USS Zumwalt Bridge, Port of Singapore.

December 17, 1941.

The bridge of USS Zumwalt was bathed in a cool blue glow from the holographic projections, its sleek, advanced design a stark contrast to the older warships moored in the harbor outside. The air inside was thick with the mingling scent of polished steel, oil, and the subtle aroma of coffee in metal cups—some officers, hardened by war, clung to caffeine as if it were a lifeline.

Gathered around the tactical table were the most important figures of the Allied war effort in the Pacific: Admiral William Halsey, General Douglas MacArthur, General Gordon Bennett from Australia, General Arthur Percival of the British Army, General Maxwell of the 25th Infantry Division, and high-ranking Dutch officers representing the Royal Netherlands East Indies Army. However, the true centerpieces of this meeting stood among them—four figures who, despite their human appearance, were nothing short of legends in the making.

Zumwalt, the host of the meeting, stood at the head of the table, arms crossed. Unlike the others, she was not clad in the dull khaki of an officer but rather a sleek naval uniform adorned with the insignia of the United States Navy. Her short pale blone comb nicely, and her sharp green eyes radiated confidence. Beside her was George, USS George H.W Bush, her deep navy-blue coat draped over her shoulders like a cape, exuding the authoritative presence of a carrier’s commander. To her right stood Wales, HMS Prince of Wales, a striking figure in a dark red-and-gold military uniform with a saber at her side, representing the honor of the British battleship fleet. Finally, Orzel, the Polish submarine, leaned against the console, her ever-watchful emerald eyes scanning the projections with quiet intensity.

Admiral Halsey cleared his throat, straightening his uniform as he glanced around the table. "Alright, gentlemen… and ladies." His gaze momentarily lingered on the four shipgirls, acknowledging their presence before shifting back to the gathering of officers. "First, I’d like to extend my thanks to Miss Zumwalt for allowing us to use her bridge for this briefing."

"No problem, sir." Zumwalt responded with a small smile.

Halsey nodded and gestured to the massive holographic display above the table, where a three-dimensional map of Southeast Asia flickered into view. The map was marked with colored lines—blue for Allied-controlled territory, red for Japanese forces, and neutral zones in a dull gray. The tactical overlays, developed from reconnaissance reports, detailed enemy supply lines, naval movements, and key strategic positions.

*Well, I’ll get started." Halsey continued, his voice calm yet commanding. "The situation in the Pacific is changing by the hour. As you all know, Hong Kong is under siege. The Japanese have taken heavy losses, but they’re desperate for a decisive victory. We’ve received intelligence from Miss Orzel, who infiltrated the waters off Indochina. According to her reports, several high-ranking Japanese officers and warships have been spotted, including General Sakai, IJN Nagato, and—" He paused momentarily, his eyes darkening. "—something about Yamato."

At the mention of Yamato, an unsettling silence fell over the room. The implications were clear—if Japan was deploying their most powerful assets, the war was about to escalate. And what this about Yamato anyways?

"For now, intelligence is still limited." Halsey admitted, folding his arms. "But we have an opportunity here. I intend to lead a follow-up assault north along the Indochinese coast. We’ll strike their bases, cripple their supply lines, and keep them off balance until we reach Hong Kong."

MacArthur adjusted his sunglasses and leaned forward. "Why follow the coastline? That’s practically announcing our intentions to them."

Before Halsey could respond, George stepped forward, her voice smooth but firm. "Because we need them to see us, General." Her piercing gaze met MacArthur’s, her words carrying the weight of years of naval warfare experience. Even though she just recently become shipgirls. "If they focus on our movements along the coast, they’ll divert resources away from Malaya and Burma, giving our forces breathing room. And by the time they realize what’s happening, it’ll be too late to stop us."

General Maxwell, who had remained quiet until now, suddenly straightened. "Ah, the Indochina Campaign." He nodded in realization. "This is a feint. You want them so preoccupied with repelling a naval assault that they can’t properly reinforce their land forces in Malaya." His brows furrowed. "Still, it’s a tremendous gamble. Malaya is not fully secure, and if your shipgirls are our main strike force, this puts enormous pressure on them."

MacArthur exhaled sharply, clearly unimpressed with the doubts. "They’re ships." He stated bluntly. "War machines. They were created to brave the fires of war. I understand your hesitations, gentlemen, but let’s be realistic—these young women may look delicate, but they are not weak." His sharp gaze shifted to the shipgirls. "Am I wrong, Miss Zumwalt, Miss George, Miss Orzel, Miss Wales?"

The four of them met his gaze without flinching. Despite the slightly callous phrasing, they could not deny the truth in his words. They were not just women; they were warships, designed for battle, bound by duty.

Zumwalt smirked slightly. "Not wrong, General. But if I may, I’d prefer to be called more than just a war machine."

Wales scoffed, her arms crossed. "Indeed. If we’re machines, we’re the most refined and lethal ones ever created. And we don’t break under pressure."

Orzel tilted her head with a small grin. "Besides, if I can sneak through their waters undetected, imagine what we can do together."

George simply nodded, her confidence unshaken. "We’re here to fight. Just give us the target."

General Percival, who had remained quiet, finally spoke, attempting to ease the growing tension. "Ehem, while I think General MacArthur’s choice of words could have been better, I agree with the sentiment—we need to put our faith in our shipgirls." He turned to Halsey. "What about our reinforcements? We can’t expect them to do all the heavy lifting."

Halsey nodded, gesturing to the map. "We’ll have full carrier support from Enterprise and Lexington, along with surface escorts. The Royal Navy is sending Repulse, and the Dutch have committed their destroyers. Our plan is to push forward with overwhelming force, disrupt their logistics, and strike hard before they can regroup."

A low hum of approval passed through the gathered officers. The strategy was bold, but if executed correctly, it could turn the tide of the Pacific War.

MacArthur leaned back in his chair, satisfied. "Then let’s not waste any more time." He glanced at the shipgirls once more, his expression unreadable. "We’re putting history in your hands, ladies. Make it count."

Zumwalt exhaled, rolling her shoulders. "We intend to, General."

As the initial strategic discussion concluded, the meeting delved into deeper technical details, the air thick with the scent of sweat, ink, and warm steel. Officers leaned over maps, notes were scribbled, and calculations were made on small chalkboards brought in by aides. The shipgirls stood quietly among the human officers, their enhanced understanding of naval combat allowing them to absorb the data far faster than their flesh-and-blood counterparts.

General Maxwell, standing near the corner of the table, cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, while the naval component of this campaign is crucial, we must not forget the land war. Malaya and Burma remain highly contested. If we do not coordinate our efforts properly, we risk overextending ourselves." He tapped the map with the butt of his pointer, tracing a rough line from the Kra Isthmus down into Malaya. "We are deploying mixed units to infiltrate enemy-held positions. British, Indian, Australian, and Dutch troops will conduct deep operations behind enemy lines, engaging in sabotage and intelligence gathering."

The Dutch officer, Major-General Hein ter Poorten, adjusted his collar and added. "These teams will operate under extreme conditions. Jungle warfare in Burma and Malaya will be hellish—thick, humid, and crawling with Japanese patrols. The key is mobility and deception."

MacArthur nodded. "Good. We need our forces embedded before we make any overt moves. But how will these units communicate? We need reliable coordination between land, air, and sea."

General Bennett of Australia leaned forward. "We've already begun deploying signal relay stations along the Malayan coastline. Shortwave radio operators will accompany the infiltration teams, and our air reconnaissance flights will provide cover and relay information." He paused. "Of course, there's the matter of Japanese counter-intelligence. If they catch wind of our plans, they'll respond with brutal efficiency."

Admiral Halsey tapped the table. "And that's why we're sending in shipgirls. If the enemy deploys their own Kan-Sen to counter our advances, we need an immediate response." He turned to Wales and Cleveland. "You'll be spearheading our counter-interception efforts. If the Japanese send their own shipgirls, you will neutralize them before they can disrupt the operation."

Cleveland, who had been silent for most of the meeting, grinned confidently. The light cruiser crossed her arms. "Leave it to me. I’ll keep the bay clear for the boys on the ground."

Wales, standing tall beside her, nodded with a measured seriousness. "Understood. I’ll make sure none of them get through."

General Maxwell rubbed his chin in thought. "If we’re sending Wales into direct combat, does that mean the leadership of the battleship division will be transferred to Repulse?"

Halsey turned toward a British officer, who nodded in agreement. "Yes. Repulse will assume command of battleship operations. Repulse is more than capable of holding the line, but we must consider how the Japanese will react to the sudden loss a crucial Battleship."

The Dutch officer interjected. "The moment they realize battleship command has shifted, they will press their attacks. We need contingency plans."

Zumwalt, who had been standing quietly, observing the flow of discussion, finally spoke. Her voice was calm but carried undeniable weight. "Then we don’t let them realize it. We maintain the illusion that Wales is still in full command while Repulse manages from the shadows. That way, they won’t adjust their strategy until it's too late."

A low murmur of approval spread through the room. It was a classic bait-and-switch tactic, one that played well into the strengths of both human and shipgirl warfare.

Halsey smirked. "Smart thinking. We'll go with that." He turned back to the group. "Now, onto the air support logistics..."

The meeting continued late into the night, covering everything from supply line protection, coordination of amphibious landings, and contingency plans in case of a counterattack. The battle for Malaya and Burma was shaping up to be one of the most intricate and ambitious operations the Allies had ever attempted.

Officer’s Lounge.

The meeting had ended hours ago, and most of the officers had long since retired to their quarters or scattered to make preparations for the upcoming operations. The bridge was quiet now, but in a smaller officer’s lounge aboard the Zumwalt, three figures remained, gathered around a table covered in maps, empty bottles, and half-eaten rations.

USS Zumwalt, the host of the gathering, leaned back in her chair, tilting a bottle of whiskey in her hands. Her short blonde hair framed her sharp emerald eyes, which gleamed in the dim light. Across from her sat George, her long red hair tied back loosely, her practical green shirt slightly unbuttoned at the top, revealing the white undershirt beneath. She wore long black pants, and over them, a doctor's coat, an odd choice of clothing—one she had refused to abandon. Orzel, sitting beside George, shared a striking resemblance to Zumwalt, but her features were softer, more motherly. Her hair was slightly longer, and a few knots formed from the humidity of the tropics. She absentmindedly twisted a strand of it between her fingers as she listened.

The air smelled of sweat, metal, and the faint sting of alcohol. They had managed to scavenge—or rather, "liberate"—several bottles from the city’s stores. Beer, wine, whiskey—whatever they could find. No one was going to complain. Not with the war raging outside.

George exhaled, swirling the contents of her glass. "It’s funny, isn’t it? All this talk of strategy, of battles, of history... We’ve already seen how this war is supposed to end."

Zumwalt let out a low chuckle. "Yeah. Pearl Harbor, the fall of Singapore, the Burma campaign... we know exactly what’s supposed to happen. And yet, here we are, rewriting it."

Orzel nodded, taking a small sip of wine. "I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. Some moments of history are meant to happen. But us being here? It changes everything. Maybe for the better... maybe not.”

George leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "If you had told me a few days ago that I'd be sitting here in 1941, drinking with a lot of anthropomorphic warship, I would have called you insane." She let out a bitter laugh. "Hell, I was supposed to be dead. I was sunk by Directorate forces in the Pacific. That was supposed to be my end. But then… I woke up here."

Zumwalt’s gaze darkened. "I know the feeling. One second I was resting in My homeport, the next, I was here, in a time when none of that had even happened yet."

Orzel exhaled, rubbing her temples. "You both had it rough. When I woke up, I was with my Officer and the Team SEAL Six. You don't want to know how rowdy those fellas can be."

George smirked, lifting her glass. "To those bastards. Toughest sons of bitches I’ve ever seen."

Zumwalt raised her own. "To the ones who didn’t make it."

Orzel hesitated for a moment before clinking her glass with theirs. "To the ones we left behind."

They drank in silence, the weight of old memories pressing down on them.

After a while, Zumwalt set her glass down with a heavy sigh. "So, what do you two think? Do we even belong here?”

George scoffed. "Does it matter? We are here. The past, the future—it’s all tangled up now. There's no going back."

Orzel tapped her fingers against the table. "I just keep wondering… if we changed history, does that mean the world we came from is already gone? Or is it still out there, waiting for us?"

Zumwalt shook her head. "I don’t have the answers, Orzel. I just know that we can’t sit around questioning it forever. We’ve got a war to win."

George let out a dry chuckle. "Damn right we do. And if history doesn’t like it? Then history can go to hell."

The three of them drank again, the night stretching on as they talked, reminiscing, and preparing themselves for the battles yet to come.

...
.....

Beneath the bustling colonial streets, the laughter of soldiers, and the watchful eyes of Allies patrols, something far more sinister moved in the shadows. A Siren agent had infiltrated the city—Lurker, a shipgirl of the Sirens’ submarine class, modified to blend seamlessly into human society. Unlike the usual Kan-Sen, she was an enigma, an artificial being wrapped in the illusion of flesh.

Her long black hair cascaded to her waist, her skin the deep brown of the native islanders, her eyes a hollow black void reflecting no soul. She wore a simple sarong, woven with batik patterns that swayed with her movement, and carried a basket filled with liquor bottles, the glass clinking softly with each step. The disguise was perfect. To the untrained eye, she was nothing more than a local woman, another shadow in the night.

Yet, her mind was nothing like a human's.

Her black eyes scanned the streets, subtly analyzing the colonial defenses, memorizing every barricade, every guarded entrance, and the patterns of patrol shifts. Each flickering oil lamp and each distant gunshot told a silent story—this city was a battlefield waiting to be conquered.

As she moved along the dirt road, she passed a group of four Dutch soldiers leaning against the remnants of a ruined building, their voices slurred from alcohol, their musk thick with sweat and gunpowder. Lurker said nothing. She lowered her gaze and adjusted her grip on the basket, taking the most non-threatening posture possible.

But the soldiers noticed her.

"Hey, sweet lady, it's not good to be wandering alone at night." One called out, his voice thick with amusement.

Lurker did not respond. The concept of human flirtation meant nothing to her. She was a weapon, designed for stealth, infiltration, and slaughter.

Another soldier stepped forward, reaching out and grabbing her wrist. His grip was rough. "Come now, there's no need to be shy."

Lurker blinked, her mind processing the situation. To human women, this might be a moment of fear, anger, or helplessness. But Lurker was not human. She was neither offended nor afraid. She simply assessed them as obstacles.

"You really are fool…" She murmured, her voice calm, eerily devoid of emotion.

Her free hand twitched, and in an instant, her human façade shattered.

From her arms, long, jagged claws of matte-black metal materialized, curving like the talons of a deep-sea predator. Her expression remained empty as she drove her claws through the first soldier's throat, severing flesh, cartilage, and spine in a single clean motion. Blood sprayed onto her face, but she didn't blink.

The second soldier barely had time to register what was happening before her clawed hand plunged into his chest, fingers wrapping around his still-beating heart. She ripped it out in one motion, letting the body drop limply onto the blood-soaked ground.

The third tried to scream, but his voice was cut short as her claws raked across his stomach, splitting him open from navel to sternum. He fell to his knees, intestines spilling onto the dirt road, his eyes wide with agony as he choked on his final breath.

The fourth soldier stumbled backward, his rifle shaking as he raised it toward her. His face was pale, drenched in terror.

Lurker turned her head toward him, and in a mockery of human emotion, she attempted a smile. But her artificial expression was twisted—her lips curling too wide, her teeth bared in a way no human should. It was grotesque, nightmarish.

The soldier's grip on his rifle faltered. He didn't even have time to scream before her claws ripped through him from groin to sternum, splitting him in half. His remains fell to the ground with a wet thud.

Silence returned to the streets.

Lurker took a step back, her expression returning to its neutral state. She looked at the bodies, analyzing the mess she had made. Efficient. Satisfactory. But it would be problematic if others discovered this scene too quickly.

With methodical precision, she dragged the corpses into the ruins, hiding them beneath rubble and discarded crates. She wiped her claws against a soldier’s uniform, removing the excess blood, before retracting them back into her hands. The disguise was still intact.

She picked up her basket of liquor, adjusting her grip as if nothing had happened.

Humans are so fragile.

With that thought, she continued her mission, vanishing into the labyrinth of Singapore’s colonial streets—just another shadow in the night.

Lurker moved through the dimly lit alleyways, her bare feet silent against the uneven ground. The scent of seawater and smoke lingered in the air, mixing with the distant sound of drunken laughter and the occasional crack of a rifle being fired. Singapore at night was restless, but she navigated it with calculated precision.

Yet, as she turned a corner, her unnatural instincts sent a cold warning through her system.

A figure stood at the other end of the alley, leaning casually against the wall. She was a shipgirl—but not one of the Sirens. No, this one belonged to the enemy.

USS John Warner. A Virginia-class nuclear attack submarine, one of the anomalies Lurker had been tasked to eliminate. The mere sight of her caused a deep, almost mechanical tension to tighten within Lurker’s artificial mind. This was too soon. She had not yet gathered enough intelligence, had not fully mapped out her strategy for sabotage. A confrontation now would be reckless.

Should she kill Warner here? Could she? Or should she escape?

Lurker's fingers twitched slightly, ready to materialize her claws at a moment's notice. Her mind ran through probabilities, calculating Warner’s reaction speed, attack capabilities, and the potential damage a fight in the open would cause.

But Warner… did nothing.

Instead, the American shipgirl gave her a friendly nod, her hands resting on her hips in a relaxed manner. "Late night for a walk, huh?" She mused, her voice carrying a warmth Lurker found strange. "Be careful, yeah? Patrols have been getting more aggressive lately, don't want a cute girl like you get in problem with them."

Then, just like that, Warner turned and walked away.

Lurker stood frozen for a moment, watching as the American’s silhouette disappeared into the night. Even though she was not human, she unconsciously held her breath, as if she had barely avoided a fatal mistake.

She could have fought. Could have turned this into an ambush. But the truth was undeniable—Lurker was not built for direct combat. She was a submariner, an infiltrator, an executioner in the dark. Unlike a surface warship, she lacked the armor and overwhelming firepower needed for prolonged battle. Had Warner suspected her, had she even hesitated for a moment, the encounter could have ended very differently.

Lurker exhaled, a rare display of tension leaving her body. Next time, she told herself. When the conditions are right, she will die.

For now, she had to retreat.

She slipped through the winding paths of the city, avoiding the watchful eyes of soldiers and spies alike. Eventually, she arrived at her temporary hideout—a modest wooden house nestled in the quieter part of town.

The previous occupants had been a local family, a mother, a father, and their two children. Lurker had ‘asked’ them nicely to leave. The father had resisted at first, but after seeing what Lurker truly was, he had chosen compliance over defiance. Now, the house was hers.

Lurker entered silently, locking the door behind her. She placed the basket of liquor on the table, her black eyes scanning the dimly lit room. The walls were lined with simple wooden furniture, a woven mat stretched across the floor where the family once slept. The air still carried the faint scent of cooked rice and candle wax, lingering ghosts of the previous occupants.

For a moment, she stood there, unmoving.

The encounter with Warner played over in her mind. The casual kindness, the lack of suspicion…

Lurker did not understand it. Humans were complicated creatures, unpredictable in their actions. And though she had no emotions—no heart to feel warmth, no soul to recognize kindness—something about that meeting unsettled her.

But it didn’t matter.

She was a Siren. And war had no place for hesitation.

Tomorrow, she would resume her mission.

..
....

Imperial Japanese Southern Army Headquarters, Saigon.

December 18, 1941

The tropical heat of Indochina pressed down like an invisible weight, the humid air thick with the scent of diesel, incense, and the distant sea breeze. The sound of marching soldiers, the clatter of trucks, and the distant hum of an aircraft punctuated the bustling military compound.

Gūji Nagato, the living incarnation of the battleship Nagato, stepped out of the black staff car that had transported her from the port. She was a small, delicate figure clad in the white and red robes of a Shinto priestess, her outfit subtly modified to accommodate the movements of a shipgirl. Though her childlike stature often led humans to underestimate her, those who knew her well understood that beneath her serene, almost ethereal presence lay the keen mind of a strategist and the indomitable spirit of a battleship that had once been the pride of the Imperial Navy.

Waiting for her at the entrance of the headquarters stood two familiar figures—her trusted escorts, the sisters Takao and Atago.

Takao, ever composed and disciplined, stood at rigid attention. Her deep black hair was neatly tied, her uniform pristine, and her sharp gaze immediately scanned their surroundings. Beside her, Atago contrasted her sibling with a playful tilt of her head, black locks bouncing slightly as she rested one hand on her hip, her other delicately holding an umbrella to shield herself from the sun.

Nagato approached them, her wooden sandals clacking softly against the stone pavement. She allowed a small, measured smile to grace her lips.

"Takao, Atago. It pleases me to see thee well." She said, her voice calm yet carrying the weight of her station.

Both shipgirls bowed deeply, a flawless 90-degree incline, before straightening with the grace and precision expected of Imperial warships given human form.

Takao was the first to speak. "Gūji, we will be your bodyguards during your stay in Indochina. I assume you were informed of this beforehand?"

Nagato nodded. "Indeed, Takao. It was by my own decree that I requested you both for this duty."

Atago's lips curled into a teasing smile. "Hee~ Did you also arrange for us to be stationed here in Indochina, Gūji?" She asked, her voice light and teasing.

Nagato’s fleeting smile faded, and a sigh escaped her lips. "Alas, would that I had such control over our fates. The truth is… the Navy's situation is dire. The attack on Hawaii was a disaster, Singapore remains unyielding, and as a result, the Army has gained the upper hand in our nation's war councils. Our once-unshakable influence has been undermined."

Takao’s expression darkened at the mention of politics, a subject she neither fully understood nor cared for. It frustrated her to see matters that could be resolved through decisive action mired in human bureaucracy.

Atago, on the other hand, hummed thoughtfully, one gloved finger resting against her chin. "Heee~ Sounds heavy. So, is that the reason you’re here, Madam Gūji?"

Nagato met Atago’s gaze and gave a solemn nod. "Aye, there is much to discuss, but let us not tarry in the open. Lead the way."

The three of them turned toward the designated quarters for the Imperial Japanese shipgirls stationed in Saigon. As they walked, Atago held up her umbrella, shielding Nagato from the merciless tropical sun.

Despite the warmth and the weight of unspoken concerns, Nagato allowed herself a moment of reflection. The world was shifting, the tides of war growing ever more unpredictable. As a shipgirl, as a warrior, and as the spiritual anchor of the Imperial Navy, she knew her duty.

Yet, deep within her, a whisper of uncertainty lingered—like the distant echoes of a storm yet to come.

Imperial Japanese Shipgirl Quarters.

The room prepared for Gūji Nagato was a sanctuary of silence amidst the chaos of war. Paper sliding doors muffled the sounds of the bustling headquarters outside, and the scent of freshly brewed tea lingered in the air. A low wooden table sat in the center, adorned with maps and documents detailing Japan’s military operations. Candles flickered softly, casting shadows that wavered like restless spirits.

Nagato stood by the window, gazing out at the foreign city under occupation. The lights of Saigon shimmered in the distance, but she found no comfort in them. A deep, unshakable unease had settled in her chest—one that had been growing ever since she departed the Home Islands.

Atago and Takao remained respectfully silent as they removed their gloves and placed them neatly on the table, their postures poised but subtly tense. They had sensed something was amiss the moment they saw Nagato's expression. She was a warship, a guardian of Japan’s might, yet tonight she looked… burdened.

After a long pause, Nagato turned to face them, her aristocratic voice quieter than usual. "Much hath transpired since thine absence from the Home Islands… and none of it bodes well for our beloved Empire."

Takao straightened, her sharp eyes narrowing. "What happened, Gūji?"

Nagato closed her eyes for a moment before speaking. "The government hath bound itself ever more tightly to the Sirens."

Atago’s usual playful smile vanished instantly. "Siren technology… but wasn’t that the plan from the beginning? You were the one who signed the alliance treaty, weren’t you?"

Nagato nodded. "Indeed. I, alongside our so-called allies—Germany, Italy, and the rest of the Axis—sealed that pact with the Sirens, believing it would elevate our dominion over the seas. Yet now, even as I speak, my heart whispers of folly. It… it is not right."

Her voice trembled slightly, an uncommon display of vulnerability from the once-mighty First of the Fleet.

Takao folded her arms. "Technology should be a tool, not a master. Are you saying the government has become dependent?"

Nagato's grip tightened around the sleeves of her priestess robes. "Aye. At first, it was mere assistance—Siren weapons to bolster our fleet, experimental propulsion systems to strengthen our warships. But now… They whisper in the ears of our leaders, and our scientists grow obsessed with integrating their accursed technology into everything. The Empire is no longer merely using the Sirens; the Sirens are guiding the Empire."

A heavy silence filled the room.

Atago was the first to break it. "That… is troubling." She admitted, her voice softer than usual.

Nagato exhaled, her gaze dropping to the floor. "And yet, that is not all that burdens my soul."

She hesitated before speaking again. For so long, she had been a symbol of unwavering loyalty, the might of the Imperial Navy made manifest. Yet now, she felt as though the very steel of her hull had begun to crack.

"Takao. Atago. Tell me… have we strayed from the path of honor?"

Takao tensed, while Atago’s golden eyes widened slightly.

"I have read the reports." Nagato continued, her voice hollow. "The massacres in China. The atrocities in Korea. The suffering in our colonies. I once believed in the destiny of our Empire—to rise, to expand, to become an eternal beacon of strength and peace. But now, I see only darkness in our wake."

She clenched her fists, her small frame trembling slightly. "Is this truly the Empire we swore to protect?"

Atago stepped closer, placing a hand gently on Nagato’s shoulder. Her usual teasing demeanor was gone, replaced by a rare moment of sincerity. "Gūji… I don’t think any of us know the answer."

Takao’s expression remained unreadable, but her hands balled into fists at her sides. "Orders are orders." She said, but even she sounded uncertain.

Nagato sighed deeply, closing her eyes.

"Mayhaps I have been a fool." She murmured. "To think war could be waged without sin."

Atago squeezed her shoulder lightly. "You’re not a fool, Nagato. You’re just… seeing things more clearly now."

Takao finally spoke again, her voice steady. "Then what will you do, Gūji? If you believe the Empire has lost its way… what will you do?"

Nagato did not answer immediately. She turned once more to the window, watching the city below.

"I know not yet," she admitted. "But I shall not be blind any longer."

..
...

Nagato's fingers moved with practiced grace as she poured the tea, the delicate aroma of freshly brewed sencha filling the air. The room had been transformed into an intimate gathering space, with cushions arranged neatly around the low lacquered table. The soft glow of candlelight flickered against the paper walls, casting gentle shadows. A small plate of wagashi—sweet red bean confections—rested beside the teapot, a rare luxury in wartime.

Takao and Atago stood at attention as the guest of the evening entered.

Prinz Eugen, the notorious Kriegsmarine shipgirl, strolled in with her usual mix of defiance and elegance. Her scandalously short military uniform, adorned with the iron cross, was mostly hidden beneath a loose navy-blue robe, an attempt at modesty—or at least, what passed for it in Japan. A smirk curled on her lips as her amber eyes met Nagato’s.

"My, my, what an honor." Eugen purred, bowing slightly with exaggerated politeness. "A private invitation from the First of the Fleet herself. I must say, I expected this war to be dull, but you do know how to keep things interesting."

Nagato, seated in seiza position, merely nodded. "Thank you for coming, Prinz Eugen. Please, take a seat."

Eugen chuckled and gracefully lowered herself onto a cushion, carelessly crossing her legs in a way that made Takao scowl. Atago, meanwhile, chuckled softly to herself, amused by the contrast between Eugen’s provocativeness and Nagato’s restrained elegance.

"It is not often that we shipgirls can speak freely, unburdened by our human overseers." Nagato began, handing Eugen a cup of tea. "I wished to discuss… the future."

Eugen raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of the tea before exhaling contentedly. "Ah, Japanese tea, so refined, so delicate. A pity your government is anything but."

Nagato ignored the jab. "Tell me, Eugen… what news of your homeland?"

The German shipgirl sighed, her smirk fading. "Home? If you can still call it that."

Atago and Takao exchanged glances, sensing a shift in Eugen’s tone.

"Germany is a prison, Nagato." Eugen said, swirling the tea in her cup absentmindedly. "Once, I believed in Bismarck, in our Kriegsmarine, in the dream of our Reich ruling the seas. But now? Now, I see a madwoman at the helm, no better than the Führer she serves."

Nagato's brow furrowed. "Bismarck has changed?"

Eugen let out a dry, humorless laugh. "‘Changed’ would be putting it mildly. She has become obsessed with victory at any cost. She isolates those who question her—even Tirpitz, her own sister, is treated as a traitor for daring to speak against her methods."

Her fingers tapped against the porcelain cup, frustration flickering in her amber gaze. "And me? I was sent to the farthest corner of the world. Exiled to this forsaken ocean, because I had the audacity to say that the Kriegsmarine was losing itself."

Takao frowned. "That… does not sound like the Bismarck we heard of."

"That’s because you only hear what she wants you to hear." Eugen replied bitterly. "She was once the pride of Germany. Now, she is but another tyrant."

Nagato studied Eugen carefully. The Kriegsmarine shipgirl was known for her sharp tongue and mischievous nature, but tonight, there was a raw honesty in her words.

After a pause, Nagato spoke again, her voice quieter. "And the Sirens?"

Eugen’s gaze darkened. "They are the true enemy, Nagato. You know it. I know it. But look at us—look at all of us. Japan, Germany, Italy, even the Americans—they are all dependent on Siren technology now. We have let these monsters into our homes, and they whisper in the ears of our leaders, feeding them delusions of invincibility."

She leaned forward slightly, her expression deadly serious. "I tell you this not as an enemy, but as a fellow shipgirl: the Sirens must be fought. We must destroy them. But not yet. Not now."

Nagato’s fingers tightened around her teacup. "Because our nations are still too reliant on them."

Eugen nodded grimly. "Exactly. The moment we turn against them, our own forces will tear us apart. If we are to rid the world of the Sirens, we must wait. Wait until we are strong enough to break free without being broken ourselves."

Silence settled over the room, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Nagato finally exhaled, her aristocratic demeanor masking the turmoil in her heart. "Thou speaketh truth, Prinz Eugen. The Sirens’ grasp over our war efforts is tightening, and I fear what lies at the end of this path."

Eugen smirked slightly, though it was laced with sadness. "You’re smarter than most, Nagato. I can only hope you live long enough to act on that wisdom."

Atago, sensing the tension, suddenly clapped her hands together. "Well, well~ Such heavy topics for a tea party. Perhaps we should lighten the mood a little?"

Takao sighed. "Atago, this is not the time—"

"Oh, nonsense." Atago interrupted, winking at Eugen. "Surely our dear German guest didn’t come just to talk about doom and despair? How about a little more tea and—" She traced a playful finger along Eugen’s sleeve. "—Perhaps some finer Japanese hospitality?"

Eugen chuckled, her earlier melancholy melting away for a brief moment. "My, my, such hospitality~ If only the rest of Japan was as welcoming as you, Atago."

Nagato shook her head, but a small, tired smile graced her lips. Atago’s antics, however inappropriate at times, had a way of easing tension.

As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, Nagato made a silent vow to herself.

The Sirens had bound themselves to the Empire, and the Empire had welcomed them with open arms. But if what Eugen said was true—if Japan had indeed walked into the jaws of something far worse than war itself—then she would not stand idly by.

She would watch. She would listen. And when the time was right, she would act.

For Japan.

For her fleet.

For all shipgirls who still had the will to fight.

Late at Night.

The warm scent of tea still lingered in the air, though the mood had shifted from dire strategic concerns to tactical logistics. Nagato, Prinz Eugen, Atago, and Takao now sat around a large map of Indochina spread over the table. Small brass figurines marked key locations—Bangkok, the Malaya-Indochina border, and the southern coast—each a waypoint in Nagato’s planned tour.

Nagato traced a slender finger over the first stop. "Siam shall be our first destination. It is imperative that our alliance with Thailand remains stable. They are willing allies, but their commitment wavers. If we do not reinforce their confidence in our cause, they may be tempted to reconsider their position."

Prinz Eugen leaned back, resting her chin on her hand, her amber eyes gleaming with interest. "Diplomatic pleasantries in Bangkok first, then straight to the frontlines?"

Nagato nodded. "Yes. From Siam, we will move to the Malaya-Indochina border to inspect the Imperial Army's combat readiness. The British forces in Malaya are still holding their ground. We must ensure that our soldiers remain prepared for a prolonged campaign if Singapore does not fall swiftly."

Takao crossed her arms, deep in thought. "And after that, the southern coast? To visit the fleet?"

Nagato sighed slightly, already predicting what was about to come. "Yes. The final stop will be our coastal defenses, where the Imperial Navy’s shipgirls are stationed. If the Allies attempt a naval incursion, we must be ready."

Atago’s lips curled into a playful smile. "Oh my~ A grand tour of our entire operational zone! But, Gūji, have you considered the… risk?"

Takao turned to her sister, already frowning. "She has, Atago. Which is why we must plan her security details carefully."

Atago chuckled and waved a delicate hand. "Exactly! Which is why I suggest a massive motorcade. Long convoys, full of soldiers, armored cars, and banners waving proudly! If any foolish assassin wishes to try their luck, they will realize they are up against an overwhelming force. They will feel small, insignificant… powerless." She clasped her hands together as if savoring the dramatic effect. "Besides, dear Gūji deserves an escort befitting her status~"

Takao, however, narrowed her eyes. "No. That would make us a giant target. A large convoy is difficult to maneuver, easy to ambush, and impossible to conceal. If we are to move safely, we need to be small, swift, and unpredictable. A minimal escort means we can change course at a moment’s notice, slip through the jungle roads unnoticed, and leave our enemies chasing shadows."

Atago pouted playfully. "Oh, Takao, always so serious. Wouldn’t it be sad if our dear Nagato had to travel like a fugitive instead of a dignitary?"

Takao’s expression remained unreadable. "If it keeps her alive, it is worth it."

The two sisters locked gazes, neither willing to back down.

Prinz Eugen, still lounging, took a slow sip of tea, her smirk growing wider by the second. "Well, well. Such passion! Who knew escort duty could be so… entertaining?"

Nagato, resting her chin on her hand, exhaled softly. "I swear, the greatest battles are not fought at sea, but over tea."

Atago giggled. "Ah~ But tea makes everything more civilized!"

Takao sighed. "Civilized? I feel like we are on the verge of a shouting match."

Eugen let out a chuckle. "I, for one, am quite enjoying the spectacle. Perhaps I should write to Bismarck about how the Imperial Japanese Fleet holds its war councils—with debates over tea and sweets."

Nagato finally raised a hand, silencing the growing argument. "Enough. Atago, Takao, your concerns are noted. However, this is my decision."

The two sisters straightened up immediately.

Nagato’s gaze sharpened as she weighed the options carefully. "We shall take a balanced approach. The convoy shall not be overwhelming, nor shall it be too small. A mid-sized escort force will accompany us, with alternative routes mapped in case of emergency. Takao, you will oversee strategic maneuverability. Atago, you will ensure a visible presence where necessary, to deter lesser threats."

Atago sighed dramatically. "Ah~ No grand parade, but at least we won’t be skulking in the shadows."

Takao nodded firmly. "Understood, Gūji."

Nagato turned to Eugen. "And you, Prinz Eugen? What do you think?"

Eugen leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "Oh, me? I think you’re in for a very interesting trip. I may just have to come along~"

Nagato raised an eyebrow. "You would leave your post?"

Eugen smirked. "Let’s just say my… exile here leaves me with plenty of free time. And besides, wouldn’t you prefer another set of eyes on the road? One that isn’t bound by the same loyalties as your officers?"

Nagato considered it. A Kriegsmarine shipgirl accompanying a Japanese diplomatic and military tour was unorthodox, but Eugen’s independent nature could prove useful.

After a moment, she nodded. "Very well. But if you come, you will follow my command."

Eugen placed a hand on her chest in mock seriousness. "Oh, of course. I am but a humble guest, after all."

Takao sighed again, already dreading what trouble Eugen might bring. Atago, however, looked delighted.

Nagato reached for her cup, taking a final sip of tea before setting it down.

"Then it is decided. We leave for Siam at dawn."

TBC.