Allied Forces Mess, Singapore.

Zumwalt let out a long sigh as she stretched her sore muscles, feeling the ache from a long day’s battle. She had spent the entire day bombarding Japanese positions north of Singapore, near the crossing to Malaya. Only now had the Admiral granted her and Javelin some well-earned rest. Javelin, however, had excused herself early, opting to sleep aboard Zumwalt’s ship. Understandable—she had fought hard alongside her.

George, her friend, was still out flying air assault missions with Enterprise and Hornet. That meant she wouldn’t be back tonight.

That left Zumwalt here, in the dimly lit mess hall, searching for company. War had kept her and her usual companions apart for too long, and Singapore still felt a bit too foreign. Making new friends wasn’t just a luxury—it was a necessity.

As she scanned the room, her eyes landed on a lone figure sitting on a worn-out couch near the corner. His uniform was dull and covered in dust, the telltale signs of a long day on the battlefield. The insignia on his sleeve marked him as a Royal Marine, an officer assigned to ABDACOM, with the rank of Lieutenant.

Zumwalt shrugged. Time to make a friend.

She approached with an easy smile, hands casually tucked into the pockets of her slightly dirtied uniform. "Evening, am I interrupting?"

The Marine started slightly, as if lost in thought before looking up at her. His piercing gaze studied her for a brief moment, an odd flicker of surprise crossing his face.

"Ahh… no, not at all." He finally responded, his voice carrying a distinct British accent. "Are you… a shipgirl?"

Zumwalt chuckled. That question never got old. "I am. The name is Zumwalt, lead ship of the Zumwalt-class. Nice to meet you." She extended a hand.

The Lieutenant took it, his grip firm and calloused. "Lieutenant Thomas J. Jones, Third Royal Marine."

"Lieutenant Thomas, nice to meet you. " She said in a friendly tone.

"It's a pleasure to meet the renowned Pearl Hero."Thomas smirked.

Zumwalt groaned, scratching the back of her head. "Ahhh, that nickname is so embarrassing."

Thomas let out a low chuckle. "Oh, I don’t know. It has a rather nice ring to it."

Zumwalt rolled her eyes but smiled. "So, Lieutenant, what brings you here?"

"Same as you, I suppose. Needed a moment away from the war." Thomas leaned back, his sharp eyes flicking toward the ceiling as distant artillery fire rumbled through the air. "But I imagine it's a bit different for someone like you."

Zumwalt tilted her head. "And what exactly do you mean by that?"

Thomas turned his gaze back to her, smirking. "You ships… you’re different from us. Built for war, yet still human in a way that’s hard to define."

Zumwalt tapped her chin, pretending to consider his words. "Well, that’s one way to put it. But at the end of the day, Lieutenant, loneliness doesn’t discriminate."

Thomas nodded, as if understanding something unspoken. "Lonely, huh?"

Zumwalt gave a small snort. "Oh, you know what I mean, Lieutenant."

He let out an amused chuckle. "Hardy har har, Miss Zumwalt."

Zumwalt folded her arms. "You’re just gonna keep calling me that, aren’t you?"

"Until you start calling me Thomas, perhaps."

Zumwalt grinned. "Deal."

Thomas stood, stretching slightly before gesturing toward the bar. "Well then, Miss Zumwalt—whiskey?"

Zumwalt shook out her slightly dirty blonde hair, a few strands falling over her eyes. "Whatever they serve here."

Thomas watched her for a second, but said nothing. Instead, he simply nodded. "Alright, let's get ourselves a proper drink."

They made their way to the bar, the dim glow of lanterns casting flickering shadows over the polished wooden counter. The bartender, a grizzled man who had likely seen more battles than any of them, slid two bottles of cheap whiskey toward them without a word.

Zumwalt smirked as she picked up her bottle. "Cheers, Lieutenant."

"Cheers, Pearl Hero," Thomas teased, raising his bottle with a smirk.

Zumwalt groaned but clinked her drink against his anyway. They both took deep swigs, the warmth of the alcohol burning their throats as the sounds of war echoed faintly in the distance.

For a brief moment, in this little pocket of respite, they weren’t soldiers or shipgirls. Just two people sharing a drink in a world that wouldn’t stop burning.

Zumwalt leaned against the bar, fingers idly tracing the condensation forming on her whiskey bottle. The cheap alcohol burned, but after today’s battle, it was a welcome sensation. Beside her, Thomas took a slow sip of his own drink, posture relaxed but eyes still sharp, as if he were cataloging every little detail about her.

It wasn’t that she minded—Zumwalt had dealt with all sorts of stares before, atleast this past week since she became human. But there was something about the way he looked at her, like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of her, that made her want to poke at him a little. It kinda remind her of her old Captain...

"So, Lieutenant." She started, giving him a sideways glance. "Do you always stare at women like that, or am I just special?"

Thomas choked on his drink, coughing once before quickly composing himself. "I—" He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "I was just thinking."

"Oh?" Zumwalt smirked, propping her chin up with her palm. "About what?"

Thomas hesitated for a moment, then took another sip of whiskey, as if debating whether to say it. Finally, he set his bottle down and turned toward her. "I was just wondering… how does someone as graceful as you handle something as brutish as war?"

Zumwalt blinked, not expecting that. She had been prepared for something more direct, maybe even cheeky or something about her past. But the way he said it—curious, but also almost genuine—threw her off.

"Hah." She let out a soft laugh, looking down at her drink. "You’re making me sound a lot more elegant than I am."

Thomas hummed, tilting his head. "Am I wrong?"

Zumwalt exhaled, rolling the whiskey bottle between her palms. "I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, I was built for this—war, fighting, strategy. It’s in my bones, wether in future nor past. But…" She pursed her lips. "I don’t think that means I can’t still be human."

Thomas studied her for a long moment before offering a small smile. "No, I suppose it doesn’t."

Zumwalt suddenly felt an odd warmth creeping up her neck, and she cleared her throat. "That was surprisingly poetic for a Royal Marine. You sure you’re not secretly a writer?"

Thomas smirked. "Oh, I have my moments."

Zumwalt let out a short laugh, shaking her head. "Right. Next you’re going to tell me you also recite poetry by candlelight in a trench somewhere."

Thomas pretended to consider it. "If I said yes, would that impress you?"

Zumwalt opened her mouth, but no words came out. A part of her was ready to tease him again, to toss back some witty remark, but something about the way he said it—half-serious, half-testing the waters—made her hesitate.

Instead, she found herself laughing softly, looking away. "I’d say I didn’t expect it… but I kind of do now."

Thomas chuckled, shaking his head. "Then I’ll have to live up to your expectations."

Zumwalt glanced back at him, expecting to find amusement in his eyes, but instead, there was something else—something softer. It was only then that she realized how close they were, shoulders almost brushing.

And then—

"You know." Thomas said, voice a touch lower. "It would be a shame to let such beautiful hair get this dirty."

Zumwalt stiffened slightly, caught off guard. "…What?"

Thomas gestured slightly toward the strands of blonde hair falling over her face. "Your hair. It’s a mess."

Zumwalt instinctively ran a hand through it, feeling the slight tangles formed from the long day of battle. She hadn’t thought much about it—war didn’t exactly leave room for vanity—but now, with Thomas’s eyes on her, it suddenly felt more noticeable.

"I—well, yeah." She muttered, feeling uncharacteristically flustered. "I was bombarding enemy positions all day, in case you forgot."

Thomas chuckled. "I didn’t forget." Then, after a pause, he added. "Would you like me to fix it?"

Zumwalt blinked. "Fix it?"

Thomas tilted his head slightly, smirking just a little. "Comb it. I’ve done it for my younger sister before, though she’d never admit it. And." He leaned slightly closer, voice dropping just enough to make her heart skip a beat. "I imagine you’d be a lot more pleasant to deal with than she was."

Zumwalt opened her mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again.

She hated how warm her face felt.

"You’re serious?" She finally managed.

Thomas shrugged. "Only if you don’t mind."

Zumwalt bit the inside of her cheek. There were a hundred ways she could play this off—laugh it away, turn it into a joke, deflect—but for some reason, she didn’t. Instead, she found herself exhaling, shaking her head with a wry smile.

"You’re impossible, Lieutenant."

Thomas grinned. "I try."

She sighed, ran a hand through her short blonde hair.

"…Fine."

Thomas’s eyebrows lifted slightly, as if he hadn’t expected her to actually agree. Then, his smirk softened into something more genuine.

"Alright then." He said, setting his whiskey aside. "Let’s fix this mess of yours."

Zumwalt rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite hide the small smile tugging at her lips.

Somehow, against all odds, she had found herself a drinking buddy and a makeshift hairdresser in one night.

The mess hall had quieted down, most of the soldiers and sailors having turned in for the night, but Zumwalt and Thomas remained at the bar, engaged in conversation. The initial nervousness had faded, replaced by something more natural—comfortable, even.

Zumwalt found herself watching Thomas more closely now. He wasn’t the cocky type like some of the other officers she had met when she still a ship from Future or as human in the past, nor was he overly stiff and formal. He carried himself with a quiet confidence, the kind that came from experience rather than arrogance. And when he spoke, there was a weight to his words, as if they were carefully measured before being given.

Somewhere between the drinks and the laughter, their conversation turned to the past.

"I was at Dunkirk." Thomas said suddenly, his voice steady but quieter than before.

Zumwalt’s expression shifted. "You were there?"

Thomas nodded. "Third Royal Marines. We were covering the retreat when the Luftwaffe started their bombings." He let out a breath. "It was… hellish. Smoke, fire, the sound of gunfire everywhere. I saw men running into the sea just to escape. Some of them made it. Others…" He trailed off, shaking his head.

Zumwalt didn’t say anything at first. She just watched him, noticing the way his fingers lightly tapped against the bar, as if the memories were still alive in his mind.

"I don’t remember how I got onto one of the last ships." Thomas continued. "One moment, I was on the beach, thinking it was the end. The next, I was being pulled aboard by some sailor who barely looked older than eighteen. By the time we reached England, I felt like a ghost."

Zumwalt exhaled, letting his words settle between them. She had seen her fair share of battles, but war had always been different for shipgirls or ships. They didn’t fear death the way humans did, and even when they were wounded, they could still fight as long as their hulls held. But for people like Thomas—humans who bled and burned—war was a brutal, unforgiving thing.

"I’m sorry." She said finally. It wasn’t much, but she meant it.

Thomas glanced at her, then smiled—small, tired, but real. "Don’t be. I made it out. And now I’m here, sharing whiskey with a shipgirl. Life’s strange, isn’t it?"

Zumwalt let out a quiet chuckle. "That’s one way to put it.”

They kept talking, the conversation shifting between lighter topics and shared war stories. They weren’t so different, in some ways. Both had seen battles, both had lost people, and both found themselves in a war that gave little room for rest. Yet here they were, taking a moment to simply exist in each other’s presence.

Eventually, the clock on the wall reminded them how late it had gotten.

"I should probably get back before someone starts looking for me." Zumwalt said, stretching her arms.

Thomas glanced at his watch and let out a soft chuckle. "And I should be heading to the barracks before my commanding officer thinks I’ve deserted."

Zumwalt smirked. "I don’t think deserting means getting drunk with a shipgirl, Lieutenant."

"Well." Thomas said, standing up and offering a hand. "Care to let me walk you back to your ship, Miss Zumwalt?”

Zumwalt hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking his hand, letting him help her to her feet. "Such a gentleman." She teased.

They left the mess together, the humid night air greeting them as they walked along the dimly lit dockyard. The sounds of distant artillery and the occasional roar of aircraft engines still echoed in the distance, a reminder that the war never truly stopped.

They talked as they walked, the conversation meandering from simple things—what food they missed the most, how bad military coffee was—to moments of quiet, where words weren’t needed. The night felt different somehow, like the war had momentarily stepped back to let them simply be.

When they finally reached Zumwalt’s ship, they both hesitated.

"Well, this is me." Zumwalt said, resting a hand on the railing. "Guess this is goodnight."

Thomas nodded, his usual smirk replaced by something softer. "Goodnight, Miss Zumwalt."

She opened her mouth as if to say something, then stopped.

For some reason, she didn’t want to just say goodnight and walk away.

Thomas, too, lingered for a second longer than necessary before finally stepping back. "Get some rest." He said, giving her a small salute before turning toward the officers’ barracks.

Zumwalt watched him go, arms crossed as she leaned against the railing.

She felt… strange.

Not bad, not uncomfortable. Just—

Warm.

It wasn’t like she had never talked to people before. She had her comrades, her fellow shipgirls, the officers she worked with in the Future. But this was different.

With a small sigh, she pushed off the railing and made her way to her quarters.

Maybe it was just the whiskey.

Or maybe—

She shook her head, a small smile forming on her lips.

She’d figure it out later.

..
...

Desember 16, 1941.

Zumwalt woke up to a dull, throbbing pain in her head, groaning as she shifted under her sheets. Maybe she should reconsider how much whiskey she drank last night. She had always assumed shipgirls were immune to alcohol, given their nature—apparently, that was a very wrong assumption.

She slowly sat up, rubbing her temples. The room was quiet except for the faint creaking of the ship around her, the gentle sound of waves lapping against the hull. Despite her headache, a small smile tugged at her lips as she recalled the events of the previous night—her conversation with Lieutenant Thomas, the way his British accent made even simple words sound refined, and how oddly at ease she had felt around him. It was a rare feeling, one she wasn’t sure she had the luxury to indulge in during wartime.

With a sigh, she got up, stretching out the stiffness in her limbs before heading toward the galley.

When she arrived, the usual suspects were already there—Javelin, San Diego, Laffey, and San Francisco, all gathered around the table, chatting animatedly over breakfast.

"Morning, everyone." Zumwalt greeted, stifling a yawn.

"Morning, Miss Zummy!" They all replied in cheerful unison.

Javelin, ever the thoughtful one, immediately approached her with a cup of steaming coffee. Zumwalt accepted it gratefully, taking a long sip, feeling the warmth spread through her.

"You're a lifesaver, J." She muttered, sighing in contentment.

Javelin beamed. "What's for breakfast this time, J?" Zumwalt asked, glancing at the plates on the table.

"Just a simple sandwich, nothing too special." Javelin said sheepishly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Bullshit." San Diego, San Francisco, and Laffey chimed in simultaneously.

Zumwalt chuckled as Javelin’s cheeks flushed at the unexpected praise. She took a seat, savoring the moment of peace—until she noticed Francisco giving her a particularly mischievous look.

"So… Miss Zummy." Francisco started, leaning forward on her elbows. "Who was that handsome gentleman you were with last night?"

Zumwalt stiffened mid-sip. She lowered her cup slowly, already feeling the heat creeping up her face.

San Diego smirked. "Oh yeah, I saw him too. That guy looked real put together. Tall, good posture, disciplined… very military."

"Handsome." Francisco added.

"Very handsome." San Diego agreed.

Zumwalt groaned, dropping her head onto the table. "Seriously? It was one conversation!"

Francisco wiggled her eyebrows. "One conversation that ended with a late-night walk back to your ship."

Javelin gasped dramatically. "Did he escort you?"

Zumwalt covered her face with her hands. "You’re all insufferable."

Laffey, who had been watching quietly, tilted her head slightly, blinking in that half-awake, sleepy way of hers. "Zumwalt is talking to a man?" She murmured, as if processing the idea for the first time.

Zumwalt shot her a suspicious look. "Yes, and that’s normal, Laffey."

Laffey blinked again, still looking half-dazed. Then, in the most deadpan voice, she muttered, "Maybe I should talk to him too."

Zumwalt almost choked on her coffee. "Excuse me?!"

Laffey took a slow, deliberate bite of her sandwich, staring at Zumwalt with an unreadable expression.

Francisco laughed loudly. "Oh-ho! Look at that, Zummy, you’ve got competition!"

Zumwalt groaned again, slumping back in her chair. "I hate all of you."

Javelin patted her back reassuringly. "That’s okay! We still love you."

Despite her protests, Zumwalt couldn't suppress the warmth that lingered in her chest. Maybe—just maybe—her friends weren't entirely wrong.

...
....

Imperial Japanese Southern Forces Base, Saigon, Indochina.

December 16, 1941.

The sun hung low over Saigon, its golden light spilling over the sprawling military base like liquid fire. The scent of oil, gunpowder, and the humid air of Indochina mixed together, creating an atmosphere both tense and electric. War had engulfed the Pacific, and yet, here in Saigon, a different kind of battle was about to unfold.

Takao exhaled sharply, her grip tightening around the hilt of her katana. The rhythmic swish of her blade slicing through the air had been her sole companion that morning. A hundred swings, precise and measured, each one an attempt to bring clarity to her mind—yet the haze of uncertainty remained.

The orders from the Navy had been frustratingly vague. She and Atago were meant to be at the Battle of Bangka Belitung alongside Kaga and other shipgirls. Instead, they had been reassigned to the Army. The rivalry between the Imperial Army and Navy had always been a known thorn, but this… This felt deliberate. Unhealthy, even.

Takao frowned. She was a warrior, a shipgirl forged in battle, not some decoration to be paraded around by arrogant Army officers. Her sharp brown eyes narrowed. She would obey orders, but she would not be complacent.

Behind her, the crisp sound of boots approaching broke her thoughts. A familiar presence—mischievous, playful, and utterly exasperating.

Before she could react, a pair of soft hands reached around and groped her chest.

Takao growled, already knowing who the culprit was.

Atago." She hissed. "Stop this nonsense."

A playful giggle followed.

"Hehe~ Takao!"

Atago’s voice was filled with amusement, completely unbothered by her sister’s irritation. She leaned in, her cheek brushing against Takao’s shoulder as she rested her weight against her. Dressed in the crisp white uniform of an Imperial Navy officer, Atago radiated elegance. Her long black hair cascaded over her back, a stark contrast against her uniform. The small beauty mark near her lips only added to her allure, making her one of the most captivating figures in the Navy.

And she knew it.

Atago’s fox-like ears twitched, her tail swaying behind her as she sighed dramatically. "The cute boys from the Army have all been sent out on patrol. I’m bored~" She pouted before stepping back, unsheathing her katana in one fluid motion. "So, I thought I’d ask you to spar with me."

Takao raised an eyebrow. It was rare for Atago to suggest sparring. Though skilled, she often preferred teasing and diplomacy over direct combat training.

"Sparring?" Takao folded her arms, studying her younger sister. "That’s unusual."

Atago twirled her katana, the blade catching the sunlight in a mesmerizing dance. "Gūji Nagato will be arriving tomorrow." She said, her voice softening. "Since we’ll be her bodyguards during her Indochina tour, I don’t want anything bad to happen to her."

Takao exhaled. So that was it. Beneath Atago’s flirtatious and carefree demeanor, she was still a warship—a guardian of Japan’s future.

Nagato the Wise Fox. The Gūji or the Head Priestess of Grand Shinto Shrine.

The name carried weight. She was more than just a battleship; she was the leader of all Imperial shipgirls, a spiritual figure, a guardian of tradition. As Gūji of the Grand Shrine, her presence alone commanded respect.

But she was also a child, in many ways. Small in stature, with delicate fox-like ears and a bushy tail, she hardly looked the part of a war goddess. And yet, she wielded wisdom and authority like no other. Her presence in Indochina was a dangerous gamble. If the Allies learned of her whereabouts, an assassination attempt was all but certain.

Takao sighed.

"Very well, Atago. But don’t blame me if you get a little beat up."

A sly smile curled on Atago’s lips. "Don’t hold back~ Just think of me as an enemy shipgirl."

The two of them stepped back, lowering into their respective stances. The air between them grew heavy with anticipation.

Then, in the blink of an eye, Atago moved.

Her blade flashed, her first strike aimed at Takao’s shoulder—fast, but predictable. Takao deflected it with ease, the clash of steel ringing through the training yard. Atago grinned, her tail flicking playfully as she adjusted her grip.

Takao didn’t waste time. She countered with a quick step forward, pressing the attack. Her strikes were precise, calculated, each one testing Atago’s defenses. To her credit, Atago held her ground, parrying smoothly, but Takao could see it—hesitation, the lack of practice.

"You’re slower than last time." Takao remarked, deflecting another strike and pivoting away. "You’ve been slacking."

Atago huffed, flicking her bangs out of her face. "Excuse me~? I was busy entertaining our dear Army friends~"

Takao rolled her eyes. "Flirting won’t sharpen your sword, Atago."

"Oh, but it sharpens my mind." Atago smirked, launching forward with surprising speed.

Their swords clashed again, but this time, Atago’s blade twisted at the last second, slipping past Takao’s guard. A single strand of Takao’s hair fluttered to the ground.

Takao’s eyes widened slightly. Atago grinned.

"Got you~"

Takao smirked. "Not bad."

She shifted her stance, adjusting her grip. It was time to get serious.

The sparring match continued, their movements blurring as they danced across the training yard. Soldiers had started to gather, watching with awe as two of the Navy’s finest shipgirls engaged in a display of raw skill. Sparks flew as steel met steel, each strike a testament to their years of experience.

Atago, despite her teasing nature, was a formidable opponent. But Takao was relentless.

A well-placed feint. A sidestep. And before Atago could react—

Thud.

Atago found herself pinned against a wooden post, Takao’s blade resting against her throat. A single bead of sweat rolled down her cheek.

Takao smirked, breathing evenly. "You’re still too reckless."

Atago pouted, but her golden eyes gleamed with excitement. "Mmm~ That was fun."

Takao sighed, sheathing her sword. "Go clean up. We have work to do."

Atago stretched, tail wagging slightly. "Fine~ But next time, I’ll be the one pinning you."

Takao rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her lips.

Tomorrow, they would meet Gūji Nagato. And with war raging across the Pacific, they could only hope that the flames of battle wouldn’t consume them all.

Afternoon.

The sun had reached its zenith, casting a golden glow over the sprawling base. Takao and Atago walked side by side, their uniforms still pristine despite the intense sparring match earlier. The air buzzed with military activity—soldiers marching, engineers tending to armored vehicles, and dock crews overseeing supply shipments along the riverbanks. Yet, the area they were heading toward was far quieter.

The special building for shipgirls was a stark contrast to the rest of the base. Unlike the rough barracks of the infantry or the steel-reinforced command structures, this facility was built with elegance—traditional wooden architecture blended with modern wartime reinforcements. It was a sanctuary, a place where shipgirls could rest and recover between battles.

As soon as they stepped inside, the air changed. It was cooler, quieter, yet filled with an unspoken tension.

At the center of the room, standing near a low table adorned with maps and reports, was Admiral Tamon Yamaguchi.

The senior officer turned as they entered, his sharp eyes locking onto them with an intensity that made even Takao straighten her posture instinctively. Dressed in his crisp white uniform, medals glinting against his chest, Yamaguchi was the embodiment of a seasoned commander—firm, unyielding, yet deeply respected among the fleet.

"Ah, Takao. Atago." His voice was even, but there was an edge to it. "You took your time."

Takao bowed respectfully. "Forgive us, Admiral. We were preparing ourselves for tomorrow's duty."

Atago, always the more relaxed of the two, placed a hand on her hip. "Hehe~ Is the Admiral worried about us?"

Yamaguchi didn’t react to her playful tone. Instead, he gestured for them to sit. "There are more pressing matters than pleasantries. Sit."

The sisters exchanged a brief glance before taking their seats. Yamaguchi remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back.

"As you are aware, Gūji Nagato will arrive tomorrow." He began, his tone heavy with meaning. "Ensuring her safety is our top priority. The Army is providing additional security, but I am not convinced they are competent enough to handle the threats we may face."

Takao nodded, understanding his concern. The Army was powerful, but when it came to naval operations—or anything related to shipgirls—they lacked experience.

Yamaguchi continued. "Our intelligence suggests that Allied forces in the region are aware of someone of importance traveling through Indochina, though they may not know it’s Nagato herself. We must assume they will attempt something."

Atago leaned forward slightly, her expression more serious now. "An ambush?"

"Possible." Yamaguchi admitted. "But there is something even more troubling."

He stepped aside, revealing a series of documents on the table. One of them was a heavily classified report with the emblem of the Imperial Navy stamped across it.

"The Siren forces have been acting strangely in Indochina."

A chill ran down Takao’s spine at the mention of the Sirens. Otherworldly entities that had once emerged from the depths of the Ocean, wielding technology beyond human understanding. They were neither allies nor enemies in the traditional sense, but their actions had always been unpredictable.

Yamaguchi tapped the document. "They have been moving a bit too.... Freely in this region, interfering with both our operations and those of the Allies. At times, they seem to aid one side, then turn against them without warning. And yet, some of our officers—fools, really—believe we should cooperate with them."

Takao frowned. "You don’t trust them."

Yamaguchi’s gaze hardened. "I refuse to trust them. Whatever their true motives or agreement with our Emperor, they are not ours. Do not be deceived by their promises, their power, or their supposed neutrality. They do as they please, and I fear their presence will only bring misfortune upon us."

Atago exhaled, a rare moment of hesitation flashing across her face. "But Admiral, wouldn’t it be dangerous to turn them into enemies?"

"They are already a danger, Atago." Yamaguchi said firmly. "Do not be naïve."

A heavy silence fell over the room. Takao and Atago had fought alongside Siren-aligned forces before—at times, it had been beneficial. Their technology was unmatched, their strength undeniable. But Yamaguchi’s words stirred something inside them.

Takao folded her arms. "So, what do you expect us to do?"

"Remain vigilant." Yamaguchi’s voice carried the weight of absolute command. "Do not rely on them. Do not trust them. And if they interfere with our mission, you are to report it immediately. Gūji Nagato’s safety comes above all else."

Takao took a slow breath before nodding. "Understood."

Atago, though clearly less certain, followed suit. "Very well, Admiral~ We’ll be careful."

Yamaguchi studied them for a moment before giving a curt nod. "Good. Then prepare yourselves. Tomorrow will be a long day."

With that, he turned and strode toward the exit, leaving Takao and Atago alone with their thoughts.

Takao leaned back slightly, staring at the maps. "Something doesn’t feel right about all of this."

Atago, uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke. "Do you think he’s right?"

Takao closed her eyes for a moment before answering. "I don’t know. But we should be careful."

Atago gave a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Then I guess we’ll just have to watch our backs."

Late Afternoon.

The sky had taken on a warmer hue, the golden light of the setting sun casting long shadows across the naval base. Takao and Atago made their way through the inner courtyards, where the scent of oil, salt, and burning incense from a nearby shrine mixed in the air. Their thoughts were still preoccupied with Admiral Yamaguchi’s warning, but they had one more matter to attend to before night fell.

At the far end of the base, past the barracks and training grounds, stood a private lounge reserved for high-ranking officers and foreign delegates. It was here that KMS Prinz Eugen was said to be relaxing after returning from a recent mission.

Takao pushed open the sliding wooden door and immediately spotted her.

Reclining lazily on a cushioned bench, Prinz Eugen exuded an air of effortless confidence. Her long, silver-white hair, save for a single red streak, cascaded over her shoulders. Her uniform was... questionable at best. Unlike Takao and Atago, who adhered to strict Kaigun dress codes, Eugen’s attire was an unusual mix of Kriegsmarine formality and personal rebellion. A black, short-cut military coat over a tight-fitting gray bodysuit, stockings that weren’t quite regulation, and a mischievous smirk that never seemed to leave her face.

She glanced up at them, swirling a glass of stolen French wine in her hand. "Well, well… what a pleasant surprise. What brings my favorite Takao-class sisters to my little corner of paradise?"

Atago, ever the social one, sauntered forward with a teasing smile. "Hehe~ Since when did you become a wine connoisseur, Eugen? I thought you preferred beer."

Eugen chuckled, taking a slow sip. "Oh, Atago, dear, beer is for when I want to be loud. Wine is for when I want to be interesting." Her amber eyes flicked between them. "And judging by your faces, I’d say you two didn’t come here for idle chit-chat."

Takao got straight to the point. "We need your advice. You’ve been a bodyguard before, right? When you served under Bismarck?"

Eugen’s smirk faded slightly, replaced by something more thoughtful. "I was." she admitted, setting her glass down. "What about it?"

Takao crossed her arms. "Tomorrow, we’ll be assigned as Gūji Nagato’s personal guards during her tour of Indochina. We need to be prepared for any threats, especially since the Allies might try something."

Atago leaned in slightly. "You were the one who kept Bismarck safe when the whole Royal Navy was after her. How did you do it?"

Eugen studied them for a moment before sighing. "You're both skilled fighters, I won’t deny that. But protecting someone like Nagato? It’s different from combat. Your job isn’t to fight. It’s to prevent the fight from happening in the first place."

Takao frowned. "How?"

Eugen leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "Think like an assassin. Where would you strike? What routes are vulnerable? Who stands to gain from Nagato’s death or capture?" She tapped the side of her head. "You need to be ten steps ahead of any potential enemy."

Atago and Takao exchanged glances, considering her words.

Eugen then let out a dry chuckle. "And, of course, there’s another problem."

Takao narrowed her eyes. "What problem?"

Eugen’s smirk returned, but it carried a colder edge. "The Sirens."

Atago tilted her head. "You don’t trust them either?"

Eugen scoffed, pouring herself another drink. "Trust? I’d sooner trust a snake to guard a chicken coop. The Sirens play their own game, and we’re all just pieces on their board. One day, they lend you their technology. The next, they turn that same technology against you. They don’t care about ‘sides’—they only care about control."

Takao was taken aback. "But… your country has used Siren technology more than any other nation in Europe. Hitler himself approved the experiments."

Eugen’s expression darkened. "And I despise it."

A cold silence fell over the room.

Takao and Atago had expected many things from this conversation—but not this.

Atago was the first to break the silence. "But… you’re Kriegsmarine. You serve the Führer, don’t you?"

Eugen let out a bitter laugh. "Serve? No, Atago. I exist in the Kriegsmarine. There’s a difference."

Takao’s grip tightened around the hilt of her katana. "So… you’re saying you don’t believe in your own country’s leadership?"

Eugen took another sip of her wine. "I do not believe in my comrades. I do not believe in Bismarck. And the human?" She exhaled sharply. "Germany’s leadership is nothing but old men playing a game of war they don’t understand. And the worst part? They think they understand it."

She swirled her glass, watching the wine spin like a storm caught in a bottle. "Do you know why Hitler trusts the Sirens so much?"

Neither Takao nor Atago answered.

Eugen continued, voice dripping with disdain. "Because he thinks they make him invincible. He believes their technology will win him the war, that they’re some sort of divine gift to the Reich. But the Sirens… they don’t give gifts. They give curses wrapped in pretty packaging."

Takao felt a chill run down her spine. "Then why do you stay?"

Eugen’s eyes softened slightly. "Because if I leave, who will look after my sisters? And what will happen to them?" She let out a small sigh, her usual mask of sarcasm slipping for just a moment. "Germany is my home, whether I like its leaders or not. And so long as my people are in danger, I’ll fight for them… not for the Reich. Not for Hitler. But for the ones who truly matter."

For the first time that evening, neither Takao nor Atago had a response.

Eugen drained the rest of her glass and set it down with a quiet clink. Then, as if sensing the conversation had grown too heavy, she leaned back with a smirk. "But enough about me. You two have a fox-eared priestess to protect, don’t you?"

Takao straightened. "Yeah."

Eugen gave them a lazy salute. "Then take my advice: Don’t trust anyone blindly. Not the Sirens. Not your own high command. Not even each other."

Atago pouted. "Eugen, that last part was a bit mean~."

Eugen grinned. "Heh. Maybe. But I’ve learned the hard way that trust is a dangerous thing in this war."

Takao sighed but nodded. "We’ll keep it in mind."

With that, they stood to leave. But before they could go, Eugen called out—

"Oh, and one last thing."

They turned back.

Eugen’s amber eyes gleamed. "If Nagato does get attacked… don’t hesitate. Kill without mercy. Mercy only make you hesitate and fail."

Her words hung in the air like a death sentence.

And with that, the meeting was over.

TBC.