Please read at least the first two sentences of the Author's Note at the end of the chapter, and enjoy.
Prologue
August 15th, 1968
Two figures stand before a towering block of black granite, its polished surface reflecting the soft light of the setting sun. Hundreds of names are etched into the stone, each followed by a date—a solemn reminder of lives lost, and sacrifices made.
"Mom, you met Dad during the war, right?" the younger of the two asks, her voice soft, almost hesitant. "I've heard about the battles, the heroism, and the final push. But you've never really talked about how the two of you experienced it, or even how you and Dad met."
The older woman remains quiet, her gaze fixed on a particular spot on the monument. For a moment, she seems far away, lost in memories too heavy to easily share. A wistful smile tugs at her lips, carrying the weight of long-buried emotions.
"Things were… different back then," she finally says, her voice barely above a whisper. "We met under very different circumstances."
Chapter 1 - The New Normal
March 3rd, 1946
09:52
Near the Bay of San Francisco
The blinding sun jolts me awake as the train exits the tunnel. The air smells of faint diesel fumes and cheap cigarettes, and the constant rhythmic thumping of the wheels fills my ears while blending in with the quiet, nervous murmurings around me. As I come to my senses, the remnants of a dream fade away—the image of a woman in white the last thing I remember before it, too, vanishes like sand slipping through my fingers.
"Sleep well, Lieutenant?" a voice filled with humor asks from beside me.
Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I grunt, "Like a baby." I glance out the window at the desolate landscape. Bomb craters scar the earth, some of the larger ones filled with dirty, brown water. The few buildings that remain have mostly crumbled to rubble. In contrast to the devastation, small, green bushes and weeds have begun sprouting from the ruins, and for a moment, I spot a gray fox darting between two ruined houses—before the view changes yet again.
"We're past the Pacific Demarcation Line already?" I ask.
"Yeah," comes the reply. "Passed it about 15 minutes ago, but we were still deep underground in the tunnel. You know how it is. We're only five kilometers from the ocean now."
I shift my gaze from the window to the person speaking. Blonde, medium-length hair frames her face as her green eyes remain fixed on a worn, leather-bound notebook, its edges frayed from months of use. She holds a pencil in her hand, the top half snapped off, as she sketches something into the book. Three beige chevrons mark the left shoulder of her faded olive coat, and a crumpled pack of cigarettes peeks out from one of her pockets.
"Anything interesting happen while I was out, Nina?", I ask, stretching my arms as the remnants of sleep fade away. She looks up, pausing her sketching for a second.
"A few Iris Libre guys got into a fight with a Vichnya fireteam, but that got broken up pretty quick." She snorts and returns her attention back to her notebook. "And here I thought they wanted to reunify once we win the war."
I shrug my shoulders. "They may talk about reunification, but anyone from Iris Libre still holds a massive grudge against the Crimson Axis and their actions before the sirens hit."
She raises an eyebrow. "And since the Vichnya surrendered and switched sides..."
I nod. "Exactly."
"Politics," she mutters before continuing. "Other than that, not much. The replacements are getting a bit nervous, as usual," she says. I nod in understanding. "This is the first time they're in a Coastal Exclusion Zone," I reply, "Nothing new with how the rookies are reacting." The pencil in her hand slows down, eventually halting. She looks up with an unreadable look on her face, and gazes through the window. "You're not wrong… although if I'm honest..."
A row of burnt-out cars and buses passes our view, before disappearing and giving way to a view of dead trees and dry, poisoned soil around the remains of a downed siren jetfighter.
"It's even worse here," I state.
She sighs. "Yeah. I'm not green anymore. I've fought on the east coast for over a year, and we both know what we saw in the Caribbean, but this..." Her voice trails off as our eyes meet. We hold each other's gaze for a moment before an unspoken understanding passes between us, and we slip into silence, watching the battered landscape roll by. A few minutes later the train rounds a bend, revealing the Bay Area. The nervous muttering throughout the carriages fades into an unnatural, eerie stillness, broken only by the steady rhythm of the train wheels and the creaking of the carriage.
"I've seen this too many times to count," I murmur, "But you never truly get used to it."
The once-vibrant coastal city now lies in haunting stillness, a skeleton of its former self. Jagged, burnt remnants of buildings rise from the ground like broken teeth, their silhouettes stretching towards the blue, cloudless sky. Ruined piers and docks reach into the bay like fingers, and the rust-covered hulls of several old, capsized ships clash against the lapis hue of the water.
In the hazy distance, a faded bridge stretches across the bay, its roadway long since crumbled into the depths below. Yet the pillars of the Golden Gate Bridge still reach toward the sky—bent and broken, but stubbornly defiant.
Nina sighs and pulls the crumpled pack of cigarettes from her pocket. With practiced ease, she slides one out, brings it to her lips, and flicks open a scratched, metallic lighter. She takes her first drag, the cigarette crackle filling the still carriage. "Just another reason to kick these Siren bastards off our planet," she finally mutters, and flicks the ash from the tip of the cigarette.
Fifteen minutes later, the scene abruptly changes. Ruins give way to heavily fortified air-defense cannons in lowered concrete emplacements, and several soldiers are visible manning them as they vigilantly scan the skies. Seconds later, a hiss of compressed air precedes the squeal of metal against metal as the train started its slow deceleration into the station. As the train finally lurches to a halt, the doors slide open to reveal a scene of organized chaos. Military personnel flood the platform, their uniforms mainly Eagle Union with a surprising amount of Iron Blood, Royal Navy, Sardegna Empire and Iris Libre amongst them. The station, marked by hasty construction and even hastier repairs, is abuzz as disembarking soldiers weave through incoming supply carts and logistical personnel.
Nina and I step off the train, our leather boots hitting the rough concrete of the platform. The air is thick with the mingling smell of diesel, sweat and the distant salt of the ocean. The constant shouts of orders, the dull clanging of metal, and the thud of boots create a cacophony of life in pure contrast to the desolate no man's land we just crossed.
Soldiers hustle past us as we make our way to the end of the platform, their faces set in determined expressions as they move towards their own objectives. We step aside to let a small vehicle, loaded with two small trailers filled with ammo boxes and mortar shells, rumble by. At the edge of the platform, several small groups are gathered, with one person in each group holding up a colored cloth.
Without a word, Nina and I start weaving through the sea of people, our goal in sight. We quickly reach the person with the blue cloth.
"I take it you're the fourth company of this battalion?" I ask, raising my voice to be heard over the crowd as I point at the blue cloth in his hands.
"Yes, sir!" the Eagle Union private replies promptly. "115th Amphibious Assault Infantry, that's us! Oh, sorry, sir," he adds quickly, standing at attention and saluting. "I forgot; I didn't mean to—"
"Yeah, yeah, don't worry," I cut him off, returning an informal salute. "Until recently, I was enlisted myself. I don't take that stuff too seriously."
"Ah, of course, sir. I didn't want to—"
"Hey, kid," Nina interjects. "It's been a long ass train ride. Why don't you skip the formal shit and just tell us where to go?"
"Ah, yes, Sergeant, ma'am!" My lips twitch as I hold back a snort, as the private continues talking. "If you look over there- "he points down the road and gestures at three 2.5-ton trucks parked on the side. "-You can see our company's convoy. Those will bring you to HQ once everyone has arrived."
"Gotcha, thanks for the help," I thank him. We start walking towards the vehicles but are quickly interrupted.
"Oh, sir and ma'am!" he asks as we've barely taken two steps. "Should I escort the two of-"
"Thanks, private," Nina says as she keeps on walking, without even turning around. "But we've got it from here."
When we arrive, another soldier greets us and checks our names off a list before we climb into the back of one of the vehicles. As we settle onto the hard wooden benches, I give Nina a sidelong glance.
"Ma'am, huh?"
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," she grumbles, and lights up another cigarette. "It's been a long day, and how could you not feel sorry for that green as grass kid. Chewing him out would have felt like kicking an overactive puppy."
"Mmh," I hum non-committedly, before giving her a smirk. "If you say so, Sergeant ma'am."
She gives me an evil look in return. "Shut up."
"Whatever you say, Sergeant ma'a–"
"Shut. Up."
As Nina smokes her cigarette, the truck slowly fills up with people. But several things soon catch my attention.
First, a small squad of Royal Marines climbs aboard. Their beige, loose-fitting Battle Dress uniforms show clear signs of heavy use—repair patches sewn on knees, elbows, and other worn areas. Their faded green berets speak of long service, and their gaunt faces speak of the hardships they have gone through. They glance at our Eagle Union uniforms with mild curiosity before sitting next to us. One of them, two flipped chevrons marking him as a corporal, turns my way.
"Beg your pardon, sir, this barrel of bolts is headed for the 115th, right?" he asks, his true meaning evident.
"It is," I confirm. "I wasn't expecting to see Royal Marines in this truck either."
"Ah, well, looks like we'll be sharing this ride then," he says with a wry smile. "At least you Yanks aren't the bloody Huns. Could've been worse, I'd say. I'd rather share a ride with those who've fought with us from the start."
He is interrupted by another arrival in the truck, as several Sardegna soldiers climb into the truck as well. The first one gawks at us, before waving sheepishly.
"Mi dispiaci, cameradi. I believe we may have, how do you say in English, taken a wrong turn. You wouldn't happen to know which of these vehicles will bring us to la compania 115?"
The Royal Marines, Nina, and I exchange a look of surprise and confusion.
"This truck is going to the 115th, Caporale" I say slowly, noticing the red chevrons on his uniform. The Sardegnan NCO blinks in surprise, caught off guard.
"Ah… I see," he says, shifting awkwardly. "Well, it would be our pleasure to share this ride with..." He trails off, glancing at us with a nervous smile. "...friends?"
As more Sardegnan soldiers clamber into the vehicle, the Marine beside me mutters under his breath, "Could've been better, could've been worse... at least they aren't—oh, bugger me!"
For the third time in minutes, the entrance darkens with a new uniform. This one, however, catches everyone's attention. A dark, immaculately ironed jacket paired with beige combat webbing. Atop the man's head sits a peaked cap, its emblem—a metal eagle—glinting in the light. A small burn scar runs just below his right eye. His gaze sweeps over us, pausing momentarily on the Royal Marines before his eyes narrow ever so slightly.
"I thought I'd stepped onto the wrong transport, Kameraden," he begins, his voice measured. "But seeing as we're all from different fatherlands, I suppose I am indeed where I need to be."
As he takes a seat on the hard, wooden bench a few more Iron Blood soldiers follow him inside, their presence thickening the tension. The Royal Marines exchange hard stares with the Iron Bloods, while the nervous Sardegnans find themselves caught in the middle of this silent standoff. I glance toward the Marine beside me.
"You ok, man?"
"Oh, I'm just bloody peachy, mate. Never been better, I tell ya," he says through clenched teeth, his eyes flicking toward the Iron Blood newcomers.
One awkward half-hour later, we disembark from the truck in front of a hastily built, concrete building. The different groups quickly separate from each other, and by the time me and Nina have exited the vehicle they have already put several meters of distance between themselves.
"Well, that was fuckin awful," Nina says, dropping down the last step and flicking away her spent cigarette. I sigh in mild exasperation - she's loud enough that anyone nearby could still hear her, and judging from the looks we were getting, they definitely did.
"Truly, Nina, you have a way with words," I say, as we begin making our way towards the building.
"Hey, I'm just a dumb, enlisted grunt, sir," she quips, stretching to shake off the cramped confines of the vehicle. "I don't have to be nice, and no one expects me to be. You're the one who left the sweet embrace of enlisted life and took that commission last month. Now you get the pleasure of being diplomatic."
"Impressive. I didn't think that you knew such big words."
She shrugs. "They were printed on the cereal box I had this morning."
"Now I know you're lying."
"Why, because the general public hasn't had cereal boxes in the last 18 months?"
"No, because you want me to believe a dumb, enlisted grunt can read."
Thirty minutes later, I'm in a room with four other people. The air is thick with tension, heavy enough that it feels like every breath drags across a razor's edge. A harsh fluorescent light casts sharp shadows over the rough wooden table. My eyes flick between the faces of the officers gathered here, and the uneasy silence is broken only by the continuous hum of the lamp and the dull thumps of boots from above the concrete ceiling.
Across from me sits the Iron Blood officer from the truck, his uniform immaculate at first glance, a testament to the care he puts into his appearance. The grey jacket is immaculately pressed, with crisp lines and polished buttons that catch the light. His peaked cap rests beside him, perfectly aligned, like a soldier during inspection. But upon closer inspection, faint scuffs along the collar and subtle wear at the edges betray the uniform's age, as though it has seen too many battles to remain untouched by time. His face remains impassive, except for the burn scar that twists slightly with his narrowed gaze. Every movement of his is deliberate, calculated. He meets my eyes briefly, his mouth a thin, unmoving line.
To my right, a Royal Marines lieutenant sits with her arms crossed, exuding a calm that feels almost too forced. She leans back in her chair, but the rigid set of her jaw and the restless tapping of her fingers against her arm betray the effort it takes to maintain that composure. Her faded green beret rests crookedly on the table in front of her, a worn reminder that she's no stranger to situations like this. Still, the look in her eyes says she'd rather be anywhere else. When her gaze flickers to the Iron Blood officer, the simmering disdain behind her stiff politeness is unmistakable.
On the Iron Blood officer's left, the Sardegnan lieutenant fidgets with the edge of her dark, gray-green sleeve, her fingers tracing its hem with nervous precision. Her uniform looks newer than most of ours, simple, crisp and freshly pressed, and her pale face and restless shifting seem to confirm that story. She hasn't said much since we sat down, her wide eyes darting from one face to the next, like someone trapped in a cage with wolves.
Finally, at the head of the table, the Eagle Union captain looms over us like a stone sentinel. Though his presence is imposing, the weariness etched in his eyes reveals a man who's seen too many battles and fought too many fights. He's been at this for far too long. His uniform is as sharp as a blade's edge, yet a faint streak of green and brown along the collar—remnants of camouflage face paint—betrays the grime of war that even he cannot escape. With a slow, deliberate rhythm, he taps a single finger on the table, each beat deepening the quiet tension in the room.
The captain is the first to break the silence, his voice low and steady.
"Sottotenente Giulia Rossi, Sardegna Empire." He looks at her sharply as she squirms in her seat, before shifting his gaze to the next person who returns the look with a challenge of her own. "Lieutenant Evelyn Drake, Royal Marines. Oberleutnant Reinhard Sturm, Iron Blood. And Second Lieutenant Matt Ledger," he finally shifts his view onto me, "Eagle Union."
The silence returns, and after a few moments the captain sighs.
"I'm Captain Mercer, commanding officer of the 115th. Now, boys and girls, I bet you're all wondering why the hell you're here." His eyes sweep over us once again, lingering a moment longer on the Iron Blood officer and the Royal Marine. " So, in order to get to that, who wants to be the one to address the elephant in the room?"
The four of us exchange glances. After a few moments of awkward quiet, I sigh and decide to speak up. "I assume you're referring to the fact that there's, well, a lot of different nationalities here?"
The captain lets out a humorless chuckle. "A lot of different nationalities, he says. Fuckin hell, you're a diplomatic one. I would have said that there's a lot of people here that, just three years ago, would have happily killed each other."
The Sardegnan officer, Giulia Rossi, shifts uncomfortably in her seat, while the rest of us don't even blink at the captain's words. His gaze sweeps across the room, measuring each one of us, before he leans back and folds his arms.
"It's no secret," he continues, "that after the success of Operation Abyssal Purge in the Atlantic, High Command has set its sights on the next large mass of water." A sharp snort of laughter escapes him, before he continues. "Hell, they're so optimistic that they're already thinking about what happens after we've killed every single siren on this planet. More specifically, they're worried we'll turn around and go back to trying to wipe each other off the map."
Reinhard Sturm, the Iron Blood officer, raises an eyebrow, his voice low and measured. "You think that, after the slaughter of hundreds of millions by those sirens, we'll continue to slaughter each other?"
The captain shrugs, leaning forward. "We've tried before, haven't we? Once over twenty years ago, and we got interrupted during our second attempt three years ago. Do I think it'll happen a third time?" He sighs, before continuing. "Honestly, I don't know. But the Office of Strategic Messaging sure seems to think so, and they want to prevent round three before it starts." Pausing, he eyes each one of us. "Their bright idea? The first battalion of Azur Lane's first Assault Brigade should be made up of companies from every nation. The 111th? Eagle Union. The 112th, Royal Navy. 113th, Iron Blood. 114th, Sardegna. A 'unified battalion.' They're already running the propaganda. 'United tip of the spear,' and all that crap."
The Marine lieutenant scoffs, her fingers tapping a restless rhythm on her arm. "And you think that'll work? A few photo ops and speeches, and we're all sunshine and rainbows?"
The captain's gaze hardens. "That's the idea, Lieutenant Drake. At least, that's the hope."
Reinhard raises a brow. "I… can see how some think that would work. But from a military perspective, the tactical complications are… not to be underestimated. Each military has its own doctrines and tactics, and while the division by company lines should help reduce the resulting friction, it will be a challenge."
"However, as enlightening as all that has been," he continues, fixing the captain with a hard stare, "it doesn't explain why we're here."
Evelyn leans back, her posture a mix of resignation and frustration. "As much as I hate to agree with a bloody Hun, he's right. We're platoon leaders, not company commanders. And you're a company commander, not a battalion commander. So, unless all five of us are getting promoted, which I find quite unrealistic, something else is going on."
"You're right," the captain says with a wry smile, "as much as I would have liked a raise of 50 cents per day, none of us are getting promoted." His eyes sharpen, regaining their intensity. "Four nations each sent a company: Eagle Union, Iron Blood, the Royal Navy, and the Sardegna Empire. The Sakura are bogged down on the other side of the black hole that is the Pacific with the Dragon Empery, so they couldn't contribute. Meanwhile, Northern Parliament has been caught in a goddamn meat grinder for the last six months up in the Arctic, so they aren't sending anyone either."
"Now it should have been five companies, one full battalion, but unsurprisingly the Iris and Vichnya couldn't reach a compromise," the captain continues. "While they are supporting the push into the Pacific as independent nations… they didn't contribute to this last joint company."
"You're joking," Evelyn mutters angrily with Reinhard spitting out "Politics," at the same time, his frustration evident.
"We're fighting against our literal extinction, and they can't even send a single company?" I ask, incredulous.
"Believe me, I and many others in the chain above agree with you," Captain Mercer says, his voice tinged with frustration. "Bu that's the reality we must deal with." He pauses momentarily, his serious expression returning. "As you know, a full-strength Azur Lane battalion consists of five infantry companies, not counting the logistics and staff company. And a week ago OSM started their propaganda broadcasts about us, calling us the 'united tip of the spear' and other heroic nonsense. Now, they can't afford to have that tip of the spear be understrength. So, in their infinite wisdom, High Command decided to kill two birds with one stone: They're maintaining a full-strength battalion, and to avoid any perception of favoritism," he says as we realize what he's about to say, "they're staffing the fifth company with men and women from all nations."
"Bloody Hell," the Royal Marine swears.
"Scheisse," the Iron Blood officer curses under his breath.
"Che cazzo", the Sardegnan officer lets slip.
"Here we go again," I mutter.
Random internet stranger, if you're reading this, welcome to my fanfic. If you don't like Author's notes, then feel free to continue to the next chapter; I hope you'll enjoy what I've cooked so far.
Now, just so you know what to expect from this, let me tell you what this fic isn't: It won't be a Smutfest (sorry to the horny readers who made it this far), it won't be singularly focused on the romance(Though there will be some amount of it), and it won't be all happy and fluffy. This is a story that is about people; it is about Kansen, but it is also about the ordinary humans caught up in a Siren Invasion of Earth, the ones that don't have the benefit of shipgirl rigging and superhuman durability.
This fic was inspired from many things. It was inspired by series such as Band of Brothers, The Pacific, or Masters of the Air, and I hope I'll manage to get even close to the quality of those shows; but it was also inspired by my own experience in the military, and the men and women that I had the pleasure of serving with (even if we sometimes did the dumbest things and managed to piss each other off for a day).
Finally, if you've made it this far, I wish you an enjoyable reading experience. Please leave a comment and a like; it truly helps with not only making this fic visible amongst all the others out there, but it is also an incredible morale boost for me.