Habakkuk. What the hell was Habakkuk? He stared down at the papers, a translation of an intercepted communique between the Sirens and the Germans.
We've introduced another variable to the North Atlantic. Mind the floes- Habakkuk is feeling testy.
"Is this it, sir?"
"Yes, unfortunately. This is all we've got."
"But… Habakkuk? Who?" Commander Harris asked, trying his best to remember if he had ever heard such a name before.
"An Israelite prophet, writer of one of the books of the bible. Why the Sirens chose that name…" His commanding officer shrugged, sliding a sheaf of papers his way. "This is some of the research we've compiled about the name."
Harris flipped through it briefly. A prophet of the Israelites, mentioned briefly in Catholic versions of Daniel… there was worryingly little to go off of regarding the historical figure. The biblical book which bore his name was so short the whole of it could be printed on about three sheets of paper.
Most of it was a discussion between the eponymous prophet and God, the former horrified to see a growing empire sent to inflict judgment on Israel. In time, that empire would be destroyed as well, but that seemed cold comfort… through it all, Habakkuk himself resolved to have faith.
What was the theme here? Were the Sirens styling themselves after the empire, or did they claim the terrible power of God? A message to their German allies to have faith in their schemes?
It left a bad taste in his mouth, bitter as gall. Even if he didn't know Habakkuk from Hiram, seeing Sirens using bits and pieces of human culture felt… strange.
"And… why tell me about this, sir?" He had a suspicion, but he had to confirm it.
"You know how stretched we are." He sighed. "We can't have some Siren abomination sneaking up on us, so find some trace of her. Don't fight her unless absolutely necessary- but we need to know more."
"Yes, sir."
It was hard not to read into every scrap of information he was given. He hadn't read the Bible this often since Sunday school, and he had committed the communique to memory.
His mind lingered on the bit about floes. Obviously, this was their hint she lived in a northern clime, but Harris found it strange. Why would the Sirens feel the need to warn of floes particularly? Why associate them with Habakkuk?
Lost in his worries, he chewed at the inside of his cheek as marched towards the docks. He'd have to get his things sent over eventually, but for now… introductions.
Soon enough, he reached the little gathering of ships that composed his new appointment. Absentmindedly, he attempted to tame his hair. Good first impressions, he hoped.
All of the ships were basically escorts- cruisers and destroyers. He had hoped to get an escort carrier, but all of them, even Ranger, were tied up.
Thankfully, they had been informed he was on the way and gathered up accordingly. There were three of them, two destroyers and a light cruiser- both actual ships and the women so strongly tied to them.
The latter was, for a Commonwealth shipgirl, kind of normal. Sure, the maid motif rubbed a lot of folks the wrong way, and there had been a legendary spat between the monarchy and the Royal Navy's so-called queen, but it was normal.
Harris wasn't expecting the two destroyers to be sporting halos. Well, technological rigging things that just so happened to look like halos. Their rigging also looked just a bit like wings, white with smooth curves…
They saluted, and he smiled. "You three are Foxhound, Fortune, and Curacoa, yes?"
"Foxhound reporting for duty!" The red-haired one chirped, smiling brightly.
"Greetings, Commander…" The other destroyer shared none of Foxhound's confidence.
The maid actually curtsied. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Commander. My name is Curacoa, Royal Navy light cruiser."
"Good. I'm Harris, and I'll be your commander for the length of Operation Dragnet." He looked around, deciding that this probably wouldn't be the best place to chat. "Curacoa, would you mind if we came aboard?"
"Of course, Commander!" With a smile, she led them inside.
Foxhound seemed to be constantly sniffing at the air, although Harris couldn't smell whatever she apparently could. Fortune just seemed a little jumpy, shrinking under his gaze.
The silence stretched long, and Curacoa prompted him. "Operation Dragnet, you were saying…?"
"Yes. Our mission is to pursue the siren-aligned ship Habakkuk, who is believed to be lingering in the North Atlantic. While we're not sure of her capabilities, she could pose just as much of a threat to Fortress Britain as Bismarck did- so we need to find her."
"We're going to fight a siren warship by ourselves?" Fortune trembled a little in her seat.
"Not necessarily. First, we have to find her- ideally, we can call in the big guns once we've tracked her down."
"Thank goodness…" She sighed.
"I'm sorry to say that information is pretty scarce. We don't know much about her location, other than it being very far north. Prepare accordingly- winter gear, alright?" He couldn't imagine trying to bear the cold in skirts like the ones Foxhound and Fortune wore.
Foxhound groaned. "The North Atlantic, agaaain?"
"I'm afraid so." He said. "Well, you know how bad it'll be if you don't prepare, right?" She shivered.
Foxhound rushed off to handle her business, and Fortune followed behind at a more sedate pace. He turned to Curacoa. "Do you think you're capable of acting as my flagship, Curacoa?"
She smiled brilliantly. "Of course, Commander. Just leave it to me. I suppose you'll be needing your things?"
Wow. Was this what being rich enough to have a maid was like?
Curacoa was a tremendous help in getting everything in proper order. She seemed quite familiar with the delicate art of taming Foxhound- the destroyer was more than a bit excitable.
"Commander, you smell better today!"
What? "Pardon?"
Foxhound got uncomfortably close and sniffed, practically burying her face into his jacket. "It's sweet- perfume, maybe? Oh, were you meeting someone?"
"It's just incense," he sighed.
"Like that stuff Fortune burns?" He learned more about his fleet every day, didn't he?
"Maybe… let's worry about that later, alright? It's almost time to sortie."
"Yes, sir!" She chirped, darting off to her ship as quickly as she could while stuffed into as many layers as she could manage. (Was that scarf fox-fur? It'd make a sort of sense, although he wondered if it was within her budget…)
Regardless of Foxhound's weirdness, it was a bright Sunday morning, and they were ready to go. Instinctively, he checked his pockets to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, even though Curacoa had gone through that checklist of hers like seven times…
He shook his head. Now was no time for dallying, what with a potential Siren superweapon stalking the North Atlantic, just waiting to plunge a knife into Britain's lifeline. He looked back at the port and tried to commit the sight of it to memory, dozens of rooftops glimmering with ice.
Before he could wax poetic about whether or not he'd see it again, a blast of cold wind forced him to retreat inside the ships. Inside, he was greeted by a smiling face and a hot cup of tea.
"Thank you, Curacoa."
"It's my pleasure, Commander."
Some life had seeped back into his fingers by the time they had cast off. And the cold would only get worse as they sailed. Yay.
Curacoa seemed to take some pride in tending to the fleet, and to a lesser extent, Harris helped take care of her. Other than just being her commanding officer, most days he'd go out and hammer away at the ice which slowly accrued upon the hull.
Every time her hull crashed into the waves, it kicked up a shimmering spray of water- a spray swiftly blown onto her hull courtesy of the wind. And soon enough, the low temperatures would freeze it.
It happened to the others as well, leaving their hulls coated in a shimmering layer of frost… in the mornings, they'd shine so brilliantly he'd have to cover his eyes. And that wasn't the only danger it posed.
Other than the obvious threats, like cracking his skull open after slipping, there were more insidious ones. As the ice crept up, so did the ship's centers of mass- and capsizing up here would be certain death. As would falling off…
He couldn't even fully escape the cold inside, although Curacoa certainly tried her best.
"Here's some soup for you, Commander."
"Thanks, Curacoa." He sighed, just taking a moment to savor pressing his hands up against the blessedly hot bowl. "How are Foxhound and Fortune faring?"
"Good. They've taken to the cold as well as I could hope. They learn quickly."
"That's great to hear. You're handling the weather well?"
"If I may be honest, Commander? I don't like this."
"Neither do I," he laughed, but Curacoa'd expression remained unusually serious.
"Well, there's nothing to be done about it but our level best. And that means keeping in ship shape. You need more food when it's cold, you know?"
(She seemed to have an endless supply of caramels- for slipping into pockets, of course.)
He made sure to check on Foxhound and Fortune fairly often. It took some finagling, but he knew seeing someone face to face was a far cry from just communicating through Morse code.
Usually, unless they were breaking ice, they sequestered themselves inside their hulls. The rational decision, of course, what with their supernatural connection with their sensors.
A bit of searching revealed Foxhound, who was turned away from them, intensely focused on fixing up her bed. She sniffed at the air for a moment but didn't turn to look at them.
"Did you shave, Commander?"
Involuntarily, he reached up to his chin. How had she…?
"You've got that shaving cream smell, Commander."
"You've got a remarkable talent, Foxhound."
"Hehe, you think so?"
"I know so." He reassured her. "Is there anything you need, Foxhound?"
"I dunno…" she mused, "I've eaten all the good rations, but that's my fault, isn't it…?"
He chuckled a little. "If your food supplies get low, check in with Curacoa, ok?"
"Yeah," she muttered.
He smiled and ruffled her hair. "Keep it up, alright? I know it's cold, but you're doing great."
"Eheh~" she chuckled, leaning into his touch. How much human contact did these girls get, he wondered…
"Could you stay here all day, Commander?"
"No can do, sorry." He chuckled.
She proceeded to pull out the most effective pout and puppy dog eyes combo he had seen in his life. Was the girl actually part dog?
Prying himself away was a bit of a struggle.
Standing at the prow of the Fortune, he saw nothing but swirling seas and heavy clouds in every direction. Somehow, despite the terrible expanse of it all, he felt hemmed in, pressed between low-lying clouds, heavy with freezing rainfall, and the oceans, blue-gray death.
Sometimes, he'd think he had caught a glimpse of some movement, snapping toward the sky, but there was nothing. Maybe his eyes were going bad, staring at the churning sea all day.
Regardless, he ceased his contemplation and went inside- he wasn't particularly inclined towards becoming a popsicle.
The destroyer Fortune was quite similar to Foxhound: same class, same construction, even built in the same town, and while the shipgirls had similar riggings, they were quite different in personality. "How are you doing, Fortune?"
"Well enough," she demurred, seeming just on the edge of tears despite her assurance. "You don't need to bother-"
"I do, actually. You're part of my fleet, Fortune."
"Yes… Ah, thank you for coming, Commander. Can I fetch you something…?"
"I'm fine. Do you need anything?"
"No, I can manage…" She was a mild little lady, wasn't she? He didn't want to put undue pressure on her- Harris feared she'd break out crying- but he recognized this tendency of sweeping issues under the rug and downplaying them quite well.
She was looking anywhere but his face., and he sighed. "Would you mind if I briefly inspected your craft, Fortune?"
"Of course. Go ahead, Commander, I don't mind…"
Much of the craft was uninhabited and without any real use, considering that Fortune alone could do the work of an entire crew. So it was mostly a tour of a few rooms in the immediate vicinity of her bridge- a storeroom, stuffed with supplies (he had a feeling she had kept better track of them than Foxhound had) and a small bedroom.
Said room, unsurprisingly, contained a bed. (That was the sort of keen situational awareness that got him hired.) But that wasn't all. A couple of low-lying bookshelves sat in the room's corners, filed thickly with books. There was an unlit candle that immediately got him sweating, but the books were interesting.
"I was running out of reading material myself. What a stroke of good fortune."
"I suppose…" she said, just barely smiling.
"May I?" he gestured towards the shelves, and she nodded. He browsed them. A few naval manuals, a French-English dictionary, several Bibles… he pulled one out and shot her a questioning look.
"I've gathered a few, you see- different translations. It's not a problem, is it?"
"Not at all. Just not an interest I expected from a shipgirl." He said, noticing a bookmark and flipping to the page in question. It was pretty topical.
"I've been reading Habakkuk… given the mission, but it's a little confusing…" she sighed.
Harris thought he had a bit of time to spare, especially when it would be spent on something as important as improving fleet cohesion. So he sat down and talked context with Fortune- she seemed more than a little perturbed by the book's meaning.
"How foreboding…" she muttered.
Looking out of her portholes, the clouds seemed even darker than before. "No kidding."
He knew what to expect from the cold. Fatigue, shivering, all of those delightful consequences. But apparently, someone had neglected to pass him the memo when it came to shipgirls.
Apparently, it could even impact the hyper-competent Curacoa. She had forced him to bed, citing his horrible sleep habits (fair), meaning he woke up early. Earlier than her, even.
Clumsily rising to his feet, he shook himself and tried to expel the grogginess. If he really needed to wake up, he could peek out of the nearest door, but he wasn't feeling that sleepy.
But apparently, someone was. Curacoa took a while to stir, to the point that Harris anxiously lingered by her bedside. (Totally not because he didn't know how to use the ship's kitchen. He'd never.)
Eventually, she noticed him, still trying to speak with a proper voice even while she squinted at him with half-lidded eyes. "I beg your pardon, Commander- it takes a minute or two to get myself warmed up." She smiled apologetically, sluggishly rising from bed.
"Warmed up?" He asked, finding it an odd term. Surely, she had enough blankets…
"Well, I am a ship," she explained, "and some of the machinery doesn't like the cold. I must apologize for this lapse in my ability-"
"It's fine- is everything I can do to help?"
"Oh, I'm fine- I just need some time." Sure enough, she was back in ship shape in a few minutes.
It was strange to think that shipgirls weren't so invincible after all. Or maybe she was just drowsy and a very good bullshitter. He wouldn't put it past her- she could be a bit of a tease.
Of all the fleet, he learned the most about Curacoa, for obvious reasons. She was- well, she was definitely competent, and that was what mattered out at sea.
Thankfully, she was more than willing to answer some of his lingering questions about shipgirls. She prided herself on her ability to teach alongside her more mundane maid duties, and it felt like he was learning something new every day.
Curacoa was explaining the intricacies of anti-aircraft weaponry to him when she froze up.
"Curacoa?"
Her eyes closed for a moment, but her eyes moved rapidly between the lids, back and forth, back and forth…
"Curacoa!"
He grabbed her shoulder and shook, to no real effect. Was this some sort of cold-induced stupor? Panicked, he searched for a jacket, blankets, anything-
With a terrible roar, the anti-air guns began to fire, drowning out the sound of the waves with their clatter.
Stumbling, he rushed outside- despite that being kind of a bad idea- to see every one of Curacoa'd many, many AA guns pointed skyward, tearing through ammunition and sending hot brass bouncing off the icy decks.
He looked up at the sky and felt his jaw go slack. A plane circled above them, and although he had to squint to see it, he swore that he saw two engines.
Two-engine planes, out here?
He felt his throat go dry. This… well, he had a bad feeling it was somehow linked to Habakkuk.
Curacoa, who proudly carried the best AA of the fleet, couldn't put a scratch on the plane. It flew too high, not engaging… just watching. From then on, they'd usually see at least one a day, and they'd pick up more at night. The best they could really do was hang curtains and dim the lights, hiding in the inky black of night and hoping the mysterious Habakkuk wouldn't attack. For what it was worth, she hadn't yet.
He was up late. He was up late quite often, worrying about something or other by the faint light. Today's worry, from a broad list of topics, was who else might be chasing Habakkuk.
Would the Germans want a piece of her? If so… well, at absolute best it'd be a fight between reconnaissance fleets. At worst… U-boats or capital ships. Hell, he thought. The Sirens did pretty crazy things- maybe they were hunting down some sort of submersible aircraft carrier? Wouldn't that be a riot…
"Commander?" He turned to see Curacoa. "You're up awfully late, if I may say so."
"Aren't you up late?"
"Because I'm on watch, Commander."
"Oh, so that's your excuse." He joked, causing her lips to curve.
"Let me guess- you were up worrying?"
"Strategizing."
"Mhhmmm." She hummed, not buying it. "If you insist on being so self-destructive, at least let me relieve some of that stress."
His mind jumped to… certain conclusions before a pair of cool hands landed on his back. "Just relax for a moment Commander."
Where had she picked up massaging skills? He couldn't imagine, but he couldn't really bring himself to complain either.
"I won't let stress kill you- that's Habakkuk's job, isn't it?" She chuckled.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence…" He mumbled.
Their travels eventually brought them to a particularly remote and savage patch of ocean, this one complete with icebergs- shipkillers. It was the sort of place he'd stay far away from, but it seemed to be where the planes were coming from. Great.
Around them, icy crags towered above the waves, promising certain death if they couldn't weave through them carefully- and above, the roar of propellers was incessant, planes circling like carrion birds, their bellies already heavy with bombs and torpedoes.
The boot never dropped though, leaving the girls to carefully navigate the ice, skating around the bergs to make sure the ships themselves wouldn't run into any unpleasant surprises. A single mistake could shred hulls and obliterate bulkheads, which was reason enough to fear the icebergs, on top of their looming presence.
There would be no hope out here, no chance of rescue. Just cruel, uncaring white. A law to themselves.
It was in these lovely conditions that they continued the hunt for Habakkuk, crawling towards her lair and hoping that she wasn't going to join the environment in attempting to kill them. (She grew greater and greater in Harris' mind by the day, tales of Siren technology fueling his worries.)
In the mornings, they would squint in the reflected light and look for her, although they had no idea what to search for. All they knew was that she had made her home between the bergs.
Foxhound, keen-eyed girl that she was, spotted her first. The radio crackled to life, adrenaline shot through his system. "Commander! I've got her! Dead ahead!"
Dead ahead? Wasn't that just-
No, Habakkuk wasn't hiding amid the ice floes. She was one of them. A tremendous, flat-topped iceberg loomed in the distance, planes launching from off of her massive deck. She was colossal, broader and longer than even the most terrible battleship, to the point that the word carrier felt insufficient. A floating, frozen airfield cut through the waves, seeming more a force of nature than something that could have been crafted by human hands.
Seeing her in person, Harris almost expected a sudden turn. The dive-bombers would swoop like hawks and strike the death blow, they'd be hammered by torpedoes… but there was nothing. For a moment, he wondered if they were being ignored.
Now they had her location. This was, in a sense, a success, and considering her tremendous size, she was probably pretty slow. He didn't think an entire iceberg could slip through a cordon…
Yet he couldn't help but wonder at her. There was a part of him that liked big boats, the part that gawked at dreadnoughts strutting their stuff when he was just a kid. Habakkuk was, most definitely, a big boat. The same slack-jawed awe he felt upon watching a cargo ship cut through the waves struck him again.
And suddenly he knew he wouldn't be able to leave Habakkuk behind without investigating. He reached for the radio. "Prepare yourselves, girls- we're going to board."
"Commander?" Fortune eeped.
"They say fortune favors the bold…"
"With all due respect, Commander, I don't favor this idea-"
"If she wanted us sunk, she would have done so already." Harris went to grab a rifle. Just in case.
So they prepared themselves and approached the Habakkuk, Foxhound joyfully hopping over floating chunks of ice, even reaching out to brush a hand against the ship's icy sides. Fortune was close behind, while Curacoa had to handle him. (Being carried by a literal maid was emasculating, but he was not going to miss out on this.)
With a single bound, the girls had leaped over Habakkuk's icy flanks, landing on a deck quite similar to that of a carrier. Some sort of covering, painted like runways, made for conditions where planes could actually launch and land…
"Wow." He breathed.
Curacoa was looking at the many planes sitting on the deck with an analytical eye, her expression concerned. "Commander, don't these planes look familiar?" She asked.
"Yes." Every single one that he recognized was inarguably Commonwealth. The ones he didn't recognize still wore recognizable roundels. "They're British."
"Do you think they're friendly, Commander?" Foxhound asked.
"Maybe…" He sighed… "Foxhound, do you smell anything funny?"
"Sawdust, Commander."
Sawdust? Sniffing, he did catch hints of it, but… why sawdust? Another question for the growing list. A presumably British (or at least Allied) carrier, built of ice and spawned by the Sirens, with a deck full of unknown aircraft? It was a conundrum. It was weird. Too weird, honestly, but his curiosity still nagged at him.
He looked at the superstructure. "Let's try to get belowdecks, shall we?"
They descended into the bowels of the ship, and the temperature descended along with them. Still, he tried to keep account of everything. The mostly barren superstructure they had already searched, the passages and corridors, the sound of something flowing through pipes in the walls…
By his rough estimate, the hangar walls were… hell, ten meters thick? He wasn't the greatest with dimensions, but it seemed to work out space-wise. Admittedly, he was more of a battleship fan, but Habakkuk's workings were inarguably impressive.
The hangar was mired in mist, which was especially thick around their waists, and Harris was struck by the feeling of wading through the cold. Ships weren't supposed to run like this. It was offputting in a way that kept him constantly jumpy- so when he heard something behind him, he reacted.
Panicked, he attempted to point the rifle in her direction- barely remembering that such a weapon was practically a toy for a shipgirl- only for it to get caught on a tremendous, icy crag. A crag on the periphery of a shipgirl's rigging.
Her rigging was, largely, a massive assembly of ice, lacking in reason or order beyond a great block of it which resembled a flight deck. Oh, and there was also the woman herself, he supposed.
Fittingly for such a tremendous ship, she towered above him. Eyes like the coldest glaciers, dirty blonde hair… she was pretty. Pretty intimidating. A heavy jacket only made her look more imposing.
"Hello…?" He dropped the rifle.
"Greetings." Her voice was deep in a way that he might have found attractive if he didn't have bigger concerns. "You're Allied, yes?"
"Definitely!" His voice came out squeakier than he had hoped. "These girls are Curacoa, Foxhound, and Fortune of the Royal Navy. I'm Commander Harris."
She stared at them for a moment, before she rose a gloved hand. "I am HMS Habakkuk. I place myself in your care."
Even through the fabric, her palms were icy, and her breath was a mist. Yet his worries just seemed to melt away. Perhaps the Sirens had underestimated her loyalty to her country? Of course, he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
"Please to meet you. I'm sure we have a lot to talk about- but maybe we could do it somewhere warmer?"
She walked with a distinct limp, dipping to the side with each step, painfully slow. "Lead the way."
"By the way, do you have any dining preferences? Curacoa could whip something up for you."
"I haven't done much eating recently."
Interview Transcript
Harris (hereinafter shortened to A): Thank you for agreeing to sit down with me.
Habakkuk (hereinafter shortened to B): It's no trouble, Commander.
A: Good. So, is Habakkuk the name you prefer?
B: Yes. It's… well, if I have nothing else, I have my name.
A: Elaborate?
B: I… am no normal warship. ("No kidding," he muttered…)
B: I am, or rather, we as shipgirls are… your perceptions made manifest. Ah, that is, human perceptions.
She pauses to gather her thoughts.
B: Your ships… yours were built in dockyards. I was not. All I am is Project Habakkuk. All I am is that dream.
A: Project Habakkuk?
B: Of course. I presume you know of it?
A: I've never heard of it.
B: What do you mean, you've never heard of Project Habakkuk?
A: If it exists, it's above my pay grade and that of my superior officer. No mention of it in my reference materials.
B reads the Habakkuk papers.
B: You're… you're kidding, right?
A: No, unfortunately.
B: Oh. Oh God-
Obviously, he stopped writing the transcript as Habakkuk began to panic. She was breathing heavily now, the room's temperature plummeting from uncomfortable to almost painful.
"Habakkuk?"
She was muttering to herself now, clenching the table so tight it seemed to be warping. He yanked away the paper, but frost had already surrounded the pen. The ink inside froze, cracking the pen's body and revealing blackish ice.
"Habakkuk!"
Her head in her hands, she stared down at the table. He picked out a few words. "But- I was supposed to be-"
Inhaling deeply, Harris tried to analyze the situation. She had been calm until the mention of Project Habakkuk. Her problem wasn't the presence of it, it was the lack of it.
Well, the lack of it here. There were all sorts of theories about where the Sirens came from, how they traveled about… and some proposed other Earths. Other times.
Habakkuk remembered a world where this Project existed, and considering the existential crisis she was now having (he kicked to free his boots from a film of ice that climbed over them) it must have been something important to her sense of self. Considering the similar names, her supposedly Royal origins, the weird aircraft…
She wasn't just a concept ship. She was an as-of-yet uninvented concept ship. An effect without a cause, living in a world that refuted her very being. Despite the chill, he rushed to her side, took an arm in his hands.
"Maybe you are a ship that wasn't supposed to be." She got colder still, and he fought the urge to let go, the cold so terrible it felt hot. "But you're here now. I'm holding you. That's real."
Gingerly, Habakkuk sat down with them, focusing on not freezing anything. It had taken a while to calm her down after the interview freak-out, but he thought she was now calm enough to sit down for dinner.
Lucky her, considering that Curacoa had really worked wonders tonight. She set four plates before them, all tempting and delightfully warm. Feeling particularly fortunate, Harris spoke. "Let's take a moment to be grateful, both for this food and for the newest member of our fleet." He dipped his head towards Habakkuk, and the other girls smiled at her. The woman definitely needed friends.
For a moment, they did just sit there, quietly contemplating the beauty of this moment of peace in a world at war and their good luck- and then Foxhound's stomach audibly grumbled. Harris sighed. "Dig in."
Fortune and Harris both showered Curacoa with compliments, while Habakkuk seemed to be taking her time, savoring every bite. Still, she was a little clumsy with the utensils, to the point where Harris had to wonder if she was just copying them. She performed well at first, but eventually, there was a casualty, a cube of beef arcing through the air before landing on the ground tragically.
Foxhound sent a look that was half desperation and half depression towards it.
"Don't you dare." Harris hissed.
"But-"
"Look, I'll buy you a steak dinner once we're home. You can last a little longer." He swore that if she had a tail, it would have started to wag.
By the end of the night, Habakkuk had managed to hold an actual conversation with Curacoa about aircraft and AA.
The morning after, Habakkuk began to integrate herself into the fleet, sending out dozens of planes to scout the best way home. She, of course, would be coming along.
Omake: Bermuda, or something
After Dragnet was finally brought to an end, Harris resolved to stay as far from the cold as physically possible. The problem was that Habakkuk had become attached. Thankfully, shipgirl magic kept her going strong in warmer climes, saving him from an eternity of frozen postings. (That would have really been hell, he thought.)
Even better, they were sent somewhere downright tropical, a beautiful contrast from the cold. However, Habakkuk was clearly nervous in the heat, always stealing glances at her ship to make sure it wasn't melting away.
"It'll be fine, Hab," he smiled at her. She had eventually decided upon that as a nickname. "Now come 'ere," he made a sort of come hither motion.
She smiled faintly. "If you insist…"
Up north, hugging Habakkuk ran the same risks as diving into a snowbank. Here, however? He'd do it all damned day if she let him. Plus, she looked pretty cute with her cheeks all flushed.
Another one! This took about three days to write, which is stupid fast for one of my one-shots.
Anyways, I've really got Foxhound on my mind recently. Maybe it's her pledge line, it's… something. I've got a draft sitting around involving Foxhound capturing comedic amounts of Sakura fox girls, might finish that. Idk.
Also: Dragnet. There was an American Operation Dragnet in Vietnam, but this is referring to a quote from Habakkuk, in reference to the Babylonians/Chaldeans catching the Israelites, as part of Habakkuk's pleading to God. The military/policing meaning of coordinated operations to catch someone, so it seemed a suitably rich title.
Anyways, I chose Curacoa instead of Leander for this because the latter was a Kiwi. Compare with Curacoa, who served in the Atlantic, and Foxhound and Fortune, who were transferred to Canada.