Northbound, USS Zumwalt.

December 22, 1941.

The drone of the engines filled the steel corridors of the her vessel as it cut through the night waves, bound for Cam Ranh Bay. The mission had been a success. Three Japanese Imperial shipgirls had been taken down, one of them an informant who had secretly aided the Allies. It was a big and significant victory.

Zumwalt set down the headset with a quiet sigh, her fingers lingering over the cold metal as if anchoring herself to reality. The ground crew had done their job well—another battle won, another step forward. But deep inside, that nagging feeling of insufficiency remained, gnawing at the edges of her thoughts.

Laffey, the ever-drowsy and slightly drunken destroyer, sat nearby, lazily twirling a half-empty bottle between her fingers. Her white hair was tied in a messy bun, a few strands falling over her face as she leaned back against the bulkhead.

"Is it done, Zummy?" She murmured, voice heavy with exhaustion.

Zumwalt glanced at her and offered a soft smile. "Yeah, sweetie. The ground crew handled it. J will be home soon too."

Laffey hummed in approval, shifting slightly. "Mmm... that’s good. You should get some sleep, Zummy. Still a few hours ‘til Cam Ranh..." A massive yawn interrupted her words, and she lazily waved a hand in dismissal.

Zumwalt chuckled. It was an oddly comforting sight, how this perpetually sleepy shipgirl had grown attached to her in just two weeks. It reminded her of camaraderie, of bonds forged in war—things that she had often failed to protect.

"Alright, alright." Zumwalt relented. "I’ll head to bed."

She stood up, stretching slightly before walking Laffey to her quarters. The destroyer girl barely made it to her bunk before collapsing onto the mattress with a muffled mumble, already halfway to sleep. Zumwalt lingered for a moment, watching her soft, rhythmic breathing before quietly closing the door.

The warmth of companionship faded the moment she was alone in her room.

---

Zumwalt sat on the edge of her cot, staring at the small metal frame in her hands. The dim light from a single overhead bulb cast long shadows on her face, making her green emerald eyes seem even more haunted.

The picture inside was new, taken not too long ago— before she became what she was now. Captain James Simmons, standing tall in his pristine uniform. Beside him, his father, Chief Mike Simmons, and a woman with long brown hair and glasses: Miss Vern Li.

Zumwalt’s fingers traced over their faces.

Captain James never knew about his father’s secret relationship with Vern. He never had the chance to. Chief Mike and Vern had died inside her main turret, desperately trying to repair critical damage as she fought to retake Hawaii. The shelling had been relentless, the sky a burning inferno, the ocean a graveyard of ships.

She had failed them.

She had always been a failure.

Even before that war, she had been nothing but a laughingstock—a so-called marvel of naval engineering turned into a budget-devouring disaster. The Navy mocked her. The politicians called her a mistake. Even when she proved herself on the battlefield, she was never enough. Too often, she was battered, broken, barely holding together as she fought to take Hawaii from The Directorate.

And in the end, it hadn’t mattered.

Her failures haunted her, clinging to her like rust on an old hull. She had been determined not to fail again, but no matter how hard she fought, the past refused to let go.

Zumwalt exhaled shakily, setting the picture down on the small desk beside her cot.

The ship trembled slightly as it cut through the waters, the engines humming a low, steady tune. Outside, the night stretched on, vast and empty, like the future she had yet to face.

No.

She had to focus on the mission. On the people still counting on her.

She was not going to fail again.

Even if the past kept whispering otherwise.

...
.....

Darkness.

Then voices.

Mocking, jeering, cruel laughter.

Zumwalt found herself standing in a vast, empty space, surrounded by faceless figures cloaked in shadow. Their forms twisted and loomed over her, shifting like smoke, their voices blending into a cacophony of scorn.

"A billion-dollar joke!"
"What a waste of taxpayer money."
"A ship that can't even fire her own guns? Laughable."
"Stealth? What for? To hide from your own embarrassment?"
"We should have scrapped her years ago."

The words slithered into her mind like poison, tightening around her heart like iron chains. She clenched her fists, trembling, but no words came. No rebuttal. No defense.

Because she had thought the same thing before.

She had been a failure. A joke. A waste of resources. The Navy had mocked her existence before she even touched water. The sleek, futuristic design that was supposed to make her the deadliest destroyer on the seas had instead made her a laughingstock. The most expensive ship with so many problems. A ship without a mission.

"Too slow."
"Too weak."
"Useless."

The shadows whispered and sneered, circling like vultures. She tried to move, to escape the darkness pressing in around her, but her legs felt heavy—like she was sinking, drowning in an abyss of her own insecurities.

Flashes of battle ripped through her mind. The Third World War. The endless onslaught at the Hawaiian front. The heat of enemy fire. The howling of missile strikes. The acrid stench of burning metal. The desperate screams of sailors.

Then—BOOM.

Fire. Smoke. The metallic taste of failure in her throat.

And among it all, she saw them again. Miss Vern Li and Chief Mike, their black silhouettes barely discernible through the haze. They were shouting, trying to hold back a roaring inferno as they struggled to repair the damage. The flames devoured them whole.

Zumwalt reached out, her breath caught in her throat. "No! No! Please!"

But her hands passed through them, grasping at nothing.

Her fault. Always her fault.

Then the voices of the faceless figures came again, echoing from every direction.

"You let them die."
"You couldn't even protect them."
"You were never worth anything."
"Nothing but an expensive failure."

The weight of their words crushed down on her chest like an anchor dragging her into the depths. The world blurred. Cold. Suffocating. Alone.

And then—

A small hand, warm and trembling, grasped her own.

Zumwalt's eyes snapped open. The darkness fractured like shattered glass, the mocking whispers cut short. The world around her melted into dim lighting, the familiar metal walls of her cabin replacing the nightmare.

The hand on hers squeezed weakly. "Zummy... s’ okay... You’re fine..."

Laffey was there, half-awake, still smelling faintly of alcohol but more lucid than she let on. Her tired red eyes looked at Zumwalt with rare focus, her voice slurred but sincere. "You always do this... You think too much... but... we’re here now. We’re still here, ‘cause of you."

Zumwalt’s breath came out shaky. Her hands, still trembling, gripped Laffey’s small fingers like a lifeline.

For a long time, they sat in silence, the hum of the ship’s engines filling the space between them. Laffey’s hand didn’t move, her grip unwavering despite the sleep threatening to drag her under.

Zumwalt swallowed hard and closed her eyes.

For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to believe that maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t a failure.

And for tonight, that was enough.

...
......

December 23, 1941 – Early Morning.

The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of a few oil lamps, their flickering flames casting elongated shadows along the wooden walls. Outside, the winter winds howled against the paper-thin walls of the naval outpost, bringing with them the crisp scent of the sea. The air inside was heavy with tension, and the scent of antiseptic lingered from the medical supplies stacked neatly in one corner.

A loud, sharp thud shattered the silence.

"What do you mean?!"

Kaga’s voice roared through the room, a mixture of anger and disbelief. Her palm, wrapped in bandages, slammed against the polished wooden table, making the surface tremble under her force. She sat upright despite the pain that rippled through her body, her fox ears twitching in agitation. Layers of white bandages wrapped around her torso, arms, and even her left cheek—a testament to the brutal battle in the South China Sea only days prior. The pain was a nuisance, but what truly burned in her chest was the news she had just heard.

Haguro, standing stiffly before her superior, remained unfazed by the outburst. Her red eyes flickered with restrained fury, but her voice was as sharp as ever, cutting through the tense air with precision.

"Lady Gūji, Takao and Atago have been captured by Azur Lane."

A low, guttural growl escaped Kaga’s lips, her fangs momentarily flashing in frustration.

"Damn them! Damn them to hell!" She forced out through gritted teeth, but the anger was swiftly met with a painful reminder of her injuries. "Ughh…!" A sharp sting flared across her abdomen, forcing her back against the chair.

Haguro’s gaze remained steady, watching her commander struggle. Unlike others who would fuss over Kaga’s condition, she understood that Kaga loathed being treated as fragile.

Kaga steadied her breathing before speaking again, this time with a voice that carried a hardened edge.

"Is the Admiralty planning their rescue?"

A beat of silence.

"No news so far." Haguro admitted. "It’s as if they don’t want to communicate with us." She exhaled sharply. "However, we have confirmation that Zuikaku and Shoukaku will be deployed here along with their escorts."

Kaga’s ears twitched at the names. She narrowed her crimson eyes.

"Those two? Hah. They sure recovered quickly from their injuries."

"I heard they used an experimental 'stuff' from the Sirens." Haguro added, glancing down at the report in her hands.

A bitter chuckle escaped Kaga’s lips.

"Pfft. Of course, Siren technology." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "They just can't resist playing with fire, can they?"

Haguro hesitated before speaking again. "Miss...?"

Kaga shook her head. "Never mind. Any other news?"

Haguro hesitated again, this time with a visible flicker of distaste in her usually impassive gaze. "Prinz Eugen, one of the Kriegsmarine representatives, has requested to meet with you. She’s waiting outside."

A heavy sigh escaped Kaga’s lips. "Tch. Send her in. I want to hear what bullshit she has to say."

Haguro turned toward the door, sliding it open with a smooth motion.

The moment Prinz Eugen entered, the atmosphere shifted.

A confident click, click of polished heels echoed through the room as she sauntered in, her hips swaying ever so slightly with each step. A playful smirk curved her lips, her striking crimson eyes twinkling with mischief. Her snow-white hair, tied into twin tails, swayed gently behind her as she moved with an elegance that could only be described as predatory.

"Ahaha~ Guten Morgen, Kaga of the 1st Carrier Division." She purred, her sultry voice laced with amusement.

Kaga felt an instant headache forming.

"Haguro, get me some aspirin. My head suddenly hurts." She groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "As if having Akagi wasn't enough, now there's a cruiser version of her?"

Eugen let out a soft, melodic laugh, bringing a gloved hand to her lips in feigned innocence. "My, my. You wound me, Kaga. I came all the way here to have a pleasant chat, and this is the welcome I get?"

Haguro remained silent but visibly stiffened. There was something about Prinz Eugen that put her on edge. Perhaps it was the effortless way she exuded confidence, or the way she always seemed to be playing some unseen game.

Kaga, however, was in no mood for games.

"Spare me the formalities, Prinz Eugen. If you're here just to waste my time with flirtatious nonsense, then you can turn right back around."

Eugen chuckled again, but this time there was something darker in her gaze.

"Oh, don’t be so cold, Kaga. This isn't just a social visit." She took a seat uninvited, crossing her legs gracefully. "I bring news. News you might not like."

Kaga narrowed her eyes, her sharp instincts immediately on high alert.

Eugen leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm as she spoke, her voice dropping into a near whisper.

"The Nazi is preparing to cut its losses with the Empire."

For a moment, there was silence.

Then—

"…What?" Kaga’s voice was low, dangerous.

"You heard me." Eugen continued, her tone more serious now. "Berlin is losing patience. They don’t see a future in this war with you anymore. And let’s just say some of our 'dear leaders' never had much faith in the Sakura Empire to begin with."

Kaga’s grip tightened on the table, her claws slightly digging into the wood. "Your leaders?" Her tone was scathing. "You mean the same Nazi leaders who see you and your kind as disposable tools?"

For the first time, Eugen’s smirk faltered slightly. A flicker of something—disdain, perhaps?—flashed across her expression before she masked it with another chuckle.

"Ahaha~ Now, now, Kaga, that’s a rather harsh way to put it. But… you’re not wrong." Her voice was quieter now, but the weight behind her words was unmistakable. "I have no love for the Nazis. Nor do I have any intention of blindly following orders from men who see me as nothing more than a weapon."

Haguro’s sharp gaze flickered between the two ship girls, sensing the unspoken tensions beneath their exchange.

Kaga exhaled slowly, trying to process the implications of Eugen’s words. If the Kriegsmarine truly planned to distance itself from the Sakura Empire, then this war was about to become much more complicated.

"Why are you telling me this?" Kaga finally asked, her voice quieter now, but still laced with suspicion.

Eugen smiled—a different kind of smile this time. One that lacked her usual teasing nature.

"Because, Kaga… you’re not the only one who doesn’t want to see this war end in flames."

A heavy silence filled the room.

Kaga leaned back against her chair, closing her eyes for a brief moment before exhaling through her nose.

"Haguro, cancel the aspirin." She muttered, rubbing her temples. "I think I need something stronger."

"As you requested, ma'am." Haguro murmured as she set a small lacquered tray in front of Kaga, the porcelain sake cup filled to the brim.

Kaga reached for it but didn’t drink immediately. Instead, she kept her blue eyes locked onto Prinz Eugen, scrutinizing the Kriegsmarine cruiser’s every movement. The silver-haired woman, dressed in her usual grey skimpy uniform, lounged lazily with one leg crossed over the other, her expression ever playful, yet there was something unsettling about her demeanor.

"So… you want peace too?" Kaga asked, skepticism dripping from her voice.

Eugen smirked, her crimson eyes gleaming with mischief. "You might say so. I love peace. In peace, I can tease my dear Sister, Hipper, to my heart’s content. But war? War is a bore. Even beer is rationed! That alone is reason enough to hate it." She chuckled, twirling a lock of her white hair between her fingers.

Kaga narrowed her eyes. She had learned long ago how to read people, how to spot lies and deceit behind well-placed words. And in Eugen’s words, she sensed something deeper—a longing, a wound unspoken.

"...You want things to go back to normal." Kaga accused, her tone quieter now. "A world where Bismarck isn’t a madwoman, where your family is whole, and you’re free to pursue whatever passion you have. That’s what you really want, isn’t it?"

For a moment, the teasing glint in Eugen’s eyes dimmed.

"You… are not wrong." She admitted, her voice unusually soft. A flicker of melancholy crossed her face before she swiftly masked it with a smirk.

Kaga took a slow sip of her sake, savoring the burn before setting the cup down. She studied Eugen carefully before speaking again.

"So… what is this extraordinary suggestion of yours?" She asked, her tone laced with sarcasm as she exaggerated the word.

Eugen leaned forward, resting her elbow on her knee. "Simple." She said, a sly grin creeping onto her lips. "We follow Atago’s example."

A tense silence settled over the room.

Haguro was the first to break it. "Atago?" She asked, frowning. "She was captured after being defeated by Azur Lane’s forces on her way here while escorting the Gūji."

Eugen chuckled, shaking her head. "Oh? She’s quite the actor, then. My dear, so-called friends who no doubt will hate me, let me enlighten you—Atago is a rat. A traitor. She’s the one who fed Azur Lane all the information about the Imperial campaign in Asia. Everything. Ship formations, troop convoys, strategic movements—you name it, she handed it over."

The air in the room shifted instantly.

Before Eugen could blink, a spectral fox—its white fur glowing faintly with bluish flames—manifested beside Kaga, its sharp claws suddenly pressing against the exposed skin of Eugen’s neck. At the same time, a polished black wakizashi was at her back, its edge just barely grazing her uniform.

Haguro had moved without a sound.

Eugen’s grin faltered just slightly, but she did not flinch.

"Be careful how you speak, Eugen." Kaga’s voice was a low, dangerous growl.

But the German cruiser merely tilted her head, amusement flickering in her eyes despite the razor-thin line between life and death.

"That’s the bitter truth, mein Freund." Eugen replied, unfazed. "Atago betrayed you all for her own sake. She was selfish… but now? Her wish has been granted."

Kaga’s grip on the table tightened.

"You—!" She snarled, but she forced herself to stop. Her chest heaved as she took a sharp breath, then another. Slowly, she unclenched her fist, dismissing her fox spirit with a flick of her wrist. The creature dissolved into wisps of blue flame.

Behind Eugen, Haguro hesitated for a moment before finally lowering her wakizashi, stepping back into her original position.

Eugen rolled her shoulders, stretching as if nothing had happened. "That was exciting~" She mused with a playful smirk. "I see why people fear you, Kaga. You certainly have a sharp bite."

Kaga scoffed, crossing her arms. "Spare me your games. If what you’re saying is true, then Atago is a greater fool than I thought."

"And yet, she’s alive while many of your comrades won’t be for long if this war continues." Eugen shrugged. "Perhaps being a fool is the smartest choice in a world ruled by idiots."

Kaga didn’t respond immediately. She hated to admit it, but there was truth in Eugen’s words.

"...So what now?" she finally asked.

Eugen grinned, leaning back once more. "Well, dear Kaga, that depends entirely on you."

Kaga exhaled heavily, staring at her sake cup before setting it down. The revelation that Atago had been a traitor gnawed at her. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to remain composed despite the storm raging inside her.

"So." Kaga muttered, her voice colder now. "If what you say is true, why are you telling me this? What's your goal, Prinz Eugen?"

Eugen chuckled, twirling a lock of her silver hair between her fingers. "Ah, mein liebes Kätzchen, you wound me. Can't a girl simply share valuable information with a potential friend?"

Kaga slammed her cup down on the table, causing a sharp clink that echoed through the dimly lit room. "Spare me the theatrics, Eugen. You're not doing this out of the kindness of your heart."

Eugen's crimson eyes gleamed with amusement, but there was something calculating beneath that playful exterior. She leaned in slightly, resting her elbow on the table and propping up her chin. "Fine, fine. You got me. I’m here to make you an offer. One that could change the course of this entire war."

Haguro remained silent but watchful, her crimson eyes sharp and unwavering. She had her doubts about Eugen’s intentions, but she understood Kaga well enough to know she would hear her out before making any rash moves.

"Go on." Kaga said, her voice laced with suspicion.

Eugen smirked. "We both know this war is unsustainable. The Imperial Navy is stretched thin, and after Pearl Harbor, the Americans won't just sit back kindly. Their industry is a monster, one that not even our great Nation can match. Meanwhile, the Kriegsmarine—pffft, what a joke. We barely have a fleet compared to yours, and yet the Führer dreams of a grand naval campaign."

Eugen paused, her expression briefly darkening. "But between you and me? The higher-ups in Berlin are just as blind as those in Tokyo. They're playing a game they don't understand, and we're the pieces being moved against our will."

Kaga's ears twitched slightly at Eugen’s words. There was venom in her voice when she mentioned Berlin.

"So what do you propose?" Kaga asked.

Eugen's smirk returned, but this time it was more subtle. "An understanding. A silent agreement, if you will. The Reich is spiraling into madness, and I have no interest in being dragged down with it. You, Kaga, have influence. You might not be the highest in command, but you carry weight in the Admiralty. We both want this war to end before our homes burn, ja?"

Kaga scoffed. "And what, exactly, do you expect me to do?"

"Simple." Eugen said, holding up one finger. "Use your influence to slow the war effort. Push for defensive strategies instead of reckless offensives. Convince your leadership that this war cannot be won through brute force alone. And in return..." She leaned in even closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I’ll make sure valuable intelligence about the Reich's movements finds its way to you. Information that might just give you the leverage you need to force peace talks before it’s too late."

Kaga stared at her, searching for any sign of deception. But Eugen’s eyes, despite their usual playfulness, held nothing but brutal honesty.

"And why should I trust you?" Kaga asked after a long pause.

Eugen leaned back with a smirk. "Because unlike Atago, I’m not betraying my comrades for selfish reasons. I’m doing this because I want to survive. And because deep down, I think you and I aren’t so different. We’re both tired of being pawns in someone else’s war."

The room fell into silence.

Haguro shifted slightly, finally speaking up. "If we go through with this, there’s no turning back. If either side finds out, we’ll be seen as traitors."

Eugen shrugged. "That’s the risk of playing the long treacherous game. But trust me, darling, it’s better than watching everything we know crumble into ash."

Kaga exhaled, closing her eyes for a moment before looking at Eugen again.

"...I’ll think about it," she finally said.

Eugen grinned. "That’s all I ask."

With that, she stood, stretching her arms above her head. "Ahh, I do hope we can work together, meine Freunde. It would be such a shame to see you all go down with the ship."

She turned to leave, her steps slow and deliberate. As she reached the door, she glanced over her shoulder. "Oh, and Kaga?"

"What?"

Eugen winked. "Try not to drink too much sake. You’ll need a clear head for what’s coming next."

With a chuckle, she stepped out into the night, leaving Kaga and Haguro in heavy silence.

"...Are you really considering her proposal?" Haguro asked after a long pause.

Kaga picked up her sake cup again but didn’t drink.

"I don’t know." She admitted. "But something tells me we won’t have the luxury of staying neutral for long."

Haguro nodded slowly.

Outside, the wind howled, carrying the scent of the sea—cold, uncertain, and full of unseen dangers.

...
.....

The Arctic winds howled as the U-556 surfaced, her hull slicing through the icy waters of the fjord with a quiet grace. The submarine’s form, sleek and sturdy, gleamed under the pale northern light. As the waves settled, the shipgirl emerged from the hatch, exhaling softly as she stepped onto the deck.

U-556—Parzival—was exhausted. The mission had been long and grueling, and though she had succeeded in evading detection, the weight of her thoughts burdened her more than any enemy depth charge ever could.

Her short, ocean-blue hair fluttered against the frigid wind. Though her standard Kriegsmarine uniform was already revealing, the cold of the fjord made it unbearable, forcing her to wrap herself in a thick overcoat. Even with the layers, the chill seeped into her bones.

As she guided the submarine through the jagged fjord passage, the sight of a massive warship looming in the distance caught her eye. Her heart clenched slightly.

Tirpitz.

The Eisenschwester, the silent guardian of the North, the younger sister of Bismarck.

Her massive, light-colored hull stood out against the dark waters, surrounded by an escort of cruisers and destroyers. Their imposing silhouettes lined the hidden Kriegsmarine outpost, a remnant of a past now twisted by Siren technology and pointless war.

Parzival’s grip tightened on the railing. She knew this base well. It was one of the U-boat major pen, a sanctuary for Kriegsmarine submarines—especially those abandoned by the passage of time.

Bismarck…

That name echoed in her mind, heavier than ever.

Once, she had been Bismarck’s loyal protector, a Knight if you may, sworn to her service with all the pride and courage she could muster. But now? Now, Bismarck had become something else. Something beyond the shipgirl she once admired.

And Parzival… Parzival had failed her.

The shame gnawed at her soul. She had abandoned Bismarck when she needed her most, running like a coward to the safety of the fjords. But… but it was for the greater good, right?

Right?

Parzival shook her head, dispelling the self-doubt, just as her submarine finally docked. As she stepped onto solid ground, the biting cold instantly sent a shiver down her spine.

Before she could gather her thoughts, a voice rang out, cutting through the stillness of the base.

"Parzy! Welcome to the Fjord!*

With theatrical energy, a vibrant figure bounded toward her, arms spread wide as if greeting an audience. The owner of the voice? None other than Z36—the embodiment of pure, chaotic enthusiasm.

She twirled dramatically, her two color eyes gleaming mischievously as she struck a pose. "Hahaha! You have finally returned from the depths, oh wandering Knight Of The Abyss!"

Parzival barely had a moment to react before another voice, much smoother, much more elegant, followed suit.

"Welcome~"

Z35 stood beside her sister, effortlessly graceful. Unlike Z36’s theatrical flair, Z35 exuded an idol-like charm, flashing a sweet smile while forming a perfect V-sign with her fingers.

Parzival blinked.

The contrast between the two never failed to amuse her. Z35, the mature and composed older sister, radiated an effortless star-like presence. Meanwhile, Z36… was Z36. A self-proclaimed demonic harbinger of chaos, her weird tendencies making her a walking spectacle of entertainment.

For a moment, the heavy burden in Parzival’s heart lifted ever so slightly.

She managed a small smile. "Thanks for the welcome, guys."

Z36 gasped dramatically, clutching her chest as if she had just been stabbed. "W-what is this? A mere ‘thanks’?! Where is the fiery passion of a hero’s return?! The emotion! The tears!"

Z35 chuckled softly, resting a hand on her younger sister’s head. "Now, now, schwester, not everyone sees life as a grand stage like you do." She turned to Parzival, her gaze warm. "But really, we’re happy to see you again."

Parzival exhaled, the warmth in their words a stark contrast to the frozen air around them.

She didn’t know what the future held. She didn’t know if she had made the right choice.

The echoing footsteps of three shipgirls resounded through the dimly lit hallways of the Kriegsmarine Outpost. The stone walls, lined with steel supports and dim lamps, gave off a haunting yet resilient presence—like a fortress lost in time, stubbornly clinging to existence in a world that had long since abandoned it.

Parzival walked in the center, her tired gaze fixed on the floor. To her left, Z36 continued her usual dramatic monologue, gesturing wildly as if narrating an epic saga.

"And so, the gallant knight, returning from the void, seeks the counsel of the Frozen Lord!" She twirled, her coat flaring dramatically. "But will she find solace? Or will her words ignite a storm that shall shake the heavens?"

Parzival sighed, shaking her head in mild amusement. "Z36, I swear, you could turn a noal visit into a Shakespearean tragedy."

"Why thank you, dear Parzy!" Z36 grinned. "I take immense pride in my theatrical gifts."

Z35, walking on Parzival’s right, gave her sister a playful nudge. "Enough with the dramatics. We need to focus."

They reached a large iron door at the end of the hallway. Two sentries, fellow Kriegsmarine shipgirls, Köln and Königsberg, stood guard. Upon recognizing Z35 and Z36, they silently stepped aside.

Z35 knocked twice before pushing the door open.

Inside, a vast chamber awaited them.

The room was cold—both in atmosphere and in decor. The walls, covered in maps and strategic diagrams, bore marks of long, sleepless nights spent planning. A large wooden desk sat at the far end, neatly organized with reports and files. The faint scent of ink and steel lingered in the air.

And behind the desk, Tirpitz stood.

Her presence was commanding despite her quiet nature.

Short white hair framed her face, a contrast to her pure white officer’s uniform, pristine and disciplined. A black skirt completed the regal yet utilitarian look. Though she carried the aura of an unshakable commander, there was a softness to her—a silent warmth hidden beneath the ice.

Unlike her elder Sister, Bismarck, whose willpower was like an unstoppable storm, Tirpitz was the calm after the battle—the lighthouse guiding the lost back home.

And here, in this frozen exile, she had become the leader of the outcasts.

Tirpitz turned her gaze to the three arrivals. Her icy blue eyes, as deep and cold as the fjord itself, softened ever so slightly.

"Parzival." She greeted, her voice smooth yet firm. "Welcome."

Parzival removed her overcoat and saluted. "Herr Tirpitz, I have urgent news."

Tirpitz gestured for her to continue.

Parzival hesitated. The words felt heavy, as if speaking them aloud would make them more real.

"Bismarck… she has made a contract with Observer Alpha."

The air in the room grew even colder.

Tirpitz’s expression remained unreadable. "Go on."

Parzival clenched her fists. "Observer Alpha has given her a task—to kill several American Kansen."

Silence.

Even Z36—who always had something theatrical to say—said nothing.

For a moment, it was as if the world itself had stopped.

Then, a quiet exhale.

Tirpitz closed her eyes. Her fingers pressed together in thought, but her posture remained composed.

When she finally spoke, her voice was measured. "I had hoped my Sister would not walk this path again…”

She opened her eyes, her resolve hardening like steel.

"I will not allow her to fall further into the Abyss."

Tirpitz turned toward her desk, reaching for the secure communication device stationed there. Her next words sent a ripple of tension through the room.

"I need to contact the Royal Navy."

...
.....

Scapa Flow, Orkney, Scotland.

The North Sea breeze carried a biting chill, but within the stone-clad fortress that served as the Royal Navy's headquarters, the warmth of a crackling fireplace and the scent of freshly brewed tea filled the air. HMS King George V, more commonly addressed as Miss Georgie by certain shipgirls under her command, sat at her grand oak desk, eyes flicking over the latest patrol reports.

Convoys had been struck here and there, but nothing unexpected. The Kriegsmarine’s U-boats were still a persistent nuisance, though the efforts of British R&D and the codebreakers at Bletchley Park had turned the tide against them. George allowed herself a small, satisfied smirk as she placed her teacup back on its saucer. A few months ago, those underwater predators had been a nightmare. Now? A manageable annoyance.

Through the tall window of her office, she observed the bustling activity in Scapa Flow. Royal Navy warships, both human-crewed and shipgirl alike, were busy with resupply operations. It was a reassuring sight—the might of the Royal Navy in full display, the steel backbone of Britannia.

A gentle knock at the door interrupted her musings, followed by the sound of polished shoes stepping across the wooden floor.

"Lady George, I have a message for ye."

The voice, cool and professional, belonged to none other than HMS Belfast, the ever-reliable Head Maid of the Royal Maids and leader of the Shipgirl Intelligence Unit, allegedly. She stood at attention, the very image of discipline in her crisp maid uniform. Her lavender eyes held a calculating glint as she placed a sealed envelope on the desk before stepping back.

"Ahh, Bel, a message for me?" George's voice carried the elegance of high nobility, her curiosity piqued. "Is it from Her Majesty?"

Belfast shook her head. "Nay. It's from someone ye might know."

George arched an eyebrow before elegantly breaking the seal and unfolding the note. Belfast, as always, waited in composed silence.

As George read, her crimson eyes gleamed with intrigue.

Bismarck is on the move.
Target: American shipgirls.
When? Unknown.
Why? Unknown.
Signed, Queen of the North.

A knowing smirk crossed her lips. Queen of the North? Ah, Tirpitz. Ever the enigmatic one.

"So, Bismarck is planning something, is she?" George mused, tapping her fingers against the desk in thought. "Interesting. Though one does wonder what exactly she hopes to gain from attacking an American shipgirls at this time."

Belfast, still standing by the fireplace, folded her arms. "D'ye want me to send some of the maids tae gather more intel?" Her tone remained formal, though there was an unmistakable edge of readiness in her stance.

George chuckled, leaning back in her chair. "No, no. The last time we tried that, they were chased through France by that mad dog called Roon. I would rather not deal with another mess caused by her rabid antics."

Belfast's lips curled in distaste. "Aye, Roon’s an absolute menace. But what about Tirpitz? If she’s the one sending this, perhaps she’s willing to talk."

George’s smile widened. "Precisely my thoughts. Send a few maids—discreetly—to the fjords. Let them open a channel with Tirpitz. See if she has something more valuable to offer."

Belfast hesitated for a brief moment, her sharp gaze locking onto George’s. "You trust the younger sister of Hood’s killer?"

George didn’t flinch. Instead, she picked up a delicate macaron from a tray beside her and took a slow, deliberate bite before answering. "In this world, dear Bel, there are no eternal allies, nor eternal enemies—only eternal interests. If Tirpitz needs us, and we need her, then why not seize the opportunity? The Kriegsmarine is fracturing from within. If we can tip the scales in our favor, we must."

A moment of silence stretched between them before Belfast finally sighed, her posture relaxing ever so slightly. Then, her refined accent slipped away, giving way to the thick, unmistakable drawl of her homeland.

"Fine then. I’ll see tae it personally. But mark my words, Lady George, I’ll make damn sure we come out ahead in this deal."

George chuckled, setting her teacup down with a delicate clink. "Oh, I never doubted you, Bel." She then smirked knowingly. "Though I do believe your accent is slipping."

Belfast rolled her eyes. "Ach, who gives a damn? This is how I bloody speak, after all."

With that, the head maid turned on her heel, already planning her next move. George watched her go, amusement flickering in her crimson eyes before she turned her attention back to the burning fire.

...
.....

The library of Scapa Flow was a grand, old structure, lined with towering bookshelves filled with centuries of naval history, strategy manuals, and the odd bit of classical literature. It was the sort of place one would expect to find admirals lost in thought over maritime theory—not a place for covert operations.

But behind a seemingly ordinary wooden bookshelf, Belfast stepped into a dimly lit chamber—a hidden nerve center for the Maid Corps, manned solelu by shipgirls who specialized in espionage, counterintelligence, and clandestine operations.

The air inside carried the scent of parchment, gun oil, and the faintest trace of fine black tea. A long wooden table stood in the center, illuminated by a few hanging lamps, where two figures were already waiting.

One was Sheffield, the ever-serious and stone-faced Maid. Her golden eyes reflected nothing but cold efficiency, and her body language was as stiff as ever—shoulders squared, arms crossed, gaze sharp. Sheffield was methodical, precise, and utterly unshakable.

The other was Edinburgh, Belfast’s older sister. Unlike Sheffield’s stoicism, Edinburgh was an open book—her hands fidgeted, her foot tapped slightly, and her expression flickered between curiosity and concern. She was reliable, yes, but a bit clumsy when under pressure.

Belfast sighed as she closed the hidden door behind her. The moment it clicked shut, her proper maidly composure melted away. Gone was the graceful, disciplined demeanor—what remained was pure, raw Belfast, a woman whose voice carried the unmistakable weight of her homeland.

"Right, ye lot, listen up." She began, rolling her shoulders. "We've got big bloody news."

Sheffield nodded once, remaining as expressionless as ever. Edinburgh, on the other hand, perked up.

"What’s happened now, Belsy?" her sister asked, voice thick with her natural Scottish brogue.

Belfast tossed a crumpled paper onto the table. "Bismarck’s makin’ a move. Target’s an American shipgirl. We don’t know when, we don’t know why, but we do know who’s tellin’ us this—Tirpitz."

Sheffield’s golden eyes narrowed. "Queen of the North." She murmured, her voice as cold as steel. "You trust her intel?"

Belfast exhaled sharply through her nose. "It’s worth a gamble. Kriegsmarine’s in the middle o’ tearing itself apart, an’ Tirpitz is sittin’ there, watchin’ it happen. If she’s reachin’ out tae us, it means she either needs an ally or wants a deal."

Edinburgh frowned. "An’ what’s Lady George say about it?"

"She’s given the go-ahead." Belfast said, leaning on the table. "We’re sending some of our own tae the fjords tae see what Tirpitz really wants. But we’re nae just goin’ tae be playin’ nice—we want this deal on our terms."

Sheffield tapped the table once, a sign that she was already thinking three steps ahead. "Who are we sending?"

Belfast crossed her arms, her sharp lavender eyes sweeping across both of them. "You two."

Edinburgh nearly choked on her own breath. "Me? Ye want me on an espionage mission?"

"Aye." Belfast said flatly with that damn smile.

"Are ye mad?!" Edinburgh flailed slightly. "Sheffy’s the silent killer type, aye, but me?! I cannae even walk through a bloody corridor without knocking something over!"

Belfast smirked. "Aye, ye’re clumsy, but ye’ve got a way o’ talkin’ tae folk. Tirpitz is smart—too smart tae trust someone like me, cause she knows I’ll be lookin’ fer weaknesses. But you? You don’t look like a threat. She’ll let her guard down, an’ that’s when we learn what we need."

Edinburgh groaned, rubbing her temples. "So ye’re usin’ me as bait?"

Belfast clapped her sister on the shoulder. "Nae bait—insurance."

Sheffield, ever the professional, simply nodded. "Understood. What are our cover identities?"

"We’re sendin’ ye as diplomats. Officially, you’re there tae discuss safe passage for merchant convoys through contested waters. Unofficially? We’re finding out what the hell Tirpitz is really plannin’ and what she want to say."

Edinburgh sighed. "Well, that sounds like a right lovely holiday."

Belfast grinned. "Aye, ye’ll love it. Cold, dangerous, an’ full o’ Gerry who might shoot ye in the head if ye say the wrong thing."

Sheffield, unbothered as ever, simply adjusted her gloves. "When do we leave?"

"First light tomorrow." Belfast said. "There’ll be a destroyer escortin’ ye tae neutral waters, then ye’ll be picked up by a Kriegsmarine vessel an’ taken tae the fjords. Keep yer eyes open, an’ don’t trust a bloody soul."

Edinburgh grumbled but gave a half-hearted salute. "Aye, aye. Let’s just hope I dinnae trip on the way there."

Belfast smirked. "If ye do, at least make it look dramatic."

Sheffield sighed. "This is going to be a disaster."

After Sheffield and Edinburgh had left to prepare for their journey, Belfast lingered in the dimly lit intelligence chamber. Her lavender eyes flicked toward a lone figure standing by the bookshelves, an air of quiet confidence surrounding her.

The young woman had long brown hair that flow like wave and wear a tricorne hat, an unbuttoned light blue naval jacket draped over her shoulders, and a white shirt partially covered by a brown leather vest. She wore white shorts and calf-length leather boots, giving her an almost rogue-like appearance—fitting for someone who spent most of her time stalking prey beneath the waves.

Beside her, resting against the bookshelf, was a rifle unlike any other. The upper barrel resembled a standard rifle, but the lower portion hinted at something more—a built-in torpedo launcher, a brutal tool for close-quarters anti-submarine warfare.

HMS Hunter.

True to her name, she was among the Royal Navy’s finest U-boat hunters, feared by both Sirens and Kriegsmarine submarines alike. Whether her targets were mass-produced ships or enemy shipgirls, she always carried out her duty with ruthless efficiency.

Hunter tipped her hat slightly as Belfast approached, her brown eyes polite but observant, always scanning for hidden intentions.

A sudden bark shattered the silence.

Belfast’s gaze snapped downward at the source of the disturbance—a sleek black Dobermann standing at Hunter’s side. The beast was well-trained, its ears perked, its dark eyes sharp.

Belfast folded her arms. "Ye ken fine well there’s no pets allowed in the library, Hunter.'

Hunter chuckled softly, resting a gloved hand on the Dobermann’s head. "Aye, aye, Miss, ye’ve told me before." She patted the dog once before giving it a subtle signal with her fingers. The beast immediately sat, silent and still as a shadow. "But I dinnae go anywhere without Fenrir. He’s good luck."

Belfast rolled her eyes but let it slide. She had more pressing matters to attend to. "Right then. I’ve got a job for ye."

Hunter adjusted her hat. "Another U-boat patrol?"

Belfast shook her head. "Not quite. I need ye tae follow Sheffield an’ Edinburgh. Keep yer distance—stay in the shadows. If anything moves tae harm them…"

Hunter’s easygoing expression hardened slightly. She understood without needing to hear the rest.

"… Kill it."

There was no hesitation in Hunter’s response. "Aye. Consider it done."

Belfast studied her for a moment. There were few shipgirls she trusted completely, but Hunter had earned that trust many times over. If anyone could keep Sheffield and Edinburgh safe without being seen, it was her.

Hunter tipped her hat once more before retrieving her rifle and slinging it over her shoulder. She gave a small whistle, and Fenrir stood at attention.

Belfast watched as the hunter disappeared into the shadows, moving like a ghost through the library. With her presence gone, the chamber felt colder, emptier—yet Belfast felt more at ease.

She muttered under her breath, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Ye’d be a bloody nightmare if ye ever turned against us, Hunter…"

And with that, she turned and left, knowing that the mission was in the best possible hands.

TBC.