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Chapter Text

A thin film of oil glitters across the water. When the waves roll, a lurid rainbow warps within the depths, and diamonds of air sparkle atop crests of salty foam. The shattered wrecks of broken decks and hulls bob up and down, metal leaves swirling against the current in a final, futile attempt to resist gravity, before the surface swallows them whole. Humanity’s designs vanish into nature’s indiscriminate void. The oceans are vast, their surface utterly empty.

She floats. Dive bombers tattoo her back. Salt pains her lips. Her smooth uniform swallows its heavy drink, billowing in torn black. Water floods her clothes and the spaces in her gloves, leaving the tips of her fingers ragged and soft, her palms numb. Her fighters sink under, falling against nothing but liquid resistance, her engine spitting and dying. Soon, she will sink. Until then, she stares vacantly at the sky. Grimy clouds of smoke coat the azure bay, defiling its pristine beauty with human error. 

Gunpowder pains the inside of her nails, gritty and scratchy. In the shade of the looming cumulus clouds, unbothered by the fires dancing across the water, she turns her head to catch the last face slipping away. Many rest in these watery graves. Resisting the pull of the seas is as futile as resisting the pull of a lover. 

“Miss…?”  

A smooth, glove-encased hand almost touches her shoulder, and bright red eyes break into her disembodied gaze. A limp blue and black curtain swirls over the girl’s shoulders and across her small back. Strands of blue ensnare her face, and the woman sighs, gently turning away the hand on her shoulder before tucking messy blue hair behind the girl’s ears. 

“Apologies, my dear. The past caught up to me again.” 

The girl sighs and shakes her head, anxiously fidgeting with the radar mounted on her ear. The woman turns her gaze back to pitch-black skies. Their simulated refuge has already begun breaking into jagged interspatial lines, its instability apparent in glitching winds, ghostly echoes, and blurry blue-red waves that lap across black sands. The Arbiters may not patrol this zone, but lack of oversight is a double-edged blade: without regular maintenance, Omitters and Purifiers, code won’t run correctly. Their setups malfunction. 

“Can’t we get going?” 

“We still have some time. Wait while you can.” The woman’s voice clears any traces of distant azure skies from her oft-cloudy sapphire eyes. “Even machines need maintenance. Please, rest your head.” 

“... Understood.” Acquiescing, the girl unfolds her legs and leans back further against the crag, face turned away from her companion. The woman waits until the girl’s breathing inevitably deepens, until she is sure it is safe before she rises to her full height and raises an arm towards the orange sky. 

An eagle alights explosively on her arm. Though his feathers are dirty and his meaning has died alongside the civilization that conceived it, both he and his owner still remember when they had names. He shuffles against her arms and rubs his head against her grimy cheek as she clicks her tongue sweetly. 

The horizon blazes bright with billowing gusts of smoke. Already, this branch’s last battle has begun. Soon, there will be nothing left of this simulation and the data within it. The people within it.

Peace always comes in different forms, some of which, in disguise, are war. War is the highest form of freedom, which requires powerful leaders to shape it correctly. In the hands of the right leaders, freedom is honed as powerfully as division towards all that oppose the ideals of the nations that claim to fight in unity’s namesake. But division often triumphs over unity, for creating problems is far easier than solving them. War is division, division is freedom, and freedom is peace, so war is the only place they find peace of mind.

In its endless refuge, they will wander.

They will burn.

Chapter Text

Pieces of a rifle lay in disarray. Some of the gears smoke, some burn the fingers, and some wouldn’t be considered part of a rifle at all. They sprawl in an inglourious circle around their owner. 

Her sharp black boots stand firm against rickety stone ruins. A grimy, tattered skirt heaps into faded crimson in the centre of the floor, its folds progressively taller and tidier as they link under technology also assembled with reduce, reuse, and recycle in mind, a belt fused with too many pipes to count.

The skirmisher scrutinizes the pocket watch in her palm. As if on cue, she reassembles the bits and pieces of her gears at jaw-dropping speed. Using small tubes in place of screws and odd circular gears instead of joints, the barrel grows, if it can even be called a barrel. A trigger, a magazine, and a handle form. Finally, she snaps them together into an oversized gun, rips a greased cartridge with her teeth, and reloads. The skirmisher checks her pocket watch again, expressionless. She examines her old friend, the tarnished rifle, snaps her goggles over her eyes, and sits, her legs hanging off the edge of the bell tower. The air is clear here.

The cathedral is the highest ground in this abandoned, waterlogged village, and it affords the clearest view of these boggy parts. Saltwater blankets paths where villagers used to roam. Buildings, partially submerged, poke out of the glassy surface like mangroves in a marsh. The medieval-styled abodes are completely deserted. Only the soothing hum of the ocean tempers the sorrowful sigh of the ghost town.

Distantly, the tell-tale echo of artillery bombardment sighs through the clouds. The skirmisher closes her eyes. She tilts her chin up, expression expectant. Her cropped hair doesn’t dare skitter across her face, no matter the grey wind’s severity. 

The mistress grins. In a series of strong, fluid movements, she leaps off the belfry. 

Chapter Text

“Enterprise?” North Carolina mutters hesitantly. 

“No, please.” Not-Enterprise looks down. “That name’s nothing but ash.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Washington asks straightforwardly. “You look sick.”

In response, she turns and sets a brisk pace, heading away from base. After a hushed moment of contention, they follow her warily, close enough to strike but far enough to retreat. 

“Is she the reason for all this?” North Carolina theorizes.

“Sure glad I’m not on the bad end of her bombs, if that’s the case.”

“But something feels off about this whole arrangement. If she was really helping us, then wouldn’t she have informed us of all the specifics or background of why she was here as soon as she reached us? What is she, really? Why is she purposefully withholding information?”

“Maybe ignorance is bliss,” Helena says smally.

“We’re here,” the woman who is not Enterprise states.

“The hell’s here? It’s a damn wasteland.” 

“Antiochus’ disposal facility.”

Washington wonders why the hell North Carolina’s backup request is taking so long. This woman isn’t bound by the physical confines of their world, and the way she moves doesn’t sit right with Washington’s soul. It’s as if all the joy, motivation, and suffering alike has been extinguished from the frame of her ashen imagination. It’s sad, and it’s true.

“It’s endless.” Helena murmurs.

“Correct. This is a quadrant reserved exclusively for refuse from… mirror seas. It expands to meet expectations or needs, unbound by the space-time continuum.” Not-Enterprise pauses. “I wasn’t sure it would work the way they explained it…”

“What is Antiochus?” North Carolina narrows her eyes. “…or, rather, who?”

“I can’t say.” She has the gall to sound regretful. “It’s not an easy answer.”

“Planning to just leave us here and run off by yourself?” The words fly out of Washington’s mouth before she can even process the hunch. The woman’s eyes close as North Carolina comes to a decision, cautiously taking that dirty hand.

“You’ve always been easy to read,” NorCar shakes her head, voice thick. “Let us help.”

She doesn’t know how many times she’s spoken these words. She doesn’t know how many times she’s held these hands, that sweet smile on her pretty face. She doesn’t know how many times she’s fallen in battle, mouth leaking orange, screaming bitter betrayal or, worse, begging her to be well. Ash cannot leave them behind, over and over again, but she has to. She is the only real thing here, she must constantly remind herself. She is only talking to herself. 

She has been talking to herself for longer than she can remember.

They are only lines of code programmed to react when she interacts with them, and yet. And still. Ash pulls North Carolina closer and looks into her clear, holographic blue eyes, that familiar blonde hair, and trying not to cry, succeeding, says, “I don’t know how.”

The starless sea watches them with a thousand eyes, and it is all Helena can do to come closer and pat her on the back awkwardly, her entire arm trembling with fear. 

Washington sighs. “C’mon, then, we gonna turn these Sirens into slags or what?”

And because Ash is naive, she tells herself she’ll be gentle.

Chapter Text

Clouds stuffed the serene skies with grayish white, dimming dawn’s glare. Black ash rose above sleek funnels. Heat shimmered over asphalt roads. Sun darted down towlines and drew midriffs in emerald water. Capital ships proudly booked rooms down the grand pier, hulls and cannons reaching over twenty stories tall. 

All sorts came: powerful figures, fat men, working mothers and children. Countless fell quiet as an eagle shot into the sky; it circled higher and higher, disappearing into the clouds before diving into a steep curve that ended on the outstretched arm of its master. 

Her stature carved out a tall, organized space amid social entropy, with long platinum hair that commanded the unruly breeze. She surveyed the crowd with a polite smile as her secretary followed behind, equally striking pink hair curling at the small of her back. The breeze batted the edges of her black coat, a large, loose plastic thing, not quite a varsity jacket but matching her sneakers all the same. 

Behind the podium, the commander raised her eyes and addressed the courtyard.

“Thank you all for coming today.” Her voice rang across the stone steps and washed over the crowd. “We are here to celebrate a common cause, a conviction, a common concept in the conception of our common country. We are here today because some of us chose the Union as our homeland, or are descended from those who did. So we ourselves are an exceptional group, a picked people, united in our choice to break from the familiar, brave the choppy waters, and bear the loneliness of this unfamiliar land. ” She paused. Shutters clicked and flashed.

“Then, and now, it was for freedom. So, what does it mean when we say that we seek freedom? It is what sustains the hearts of our men and women on the ground, something that gives them greater power than any country. When it dies, nobody can help it, much less save it. And it is not something so meaningless and cheap that with it, anyone can do as they like. Not the wild, uncontrollable desire of conquest, nor the savagery of natural law. That leads to the denial and overthrow of liberty, as we have seen to be sadly true today. That metastasizes into a society where freedom is in the hands of only a dangerous few - a society where the savage minority oppresses the majority, and injustice freely roams.”

“Our country in the past eighty years has fought humanity’s greatest war against those that seek to enslave us and bring the end of our world. Some of our former allies turned against us in misunderstanding and moved to cut our throats. Their war has been one of meaningless death and destruction. Pearl Harbor, Midway, the Coral Sea, and the Philippines - the Axis chose to cut deals with the enemy to save their own skins! They chose to make enemies of us, so we have paid them eye for eye!” 

“We are united in determination that this war will not become interim to yet another disaster - we will not stand quietly and repeat the errors of isolationism and excess that created this terrible era. Now that Singularity Phi has swallowed Europa whole, we stand alone against slavery and slaughter once more. I cannot begin to imagine the terror of the citizens of the Royal Islands, the Orthodoxy, or even Sardegna and the Iron Blood-” She exhaled, collected herself, and charged forward. 

“It goes to show that the Sirens are the true threat to our existence. The Eagle Union will continue to fight to uphold the ideals of freedom our country was founded on. We are proud to stand for security and supply the Northern Parliament and Dragon Empery with the munitions they need to defeat Siren or Sakura Empire. In our talks, it was abundantly clear that we all wish to resume the peaceful lives and progress of our peoples. Our allies understand that progress is not possible if these endless wars continue.”

“We are at a turning point. We can choose to stand united or fall divided. We can choose to go all out and have confidence in our forces, or we can look the other way and crumble by treachery’s hand. In the spirit of freedom, I ask you to pledge allegiance to our glorious country. Let us again brave the danger posed by those hostile to our cause so that we will never be endangered again. In the spirit of the Eagle Union, let us continue seeking and fighting for the spirit of liberty. Thank you all.” The woman picked up a stack of papers and sternly descended the stairs as reporters shouted questions below. 

“Fleet Admiral, what do you have to say about the nuclear arms deal with Sovetsky Soyuz?”

“One question, Admiral, about the upcoming election-”

“Miss Admiral, over here, you said you want to go all out against the Sakura Empire, does that mean-” 

“Admiral, will you travel to the Empery given the fact that the Sakura has gained influence in the region?”

“A simple question please, Fleet Admiral, where are the weapons that disappeared off the-”

“Admiral Enterprise, is it true that despite all the federal funding and grants, Operation Siren failed?”

“Excuse me, Admiral, about the recent situation in the Northern Parliament-”

“Fleet Admiral Enterprise-”

“Is it true that some of your subordinates are meeting secretly with Sakura representatives given the situation on the Pacific stronghold? How do you plan to win back the support of moderates who-”

The clamor abruptly muted as Memphis shut the mahogany door. 

It was quiet as they walked down the hall. A small group followed at a distance and Memphis discreetly observed each staff member one by one. The Azur Lane was planting spies in the form of vaguely assigned board members and oddly placed psychiatric analysts, vainly trying to hedge their bets with the winning side of the war. 

She counted in her head. Two of them were guards, three were engineers, and the last stood apart at a distance. When she looked at the hem of Enterprise’s coat and turned back, he glanced at his tablet and wrote something down. 

“When’s the next sortie?” Enterprise asked. 

“In three minutes,” Memphis checked. “The first fleet, I believe.”

Enterprise quickened her step and detoured, leaving her entourage to scatter. Only her secretary kept pace, passing the now defunct dorms filled now with refugees and charity workers. The last stand at the Phi Singularity was brutal and inefficient, with HQ scrambling to pull every vessel from reserve into a meaningless battle with cracks and rifts in the sky and sea as flagships fell one after another. Rumors were that some of the last survivors turned their guns on themselves. Memphis glanced back at the empty rooms, a window filling her face full of light. 

As her commander and as her friend, Enterprise seemed further beyond her reach than ever before. Ever since their sisters-in-arms fell, and they were denied funds to summon duplicates (Memphis hated that word), the number of people they could trust was steadily decreasing. It was a matter of staying one step behind the fleet admiral and two steps ahead of their enemies at all times. 

Memphis tucked the clipboard tighter beneath her arm and watched gray clouds blot out the silver sun.

Chapter Text

As their fleet closed in, the men’s murmurs grew more apparent. A small selection of associates with binoculars and starched suits stood in the large windows of the pier nearest them, a few shading their eyes from the evening sun. Despite the prickling presence of five Royals, the presence of an Iron Blood escort satisfied the men, who went back to work. 

Down at the docks, stevedores sat drinking soup or eating chocolate bars supplied by the Deutsche Marine. They watched as the lieutenant commander of the Royal Navy, vice admiral and assistant chief to the second sea lord, current head of the “invincible” battlecruiser squadron, her glorious light of the court Lady Hood approached their stations and waved. 

Fortune composed herself. While Chaser leapt onto the dock and Suffolk began unloading their collective baggage, Leander put her shoulders back, chin down, and ushered Hood carefully up the steps. Together, they stepped onto the pier to greet the delegation.

A ways off, a lone weapon of war stood, unmoved. She was the delegation.

“Good evening, Graf Zeppelin,” the glory of the royal navy greeted her after a pause. 

A tall thirtysomething woman of pale skin and nobility, dressed head to toe in stormy black save for furry white hair to her ankles, stared them down. “A worthless name, but fine,” she said in a middling smoker’s voice, arms crossed. “Armageddon has not been brought on your council, so I assume the end of the world has not yet come. Ahh, I eagerly await that despairing day when the black horn sounds… the final day. But quell your unease. All’s prepared.”

“Thank you for promptly receiving us,” Hood extended an arm. 

Graf Zeppelin eyed the union jack with contempt, but finally shook hands. She cracked her neck and checked the escort with careful eyes. Navy men nodded politely as she walked by, domineering with her dignified presence. Javelin observed as she stalked away and wondered where she earned such respect. The Iron Blood was a military government, with meritocracy following at a close second. Perhaps it was inevitable that those with bigger bombs won out.

“Yes, I served in the Royal New Zealand Navy,” Leander smiled nervously as Z1 pestered her with questions. “It’s a warm place. More people fished there than here. Snacks? Oh, my sister loved the buttered potatoes they served at the mess hall. Ate them with everything. Once, our commander expressed some surprise at it, and she gave him a piece of her mind.” 

Z2 looked bored. Z23 studied Leander’s rig raptly as Leander rambled. “I didn’t do much. Just a few trips here and there. I haven’t used these guns of mine in… since the Great War? A lance… I used one to smite the Sirens, yes. I lost a turret for anti-air instead. But mostly I escorted troopships and… hm, but I did defend Auckland.” 

“We’re here,” Graf announced abruptly.

Hood smiled. “Thank you for your time, Miss Zeppelin. Pray I see you tomorrow?” 

Nobility met nobility’s gaze in quiet contest. Graf Zeppelin did not break. Her hat cast a shadow that split her face and highlighted sharp angles, small scars. 

“I despise all,” Graf said coldly. “Your struggles are none but fodder for the End. The gods are so because they are merciless - prayer has no effect on merciless gods. Nein, no prayers.” She cut across the floor, and the Z-sisters followed. 

On the first day, Fortune skipped the ball. 

"I hate parties,” she confessed. 

Suffolk pursed her lips, clipboard tucked to her chest, the long skirt of her dress resting above her ankles, elegantly inclined by a pair of black heels. She adjusted her headdress and replied. “I see. That’s alright! I don’t really know why we had to organize such a show, but with our approval ratings, we can't afford alienating those that worked to make this alliance a reality.” Pause. “I… prepared a statement ahead of time. It reads: regretfully, the head of the Twelfth Destroyer Flotilla was unable to attend the much-anticipated opening ceremony due to discomfort prior to arrival. She will give her speech tomorrow.”

Fortune mustered a weak smile. The tinnitus grew louder. “Thank you.” 

The party was already an object of great ridicule. Talk swirled that only those who thought they ran the country would come to the dumpster fire, not those who actually ruled. It looked bad for Bismarck and for the Royal Navy, the only faction to attend.

Though she hadn't eaten, Fortune felt sick to her stomach. All she wanted was to roll over and sleep.

On the second day, to much relief, Graf Zeppelin gave no contingency speech.  

The beacon of the Iron Blood walked alone across the road and upstairs into the room as she had on too many formal occasions and celebrations to count, all of which received her with celebratory cheer. She gave her rousing speech. The rich clapped politely, the dockworkers more vigorously, and the soldiers most sincerely.

Fortune smiled until her head hurt, smiled harder with a few flutes of champagne, smiled harder and harder at the woman on the crimson throne. The fleet leader of the Iron Blood was pleasant, but she was… withering. She could no longer wield a sword with one hand and was only good for paperwork. Nonetheless she was a decorated superior, and she was Lady Hood’s equal in political standing and physical stature. This banquet held nothing new for her here.

The Bismarck slipped away from the festivities and before the balcony, into a side room pleasantly empty save for a grand piano. Its ivory keys glistened like new. She sat, played a simple scale and found the instrument in tune. Someone had been taking care of it, for the keys gave smoothly under her fingers, and sound ran up her wrists through her gut.

She played complex trills of her own design.

“You play with wonderful posture.” 

Hood’s voice, clear-cut ice in a highball glass, made Bismarck jump. Words sprung from her lips: “My sincerest apologies for the delay.” They were pawns on the board, powers dressed in blue trim. The Bismarck found the Royal Navy’s most glorious tool smiling at her.

Soft, jazzy pop drummed lightly through the air, bringing with it the smell of starchy clothes, dancing and drinks. Sharp laughter bounced off the tall ceiling, gently pulsing between the two women watching each other warily across the room, one against an archway and the other at a piano. White against black. The players faced each other across the board, the timer ticking. 

“May I join you?” The diplomat ventured. 

“By all means,” Bismarck gestured. 

The dame took a graceful seat, leaving a comfortable space between them, fair fingers brushing across the ridges of glossy piano keys with a steady hand. Her dress glowed under the yellow chandelier, a single glimmering ivory sheet, tulle hat catching the light like a creamy rose, blue embroidery tying her slim shadow back to earth. 

Sensing Bismarck’s discomfort, Hood smiled. “I assume you know the Moonlight Sonata?” 

“Of course,” Bismarck said, “though I must admit I believe it overplayed.”

The first movement began, its notes dimming the candlelit chamber. 

Fortune watched from a distance, plate in hand. The looks passing between the two women consisted of something blacker than enmity, deep and instinctual. They were the looks of something strangely familiar, like seeing two characters sitting side by side in movies and books and pictures drawn against each other, over and over again. The voices in her head began overlapping at a tender spot in the middle of her forehead, a dim, glassy pain blooming across the bridge of her nose. A hot thumbtack slowly inched its way into the back of her left eye. The plate carefully made its way to a table as she crossed the room, shouldering past Z23, accelerating past the slew of faceless people who were blocking her way out. 

She had to leave. There was something here. Its malevolence grasped onto her. It was watching her with too many eyes.

The door gave harshly under her push, slamming repeatedly against the wall. Cool marble dug into the undersides of her palms. The soothing sound of clattering objects, groaning hinges, and running water cut through mental fog, pulling her out of a realm filled with broken wheels and into the tidy bathroom. 

A peculiar picture peered back at her from the silver faucet. Its eyes were hauntingly blank, the pallor a sickly waxen white, expression mortified and, at the same time, unreadable. Recoiling from shock, she shrieked. The mirror broke with a sudden bang. 

Her fingers dragged hard against the cracked mirror, bloody streaks blotting out that awful face glaring back at her.

There was no banquet hall. There was no Foxhound, or piano, or champagne. 

Where was she?

The door, strangely enough, wouldn’t budge. The girl collapsed against it like a wall.

Who was she?