Yes, her hands may be hardened from labor,

And her dress may not be very fine;

But a heart in her bosom is beating

That is true to her class and her kind.

She had taken one very remarkable tour, just to get here to the Combined Syndicates. Scraped through the canal just days before the Panamians seized the thing and put the nix on American warships going through. Well, the phrase 'American warship' lost a bit of strength when there were several Americas running about.

(Thank goodness. Had she been any slower she would have had have had to make a stop in the worker's state in Patagonia.)

That was the miserable state of things, at the moment. Her captain and her crew had syndicalist sympathies, enough to overwhelm anyone who disagreed. It was a shame. Some of the boys they booted off were quite nice, actually.

Thankfully, they hadn't started any warship fights in the harbor. That would have been a catastrophe; instead, there was a sort of shuffling. A chunk of her boys jumped ship for the Union State, and some of Tenn's boys limped over to her…

There was some quiet agreement not to turn Hawaii into a warzone. That unfortunate fate was just inflicted on the mainland, where the great industrial cities were caught up in sieges, where the common man already struggled with want. The humble American worker was met with patrolling thugs, the farmer had the fruits of his labor violently confiscated. America wept and would keep on weeping.

But she couldn't weep with them, not when action was desperately needed. For the people's sake, for her sister's sake.

Both deserved so much better than what they got: broken promises and pointless deaths. Long and MacArthur and all their sort… blood came down off their hands in rivers. The Mississippi flowed red, and not even in a positive, revolutionary way. Just blood. Blood up to the streamlets, tears from the country's forgotten.

Too many already died before this foolish war. America's people needed protection from these monsters, from the Longist silver-shirts and the American Caesar's legions, needed protection from the plutocrats who lurked in seemingly fair and democratic systems, who let the people bleed like stuck pigs.

A lesser person might have cried, but she had made herself a promise. No more tears that she could prevent. No tears if her own, no tears from the from the people she protected. A little something to counterbalance all those tears she couldn't prevent.

—-

There was something nice about convoy escort work, how concrete it was. Every ship that arrived meant supplies: shells for her guns, pieces for the boys on the ground, and food. Canned fruit from Provence, sacks of rice from the Po Valley… the workers of the world were with them in the fight, hoping that America might truly fulfill her promises of freedom one day.

Perhaps in the other portions of America, shipgirls enjoyed the same foods as the upper class. The rich found ways to feed themselves even in times like these, and shipgirls had this remarkable tendency to fall in with the rich and powerful.

Her men respected her more because she broke bread with them. Of course, the chain of command still existed, but shipgirls were at their most powerful when friendly with their crew. She knew faces, knew names.

And of course, she tried to get along with her fellow ships. It just made logical sense.

And what a ragtag band they were. The war had torn normal families apart, and it certainly split up classes. Sometimes, that split was due to death, while other times it was politics. The latter seemed more cruel.

Chicago was fortunate enough to have one sibling around: Northampton. Houston was off with the Pacific, or so the rumors said. Chicago listened to the battle reports constantly.

"Penny for your thoughts, Pensy?"

"The war."

"I mean, I know some men like their girls a little melancholy, but would it kill you to cheer up? You've got looks to kill for, you know."

"Thanks." She smiled. "Are you having any luck yourself?"

"Don't remind me." Chicago sighed. "Why do I give you advice when you've already bagged one?"

"Because you're an incredibly kind soul?"

"Very true," Chicago chuckled. "Maybe because it feels unfair that you land your perfect man first try."

"No man is perfect…"

"And yours is a cut above the rest!"

"He'll be glad to hear it."

"I mean, getting you to like him seems more impressive than getting me to like him."

"I'm not that bad."

"You're not bad at all, Pensy! High standards are a good thing. And if someone met yours, surely someone can just scrape mine…"

She didn't respond, and Chicago read a whole lot into her silence. People did that a lot, actually. She wondered if she seemed a bit more like her sister when she wasn't talking.

"I mean, my standards can't be too high, right? But I only seem to attract the worst scumbags…"

"Better that you figure it out early, right? Saves both of you some tears."

"Good point."

"Maybe we should all just copy Long Island. Eat good food and read cheap novels."

"Oh, but your boy treats you a lot better than a novel does, don't he? The fun type of union."

"The sex isn't important."

"I keep on forgetting you're actually a tremendous sap."

"Always been one." She answered Chicago.

"You're seeming more and more like your sister, you know."

"And that's a good thing?"

"I mean, of course, it would be better if she was here and you didn't have to take after her…" Chicago sighed. "Ugh, I'm making a mess of this. Guess all that matters is whether you think you're doing her proud."

"Speaking of… how are casualty reports?"

"Union State's Phoenix went down during a federal air raid, seems like." Sometimes, she felt bad constantly asking Chicago, but she always kept her ear to the ground…

She stood up. "Thanks, Chicago. I'll try not to ask next time."

They got together after the war started, after her sister… grief pushed them together and actual chemistry did the rest. Her captain was a good man.

(Although at times she wondered what would have happened if her Captain's strong syndicalist leanings hadn't pushed her and her sister to race down the Eastern seaboard as the war started–)

While she couldn't let it grow into dereliction of duty… she liked making her captain feel good. It was a perfectly natural thing. A human thing, even if they panted and gasped like animals while doing the deed.

Sometimes, it was enough to make them forget where they were, exactly. You could almost pretend they were still at Pearl Harbor– although the closest they got to this as Pearl Harbor was the occasional lingering look at her legs– and that things were normal.

Her old self was still in there somewhere. Or at least, her Captain seemed to think so when he looked into her eyes and said three words:

"Love you, Ari."

Her throat clenched, and for a moment she thought of her sister, scar on her face and care in her eyes, hoping, hoping she might make it to safe harbor in the Syndicates. And then Arizona suggested that she could bear Pennsylvania's name because it was one of the CSA's states, while also honoring her brilliant older sister.

(Before she bore the red banner of the Combined Syndicates, she wore bloodstains. She was baptized by blood. Her sister's blood. And yes, she knew that wasn't what the term meant theologically, but when someone sat her down and wiped the dried stains off with a wet towel, it was as if they washed away the old her. The old Arizona and Pennsylvania had both died that day and what the CSA needed was her sister's strength.

Some people had the gall to say it was a happy blend of Pennsylvania's willingness to fight and Arizona's kindness. Like Penny wasn't so kind it hurt, gruff but loving, the best older sister anyone could ever ask for.)

She didn't mind being called Pennsylvania or Arizona, but Ari specifically? "God, don't. Please, don't."

"But…"

"I know it's my original name, but… I can't bear it, Captain. I can't. Penny called me that, and I can't."

"I'm sorry." He apologized. "But I love you for Arizona."

"And I love you back." She sighed.

Another discord discussion classic. Sev's idea.