June 10th, 1942
0530 Hours
Iguru Jima, Joint Iron Blood-Siren Forward Operating Base

The island was awash with a flurry of activity. Since this particular island was in close proximity to the now flooded Citadel, it was used as a base to treat wounded personnel. There were men and Kansen alike being treated for wounds, and yet every single one of them had the strength to say one thing in particular. One phrase, one name, slipped from the lips of the Japanese and the Germans. Wirbelwind von Arkalov. Ryujin. The Whirlwind of Arkalov Island. Somehow, this one pilot, had braved the island's tightly packed air defenses and managed to knock out the base and subsequently the factory that was about to start mass producing jet aircraft.

An officer wearing Siren-issued uniform walked among the throngs of wounded, the dead and dying. She crouched down, checked on a seemingly asleep soldier, and covered his body up with a blanket. She then got up and continued her inspection. "We really screwed the pooch on this one, as the humans say." She muttered to herself as the atmosphere in the open-air space grew more and more grim. She ran her hand over her gray hair, taking the scale of the damage in. A base destroyed, scores of well-trained troops lost, all to a massive tidal wave from a destroyed dam.

She felt a tap on her shoulder, and turned to see a much shorter Siren with the chevrons of an Ensign on her shoulders standing behind her. The Ensign snapped her a salute, before continuing on with her report. "The Commander and their general staff are waiting for you. They want to hear your debrief that you've gathered so far." The siren mulled this over for a bit, before nodding. "Thank you, Ensign. You may go."

A few minutes later, she was walking through the halls of the complex, a roll of papers and a clipboard under her arm. The commander and the rest of the general staff are in the meeting room, waiting for you." The siren mulled the information over, before nodding and returning to a more relaxed position. "Alright. Carry on, Ensign." The other siren nodded, and walked away.

The halls seemed even narrower, considering the amount of wounded that were being brought in. She squeezed through the halls, and walked into the conference room. Seated at the table were multiple officers from Iron Blood, Sakura Empire, and the Sirens. The commander was a Iron Blood officer, so given his stature, he sat at the head of the table. He massaged his head, a glass of water with two seltzer pills dissolving at the bottom. "Can you tell me as to how we lost 10,000 men, and a considerable amount of military tech? I thought the base was practically impenetrable, given the fact that you took part in developing the factory and the defenses around it." The room fell into a temporary silence, with each present person turning their attention to her. She cleared her throat, before speaking.

"A few days ago, our satellites detected an abnormal rift appear near the island that the humans call 'Midway'. The subsequent radar contact crippled one Siren and injured a member of the Sakura Empire. This contact subsequently went on to land at Midway, refuel and re-arm, and head to Azur Lane's base of operations. One of our parallel attacks was taking place at the time, and during the attack, it crippled four more ships, destroyed three, and killed the leader of Iron Blood's TF-33, Bismarck."

The eyes of those present widened, then went back to a dejected expression. Commander Stigler cleared his throat, drumming his finger on the table. "Well then, do you have a plan for dealing with this erm, 'contact', as you describe it?" He looked expectantly at the Siren, waiting for a response. "The surviving personnel on Arkalov Island were able to escape unscathed, and they brought valuable technology along with them. With the assistance of our coalition, we were able to produce twenty unmanned aircraft, as well as various manned aircraft for your own pilots. We will be deploying them along the area we like to call 'The Round Table'."

She once again pulled up the map, pointing at certain areas in the Pacific. "A chain of fifteen islands, including many smaller uninhabited islets. During the last year, we were able to deploy our forces to three of the islands. We are fairly certain that Azur Lane's forces will attempt an attack there, so we must prepare a defense. We will also issue a warning to all units in the Atlantic and European areas to keep an eye out for this aircraft. Can never be too careful."

"Very well, carry on then, Lieutenant. Meeting is therefore adjourned." The people gathered started getting up, while the commander remained seated. The siren officer looked towards him, a concerned expression on her face. "Is everything alright, 'Anzo?" The siren asked him, using herThe commander rubbed the bridge of his nose, releasing a heavy sigh. "To be honest, Monitor, none of it is alright. Sure, I can keep up a constant facade of the strong, charismatic leader to whom everyone can look up to, a role model. It's all just so shocking, every single time we get a report of one of our bases getting bombed and massive CasReps, I get a migraine. Not only that, but I feel like I am the one responsible for the deaths of the men I've trained. At times, I don't even know if the things I've fought for, bled for, hell, killed for, are worth fighting for anymore."

The man put his face in his hands, inhaling and exhaling slowly. Monitor sat down next to him, putting her left arm around his shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. Listen, I've got an idea. It's something we've talked about a few times in the past." Franz turned to her, a curious expression on his face. "Go on.", he said, propping his chin up on his fist. "One word." She switched to Esperanto, remembering that sometimes the walls have ears. "*Transfuĝo. (Defection.)" Franz's eyes widened at the word, and then went back to a thoughtful expression. "Well, we cannot discuss this here. Remember-" He touched his fingers to his ears "-the walls have ears." Monitor nodded. Such a matter was not to be discussed here, but rather somewhere much more secretive. "See you soon, 'Anzo."

June 10th, 1942
1013 Hours
Pearl Harbor Naval Base

It's been over days since the attack took place, and the base was being rebuilt. All serviceable and "airworthy" aircraft were moved to Hickam Field, and further down the island to NAS Kalaeloa. Although it took the better part of the past two days, Oahu was now reinforced, ready to face any aerial attack. At Hickam Field, pilots were walking about their hangars, doing their daily tasks and conversing amongst each other. At the end of the row of seven hangars, was where the MiG and four pilots with whom Stepan had a conversation two days ago. They were sitting on a long crate facing the open hangar door, smoking cigars, looking out into the sky with their eyes narrowed.

Suddenly, Sagdiyev broke the silence, pointing a finger out towards the opposite runway. "Look, vipuskniki. Graduates." To that, the pilots craned their necks to see, and saw a group of officers in new dress uniforms, walking along the runway. Stepan turned to Kozhedub, pausing momentarily to blow smoke out of his mouth.

"What're they doing in the middle of the runway, in clean uniforms, without the proper flak vests on? Are they mentally insane?" Kozhedub too, blew smoke out of his mouth before speaking. "See, graduates, or, officer graduates, are freshly minted lieutenants, or in some cases if their pops is a rich man with ties to the government, minted as either senior lieutenants or even captains in some cases. We dislike graduates for a few simple reasons. Reason number one being, they are placed in command of squadrons with no prior combat experience. They tend to make rash and costly decisions in battle, such is the case of the first battle of Pearl Harbor. The simplest of them all being? They're obnoxious. I'll only ever take the words of a vipusknik seriously once they've actually been in battle."

Stepan chuckled, placing the fully smoked cigar in the ashtray. He got up, pulled out another cigar off, cutting the tip off and lighting it with a Zippo. "Well, why don't we go have a talk with them?" Kozhedub shook his head, as did the other three pilots. "Everyone who has had a altercation with them was sent to a different squadron. As I said, their fathers have ties to the government, it's best not to make trouble." Stepan wasn't listening at this point, and was instead getting back up again, putting his mazepynka on, before making his way over to the youngsters, whom at this point, were getting rowdier by the minute. "Hey boys, what're you doing in the middle of a probable target? Especially in clean uniforms? Ever hear of PERSEC?" The pilots laughed before quieting down and looking at him with scornful, shit-eating grins. "Who are you? Ever hear of stepping aside for your betters?" The shit eating grins disappeared right after they noticed that he wasn't leaving with his tail between his legs, and that he was looking at them with a sense of authority and knowledge of what he's doing.

"Listen here, you wankstains. You may have gotten further up the food chain because your daddy pulled strings somewhere in order to get you into a high rank with no proper experience. There's a fine line between rank and experience, and oftentimes, experience outranks everything." He cleared his throat, before switching to an angry, "drill sergeant" tone. "Now, I'm going to ask you again. What are you doing in the middle of a probable target?" Immediately after, the leader of the group stepped up, his service cap in his hands. "Erm, sir, there is going to be an airshow of sorts. Fleet Week 1942 is just around the corner. World leaders and military delegates from across the globe will attend. We are here to scrounge up aircraft for an air demonstration." Stepan chuckled, turning towards the hangar to walk away. "Why don't you fellas find something better to do other than quite literally give the enemy a target to shoot at? Now get out of here." With that, he walked away towards the hangar.

"That was the first time I've seen someone put a vipusknik in their place. Good job!" Kozhedub chuckled, eventually the chuckles turned into full out laughter, to which the rest of the pilots joined in. "Did you see the looks on their faces? Would've been the perfect time for you to say 'Ну и рожа у тебя, Шарапов.' That would've been more funnier." Sagdiyev and Vasilyonok were wheezing with laughter, their faces red like a tomato. "Goddamn, I'll remember that for a long, long time. What were they here for anyways?" They eventually stopped laughing, and huddled around a bottle of Żubrówka vodka, shot glasses in front of the bottle. "Bah, this is boring." Stepan spoke. "Why don't we go to a bar? I'm sure Oahu has an abundance of bars and dives." Kupchenko, silent throughout the talk, eventually spoke. "There's a bar outside the base. Called the-, erm, I forget the name. Ruckus? Roger? Oh, Rocketeers." Kozhedub laughed, screwing the bottlecap on the bottle of Żubrówka, before getting up. "Goddamn, Kupchenko, three years in the Pacific and you still don't know what bars you drink at?" They all had a good chuckle before heading for the motor pool.

A few minutes later, they were cruising uphill, the top of the Jeep down. It was all quiet, except for the occasional gust of wind blowing past Stepan's ears. Kozhedub turned to him, lowering his aviators a bit. "So, what's the rumors I hear about you and the kansen who helped you with repairs?" He spoke louder to be heard above the wind. Stepan turned the wheel as the road bent, keeping watch on the two lane road's partially nonexistent traffic, as all drivers do. "Well?" Kozhedub asked again, waiting for an answer. "Oh, her? Well, she kissed me the moment I got myself out of the cockpit. Surprising, but that felt great, since I immediately calmed down. An, erm, 'mental anesthesia' of sorts."

Kozhedub whistled, and the rest of the group in the backseat whooped with laughter. "You've been here for what, six days? Well, I guess times are changing. Hell, even тихоня over there has caught the attention of a Brit kansen." Sagdiyev cocked his head to one side, a puzzled expression on his face. "Do you mean Wales? I don't know what to say. There's loads of men who can treat her better than I can. I'm a pilot, what do I know?" Stepan chuckled, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "Listen, Sagdiyev, I've been here for six days, and I've seen the way she looks at you. She always talks in a higher pitch when you're nearby or when directly talking to you, and in some cases she even blushed once or twice. I'll give you a tip on how to tell. Look for how she acts, and if her pupils dilate. Straight giveaway."

Sagdiyev nodded, giving Stepan's shoulder a friendly pat. "Thanks for the talk, man." Stepan gave Sagdiyev a thumbs up, the other hand on the steering wheel. "Anytime. Oop, look, we're here." Stepan pulled the car into the bar's parking lot, putting the brake on and getting out of the car, the rest of the pilots in tow. The doors of the bar swung open and they walked in. Kozhedub asked, "What'll we order? How about Stolichnaya? If they have it." As they walked up to the bar counter, Stepan squinted at the alcohol arrayed against the wall, bottles of different shapes and sizes standing right next to each other. Stolichnaya, Zubrowka, the vodka they were about to drink, Hennessy, Everclear, Jack Daniels, and further up along the wall, a tall bottle of Horilka.

They took a seat and the rest of the crew reviewed the rows of bottles. Sagdiyev, squinting further down the row, muttered "I guess the post-Prohibition period really boosted this place. Good for them." Stepan motioned for the barmaid, who came over while drying a glass out with a rag. "What'll it be, boys?" Stepan pondered for a second, before speaking. "Five shots of Horilka. Thank you." She nodded, and went to the far wall, grabbing the bottle and pouring out five shots, which she then brought over to them. "That'll be 1.25. Enjoy." Stepan took out a dollar and a quarter, handing them to the barmaid. He then took the shot glass, while the others looked at the shot glasses.

"What's this?" Kozhedub asked, tapping the glass with his finger. "That's Horlika. It's like vodka, except it's made with just wheat. There is, of course other iterations such as honey pepper Horilka, and fruit flavored ones. This one, is better though. Doesn't leave a horrible aftertaste." He exhaled sharply and knocked back the glass, wiping his chin. "Блін, I didn't realize how much I've missed Horilka. We didn't have a lot of it on base." The rest of the group followed suit, knocking back the glasses, agreeing among each other that it was quite pleasant for the first time.

Stepan looked around the room, his eyes locking on a piano standing against the wall, the lid closed over the keys. He walked over to it, running his hand over the wooden lid, the varnished wood smooth beneath his fingers. He opened the lid, sitting down on the stool in front of it. Since it was a Wednesday, and a lot of men and kansens were on R&R at the bar. He put his hands over the keys, and started playing "We'll Meet Again". Though he missed a note here and there during the first verse, he nevertheless continued. He cleared his throat, the lyrics rolling right off his tongue.

We'll meet again...

Don't know when, don't know where...

A few tables away, soldiers and kansens joined in the chorus, and soon half the bar was singing along.

But I know, we'll meet again...

Some sunny day...

Some people smiled, continuing along with the verse, until the song was over. Stepan did a small salute, before walking back towards the countertop. "I guess they liked it. Anyways, lets head back to base, shall we?" After tipping the barmaid, he gathered up his mazepynka and followed the rest of the men out of the bar.

A few moments later…

Once they arrived back on base, he saw that the hangar that held his aircraft was wide open, the MiG's prominent, pointy nose sticking out halfway. Multiple ground crews, as well as a crew chief, were finishing last minute checks before takeoff. "What's all this? Am I taking off again?" He asked his crew chief, who promptly turned around, wiping oil off his forehead with his forearm. "Yes, Commander D'Elise's orders. She said something about practicing for the upcoming Fleetweek, and so we're fueling 'er up. You've also been given a full loadout of anti ship munitions for this, so good luck."

Stepan nodded, heading to the lockers for his flight gear, pulling the suit and the oxygen tank equipment out. He donned the Zsh-7, snapping one end of the KM-34's button straps to the helmet, after which he zipped up the flight suit, put the rest of the мундирі on, and going up the ladder into the cockpit of the fighter. While he was gone, the diligent ground crew had cleaned the instrument panels, the HUD and the HDD, calibrated the navigational instruments, the IAS indicator, and the barometric altimeter on the left hand side.

He leaned to check behind the Zvezda ejection seat for the survival weapon, a Fort-500 with a folding stock, and emergency comms gear if he ever got stranded in the wild. With the preflight checkups complete, he winched the canopy closed, and slowly pushed the throttle forward. "Hickam Tower, this is Noble 1, taxiing to runway at this time. Confirm mission status." He tapped the fuel meter with his finger, and the haywire indicator popped back up to normal, a full tank. Soon after, the radio crackled to life and the air traffic controller cleared his throat. "Noble 1, this is Hickam Tower. You are clear for takeoff. You will participate in a short exercise with friendly forces, in which you will practice live-fire attack runs on target vessels with anti ship missiles. Once you reach the range perimeter, flash your transponder three times in squawk code 4000 and contact friendly forces in the area, then contact us."

"Solid copy. Adjusting course 315°." The MiG banked left, and made a pass over Kapolei. Eventually, he flew along the coast of Oahu, the jungle-terrain coastline stretching for miles and miles until eventually he made the transit towards Kauai. "Hickam Tower, this is Noble 1. I am reaching the range perimeter. I have a visual on friendly vessels in and around the range. I will attempt to contact them." Moments later, the radio operator in the tower cleared his throat, and spoke again. "Noble 1, commence transmission." Stepan made a quick mental note to clean the inside of the helmet, as the transmission came in garbled. "Copy, Hickam Tower." Dropping to 2,000 feet, he flashed squawk code 4000 three times, and waited for a response back. Finally, it came. "Friendly aircraft, this is the USS Oklahoma. Welcome to Range 15. If you take a quick look at your 2 o'clock position, you will notice that there are four derelict vessels in the water. Those are your current targets. Once you eliminate those, you will carry out bombing runs on other vessels further north. Is that clear?" Stepan waited for a moment, before responding. "USS Oklahoma, this is Noble 1, I hear you loud and clear. Proceeding to target." He firewalled the throttle, and the aircraft rocketed forward.

Once he was in range, he pulled the throttle back to 70% and waited for the HUD to acquire. "Oklahoma, this is Noble 1. Confirm green range." A split second later, Oklahoma responded, "Noble 1, green range is confirmed. Fire when ready." Finally, the target was acquired, and the targeting system blared the all clear. Flicking the Master Arm key, he opened the cap on the control stick, and contacted the Oklahoma again. "Noble 1, Bruisers away." He pressed and depressed the key twice, and two Kh-29 Anti ship missiles dropped away. Moments later, the HUD lit up with a brilliant white light, indicating that both targets were hit. One spewed bits of metal in every direction, and the other one rose a few feet out of the water, before splitting into two sections and sinking. "Oklahoma, this is Noble 1. I have a confirmed splash on both contacts. Continuing planned route towards the North."

Moments later, the remaining ships were in range. Switching the Shchel-3UM on, he glanced at the ship closest to his position. Making a low pass, he checked out the port side of the vessel and the area where the prow is supposed to be. He frowned, as the ship was two feet below the waterline and the anchors weren't securing it in place. "Oklahoma, this is Noble 1. I've got one target vessel that is approximately two and a half feet below the waterline. Is this normal? Over." The radio crackled for what seemed like an eternity, and he got his response. "Noble 1, be advised, that target vessel has been laden with obsolete and surplus ammunition. We left it there in order to create a realistic explosion when hit. You may proceed, over."

Returning his attention back to the control stick, he descended to 1,000 feet, the laser module coming to bear on the vessel. "Noble 1 to Oklahoma. Be advised, paveway, paveway, paveway." With three presses of the toggle, three KAB-1500Ls dropped away, falling freely towards their target. In a split second, the bombs pierced the ship's deck, and eventually, each bomb came to an abrupt stop, their momentum spent. The first bomb detonated inside the cargo hold which had pallets of battleship ammunition stacked row on row. The second bomb detonated in the ship's engine room, which fortunately for the marine life, has been drained of any substance that could ruin the ecosystem. The third one impacted the root of the bridge, and moments later, the series of powerful explosions finally turned the ship inside out, the stern being lifted out of the water from the force of the ammunition detonation. The shockwave shook the MiG for a brief moment, but he kept flying the inner perimeter of the range.

"This is Noble 1 to Oklahoma. Any more targets for me? Over." immediately after, Oklahoma contacted him, the radio interference finally cleared up. "Affirmative, Noble 1. The commander and a few military officials need to have a talk with you. Proceed to Hickam, over." Stepan gave the ship a quick response, before winging it over toward O'ahu. Coming in to land, he switched back to the base's general frequency, and hailed Hickam Tower. "Tower, this is Noble 1. Clearance code M12D7Y41, Over." Hickam Tower's shitty radio receiver crackled, and a response came. "Copy Noble 1, you're clear to land on any runway of choice. They're clear anyways." Stepan grinned, and deployed the gear. Coming in on short final, he deployed the airbrake, and once the rear landing gear was touching the runway, he deployed the rear landing parachute, the white and orange cloth billowing out and snagging the air.

Seconds after, the aircraft came to a halt, and taxiied slowly to the hangars. Once there, the ground crew attached a ladder to the wing roots, and Stepan started winching the cockpit open. He took the helmet off, his hair sopping wet with sweat from the heat and the cramped space in the helmet. He carefully got out, handing his equipment to the crew chief, shaking his hand profusely before heading to the base's administrative buildings. He was directed to the officers' showers in the main building, getting the chance to wash all of his grime and sweat off. After walking out of the shower room, he entered the changing room in his towel, and was met by a Marine Corporal on dry cleaning duty, who handed Stepan a plastic-wrapped uniform. "This is your uniform, sir. It's an Army Air Forces uniform, although personally I'd suggest the Marine uniform-" He noticed Stepan was already opening the package, and went back to explaining what was inside.

"Rank insignias and shoulder straps have already been attached in accordance with your own rank insignia equivalencies. Once you're done, a car will be waiting to take you to your destination. Have a good day, sir." After receiving a salute from the Marine, and saluting the Marine back, he opened the package completely and started to put it on. Compared to the dress uniform he wore in the Ukrainian Air Force, this one was much more complicated, the layers of trousers, undershirt, and the thick jacket throwing him for a spin, but eventually he made sense of the steps and finished off the process with a tie in a full Windsor knot, rank insignias adjusted to the shoulder straps, and an olive drab service cap placed neatly on his head.

Within minutes of walking out of the building, he saw a Jeep pull up to the entrance, and brake hard. Upon waiting for the Jeep to come to a complete stop, Stepan opened the door and took a seat. Without saying a single word, the driver pressed on the gas pedal and the car started moving. Within 15 minutes of driving, the car came to a stop in front of a hangar converted into a meeting/administrative office. After getting out, he entered the building and a guard waved him through a thick steel door which clanged shut behind him, the locking mechanism thudding against the wall.

On through a long hallway, he took three more equally thick doors, until he entered a large conference room with a long Mahogany wood table in the middle. At the far end of the table sat a man in a dress white uniform, and on his left hand side and right hand side sat three men each, including Commander D'Elise, bringing the total number of conference participants to nine. The man raised a hand, motioning to one of the free seats next to the Commander. "Please, Major, have a seat." Stepan sat down, taking his service cap off and placed it at his right hand side. The Commander picked up a small remote, and clicked it. Immediately, the lights dimmed, and she turned towards those gathered. "Major, this is Admiral Nimitz. He is the current Commander In Chief of the Pacific Fleet."

She then went through the rest of the participants there. Among them was General Arnold of the USAAF, and Lieutenant Commander Edwin Layton. With introductions complete, the Admiral cleared his throat and picked up a thick yellow paper folder. "Major, the problem is quite simple. Our forces are spread thin, and quite frankly, we don't have a dedicated way of striking heavily defended targets that will otherwise pose a threat to our carriers and their escort vessels. As such, the inability to have a quickly mobilizable force that can strike anywhere at anytime hampers our advance and fuels the Crimson Axis as well as those Sirens and the seemingly endless stream of resources at their disposal." He slid the folder towards Stepan, giving him a moment to go over the first few pages. "Keep that for now, Major. You'll need it."

He took another folder, which he opened and closed after thoroughly reading the first page. "After a deliberation with the CNO, it is deemed necessary for the formation of a new unit. This unit will participate in clandestine, unorthodox, and highly experimental raids, both in the air and on the ground. Now, you may be wondering why you're here exactly. This unit needs a leader, someone who can continuously develop new combat tactics and keep his men in tip top shape." The Admiral reviewed Stepan with a judging gaze, before going back to his speech. "Why you? Myself, along with other officers, have reviewed the combat footage taken from the ground during the two engagements that took place above the Midway Atoll and Hawaii. We've also reviewed the exercise footage that took place two hours ago. You've outdone yourself in both engagements, and we'd like for you to lead the unit."

The room fell into silence. Stepan opened the folder that was given to him, and skimmed through the pages, his eyes squinting like a hawk. Finally he closed the folder, and turned to the admiral. "Sir, when do I start?" The Admiral's face broke out into a brief, professional smile, and he stood up. "As soon as possible, preferably after Fleetweek." The rest of the participants stood up, gathering up their garrison and service caps. The admiral walked over to Stepan, snapping him a salute. "Welcome to the LRSSG, son. Thank you to everyone for participating, this meeting is adjourned."

After everyone filtered out of the room, the Commander walked with Stepan through the halls towards the exit. "So, you've got a plan?" she asked him, her arms behind her back as they walked side by side. "To be honest? A few days ago I would've been in a heaping pile of aluminum in a field somewhere in Zhytomyr. Now that I've seen the damage that those bastards have wrought, I will not stop until I am either dead, or until they get washed away in a sea of flame. They remind me of the Russians, except with better technology and more human rights violations."

The commander nodded, her hands becoming uncrossed, which she then let fall to her sides. "Well, I wish you the very best of luck, Major." As they reached the end of the halls and the previous steel doors, they split off and Stepan got a ride from a Jeep to Hickam's military residence sector. He entered the building, and took an elevator to the third floor, from where he entered Room took a seat on the bed, his legs crossed as he unbuttoned his shirt and got out of his undershirt. After a two minute period during which he rapidly folded the uniform's various pieces into a neat pile, he picked up an equally neat pile of his MM-14 standard uniform. He put both the shirt and pants on, zipping the shirt up and heading towards the closet. Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he saw that he had gotten a text from North Carolina.

Hey, you there? I was going upstairs and I saw you go in.
-NC

Yeah, I just got back from a meeting.
I think I might need a secretary.
You up for it?
-Stepan

Oh, um, sure!
Can we talk about it soon?
-NC

Yeah, of course.
Oh, and one more thing.
-Stepan

Yeah?
-NC

That kiss was great. Don't tell anyone though, alright?
-Stepan

The notifications paused for a second, and he got a short message back.

Sure, as long as I can kiss you again.
-NC

Stepan blushed a bit, smiling at the flirtatious response.

Of course.
-Stepan

Alright, my room is next door over, 301. I'll be right out.
-NC

A few minutes later, he heard three light knocks on his door. He got up and opened it, seeing North Carolina standing in the doorway. She walked in, her arms wrapping around Stepan. With her right leg, she closed the door, and sat him down on the bed. She then sat down next to him, her face inches away from his. "You seem tired. You alright?" He chuckled, his arms wrapping around North Carolina's shoulders as he shrugged. "Dunno. It's been a flurry of activity. The meeting was quick, but I've got a load of responsibilities now." He placed a light peck on her lips, his lips stretching into a coy smile. "That just helped with the stress~." She chuckled, and pushed him down onto the bed. A few minutes later, they were both lying next to each other, slumped over. She closed the short distance between them, placing a more passionate kiss on his lips, him returning the favor. Their arms were roaming around each other by then, but then he stopped. Chuckling, he helped her up, giving her another kiss. "It's a bit early to get into that mood, don't you think? Maybe later?" She nodded, a playful wink and smile playing out across her face. "Sure~! See you around."

He saw her out, and then closed the door behind him. Flopping back down on the bed, he drifted off to sleep, thinking about how lucky he is to have friends and allies on his side. As long as he had their help he could face anything and anyone.

Author's Note: HOOOO BOY! That is a record. An entire whopping 5563 words, complete with realism and detail, as requested by one of you. I will be pushing these out faster since summer's started, and I hope to enjoy this journey with you. As such, I've added a little special surprise at the end of the chapter. Hint: It's the one you have just read~.