Wrapping Sirius in a throw blanket despite her weak protests, Ulyanovsk headed down to the kitchen.
Even as an experienced Kansen, she was completely unprepared for the reality local Shipgirls had been living in for the better part of a decade.
The psychological weight that the cruiser had learned to tolerate during long, borderline-suicidal deployments had crashed down on the light cruiser like a tsunami, even while safe at port.
“Why the hell did she lock up like that?
You’d think she just went a few rounds in the vanguard against a high-tier Hime…” the aviation cruiser sighed, pouring hot chocolate into two mugs.
“Doesn’t exactly track with her stories about a high-tech, laser-shooting enemy…” At the same time, he didn’t feel the signature Abyssal aura from her, and he had plenty of experience dealing with high-tier monsters.
Not many veteran Kanmusu could brag about surviving multiple close encounters with Himes.
Some of them far too close for comfort.
Opening a cabinet, Ulyanovsk stared at a bottle of commendation cognac.
Spiking hot chocolate with alcohol felt like a culinary sin, but it worked wonders for his nerves.
Would it help his guest?
Hard to say.
But from reliable sources, the cruiser knew that neither the eggheads nor the Kanmusu had found a better cure for ocean-induced stress than eating something sweet.
Among themselves, the commanders praised the Shipgirls’ hyper-metabolism; they could eat their weight in sugar without blowing up like the rainbow-haired social justice warriors protesting in the streets.
That joy usually died the moment the Brass had to read the food expenditure reports, but that was a different story.
Deciding not to experiment, the guy grabbed a pack of milk cookies and headed back upstairs.
His guest was exactly where he left her, staring blankly at the storm clouds outside the window.
“Feeling any better?” he asked, stepping into her line of sight.
“Not at all,” Sirius smiled bitterly, shaking her head.
“The photographs just triggered some…
unpleasant memories.” “I noticed.” Pulling the coffee table closer, the cruiser set the cookies down and handed her a mug.
“Here.
This helps.” “Hot chocolate?” she asked suspiciously, wrapping both hands around the warm mug.
“Or is it something special?” “Just normal hot chocolate,” Ulyanovsk said, sitting down next to her.
“Generic, store-bought stuff.
Probably barely qualifies as real chocolate, but it’s the best combat medicine we have for situations like this.” “Situations?” Sirius echoed, taking a tiny sip.
“While our girls don’t usually go catatonic at the sight of a generic grunt,” the guy nodded toward the tablet, now resting on the nightstand, “prolonged exposure to the ocean or encountering high-tier Abyssals leaves a mark on the psyche.
And nothing heals it faster than chocolate.” “That’s convenient,” the girl managed a weak smile.
“You bet.
Though it’s a slippery slope,” Ulyanovsk grimaced.
“Borderline pseudoscience, but it works.
And since you reacted so violently to a single picture, there are a few things you need to know.
For your own safety.” “You think I won’t be able to return home?” the Kansen asked, her voice quiet but defiant.
“Time will tell.
I honestly hope you never have to deal with the reality of our…” he waved a hand toward the window, “existence.
But I also don’t want you going berserk and destroying my house if you get caught in the storm’s influence.” “The Royal Maids know how to control themselves!” “I believe you, but…” Ulyanovsk paused, choosing his words carefully.
“I’m not talking about a normal rainstorm.” “What does the weather have to do with…
the psychological effects your enemy projects over the sea?” the Kansen frowned.
“Well,” the guy offered a crooked smirk.
“For starters, we get fewer hurricanes and tropical cyclones now, which is nice.
You see, after the Abyssal Fleet showed up, almost the entire ocean was gradually covered by some unnatural purple fog.
Nobody knows what’s happening inside it.
Satellites can’t pierce it, avionics die a heroic death the second they touch it…
Hell, even analog compasses lose their damn minds inside it, according to the more reckless scientists who’ve tried.” “But the disappearance of tropical cyclones would cause drastic climate shifts.
Very rapid ones, on this timescale,” Sirius noted.
“Anyone who would’ve been harmed by those climate shifts is already dead.
And the storms didn’t completely disappear; they just happen less often,” Ulyanovsk took a breath.
“Anyway.
Usually, the fog is static.
It doesn’t move, even when a Category 5 hurricane rips right through it.
But sometimes, a particularly nasty storm tears a chunk of that fog loose and grinds it up into its own vortex.” He closed his eyes, fighting off some particularly grim memories.
“The clouds turn dark red.
The lightning strikes blood-crimson.
It’s a beautiful, terrifying sight.
Aside from the normal hurricane damage, it absolutely fries all electronics and shreds human sanity.
And Kanmusu on the shore start hearing the Call.” “Is that what happened to me?” “Yeah,” Ulyanovsk exhaled.
“Something like that.
Only there’s also an intrusive whisper right at the edge of your consciousness, constantly babbling incomprehensible nonsense.” “Maybe the enemy is trying to establish contact?” Sirius suggested naively.
“If that were true, they wouldn’t shoot humans on sight,” the guy shrugged.
“Even the cultists who worship the Abyssals as divine messengers don’t dare pick up the phone when they call.” He used air quotes for emphasis.
“So what do we do?” the girl shivered.
“Drink hot chocolate, eat junk food, and try not to think about it.” Sirius looked at the cruiser as if he had just suggested desecrating Her Majesty’s personal tea set.
“I’m serious,” Ulyanovsk chuckled at her expression.
“Fighting it is useless.
All you can do is grit your teeth and enjoy the snacks.” After a moment of silence, the girl leaned forward and grabbed a cookie.
“Back home, the only problem storms give us is figuring out how to anchor our hulls in the roadstead so they don’t get beached or run aground,” she mumbled between bites.
“Why not just ride it out in the dorms?” the guy asked.
He knew Shipgirls had their quirks, but he had never heard of them acting like actual, literal ships—dealing with tugboats, roadsteads, and the usual headaches of maintaining a full-sized steel bucket.
“Because Kansen can summon their full-sized hulls and even fight in that state,” Sirius replied matter-of-factly.
“I hope…” Ulyanovsk eyed his guest up and down.
The idea of the legendary WWII cruiser Belfast suddenly materializing on the shoreline out of thin air filled him with utter dread.
The dark wardroom jokes about an admiral getting crushed to death while hugging an actual battleship suddenly didn’t seem like jokes anymore.
“What?” the girl asked, clearly enjoying the cookie, judging by the rapidly emptying packet.
“I hope you aren’t going to turn into a full-sized warship.
More importantly—why would you even need to do that?” “To swap out our armament and conduct long-range deployments,” the Kansen answered, not seeing the problem.
“That’s convenient, but…
they literally swap your turrets out?” “Mhm,” the girl nodded.
“What about weight and displacement limits?
I doubt Warspite wouldn’t capsize from top-weight issues if she equipped a larger caliber than her native guns.” “The Manjuu figure it out somehow,” Sirius shrugged.
“As for how—only the repair ships know.” “Not my circus, not my monkeys,” Ulyanovsk sighed.
His mind conjured the ridiculous image of Avrora trying to re-arm with the main battery of a Project 26 cruiser, which were still legally classified as ‘light cruisers’ despite the Combined Fleet stubbornly labeling Kirov as a heavy.
Shaking his head, the guy banished the illusion and looked at the empty cookie wrapper, then at his cold hot chocolate.
“Want me to whip up something heavier?” “Excuse me?” Sirius retorted indignantly, but her systematic destruction of the store-bought pastries didn’t slow down for a second.
“Suit yourself…” Downing the rest of his mug in one gulp, the cruiser set it on the table and leaned back into the sofa.
A comfortable silence settled over the room, broken only by the crunch of cookies.
“So, why maids?” he asked suddenly.
“Mmm?” “I get it, you were summoned this way and all that.
But that doesn’t mean you have to blindly follow a template dictated by someone else’s desires.
A cruiser ‘serves’,” Ulyanovsk used air quotes again, “her larger colleagues, sure, but that’s just a fraction of her duties.
I’ve heard rumors that some Japanese battlecruisers are summoned wearing shrine maiden outfits, but from what the admirals say, their behavior is anything but holy.” “What other choice is there?” Sirius smiled sadly, staring at the bottom of her mug as if trying to read the future in the chocolate dregs.
“A Kansen’s life consists of battles and the periods of waiting for them.
After a few…
incidents, the commanding officers try not to interact with us beyond what is strictly necessary.
And the Manjuu aren’t exactly great conversationalists…” “What’s wrong with the commanding officers?
Are they hitting on you?” “Sometimes,” the girl nodded.
“Out of inexperience.” Ulyanovsk was once again convinced that men were the same everywhere.
“Though, more often than not, the Kansen overwhelm them with attention, to the point where the commanders just hide,” the girl sighed.
“It’s especially pronounced in the Sakura Empire, less so in the other factions.
For some reason, Royal Navy commanders give Kansen a wide berth whenever Lady Victorious or Cheshire are around.” “Wait, so the Kansen are the ones harassing the commanders?
Not the other way around?” Sirius looked away shamefully.
“You too?” the cruiser smirked.
“I am a proper maid!” she flared, blushing furiously.
“I believe you,” the guy nodded.
As the saying went: clothes make the man.
And his guest’s outfit painted a very specific picture.
The interdimensional maid didn’t find that statement convincing and decided to clarify…
*** [Royal Navy Base, Azur Lane World] Crossing her fingers, the Head Maid of the Royal Navy carefully studied the base schematics.
It had been nearly twelve hours since her subordinate went missing, and none of the light cruisers had found a single clue yet.
“Are you alright, Bel?” Edinburgh asked, placing a cup of tea in front of her younger sister.
“I would like to say yes,” Belfast sighed.
“But…
no.” “Shouldn’t we inform Her Majesty?
Or at least the Captain of the Royal Knights?” “Let us not trouble Her Majesty just yet,” Belfast smiled at her sister, picking up the teacup.
“It is entirely possible that Admiral Johnson simply took Sirius with him as an escort, but…” Removing her glasses, Edinburgh pulled a handkerchief from her skirt and began polishing the lenses.
She felt her sister’s flair for the theatrical crossed the line into absurdity sometimes.
Belfast could have easily opened the curtains and aired out the room, rather than manufacturing an aura of gothic mystery with dim lighting and lit candles just to discuss a serious problem.
“If that were the case, she would have attended morning tea,” the bespectacled girl pointed out.
“But what is the point of all this?” She gestured to the drawn curtains and flickering candles.
“Just because,” the Head Maid smiled softly.
“For the mood.” “Sometimes I do not understand you at all,” Edinburgh slid her glasses back on.
“Perhaps we should air the room?” Shaking her head, Belfast stood up from the desk.
“Yes, you are right.” She walked over to the window and threw the curtains open.
“And Sirius is not Admiral Johnson’s type.” “None of the cruisers are,” Edinburgh smiled.
“His attention is entirely captivated by Valiant.” “Still, one of our comrades-in-arms has gone missing,” Belfast returned to her seat.
“No signs of a struggle.
No residual signatures.
Nothing.
It does not feel like the Sirens’ handiwork…” “Sirius couldn’t have just walked away on her own,” Edinburgh adjusted her apron.
“Should we tell King George V?” “Too early,” Belfast shook her head, tapping her manicured finger on Sirius’s room on the base map.
“I want to confirm one more detail first.” “Dido is getting nervous,” Edinburgh reminded her.
“How much collateral damage?” the Head Maid looked up sharply.
“None yet, but…” the older sister dragged out the word ominously.
She was interrupted by the door slamming open with a loud bang.
“Good afternoon!” the newcomer announced brightly.
“Would you be so kind as to explain to me…” She was dressed in a blue-and-white French maid outfit, similar to the sisters’.
However, instead of neat shoes, she wore high, metallic boots.
In her right hand, she casually rested the shaft of a heavy trident over her shoulder.
With her left hand, she was dragging something heavy behind her.
“Neptune,” Belfast greeted the newcomer smoothly.
Edinburgh offered a polite nod.
“…On what grounds this absolute nitwit is giving me orders?!” Neptune smiled sweetly, tossing her cargo directly at Edinburgh’s feet.
The ‘cargo’ turned out to be a girl in a black-and-white maid outfit, her wheat-colored hair tied in twin buns.
Hogtied with rope from head to toe and gagged with duct tape, she let out an angry, muffled growl as she hit the floor, shooting daggers at Neptune with her eyes.
“Sheffy?!” Edinburgh cried out, rushing forward to help her colleague.
She was stopped by the razor-sharp tip of a trident hovering an inch from her eyes.
“I am waiting for an answer,” Neptune smiled brightly, reminding them of her question.
“Neptune, lower your trident,” Belfast ordered, her voice dipping into freezing temperatures as she stood up.
“That is an order from the Head Maid.” “Oh?
But I am not a maid.” Neptune’s smile turned downright predatory.
“And I am under no obligation to obey the Head Maid.” She shifted her grip, taking the trident in both hands.
“Only Lady Formidable can give me orders.
You have an entire corps to boss around.” “Neptune, please calm down,” Edinburgh tried to reason with the blue-haired cruiser, unable to tear her eyes away from the crimson blade in front of her.
“I am waiting for an answer, Belfast,” Neptune ignored her entirely.
“I presume you are aware that Sirius failed to attend both morning tea and lunch?” Belfast asked smoothly.
“Yes, I am aware,” Neptune nodded, poking Sheffield’s thigh with the butt of her trident.
“This little viper, despite her filthy mouth, was surprisingly informative.
What does this have to do with me?” “I suspect the Sirens may be involved.” “The Sirens?” Neptune raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise.
“Jokes like that are beneath you, Belfast.” The Head Maid mentally breathed a sigh of relief as the elite light cruiser stopped pointing the blade at her compatriots, hugging the shaft of the trident instead.
Edinburgh could only watch tensely as the staring contest between the two light cruisers unfolded.
On one side stood her younger sister, the finest maid in the Royal Navy and an undisputed master of High-Explosive shells.
On the other side was an opponent of equal, if not greater, standing.
An elite Priority-class light cruiser, dubbed the “Siren Killer,” armed with terrifying Armor-Piercing shells and combat mastery few could rival.
“I am not joking,” Belfast frowned.
“A subject of Her Majesty has vanished without a trace, and I wanted to rule out the possibility of enemy interference.” “Then order Cheshire to look into it.” “Are you serious?” the Head Maid deadpanned.
“Hmm, fair point,” Neptune admitted after a moment of silence.
“You really should have started with that instead of singing that tired old song about ‘orders from the Head Maid’…” With a swing of her trident so fast Belfast barely registered the movement, the waitress sliced through the ropes binding the gagged girl, leaving Sheffield’s clothes completely unharmed.
“If you will excuse me, I have work to do.” Dropping into a flawless curtsy, Neptune hoisted the trident onto her shoulder and left the office.
“Sheffy, are you alright?” Edinburgh rushed to her friend.
“Rabid bitch,” the light cruiser Sheffield grumbled, spitting out the remnants of the duct tape and brushing rope fibers off her uniform.
“All I asked…” Belfast rubbed her temples, sinking back into her chair with a heavy sigh.
“…was to invite her to my office so I could brief her on the situation.” “I decided it would be more efficient not to waste time on extra walking,” Sheffield justified her actions, trying to keep a hovering, worried Edinburgh at arm’s length.
“And look where that got us,” Belfast exhaled.
“Return to your duties.
Her Majesty will be having tea soon.
Lady Hood and Prince of Wales are invited.
Edinburgh, go help Dido and Hermione with the preparations.” “Yes, Ma’am,” Sheffield and Edinburgh replied in unison.
*** [Ulyanovsk’s Quarters, Kantai World] “How dare they?!” Sirius exclaimed indignantly as the credits rolled on the screen.
Ulyanovsk tiredly massaged his temples, cursing his own tongue for suggesting they watch a movie.
In a cruel twist of irony, the streaming service’s homepage featured a brand-new Hollywood blockbuster about the legendary English Queen.
“What possessed them to portray Queen Elizabeth the First as Black?!” the girl fumed, practically vibrating with rage.
“Sir Francis Drake was not a homosexual!” The cruiser had a pretty good idea of what to expect from modern historical dramas, but his guest had been completely obsessed with the idea of watching it.
No amount of warnings could dissuade her, and he had eventually caved.
As a result…
“Who gave them the right to film such garbage?!” the Kansen continued her tirade.
Well, at least she was distracted from her depressing thoughts.
“I told you we should have played strip cards,” the guy yawned, snatching the remote from her hands.
“I said it right when they showed us the Spanish King.
It would have been a far better use of our time.” “That is hardly choosing the lesser of two evils,” the girl cooled down slightly.
“But it kept you glued to the screen until the credits rolled,” the cruiser pointed out, looking at the runtime.
“The game would have been fundamentally unfair,” Sirius huffed.
“Oh?
So you would have agreed?” Ulyanovsk perked up.
“Based on our current outfits, the score is perfectly even.
Should I go get the deck?” The Kansen puffed out her cheeks and looked away.
She looked so damn cute doing it that the cruiser couldn’t resist reaching over and ruffling her hair, earning a disgruntled squeak in response.
“Please stop that,” the girl swatted his hand away.
“Don’t pout,” Ulyanovsk countered.
“How are you feeling?” “Much better,” Sirius smiled softly.
“But I am absolutely not playing cards,” she added with finality.
“I won’t push it,” the guy chuckled.
“Coffee or tea before bed?
Or maybe another cinematic ‘masterpiece’?” The girl cast a nervous sideways glance at the TV clock.
“Maybe…” she hesitated.
“Something else?
Just…
not like the Francis Drake one.” “Hmm,” the cruiser scrolled through the catalog.
“Any preferences?” “Something classic.
Without any of your modern…
‘trends’,” the Kansen requested.
“That narrows it down considerably,” the guy muttered.
“Oh!
You’ll like this one.
It’ll give you some context on how our modern world operates.” …The movie documented the cataclysms that devastated Australia during the initial Abyssal invasion.
While the Abyssal Fleet itself wasn’t directly shown, it depicted real historical events: half the continent literally sinking beneath the waves, transforming into a massive atoll.
It showed the islands of Indochina being washed away by apocalyptic tsunamis, right before the purple fog rolled in, permanently hiding the oceans from humanity’s eyes.
Whether it was the terrible acting or the sheer exhaustion from the day’s stress, Sirius was fast asleep halfway through the film, her head resting peacefully on the cruiser’s shoulder.
The movie, however, triggered a different line of thought for the guy.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the portal that had opened in his wardrobe.
Before he had placed his third ‘trophy’—looted from a very strong and very angry Hime—into his lockbox, nothing weird had ever happened with that cheap piece of IKEA furniture in the two years he’d owned it.
The connection was flimsy, but having witnessed the reality-warping abilities of the Abyssals firsthand, he wasn’t quick to dismiss even the craziest theories.
Especially considering that the fragment of a glowing red Abyssal horn had been placed in the box just two weeks ago, right before the cruiser was unexpectedly scrambled to sink the American convoy.
“I’ve got nothing to lose,” Ulyanovsk whispered, turning off the TV.
Scooping the girl up in his arms, careful not to wake her, he carried her to the bedroom.
To his surprise, even a Kanmusu equipped with built-in sonar didn’t wake up during the transit.
The cruiser gently deposited his guest onto her designated bed.
Satisfied she was out cold, he headed to his workshop to grab the lockbox.
Inside, mocking him with their glossy, pitch-black sheen, lay a massive claw, a jagged shard of chest armor, and a piece of a horn that seemed to pulse with a faint, internal red light.
They were bizarre artifacts.
By all protocols, he should have handed them over to Intel years ago, but Ulyanovsk decided to keep them.
Primarily because they could act as a ‘get out of jail free’ card if he ever got completely surrounded…
At least, that’s what that weird Hime had told him—the one he had been invited to parley with by his personal stalker, the Abyssal Submarine Princess.
It was incredibly stupid to trust the enemy, but offering one of these trophies in a trade had actually allowed the cruiser to exchange a chunk of horn for his life.
For some incomprehensible reason, the Hime had been ecstatic when he offered the trade.
Two months later, he came back and hammered her with so many missiles and depth charges that the only thing left of her staging area was a bubbling soup of seawater and Abyssal guts.
“So much for mindless animals,” Ulyanovsk sighed, locking the box.
Returning to his bedroom, he shoved the trophy box into the wardrobe and, purely for the sake of the experiment, dismissed the sprite-snipers he had stationed in the juniper pot.
Sirius slept peacefully, completely oblivious to his machinations, a level of deep sleep the cruiser could only envy.
Sleeping that soundly in foreign territory was a luxury few Kanmusu could afford.
Clearly, she didn’t know about the horrors lurking beneath the waves, horrors that haunted Kanmusu even on dry land.
Sighing, the cruiser reached down to adjust the blanket she had kicked off.
Suddenly, Sirius grabbed his arm.
For a split second, he felt a bizarre sense of weightlessness.
Without waking up, and with a grace he hadn’t seen from her before, the girl slammed the guy face-first into the mattress, pinned him down with her body weight, and locked his arm behind his back in a brutal submission hold.
“Dido, stop it…” Sirius mumbled in her sleep, shifting her weight to get comfortable on Ulyanovsk’s back.
“Five more minutes…” Well then…
Ulyanovsk thought, genuinely impressed.
He certainly hadn’t expected that level of CQC proficiency from the clumsy maid.
Carefully, trying not to wake her and trigger another panic attack just when the Kansen had finally calmed down, Ulyanovsk tried to roll her off and break her grip on his arm.
No dice.
The girl had him in a literal death grip.
‘Now I understand why commanders hide from them’, he thought, twisting his neck to look at the sleeping girl.
The classified admirals’ forums were full of poetic odes to the Kanmusu’s physical beauty, often accompanied by illicit photo evidence.
The Combined Fleet’s Internal Security had to know about it, but for some reason turned a blind eye as long as it didn’t leak to the public internet.
Ulyanovsk had never really understood the obsession.
Until now.
Staring at the peaceful face of the girl—whose figure was criminally accentuated by the tight-fitting T-shirt—he was starting to feel like a total creep.
“What did I do to deserve this?” he whispered, reaching out with his one free hand.
He pinched her nose shut.
Waiting until Sirius twitched in her sleep and loosened her grip for breath, the cruiser smoothly slipped out of the submission hold and rolled off the bed.
He didn’t dare try fixing her blanket a second time.
Instead, he quietly retreated to his workshop to finish the model kits the Brass had saddled him with.
The next morning, hearing an unfamiliar female voice coming from his bedroom, the cruiser felt a cold pit form in his stomach.
He pushed open the door to the maid’s temporary sanctuary.
Only to find another maid inside.
This one had seashell hairpins in her bright blue hair, and was pointing a wide-bladed halberd directly at a groggy, confused Sirius.