Rain had been falling over Yokohama for most of the evening, and Riko Minase had decided that the weather was personally responsible for every inconvenience she had encountered since leaving the train station.
Her umbrella had turned inside out.
One of her shoes had developed an irritating squeak.
The convenience store had sold out of the particular fried chicken she wanted, which she regarded as an offense against civilization.
And now, having successfully reached the third-floor apartment where her friends were waiting, she had discovered that somebody had already opened the snacks.
Somebody had opened her snacks.
She stood in the doorway, dripping onto the entrance mat, and stared at the evidence.
A half-empty bag of potato chips sat on the living room table.
Beside it was a second bag, also open.
A third bag had been folded shut with a clothespin, which Riko considered a particularly insulting attempt to disguise the crime.
"Hana."
From somewhere beyond the kitchen counter, a woman's voice answered.
"What?"
"Explain."
"You're going to have to narrow that down."
Riko slowly removed her shoes.
"The chips."
"What about them?"
"Who opened them?"
There was a pause.
Then came the sound of a cupboard closing.
"Gravity."
Riko stared toward the kitchen.
"Gravity."
"Yes."
"Gravity opened three bags of potato chips?"
"Remarkable force of nature."
"You are a criminal."
"Take your socks off the floor before you start prosecuting people."
Riko looked down.
One sock had escaped her shoe and was lying half beneath the entrance cabinet.
She picked it up.
That was beside the point.
"Hana!"
Hana Saeki finally emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of tea mugs.
At twenty-one, Hana was the oldest of their little group, although Riko had never once witnessed her use that distinction responsibly. She wore loose black trousers, an oversized gray shirt, and her dark hair in a messy knot that had begun falling apart hours earlier. A pencil was tucked behind one ear, and a faint streak of machine oil marked the side of her wrist.
She had spent the afternoon helping her uncle repair an antique motorcycle.
This was not unusual.
Hana had a weakness for mechanical things, particularly mechanical things that other people believed should be thrown away.
She also possessed the infuriating ability to make every expression look reasonable.
"Welcome back," Hana said. "You look damp."
Riko held up her collapsed umbrella.
"Your observation skills are wasted on engineering."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"I've chosen to accept it as one."
A quieter voice came from the sofa.
"She's been practicing that answer."
Riko turned.
Yuna Mori sat curled into the corner of the sofa beneath a pale blue blanket, a tablet balanced on her knees. Her shoulder-length black hair was neatly brushed, her glasses were slightly crooked, and she had an expression of patient amusement that suggested she had been watching this argument develop for several minutes.
She was twenty, studied literature, and possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of historical naval disasters that made casual conversations with her considerably more alarming than they needed to be.
She raised one hand in greeting.
"Hello, Riko."
"Yuna. Did you participate in this?"
"In the chips?"
"Yes."
"A little."
Riko looked betrayed.
"You too?"
"I was hungry."
"All of you were supposed to wait!"
"We waited," Hana said.
"For how long?"
"Until you were late."
"I was eleven minutes late!"
"Eleven minutes is a long time when there are chips."
Riko opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Then pointed at the sofa.
"Move."
Yuna shifted her legs.
Riko dropped her bag beside the coffee table, peeled off her damp jacket, and claimed the middle seat with all the ceremony of an admiral taking command of a flagship.
She immediately reached for the remaining chips.
Hana watched.
"Interesting."
"What?"
"Evidence tampering."
Riko stuffed a handful into her mouth.
"Can't prove anything."
"You're literally eating the evidence."
"Then your case is getting weaker."
Yuna laughed quietly.
Outside, a vehicle hissed along the wet street. Neon reflected in shallow puddles beneath the convenience store across the road, and distant railway signals blinked red beyond the neighboring buildings.
The apartment was small, warm, and comfortably untidy.
A narrow bookshelf held engineering manuals, novels, several naval history volumes, and a plastic model of a Japanese heavy cruiser. A model destroyer occupied the top shelf, its delicate radar mast having been repaired twice after Riko accidentally knocked it over during earlier visits.
A large television stood against the opposite wall.
Its screen displayed a waiting page.
A white circular emblem slowly turned above a dark-blue background.
Beneath it, a countdown read:
WORLD PREMIERE — EXTENDED VRMMORPG REVEAL
00:04:36
Riko stopped chewing.
"Oh."
Hana set down the mugs.
"Yes. Oh."
"Four minutes?"
"Four and a half."
"You could have told me!"
"We did."
"When?"
"Sixteen messages ago."
Riko grabbed her phone.
The group chat contained considerably more than sixteen messages.
Most were from Hana.
Several consisted of increasingly sarcastic countdown notices.
One, sent seventeen minutes earlier, read:
If you miss the opening because you're buying chicken, we're not rewinding.
Riko looked up.
"You threatened me."
Hana sat in the armchair.
"I motivated you."
Yuna pulled the blanket over her knees.
"Did you find the chicken?"
"No."
"My condolences."
"Thank you. Finally, someone understands."
Riko placed the phone facedown on the table.
For a few seconds, all three watched the countdown.
Then Riko leaned forward.
"So."
Hana closed her eyes.
"No."
"I haven't asked anything yet."
"I know what you're going to ask."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Then answer."
"No, you cannot take the A-150 prototype design and name your character Yamato."
Riko stared.
"How did you know?"
"Because you've asked me four times this week."
"That's different. The last time I was asking about Super Yamato."
"Same problem."
"They're historical designs!"
"They're historical designs you can use as a class foundation," Yuna explained patiently. "You're not playing the actual historical ship."
"But what if I want the actual historical name?"
"Then you'll have to be creative and pick something else."
Riko looked at the television.
"This is oppression."
Hana took a sip of tea.
"You're nineteen years old and upset because a naval simulator won't let you steal a battleship's identity."
"It's a VRMMORPG."
"That somehow makes it worse."
"Fine. I'll give her an original name."
"Wonderful."
"Yamato Two."
"No."
"Yamato: The Sequel."
"No."
"Definitely-Not-Yamato."
Yuna covered her mouth.
Hana pointed toward the television.
"If the naming system allows that, I'm personally writing a complaint."
Riko grinned.
She had been waiting months for this.
Not merely for the game itself, although the promise of stepping into a completely immersive virtual environment was exciting enough.
She wanted the warships.
She wanted the great guns, the armor belts, the enormous machinery, and the ridiculous spectacle of carrying enough firepower to flatten a coastline while still being able to walk through a harbor in a human body.
And she wanted to do it with her friends.
There were other naval games, certainly.
There were shipgirl games, too.
But none had promised this particular combination of historical designs, detailed naval equipment, individualized characters, and a world large enough to make the Pacific Ocean feel genuinely intimidating.
For months, promotional stills had circulated across forums.
One showed a young woman standing beside a gigantic turret mounted on articulated steel rigging.
Another depicted three destroyer girls skimming across a dark sea beneath searchlights.
A third showed an aircraft carrier's deck equipment unfolding around her shoulders while dozens of miniature aircraft waited for launch.
The images were beautiful.
The technical specifications were even better.
Hana had spent an entire evening examining a screenshot because she believed one of the depicted gun mounts had a historically inaccurate traverse mechanism.
She had been delighted when an updated image corrected it.
Riko had accused her of being romantically attracted to machinery.
Hana had replied that machinery was at least capable of admitting when it needed maintenance.
Riko was still recovering from that exchange.
"Actually," Yuna said, turning her tablet toward the others, "the developers confirmed something interesting this afternoon."
Riko looked.
"What?"
"Your custom character can have a different personal name from her class designation, even when the underlying design is unusual or incomplete. The class determines the historical engineering foundation. The character's individual identity is separate."
"That's what we already knew."
"Yes, but they've clarified that the character biographies can be entirely original. You're not required to invent a history tied to the real ship."
Hana nodded approvingly.
"Good."
Riko frowned.
"Why good?"
"Because I don't want to spend twelve hours designing a character and then be told she has to behave like a prewritten historical personality."
"Fair."
"Besides," Hana added, "imagine explaining your personality choices to an actual warship."
Riko considered that.
Then she looked at the cruiser model on the shelf.
"She'd understand me."
"The cruiser?"
"Yes."
"Riko, that model has spent six months watching you lose arguments against a rice cooker."
"It was a complicated rice cooker."
"You put the water in the wrong compartment."
"The instructions were misleading!"
Yuna laughed hard enough to pull her glasses off.
The countdown changed.
00:02:00
A soft notification sounded through the television.
The waiting background darkened.
Additional viewers were joining by the thousands. The number climbed so quickly that Riko stopped trying to read it.
Hana reached for the remote.
"Volume?"
"High," Riko said immediately.
"Reasonable," Yuna countered.
"High and reasonable are not mutually exclusive."
"You say that about everything."
"Because I'm right about everything."
Hana settled on a level slightly above reasonable.
A message appeared beneath the countdown.
For the best experience, use headphones or surround sound.
Riko smiled.
"Oh, they are absolutely showing off."
Hana placed the remote on the table.
"They've earned the right if the audio is as good as the last technology demonstration."
Yuna glanced toward the window.
"Should we close that?"
"Why?"
"The rain."
Hana listened.
The steady percussion against the glass was pleasant, but the approaching trailer had already begun filling the room with a faint low-frequency hum.
She stood, pulled the window closed, and drew the curtains halfway.
Outside, Yokohama continued with its ordinary evening.
Trains ran.
Traffic moved.
Somebody shouted beneath an umbrella.
A cyclist pedaled through the rain with a grocery bag balanced precariously on the handlebars.
The Pacific Ocean remained where everyone expected it to be.
Inside the apartment, the television counted down toward another world.
00:00:10
Riko sat forward.
Yuna put her tablet aside.
Hana folded her arms.
00:00:05
The room fell quiet.
00:00:03
The white emblem stopped turning.
00:00:02
A single, deep mechanical sound vibrated through the speakers.
00:00:01
The screen went black.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then a gull cried.
A bell answered it.
And somewhere beyond the darkness, a young woman shouted:
"Oi! Who moved my wrench?"
A second voice answered.
"You did!"
"Then who moved it after me?"
"Still you!"
The black screen disappeared.
Morning sunlight spilled across a dockyard.
And the music began.
The opening guitar was clean, almost delicate, its notes drifting over the soft percussion of waves against stone.
The camera glided past enormous reinforced harbor walls, their upper surfaces crowned with coastal artillery and radar installations. Beyond them stretched an industrial city of cranes, repair docks, railway lines, warehouses, and armored sea gates.
Gulls circled above steel gantries.
Tugboats maneuvered between much larger vessels.
Smoke rose from factory chimneys into a brilliant blue sky.
A flag snapped above a fortress tower.
Then the camera descended.
Beneath a half-open maintenance shed stood a girl with dark auburn hair tied back by a red ribbon.
She wore a navy-blue uniform with rolled sleeves, heavy work gloves, and a tool belt that hung awkwardly against her hip.
A line of grease crossed one cheek.
Before her stood a complicated arrangement of gun mounts, armor plates, reinforced struts, ammunition housings, and heavy steel fittings.
She was trying to align a mechanical coupling.
It refused to cooperate.
"Come on," she muttered.
She adjusted the wrench.
A metallic clank echoed through the shed.
The coupling moved precisely half an inch.
Then stopped.
"Wonderful. We're negotiating."
Another young woman leaned around the corner.
She was shorter, with pale hair, blue eyes, and a sleepy expression.
"Did you try asking nicely?"
"I did."
"What did it say?"
"Something extremely rude."
The pale-haired girl considered that.
"Sounds like you."
The mechanic slowly turned.
"Do you want to help?"
"Not particularly."
"Then stop providing commentary."
"Also sounds like you."
Riko burst out laughing.
"I like her."
Hana tilted her head.
"Look at the coupling."
"What?"
"The joint. It's actually articulated."
Onscreen, the mechanic grunted and put her weight behind the wrench.
The coupling finally shifted.
A locking pin dropped into place.
There was a crisp mechanical click.
The girl straightened.
"Ha!"
A third woman emerged from behind the rigging carrying a clipboard.
She had short black hair, a white repair uniform, and a decidedly unimpressed expression.
"You finished?"
"Obviously."
"Then why is your port-side ammunition hoist still disconnected?"
The mechanic looked behind her.
Her smile disappeared.
"Oh."
The girl with the clipboard sighed.
"Again?"
"That is a very judgmental way to ask a question."
"Again?"
"Possibly."
The first heavy guitar riff slammed into the speakers.
Distorted strings and metallic bass joined the drums, punctuated by the measured clatter of machinery.
The camera pulled backward.
For the first time, the entire rigging assembly came into view.
It was not an illustration floating behind the mechanic.
It was a physical machine.
A pair of powerful naval gun mounts rose from articulated frames behind her shoulders. Steel support structures descended toward her hips. Armored housings enclosed complicated traverse equipment, and reinforced attachment points connected the entire arrangement to her uniform's specialized mounting system.
Several technicians worked around it.
One tightened a bolt.
Another checked a hydraulic line.
A third called out measurements while the girl tested the movement of her left arm.
"Traverse left."
The guns rotated.
"Traverse right."
They rotated back.
"Elevation."
The barrels rose.
The mechanic smiled.
"Now we're talking."
The pale-haired girl stepped aside.
"Try not to hit the ceiling."
"I am not going to hit the ceiling."
The guns continued rising.
The clipboard girl looked up.
"Stop."
The mechanic froze.
A barrel rested approximately three inches beneath an overhead beam.
There was a brief silence.
Then the pale-haired girl said:
"Impressive. You almost discovered the roof."
Yuna laughed.
Hana leaned forward.
"Oh, that's beautiful."
Riko glanced at her.
"The girl?"
"The support frame."
"Of course."
"The way it carries the weight means the turret doesn't have to be balanced entirely on her shoulders. You can see the load transferring through the lower mounting assembly."
Riko looked back.
"You're watching an advertisement and doing structural analysis."
"I'm enjoying myself."
"That is a deeply concerning definition of enjoyment."
The screen shifted.
A title appeared beneath the rising sun.
EVERY WARSHIP HAS A HISTORY.
The red-ribboned mechanic stepped out onto a sunlit pier.
Two enormous gun housings sat above her shoulders.
Her uniform had changed from work clothes to full combat equipment. Reinforced boots locked into the rigging's lower support system. Armor sections enclosed her forearms and waist. Small secondary guns folded outward along the frames.
She took three careful steps.
The machinery followed her movement.
A technician called after her.
"Don't forget the inspection report!"
She waved without looking back.
"After the sortie!"
"That's what you said yesterday!"
"Then I'm consistent!"
Another line appeared.
YOUR NAME IS YOUR OWN.
The camera rose toward her face.
A translucent identification panel briefly appeared at the edge of the image.
PERSONNEL DISPLAY — FEATURED KEELBORN
ASTER
Fletcher-class Destroyer · Meridian Federation
Assigned Naval Classification: Embodied Naval Asset
The identification panel disappeared.
Aster grinned into the sunlight.
"All right, girls. Who's ready to make a terrible decision?"
The pale-haired girl stepped beside her, carrying a much lighter set of naval rigging.
"Depends. Is it your plan?"
"Yes."
"Then definitely."
A third girl raised a hand from farther down the pier.
"Can we at least hear it first?"
Aster pointed toward the harbor mouth.
"There's an ocean. We're going out into it."
"That's not a plan!"
"It's a destination!"
The music surged.
And the camera raced after them toward the water.
The three girls on the television ran along a pier lined with mooring bollards and ammunition carts, their equipment clanking behind them.
Aster was in front.
The pale-haired destroyer followed with considerably less enthusiasm, while their third companion, a dark-haired girl wearing a green scarf, struggled to keep her paperwork from blowing into the harbor.
"You're going to miss the briefing!" the girl with the scarf shouted.
"We've already had the briefing!"
"That was breakfast!"
"Same table!"
"Different purpose!"
Aster leaped from the end of the pier.
For half a second, the enormous rigging behind her appeared ready to drag her straight beneath the water.
Instead, a system of stabilizing pontoons and specialized propulsion units struck the surface. White spray erupted beneath her boots, and she accelerated across the harbor, leaving a broad wake behind her.
She wobbled once.
Recovered.
Then threw her arms wide.
"Still got it!"
The pale-haired destroyer landed beside her with perfect balance.
"Your port stabilizer is crooked."
"It is not."
"You're going sideways."
"That's tactical!"
The third girl landed farther away, narrowly avoiding the spray.
"You're heading toward the tugboat!"
Aster glanced over her shoulder.
Then forward.
A small harbor tug sounded its horn.
"Sorry!"
She veered sharply.
The wave from her maneuver washed over the tug's bow.
The tug sounded its horn again.
This time, with considerably more feeling.
The camera swung around them as the male vocalist entered over the driving guitar riff.
Dockyard sunrise, ribbon-tied hair,
Oil on my hands and the captain's stare.
Behind the girls, dockyard workers waved from the piers. A synthetic infantry unit carrying a crate stopped to watch them, shook her head, and continued toward a warehouse.
A stern-looking woman in a white naval uniform stood on the control tower balcony, holding a radio handset.
"Aster!"
The destroyer glanced back.
"Ma'am!"
"You're supposed to leave through the eastern channel!"
Aster looked around.
The other two girls looked around.
Far ahead, the harbor walls formed two wide passages.
The eastern channel lay distinctly to their left.
They were heading right.
Aster pointed.
"Right!"
"Your other right!"
"Understood!"
Yuna laughed so suddenly that she nearly spilled her tea.
"Oh, she's hopeless."
Riko pointed at the screen.
"She's perfect."
Hana watched Aster correct course, nearly colliding with the pale-haired girl in the process.
"I foresee a very long incident-report history."
The camera rose above the harbor.
Dozens of Keelborn streamed outward beneath the morning sun.
Some wore destroyer rigging, light and compact enough to permit tremendous speed.
Others carried cruiser batteries suspended above armored mechanical frames.
A broad-shouldered woman with short silver hair moved farther back, surrounded by the massive turrets of a battleship. Her steps were slower, but the water displaced beneath her equipment rolled outward in heavy waves.
Above them, aircraft swept into formation.
The camera followed the planes toward a distant carrier group.
There, a tall woman in a dark-blue uniform stood motionless atop the water, surrounded by flight-deck sections and aviation equipment. Small launch mechanisms operated across her rigging. Aircraft accelerated along the fitted decks before lifting into the wind.
She watched their departure with a faint smile.
"First squadron away."
A girl beside her adjusted a signal lamp.
"Second squadron preparing."
"Good. Tell the pilots to keep formation until they clear the harbor approaches."
"Acknowledged."
"Also tell the third squadron that racing through the maintenance cranes is not an approved departure procedure."
The signal girl hesitated.
"Again?"
"Especially again."
A transport aircraft passed close enough to scatter gulls from a breakwater.
The carrier watched it go.
Her smile remained.
A moment later, someone in the harbor control tower could be heard shouting through the radio.
"Who authorized that turn?"
The carrier sighed.
"Third squadron."
The screen flashed through a series of scenes in time with the aggressive drumbeat.
A woman with dark skin and short curls tightened the final straps on the armored frame supporting her cruiser's guns.
A blonde battleship knelt while two technicians checked the reinforced fittings around her waist.
A small destroyer girl stood on a workbench so that a much taller mechanic could properly adjust the optical equipment above her shoulder.
A repair specialist with grease-streaked sleeves pulled a newly forged plate from an industrial press.
A Keelborn in a pristine white uniform examined herself in a mirror, adjusted a decorative ribbon, and immediately had to move aside when a repair crew arrived with a trolley of ammunition.
One shot showed a woman stepping out of her rigging after returning from patrol. The equipment was lifted away by a dockside gantry, and she stretched her shoulders with an expression of profound relief.
Another showed three battleship girls preparing their main batteries in a row.
Their guns were different.
Their uniforms were different.
Their expressions were different.
A brief identification sequence appeared over each.
IOWA-CLASS.
KING GEORGE V-CLASS.
A-150 DESIGN.
Their personal names appeared beneath the class labels.
The names belonged to the girls themselves.
Not the historical ships.
Riko grabbed Hana's wrist.
"There!"
Hana looked down.
"You're crushing my hand."
"A-150!"
"Yes, I have eyes."
"Look at her!"
The largest girl in the formation wore an elegant black-and-white uniform with a high collar and reinforced sleeves. Three immense triple-gun turrets formed the principal components of her rigging, each with barrels that seemed almost absurdly large when compared with her human body.
The rear support architecture was so substantial that the machinery resembled part of a mobile dock.
Riko stared in open admiration.
"That's ridiculous."
"That is what you've been asking for."
"I know. Isn't it beautiful?"
Hana studied the articulated lower braces.
"Very."
Riko slowly turned.
"You agree?"
"I'm talking about the stabilization arrangement."
"Of course you are."
The battleship on the screen glanced toward the Iowa-class girl beside her.
"Are you ready?"
The other woman grinned.
"Born ready."
"You weren't born."
"That's an unnecessarily personal observation."
The A-150 girl looked faintly embarrassed.
"I meant no offense."
"Then stop apologizing and come on. We're late."
The screen cut to black.
A tremendous gunshot shook the speakers.
Then another.
And another.
With the vocalist rising toward the first pre-chorus, the camera emerged into open ocean.
The fleet was no longer leaving the harbor.
It was advancing across a wide expanse of brilliant blue water beneath towering summer clouds.
Destroyers led the formation.
Cruisers followed.
Battleships occupied protected positions within the line, while carriers and support units remained farther back beneath a screen of defensive vessels.
White wakes intersected across the sea.
Signals passed between ships.
An officer's voice sounded through the radio.
"Fleet elements, maintain spacing. Reconnaissance reports scattered hostile contacts beyond the eastern shoals. We are not pursuing beyond our assigned patrol boundary."
Aster answered.
"Destroyer screen copies."
The pale-haired girl looked toward her.
"Which part?"
"All of it."
"Even the boundary?"
"Especially the boundary."
The girl with the green scarf gave Aster a suspicious look.
Aster smiled innocently.
"Why are you looking at me?"
"No reason."
"That's a very judgmental no reason."
The camera tracked their movement across the waves.
The refrain gathered momentum.
Line ahead—keep the spacing tight,
White wakes cutting through morning light.
Then the ocean changed.
Not abruptly.
It began with a ripple.
A long, dark disturbance spread across the surface ahead of the formation. The blue water grew gray. Sunlight dimmed behind a bank of fog that had not been visible moments earlier.
Aster's expression changed.
"That's strange."
The pale-haired girl stopped smiling.
"Weather front?"
"Too fast."
The third girl looked toward her instruments.
"Water temperature's dropping."
Aster checked the horizon.
"How much?"
"Four degrees."
"That doesn't sound terrible."
"In eleven seconds."
Aster lowered her hand.
"That's more terrible."
The music faded toward a sparse passage of filtered electronics and distant percussion.
The camera descended almost to the surface.
The sea was black.
Aster raised her radio.
"Screen One to command. We've got an environmental change ahead of the formation. Visibility is deteriorating."
Static answered.
Then a man's voice.
"Screen One, maintain position. Do not pursue contacts into the fog."
"Understood."
A second signal interrupted.
"Forward sonar has something."
Aster turned.
"Something?"
The pale-haired destroyer's expression tightened.
"Several things."
"Ships?"
"No."
A faint metallic groan rolled across the ocean.
The camera moved through the fog.
For several seconds, nothing appeared.
Then a silhouette emerged.
At first, it resembled a warship.
Its hull was long and angular, with the recognizable geometry of a destroyer's bow.
But its bridge rose at an impossible angle.
The smokestacks twisted into structures resembling broken vertebrae.
Something moved beneath its keel.
A second silhouette appeared beside it.
Then a third.
Aster stared.
Her voice was no longer playful.
"Command, we have hostile contacts."
The fog parted.
One of the dark vessels turned.
Where its bow should have ended, an enormous armored mouth opened between sections of corroded steel.
A cluster of gun barrels rotated toward the camera.
The creature made a sound like an anchor chain being dragged across stone.
And the screen went black.
For one heartbeat, the apartment was silent.
Then the drums exploded back into the room.
BLACKWAKE CONTACT CONFIRMED.
The title vanished beneath a storm of artillery fire.
Riko forgot about the chips.
The television filled with muzzle flashes.
The destroyer-like creatures emerged from the fog in broken formation, their movements horribly unnatural. Some advanced directly through waves that should have overturned them. Others seemed to crawl along the surface, their lower hulls supported by jointed structures that moved like insect legs.
Aster shouted:
"Enemy destroyer formation! Bearing zero-three-five!"
The pale-haired girl responded immediately.
"Range falling!"
"All units, weapons free!"
Her rigging turned.
Steel housings clattered.
The first salvo burst from her forward gun mounts.
Bright muzzle flashes illuminated her face.
Shells screamed across the water.
One of the Blackwake vessels took two direct hits to its forward superstructure and staggered sideways, trailing black fragments.
Aster grinned.
"Got you!"
The creature twisted.
Its damaged gun mount unfolded into a cluster of jagged barrels.
The pale-haired girl shouted:
"Aster! Incoming!"
Aster ducked.
A spray of hostile shells tore through the space where her head had been.
The water around her erupted.
She emerged from the spray sputtering.
"That's rude!"
"You're the one who shot first!"
"They were being creepy!"
Another hostile salvo came in.
Aster accelerated.
The camera followed her as she wove through towering shell splashes, her rigging moving with every turn.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
The guitar riff grew heavier.
The male vocalist shouted the opening chorus.
Sortie—shipgirls, strike true!
Cannons sing through the ocean blue.
The fleet answered with coordinated fire.
The battleships opened up.
The enormous A-150 girl's main batteries traversed across the horizon. Her posture changed as the recoil-control system locked into place.
She inhaled.
"Main battery."
A series of targeting marks swept across the ocean.
"Fire."
The sound that followed made the apartment windows tremble faintly.
Riko actually flinched.
Nine enormous naval guns discharged together.
The camera briefly shifted behind the battleship as the muzzle blasts rolled outward, leaving curtains of smoke and disturbed air.
The recoil drove her equipment backward against its support frames.
She remained standing.
The shells crossed the sky.
Several seconds passed.
Then the Blackwake formation vanished inside a wall of water and fire.
Hana whispered:
"That is an absolutely irresponsible amount of artillery."
Riko, wide-eyed, answered:
"I need it."
"You haven't even played yet."
"I need it spiritually."
Yuna watched a cruiser slip between the battleships and the forward screen.
"Look at the formation."
The cruiser girl called over the radio.
"Destroyers, fall back behind the second line! We'll cover you!"
Aster glanced over her shoulder.
"That's very generous!"
"You're welcome!"
"Can we discuss why?"
"Because you're about to get yourself killed!"
"Less generous!"
The cruiser opened fire, sending a rapid succession of shells toward a cluster of advancing Blackwake vessels.
Aster and the other destroyers withdrew through the opening she created.
Aircraft swept down from above.
A carrier's voice entered the communications channel.
"Strike group approaching hostile formation. Clear the attack corridor."
The camera climbed into the sky.
Dozens of aircraft descended beneath the clouds, their engines roaring.
Bombs fell.
Torpedoes entered the water.
Blackwake anti-aircraft guns erupted upward, filling the sky with black bursts.
One aircraft rolled to avoid an explosion.
Another climbed through a gap between tracers.
The camera followed a torpedo toward a monster's flank.
Impact.
A massive burst of water rose alongside the corroded hull.
The creature twisted, and a terrible shriek rolled across the surface.
Behind it, something much larger moved beneath the sea.
The shadow was enormous.
A shape too broad for any recognizable surface warship passed beneath the fighting vessels.
The ocean rose over it.
Aster stopped smiling.
"What was that?"
Her companion looked down.
"Don't know."
The shadow continued forward.
A long, curved structure briefly broke the surface.
It resembled a whale's back.
Or the armored roof of an enormous submerged fortress.
Then it disappeared.
The camera held on the widening disturbance.
A distant voice spoke over the radio.
"All units, do not pursue. Repeat, do not pursue."
For the first time, the music pulled away from the action.
The remaining distortion receded into the sound of a low, pulsing electronic note.
The ocean settled.
Far below the surface, dozens of red lights opened in the darkness.
A whisper passed through the water.
It was not translated.
Then the image snapped back to the fleet.
Aster's radio crackled.
"Screen One, report."
She swallowed.
"Hostiles disengaging."
"Casualties?"
Aster looked toward her companions.
One was holding a damaged secondary gun in place.
Another had a scorch mark across her cheek.
Farther back, a cruiser limped through the water with smoke rising from one of her turrets.
Aster's voice became quieter.
"Still checking."
"Understood. Recover your people and return to port."
Aster nodded, although nobody on the radio could see her.
"Aye."
She lowered the handset.
Then turned toward the other destroyers.
"All right, everyone. Let's go home."
The pale-haired girl looked at the battered cruiser.
"She's going to need help."
Aster glanced toward the distant harbor.
Then back.
"Then we're helping."
The scene dissolved into sunlight.
And the trailer changed again.
The next sequence began with an old photograph.
It showed a city street crowded with people in hats and dark coats. Automobiles waited beside tramlines. Military banners hung from buildings, and newspaper sellers stood beneath awnings holding editions whose headlines were too small to read.
The photograph slowly gained color.
A radio announcer spoke in a crackling voice.
"Negotiations have failed. Mobilization orders are being issued across the continent."
The picture changed.
Soldiers marched through a railway station.
Artillery tractors hauled enormous guns along muddy roads.
Warships steamed beneath low clouds, their decks crowded with personnel.
A date appeared.
1935.
The music dropped to a restrained rhythm of industrial percussion.
A series of archival images followed.
WAR BETWEEN NATIONS.
Columns of armored vehicles crossed ruined bridges.
Cities burned.
Naval guns illuminated the night.
An exhausted nurse sat beside a field hospital, holding a bloodstained pair of gloves.
Another photograph showed a young sailor leaning against a railing, smiling toward someone beyond the frame.
The picture froze.
Then slowly faded to gray.
1945.
The fighting stopped.
A ruined city appeared beneath the dawn.
Factories began rebuilding.
Merchant vessels returned to harbor.
Children ran along repaired streets while workers raised scaffolding around damaged buildings.
For a brief moment, the photographs suggested that the world had survived its worst years.
Then came another date.
NOVEMBER 1949.
The camera rose above the Pacific Ocean.
The night sky filled with light.
At first, the objects resembled falling stars.
Their luminous trails crossed the darkness in beautiful, almost delicate arcs.
Then one struck the water.
An enormous white plume erupted from the ocean.
Another impact followed.
Then another.
The television filled with towering clouds, boiling seas, and waves that swallowed entire coastlines.
A woman's voice replaced the archival announcer.
"Humanity had spent a decade trying to end its wars."
The image showed floodwater surging through a city.
"Then the ocean declared one of its own."
Riko leaned forward.
"Oh."
Yuna's expression had changed.
She watched the camera move over rooftops protruding from muddy water. A church steeple rose above what had once been a town square. Boats passed through streets where automobiles sat submerged beneath the surface.
The film cut to people climbing evacuation stairways.
Families crowded into railway stations built on higher ground.
Engineers constructed immense concrete barriers.
Soldiers reinforced bridges.
Aerial footage showed forests spreading across abandoned industrial regions, while floodwater claimed towns that had stood for centuries.
Hana spoke quietly.
"They really went all in on the alternate history."
Yuna nodded.
"And the flooding wasn't the end."
The narrator continued.
"Humanity retreated inland, upward, and behind concrete walls. But the oceans were changing in ways no scientist could explain."
A sonar screen appeared.
A bright contact moved beneath the waves.
Then vanished.
A destroyer's bridge filled the screen.
An officer stood beside a radio operator.
"Contact bearing?"
"Unknown, sir."
"Merchant?"
"No identification."
"Submarine?"
The operator hesitated.
"Sir, it's moving against the current."
A deep metallic sound rolled through the speakers.
The camera shifted outside.
Something emerged from the fog.
A dark warship.
Its silhouette resembled an old cruiser, but the bridge was wrong, its hull appeared corroded beyond usefulness, and its guns followed the destroyer with impossible precision.
The narrator spoke again.
"They came without flags."
A gun flashed.
The destroyer disappeared beneath a towering explosion.
"Without treaties."
Another image showed coastal batteries firing across a blackened sea.
"Without surrender."
The camera rose above a fortress city.
Beyond the walls, dozens of unnatural vessels gathered beneath storm clouds.
1950–1955.
THE BLACKWAKE WAR.
The sound of artillery continued.
The screen showed increasingly desperate attempts at resistance.
A battleship fired its main guns from a defensive position near shore.
A flight of conventional aircraft attacked a monstrous carrier.
Heavy coastal turrets rotated toward the sea.
An old armored cruiser, badly damaged, held position across a narrow shipping passage while smaller vessels escaped behind it.
The narrator continued.
"Every weapon brought against the Blackwake taught them something."
A sequence of naval diagrams appeared.
Gun turrets.
Radar arrays.
Guidance systems.
Propulsion designs.
Each diagram was followed by a distorted version of the same technology emerging from a Blackwake hull.
The voice hardened.
"Every advantage risked becoming their next advantage."
A modern guided missile launched from a warship.
The image froze.
The missile broke apart into a cloud of dark particles.
Behind it appeared a Blackwake vessel carrying a grotesquely similar launcher.
THE MORE HUMANITY ADVANCED, THE MORE ITS ENEMY LEARNED.
Hana put her tea down.
"There's the technology restriction."
Riko frowned.
"They still haven't explained why the cutoff is 1965."
"Because that was where the defensive treaties drew the line," Yuna said. "The lore preview mentioned it."
"Right, but why exactly that year?"
"Probably a combination of weapon systems that were considered tolerable and technologies that the AU refused to risk."
Hana nodded toward the screen.
"That's the important part. They aren't saying the world can't invent newer equipment. They're saying deploying it on naval reincarnations creates a strategic risk."
"So my battleship can't have railguns."
"No."
"Missile swarms?"
"Depends on the weapon's introduction date."
"A nuclear reactor?"
"Extremely restricted."
Riko sighed.
"They're really determined to make me use gigantic conventional artillery."
Hana looked at her.
"You say that as if it's disappointing."
Riko paused.
Then grinned.
"It isn't."
Onscreen, the archival footage continued.
The year changed again.
1970.
A laboratory appeared.
Men and women in white coats stood around a reinforced chamber. Thick cables ran along the floor toward a metal pedestal beneath a ring of mechanical instruments.
Inside a transparent containment cylinder rested a small pendant.
It glowed faintly.
A technician leaned toward a microphone.
"Pendant resonance stabilized."
Another woman studied the monitors.
"Historical signature?"
"Confirmed."
"Vessel classification?"
The technician looked up.
"Battleship."
The room became silent.
A senior researcher stepped forward.
"Begin the First Strike procedure."
The lights dimmed.
An enormous shadow appeared against the laboratory wall.
For a moment, it resembled the silhouette of a warship.
The outline contracted.
The cylinder filled with white light.
Several researchers shielded their faces.
When the brightness faded, a young woman lay on the floor inside the chamber.
She wore a simple white garment.
Her hair was dark.
A small pendant rested against her chest.
She moved.
One researcher gasped.
The woman opened her eyes.
She looked toward the glass.
Her lips parted.
"Where..."
The scientist approached slowly.
"Can you hear me?"
The woman looked around.
Her expression was frightened.
"Where is my crew?"
The music fell almost completely silent.
Yuna's fingers tightened around her mug.
For a moment, no one in the apartment spoke.
Then the woman in the chamber looked down at her own hands.
She turned them over.
Her voice was barely audible.
"These aren't..."
She touched her face.
"These aren't my hands."
A researcher knelt beside the containment glass.
"You're safe."
The woman looked toward him.
Her eyes were filling with tears.
"Then why can't I remember their names?"
The screen faded to black.
A single sentence appeared.
HUMANITY BUILT ITS LAST HOPE FROM THE MEMORY OF ITS LOST FLEETS.
The distorted guitars returned.
The next image showed the same woman years later, standing on the surface of the ocean beneath an enormous assembly of steel rigging.
A battleship's guns rose behind her shoulders.
She turned toward the horizon.
"All stations."
Her voice was calm now.
"Prepare to fire."
The main batteries erupted.
FIRST STRIKE — 1970.
The camera followed the shells across the ocean.
For the first time in the sequence, a Blackwake capital ship broke apart beneath human fire.
The explosion illuminated a fleet of smaller Keelborn advancing behind the battleship.
The narrator's voice rose.
"Not machines commanded from afar."
A destroyer girl accelerated between shell splashes.
"Not vessels crewed by thousands."
A carrier launched aircraft into the sunlight.
"Warships given human form."
A cruiser pulled a wounded companion away from incoming fire.
"Living steel."
The screen filled with dozens of women standing together on the water.
"Humanity's defenders."
The music reached a triumphant crescendo.
KEELBORN.
Riko slowly lowered the chips.
"Okay."
Hana glanced toward her.
"What?"
"I wasn't expecting that."
"The reincarnation?"
"No, I knew about the reincarnation."
"Then what?"
Riko gestured toward the television.
"The crew thing."
Yuna nodded.
"That was sad."
"Very."
The girl in the chamber had appeared for only a few moments, but the scene had accomplished something none of the earlier marketing images had managed.
It had made the Ship Pendant feel less like a piece of equipment and more like the center of someone's existence.
Riko had expected that idea to be cool.
It was cool.
A tiny object capable of giving a historical warship a human body was fascinating.
But seeing someone awaken without understanding what she had become was different from reading a paragraph about it on a website.
Hana took another sip of tea.
"I wonder whether the game lets you write that part yourself."
"What part?"
"Your character's first awakening. What she remembers. How she feels about becoming human."
Yuna looked interested.
"That would be a good character biography."
Riko considered the thought.
"Mine's going to remember being a battleship."
"That's the foundation, yes."
"And she's going to be delighted about it."
Hana raised an eyebrow.
"Delighted?"
"Absolutely. Imagine waking up and discovering you have hands."
"You have hands now."
"Yes, but before that you had turrets."
"You'll still have turrets."
"Exactly! Best of both worlds."
Yuna laughed.
Riko leaned back.
"Actually, that's what I like about this. They're not making us play somebody else's character."
Hana nodded.
"Historical class. Personal identity."
"And they aren't forcing us to dress like the historical ships' national mascots," Riko continued. "You can customize your appearance, right?"
"Within the character creator's rules."
"And personality?"
"Your own."
"And biography?"
"Yes."
"And name?"
"An original one."
Riko sighed dramatically.
"Fine. You've defeated Yamato Two."
"Thank goodness."
"I'll think of something respectable."
Yuna gave her a suspicious look.
"How respectable?"
"Very."
"Riko."
"Battleship McBattleship."
Hana threw a cushion at her.
Riko caught it and collapsed against the sofa laughing.
The television continued playing.
Across the screen, the newly created Keelborn fleet sailed toward a fortified city.
A date appeared.
1990.
CURTAIN FALL.
An enormous organizational insignia filled the frame.
ADMIRALTY UNION
Below it, representatives from multiple nations stood around a long conference table. Their uniforms differed, but their expressions carried a shared exhaustion.
A senior admiral placed a signed document beside a stack of others.
"The oceans will not belong to any one nation again."
Another officer answered.
"Then we'll defend them together."
A map of the world appeared.
It was recognizable.
But coastlines had changed.
Fortified cities stood where major harbors had once been.
Islands and former coastal regions were connected by defended shipping corridors. Vast stretches of ocean bore warning symbols. Some former national boundaries were fractured or contested.
The map brightened.
One by one, national banners appeared.
The Meridian Federation.
The Vostok Union.
The Yamato Hegemony.
The Jade Marches.
The Crown Commonwealth.
The Rhenmark Federation.
The Königsmark Crown.
The Tyrrhenian Imperium.
The Lysian Concordat.
The Orléans Mandate.
The Boreal League.
The Southern Cross Compact.
Across the recovered sea lanes, shipping routes illuminated in gold.
Naval task forces moved between strategic ports.
Supply convoys entered protected harbors.
Workers repaired seawalls.
The narrator spoke again.
"An alliance forged by necessity."
A young shipgirl in Meridian colors saluted beside her commander.
"Maintained by sacrifice."
A group of synthetic workers carried damaged machinery out of a flooded power station.
"Strengthened by those who refused to stop rebuilding."
The screen filled with images of industry.
Massive drydocks.
Railway workshops.
Aircraft assembly halls.
Hydroelectric dams.
Shipyards where new hull sections rested beside repaired prewar machinery.
And, at the center of it all, the immense emblem of the Admiralty Union.
1990–2019.
THE GOLDEN AGE.
The music softened.
For several seconds, the world appeared almost peaceful.
A harbor market filled the screen.
Women in civilian clothes walked beside Keelborn wearing decorative uniforms.
Children played near a fountain.
An elderly merchant argued cheerfully with a synthetic assistant over the price of fruit.
Two destroyer girls sat on a seawall, sharing a bag of pastries.
One offered the other a piece.
The recipient examined it suspiciously.
"What's inside?"
"Custard."
"You said that last time."
"It was custard last time."
"It was mustard."
"Similar color."
"Extremely different experience."
The girl holding the pastry smiled.
"Want one?"
Her companion hesitated.
Then took it.
"If this is mustard again, I'm sinking you."
"That's fair."
Riko laughed.
Yuna smiled.
Hana pointed at the television.
"That one is you."
Riko looked offended.
"Which one?"
"The one who put mustard in the pastry."
"Why?"
"Because you're a menace."
"That's slander."
"You're the one who filled my doughnut with chili sauce last month."
"It was a social experiment."
"You were the only participant who knew that."
"That's why it was scientifically interesting."
Yuna hid her face behind her blanket.
Onscreen, the two destroyer girls sat together beneath the afternoon sun.
Behind them, merchant vessels departed the harbor.
For a moment, nothing threatened the city.
The sea was calm.
People were working.
Somebody was laughing.
Then a synthetic newsreader appeared across a public information display.
Her expression was solemn.
PUBLIC HEALTH EMERGENCY.
2020.
The colors drained from the image.
A hospital corridor filled the television.
Human patients lay behind isolation screens.
Medical staff moved between beds.
Outside, emergency vehicles crowded the streets.
A synthetic nurse stood beside a window, holding a clipboard.
Her face was almost human.
She watched as another ambulance arrived.
The narrator returned.
"The Pestilence spared the machines."
A Keelborn in hospital scrubs carried medical equipment through an emergency ward.
"And the living warships."
A synthetic technician repaired a damaged respirator while a human doctor leaned against the wall, exhausted.
"But humanity itself..."
The narrator paused.
A nurse pulled a sheet over a patient's face.
The camera turned toward an empty city street.
"...was not spared."
The music fell into a low electronic pulse.
Yuna stopped smiling.
Onscreen, a young SIA Doll stood at a hospital entrance with a box of medical supplies in her arms.
A frightened little boy sat on the steps beside her.
He held a small stuffed rabbit.
The Doll crouched.
"Are you waiting for someone?"
The boy nodded.
"My mother."
The Doll looked toward the hospital doors.
Then back at him.
"I see."
"She said she'd come back."
The Doll remained silent for a moment.
Then she put the supplies down and sat beside him.
"Would you like me to wait with you?"
The boy considered that.
"You're a robot."
"Yes."
"Can robots wait?"
The Doll looked at the hospital doors.
"Apparently."
The little boy leaned against her shoulder.
She remained sitting beside him.
The image faded.
A new scene appeared.
Military factories opened their gates.
Synthetic bodies moved along assembly lines.
Armor plates were fitted.
Electronic cores were installed.
Weapon systems passed through inspection chambers.
A voice announced:
"Industrial Ordnance Program production capacity expanded by emergency directive."
The narrator continued.
"While the Blackwake returned to abandoned seas, humanity turned to those who could still stand."
The doors of a fortress opened.
Rows of SIA Dolls marched beneath a gray sky.
Their rifles were modern.
Their uniforms carried multiple national markings.
Their expressions varied.
Some looked confident.
Some looked nervous.
Others were joking quietly with their comrades.
The leading Doll adjusted the straps of her equipment and looked toward the distant city walls.
"All right, girls."
She checked her weapon.
"Let's make sure there's still somewhere to come home to."
The music struck a new, heavier chord.
The formation marched out.
SYNTHETIC INFANTRY ASSETS.
The scene changed to a ruined highway.
Blackwake-corrupted machines moved between abandoned vehicles.
A convoy of armored trucks accelerated along the road.
The leading vehicle was struck by a projectile.
Its driver shouted.
"Ambush!"
An enormous armored figure landed on the asphalt.
She was humanoid, with heavy mechanical rigging surrounding her body. A cannon rose above one shoulder, armored sections enclosed her limbs, and smoke launchers rotated into position.
She glanced toward the convoy.
"Get behind me!"
A missile crossed the highway.
The armored girl lowered her stance.
The projectile struck her defensive plating and burst into a cloud of fire.
She grunted.
Then smiled through the smoke.
"That all you've got?"
Her main weapon rotated.
The camera followed its barrel.
"Because I've got something better."
The gun fired.
The enemy emplacement disappeared beneath a burst of concrete and sparks.
Another caption appeared.
SENSHA GIRLS.
Beyond her, several other armored girls advanced alongside infantry squads. Their equipment ranged from enormous tank guns to compact autocannons and guided weapons.
The trailer showed an infantry fighting vehicle appearing through a cloud of blue-white light beside one of the Sensha Girls.
The girl climbed onto it, slapped the roof, and called:
"Everybody aboard! We've got room!"
A synthetic infantry soldier looked at the vehicle.
"Are you driving?"
"Of course!"
"You're standing outside."
The Sensha Girl grinned.
"Multitasking!"
The soldier hesitated.
Then climbed in.
"That sounds unsafe."
"You're welcome!"
Riko sat up.
"Wait. Did she just summon the whole vehicle?"
Hana nodded.
"That's a Sensha-specific ability."
"So they can do that, but our naval rigging has to be fitted manually?"
"Yes."
Riko frowned.
"Unfair."
"You're comparing an infantry fighting vehicle to a battleship."
"Exactly."
"The battleship is somewhat larger."
"Details."
Yuna tilted her head.
"The vehicle is moving without a driver."
"Remote control," Hana said. "She's still operating it through her own control systems."
"That's clever."
"It is."
Riko considered the image.
"Fine. I want one."
"You can't be an A-150 battleship and a tank at the same time."
"You don't know that."
"I know exactly that."
"Then I'll make friends with one."
Yuna smiled.
"That's probably easier."
Onscreen, the armored convoy reached the fortress gates.
The great doors closed behind it.
A line of enormous coastal guns began rotating toward the sea.
Another year appeared.
2025.
THE REBOUND ERA.
The camera climbed above the fortress.
Beyond its walls, the world stretched toward the horizon.
A world of flooded coastlines and rebuilt cities.
A world whose oceans remained contested.
A world where humanity's survival depended on the continued service of Keelborn, SIA Dolls, Sensha Girls, ordinary soldiers, and countless civilians.
The narrator's voice filled the apartment.
"The world was never promised peace."
The camera turned toward the open Pacific.
"But it was given another chance."
A formation of Keelborn advanced across the waves.
"And humanity intends to keep it."
The guitars surged.
The screen flashed white.
The white flash resolved into a control room.
A large tactical display occupied one wall. Officers stood before it, their uniforms bearing the insignia of the Admiralty Union.
Colored markers represented friendly fleet formations.
Red symbols clustered beyond the coast.
The central display identified the region as a Pacific defensive corridor.
A communications officer looked up.
"Outer patrol reports multiple hostile contacts."
A man in an admiral's uniform leaned over the table.
"Classification?"
"Unconfirmed. Several destroyer-sized targets, at least three capital-ship signatures, and one submerged contact."
"Blackwake?"
"Yes, sir."
He studied the map.
"Merchant traffic?"
"Two convoys still at sea. Both are inside the contested approach."
"Then we bring them home."
The communications officer nodded.
"Assigning the Keelborn screen."
A second officer stepped forward.
"Sir, the forward units completed a sortie less than eight hours ago. Several have not finished repairs."
The admiral looked toward the fleet roster.
Damaged units were marked in amber.
One carried a red maintenance warning.
He was silent for a moment.
Then he said:
"Ask the repair facility what can be made ready. We will not launch a ship that cannot survive the transit."
The officer nodded.
"Understood."
The camera shifted to the repair docks.
Aster sat on a maintenance platform while a technician worked on her damaged rigging.
She had changed back into her work uniform.
The red ribbon remained tied in her hair, although its bow had come loose.
One of her guns lay disassembled beside the platform.
A woman in a gray engineering coat was inspecting the internal mechanism.
"Good news," the technician said.
Aster brightened.
"Really?"
"The traverse motor survived."
"Fantastic."
"The ammunition-feed system survived."
"Even better."
"The port stabilizer is still a disgrace."
Aster sighed.
"You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
Aster leaned backward.
"How long?"
"Two hours for the stabilizer. Longer for the damaged armor."
"Can you make it one?"
"No."
"One and a half?"
"No."
"What if I help?"
The technician slowly looked up.
Aster smiled.
The technician pointed toward a chair.
"Sit."
"I am sitting."
"Continue."
Aster folded her arms.
"Oppressive work environment."
The technician returned to the damaged assembly.
"You can file a complaint after I finish repairing the equipment you were told not to damage."
"It was a battle!"
"And yet you somehow damaged the side nobody shot."
Aster opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Then looked away.
The technician waited.
"Well?"
Aster muttered something.
"What was that?"
"I may have hit a harbor bollard."
The technician lowered her wrench.
"Aster."
"It was dark."
"Aster."
"The bollard was badly positioned."
"Aster."
"I understand your disappointment."
Riko laughed so hard that she dropped a chip.
Hana didn't look away from the television.
"I absolutely believe that technician."
"You're taking her side?"
"Completely."
"Disgraceful."
Onscreen, an alarm sounded.
The technician stopped working.
Aster turned toward the dockyard loudspeaker.
"Attention, all personnel. Emergency convoy recovery operation. Available escort units report to fleet command."
The repair shed fell quiet.
Aster looked at her partially dismantled rigging.
The technician looked at her.
"No."
Aster opened her mouth.
"No," the technician repeated.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"There's a convoy."
"There are other destroyers."
"Not enough, apparently."
"Your rigging isn't ready."
Aster looked toward the harbor.
Beyond the open shed, floodlights were illuminating the breakwater.
The evening sky had begun turning purple.
She looked back at the technician.
"Can you get me moving?"
The woman stared at her.
"Aster."
"Not fighting perfectly. Just moving."
The technician's expression hardened.
"You're asking me to approve equipment that I know isn't safe."
Aster did not make another joke.
"I know."
"And if that stabilizer fails under recoil, you could break your mounting assembly."
"I know."
"If you lose mobility out there, somebody else will have to come after you."
Aster looked down at her gloves.
The silence lasted several seconds.
Then she said:
"Who do they have left?"
The technician did not answer immediately.
The question was harder than either of them wanted it to be.
Finally, she looked toward the dockyard announcement display.
"Six available destroyers. Two light cruisers. One carrier group. Battleship support is pending."
Aster considered that.
"How many merchant ships?"
"Two convoys."
"How many people?"
The technician hesitated.
"Thousands."
Aster nodded.
Then she looked at the unfinished rigging.
"Can I at least go talk to command?"
The technician sighed.
"That," she said, "I cannot stop you doing."
The music shifted into the second verse.
First contact—eyes in the haze,
Black silhouettes through the iron-gray.
The camera cut across the fortress city.
Sirens sounded from towers.
Searchlights swept the harbor mouth.
Civilian traffic stopped at security barriers while convoys of SIA Dolls moved toward their assigned defensive positions.
A young soldier stood beside a truck, struggling to fasten the final strap on her vest.
Another Doll stepped closer.
"Here."
"I can do it."
"I know."
The first Doll hesitated.
Then allowed her companion to tighten the strap.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
Farther along the street, a Sensha Girl crouched beside a group of engineers examining a damaged road.
"Can your convoy cross?"
An engineer shook his head.
"Not with the bridge like that."
The armored girl looked at the cracked supports.
Then at the river below.
"How long to fix it?"
"At least an hour."
She considered the problem.
Then smiled.
"How long to make it strong enough for one vehicle?"
The engineer stared.
"Depends on the vehicle."
She patted the cannon above her shoulder.
"Mine."
The engineer looked deeply unhappy.
"You are going to be the death of me."
"No, I'm going to be your bridge inspection."
"That is not reassuring!"
The scene changed again.
A young female Keelborn stood on a repair platform while a white-uniformed technician fitted fresh armor to her waist assembly.
The girl's face was pale.
Her right hand trembled slightly.
The technician noticed.
"Nervous?"
"No."
"That was a quick answer."
"I'm fine."
The technician lowered her tools.
"Look at me."
The girl hesitated.
Then looked up.
The technician's voice softened.
"You don't have to pretend you're not frightened."
The Keelborn swallowed.
"I don't want them to think I can't do it."
"Who?"
"The others."
The technician considered that.
Then she placed a hand against the girl's shoulder.
"Do you think the others aren't frightened?"
The girl looked toward the open hangar.
Beyond it, a cruiser was completing her pre-sortie inspection.
A destroyer laughed while helping another adjust a belt.
Two battleship girls stood beside a supply cart, quietly discussing ammunition.
The technician continued.
"Being scared doesn't make you useless."
The girl looked down.
"Then what does?"
"Not telling me when something's broken."
The girl blinked.
The technician smiled.
"Now. That right wrist."
The Keelborn glanced at her hand.
"...It hurts."
"Good. We'll check it."
"Good?"
"Good that you told me."
The girl slowly nodded.
Outside the apartment window, the rain continued.
Yuna watched the screen without speaking.
Riko was quieter now, too.
The advertisement had spent its opening minutes making the equipment look spectacular.
It had been doing a very good job.
But the machinery wasn't the only thing receiving attention.
The girls wearing it complained, joked, became embarrassed, and worried about one another.
And whenever somebody returned damaged, the work of making them ready again involved far more than pressing a repair button.
Hana shifted in her chair.
"That looks like the kind of thing I'd spend the whole game doing."
Riko glanced toward her.
"Repairing people?"
"Repairing equipment."
"You say that as if you wouldn't also end up feeding half the dockyard."
"I'd charge for food."
"Monster."
"At cost."
"Still a monster."
Yuna smiled faintly.
The trailer returned to the harbor.
Evening had fallen.
Great gates opened beneath the fortress walls, and a new fleet began passing through.
Some Keelborn still bore fresh repairs.
Others wore new fittings and armor.
The A-150 battleship from the earlier sequence stood near the center of the formation.
She adjusted her gloves.
Beside her, the Iowa-class girl examined the approaching fog.
"Looks ugly."
The larger woman nodded.
"Yes."
"Big fight?"
"Probably."
The Iowa-class girl smiled.
"Good."
The A-150 girl looked at her.
"Why is that good?"
"Because if they're coming for the convoys, they're coming through us first."
The larger woman studied her companion.
Then looked toward the horizon.
A small smile appeared.
"I suppose they are."
The radio crackled.
"All fleet elements, this is command. Convoy recovery operation is authorized. Protect civilian shipping and maintain the evacuation corridor. Avoid unnecessary pursuit."
Aster's voice interrupted.
"Screen One copies."
The pale-haired destroyer answered:
"Screen Two copies."
A third voice added:
"Screen Three copies. And somebody please remind Screen One what unnecessary pursuit means."
Aster sounded wounded.
"Why does everyone keep saying that?"
The Iowa-class girl laughed.
"Reputation."
"I have an excellent reputation!"
"Among harbor bollards, perhaps."
"That was one time!"
The entire formation dissolved into laughter.
Even the A-150 girl's shoulders shook.
Then the laughter faded.
Because beyond the breakwater, the sea had gone black.
The next shot was almost completely dark.
A narrow band of moonlight stretched across the ocean.
The music receded into clean, chorused guitar and distant electronic ambience.
A signal lamp flickered aboard a merchant convoy.
A small cargo vessel moved through the night, its navigation lights partially shielded.
Inside its bridge, an exhausted captain studied a chart.
"How far to the fortress?"
A younger officer checked the instruments.
"Forty nautical miles, sir."
"Escort?"
"Approaching from the southwest."
The captain rubbed his forehead.
"Good."
The officer looked through the bridge window.
"Sir?"
"What?"
"There's something off the port bow."
The captain raised binoculars.
Fog moved across the water.
A faint red light glowed within it.
Then another.
Then dozens.
The captain lowered the binoculars.
"All hands."
His voice was suddenly steady.
"Battle stations."
The screen shifted toward the escorts.
Aster stood on the water with her destroyer rigging fully equipped.
The damaged stabilizer had been repaired, though one armor section remained unfinished.
She examined the dark horizon.
"Tell me that isn't what I think it is."
The pale-haired girl beside her watched her instruments.
"Depends what you think it is."
"An enormous collection of terrible decisions."
"Then yes."
Aster sighed.
"Wonderful."
A radio signal broke through.
"All destroyer screens, contact reports indicate multiple Blackwake formations approaching the convoy corridor."
The first hostile guns fired.
The horizon flashed orange.
Several seconds later, great columns of water rose around the merchant ships.
The younger officer on the cargo vessel stumbled.
"We're under fire!"
The captain grabbed the radio.
"Escort command, this is Convoy Two. Hostile bombardment is falling around our position!"
A different voice answered.
"Convoy Two, maintain course. Escorts are engaging."
The next shot showed the Iowa-class battleship lowering her center of gravity.
Her turrets traversed into position.
Behind her, the A-150 girl's massive batteries followed.
"Target designation received."
"Range?"
"Within engagement envelope."
"Then let's make them regret it."
The Iowa-class guns fired.
The camera followed the shells into darkness.
Distant explosions illuminated the silhouettes of Blackwake cruisers and battleships.
A monstrous hull twisted beneath the impact.
Its superstructure split open.
Something screamed.
The A-150 girl watched the target through her sights.
"Enemy capital ship. Bearing zero-six-one."
She paused.
"Opening fire."
Her main batteries thundered.
The recoil drove ripples outward across the sea.
Nine enormous flashes lit her face.
For a moment, the battlefield became daylight.
Then darkness returned.
The music accelerated.
The vocalist's gritty voice cut through the drums.
Hard left!
Brace!
The television showed torpedo wakes crossing the sea.
Aster shouted:
"Fish in the water! Multiple!"
The pale-haired destroyer turned sharply.
"Three to port!"
"I see them!"
"Two more!"
"I see those too!"
"Then stop looking and move!"
Aster accelerated.
One torpedo passed beneath her extended rigging.
Another detonated against a defensive float, throwing water over her head.
The blast struck her equipment hard enough to send her staggering.
She cried out.
Her left gun assembly rotated wildly.
The pale-haired girl reached her and grabbed an armored support.
"Stabilize!"
"I'm trying!"
"You're drifting!"
"Thank you for the update!"
Together, they brought the damaged equipment under control.
Aster looked down.
One of her armor plates was cracked.
A dark line ran across her forearm.
She stared at the injury for a moment.
Then flexed her fingers.
Her companion noticed.
"You're hurt."
"Apparently."
"Can you still fight?"
Aster checked the functioning gun mount.
It rotated.
The targeting display steadied.
She grinned.
"Want to find out?"
"Not especially."
"Too late."
They turned together.
Their guns opened fire.
The camera swept over a sea transformed into a battlefield.
Searchlights crossed through smoke.
Aircraft attacked beneath the clouds.
Destroyers accelerated between towering splashes while cruisers laid suppressive fire.
The battleships exchanged salvos with monsters that seemed assembled from rusted armor, broken cathedral spires, and enormous jaws.
A carrier's voice sounded over the radio.
"Enemy aircraft inbound. Defensive squadrons, intercept!"
The camera followed a formation of fighters diving through the darkness.
Blackwake aircraft came toward them.
Their silhouettes were wrong.
Some resembled conventional planes with extra wings. Others had no recognizable fuselage. Several moved as though held together by forces that had nothing to do with aerodynamics.
A pilot shouted:
"Bandits, eleven o'clock!"
Another answered:
"I see them!"
Machine guns fired.
One hostile aircraft burst into black fragments.
A second rammed through the explosion and continued forward.
The defensive formation scattered.
Below, a Keelborn cruiser looked up.
"Incoming aircraft!"
Her anti-aircraft guns traversed.
"All mounts, engage!"
Streams of tracer fire crossed the sky.
An enemy aircraft broke apart directly above her.
Burning fragments struck the water.
She flinched.
Then looked toward the carrier group.
"That was close."
Another Keelborn answered over the radio.
"You all right?"
"Fine."
"Your port battery's smoking."
"It does that when I use it."
"That's not reassuring."
"Neither is being shot at!"
The scene changed to the merchant convoy.
An elderly freighter struggled through rough water.
One of its engines had failed.
Its captain leaned over the bridge railing.
"Come on, old girl."
Behind him, a young officer shouted:
"Speed falling!"
The captain looked toward the fighting.
"Can we get the engine back?"
"Engineering says twenty minutes!"
"We don't have twenty minutes!"
A massive Blackwake cruiser emerged from the fog.
Its guns turned toward the freighter.
The captain stared.
"God help us."
The guns flashed.
But the shells never reached the merchant ship.
A Keelborn heavy cruiser crossed the firing line.
She raised her defensive equipment and turned broadside.
The impacts struck her armor.
Explosions rolled across her rigging.
She screamed.
The camera shook.
Her right knee struck the water.
For a terrible moment, she looked ready to collapse entirely.
Then she pressed one hand against the surface and forced herself upright.
Smoke rose from her shoulder.
Blood ran beneath the edge of her damaged uniform.
Her radio crackled.
"Heavy Cruiser Four! Report!"
She coughed.
"Still here."
"Fall back!"
"Negative."
"You're badly damaged!"
She looked behind her.
The merchant ship was still moving.
Slowly.
Painfully.
But moving.
The cruiser drew a shaking breath.
"Then somebody had better make sure that freighter gets home."
Her remaining guns traversed.
She opened fire.
The screen flashed through simultaneous scenes.
A Sensha Girl braced a fortress gate against an advancing armored threat.
A line of SIA Dolls defended a railway station while civilians evacuated behind them.
A repair ship moved toward an offshore recovery position beneath protective smoke.
A carrier launched the last of her reserve aircraft.
A destroyer lost a gun mount but continued fighting with her remaining weapon.
And Aster, surrounded by shell splashes, raised her radio and shouted:
"All screens, cover the wounded! Nobody gets left out here!"
The chorus returned.
Guard the fleet—whatever it takes,
We're hearts of steel for our homeport's sake.
For several seconds, the trailer became an astonishing demonstration of synchronized violence.
The music's driving rhythm aligned with the gunfire.
Each heavy snare beat accompanied a naval discharge.
Each rapid double-kick passage drove the camera through a different part of the battle.
The fleet advanced.
Fell back.
Reformed.
Fired again.
Their weapons were enormous.
Their enemies were monstrous.
Their movements were precise.
But in the middle of all that thunder, the film kept returning to human faces.
A girl squinting through smoke.
Another biting her lip as a damaged gun struggled to traverse.
A carrier whispering encouragement to a returning squadron.
Two destroyers laughing over the radio because the alternative was listening too carefully to how frightened they were.
And a badly wounded cruiser refusing to leave the merchant ship behind.
Yuna sat with both hands wrapped around her mug.
Riko had stopped making jokes.
Hana leaned forward, elbows on her knees.
The room was filled with music, gunfire, and the sound of waves striking steel.
Onscreen, the night battle continued.
And then, very suddenly, the noise stopped.
A shell burst over the water.
The screen filled with white.
Then came silence.
Not complete silence.
A distant ringing remained, thin and persistent, as though the audience were hearing the aftermath of an explosion through damaged ears.
The camera was underwater.
Dark particles drifted through the sea.
A broken section of armored rigging descended past the lens, trailing bubbles.
Far above, searchlights swept through the waves.
A hand reached into view.
It belonged to the wounded heavy cruiser.
Her fingers opened and closed weakly.
She was sinking.
The remains of her rigging hung at terrible angles around her body. One gun mount had torn free. Another remained attached only by a twisted support frame.
Blood clouded the water.
Her eyes were half-closed.
The camera followed her descent.
Above, the distant battle continued.
She could see the flashes through the surface.
The merchant ship was still moving away.
That seemed to matter to her.
Her lips moved.
No sound emerged.
The music returned as a single clean guitar melody.
A faint voice entered over it.
Stars burn faint and the sea runs deep...
The cruiser's eyes closed.
For a moment, nothing moved except the drifting fragments of steel.
Then a second hand entered the frame.
It seized her wrist.
The cruiser opened her eyes.
Aster was there.
Her red ribbon floated around her head.
Her surviving rigging was badly damaged, but the propulsion system was still functioning.
Aster pulled.
The cruiser did not move.
She was too heavy.
The wrecked equipment dragged her downward.
Aster braced her feet against one of the damaged supports and shouted something that disappeared into the water.
She pulled again.
The cruiser shook her head.
Slowly.
Weakly.
Her lips formed two words.
Leave me.
Aster's expression hardened.
She shook her head violently.
The cruiser tried to push her away.
Aster seized her hand with both of her own.
She refused to let go.
Above them, the sea flashed with gunfire.
The camera moved closer.
Aster's mouth formed an unmistakable answer.
Absolutely not.
She activated her radio.
The signal crackled through the damaged equipment.
"Emergency recovery! Heavy Cruiser Four is down! I need assistance!"
Static answered.
She tried again.
"Anyone! I need a recovery line!"
A third voice broke through.
"Screen One, this is Screen Two. I have your position."
Aster looked upward.
The pale-haired destroyer descended through the water.
Behind her came the girl with the green scarf.
Both had discarded portions of their damaged equipment to increase mobility.
The pale-haired girl examined the twisted rigging.
"She's tangled!"
"I noticed!"
"Can you release the aft mounting?"
"Controls are dead!"
The girl with the scarf moved beneath the damaged structure.
"I can reach the emergency coupling!"
"Then do it!"
She swam toward the wreckage.
Aster tightened her grip on the cruiser's hand.
"Hey."
The cruiser barely looked at her.
"Hey. Stay with me."
A weak smile appeared.
The cruiser tried to speak.
Aster leaned closer.
"I can't hear you."
The woman moved her lips again.
Aster's expression changed.
"No."
The cruiser blinked slowly.
Aster shook her head.
"No, I am not calling you by your hull number. I'm not doing that."
The woman looked confused.
Aster pulled her closer.
"Tell me your name."
The cruiser hesitated.
Her lips trembled.
Aster pressed her forehead briefly against the other girl's.
"Your name. Come on."
Above them, the song reached its quietest moment.
Not hull numbers.
Not guns.
Not steel.
Say my name so I know I'm still real.
The cruiser's mouth moved.
This time, Aster heard her.
"Marielle."
Aster smiled.
"There you are."
The girl with the green scarf shouted through the radio.
"Emergency coupling released!"
The damaged support frame broke free.
It fell into the darkness.
The three destroyers pulled Marielle upward.
Aster held her hand.
"All right, Marielle."
Her voice shook, but she continued.
"Let's get you home."
The camera followed them toward the surface.
The water brightened.
A recovery vessel's searchlight shone directly overhead.
A rope descended.
Then another.
Aster reached toward the first.
"Got it!"
The pale-haired girl grabbed the second.
"Recovery team, bring us up!"
Machinery roared above them.
The girls were pulled toward the light.
Yuna had tears in her eyes.
She blinked them away, irritated with herself for becoming emotional over a promotional trailer.
Riko noticed.
She did not tease her.
Instead, she reached across the sofa and nudged the tissue box closer.
Yuna took one.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Hana remained motionless in her chair.
The television showed a recovery deck lit by emergency lamps.
Medics rushed forward.
Marielle lay on a stretcher while technicians worked to remove the damaged sections of her rigging.
Aster stood beside them, soaked and trembling.
A doctor examined the wounded cruiser's injuries.
"Get her to the repair facility!"
A stretcher team began moving.
Aster followed.
The doctor turned.
"You're injured too!"
"Later."
"That's not a medical category!"
"She needs help!"
"So do you!"
Aster stopped.
The doctor pointed toward a second stretcher.
"Sit."
Aster looked at it.
Then at Marielle.
The doctor followed her gaze.
"She's in good hands."
Aster hesitated.
The pale-haired destroyer appeared beside her.
"I'll stay with Marielle."
Aster looked at her.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Only then did Aster sit.
The doctor began examining her damaged arm.
Aster winced.
"Ow."
"Yes," the doctor said. "That tends to happen when you're injured."
"Could you sound less pleased?"
"Could you stop making my job interesting?"
"Unlikely."
The doctor sighed.
The scene faded.
A dark room appeared.
In its center, a Ship Pendant rested inside a protective cradle.
Its light was faint.
A woman's voice spoke offscreen.
"Pendant integrity confirmed."
Another voice answered.
"Soul signature?"
"Stable."
"Then begin reconstruction."
Beyond a window, a vast drydock came into view.
Heavy equipment moved around an unfinished ship hull.
Cranes lowered structural components into place.
Workers guided armor plates toward the vessel.
A Keelborn Repair Ship stood beside the drydock, her own equipment connected to the facility through specialized maintenance lines.
The camera returned to the small pendant.
Its light grew brighter.
A door opened.
A technician stepped into a softly illuminated medical room, carrying a folded blanket.
On a bed sat a little girl.
She appeared no older than six or seven.
An oversized shirt hung from her shoulders, and her feet did not reach the floor.
Her hair was damp.
She looked around with considerable confusion.
The technician approached.
"Good morning."
The little girl stared at her.
"Morning?"
"Yes."
She looked down at her hands.
Then at her feet.
A long silence followed.
"...Oh."
The technician sat beside her.
"Do you remember what happened?"
The girl looked toward the window.
"I remember..."
Her voice became quiet.
"The convoy."
The technician nodded.
"The convoy made it."
The little girl closed her eyes.
A small breath escaped her.
"Good."
Then she looked at herself again.
"Why am I short?"
The technician smiled gently.
"Your ship is still being rebuilt."
The girl looked appalled.
"How long?"
"That depends on the shipyard."
"Can I file a complaint?"
"You certainly may."
"Will it help?"
"Probably not."
The little girl considered this.
Then sighed with all the weariness of someone who had suddenly discovered that the universe had developed a personal grudge against her.
"Wonderful."
Yuna stared.
Riko stared.
Hana's eyebrows rose.
"Wait," Riko said.
The camera moved into a time-lapse sequence.
A damaged hull was stripped down.
New sections were constructed.
Armor plating was fitted.
Gun turrets were installed.
Electronic systems were tested.
A clock advanced.
Dawn became evening.
Evening became morning.
And as the ship took shape, the little girl seated beside the drydock window gradually changed.
Her limbs grew longer.
Her face matured.
Her hair fell over adult shoulders.
In the final shot, Marielle stood once more beside her completed vessel, wearing a new uniform.
The technician approached carrying a clipboard.
"Reconstruction complete."
Marielle stretched.
"Finally."
"Any complaints?"
"Several."
"Medical?"
"Mostly philosophical."
The technician smiled.
"I'll put those in the appropriate category."
Marielle looked toward the harbor.
Aster stood on the pier, waving both arms.
"MARIELLE!"
The cruiser smiled.
Then hurried toward her.
The camera cut away before they met.
A caption appeared.
THE SHIP PENDANT PRESERVES MORE THAN A VESSEL'S HISTORY.
Another followed.
RECOVER. REPAIR. REBUILD. RETURN.
Riko slowly turned toward Hana.
"Excuse me."
Hana was still staring at the television.
"Hm?"
"Was that in the earlier promotional material?"
"The pendant recovery process? Yes."
"Did they mention the part where you come back as a child?"
Hana hesitated.
"I don't remember that being emphasized."
Riko looked toward Yuna.
"Did you know?"
"No."
Riko sat back.
"Huh."
For a moment, none of them knew quite what to say.
Then Riko looked at the screen again.
"Imagine dying as a battleship and waking up unable to reach the top shelf."
Hana pressed her lips together.
Yuna covered her face.
Riko continued.
"Imagine you're a terrifying A-150 super-battleship. You're the pride of your entire fleet. You have guns the size of apartment buildings. Everybody fears you."
Hana began to smile.
"And?"
"And then you get reconstructed, and suddenly somebody has to help you open a jar."
Yuna made a strangled sound.
Riko was grinning now.
"Your greatest enemy isn't the Blackwake anymore."
Hana raised an eyebrow.
"What is it?"
"Childproof packaging."
Yuna lost the battle against laughter.
Hana leaned back in her chair, shaking her head.
"You're terrible."
"I'm right."
"You're terrible and right."
Riko looked triumphant.
"Thank you."
Then she glanced at the television again.
The laughter faded slightly.
"But seriously."
Hana looked toward her.
"Yeah?"
"If you actually lost your pendant..."
She did not finish the sentence.
Onscreen, the protective cradle closed around the tiny glowing object.
The light remained steady.
Yuna spoke quietly.
"I think that's why they showed the recovery operation."
Hana nodded.
"Because getting someone back matters."
The three watched in silence.
The trailer had started with girls teasing one another in a dockyard.
Now it had shown someone nearly dying, returning as a child, and waiting for her vessel to be rebuilt.
Riko didn't know whether she'd enjoy that mechanic if it happened to her character.
She suspected she'd complain.
Loudly.
Probably to everyone within radio range.
But the thought of her friends recovering her pendant and carrying her back to a shipyard was unexpectedly comforting.
She looked toward Hana.
"You're going to repair my ship if I get blown up, right?"
Hana didn't hesitate.
"Assuming you're recoverable."
Riko frowned.
"That was unnecessarily conditional."
"I'm an engineer."
"You're my friend."
"Both things can be true."
Yuna smiled.
"I'll help."
Riko turned.
"Thank you."
Hana sighed.
"I said I'd repair it."
"You said assuming."
"Because I refuse to promise the impossible."
"Fine."
Riko reached for her tea.
"Then I promise to rescue your pendant if something happens to you."
Hana gave her a long look.
"I haven't picked a Keelborn yet."
"Doesn't matter."
"What if I don't?"
"Then I'll rescue whatever important piece of equipment you have."
"Very reassuring."
"You're welcome."
The music began gathering strength again.
The final chorus approached.
And the trailer returned to the sea.
The last battle sequence opened with an enormous sunrise.
The black clouds had begun breaking apart.
Orange light spread across the horizon, illuminating the damaged fleet as it returned toward the fortress harbor.
Several girls were limping.
Others had missing armor plates.
A destroyer rode beside a damaged cruiser, holding an emergency cable attached to her rigging.
Aircraft circled overhead.
The surviving merchant vessels followed in the center of the formation.
Their hulls were scarred, but their running lights remained lit.
Aster stood near the forward screen.
Her red ribbon had come loose again.
She reached up to retie it.
The pale-haired girl beside her watched.
"Your bow's crooked."
Aster stopped.
"Of course it is."
"Want help?"
"I've got it."
She tried again.
The ribbon slipped from her fingers.
Her companion sighed.
"Come here."
Aster leaned toward her.
The pale-haired girl retied the ribbon with patient, precise movements.
"There."
Aster smiled.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
The radio crackled.
"All units, this is command. Convoy One and Convoy Two have crossed the defensive perimeter."
Aster's smile widened.
"Good."
"Confirmed merchant losses are below initial projections. Harbor medical and repair teams are standing by."
The pale-haired girl looked toward the city.
Its enormous seawalls were emerging through the morning haze.
"We made it."
Aster nodded.
"Yeah."
The carrier group passed overhead.
Aircraft banks glittered in the light.
The battleships followed the cruisers toward the harbor mouth, their great guns safely elevated.
The A-150 girl turned toward the Iowa-class battleship beside her.
"Was that acceptable?"
The Iowa-class girl looked at her.
"Acceptable?"
"My performance."
The other woman blinked.
Then laughed.
"You helped flatten half the enemy formation."
The A-150 girl lowered her eyes.
"Yes, but—"
"You saved the convoy."
"I suppose."
"You saved our destroyer screen."
"That was a collective effort."
"And you somehow managed to do all of it while apologizing to your own guns."
The larger girl flushed.
"I did not apologize to my guns."
"You absolutely did."
"They were overheating."
"That's what guns do!"
"I was concerned for them."
The Iowa-class girl laughed again.
Then, more gently, she bumped her shoulder against the other woman's.
"You did good."
The A-150 girl looked at her.
The smile that followed was small, embarrassed, and unmistakably pleased.
"Thank you."
The camera rose above them.
The final chorus thundered through the speakers.
SORTIE—SHIPGIRLS, STRIKE TRUE!
We don't fade when the whole world turns blue!
The harbor gates opened.
People gathered along the seawall.
Dockyard workers waved.
Children held homemade flags.
A synthetic infantry unit stood at attention beneath a watchtower, but one of the Dolls broke formation just long enough to wave enthusiastically at a returning destroyer.
The destroyer waved back.
A repair crew hurried toward the landing platforms.
"Damaged units to Dock Three!"
"Aircraft maintenance, hangar level!"
"Medical team, stand by!"
"Somebody find the ammunition officer!"
Aster stepped onto the pier.
Her damaged rigging was immediately surrounded by technicians.
The woman who had repaired her stabilizer the previous evening stood waiting with her clipboard.
Aster stopped.
The technician looked her up and down.
Then looked at the rigging.
Then back at Aster.
"Well."
Aster smiled nervously.
"Morning."
"Morning."
"Lovely weather."
"Very."
"Wonderful sunrise."
"Indeed."
The technician inspected the ruined port-side stabilizer.
Her expression did not change.
Aster winced.
"...Before you say anything—"
"You hit another bollard."
Aster stared.
"No!"
The technician pointed toward a strip of yellow paint scraped across the lower armor.
Aster looked down.
Then up.
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
She glanced toward the pale-haired destroyer.
The other girl looked away.
Very deliberately.
Aster sighed.
"It jumped out at me."
The technician placed a hand over her eyes.
The camera pulled backward as the argument continued, the words gradually disappearing beneath the music.
Other Keelborn disembarked.
Some walked with assistance.
Others were laughing too loudly, speaking over one another while they described near misses and successful attacks.
A girl whose uniform had been scorched along one sleeve complained that her favorite gloves were ruined.
Another demanded to know who had borrowed her spare ammunition.
A third had fallen asleep against a support crane before the repair technicians finished their inspection.
A synthetic worker carefully draped a blanket over her.
Steam rose from the repair baths.
Tools clattered.
The great dockyard remained busy.
A bell rang above the harbor.
The screen shifted into a sequence of smaller scenes.
A Keelborn returned to a narrow dormitory room and hung her ribbon beside a photograph of her squadron.
A repair technician checked the temperature of a mug of tea before handing it to an exhausted cruiser.
A SIA Doll returned from patrol to discover that someone had left dinner for her despite her insistence that she didn't need it.
A Sensha Girl sat on the floor beside her maintenance platform, helping an infantry soldier replace a torn bootlace.
Two destroyers argued over whose turn it was to wash their uniforms.
A carrier quietly watched her aircraft return to their hangar, counting each one before allowing herself to relax.
And Marielle, restored and smiling, stood between Aster and the pale-haired destroyer as they watched the sunrise from the seawall.
Aster held a paper bag.
Marielle looked inside.
"What's that?"
"Breakfast."
"Is there enough for everyone?"
"Obviously."
The pale-haired destroyer looked at the bag.
"There are two pastries."
Aster stared.
Marielle stared.
Aster slowly looked back inside.
"Oh."
The pale-haired girl sighed.
"Again?"
Aster considered the problem.
Then tore one pastry in half.
"There."
Marielle took the smaller portion.
"Thank you."
The pale-haired destroyer examined the remaining pastry.
"That is not three equal portions."
"It's approximately three portions."
"That's not what approximately means."
Aster grinned.
"Then write a complaint."
Marielle laughed.
They sat together.
Beyond the harbor walls, the ocean shimmered beneath the rising sun.
The final lyrics filled the television.
Bring us home with the scars we earned,
Count every sister who safely returned.
For a few moments, there was nothing but the three girls sharing breakfast while the repaired city woke around them.
Then the music softened.
The singer's final words floated over a clean guitar line.
Tie back the ribbon.
Wait for the dawn.
Aster finished her pastry.
She looked toward the sea.
A distant alarm sounded from the watchtower.
Not an emergency alarm.
A scheduled departure notice.
Somewhere in the harbor, an officer called:
"Sortie preparations!"
Aster turned toward the repair shed.
The technician from earlier was standing in its doorway.
She held up a wrench.
Aster groaned.
"Already?"
The technician smiled.
"Your stabilizer won't repair itself."
Aster sighed.
Then stood.
Marielle stood beside her.
The pale-haired girl stretched her shoulders.
For a moment, all three watched the sunlight on the ocean.
Then Aster smiled.
"Well."
She retied her ribbon.
"Shall we?"
The other girls nodded.
They walked toward the dockyard together.
The last line of the song sounded over the image.
We sail on.
The screen went white.
For several seconds, the television remained white.
Then the last notes of the guitar faded.
A dark-blue background appeared.
At its center, the Admiralty Union's insignia emerged from a field of slowly turning stars.
A series of images assembled around it.
A Keelborn destroyer stood on a maintenance platform.
A SIA Doll checked her rifle beside a fortress gate.
A Sensha Girl leaned against the armored vehicle she had deployed.
An aircraft carrier watched planes assemble for departure.
A battleship stood beneath the shadow of her enormous guns.
The images formed a circle around a stylized compass rose.
Then the display changed.
CHOOSE YOUR FLEET.
CHOOSE YOUR CLASS.
CHOOSE YOUR NAME.
WRITE YOUR OWN HISTORY.
The camera moved through a sequence of character-creation displays.
Faces changed.
Hairstyles shifted.
Uniform colors altered.
Naval equipment appeared in multiple approved configurations.
A historical battleship design rotated above a holographic display, its machinery separated into enormous diagrams.
An interwar cruiser appeared beside a later modernization proposal.
A destroyer exchanged one permitted equipment configuration for another.
An aircraft carrier's hangar complement changed as its equipment options were displayed.
Behind the technical illustrations, character biographies opened to blank pages.
Personal names appeared.
Then disappeared.
A new set of names took their place.
A HISTORICAL CLASS.
AN INDIVIDUAL LIFE.
The next sequence showed the exterior of the Admiralty Union headquarters.
Officers entered a conference room.
A command display illuminated the wall.
COMMAND ROLES.
SUPPORT ROLES.
FLEET COORDINATION.
A male Commander stood beside a tactical table as Keelborn officers reported their readiness.
A Logistics Supervisor examined a supply manifest.
A Repair Technician reviewed maintenance documents with a Repair Keelborn standing beside him.
The woman pointed toward an engineering diagram.
The technician listened, considered her explanation, and authorized a revised procedure.
The screen showed the two exchanging a respectful nod before returning to work.
Then came brief glimpses of additional occupations, installations, and responsibilities: ammunition depots, communications stations, fortress defenses, rescue operations, and convoy coordination.
A final caption appeared.
YOUR DECISIONS SHAPE THE SORTIE.
The camera returned to open ocean.
A fleet formed beneath an enormous sunrise.
White wakes crossed the blue water.
Aircraft climbed into the sky.
And the enormous guns of the battleships turned toward a distant horizon.
One final voice sounded over the image.
It belonged to Aster.
"Fleet, this is Screen One."
There was a brief pause.
Then, with a grin audible in her voice:
"Anybody fancy a little adventure?"
The radio answered with overlapping laughter.
"You're already late!"
"Stay in formation!"
"Don't hit anything!"
"Especially the harbor!"
Aster groaned.
"Will none of you ever let that go?"
The pale-haired destroyer answered:
"No."
Aster sighed.
"Wonderful."
The camera rose above them.
The fleet accelerated.
The music struck one final, powerful chord.
And the screen turned black.
COMING SOON.
The countdown disappeared.
The stream ended.
For approximately twelve seconds, nobody in Hana Saeki's apartment said anything.
The rain tapped against the window.
Somewhere outside, a motorcycle passed along the street.
The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen.
On the television, the now-empty premiere page displayed a frozen image of the Admiralty Union insignia.
Riko sat perfectly still.
Yuna looked down at her hands.
Hana stared at the screen.
Then Riko slowly raised one finger.
"I have a complaint."
Hana closed her eyes.
"Of course you do."
"An extremely serious complaint."
"What is it?"
Riko turned toward her.
"Why isn't it out yet?"
Yuna burst out laughing.
Hana lowered her head into her hands.
Riko spread her arms.
"I'm serious!"
"That much is obvious," Hana said.
"They can't just show me that and expect me to go to university tomorrow!"
"Unfortunately, they can."
"I have responsibilities!"
"Yes."
"Assignments!"
"Several."
"Exams!"
"Also several."
"And now I have to spend the next however many days thinking about battleships!"
Hana finally looked up.
"Riko."
"What?"
"You were going to do that anyway."
Riko opened her mouth.
Paused.
Then nodded.
"Fair."
Yuna wiped the corners of her eyes.
"That was really good."
Riko turned.
"Right?"
"I liked it."
"You liked it?"
"Yes."
"Yuna, that was the single most important development in human entertainment since someone invented the ability to put cheese inside bread."
Hana looked at her.
"That's your historical benchmark?"
"It's a strong benchmark."
"You're impossible."
"Thank you."
Yuna took another tissue.
Riko noticed.
She leaned toward her friend.
"Still thinking about the cruiser?"
Yuna nodded.
"A little."
"Marielle?"
"Yes."
Riko looked at the television.
The frozen image hadn't changed.
For a moment, she could still picture the heavy cruiser sinking into black water, her damaged rigging dragging her downward while the battle continued overhead.
And Aster refusing to let go.
"That was a good scene," Riko admitted.
Yuna smiled faintly.
"It was."
Hana leaned backward.
"I think the repair dock was my favorite part."
Riko stared at her.
"You watched a ten-thousand-ton battleship fire nine gigantic guns, and your favorite part was a maintenance facility."
"Yes."
"You're a fascinating specimen."
"Thank you."
"That was not a compliment."
"I've chosen to accept it as one."
Riko threw the cushion again.
This time, Hana caught it.
Yuna sighed happily and reached for her tablet.
The premiere page was already being discussed across several forums.
The official discussion thread had accumulated thousands of comments.
People were posting screenshots of the Blackwake.
Others were debating the accuracy of the naval gun mechanisms.
A particularly enthusiastic discussion had developed around the A-150 design.
Riko leaned over Yuna's shoulder.
"Show me."
"Which one?"
"The battleship."
"Naturally."
Yuna scrolled.
The first screenshot showed the A-150 girl standing beside the Iowa-class battleship.
Someone had already posted a comparison of their primary gun calibers.
A second image isolated the enormous triple-gun turrets.
A third enlarged the lower support structure, where the rigging's weight was carried through articulated mechanical frames.
Hana moved closer.
"Wait."
Riko looked at her.
"What?"
"Go back."
Yuna scrolled upward.
Hana pointed.
"That joint."
Riko stared.
"Hana."
"Look at it."
"I'm looking."
"There's an additional support arm behind the main strut."
"Yes?"
"That means the designers actually considered how the recoil travels through the equipment."
Riko nodded solemnly.
"Yes. Very interesting."
Hana narrowed her eyes.
"You're not listening."
"I am."
"What did I say?"
"Something about a very attractive joint."
Yuna dissolved into laughter.
Hana looked toward the ceiling.
"Why do I live with people?"
Riko grinned.
"Because you love us."
"I am reevaluating the arrangement."
Yuna managed to recover enough to change the screenshot.
A new image showed the first Keelborn emerging inside the pendant laboratory in 1970.
Someone had attached an enormous paragraph explaining the significance of the scene.
Yuna read silently for a moment.
Then frowned.
"Hm."
Riko noticed.
"What?"
"Apparently there was a hidden detail in the laboratory scene."
Hana sat forward.
"Where?"
Yuna enlarged the screenshot.
Behind the researchers, a wall-mounted document listed several lines of information.
Most were blurred by the camera's depth of field.
One was readable.
INITIAL NAVAL ASSET REGISTRY.
Beneath it appeared a sequence of numbers.
Then a status designation.
PROPERTY TRANSFER PENDING.
Riko leaned closer.
"Huh."
Hana's expression became thoughtful.
"Interesting."
Yuna looked toward her.
"That doesn't sound particularly nice."
"No."
"Do they actually own the Keelborn?"
Hana considered the question.
"Under the AU's in-world legal system, yes. At least in a broad military sense."
Riko frowned.
"But they're people."
"That's the contradiction."
"The trailer certainly treated them like people."
"It did."
"Then why call them property?"
Hana rubbed the back of her neck.
"Probably because the setting's governments developed them as military assets. The AU is a military organization, and the world has been fighting an existential war for decades."
Yuna looked down at the document.
"So they've normalized it."
"Seems that way."
Riko sat back.
"I don't like that."
Hana nodded.
"You're not supposed to necessarily like every part of a fictional society."
"Still."
"Still," Hana agreed.
Yuna read another comment.
"Someone's pointing out that the SIA Dolls have similar legal restrictions."
Hana nodded.
"That fits what they've published."
"Memory audits, reassignment, property registries..."
Riko made a face.
"That's horrible."
"It can be."
Yuna scrolled down.
The discussion had already divided into competing arguments.
Some viewers were fascinated by the military bureaucracy.
Others were arguing about whether Keelborn should possess full citizenship.
Several people were discussing the ethical implications of artificial people manufactured specifically for combat.
One commenter insisted that the AU's wartime circumstances justified extraordinary restrictions.
Another replied that extraordinary circumstances did not erase personhood.
A third had posted an image of Aster colliding with a harbor bollard beneath the caption:
THIS IS WHY SHE NEEDS SUPERVISION.
Riko stared at it.
Then began laughing.
Hana glanced over.
"What?"
Riko showed her.
Hana snorted.
Yuna covered her face.
The argument about legal personhood continued immediately below the image, apparently undisturbed.
For a moment, the whole thread seemed to capture exactly what had made the trailer so entertaining.
The game promised serious conflicts.
It also promised ridiculous people doing ridiculous things while carrying naval artillery.
And both seemed important.
Riko returned to the discussion.
"Actually, I have another question."
Hana sighed.
"Of course."
"The male player roles."
"What about them?"
"How many are there?"
"Not many compared with the Keelborn positions."
"Right. Commanders, Admirals, Repair Technicians, Logistics Supervisors..."
"Those are the confirmed examples."
Riko leaned back.
"So most of the girls are playing shipgirls, and the guys are running the operations."
"That's the basic division."
"Doesn't that mean a Commander can order us around?"
Hana glanced toward her.
"In combat? Presumably. That's rather the point of a Commander."
"I know that. I mean..."
Riko gestured vaguely.
"Outside combat."
Yuna looked interested.
"That's a good question."
Hana considered it.
"Depends on how much of the military hierarchy the game actually models."
"Because I can already imagine someone deciding that being a Commander makes him the king of the entire harbor."
Hana smiled without warmth.
"Those players exist in every online game."
Yuna nodded.
"They do."
Riko crossed her arms.
"Well, if somebody decides he's going to be insufferable, I'm taking my battleship and moving to another fleet."
Hana raised an eyebrow.
"Assuming transfers are permitted."
"They'd better be."
"And assuming another fleet wants a battleship whose captain spends half her time arguing with authority."
Riko looked offended.
"Why wouldn't they?"
"An excellent question."
"I bring firepower."
"And paperwork."
"Mostly firepower."
"Considerable paperwork."
Yuna giggled.
Riko pointed toward Hana.
"You are joining my fleet."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"Have you considered asking?"
"No."
"Then I'm declining."
Riko gasped.
"Betrayal."
"Tragic."
"Yuna?"
Yuna looked up.
"Yes?"
"You're joining, right?"
Yuna smiled.
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Whether your fleet has a library."
Riko stared.
"A library."
"Yes."
"We're warships."
"That doesn't mean we can't read."
Hana nodded.
"Excellent point."
Riko looked between them.
Then sighed dramatically.
"Fine. I'll build a library."
Yuna brightened.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"And a tea room?"
"Fine."
"And somewhere quiet?"
"Yes."
Hana lifted one finger.
"And a proper maintenance workshop."
Riko pointed at her.
"That one was already happening."
"Good."
Yuna smiled.
"Then perhaps we'll join."
Riko folded her arms with considerable satisfaction.
"Excellent. My fleet is already taking shape."
Hana glanced at the television.
"It doesn't have a Commander."
Riko stopped.
"Oh."
A brief silence followed.
Then Yuna tilted her head.
"Do we actually need to know one personally?"
"Probably not," Hana said. "Matchmaking, fleet organizations, and established command groups should handle that."
Riko considered the question.
"Then we're finding a nice one."
Hana nodded.
"Preferably competent."
Yuna added:
"And patient."
Riko looked at her.
"Why patient?"
Yuna smiled sweetly.
Hana began laughing.
Riko slowly narrowed her eyes.
"Oh, very funny."
Neither friend denied it.
An hour later, the initial excitement had settled into something more practical.
Not much more practical.
But enough that Hana had stopped looking up screenshots of articulated armor supports long enough to make fresh tea.
Riko had retrieved a notebook from her bag.
She was writing possible names for her Keelborn.
The list had begun badly.
It had not improved.
Yuna leaned over the page.
"What's that one?"
Riko covered it.
"Private."
"Riko."
"It's a work in progress."
"Can I see?"
"No."
Hana appeared behind the sofa with the kettle.
"She wrote Yamato Three."
Riko snapped her head around.
"How do you know that?"
"You said it aloud while writing."
"I did not!"
"You absolutely did."
Yuna started laughing again.
Riko looked down at the notebook.
Sure enough, there it was.
Yamato Three.
She crossed it out angrily.
"I hate both of you."
Hana set the kettle down.
"That's fine."
"Fine?"
"Yes. I'll still repair your ship."
Riko stopped.
Then looked up.
Hana's expression remained entirely serious.
Riko smiled.
"Aw."
"Assuming you follow maintenance instructions."
The smile vanished.
"There it is."
Yuna laughed.
Then turned her tablet toward the others.
"The character preview page has updated."
Both women leaned closer.
A set of selectable categories filled the display.
KEELBORN.
HISTORICAL CLASS SELECTION.
PERSONAL CHARACTER CREATION.
Several historical periods were displayed.
Pre-World War I.
World War I.
Interwar.
World War II.
Postwar.
Eligible designs before the naval technology cutoff.
Experimental and incomplete historical proposals.
Riko's eyes gleamed.
"There."
Hana leaned beside her.
"You're going to spend six hours in character creation."
"At minimum."
Yuna smiled.
"I probably will too."
Riko looked at her.
"What are you picking?"
Yuna hesitated.
She had considered several options.
A battleship would be impressive, but she wasn't particularly drawn to the enormous guns.
Destroyers were fast and capable, though their battlefield responsibilities sounded exhausting.
Cruisers offered a compromise between speed, endurance, and firepower.
But there was something about the carrier footage that had stayed with her.
The aircraft.
The long-range coordination.
The responsibility of watching squadrons depart and waiting for them to return.
She looked toward the earlier screenshot of the carrier group.
"I think I want to be an aircraft carrier."
Riko turned.
"Really?"
Yuna nodded.
"Yes."
"Which one?"
"An Illustrious-class design, perhaps."
Hana smiled.
"That's a good choice."
Riko considered it.
Then grinned.
"Excellent. You can provide air cover while I shoot things."
Yuna sighed.
"I suspected that was coming."
"It's teamwork."
"It sounds like you want me to keep you alive."
"Also teamwork."
Hana shook her head.
"And what happens when your air cover is busy somewhere else?"
Riko considered that.
Then smiled.
"I'll shoot the aircraft."
"With your main battery?"
"If necessary."
Hana stared.
Yuna started laughing.
Riko raised her hands.
"What? They're big guns!"
"That's not how anti-aircraft defense works!"
"Details!"
"Extremely important details!"
Riko leaned back, pleased with herself.
Hana decided the conversation had become medically unproductive.
She turned toward the category marked for support and repair vessels.
A selection of historical auxiliary designs appeared.
Their armaments were modest compared with the battleships.
Their equipment focused on maintenance, salvage, engineering support, and the recovery of damaged vessels.
Hana studied the diagrams.
The mobile workshops.
The cranes.
The specialized repair systems.
The capacity to help other ships return to service.
She smiled.
Yuna noticed.
"Found something?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"I think I'll choose a Repair Keelborn."
Riko looked up.
"A repair ship?"
"Yes."
"You're serious?"
"Completely."
"But you could be a battleship."
"So could you."
"I am going to be a battleship."
"Then I'll repair yours."
Riko's expression softened.
For a moment, she looked ready to say something sincere.
Then Hana added:
"And charge extra whenever you hit a harbor bollard."
Riko threw the notebook at her.
Hana caught that too.
"Your aim needs work."
"That's why I'm getting an A-150!"
Yuna laughed so hard that she had to take off her glasses.
Outside, the rain finally began to ease.
The city beyond the curtains remained ordinary.
Cars moved through the wet streets.
Pedestrians crossed beneath streetlights.
The local railway continued its evening schedule.
Inside the apartment, three young women argued over the future of a fleet that did not yet exist.
They discussed names.
Uniforms.
Historical designs.
Aircraft.
Maintenance.
Whether a repair ship could reasonably be expected to tolerate a battleship captain whose preferred method of problem-solving involved excessive artillery.
And, eventually, what their homeport might look like.
Riko wanted a fortress harbor with enormous coastal defenses.
Hana wanted excellent repair facilities, convenient supply access, and a dockyard organized by people who understood the difference between preventive maintenance and emergency repairs.
Yuna wanted a quiet residential district, a library, a bakery, and somewhere to watch the sunset.
Riko initially argued that a bakery was not a strategic requirement.
Yuna pointed out that a fortress city without food would have serious problems.
Hana agreed.
Riko conceded.
Then demanded that the bakery sell enormous pastries shaped like naval gun turrets.
Neither of her friends objected.
By the time the conversation slowed, the tea had gone cold.
The snack bags were empty.
Riko's notebook contained three pages of crossed-out ship names and one surprisingly respectable candidate she refused to show anyone.
The trailer's final image remained on the television.
Three girls stood on the seawall of a rebuilt fortress city.
Beyond them stretched the Pacific Ocean.
It was blue beneath the morning sun.
Calm.
Beautiful.
Almost peaceful.
Riko looked at the screen for a long time.
Then she spoke.
"Hey."
Yuna glanced toward her.
"Hm?"
"When we finally get in..."
Hana looked up from her tablet.
Riko hesitated.
It was unusual enough that both of her friends paid attention.
She glanced between them.
Then smiled.
"Let's actually stick together, all right?"
Yuna's expression softened.
"Of course."
Hana nodded.
"That's the idea."
"No, I mean it."
Riko turned fully toward them.
"We can join different fleets if we want, obviously. I'm not going to be weird about it. But let's still do things together."
Yuna smiled.
"All right."
"And if someone gets damaged, we help."
Hana raised her mug.
"Naturally."
"And if someone gets lost..."
"We find them," Yuna said.
Riko nodded.
"And if somebody starts acting like an idiot..."
Hana looked directly at her.
"We already have considerable experience with that."
Riko gasped.
"Unbelievable."
Yuna burst out laughing.
Hana grinned into her tea.
Riko looked at both of them.
Then, despite her best efforts, started laughing too.
The apartment filled with the comfortable noise of three friends who had known one another long enough to argue without needing to worry about what the arguments meant.
Eventually, the laughter faded.
Riko settled back against the sofa.
"Seriously, though."
Hana glanced over.
"What now?"
Riko looked toward the frozen image of Aster, Marielle, and the pale-haired destroyer.
Then she smiled.
"That bit about bringing everybody home."
Yuna nodded slowly.
"I liked that."
"Yeah."
Hana looked at the screen.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
Then she raised her mug slightly.
"To coming home, then."
Yuna lifted hers.
"To coming home."
Riko grabbed her own mug.
"To coming home!"
Their cups met over the coffee table.
A little tea spilled onto Riko's notebook.
She yelped.
Hana laughed.
Yuna reached for a tissue.
And the solemnity of the moment dissolved exactly as it should have.
Beyond the apartment window, a train rolled toward the station, its lights reflected along the wet tracks.
The Pacific remained a distant darkness beyond the city.
No enormous seawalls divided the horizon.
No Blackwake vessels waited in the harbor approaches.
No shipgirl fleets assembled beneath the morning sun.
There were only three young women, an unfinished list of names, and a screen filled with promises of another world.
For now, that was more than enough.
The television dimmed.
The Admiralty Union's insignia faded.
And, beneath a small illustration of an anchor, one final message remained.
WE LOOK FORWARD TO WELCOMING YOU ABOARD.
In the apartment, Riko was already arguing that a ninety-centimeter ceremonial naval sword would be a perfectly reasonable accessory for her future battleship.
Hana was explaining why it would be impractical.
Yuna was trying to decide whether her carrier should wear a ribbon.
The argument lasted well into the night.
And somewhere behind the glass of the television, beneath the skies of a drowned Earth, the great shipyards waited for their next generation of Keelborn.
Their names had not yet been written.
Their first sorties had not yet begun.
But the sea was already there.
And it would be waiting when they arrived.