So you shall hear

Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts,

Of accidental judgements, casual slaughters,

Of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause,

And, in this upshot, purposes mistook,

Fall'n on th' inventors' heads.

It started, funnily enough, with Malaya thinking about how she could get Barham used to public speaking. She could write a good political piece, but turning it into something that you delivered? A speech? That was where her sister struggled. Intonation, projection, and gestures, all those little things that turned a dry manifesto into something that set your heart aflame.

(Those things weren't necessary in a politician, mind. Barham had the traits to be a marvelous backroom boy… girl? Whatever. Integrity and a love of justice and humility were good in a politician… but there was absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to grow.)

Malaya had acquired a book full of Cromwell's speeches, and while they were impressively written, they lost something in being put on page. When Cromwell stood in front of the rump Parliament, and cried "In the name of God, go!" with soldiery behind him… there was so much more to that moment in history than the text. Well, maybe the text flattered a bit – you couldn't tell if someone had a terribly reedy, high-pitched voice – but it was like reading Shakespeare straight from the book. You lost something.

And that's when inspiration hit. Malaya wanted to give her sister a chance to practice her public speaking, and she also wanted to experience Shakespeare as the man himself had probably intended. Well barring the part where women didn't act in Shakespeare's time. That would rather ruin the point of the operation, wouldn't it?

Now there was the matter of picking out a cast… and a play.

"I'm not opposed…" Royal Sovereign said, her expression thoughtful, "But I won't have it cutting into my training, you understand?"

"That was always the plan!" Malaya defended herself. "I'm not so dumb as to neglect our defense for fun."

"Right. Just making sure, is all." Royal Sovereign smiled as she sipped her tea. "Am I the first person you asked?"

"Yes."

"I'm flattered… but I suppose you want me to help you recruit?"

Malaya chuckled. "I'd appreciate it, yes."

"I'll do it, if I get a big part."

"You were worried about it taking too much time, but now you want a big part?"

"If I'm going to act, I'm not going to be some bit part."

"Perfect. That works. You have any recommendations for the play, Sovereign?"

Sovereign was silent for a moment before she gave her answer: "Titus Andronicus."

… That Titus Andronicus? The gore-fest?

Royal Sovereign went to convince her sisters. She'd have more luck than Malaya would if she dared suggest something plebian as acting in a stageplay to Elizabeth and Valiant. Still, Malaya thought she might be able to convince a couple more battleships (or battlecruisers, she didn't discriminate) before heading over to the destroyers and cruisers.

Thunderer wasn't on board – citing concerns that she couldn't act – while Conqueror was a bit too far in the other direction. Malaya wasn't entirely sure if she could operate with someone who was using old-timey speech all the time, no off switch when they were done with practice. Hood seemed intrigued, while Renown and Repulse showed some vague interest in the backstage aspects. Neither of them could deliver a monologue, although for very different reasons.

Malaya had a bit more luck making her case to Rodney. "Oh, a stageplay sounds delightful! Did you have a role in mind for me?"

"I haven't decided on a play yet… just some sort of Shakespeare."

"What do you think of Antony and Cleopatra?"

"I'll put it on the list."

"The list, hmm?" Rodney asked.

"Just some suggestions…" Malaya said. "I haven't gotten any repeats yet, but maybe I haven't asked enough people."

"Is your plan just a vote, then?"

"I suppose…"

"Maybe you should choose yourself. This is for Barham's sake, right?"

"Yes…."

"Then I change my vote to whichever one you think Barham will like."

"Rodney…"

"It's the job of us little sisters to give our elders a push, right?" Rodney smiled, a hint of mischief in her eyes.

She considered asking Emerald – Malaya knew that a bit of distraction was what you needed sometimes, although a sister being sold to France was a little less painful than… Warspite… – but Malaya couldn't quite work up the courage for it.

Tiger said she'd be open to playing a small part, in addition to casting her vote: "I'd prefer King Lear, personally." Malaya also received a promise that Tiger would do her best to drag a few people along to see the play when it was ready… a thought that was both intimidating and happy. There'd be an audience, for good and for ill.

In a similar vein, Lowestoft was open to a minor role, and she made the second vote for Titus Andronicus. That was counterbalanced by a warning that she wouldn't go anywhere near the theater if Malaya picked "that catastrophe, the Taming of the Shrew."

("I'd never!")

Royal Sovereign ended up bringing back some really excellent news, though: Royal Oak could probably be convinced to act: "It'd do something for her confidence, at least," and even better, Ramillies was willing to work with the royal maids to do some costume design. Well, they'd try their hardest with what they had, at least.

"Ramillies said, and I quote, 'All the pleats in the world won't make bad fabric good.' Still, she's interested." Royal Sovereign recounted, leaning back against a wall as Malaya considered her options.

A few plays had pulled ahead. Titus Andronicus, the Roman-era revenge play. Henry V got a few votes if you wanted something more modern. The Scottish play wasn't lacking for fans either… and then, of course, there was Hamlet. It was one of the greats, even among Shakespeare's spectacular catalog. She could break the tie in favor of those, maybe bring up a dark horse like Julius Caesar or A Midsummer Night's Dream…

But her mind kept on drifting back to Hamlet. It was spectacular, and what's more… it had a massive titular role. Perhaps a bit too massive, considering just how many lines Hamlet had, but it would certainly be impressive… Barham was a hard worker, and Malaya thought she could adapt to fit into the Danish prince's shoes.

The first meeting of the cast for Hamlet was casual. It was strange, having them all gathered up in a room like they were preparing for a briefing… but it was peaceful. They were, hopefully, going to have fun. Even Hood had made an appearance, and there was a quiet understanding that she might have to do some of her practice apart from them.

Barham received the leading role, and that led to an awkward question: who would be her Ophelia? Who would be the Gertrude for whoever became Claudius? Ramillies grinned at Barham. "I can find you my cutest cabin boy, if you'd like."

"Umm…" Barham's cheeks heated. "Maybe we can stick to just girls?"

"Then we'll need an Ophelia," Malaya said. "Any volunteers?"

Lowestoft cleared her throat awkwardly. Royal Sovereign coughed. After the wait grew awkward, Royal Oak spoke up: "I can try it."

"Perfect," Malaya smiled. "Do we have any volunteers for Gertrude?"

"Now's your time to shine, Kiwi," Repulse stage-whispered, elbowing New Zealand.

"If my accent won't ruin the immersion, I suppose I can be the queen."

"Oh, the immersion's already done for," Ramillies waved her hand dismissively. "We don't have the budget for period costumes."

"We have a budget?"

"We have however much you are all willing to spend to make this happen," Malaya said. "And if all you give is your time, that's more than enough."

"And now our queen needs a king. Or two, I suppose." Tiger remarked.

"I'm Claudius!" Sovereign proclaimed.

"No objections?" Malaya asked. There was silence. Another role down. "Any volunteers for King Hamlet?"

"What about Rodney?" Barham suggested, "She and Sovereign look alike."

"I'd be happy to be your father, Barham," Rodney smiled, "but first… Hood, would you like the role?"

"That's a generous offer, Rodney, but I must ask why you think I'm fit for the part. I don't have your hair, just to start…"

"And Nelson doesn't have my hair." Rodney shrugged. "I think you have the makings of a king, Hood."

"A dead one?" Ramillies asked.

"That's not important. She's beautiful, she's regal… and… ah, begging your pardon, Hood, the role doesn't keep you on the stage for too long."

"I can work with King Hood," Ramillies said, shifting in her seat to view the woman in question from several angles, "but I want to know her understudy now."

"I'll do it," Rodney said. "A happy compromise!"

They filled out their cast and started practicing, usually managing to keep it inside the bounds of their free time. Usually because they occasionally sent more than just combat-relevant information in Morse.

(Really, wasn't it a happy thing to see their mirrors and telegraphs put towards a more artistic pursuit?)

Malaya and Barham discussed their roles late into the evenings. Barham had a lot of memorization to do as the prince of Denmark, and true to her own part, Malaya-Horatio would be her supporter throughout the process.

"How fares our cousin Hamlet?" Malaya prompted.

"Excellent, i' faith of the… chameleon's dish. I eat the air, promise crammed." Barham paused for a moment, and then sighed. "Prompt?"

"Capons."

Barham huffed. "Promise-crammed. You cannot feed capons so… What's a capon, again?"

"A castrated rooster, raised for eating."

"... I feel like there's a joke in there."

Malaya chuckled. "Cease your lewdness! You're not even in Ophelia's lap yet!"

"Am I laying in Oak's lap?"

"You don't have to."

"But what's better for the scene?" Barham asked.

"If the scene makes you uncomfortable…"

"I can bear it. Just… what do you think of the scene, Malaya?"

"I think… we could read it several ways." Barham chuckled. "I know that's lame! But really…. I think it might depend on Oak. If she can play it cool, you might sit up. You're equals. If she's acting embarrassed, plop your head in her lap, sell the idea of the domineering Hamlet."

"That's reasonable."

"It's reasonable, but we'll make it work if either of you doesn't like it, alright?"

Barham was silent for a moment. "Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man as e'er my conversation coped withal." Translation: Horatio, you are as just of a man as I've ever spoken with.

"Thank you, Barham."

"You're supposed to say 'Oh, my dear lord-'"

Malaya laughed. "You got me."

"Wrong again!"

They practiced without costumes. Obviously, they'd have dress rehearsals eventually, but for now Ramillies was off working on their outfits and accepted almost zero input, other than sizes and measures from all the girls and a few specific critiques and requests from Hood.

Malaya hoped she'd execute well, but couldn't really do much about it. Guarantee a good play on her end, at the very least, and for the most part that worked. Royal Sovereign, true to her name, could put on a regal attitude to play Claudius perfectly. Those moments when she broke from it were startling in their intensity, almost panicked or emotional enough to stop their rehearsal.

Hood played a good ghost when she could appear, and it wasn't just because of her typical pallor. There was such obvious grace in Hood's movements, but it was checked by the state of her body and the act she put on, leaving her… well, leaving her seeming like a pale imitation of life. A ghost.

New Zealand had moments of intense passion that occasionally slipped through a ladylike facade… she also happened to play a good Gertrude. Her Gertrude was… in Malaya's reading, straining to survive. She moved to Claudius from King Hamlet not because she was some base creature who only saw looks, but because her livelihood was tied up in her relation to others. Hamlet ranted to his mother about King Hamlet's obvious superiority in looks, but what was a woman to do in those days, when she couldn't support herself? She was almost forced to cling to power…

And then there was Barham. Okay, that sounded mean. Barham picked up Hamlet's lines with incredible speed, but it seemed like that memorization stripped them of something. She'd look at Malaya with aching fondness and say she didn't flatter her, that she was the one she chose to stick by of her own free will, and then suddenly the emotions flew out the window and Barham was making monotone lewd jokes at Royal Oak that had her flushing out of awkwardness more than any sort of embarrassment.

It wasn't even a fault that necessarily killed a politician. She could be coached, she could revise and edit her reading of a line into something sterling. But having to sit down and workshop every single line for the most verbose character in Shakespeare's entire portfolio… it wouldn't work if they wanted their play out in a reasonable time.

They didn't really have appointed understudies for any role but Hood's, though. Finding a replacement for Barham might have been terribly difficult… if she hadn't done almost all of her practice with Malaya.

Barham was a natural Horatio, a reasonable, logical counterweight to the emotional heights that Hamlet reached in his quest for justice. But of course, the question was if she could fill those princely shoes. If she didn't… well, it would probably be even more embarrassing than Barham's performance. A Hamlet lacking in emotion might cripple the play, but if Malaya delivered a wanting Hamlet… it would look like an exceedingly silly vanity project, wouldn't it?

And so she was put to the test. More specifically, Lowestoft threw an apple at her, which she caught. "What…?"

"This same skull, sir, was, sir, Yorick's skull, the king's jester." She prompted.

"This?" Malaya asked, starting to get into it.

"E'en that," Lowestoft confirmed.

Alright, Malaya could do this. "Alas, poor Yorick!" She held the apple – the skull, if they managed to get a prop one – up, level with her eyes, staring into eyeholes that weren't there before turning to Barham. "I knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest – of most excellent fancy."

She paused for a moment, licking her lips anxiously. "He hath bore me on his back a thousand times, and now how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it." She brought it up to her face, putting it up against her cheek. "Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar?"

Malaya laughed without any sort of humor, pacing to another portion of their 'stage' so she might interrogate Yorick further. Maybe she needed to adjust the reading a bit here… "Are you not one now to mock your own grinning? Quite chapfallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favor she must come!"

(Tell the fair lady that thick makeup cannot spare her from Yorick's fate, a skull with jawless grin!)

"Make her laugh at that!" Malaya spun on her heel to face Barham. "Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing."

"What's that, my lord?" There was some genuine sounding worry in Barham's voice! Good acting!

"Dost thou think Alexander looked o' this fashion i' th' earth?"

"E'en so."

"And smelt so? Pah!" Malaya set the skull down and walked towards Barham.

"E'en so, my lord." Barham's foot slid back, something just a little less than a full step backward.

"To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why, may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till he find it stopping a bunghole?" And even the mightiest ship of war in all her splendor, might, in good time, find herself decomposed, split into parts that might, at best, finish a younger craft of her unfortunate breed.

Or perhaps they would follow Alexander's proud example, and their bodies would become thermoses and canteens! Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay, might stop a hole to keep the wind away!

Barham wasn't delivering her line. Malaya was supposed to respond, "No faith, not a jot…" but there was not the tiniest response to her speech… Well, barring the looks of shock and surprise. It uh, seemed like she did a bang-up job?

(What was Malaya's trick? Well, other than it just being an emotionally loaded speech, she was imagining a wisdom cube in her hands, not a skull.)

The scene with Hamlet, Gertrude, and the hidden Polonius in Gertrude's chamber was an interesting one, and not just because of the stabbing involved. Malaya was doing said stabbing with Barham's actual, real-life rapier, so they had to be very careful with their choreography… the first few takes hadn't even involved the sheet they hung up as their 'tapestry'. It was all just making sure Malaya knew where to stab and George knew where to stand.

(In addition to just… looking like she could reasonably be related to Royal Oak-as-Ophelia and Orion-as-Laertes, George had an air of maturity that really sold it. Maybe her lecturing Orion was a bit too similar to real life… but her cooking was also another good part of having her in the cast.)

It was interesting to set up in the simple, physical sense of spacing, but it was an interesting scene more broadly. Even if none of them had really experienced the bond between mother and child, they had heard about it… and they could all understand emotions running high when such seemingly sacred bonds were violated. It showed Hamlet at his most chaotic, as horrifically decisive at just the wrong moment, quite possibly genuinely mad beyond the act he put on…

Well, Hamlet had to be a little mad to pull out images of his father and uncle for a quick compare and contrast while Polonius' body was actively cooling, but it was also another scene where Hood as the ghost of King Hamlet appeared. Hood genuinely couldn't make it to this practice, further heightening the sense that Hamlet was mad: in the play, Gertrude couldn't see the ghost, and now Malaya just had to pretend it was there.

"Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended." New Zealand frowned as she looked down at Malaya.

"Mother," Malaya snapped, tapping into that indignation she buried almost all of the time, "you have my father much offended!"

"Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue." Malaya had no clue how she managed to put on a mask of such perfect condescension…

"Go, go! You answer with a wicked tongue!" Malaya stepped forward, practically pressing up against New Zealand.

"Why, how now, Hamlet!"

"What's the matter now?" Malaya snapped. New Zealand hadn't budged.

"Have you forgot me?" A note of something sad, an estranged mother quickly swept away by a son's fury.

"No, by the rood, not so!" There was no cross for her to swear by yet, that prop was soon to come, "You are the queen, your husband's brother's wife! And – would it were not so – you are my mother."

New Zealand's eyes narrowed, and she took a step back. Without realizing it, Malaya was leaning into her – when she stepped back, Malaya stumbled just a little bit. They should keep that…

"Nay, then, I'll set those to you that can speak." She turned as if to walk away.

Malaya grabbed onto her hand, an oddly… pathetic gesture. A childish one. "Come, come, and sit you down; you shall not budge." But Hamlet was no little child – he had grown into the strength and fury of a man. Suddenly, Hamlet wasn't holding his mother's hand; instead, he was preventing her escape. "You go not till I set you up a glass where you may see the innermost part of you."

New Zealand attempted to pull away, but Malaya held firm, her other hand resting near her sword. "What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murder me?" Gertrude looked Hamlet in the eyes, and cried: "Help, help, ho!"

A voice from behind the hanging sheet: "What, ho! Help, help, help!"

"How now!" Malaya proclaimed, freeing New Zealand from her grasp so she might draw and lunge to the part of the sheet that was… already shredded. "A rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead!" She hit nothing, but slowed her strike to give the impression that she did.

There was a moment of silence. Perhaps a moment too long before "O, I am slain!" George flopped to the floor, and the audience fought to contain their giggling.

"O me, what hast thou done?"

"Nay, I know not: is it the king?!" She put on a bit of a smile, imagining a triumphant Hamlet. Because surely, the only man who would dare visit his mother's closet was the king, right?

There was a moment of silence from New Zealand. "I… think that's a bit too happy, Malaya." More laughter. But Malaya laughed too.

News had spread all around the base by the time the show had arrived, of course. It would be hard not to notice the get-togethers and the distraction during practice or meals. Not that there was a tremendous effort to keep it a secret, or anything like that: the point of the stageplay was an audience. Initially, that audience was supposed to be all shipgirls… but the crew were interested too, to the point that they were practically demanding extra showings.

And really, in times like these, could the officers begrudge the shipgirls or the men a bit of fun? Admittedly, missing out on a play wouldn't be the worst thing that the sailors could be revolting against, but…

Despite the men clamoring for a chance to see it, shipgirls were the exclusive audience for the first show. Lion came to support her sister, of course, while Nottingham and Birmingham dragged Indomitable along to watch Lowestoft, but the most exceptional of the guests arrived a little late.

"Did you claim those seats for us, Curacoa?" Elizabeth asked.

"Yes, ma'am. As close to the stage as you can be."

"Did anyone object?"

"No one at all." Curacoa smiled. She lied with remarkable ease. Whatever recognition her defense of those seats would earn for her in Lizzie's eyes wasn't worth Lizzie taking offense at some perceived act of lese-majeste.

(For what little it was worth, Valiant and Queen Elizabeth were so small they'd cause no problems for whoever was sitting behind them… but saying that aloud would really be a case of lese-majeste, and Curacoa was rather fond of her hide and keeping it untanned.)

The impromptu theater was full of whispering and murmurs. Admittedly, most of them knew the overall trajectory of Hamlet, but Ramillies' insane secrecy about the costumes had given the whole play an air of mystery. It was evidently a labor of love on everyone's part, and even if it was a little… wasteful, Elizabeth supposed she could support her sisters in a matter such as this. Daily life on base could get a little boring, even for a leader such as herself.

Fortunately for Elizabeth her fashionably late arrival – for a royal never waited longer than she wished – meant that she barely had to wait at all before the lights dimmed and the curtains opened. Lowestoft and Tiger walked onto stage, immediately followed by a smattering of applause. Elizabeth thought she heard Indomitable hushing the source…?

The outfits were familiar, but not overly so. Navy blue was joined by more navy blue when Barham entered the scene. Fitting, perhaps, considering that Barham's namesake served in the navy during the Napoleonic wars. That was Ramillies' glorious inspiration… Elizabeth hoped the outfits would be a bit more exciting when they finally saw the royal court. Luckily, she didn't have to wait that long.

Lowestoft-Barnardo spoke to Marcellus and Horatio like she was telling one of her beloved horror stories: "Last night of all-" thunk "-When yond same star that's westward from the pole-" thunk "-Had made his course t' illume that part of heaven-" thunk "-Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself,

The bell then beating one-"

She emerged from behind Lowestoft like a specter. Pale as death, gold and silver covering her like funerary offerings. Well, it was mostly foil. Again, budget. Hood as King Hamlet was terrible and regal, gold laurels rising above her head like horns.

(They didn't rest simply at the top of the head, but were low at the back and high at the front. From a certain angle, they might have suggested a certain battleship's famed tufts of hair…)

Barham addressed her, attempting to draw some response from that "fair and warlike" form – a saber at her hip and a white toga over a uniform, the garb of a Roman warrior politician and a burial shroud all at once – but she plodded off the stage, her silence seeming to infect both the players and the audience with quiet awe.

If that wasn't enough, there was Royal Sovereign as Claudius. Cold silver and gold were replaced with vivid, violent red, like a Napoleon whose entire wardrobe was dyed in blood. On top of that, the outfit was carefully styled to make Royal Sovereign seem… well, a king. Padding in the shoulders to exaggerate here, certain features downplayed there…. Red really worked on Sovereign, that much was obvious.

And with Royal Sovereign came Malaya as Hamlet, positively seething with emotion before she even had her first soliloquy. Elizabeth supposed that was desirable in a stage play, but outside of the theater it was simply bad form.

Everyone loved 'To be or not to be'. It was the classic, the big one people thought of when Hamlet came to mind. A bit too frequently, people associated it with the Yorick speech and the skull – which might not even count as a soliloquy, given Horatio standing there – but it was still a fascinating window into the Danish prince's mind, a consideration of the human condition on the grandest level.

And yet, there was one she liked more. She'd suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and sail against the sea of troubles as long as she could, and she'd do it for justice. Justice for the glorious dead at Jutland, perhaps, but also justice for people who were still alive to see it, who deserved help that she was almost obligated to provide.

"How all occasions do inform against me and spur my dull revenge. What is a man if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more."

Malaya chose to be, instead of not being. But life was so much more than just being alive for it.

"Sure He that made us with such large discourse, looking before and after, gave us not that capability and godlike reason to fust in us unused…"

Malaya wasn't sure what her stance was, theologically, but ontologically? She knew what her being was. She was a warship. No shipgirl could say they were without assigned purpose. (The question, of course, was whether you rejected it.)

The speech flowed from her mouth, and she let herself get lost in it, until she no longer stood in a makeshift theater. The mighty armies of Norway stood before her, arrayed under that foreign prince Fortinbras. (Anson.) No small number of them marched to death under a Polack's sabre, for no purpose other than their prince's decree. A war fought for a piece of land scarcely large enough for the dead this battle would leave behind.

"Exposing what is mortal and unsure to all that fortune, death, and danger dare, even for an eggshell!"

Two thousand dead for an eggshell.

"Rightly to be great is not to stir without great argument, but greatly to find quarrel in a straw when honor's at the stake!"

Millions dead for a peace with honor. Oh, how these last few years had taught her to abhor Fortinbras and his modern ilk.

"How stand I, then, that have a father killed, a mother stained…"

How did she stand a dead sister used for propaganda? A name stained with imperialism, referring to an asset and not a free country?

"O, from this time forth, my thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth!" She turned on her heel and marched offstage, the sight of a transfixed Elizabeth and Valiant burned into her mind…

She hoped they'd clap at the end, at least.