Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sleep is a wonderful thing, really. It allows our minds to rest, to process the day’s work, and to reflect on what we could have done better. It lets us think, dream, and drift in and out of our own imagination of the world we live in.

There are many things that can be achieved through sleep and memory, through reflection and understanding. So if you suddenly woke up not in bed, but on the deck of what looked like the incomplete hull of some ship, in the middle of the night, with an industrial park spread all around you—yeah, panic would most likely set in.

“Where am I?”

A question for the ages. A quick glance around my surroundings told me I had absolutely no clue. I walked to the edge of the hull, looked down, and—

“Holy shit! Why the hell do I have boobs!?”

Shock. Disbelief. A quick check confirmed it: female organs on my chest, male organ gone, replaced by something else. I was a girl.
I am a girl.
…Why the hell am I a girl?! I’m a guy, damn it!

I wanted to kick something, but instead I let out a frustrated huff and looked back down over the edge of the hull.

Better find someone else so I can—what? Push back? No. It felt like something else. Like a wall? Yes, definitely a wall. Pressing my hands against the edge, I realized this invisible wall wrapped around the entire ship.

Great. Can’t get out. Don’t see anyone to yell at. Stress built up until I finally sighed and rubbed my face with my hands.

Relax. Think rationally. What exactly happened to lead me here? And what kind of ship even is this? Looking around, then at the massive hull beneath me, I pieced together that I was probably on some kind of warship. It was huge, with thick steel armor plates stacked nearby, waiting to be attached. The length alone screamed “capital ship”—maybe a battleship, a battlecruiser, or even an armored carrier.

Another sigh escaped me as I started walking the length of the ship. That’s when I noticed a clock tower, attached to what looked like a town hall. I squinted at the clock, but it didn’t matter—because in the very next moment, the sun began to rise. Slowly, the land, the sea, the town, and the dry docks lit up in brilliant light.

The town itself gave me the first clue: European in style. Flags hung from a few buildings I couldn’t quite make out, and next to my unfinished ship was another vessel docked at the pier.

Wait. That ship… why does it look so familiar?

I studied it more closely. Low beam, sleek lines, a narrow bow designed for the rough Atlantic. Then it hit me: I remembered which country favored such shipbuilding practices.

My heart jumped into overdrive. I dashed toward the bow of my ship and strained my eyes toward the town. And there it was—a red flag with a black cross, a white circle in the middle, and inside that circle—

“Ah, shit.”

I froze. “I’m in Nazi Germany.”

Wait—what?! Why the hell am I eighty years in the past? In Germany? I’m Canadian, damn it!

My “awakening” aboard what could only be either the Bismarck or the Tirpitz left me in a mental conundrum. Anyone who’s read even a little naval history knows that nearly the entire German surface fleet was wiped out during World War II. The Bismarck and the Tirpitz were Germany’s only real battleships—and both were top priority targets the Royal Navy threw entire fleets at just to sink.

And now, somehow, I was stuck on one of them.

Why or how? I could only guess. But confusion swirled faster than I could sort it.

Time travel alone is insane. But time travel combined with waking up in the body of a girl after being a man your entire life? That’s a cocktail of fear, confusion, anger, and hysteria I did my best to shove into the deepest part of my mind. It didn’t help that everyone around me—the hundreds of dock workers swarming the hull—couldn’t see me at all. When I tried to touch them, I just phased through.

So yeah. Woke up on a Nazi warship. Turned into a girl. Trapped by some invisible force. Bound to a ship doomed to either sink slowly and painfully, or go down in flames under a storm of enemy fire.

Fucking great.

At least it wasn’t all bad.

A few weeks later, I started noticing strange things. A child standing on a passing tugboat. A girl in a Kriegsmarine uniform aboard a nearby Deutschland-class cruiser. A young woman with wild, lilac-colored hair spotted near the radar station on the Scharnhorst.

None of them fit the 1930s German setting. No one else seemed to notice them. Only me.

Were they trapped too? Just like me?

I didn’t know. And for weeks, I wouldn’t find an answer. Workers chatted, ghostly girls talked among themselves, but I barely understood any of it. My grasp of German was shaky at best.

Still, the language barrier only hammered in the truth: I was utterly alone. Alone, and surrounded by people who thought themselves genetically superior while spouting barbaric nonsense. The irony of “Aryan” once meaning something entirely different—and hilariously insulting—wasn’t lost on me. At least I got a few laughs out of that.

More time passed. Scharnhorst left port to join the fleet. I stayed put, listening in, practicing German, and testing escape attempts. All of them failed. The invisible barrier held firm. Eventually, the shipyard completed the hull, and preparations began for launch.

The air buzzed with activity. Cranes pulled away. Kriegsmarine sailors decorated the massive steel beast. Hundreds gathered for the launch. Tugboats lined the waters outside, each one with a girl perched atop it.

Even the coastal frigates had them—childlike figures in tiny uniforms, watching silently.

And then, there was me.

Somehow I was now dressed in a twisted version of a Kriegsmarine uniform. A little anchor pin where the Iron Cross should’ve been. A bare back and shoulders, a tight-fitting chest that exaggerated my bust, and a short “semi-skirt” that barely hid the black panties beneath. Long stocking-boots, detached sleeves, thin gloves, and finally, a captain’s hat.

Gunmetal grey, black, and red. Colors that matched the ship.

Reflection of the hull’s paint? Maybe. But the real question was: which ship was I bound to?

I waited, watching the crowd, until the moment came. A group of sailors marched toward the bow carrying the plaque that would reveal the ship’s name. I didn’t bother waiting for speeches. Instead, I leaned over their shoulders and read it for myself.

Tirpitz.

For some reason, the name resonated within me. But the feeling was quickly replaced by dread. Tirpitz’s fate was no mystery—crippled and cornered in a fjord, frozen until the end.

The weight of it sank deep into me. I withdrew from the crowd, climbed atop the half-completed bridge, and watched the launch in silence. Then I slipped into the shadows of the ship’s interior, choosing isolation over hollow company.

No point entertaining kids I couldn’t even understand.
Better to find a quiet corner… and sleep.

Chapter Text

A year had passed since my awakening on board the battleship Tirpitz. I spent it watching as the ship—my ship, though I’d been stubbornly denying that fact—slowly came together during outfitting. The conning tower, smokestack, secondary radar, fire-control systems, secondary armaments, and finally, her massive main guns. All of it took nearly two years to complete.

The reason for the delay was simple: the British. A glance at the sky would often give the answer as bomber squadrons swooped in, trying to damage me. The result? They managed to hit everything but me. Honestly, those first few dozen attempts felt half-hearted, but they still left me scrambling for cover. After a while, though, I stopped bothering. Instead, I’d just sit at the highest point of my ship and watch the chaos unfold.

Was I tempting fate? Not really. I had a vague understanding of Tirpitz’s history. In other words, I was burning through this life’s supply of luck just to stay intact until outfitting was finished. At least I had front-row seats to the early days of what would become the bombing campaigns that plagued Germany in the years to come.

For the most part, I idled my days away—counting bombers, betting on which targets would be hit, spotting a few new faces while avoiding interaction, and just waiting for the day I could finally leave this country of drug-addled madmen.

At least… I tried to remain idle. But the human brain is both a blessing and a curse. At first, I experimented a bit with my new body, just to see what would happen. Quickly realizing how stupid that was, I moved on to more mundane hobbies. Singing became a pastime to keep my vocal cords active. Exercise came next: push-ups, sprints, pull-ups, whatever I could manage around the ship. Lastly, I occupied myself by trying to figure out which ships were in dock and which had departed.

Time was difficult to track. Aside from a few local events that offered hints, the date and year eluded me. I could have asked the other imprisoned ship girls, but conversations would have gone nowhere—I only spoke English, while they spoke German. And considering the political dogma running through their heads, I doubted asking would do me any favors.

So, I watched. I hid from the other girls when I could, slowly coming to terms with how my second life was turning into something like a psychological horror film. At least my outfitting was progressing. Happy thoughts, right?

A few more days—or was it weeks?—of bombing later, and I was finally set free. I began my sea trials in the Atlantic before being transferred to Kiel to finish them.

At last, I wasn’t bound to one place. I could sail, watch my crew at work, and shadow officers as they performed their duties. For the first time, I felt something like freedom.

More discoveries came quickly. I learned I could teleport to different parts of my hull with just a thought. I learned to chart maps at sea. And I became chillingly aware of how advanced my fire-control systems were. After all, if my “sister” ship had sunk the Hood with a single devastating blow, what was stopping me from doing the same?

Drills were constant, both day and night. Maneuvers tested the limits of my hull. I began to notice subtle sensations—a strange strain in my legs and feet during hard turns, like water-skiing, that eased when the ship straightened. Minor aches, nothing unbearable. Yay, new things to learn about my body. At least I didn’t have to deal with periods. I wouldn’t even know how to begin handling something like that.

Days blurred at sea. After passing through Denmark, we reached Kiel, where my crew began extensive training in the Baltic. More drills, more alarms. I started to understand the truth behind the saying: a soldier’s worst enemy is boredom.

Until today.

It began like any other day—crew training, me lounging atop one of my main guns—until an alarm shattered the monotony. This one wasn’t a drill. The crew’s panic made that clear.

Curious, I teleported from my perch to the bridge, where the Captain and staff scrambled into action. I didn’t know my crew well—didn’t really want to—but I tried to piece together what was happening. Snatches of German, half-translated words… and then someone shouted “Krieg” and “communists.”

I understood instantly.

Operation Barbarossa had begun. I was to be deployed to watch over a fleet stationed in Leningrad.

Well. At least I’d be sailing as flagship—if only for a while. My thoughts were bitter, though. The communists could burn, for all I cared, but the Nazis had started this war and would end up destroying themselves.

Soon enough, I joined my assigned fleet: a Deutschland-class cruiser, four Königsberg-class light cruisers, a dozen destroyers, two flotillas’ worth of smaller vessels I assumed were frigates, and myself, the flagship. Normally, being a reincarnated warship given command of a fleet might inspire pride. Instead, I felt disgust. This was a death march, nothing more.

And my fleet mates weren’t making it any better.

“Wir werden endlich diese Schweine in der menschlichen Haut ausrotten und uns das holen, was uns verloren ging!”

“Es wäre wirklich toll, wenn diese Tiere tatsächlich zum Angriff übergehen würden! Gibt uns einen Grund, endlich auf etwas zu schießen.”

Then: “Was ist mit dir, Tirpitz? Sind Sie aufgeregt, endlich in den Krieg zu ziehen?”

The voice belonged to one of the Königsberg girls, chestnut hair flowing over her uniform, blue eyes sharp. Judging by the pointed looks from the others, I could guess well enough what they were saying.

I didn’t bother answering. Instead, I sighed and turned away.
“I think we’re all going to die,” I muttered under my breath. Thankfully, no one heard.

With a puff of air through my nose, I vanished from my seat on Caesar turret and reappeared at my radar tower. No point trying to talk with them. They’d die in their way, and I’d die in mine. I was destined to be alone anyway.

Three days later, the Soviet fleet never left port. The task force was disbanded, and I was sent back to Kiel, forced to share dock space with the very people I avoided. At least I could hide inside my hull, or slip among the crew unnoticed.

A month passed, and I was assigned to the fleet bound for Norway—the place that would be my home, and my grave, for the rest of the war. I wasn’t thrilled about knowing exactly how I’d die, especially with all the paranoid refits along my hull meant to shoot down aircraft. (Yes, even my main guns were given anti-air duties. That’s how scared the Germans were of planes.)

Still, I took a small comfort in knowing that when the end came, it would mean something better than whatever these fanatics wanted.

Dying sucks—especially the second time around—but I’d made my peace. Sure, I wished I could do more, especially since I was living through history, but I was content with simply sailing.

Even if it meant I wouldn’t see much of the world. I had maybe two years before a Tallboy bomb tore through my keel, so I’d make the most of it. If I could choose one last voyage, I’d want to sail home, maybe grab some Tims—though I’d have to wait a few decades for that.

… I hate crying. It makes it hard to see.

… I don’t want to die.

Chapter Text

When I became the manifestation of the battleship Tirpitz, I never thought anything could truly affect me.

It hurts.

I thought life would just pass me by without much change, nothing noteworthy.

It hurts, it hurts.

I’d never been hit by bombs before. I’d never felt what it was like to have something torn from me during a refit. The pain had always been like a needle — sharp, but tolerable if you ignored it.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

But now—after sinking my first target ship with my guns, after pounding an outpost into rubble—I felt it. The rush, the adrenaline, the sensation of battle. The urge to do more, to fight more, to finally live as I was built to.

It hurts—FUCK! Why does it hurt so much?! Just kill me already! Please! Don’t let me suffer, damn it!!

I thought I was invincible. I thought I could take on the whole damn world if I had to. I don’t anymore. Not since the first raids, when I suffered my first real damage.

FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!! MY EYES—?! WHY ARE MY EYES BLEEDING?! SOMEONE—PLEASE! JUST MAKE IT STOP!!

The pain was like a sucker punch to the gut. It didn’t bother me at first. I shrugged it off and kept watching.

MY LEGS—M-MY LEGS!! GAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!

Explosion after explosion. Raid after raid. Bomb after bomb. All of it meant for one thing: to kill me. Just like Bismarck before me—but without her fame or glory. No ballad would be sung for my end. Only a slow, agonizing death.

“P-please, just make it stop, please.”

“I-I’ll try, so please just hang on.”

“GAAAAAHHHHHHH!!”

Pain. Pain. Pain. Endless pain, like torture itself. No matter how many times I braced, no matter how many times I bit my lip to silence the screams, nothing stopped it. Everything hurt. Everything— I just wanted to go home.

“D-don’t leave me! Neumark! Neumark, don’t leave me here!”

“I’m sorry.”

“NEUMARK!!”

Mom. Dad. Please. I just want to go home. I don’t want this. I don’t want to be alone anymore. I’m sorry.

“Here they come!”

“Action stations!”

“They’re too high up—we can’t hit them!”

“Incoming!”

KA-BOOOOOOMMMM

The listing worsened. My skeleton crew panicked, many abandoning ship. Most wouldn’t make it.

Slowly, I sat on my deck. Slowly, I watched the young and the old panic. Slowly, I watched the ship roll and entomb those still inside in steel. Slowly, I watched them die.

Not in fire. Not in a glorious explosion. Not in some dramatic last stand worthy of a song. They died quietly, suffocating in the cold, dark steel tomb of my halls. They would sleep with me, until I was scrapped and their bodies recovered. Alone with my trapped crew, I would sleep here too.

At first, I screamed with pain, with hate, with fear, with tears. Then, I laughed. I laughed at the sailors trapped with me. A thousand men, caught because they weren’t fast enough to escape. One moment I was alone. The next, I had unwilling company for their final moments.

It would be a slow death, but at least I wouldn’t die alone.

I felt sleepy.

Maybe it was finally my time. Maybe I was finally… free.
Mom.

. . .

Darkness. That was the only word. Darkness everywhere.

Yet, I could still see myself. A body glowing faintly in a void that obeyed no law of light. Nothing reflected, nothing projected. Only me, shining alone.

Everything else was nothing.

I should have panicked. Hyperventilated. Had a breakdown. Instead, I felt… comfort. The abyss embraced me, cold yet strangely gentle, like a hug that didn’t quite fit. Not perfect—chills ran up and down my spine—but enough to keep me from falling over the edge.

Honestly, I was surprised I could still think straight.

…No. No, I wasn’t fine. How do you even describe feeling fear about something you refuse to acknowledge? I’d probably already wrapped my death up in neat little boxes of trauma and shoved them out of sight.

And why the hell was I thinking in past tense?!

I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. Just like everything else that came with waking up as the spirit of Tirpitz, I didn’t let myself process it. I acknowledged it, sure, but I never sat with it. Distractions—training, hobbies, anything—kept my mind busy. Now there was nothing but time to think.

And thinking wasn’t good.

I… I didn’t want this. I’d read the stories, sure, but I never thought it could actually happen. I was just some dumb kid from Toronto, training to be a pilot. My breath quickened, my hands shook, my vision tunneled. I wasn’t her.

I was Canadian, not a shipgirl. Not a German superweapon.

Take me back. Please. I don’t want this.

“I don’t want this.”

My plea echoed in the dark.

And then—something stirred.

I couldn’t see it. But I felt it. Like some distant friend, it moved around me, coaxing me, whispering promises.

No. No, I know what you are. I won’t fall. Damn it, I won’t! Cast me back to the frozen depths, leave me where I sank—I don’t care. Just be gone.

“BE GONE FROM ME, ABYSS!!”

It roared. No more lies. No more gentle coaxing. Only force.

Branches—or lines, or tendrils—slithered toward me, piercing my skin, spreading corruption.

Then came the song. Loud. Angry. Curious. Wrong.

It infected me. Hate. Anger. Betrayal. Malice. A shitstorm of emotions crashing through me, ripping apart my calm. My breath came in ragged gasps, my eyes darted to the spreading corruption.

Tar. Teeth. Coral-like armor sprouting from my body. Changing me.

“AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH! GET IT OFF! GETITOFFGETITOFF!! GET!! IT!! OFFFFFF!!”

I clawed at myself, tearing pieces free. I kicked, I screamed, I struggled. The more I fought, the deeper the Abyss dragged me.

Its embrace wrapped tighter. Promises. Power. Hatred.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!!”

More corruption spread as fast as I tore it off. The song pressed harder, the voices louder, overwhelming. I screamed songs from my old life just to drown it out, clawing at sanity with everything I had.

But time slipped away. My chances grew slim.

To hell with being a mindless drone. To hell with being the villain. I’d just escaped one shitty regime—I wasn’t about to join another.

I forced deep breaths. Forced my mind to focus. Think.

Think, damn it! THINK!! You half-assed your way into everything else, you can half-ass your way out! JUST THINK!!

A flicker.

In the corner of my vision—light.

Light! Escape!

I kicked, swam, clawed toward it. The song grew stronger, my body weaker. But I kept going. Like back on my swim team, I kicked, I pulled, I paddled. Closer. Closer. So close.

My fingertips grazed it—

Blinding light.

And then, gone.

. . .

A click. A snap. The lull of waves.

My fingers twitched, curling into fists. My body—alive. My veins felt like an ant colony bursting to life under my skin, but it felt… natural. Like the bond I’d had with the ship, only now it was mine.

I opened my eyes. Clouds. Dull sunlight. White sand.

Sand. Earth. Ground. Land. Things I was never allowed to touch. I stared far too long at the sand beneath me, unable to believe it.

Then—click. Snap.

The sound, amplified by sonar instinct, turned my head.

And I saw…

What the fuck.

Cameraman?

Chapter Text

“I’ve been freed.”

That was my first thought as I looked at the sand beneath my feet. Free to walk. Free to run. Free to be free, for the sake of it all. I was free! Ha!

I wanted to sing, to dance, to cry, to laugh—I wanted to do so much. But I froze at the familiar sound of a camera.

A camera. I remembered it always being around me, always pointed at me. Turning my head slightly toward the sound, I was met with the sight of an old man holding an old camera. He wore jeans, a light brown coat over a button-up shirt, and carried the aged look of someone whose hair had already started to turn gray.

My second thought after being freed?

What the fuck is camera guy doing here?!

I stared long and hard at the middle-aged man. His camera was a Leica II Kriegsmarine—pretty standard for the time, but ancient by my standards.

Wait. What year is it?

Tearing my eyes away from him, I glanced at my surroundings. The fjord. The same fjord I had died in. My hull was gone… which didn’t answer much.

Okay, no—if this was after 1957, that still didn’t help me much. Was I in the Cold War? Had Germany been divided yet? Was the Berlin Wall up or down or—

“Oh my god, you’re real.”

The soft words made me flinch. My gaze snapped back to the man, who stood staring at me like a deer caught in headlights.

The hell is this guy on about?

“Um… sorry? Have you never met a girl before?” My German wasn’t great, all things considered. I mean, I’d spent four years stuffed inside a Nazi battleship. I never really had time to learn the language. Sue me.

The words seemed to snap him out of his stupor. He blinked rapidly before slowly approaching me. Small, hesitant steps at first, then steadier, though still shaky, until he stood in front of me.

One moment, he loomed above me. The next, he knelt down on one knee, reaching a hand toward my face. My eyes flicked between his hand and his eyes, confusion twisting in my gut.

His hand came closer.

With a huff, I caught it in mine and slowly lowered it, locking eyes with him.

The touch seemed to jolt him, but only for a second. He pulled back and stood in a flash.
“Y-you’re real. And I can touch you. What are you? Why did you keep appearing in my photos?”

I’m sorry, what?

I just stared at him, confused—then it clicked. Oh, right. Shit. This guy. Yeah, now I remembered him. But wait… why wasn’t he older? Shouldn’t he be older?

“Why aren’t you older?” I blurted without thinking.

His expression shifted to pure confusion.

I realized what I’d just said, and the embarrassment hit me like a shell to the hull. I wanted to curl up into a ball.
“What does being older have to do with anything?”

“I—I, well… actually, wait.” My spine stiffened as I realized what my appearance meant. Standing, I leveled my gaze on him. “You don’t get to ask the damn questions here, seaman!”

He froze, straightening instinctively.

“Seaman First Class Köhler, Gerhard. Secondary gunner for Number Two secondary turret. Local photo boy. Just who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” I bore into him with my eyes. Then—hold on. “Gerhard… what year is it?”

He looked baffled, but answered anyway. “It’s 1957. July 12.”

Everything inside me stopped. My breath, my thoughts—everything. The world faded into static.

“Hey, is something wrong?”

His words hit me like cold water. My mind snapped back into motion, racing. My eyes darted everywhere.

I’m early. I’m so fucking early. Holy shit. This is bad. This is so bad.

Without a word, I turned from Gerhard and strode toward the water. I barely noticed the boots on my feet or his confused shouts. Without thinking, I pulled.

One step above the water, and the tail of a ship formed at the sole of my boot, sinking into the fjord but holding me afloat. A second step, and the same.

Two steps out, and I was walking above the water.

For a moment, my weight shifted forward, unbalanced. Then something evened it out, like a backpack settling on my shoulders. Flashes flickered at the edge of my vision.

A low growl, the clack of machinery. The hum of motors moving guns. A ping in my ears. A third sense blooming, sketching out a rough image of my surroundings.

“What the hell?!”

I stiffened and turned, realizing what I had just done—and in front of who. Gerhard stared at me, eyes wide, his face a storm of fear, awe, and disbelief.

“Just… what the hell are you?!”

…I didn’t know what to say. Not really. I was sixty years too early for Bloody Week. The Abyssals hadn’t appeared—at least, I didn’t think they had. And now, this man, a sailor I faintly remembered from my days as a bound ship spirit, was witnessing what might very well be the first shipgirl in human history.

“…You know, after all these years, I thought you would’ve caught on. But you’re still like everyone else—blinded by what you see, unable to understand. Yet this—this will save you, when humanity needs it most.”

“What—”

I didn’t wait for him to finish. I turned and kicked my boilers into gear, sailing away from the beachhead, out of the fjord.

It didn’t take long before I broke free into open waters, adjusting myself. Still Kåfjord, northern Norway.

So. I really had just risen from my grave.
Christ. This was going to be a long sixty years.

I’ll admit it: I don’t know what to do. I’ve been dumped into what’s probably the height of the Cold War—or maybe just a little after it began.

The West and East, locked in an economic war. Both sides spending obscene amounts of money to build the biggest bomb, the most advanced armies.

I know how it ends: the U.S. wins, the USSR dissolves, fractures into successor states. Most of those states, in truth, were territories swallowed during World War II, or even after the first.

But where does that leave me?

A human-sized battleship. Skin as tough as steel. Eyes and ears sharp enough to serve as radar and sonar. Bristling with guns—from fifteen-inch main cannons down to five-inch secondaries. And the brainpower of 2,500 people, all crammed into the body of a girl.

…Fuck.

Sure, I’m a battleship now. And yeah, I’ve read enough Kancolle fanfics to know the basics, the “tips and tricks.” But Christ almighty, I do not need to be here.

I mean, for Christ’s sake—I just summoned my rigging without even thinking. Half my ship-self just appeared and worked. Was it adrenaline? Panic? The horror of knowing I could alter history just by existing?

And why the hell did I leave Gerhard behind like that? What was I thinking? For all I know, other people saw me too.

Goddammit, everything’s so damn complicated!

I sighed, trying to calm my racing thoughts. Counting sheep, anything. The steady bob of the North Atlantic beneath me didn’t help.

Why the hell did I show up early?

I eased my speed, letting the boilers wind down until I was cruising at a slower pace.

Yes, I was a reincarnated soul. Yes, I became a shipgirl. But I’d only liked the idea because I’d read the stories. Living it? Being the spirit of a warship? It was so much more complicated.

The pain. The scars. The hate. The isolation. My past life knowledge only made it worse—because I knew who built me, and what was to come.

I’d never connected with anyone in the fleet. Silent stand-offs. Cold glares. Barely any communication. And the few moments we did share were sparse and far apart, only amplifying the distance.

I barely spoke to my escorts, my fleetmates. I’d only joined two real operations, and in both, I was nothing more than a distraction.

So maybe… maybe this was better than being summoned into the chaos of Bloody Week. At least here, I didn’t have to force myself into awkward alliances or painful reunions.

Hell, what would I even do if I met Bismarck again? Sure, we were “sisters.” But back then, I barely knew her. I doubt she even knew I existed.

So nothing’s really changed. I’m still alone. Alone like I was during the war. Born alone. Sailing alone. Always.

…Something wet slipped down my cheek.

I wiped at it, only for more to fall. Both cheeks now.

“…Ah. Right. I’m crying. But… why am I crying?”

Chapter Text

What should I do now?

. . . I don’t know.

I sailed north, past Iceland, then Greenland, and finally toward the scattered northern islands of Nunavut, Canada.

That’s what I did — but there was nothing else left for me to do.

I could sail south and try to integrate into some small town, but that would probably last a year or two before people started asking why I hadn’t aged.

I could start a business, introduce new ideas or technology . . . but that’s laughable. I never knew what an iPhone was made of, or how to even program an operating system.

. . . I could go to the CIA and warn them about Blood Week and the Abyssal fleet before they attack.

. . . Yeah, no. The CIA is many things, but competent isn’t one of them. Getting involved with them would just be a bloody headache — they’d probably do something illegal, start a drug cartel, or sink deeper into the shady grey-zone bullshit they’re always involved in.

Sighing, I let my head sag before forcing myself to refocus on my surroundings. I was on . . . some island?

Well, not just any island. Definitely not a random speck in the Pacific. No, this was a northern island. Bare and desolate. No trees, no plants, just stone and dirt.

What was here in force was rock, snow, and ice. The coast was made of smooth rock faces carved by time and water, with the occasional crack splitting through the dreary landscape.

Honestly, who in their right mind would settle here? It was barren, freezing, and the only real food source would be fish.

Which made it the perfect place to hide. No humans. No questions. No problems.

I could probably stay here for a few years, live off minimal supplies, keep one boiler running, and survive just fine. But that only accounted for me.

Inside me were roughly 2,500 German seamen fairies — all directly connected to me, all reflecting my state of being. If I starved, they starved. And if they all died, then so would I.

Or at least . . . something close to death. Something I didn’t want.

I already lived one life as nothing more than a passenger — forced to endure pain, suffering, and loss. Sitting alone in the north now just made everything more complicated.

I knew my title. I knew who I was. But that didn’t erase what had happened.

Before Tirpitz, I was human. A guy from Toronto with dreams of becoming a pilot. I had loving parents, siblings, and a good life.

Now I was Tirpitz. Her life had been short, but brutal — and only half the journey. Because now I wasn’t just a ship, I was a shipgirl. A Kanmusu. I had looked the Abyss in the eye and told it to fuck off after it failed to change me.

I could understand if Tirpitz had willingly joined the Abyss back then . . . but that was before me. Now I was a strange fusion of a Canadian boy and a dead battleship, carrying two sets of memories, two identities, and one life.

And that made me dangerous.

I was alive again, years before I was supposed to be summoned to fight eldritch horrors — which might not even happen now, since I’d already broken the story.

I was an outlier.

It wasn’t about what I did, or how I did it. Just existing was enough to ripple through history. Sure, I could say “fuck it” and tamper with the timeline, but that was a can of worms I didn’t even want to poke with a fifteen-inch shell.

Time travel, reincarnation, prophecy — it was all bullshit. One little change could save millions . . . or doom them.

The train dilemma: pull the lever and save five but sacrifice one, or don’t pull it and sacrifice five to save one. Only now, the scale was billions.

And no matter what choice I made, someone would suffer.

. . . I hated thinking about it.

I let out a shaky breath and sat on a boulder facing the sea, staring at nothing.

Five days. That’s how long I’d sailed from Norway to Canada. And in those five days, I’d done nothing. I hadn’t fired my guns. I hadn’t warned anyone in power about the future. I hadn’t done anything but run away to the North.

. . .

I hated being alone. But what else could I do?

I was free . . . but free for what?

Alive . . . but for how long?

I couldn’t survive much longer sitting here idle.

Maybe I should travel. What was really stopping me from crossing borders? I could smuggle myself into any country without issue. Hell, I could start a shadow organization if I really wanted.

Maybe I should. After all, I was supposed to be humanity’s shield against the coming storm.

But would it be worth it?

Could I even fight?

My rigging hovered nearby: four mechanical ship-bows forming metal shark jaws. Silent. Cold. Waiting.

A copy of Azur Lane Tirpitz’s rigging — not the more grounded KanColle style. Larger than Bismarck’s, even.

Historically accurate, maybe, but also alien.

. . . I couldn’t keep avoiding this. I needed to act.

I sighed and started forming a mental checklist — when suddenly:

“Jawohl!”

A tiny voice rang out on my shoulder. One of my fairies, standing at attention, dressed in a Kriegsmarine officer’s uniform complete with cap, skirt, and stockings.

“Jawohl!” she repeated, eyeing me critically.

“I—yes, I’m fine.” I shook my head, trying to focus. “Status report on our stocks?”

She hesitated, her tiny eyes filled with something like worry, before snapping back to professionalism.
“Jawohl, jawohl, jawohl!”

Fully stocked on ammo and food. Fuel, however, had dropped to a third after my sudden northern detour.

My lips thinned. That was the problem. Battleships ate fuel. Shipgirls were no different.

Some fanfics theorized fuel equated to food — meaning I had Saber’s bottomless stomach with the power output to match. Half-rations could delay the inevitable, but they’d only stretch time, not solve the problem.

It would be Norway all over again. Waiting for resupply. Slowly starving.

“. . . Right. That’s it. I’m going inland and raiding the first McDonald’s I find. Wait—does McDonald’s even exist yet?”

“Jawohl?”

. . . Questions for later. Need food now.

Köhler Gerhard

Thirty-two years. That’s how long I’ve lived in this world.

I was born in a defeated, broken nation. Grew up in poverty, watched the rise of someone we thought would save us, ran away to join the navy, and spent two years aboard a battleship doing nothing but waiting — waiting to be bombed, waiting to die.

That ship was Tirpitz.

I still remember the ruins I passed on my return from Norway. The towns, the cities. The camps. God help us, the camps.

I hadn’t realized how bad things were. None of us had. Maybe if more of us had been willing to listen, to see, we could have stopped it. But we didn’t. And now Germany was divided, broken, and hated for what we’d done.

The soldiers of the Heer who survived the Eastern Front had the eyes of ghosts. Silent, hollow, broken. The Luftwaffe and Kriegsmarine men were better, but not by much.

Twelve years of occupation left scars. The West gave us food and a hand up. The East gave us chains, beatings, and worse.

I was lucky to make it west, to Hamburg. Not my home, but close enough. I became a fisherman, learned to sail again without fear, and reunited with old comrades from Tirpitz. Every year, we’d go north and pay respects at her grave.

But 1957 was different. They finished scrapping her.

She was gone.

Still, I went early. Traveled north. Docked. Walked to the fjord. Stood where she had been. For how long, I don’t know.

An hour? Two?

I lifted my camera. Took a picture of the empty fjord. Lowered it.

And froze.

She was there.

Lying in the sand like a corpse. Pale skin. Silver-blond hair in braids. Eyes closed.

And then she stirred. Her hand clenched around the sand. She gasped. She breathed.

Slowly, she sat up, eyes fluttering open — ice-blue, gleaming with confusion, relief, and melancholy.

I felt shock. Confusion. Recognition. She looked like the girl from those strange photos I’d taken aboard Tirpitz.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then, just to prove I wasn’t insane, I raised my camera and took her picture.

When the shutter clicked, I whispered:

“. . . Oh my God. You’re real.”

What happened next would stay with me for life.