, plump little standards looked when they ran. They looked like fat corgis with those tiny little legs flailing in a desperate attempt to move faster than a gentle stroll. It wasn't graceful, but it was adorable as fuck. And… the standards' slow gait did interesting things to their overbuilt upperworks.

Jersey knew Arizona was the single most sacred ship—probably the single most sacred thing—ever built by human hands. But she also knew the plump Standard had an amazing rack that did… amazing things when she ran.

Yes, Jersey was fully aware of how desperately she needed to get laid, but hopefully kicking the everliving shit out of some Nazis would make her feel better. Jersey's only knowledge of sex came from hazy memories her blushing crew struggled to hide from her, but she couldn't imagine it felt better than beating fascists/communists into a bloody pulp.

Frisco and the other cruisers had gotten takeout—ah, the benefits of having a cruiser-sized metabolism. It was just barely possible for the three of them to order out—and cuddled under a Kotatsu to watch a Raiders of the Lost Ark-The Last Crusate double feature. Jersey'd been worried Prinz Eugen wouldn't handle brawling against the Nazi abyssal very well. She needn't have bothered, judging by the adorably excited giggles, Prinz Eugen hated Nazis even more than she did, and enjoyed watching them die like any red-blooded American should.

Kongou had gone off to do… something with her sister. Jersey was pretty sure it involved tea, or some sort of tea-related activity. Kongou was the most damn British battleship to ever British, but Jersey wasn't going to look too closely into the matter. After she'd lost her own sister, she knew how important time alone with Hiei would be to Kongou. And… Jersey had learned the best way to preserve what sanity she had left was to was to not think about whatever Kongou was up to too much.

The base smelled of scones and colonialism, which was all Jersey cared to know.

Even girls not taking part in the operation were wound tighter than Musashi's tiddybandages. Shimakaze had been zipping around the base so fast she started to red-shift, Jintsuu was frantically making sure everyone had enough snacks and suntan lotion to endure the subtropical sun, and even normally even-keeled Mutsu was twitchier than Nagato in a hamster shop.

When she wasn't in Richardson's office, clutching armfuls of recon photos to her annoyingly-filled-out pagodas and nervously swishing her microskirt, she was touring the base defenses and inspecting every last shore battery and missile emplacement.

Jersey's considered opinion that Richardson needed to fuck the jitters clear out of her—and yes, she was aware of how hypocritical that sounded. It was a matter of operational readiness, though, nothing more. That she had fifty bucks riding on Mutsu winning Richardson's ring had nothing whatsoever to do with it. They would make an adorable-as-fuck couple though. And Nagato melting down over her sister's kids would be priceless.

But Jersey pushed that thought to the back of her mind where such errant thoughts as her own desire to have babies/get the jitters fucked out of her/eat pie lived. She had her own preparations to finish. She was commander in the United States Navy now. She had an entire fleet resting on her shoulders, she had duties beyond her own petty desires. And she'd be dammed if she screwed up again.

The big battleship lazily bit off a hunk of donut. She'd dropped by Krispy Kreme with Ari, intending to buy six dozen each. But Ari ate all of hers on the ride back, and Jersey couldn't say no those eyes and let the standard have half of hers.

Luckily, she had enough stale coffee to sustain her though an hours-long intel binge. Spy satellites steadfastly refused to work over China—or almost anywhere else for that matter. At best you'd get a grainy, blurry mess. At worst, nothing at all.

But the CIA had supplied a few aerial recon photos taken by an aircraft they steadfastly refused to identify, and several thousand pages of explanatory analysis. The latter of which Jersey was very thankful for, because some of the pictures looked more like the moon than the Chinese coast.

There was an almost perfect twenty-mile scar stretching from the beaches inland. Everything living had been burned away, and everything left had been scoured into a burning hellscape by what Jersey could only hope was shell fire.

"M-miss Jersey?" A quiet, timid voice squeaked out from the door behind her. A voice too shy and weak to be the ever-cheery Jane Richardson. A voice that could only belong to one ship Jersey knew.

"Yeah?" Jersey sipped her rancid coffee. "sup, Shinny?"

"Can I come in?" said the carrier.

"Yeah," Jersey glanced over. "What u— Shinny, what the fuck!"

Shinano was dressed for bed—which seemed reasonable given the hour—in purple footie pajamas with little cat ears on the hood. Which was exactly as fucking adorable as it sounded, but that wasn't what startled fifty-eight-thousand tons of mobile American diplomacy. No, what sent Jersey's mind to a crashing halt was the generous bulge straining the fabric around Shinano's bustline.

"S-sorry," Shinano shuffled her feet and tried to make herself as small as her enormous frame would allow.

"Yamaflat…" Jersey's mouth never quite closed as she stared at the carrier's bulging chest. "You're… stacked!"

"'know," mumbled Shinano.

"Why the fuck did you never tell me?" Jersey planted her hands on her own chest, mentally sizing up the massively chesty Japanese warship against herself. Yet another Jap who beat out her humble double-Ds. Asians were supposed to be fucking flat, this wasn't fucking fair at all!

Shinano mumbled something into her pajamas and blushed a bright red.

"Eh?" Jersey cocked her head to the side. "Hit me with that again, Shinny."

The carrier gulped, and struggled to pull her face out of the protective softness of her fleece pajamas. "'s… 's not carrierly," she mumbled."

Jersey gave Shinano a flat look. "Well no fucking shit. You're not a carrier."

Shinano froze. Her gaze locked on the battleship's, and behind her thick glasses her eyes started to tear up. "B-bu… Bu…"

"Shinny…" Jersey sighed, and wrapped her arm around the carrier's surprisingly stout shoulder. "You got cables on both ends."

The littlest Yamato blinked. "S-so?"

"There's precious fucking few carriers who can even survive taking an AP bomb to the deck," said Jersey. "White tells me you tanked a blow that would've sent Lil' E to the bottom."

"W-well," Shinano blushed, and started crying into Jersey's chest for lack of anything better to do.

"And," Jersey smirked. "You fucking got a strike off regardless. You ain't a carrier, you're a goddamn fortress."

"Y-you," Shinano sniffed. "Really think so?"

"Shinny," Jersey rolled her eyes. "I'd sink a fucking island before I knocked you outta the fight."

"T-tha's…" Shinano blushed, and cried some more.

"You wanna donut?"

Shinano didn't get to answer. The moment she opened her mouth, a donut was inserted with some force. So instead, the carrier contented herself with nomming quietly.

"There," Jersey ruffled Shinano's raven black hair. "Better?"

"Yuhsh," Shinano nodded, then swallowed. "What're you working on?"

"Intel shit," said Jersey. "Nobody fucking knows what's going on in mainland China."

Shinano glanced over the recon photos and paled. "O-oh," she cradled what was left of her donuts close to her chest. "W-what happened?"

"That?" Jersey glanced at the picture Shinao was staring at. "Oil fire. Probably. Wisky saw something like that in the gulf, only not nearly so bad."

"The rest? I don't fucking know." Jersey sighed, and hooked her thumbs over the wide leather of her gunbelt. "Not really, after the war started it was chaos. We lost three decks in four hours… we were reeling."

"Mmm?" Shinano nodded.

"But the ChiComs…" Jersey made sure to clarify. She hated Chinese Communists. Regular Chinese people were okay in her book. Their food was delicious, and Bruce Lee was the fucking Iowa-class of people. "They fought like hell."

"We had oceans between us and the Abyss," said Jersey, "Even Japan was relatively isolated. But the PRC was in the thick of it from the first shot." She let a growling sigh slip past her lips. "The PLAN's gone you know. Dead. to a man."

Shinano nodded solemnly.

"Hell, most of the PLAAF's gone too." The battleship scowled. "Fucking… fought a delaying action all the way to the shore. Traded destroyers for minutes… frigates for seconds… Got everyone inland they could."

For a moment, the two warships stared quietly at the recon photos. Then Jersey found her voice again.

"Goddamn, I hate communists," she said. "I hate the godless bastards with every fucking bulkhead in my body and I always will. But that…" she pointed angrily at the table. "That was fucking magnificent. I can't fucking believe I'm saying it, but… I'm gonna avenge those commie bastards."

Shinano stiffened her spine, and with a still, small voice so quiet Jersey could barely hear it, said a single word. "We."

Jersey smiled, and ruffled the carrier's hair. "So you are a Yamato after all."

—|—|—

Battleship Musahsi tapped a pencil to her pursed lips and stared at her notebook. Convoy duty in the North Pacific was cold, and—for her—monotonous work.

There were precious few surface ships afloat that could tangle with a battleship of her caliber, and no admiral would be foolish enough to commit such a mighty force to mere convoy raiding. As long as Musashi was attached to the convoy, it was safe from the surface. But Musashi was humble enough to admit she was useless at best when it came to fighting off threats from above or below the ocean.

That was the job of the destroyers and escort carriers, and Musashi was proud to be able to watch the little hellions tear into even threatening-looking echos. Musashi was unbeatable on the surface, but her skills were niche at best. These little destroyer-escorts and miniature carrier did the unglamours work that fueled the engine of war. Musashi was humbled to be in their presence.

And, while she'd be the first to admit her presence in the convoy fleet was incredibly boring, it gave her a good opportunity to study, and she intended to seize that opportunity like it was an Iowa's quad-shafted stern.

Battleship Musashi had sunken once. She would not sink again.

"White?" Musashi pursed her lips and squinted at her notes. "Are you busy?"

"Nu-uh," White shook her little head with a sunny smile. "What's up?"

"Um," Musashi felt her tongue dry in her mouth. She was a battleship of the first order. She was built to shrug off immense punishment and continue the fight. But she wasn't American. She had limits to what she could do. "Are you sure I shouldn't counter-flood?"

"Are you going to capsize if you don't?" asked White with a cheery smile.

Musashi crossed her arms and tensed the muscles sliding under her chocolate skin. "No," she admitted.

"Then no," White nodded. "Reserve buoyancy is really important. Pump out, don't suck in."

"Out…" Musashi scribbled down the little carrier's wise words, "Not… in… Are you sure?"

"Mmm!" White nodded.

"But—" Musashi bit back the urge to thunder with rage. This went contrary to everything she was taught, everything she knew was true. But… but she was talking to an American. The nation that'd squeezed two weeks of repair work into two days, the nation that'd birthed Enterprise, the carrier who simply refused to die. What she knew about damage control was the tiniest thimble compared to the limitless ocean of American knowledge.

But still, Musashi had questions. She wanted to learn. "But… without a stable gunnery platform, I won't be able to fight as well."

"So?" White shrugged.

Musashi blinked. "W-white. If I can't use my rifles… It's the only thing I'm good at."

White nodded. "Yeah, you're good at it. A little list on the surface is better than an even keel on the bottom."

Musashi opened her mouth to respond, then quickly closed it again. The little carrier had a point. Musashi hadn't thought of it like that before. In her mind, damage control was something done only to retain combat effectiveness. Then again… her nation had lost the first time around.

The battleship fought back her temper, and bowed to the tiny carrier. "Thank you, White."

—|—|—

Doctor Crowning was deep into an incredibly thick, incredibly musty book written in incredibly fine print when he heard a knock on his door. It wasn't a knock he recognized, either. It wasn't the brief musical tap of Kongou, the lazy rap of Gale, or the frantic hammering of the destroyers. He had to admit, it intrigued him far more than reading yet another account of a half-forgotten myth in the hopes that it'd spark some connection.

Besides, he'd been working for hours. A little break to refresh his mind couldn't hurt. "Come in."

The door swung open to reveal a study in contradictions. Kirishima, a pretty girl who was also the living incarnation of a titanic battleship stood smiling in the doorway. Her face wore bright smile, but her cheeks were streaked with tears and a full carton of ice cream was cradled under each arm. "Um. Hi."

"Kirishima," Crowning smiled at her, and motioned for her to take a sit. "Haven't seen you come by before."

"Yes," Kirishima reached to push her glasses up, then remembered both hands were occupied with her chilly desert and settled on repeatedly scrunching her nose. "Right. You haven't."

"Something I can do for you?" asked Crowning. The professor could tell something was wrong with the littlest Kongou, even if her class was notoriously hard to read. But she was a battleship, she needed support to be at her best, weather that meant a screening destroyer flotilla or a shoulder to cry on.

"Well…" Kirishima sized up an unoccupied chair for a moment, then settled into it. "I've been… My data states you give very good head pats."

Crowning chuckled. At least he was known for something in the battleship world. "Would you like some?"

"Yes please." Kirishima leaned towards him, and he obliging started scratching her startlingly soft hair. The battleship smiled, and a quiet noise of contentment slipped though her pursed lips. It wasn't quite the gentle purr that Jersey gave him, but it was clear the battleship was happier. Which made him happy.

"What's on your mind?"

"N-nothing," said Kirishima as she carved out a huge scoop of cookie-dough ice cream.

Crowning rolled his eyes. "You came in here with two cartons of ice cream."

Kirishima's gaze went slack, and Crowning almost heard the woosh and click of mechanical computer gearing and slide rules. "Right," she blushed. "I… I did."

"So," Crowning scooted his chair closer to get a better angle on the battleship's hair. "What happened?"

"S-something wonderful," Kirishima scooped herself a massive helping of ice cream with her bare hand and smashed it into her face. "W-wash ah' Gale ah lovahs."

The professor found a spoon hiding in the forgotten corners of his desk and handed it to her. His own opinion on the yeoman's romantic exploits tended along the lines of 'about damn time'. But he swallowed any comment before it could find a voice. Kirishima was obviously upset, and he'd rather not make her any worse.

Luckily, Kirishima took his silence as permission to continue her tale. "I— I'm really happy for them. I really am." "And yet…" Crowning waved to the carton Kirishima was cradling protectively against her chest.

Kirishima straightened her glasses, took in a deep breath, and promptly started bawling into his lap. "Why couldn't it be meeeee!" she cried. "She's so pretty and I wanted it to be us!"

The professor sighed, and gently ran a hand though the battleship's short hair. "Kirishima… I'm… I don't really know what to say." He'd picked up on the littlest's Kongou's infatuation with the serene American, but that was nothing but subtext next to the obvious love Gale had for her.

"I… I know she loves Gale," said Kirishima. "But… but… our babies would've been so cute!" The battleship sniffed. "H-have you seen the way her stern shakes when she puts on her skirt?"

"I…" Crowning tried not to think about the way Jersey's stern swooshed when she did anything. "I can't say I have."

"It's so pretty," moaned Kirishima. "But… but I'm…" she sniffed. "I'm so happy for her. I just… I don't know what to do."

Crowning bit his lip. Watching the littlest Kongou's conundrum felt eerily like watching himself in small Japanese girl form. He hadn't been that head-over-heels for Jersey, had it? "Kirishima?"

"Hmm?"

"I…" Crowning sighed. "I don't know either. There's been thousands of pages by thousands of poets written about this, but not one's found the answer. What you're feeling hurts… but it's normal."

"Mmm," Kirishima scooted closer. "I… thanks."

Crowning moved his hand from the girl's head to cradle her bare shoulder. For such a massive engine of seagoing destruction, she was almost startlingly fragile. But very soft, and warm, and tinged with the smell of the open ocean. "I try."

She giggled. "So…" she wiped her eyes on her billowing sleeve. "W-what are you working on?"

"Honestly…" Crowning glanced at the books littering his desk. "I don't really know."

"Hmm?"

"Something…" The professor sighed. "Something when I was talking about Gale."

Kirishima pushed her glasses up and stared at him. "What?"

"I think the Abyss has an Admiral… or… something. It's more than just a force."

"And…" Kirishima glanced at the pile of books. "You're trying to find references?"

"Yeah," Crowning nodded. "Shipgirls are recorded in history as far back as the first century. I can't shake the feeling that there's something I'm missing, but I can't… I can't figure out what it is."

—|—|—

Destroyer Chin-Yang—just 'Yang' to her friends—of the Republic of China Navy—though nowadays, she wasn't sure if she still need the 'republic of' qualifier—couldn't be happier as she steamed up the Taiwanese coast with a pair of Kee Lung-class destroyers in tow.

Her name had been Chin-Yang for three decades before she was finally laid to rest as an artificial reef. It was a name she was proud of, just like she was proud of the country she defended and the people she patrolled the islands with. But it wasn't the name she was born with.

Seventy years ago, she'd been born as Mullany. She was one of the vast sisterhood of Fletcher-class destroyers. She'd served the United States with pride for thirty years, and while she'd grown fond of her adoptive Chinese home… she did kinda miss steaming under the stars and stripes. But that wasn't the only reason she was so happy.

She was going to meet two of her sisters. Her twins. Hoel and Heermann came from the same yard as Yang. They weren't just sisters, they'd been worked on by the same men, launched from the same slipways. They were closer than any two ships could be.

Well… except Zubian. But that was neither here nor there.

Yang couldn't wait to see them again! Even if they couldn't stop over in Taipei for some milkfish and bubble tea—which tastes so much better than it sounds—just getting to escort them through the strait of Taiwan would be a privilege.

The little Fletcher had to hug herself to keep from squealing in delight. She was so excited!

"Yang," Captain Laau, Yang's boss and skipper of the ROCS Ma Kong, chuckled over the radio.

"Yes?" Yang tapped her fingers to her ears, the twin antennas threaded through her ponytail like chopsticks twitching as her radars strained for any sight of the Joint American-Japanese fleet.

"They should be just over the horizon," came Laau's easygoing voice. "You wanna run ahead and say hi?"

"YES!" squealed Yang. "YESYESYESYES, CAN I?"

"Go for it, kid. You've earned it."

"Thank you, boss!" Yang waved back at the Ma Kong and bolted for the horizon as fast as her turbines could carry her. It was amazing, she felt young and spritely again. After sixty years at sea, she'd almost forgotten what it was like to have fresh new turbines just begging to be put through their paces.

It took her a few seconds to close to visual range, but her smile only got wider when she saw tall masts flying Old Glory proud. Very tall masts. On very… very big ships. After decades with Kee Lung-class ships as the biggest around, Yang had all but forgotten what it was like to steam next to a real monster of the sea.

"Jersey!" Yang waved her little hands for all they were worth as she sprinted towards the massive allied battlegroup. "Jersey! Hoel! Heerman!"

"Holy Fuck!" Jersey's thundering voice was just as rough and rich as Yang remembered, and it made her feel all fuzzing inside just hearing it again. "Mullany! Kiddos, get'er!"

Yang swore she saw rooster tails as Hoel and Heerman slammed their throttles to the firewall and furiously closed the distance. But she couldn't tell for sure because she was crying too hard. The little Fletcher laughed as tears flowed down her smiling face.

It was so, so good to see her twins again. The destroyer threw her rudder hard over, pulling around to form up with Hoel and Heermann and grab them both in a tight hug.

"Mullany!" Hoel beamed, and wrapped her sleeveless arms around Yang's well-tanned little body. "I can't believe it's you!"

"It's good to see you again." Heermann threw herself into the hug.

"T-thanks!" Yang stammered though tears. "B-but… my name's Yang now." She pointed to the bandanna tied around her arm, "I serve the Chinese navy now."

Hoel looked at Heerman.

Heerman looked at Hoel.

"Yeah, I don't care," said Hoel.

"You're our sister," said Heerman.

"You'll always be our sister," said Hoel.

"HUUUUUUUUUGS!" screamed Johnston as she slammed into the little destroyer puddle at flank.

Yang broke down crying again, tears flowing down her chubby cheeks as laughter shook her to the keel. It was so… so nice to have her friends with her again. "T-thanks, Johnston."

Johnston just giggled.

"I know you guys are busy," said Yang. "But you have to come by for lunch sometime."

"Okay!" said Hoel.

"Chinese food's amazing," said Heermann.

Johnston was too busy squeezing Yang to say anything.

Yang smiled. She'd made lots of friends back in Taiwan. But… none of them were her family. "I love you guys."

Omake: One Day Part 1

By LadyPearl

As though securing supplies for Shinano was the only thing Albacore got up to.

While "shopping" in Akhibura, Albacore makes a new friend.

It was a sub's heaven. After all the hard work securing Admiral Goto's requested items for Shinano, it was nice for Albacore to have a chance to relax. Her activities with Shinano had been a wonderful practice run but Akhibura was the perfect place to really test her skills. She stepped out of the military transport, offering a grateful wave to the driver before turning to face the building she was dropped off at. A massive shopping mall complex. She rubbed her hands together. Oh this was going to be fun!

3 toy stores and 2 candy shops later, Albacore found herself entering the model section of the mall. She was happily sucking away at her "borrowed" lollipop as she browsed the isles. Ever since the world found out about the existence of kanmusu the sales for these things had gone through the roof, particularly for ships of some historical significance and somewhat not historical as well. So Albacore was quite surprised to see that models of a certain all-black galleon were still present. Mind you, there was only one left and it was in the largest size which made snatching it all the more difficult. But Albacore's hands twitched with longing.

"I do hope for your sake you're actually going to buy that trinket, darling."

Albacore whirled around at said voice, seeing another kanmusu standing there. She was leaning against the wall, one hand resting on the left leg of her blue jeans the other curled under her chin as she gazed at the sub in a thoughtful manner. A white laced blouse and a pair of heeled riding boots completed the picture. The bangs of her light blonde hair was partially held back with a pin, the rest free to fall about her shoulders. A pair of sparkling emerald eyes completed the picture. Albacore could also see her true form. A three masted Dutch-fluyt, swift and heavily armed. But no match for her in a battle.

"Shut your mouth sub or you'll catch bugs in it." She laughed, and held out a hand. "Call me Fly."

"USS Albacore SS-218, call me Albie." Albacore replied, shaking on it.

"Albie it is then." As Fly let go, her other hand came up and ruffled her fauxet. She squawked but the headpatts were nice.

"So admiring the merchandise eh?"

"Just a bit." Albacore admitted.

Fly sighed. "Hand it over." She ordered.

"Wha-?"

"The model set that you have hidden in your pocket. Don't deny it."

Somewhat impressed she had caught that, Albacore sighed and did she was told, pressing the kit into Fly's hand. "Thank you." The Dutch ship sighed. "It's my first time ashore in quite some time and I'd hate for my one day's shore leave to be ruined by some subthief's underhanded trickery."

"I swear to behave myself then." Albacore promised.

"Then can you be a lady and show me around lass. I've never been to Akhibura before."

"Neither have I." Albacore replied.

"Then I guess we'll just have to explore together. Two's better they one they say." She said.

"Aye." Albacore agreed.

Fly offered her hand and Albacore took it, admiring the jewel encrusted rings on three of the fingers. "Don't even think about taking those." Her companion warned without looking down at her.

Despite herself, Albacore shuddered. She was good, she decided. Very good. Her knowledge of where and how the inner subthief would strike suggested she knew a thing or two about such things herself. Maybe with just a little bit of sway, she could, well... Old habits die hard you know.

The two browsed the endless shelves. Albacore turned from her selection of workout gear to see Fly pick out a Star Wars saber from a bucket. She turned it over in her hands, utterly fascinated. She jumped, dropping the weapon in surprise as the blade came out, lighting up. Albacore chuckled. She hesitantly bent down and picked it up again, waving it in front of her as though it was a real sword.

"It's called a lightsaber." Albacore offered. "Though nothing like the real thing it makes for great cosplay."

"What's it based on?" Fly asked.

"A wonderful series known as Star Wars."

Fly's look of confusion only deepened and Albacore pitied her all the more. Good thing momboat New Jersey was having a Star Wars marathon tonight. Speaking of, Albacore grinned. "You need to come back to base with me. We can explore more there and I don't know about you but I'm ready for some grub."

Fly grunted. "Sure that's a good idea lass?" She asked. "When I said I've been away for a while I didn't mean just as a "kanmusu" you call it? Your Admiral doesn't know who I am."

"He won't mind, I'm sure of it." Albacore grinned and Fly thanked Calypso that submarines had no sense of right or wrong. At least she knew Albacore wouldn't turn her in to Admiral Goto for being suspicious.

Another round through the shops and this time all the items taken were paid for. Albacore had no money so Fly offered to pick up the tab. The fluyt came up to the registrar with an armful of trinkets ranging from model sets to Star Wars toy figurines. "Everything on me." She told the cashier.

He began ringing the items up. "Will that be all today ma'am?" He asked.

"I believe so. Albie?"

"I'm good." The sub chirped beside her.

"Yep, that's all lad."

"Then it'll be $450.90."

That was more money than Albacore could make in a week but Fly merely sighed and reached into her pocket, pulling out a single gold coin. She tossed it to him. "Ma'am, I hardly think this is..."

Fly leaned over, a dark aura surrounding her. "It'll suffice and you will let us go with this merchandise, savvy?"

"Y-yes ma'am. H-here you are ma'am." He handed her the goods, wrapped in shopping bags.

"Thanks mate, come along Albie!" Fly called, already walking towards the door. Albacore half-skipped, half-ran to keep up.