Guys, I want to ask, did you guys actually enjoy this longer form and quite slow pace + quite comedic? Just asking because I'm quite curious.

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Off the Coast of Kyushu, Japan.

Middle of the Night.

11 January 1942.

The sea was calm, deceptively so.

Underneath the starlit veil, six shipgirls cut through the dark waters with a quiet hum of power. The moonlight shimmered across Zumwalt’s sleek hull, her radar arrays glowing softly as she cruised at the head of the formation. Her eyes never left the horizon, where the faint, ominous red glow of The Red Castle bled into the sky like a wound.

"Fifty clicks out from the perimeter." She muttered, almost to herself. Her voice was soft, like a lullaby under her breath. "It’s getting warm out there."

Inside her bridge, the rest of the squad gathered—each with their own rhythm, their own energy.

"—and then the pineapple exploded, right in front of me!" San Francisco’s voice cracked through the momentary silence like a firecracker. "I was mid-fistfight with a giant tuna-robot in that weird simulation and boom—my entire left leg turned into a vending machine!"

Javelin burst into giggles. "No way! Did it still work?"

"Oh yeah." San Fran beamed proudly, hands on hips. "Kicked the OpFor drone in the face and a can of orange soda popped out. Efficiency."

San Diego clapped her hands with an excited squeal, bouncing slightly on her heels. "Best! Story! Ever! We need to record this next time!"

West Virginia, sitting quietly near a radar console, gave a low chuckle. "Only if we get a vending machine gun arm next time."

Laffey, meanwhile, barely acknowledged the banter. She lay sprawled comfortably on a seat beside Zumwalt, head resting gently against her commanding officer’s side, soft breaths rising and falling in a sleepy rhythm. "Zummy is warm…." She mumbled, nuzzling in closer. "No scary dreams here…"

Zumwalt glanced down, brushing Laffey’s hair back with a tender touch. "You’re safe. I promise."

A quiet moment passed—rare, precious.

But beyond the jokes and laughter, an undercurrent of tension coiled in the room. They all felt it—the oppressive presence looming in the distance. The Red Castle wasn’t just a target; it was a message, a monument of Siren betrayal carved into Japanese soil. Its twisted spires pierced the sky, radiating unnatural energy, guarded by warships slightly different than Azur Lane had faced before.

Zumwalt turned to face her team. Her voice, though gentle, cut through the air with commanding grace.

"Tonight, we punch through their defenses. Thin the herd, clear the path for the main strike team. No heroics, no solo charges. We fight together, like we always do."

Javelin nodded with a serious expression, San Diego slapped her fists together excitedly, San Francisco saluted with her trademark grin, and West Virginia’s eyes glinted with grim resolve.

Laffey just gave a small thumbs-up without moving from her spot.

Zumwalt smiled. "Alright, girls. Let’s make the sea remember our names."

The faint hum of Zumwalt’s main engine shifted. Her sensors pinged, locks confirmed.

"Target grid marked." Shesaid calmly.

A railgun emerged from her deck, sleek and deadly, the hum growing into a rising electric whine that vibrated through the sea. From behind her shoulder, a panel slid open—three sleek hypersonic missiles primed and ready, their matte-black surfaces pulsing faintly with internal heat.

"Commencing bombardment."

KRACK-BOOM!

The railgun roared, a sonic boom tearing across the ocean as a tungsten slug punched through the night sky at Mach 7, a glowing lance of fury. The hypersonic missiles followed seconds later, spiraling upward before cutting downward like divine spears. In the distance, the Red Castle shimmered with an energy shield just before the impacts struck—one, two, three—blinding flashes illuminating the water like a thunderstorm trapped in glass.

Then—a scream from the radar.

Javelin’s voice piped up. "Incoming! Fast movers—high-altitude divebombers, Siren! Ten—no, twenty—scratch that, a lot!"

From the black sky, red-lit shapes began to descend in formation, their speed unnatural, wings unfolding into jagged configurations mid-flight. The Sirens had sent their aerial swarm.

Zumwalt didn’t flinch.

"CIWS, active. Laser grid up. Let them come."

The hum turned into a shriek.

A storm of rounds erupted from the Metal Storm CIWS pods on her flanks—each unleashing hundreds of rounds per second in an overlapping field. At the same time, thin blue lines zipped upward—her laser point-defense grid carving through the first wave of Siren drones like scalpels through paper.

The air above her glowed with heat and plasma.

Laffey blinked lazily, head still on Zumwalt’s shoulder. "Shiny lights… very shooty…"

San Diego leapt up, a wild grin on her face. "It’s time for a fireworks show! Let’s dance, freaky aliens!"

Her rigging materialized, full of AA turrets that snapped into position and opened fire, stitching the sky with explosive tracer fire.

San Francisco cracked her knuckles and slammed a palm into her hip-mounted torpedo launcher. "This one’s for the tuna-bot." Her rig flared to life, turrets roaring to join the defensive wall.

Side by side, the two formed a living barrier of fire, shells overlapping with Zumwalt’s pinpoint lasers and CIWS coverage, a terrifying orchestra of anti-air destruction.

West Virginia’s guns came up. She took a single shot—clean, precise—striking a Siren unit straight through the core as it tried to break formation. Her eyes narrowed.

"Focus on those weaving through the gaps. No slip-ups."

Javelin moved like lightning, redirecting smaller cannons to intercept the nimble scouts darting around the chaos.

"I’ve got the stragglers! We’re not letting them get close!"

The formation held strong—sleek, synchronized, and unforgiving.

But in the distance, past the dying embers of the first wave, something larger stirred. A shape, massive and angular, began to descend from the clouds. The radar wailed.

Zumwalt’s eyes narrowed. "That’s not just a drone. That’s a Armored Heavy Siren Assault Carrier."

Laffey finally sat up, her sleepy tone unchanged. "Big shiny angry one?"

San Diego cracked her knuckles. "Big shiny angry one."

Zumwalt let her railgun slide back into reload position and angled her missile banks.

"Then we break it. Together."

The remains of the Siren air swarm smoldered behind them, a trail of wreckage stretching across the moonlit sea. But there was no time to savor the victory.

Ahead, the outer perimeter came into view—a defensive line of Siren warships, irregular and biomechanical in design, bristling with red-lit turrets and pulsating cores. Unlike their smaller drones, these ships moved with unnatural fluidity, their hulls shifting as if alive.

"They’ve formed a net." West Virginia muttered, scanning the formation. "They’re trying to trap us."

"They’ll regret it." Zumwalt answered, voice calm. "Stay close. I’ll open the path. You hammer anything that flanks us."

KRACK! Another railgun shot punched the air, slicing straight through the lead Siren cruiser. A second later, two hypersonic missiles curved downward and split apart in mid-air, each deploying submunitions that rained white-hot destruction across the flankers.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

But now, the return fire began.

From the Siren ships, glowing red beams and strange plasma-like bolts arced toward them. The air crackled as the heat and energy displaced the ocean spray in violent bursts.

San Diego grit her teeth. "I’ve got this side! Eat flak, losers!"
Her 40mm Bofors chattered to life, sending a stream of steel skyward. The rhythm was fast.

San Francisco charged headlong into a cluster of incoming torpedoes, all of her 8" cannons booming as she laid suppressive fire, zigzagging through the barrage. "If I die, I’m blaming the vending machine!"

"Stay in formation!" Zumwalt barked.

Behind her, Laffey loaded her 130mm mounts with sleepy precision, eyes barely open. "Shoot now, nap later…"
Her shells whistled through the air and struck a smaller Siren frigate dead-center, blowing it in half with satisfying violence.

"On your six, Javelin!" West Virginia barked.

Javelin dipped low, weaving around the plasma arcs, and launched a spread of depth-charge-style torpedoes into the nearest Siren ship’s underbelly. The explosion sent water a hundred meters high.

"They’re tough!" Javelin shouted with a grin.

The formation pressed on, weaving through wreckage, suppressing every threat they could. The Sirens’ advantage in tech was clear—but so was the advantage of having Zumwalt in the lead, cutting through enemy lines like a surgeon with a glowing scalpel.

KRACK! Another railgun round—this one pierced two ships in a line, the shockwave cracking their hulls like glass.

Her lasers swept across the skies, intercepting incoming divebombers before they could target the more vulnerable girls.

But even as they pressed deeper, the Red Castle loomed larger on the horizon. The spires now glowed brighter, and the sea itself began to shimmer with strange distortions—teleport signatures.

Zumwalt’s radar screamed again.

"More reinforcements incoming. This isn't the main fight… it’s the warm-up."

West Virginia loaded her next salvo with steady hands. "Then we better stretch properly."

San Diego whooped. "Let’s give ‘em the old red-white-and-Bofors welcome!"

Laffey leaned against Zumwalt again, yawning as she reloaded. "Wake me up when the big one shows up…"

Zumwalt’s calm voice echoed over the comms.

"We’re punching through, girls. And then we knock on the Red Castle’s door."

The sea boiled with red light.

As the fleet neared engagement range, the Red Castle awakened.

From its central spire, rings of unholy energy pulsed outward like a heartbeat. Dozens of red-glowing turrets rotated into position. Hull-sized cannons with cat ears—some of them levitating unnaturally—charged with plasma, crackling with arcs of Siren energy that defied physics.

Then—the world screamed.

FWOOOOOOOM!

A crimson lance sliced through the air, barely missing Zumwalt’s bridge by meters. A second blast followed, vaporizing a rogue wave and turning the ocean around them into steam. The sky itself trembled as the Siren fortress unloaded its arsenal, a symphony of chaos and fury.

"Evasive maneuvers! Now!" Zumwalt’s voice was sharp, slicing through the rising panic like a knife.

Metal Storm turrets fired desperately to intercept plasma rounds. Laser point-defense seared the sky, but even her systems began to overheat, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of incoming fire.

San Francisco dove sideways, a glancing beam slicing part of her rig. "I’m hit! I’m hit! But I’m still gorgeous! Somehow!"

"Pull back!" Zumwalt commanded. "Maintain standoff distance! Their main batteries are calibrated for mass impact—don’t give them clustered targets!"

San Diego and Javelin broke formation fast, circling wide and using their speed to draw fire.

"We can’t take this head-on, Zummy!" San Diego cried, shooting flak blindly behind her as another Siren shell exploded too close for comfort.

Javelin flared her engine and fired smoke shells. "I’ll try to disrupt their optics—buy us a few seconds!"

Zumwalt’s railgun charged again—KRACK!—and struck a Siren destroyer that had slipped into mid-range, disintegrating it before it could release torpedoes. Her hypersonic missiles launched immediately after, spreading in a wide arc to pressure the Siren formation chasing them.

"West Virginia—rear guard. Laffey, stay close. San Francisco, shift to suppressive fire on their right flank. Keep them guessing."

West Virginia barked an acknowledgment. Her cannons roared like thunder, laying a precise curtain of 16-inch shells that held back two Siren cruisers attempting a pincer.

Laffey, still half-lidded but focused, fired her 130mm turrets with rhythm. "Z-Zumwalt’s nice. I’ll protect her…'

"Not now, Laffey." Zumwalt whispered gently, hand brushing her hair as she adjusted course. "Stay alert, sweetie."

FWOOOOOOOM! Another Siren lance nearly split the sea between them.

More warning klaxons screamed across the deck. Her shields began to fluctuate—this was a war of attrition she couldn't win at close range. They were testing her systems… and she was already pushing beyond the red line.

"Full tactical retreat." Zumwalt ordered at last. "Do not let them split you up. Maintain suppressive fire, fall back to Grid Echo-Niner. I’ll cover the rear."

"But—!" San Francisco shouted. "That castle’s still up!"

"We hurt them. That's our job." Zumwalt said. "We hit their outer fleet, clipped their wings. But the castle's just started to fight. We need more data, more firepower."

Reluctantly, the girls pulled away, guns still blazing.

Shells and torpedoes arced behind them, lighting up the night sea. Siren cruisers tried to give chase, but Zumwalt’s lasers and last-ditch railshot took down the closest ones with brutal efficiency.

"Live to fight another day." West Virginia said, her voice grim but steady.

The girls were halfway through their tactical withdrawal. The glow of the Red Castle dimmed slightly behind a veil of sea mist and war smoke—but the sensors never lied.

Javelin called out, panicked. "Something's moving—fast! It’s like a spike on the radar! No ID, no signature, just... I don't know!"

San Diego’s eyes widened. "Zummy, it's coming for you!"

Laffey, clinging to Zumwalt’s side, looked up with sleepy concern. "Something’s wrong…"

Zumwalt turned to the east horizon—and then she saw it.

A streak of raw crimson light, laced with black energy. It wasn’t a weapon—it was an entity. Something Siren, but not a drone, not a ship. It was a judgment in motion, sent by the Red Castle itself. A reaper flying at hypersonic speed, too fast for even her CIWS to calculate.

Everything slowed for her.

She didn’t think—she acted.

"Laffey. Go."

She grabbed the small destroyer and hurled her sideways, away from her own command platform.

Laffey screamed in surprise. "Z-Zummy—?!"

CRASH.

The impact was instant and apocalyptic. The thing hit her like a divine freight train. Everything turned white.

Her hull cracked open. Fire spewed from her deck. Consoles exploded, flames roaring into the bridge. Half her systems went dark in a heartbeat. Her rig cracked with a horrific screech. The remaining CIWS stopped mid-spin and slumped into silence. The sky tilted, sea spinning…

Zumwalt hit the deck hard, her vision blurring. Ted warning glyphs flickered all over her internal HUD, barely functioning. Pieces of her rig collapsed, sparking and bleeding coolant. The fire suppression failed. Her railgun was a smoldering skeleton. Her laser array offline. The bridge was… gone.

Only her. And a blurry screen.

"...Damage critical... propulsion compromised... cognitive frame destabilized…"

She reached with trembling fingers, eyes barely open. Her vision swam with double images. Siren code flickered at the edge of her sight—data corruption creeping in.

But her hand found the command stick.

She gritted her teeth and gave the last order:

"Run…"

Her ATHENA AI interface whirred.

"Engaging auto-navigation. Emergency retreat protocol. Speed—maximum sustainable. Destination: Safe Zone Echo-Niner."

Outside, her burning hull began to move. Slowly, then faster. The command ship that led the charge was now retreating, limping through fire and shadow—but still moving.

Inside, Zumwalt exhaled softly, blood trailing from the corner of her mouth.

"Girls… stay safe…"

Then the world tilted again—and faded to black.

...
....

The sea was quiet again. No sirens. No lasers. No gunfire.

Just the low hum of damaged engines, the hiss of steam from fractured pipes, and the hollow creaks of a once-mighty warship limping through the waves.

Zumwalt’s ship—or what remained of it—had made it to safe waters. The outer deck was scorched black. Her radar tower looked like it had been melted by a god’s hand. Half the ship glitched in and out of proper reality—flickering as if torn between existence and digital hell.

Inside the shattered bridge…

They found her.

Zumwalt lay slumped at the center of what was once her command throne, now warped and half-fused to the floor. Her left side—completely corrupted. Like shattered glass mixed with holographic static. Her once-smooth armor plating twitched and pulsed with red lines of Siren corruption. Her right eye was gone. The other barely flickered open.

And in her lap, Laffey sobbed.

She clung to Zumwalt like a broken doll, her face buried into the scorched remains of Zumwalt’s chest. Her arms trembled as she cried out in hiccups.

"Y-You said to stay safe… but not without you… not like this…"

San Diego was the first to step into the bridge—then stopped cold, her usual energy replaced by wide-eyed horror.

West Virginia entered next, her voice caught in her throat. "...Dear God…" (Must resist the reference!)

San Francisco followed, stumbling as if her balance was thrown off by the wrongness in the air. "I—I thought she got out clean. She always gets out clean…"

Javelin knelt beside her.

Several of Zumwalt’s medical drones buzzed around her—tiny spider-like automatons with delicate appendages, scanning, welding, injecting… but none of it worked. Each injection fizzled against the corrupted data.

One of the drones backed off and displayed a floating error message.

[INTERNAL COHERENCE COMPROMISED].
[NEURAL LINK FADING]
[RECONSTRUCTION: FAILED].

Javelin bit her lip hard, tears forming. "They’re… they’re losing her."

"She’s not even bleeding." San Diego whispered. "She’s glitching…"

"She’s not dying like a shipgirl." West Virginia said, voice grim. "She’s… breaking."

Laffey trembled in her spot, her voice barely a whisper now. "I don’t want another dream without her…"

Zumwalt stirred slightly—barely.

Her mouth moved, dry and cracked.

"Girls…"

Her voice was weak, fragmented—like a corrupted audio file barely holding together.

"You’re… safe. That’s all… that matters…"

San Francisco dropped to her knees beside her. "You shut up, Zum! We’ve seen you eat a Siren cruiser whole—this is not your end."

But Zumwalt only smiled, broken and flickering.

"Need… more firepower…"

Laffey clung tighter.

"We’ll fix you. I’ll fix you even if I have to nap inside the CPU…"

And slowly, Zumwalt’s one working eye dimmed.

Not off. Not gone. But like a power-saving light in sleep mode.

A temporary pause.

The sea was calm.

It was always calm after hell.

The battered hull of Zumwalt’s ship ghosted through the black water, surrounded by silence and moonlight. None of the shipgirls spoke loudly. Even San Diego, normally a walking sugar rush, was curled up on the floor, hugging her knees.

The bridge was dimly lit, flickering from the damage. A faint buzz of static filled the room, mixed with the soft hum of dying systems. Only one light remained steady—the emergency beacon above Zumwalt’s unconscious body.

She still lay there, surrounded by her team.

Javelin leaned back against a broken console, arms wrapped around her legs. "I don’t get it. She’s Zumwalt. She’s the Zumwalt. She's got lasers, railguns, and enough computer power to beat Enigma in her sleep."

"She’s the one who gave me those stupid VIZ glasses." San Francisco muttered, her voice unusually subdued. "We joked about The Matrix for hours, remember that? She even made a gun that shot memes for testing. Who does that? Who loses to—whatever that was?"

West Virginia just stood nearby, silent, unmoving. Guarding. Processing.

San Diego stared at her boots. "She never even screamed. She just... took it. Like she knew."

Laffey lay beside Zumwalt, hugging her arm gently. She hadn't moved much since the impact. Her small voice finally came, soft as the ocean breeze.

"She told me... before the mission... if something happens, don’t let the rest break…"

The silence returned.

The waves whispered against the hull.

Then—

CRRRZZZT.

A sharp, cold static buzz.

The lights flickered again.

Then her eye lit up.

Not blue.
Not soft.
Red.

The center of Zumwalt’s eye burned like a corrupted data core. Her mouth twitched once, then twice—like it wasn’t hers anymore.

Her body spasmed—glitched.

She sat up without moving her muscles, twitching forward in sharp, unnatural angles. Her head tilted with a static snap as if someone else was logging in.

San Diego screamed. "WHAT THE—?!"

Laffey backed away slowly, tears returning.

"Z-Zumie…?"

Her voice came out in layers—hers, and something else. Overlapping echoes in multiple tones.

"...SYS-RUNNER...ZUMWALT...VER 3.091… WARNING. WISDOM CUBE DEGRADATION 94%.
CORRUPTION SEED: ACTIVE.
STAND BY FOR HOSTILE INTRUSION—"

"NO!" Javelin jumped up. "Shut it down! That’s not her! That’s not her voice!"

Zumwalt’s head turned slowly toward her—clicking like a broken animatronic.

"...Javelin. Your expression suggests… fear. Don’t be afraid.
I’m still... me. Just…"

She twitched again.

"...Updated."

Her face glitched—half hers, half... someone else’s. Something wearing her skin. A ghost riding the code.

West Virginia stepped forward, cannon half-drawn. "Zumwalt, if you're still in there, fight it. You don’t let whatever the fuck that is, win. Ever."

"I… tried…" She whispered, voice fracturing into static again. "I tried to reroute… firewall failed… I tried to burn the code… but it knew me…"

Another convulsion ran through her body.

"I can’t move." She choked. "Can’t even hug her back… and Laffey… she’s crying again…"

Laffey sobbed openly now, crawling back to her.

"You’re still you." She whispered. "I don’t care how broken you are. I still want you…"

San Diego was trembling. "We have to get her to Formosa. Maybe… maybe Vestal. Someone has to know what to do!"

Zumwalt turned to her, eyes flickering.

"Don’t… dock me… yet. If they scan me, they’ll see the Siren code. They’ll isolate me. Lock me away. Maybe even—format me…"

Javelin clenched her fists. "Then we hide you. Whatever it takes. We don’t leave you behind."

Zumwalt’s body shuddered again, twitching violently—then froze.

The red in her eyes dimmed slightly, flickering like a dying ember.

"...Thank you."

And then—darkness again.

No movement. No sound. Just a half-broken girl in the arms of her crew.

And a long, haunted voyage still ahead.

...
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.......

Formosa Naval Base, 12 January 1942, 06:32 AM.

The air was thick with tension and the faint tang of salt from the sea. Morning mist coiled lazily around the warships moored at Formosa Naval Base, their hulking silhouettes like ghosts in the dawn. Seagulls cried in the distance, oblivious to the sense of dread hanging over the dock.

The Commander stood at the edge of Pier Four, boots polished, uniform immaculate, but his jaw clenched like a vice. His gloved hands were buried deep in the pockets of his long coat, the bitter wind whipping the fabric around his legs.

He wasn’t used to waiting. He was a man of action—an infamous tactician, the kind that turned hopeless battles into whispered legends. But this? This was different.

Beside him stood Enterprise, her expression as unreadable as ever. The faint clink of her rigging broke the silence. Despite the sharpness in her purple eyes, there was an unease in her posture—a slight tilt of the head, a twitch in her fingers. The stoic Grey Ghost was anxious.

Lexington stood on the Commander’s other side, arms crossed under her chest, her brow furrowed. She usually had the warmth of an older sister and the poise of a concert singer. Today, she looked like she’d aged five years in five minutes.

And Hornet?

Hornet was pacing.

"Where the hell are they?" She muttered, fingers twitching as if itching for her revolvers. "They should’ve been back hours ago. Z’s never late—never."

Enterprise didn’t speak, but her jaw tightened.

"I don’t like this." Lexington finally said, voice soft but firm. "They said they’d return before dawn."

The Commander exhaled slowly. "We don’t panic until we see a wreckage."

"They are the wreckage, Commander." Hornet snapped, then instantly regretted it. "Damn it. Sorry."

Then—far in the distance—a shape appeared on the water.

"Visual." Enterprise said quickly, scanning through sharp eyesight. "It’s Zumwalt."

The others rushed to the railing. What they saw made Lexington gasp.

Zumwalt’s ship form, the majestic hull that once cut through water like a blade through silk, was torn and scorched. One of the deck guns was missing. Her sleek superstructure sagged. Smoke belched from a gaping hole near the bridge, and black, writhing corruption traced across the metal like veins.

She was coming in slowly, tugged by momentum and the stubborn will of a dying goddess.

"God…" Hornet whispered. "No…"

Before the broken ship could dock, four figures skimmed over the waves, cutting wakes in the morning sea. San Diego, Javelin, San Francisco, and Laffey. Their rigging glinted with damage, faces pale and panicked, but they moved with purpose.

In their midst, they carried a stretcher made of metal plates and torn blankets.

Zumwalt lay upon it.

Half her body was wrapped in makeshift bandages soaked in violet-black blood. Her skin was pale, corrupted in some areas with the red digital etchings of Siren interference. One of her eyes flickered with static. Her shoulded short blonde hairwas singed and matted.

San Diego’s voice cracked as she shouted. "We need a medic! Now!"

Lexington was already moving. "Hospital bay! Clear route to the triage wing!"

The Commander didn’t speak. He moved with the silent fury of a man who had seen too much war to waste time on grief. He kneeled beside Zumwalt as the stretcher hit the dock.

Her good eye fluttered open.

"...Commander…" She rasped, voice so soft it nearly vanished in the sea breeze. "We… saw the Red Castle…"

"Save your strength." He said, placing a hand over hers. "You brought them back. That’s what matters."

"Couldn’t… stop it." she whispered. "It... saw me."

She began to seize—violent tremors overtaking her frame. Sparks flew from the corrupted rigging attached to her back. Javelin cried out and held her down.

Laffey, quiet and trembling, simply whispered. "No no no no no…"

*We’re losing her!" San Francisco shouted, for once devoid of her usual humor.

And then Enterprise took a step forward.

"I’ll carry her." She said coldly. "Let’s go. Every second counts."

Zumwalt was lifted again—gently, reverently. As they rushed toward the base hospital, the sun rose behind them, bleeding crimson across the Formosan sky.

..
....

The automatic doors hissed open with a groan, revealing the chaotic heart of Formosa’s infirmary.

Rows of injured personnel—both human and shipgirl—lined the sterile corridors. Most were fresh evacuees from the Japanese holdouts in the mountains, still wrapped in dirty bandages or half-stripped rigging. Marines stood guard near certain patients—former POWs and Japanese defectors alike, some barely clinging to life.

The air smelled of blood, disinfectant, burnt oil… and fear.

Vestal was already at work—her sleeves rolled up, surgical apron stained with crimson and soot. Despite the exhaustion on her face and the dark circles under her eyes, she moved with precision. She was a shipgirl, a living miracle worker, trained to bring the dead back to the edge of life.

"Next one!" She called, not looking up.

And then she saw them.

Enterprise storming in with Zumwalt cradled in her arms, followed by the Commander and the others. Zumwalt’s corrupted body sparked and twitched, the corruption crawling slowly up her ribcage like a dying virus trying to stay alive.

Vestal froze.

For the first time that morning—maybe in months—she stopped moving.

"Oh my God…" She whispered. "What happened to her?"

"She got hit by something from the Red Castle." Enterprise said, laying Zumwalt gently onto the operating table. "Her rigging’s partially corrupted. Her systems are failing.*

"This—this isn’t Siren corruption. Or… at least not just that." Vestal’s voice shook as she pulled on fresh gloves and activated the full suite of repair tools from her rigging. Blue mist hissed into the air. "It’s changing her, like it’s rewriting her core coding… she’s—she’s bleeding data, for God’s sake."

Zumwalt groaned, arching her back as a deep red-black pulse surged from her chest, distorting the lights above her. It was like reality itself was glitching around her body.

"This is… wrong." Vestal muttered. "I’ve treated shipgirls who came back as wrecks, I’ve patched up literal ghost—but this? This is something new."

"We can’t lose her." The Commander said quietly. "Not her."

Vestal looked at him sharply, then back at the patient before her. "Then get out of my way. And pray to every god you know."

She activated her rigging, four long, glowing medical arms deploying behind her shoulders. One snapped open Zumwalt’s outer armor plating, another injected stabilizers into her bloodstream.

"San Diego, I need coolant flow redirected to her core housing. San Francisco—sterile field, now. Javelin, keep her from seizing again. And Laffey…"

Laffey stood in the corner, clutching her stuffed bunny, eyes wide.

"Laffey." Vestal said more gently. "Talk to her. Keep her conscious."

Laffey nodded and leaned in close, holding Zumwalt’s hand tightly. "You’re really warm… way too warm… hey… stay here, okay? Don’t go. You promised pancakes, remember?"

Zumwalt’s lips twitched. Barely.

The monitors screeched, and Vestal swore under her breath.

"She’s crashing again!"

"Stabilizer output dropping." Said Javelin. "Pulse is… wait, it’s glitching too!?"

A jagged, mechanical scream tore through the speakers—pure digital feedback, like a corrupted recording trying to scream in terror.

"Commander." Vestal snapped, never taking her eyes off the data. "This isn’t just a medical issue. Something’s inside her. It’s like a Siren code fragment—but intelligent. Reactive. Invasive."

"You’re saying she’s infected?"

"I’m saying she’s possessed."

...
.....

Few hours later.

The triage ward was quiet now. The emergency lights had dimmed, the warning klaxons silenced. Only the steady beep of monitoring machines and the low hum of rigging remained.

Vestal emerged from the operating room covered in blood—some human, some not, some she didn’t even want to ask about. She pulled off her gloves with a loud snap, tossed them into a bin, and rubbed her eyes.

Her hair was in a mess of buns and clips, half undone. Her coat was unbuttoned. A half-dead mug of coffee dangled from her fingers.

Everyone looked up the moment she came out.

"She’s alive." Vestal said flatly. "For now."

The sigh of relief was collective. San Diego collapsed into a bench like a balloon with the air punched out. Javelin clung to Laffey like a lifeline. Hornet actually took off her hat and muttered a shaky. "Thank fuckin’ God."

Vestal took a long sip from her coffee. Winced. Already cold. Of course.

"But I’ll tell you this—" She continued, pointing a greasy wrench at the Commander. "I’m a Repair Ship not a priest, not a data technician, and definitely not a damn exorcist. Whatever’s inside that girl? I stabilized her body, sure. But the thing in her head? That’s out of my pay grade."

"She’s… Really possessed?" Javelin asked timidly.

"Possessed, corrupted, haunted—hell, maybe she got cursed by a haunted computer, I don’t know!" Vestal threw her arms up. "The point is, I patched the hull, but her Cube still on fire."

The Commander frowned. "Can she fight again?"

"Fight?" Vestal barked a laugh that had zero humor. "Buddy, I just finished stopping her from flatlining twice. One more data surge and her Wisdom Cube goes full disco inferno. You want her to fight? She’ll be fighting herself."

He nodded slowly. "NotCub"

Vestal shook her head, walking away. "If anyone needs me, I’ll be pretending to sleep in the broom closet. And if she starts speaking in tongues, call a shaman or something."

As the doors hissed shut behind her, silence returned.

In the Lounge, not long after Vestal leaves.

The lounge was one of those old Imperial designs—stone walls, floor mats, a few scattered chairs. They’d cleared out the wounded so the shipgirls could sit down. Outside the frosted glass, the sun was up, casting long shadows across the base.

San Diego was pacing again, nervous energy radiating off her like static.

"She’s gonna be okay, right?" She asked for the fifth time in ten minutes.

"She’s strong." Lexington said softly. "She’s Zumwalt. She’ll pull through."

San Francisco slouched across a wooden bench, one leg kicked up on the table. "Man, we come back from hell and this is the welcome party. I should’ve stayed in bed. Or drunk."

"You weren’t even drunk when we left." West Virginia muttered, sipping tea with the calm of a monk.

"Exactly." San Francisco said. "That was my first mistake."

Enterprise leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on nothing. She hadn’t said a word since Vestal left. Her fingers twitched. Her jaw clenched. A thousand thoughts were flying through her mind—and none of them had answers.

The Commander finally spoke.

"She saw something jn that Fortress." He said. "Something that didn’t just attack—it marked her."

Everyone looked at him.

"She said, 'it saw me'." He continued. "Not 'I saw it'. That’s not a Siren. That’s something worse."

A silence settled.

Javelin hugged Laffey tighter. "What do we do?"

The Commander stared at the door to the operating room.

"We adapt." He said simply. "We prepare. And we do what we’ve always done."

San Francisco raised an eyebrow. "What, blow shit up and make bad decisions?"

A beat.

"Exactly." The Commander said.

Everyone laughed, just a little. Even Enterprise cracked a tiny smile.

And somewhere behind that door, beneath wires and restraints and corrupted rigging, Zumwalt still breathed.

Barely.

...
.....

The hallway was dim and quiet, lit only by flickering wall sconces and the faint hum of power conduits. The kind of place you only ended up in if you were looking to cry, pray, or punch a wall.

Vestal stood by the maintenance sink, scrubbing dried blood from under her nails with a chipped bar of soap. Her shoulders slumped forward, and the front of her coat was unbuttoned—half in exhaustion, half in surrender. She hadn’t even changed out of her clothes, even though it's smeared with blood and oil.

Enterprise approached, footsteps soft.

"Vestal."

"Unless someone’s heart exploded again or you’ve got coffee and the soul of a saint." Vestal muttered without turning. "This conversation better be short."

Enterprise didn’t answer. That made her turn.

The formidable, stoic Grey Ghost herself stood there, looking like she might break.

Her hat was off. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She held her gloves in one hand, fingers trembling.

"Please…" Enterprise whispered. "Fix her."

Vestal blinked. Slowly. "I told you, Enty. I’m not a miracle worker. I’m not a fuckin’ priest. I put bones back together. I patch hulls. I duct tape souls. I don’t exorcise demons with hugs and friendship."

"She was talking about the world we’d walk together." Enterprise said, stepping closer. "When the war’s over. When we finally make peace. She wants to see a world without this fighting. She wants to grow a garden. She said she’d be my bridesmaid."

Vestal’s expression cracked. Just slightly. "Jesus…"

Enterprise’s voice trembled. "I never let myself believe in that kind of world. Not until her."

Silence.

"I’m not asking you to perform a miracle." Enterprise said softly. "I’m asking you to try harder. Because if anyone could reach her through all that pain, it’s you."

Vestal turned away, knuckling her eyes. "You think I don’t want to save her? You think I haven’t tried every tool, every system? I hooked her up to three repair subsystems and a goddamn toaster just in case the electromagnetic field could stabilize her brainwaves."

Enterprise blinked. "…A toaster?"

"Military grade."

Enterprise smiled. Just a little.

"U’m terrified." Vestal admitted. "There’s something in her. Something smart, something ancient. It’s not just corrupted data. It’s conscious. And I don’t know if she’s still her."

"She is." Enterprise said firmly. "I know she is. Because she looked at me before passing out and said, ‘Don’t let them cry.’"

Vestal looked at her long and hard.

Then sighed.

"You know what? Fuck it. Fine. I’ll rig up an experimental rigging-link bypass, flood her system with mind-stabilization nanites, and manually isolate her Wisdom Cube one sector at a time. It’ll be like stitching a goddamn live wire."

"Will it work?"

"Hell no. But maybe."

Enterprise nodded. "That’s all I ask."

"…You’re lucky I like you, Ghost girl." Vestal muttered, shoving off the wall. "Now get out of my hallway. I’ve got war crimes to commit in the name of healing."

Enterprise watched her go, a small, steady fire rekindled in her chest.

Zumwalt wasn’t lost yet.

And damn it, they’d walk into that peaceful world together—even if Enterprise had to carry her there.

Absolutely—time to crank up the sci-fi-medical-drama dial and throw in a touch of divine intervention and futuristic firepower. Here's the next scene:

....
.......

The underground surgical bay was hidden beneath reinforced bunkers—originally meant for torpedo storage before it was repurposed as an emergency trauma center. Now it looked more like a mad science lab fused with a church confessional.

Vestal stood over Zumwalt’s bed, surrounded by rigging cables, diagnostic holoscreens, and tools that buzzed, clicked, or glowed in ways that most engineers would consider questionable.

Zumwalt lay still, her skin pale, her chest barely rising. The corruption had spread like fractals of dark crystal across her body, pulsing occasionally with a faint, sickly red light.

"Okay." Vestal muttered, voice tight. "Plan A is some good ol’ fashioned medtech. Plan B is sacrilegious techno-heresy. Plan C involves a baguette, a nun, and a small indoor fountain."

"You rang~?"

Geo waltzes in the room like she owns it, with her usual clothes but now more prepared to do a surgery. Her hair was pinned up like a retro nurse’s, and a stethoscope swung from her hip like a gunslinger’s holster.

"Ohhh, Vestie…" She purred, placing a hand dramatically over her heart. "You called me down to your little bunker for this? You know I’m more of a battlefield ER kinda gal—"

She saw Zumwalt.

The tone immediately changed.

"Holy shit."

Vestal gave her a look. "Yeah. I thought maybe your fancy stuff could do something before she flatlines again."

Geo was already moving, holograms blooming from her wrist rig, scanning Zumwalt from head to toe. The playful energy faded, replaced with laser focus and a look in her eyes that said I’ve seen this before, and I hate it every damn time.

"She’s corrupted at a metaphysical level." Geo murmured. "Rigging-virus structure, foreign AI intrusion, memory degradation. This isn’t just Siren tech—it’s like something older hijacked her entire OS. Her soul’s being overwritten."

"Thank you for confirming my nightmares." Vestal muttered, pushing a cart full of diagnostic equipment toward her. "I’m thinking of calling in the French girls. You know, the spooky Catholic ones with the incense and the gun-bibles."

Geo raised an eyebrow. "You mean.... Jean Bart and Richelieu?"

"Yeah. Maybe they can holy-water her Cube or something. I’m not above using divine intervention at this point. Hell, I’d sell my left rigging if a literal angel would descend and bless my IV bag."

Geo didn’t laugh.

Instead, she reached out and gently cupped Zumwalt’s cheek.

"She endured so many pain."Geo said softly. "You can feel it. That hope. That warmth. She probably smiled at you even when she was bleeding, didn’t she?"

Vestal swallowed hard. "…Yeah."

Geo looked her straight in the eye. "Then we don’t let her go. We throw everything at this. My nanomachines, your surgical insanity, and yeah—go ahead and call the French Navy while we’re at it. You ready to mix science with sacrament?"

Vestal cracked her neck. "I was born in a fucking Naval Dockyard and baptized in engine oil. Let’s piss off every scientific and religious community in one night."

Geo grinned. "Now that’s the Vestal I love."

The two of them got to work—one wielding scalpels and field-grade nanites, the other deploying cryo-tethers and neural firewalls. Outside, a transmission was already going out on secure frequencies:

TO: Richelieu-class Battleship 'Richelieu'
URGENT: Requesting Divine-Class Assistance.
SUBJECT: Active Shipgirl Soul Contamination.

Situation: Medical and Spiritual Emergency. Bring Holy Water, Incense, and Whatever You Use to Scare Demons.

Signed,
Vestal, Repair Ship. Not a Priest. Very Tired. Please bring Coffee. I beg you. With tears in my eyes.

.

...
........
Somewhere in North Africa, Free French Forward Camp.

13:27 Local Time.

The desert sun blistered overhead as the battle raged in the distance—tanks churned up sand, the boom of naval artillery echoed from offshore, and the unmistakable shriek of Axis jets overhead promised a very annoying afternoon.

In the center of the chaos stood Richelieu, pristine and terrifying in her whites and red, robes flowing over her rigging like a holy storm in motion. A golden cross shimmered at her chest, dusted in powder residue from her last barrage. Her blonde hair was tied back, her gloves were stained with gunpowder, and she looked like she had just baptized an entire Panzer column with high explosives.

A comms officer stumbled toward her through the dust. "Mademoiselle Richelieu! Message from the Eastern Command!"

She raised an eyebrow, taking the encrypted tablet. Her eyes scanned the message.

Then blinked.

Read it again.

Read it a third time.

"…What the hell do they mean ‘spiritual contamination’ of a shipgirl?’"

The French heavy cruiser Algérie popped up from behind a wrecked German scout car, casually shouldered her Halberd. "What, like she’s possessed?"

Richelieu didn’t answer immediately. Her expression turned grave.

URGENT: Medical and Spiritual Emergency. Bring Holy Water, Incense, and Whatever You Use to Scare Demons. –Vestal

A pause.

Then she sighed deeply. "Of course it’s Vestal. And of course she wrote that like she was ordering takeout."

Algérie cocked her head. "You’re going, aren’t you?"

Richelieu’s answer was already halfway formed into a prayer. "If what she says is true… then there’s a soul on the edge. And if I can pull her back… I must try."

"Asia’s not exactly a weekend trip, Cardinal." Algérie said with a raised brow.

"I’ll find a way."

Two Days Later, Some Dirt Airstrip in Central Africa.

Richelieu stood next to a rust-covered cargo plane that looked like it had fought both world wars. Her robes were tucked up over military fatigues. A holy relic was strapped to her back like a bazooka, and one of her rigging pieces was packed in a crate labeled "THIS SIDE UP, OR BY GOD I WILL CURSE YOU."

The French pilot looked at her like she’d asked to ride inside the engine.

"You’re bringing… a sword, a cross, a crate of blessed salt, and two hundred liters of holy water on a C-47 headed through Axis airspace?"

She stared at him. "Would you rather I exorcise you next?"

"Fair point. Welcome aboard."

Six Days Later – The Indian Ocean, Aboard Richelieu.

Salt sprayed across the deck as Richelieu finally broke past the Strait of Malacca. Her cloak fluttered behind her, eyes narrowed as a tropical storm brewed ahead. Her escort ships were exhausted. Supplies were running low. She hadn’t had proper sleep in days.

She stood at the bow, speaking to no one in particular.

"You owe me so much wine after this, Vestal."

And then, like a divine bullet shot through fate itself, Richelieu began to pray.

Formosa Naval Base, Hospital Courtyard.

20 January 1942.

18:44 PM.

The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the base. The air was thick with tension, medical triage, and the stench of half-cleaned Siren blood. Marines moved in tight formations. Shipgirls patrolled in exhausted silence. The air crackled with the stillness before something truly insane happened.

And then it did.

A horn blew—long and regal—from the east gate.

Spotlights swept the harbor road as a convoy rolled in, flanked by shimmering wards of light that turned even the most hardened sailors into superstitious wrecks. At its center strode Richelieu—robes immaculate, golden relic strapped to her back, every step echoing like a cathedral bell across the base. She was flanked by other Free French shipgirls: Jean Bart, looking like she hadn’t smiled since Dunkirk, and Dunkerque, who wore mirrored sunglasses at night because she could.

The entrance was part procession, part warning.

Vestal stood just outside the hospital, eyeing the holy convoy with a tired scowl and a coffee IV. She took one long sip from her mug—which said "World’s Okayest Healer"—before squinting at Richelieu.

"Well well well." She deadpanned. "Look who finally walked all the way from Jerusalem or some shit."

Richelieu did not slow. "I crossed the Suez and half of Africa, flew in a tin can over Africa, and braved the storms of the Indian Ocean with thirty barrels of blessed water and a portable altar. Do not test me, Vestal."

Geo popped into view behind Vestal, striding in confidence, lab coat flaring. "Hmm, and here I was hoping you'd come in looking tired and cranky—but nooo, you still look like divine judgment in a corset."

Jean Bart audibly gagged.

"Not the time, Geo." Vestal said, pushing open the door. "Come on, Miss Cathedral is mandatory. Your patient’s in Room Zero, being held together by science, duct tape, and prayer."

As they entered, Richelieu's playful calm faded into stern silence.

Inside Room Zero.

Zumwalt lay still—pale, half-consumed by Siren corruption, the red fractal growths twitching ever so slightly like nerves with thoughts of their own. Her rigging sat in the corner, disconnected and restrained with blessed chains and tech clamps.

Richelieu stepped forward, placing a hand on Zumwalt’s forehead. She whispered something in Latin. The corruption recoiled slightly, hissing, twitching.

"It responds to my presence." Richelieu said grimly. "But it’s not just Siren tech. Something older. Deeper. Something that hates light."

Vestal crossed her arms, tone uncharacteristically grave. "We’ve seen it once before—in a wreck off the Marianas Trench. A Siren prototype AI infected by a… mirror-world shard. It rewrites concepts. Like loyalty. Like hope."

Richelieu didn’t blink. "Then we will burn it out."

"Now hold up." Vestal interjected. "Burning’s not exactly in the medical handbook. What’s the plan—waterboard her soul with incense and hymnals?!"

Richelieu’s eyes narrowed with holy intensity. "If it means saving her life, then yes."

Geo gave a low whistle."Vestal. Sweetie. You said you weren’t an exorcist?"

Vestal rubbed her temples. "I’m not. I’m a damn plumber with a scalpel."

Richelieu placed her relic—an ornate, golden cross infused with anti-Siren runes—beside Zumwalt’s bed. Then, solemnly, she turned to them both.

"I will need your help. One to hold her body. One to stabilize the mind. And someone... someone to call her soul back."

A heavy silence.

Then, from the doorway—

"I’ll do it."

Enterprise stood tall. Her uniform stained, her eyes tired, but her voice never stronger.

"She’s my friend. My sister in arms. My bridesmaid, goddammit."

Richelieu offered the faintest smile. "Then we begin at dawn."

...
......

At Dawn.

The walls had been reinforced. The doors were sealed with wards drawn in salt, chalk, and circuits. It wasn’t just a hospital room anymore—it was a sanctified battlefield, stitched together by desperation, genius, and at least one very annoyed French battleship.

Zumwalt lay in the center, covered by a shimmering thermal sheet and cables like veins of light. Her breathing was shallow. Her corruption pulsed like it was alive.

Vestal stood at her head, drenched in sweat, muttering diagnostics and prayers in equal measure.

Geo adjusted the frequency of an anti-echo field generator, eyes serious and lips unusually silent.
Richelieu held her relic above the girl’s heart, chanting ancient hymns in Latin as water dripped from her fingers in glowing droplets.

Enterprise gripped Zumwalt’s hand, whispering soft affirmations, over and over. "You’re not gone. You’re just lost. I’m here. Come home."

And then—

BANG!

The doors flew open. A white blur shot into the room, rolling past sacred boundaries like an adorable wrecking ball.

"LAFFEY!?" Vestal barked, nearly dropping her scalpel. "What the hell—"

"I wanna help." Her voice was sleepy, but steady. Her eyes locked onto Zumwalt’s with a mix of raw fear and fierce love.

Geo blinked. "She wasn’t even in the room. How’d she get through the seals?"

"She’s not infected." Richelieu muttered, surprised. "She’s anchored. She's… emotionally bound."

Laffey climbed up onto the bed and curled up right next to Zumwalt like a koala clinging to a storm-wrecked tree.

"She always read me bedtime stories." Laffey whispered. "When I had nightmares… when my reactor went out… when I got scared, she held me."

Vestal rubbed her face, about to protest—until Richelieu lifted a hand. "Let her. We may need her more than we know."

Enterprise placed her hand on Laffey’s tiny shoulder. "Stay close. No matter what happens. If we go under, you’re with us."

Laffey nodded. "Okay… I’ll find Mama Z."

Inside Zumwalt’s Mind.

It looked like an endless ocean of black glass—void and silence. Fractals of crimson shimmered across the surface, like Siren circuitry tangled with nightmares. Memories were splintered, twisted—Zumwalt standing in battle, laughing with her friends, holding Laffey… then bleeding, screaming, drowning in red light.

She stood in the center, knees buckled, her real self flickering like static. One eye was full of corruption. Her arms were wrapped in black chains of thought.

The corrupted voice hissed around her, in her.
"Why struggle? Why ache? Your fire is out. You’re already mine."

But then—

A light. A breeze. A heartbeat.

Two figures stepped through the veil.

Enterprise and Laffey is here.

"Zumwalt…" Enterprise called. "You promised to stand with me at peace."

Laffey’s voice cracked. "You promised to make more cocoa."

The corrupted chains shook.

"Stop." The Entity hissed. "They don’t matter. They’re weakness."

"Then I’ll be weak." Laffey said. "I’ll be weak if it means I get to hold her hand."

The blackness shuddered.

Back in the Operating Room

Zumwalt convulsed. Her vitals spiked.

Geo’s eyes widened. "Her system’s syncing—someone’s reaching her!"

Richelieu’s chanting intensified. "Push. Now. While her spirit listens."

Vestal clenched her fists. "Come on, Zumwalt, you will owe me tons of beers. Come on."

Inside again.

Zumwalt turned, slowly, toward the light. Tears—real ones—slipped down her cheek.
"…Laffey?"

"I’m here, Mama Z."

And Enterprise stepped beside her. "Time to go home."

In the real world.

With a sound like tearing fabric and shattering glass, the corruption on Zumwalt’s chest broke.

Steam hissed. Light poured from her body like dawn after a long, starless night.

Then—silence.

Flatline.

Vestal gasped. "No—no no no—!"

Then, quietly…

Beep.

Beep.
Beep.

Her pulse returned.

Vestal collapsed to her knees, laughing and crying at once. "That’s it… she’s back."

Geo let out a long, relieved sigh. "Holy shit. I need a drink and a nap. In that order."

Enterprise held Zumwalt’s hand, whispering. "We did it."

Laffey yawned, curling up beside her. "Told you. Mama Z never breaks her promise."

...
.....

Zumwalt was rolled gently into her private hospital room—one of the most reinforced and isolated rooms in the whole base. Her stretcher was surrounded by security and sensor fields; even her IV stand had anti-corruption runes duct-taped to it. The nurses treated her like a princess in a glass coffin, half in awe, half terrified that one wrong move might wake up another apocalypse.

Laffey refused to let go of Zumwalt’s hand the whole way, even while falling asleep again mid-ride, clinging like a sleepy barnacle. Enterprise walked beside them like a paladin escorting royalty, her face unreadable but her eyes soft.

As they turned a corner and disappeared into the secured wing, the two people who actually knew what the hell had just happened were still standing in the hallway, drained and breathing hard.

In the Hallway.

Richelieu leaned against the corridor wall, robes slightly unbuttoned, hair disheveled, and drenched in holy sweat. She held a flask of water like it was sacramental wine and looked like she’d been arguing with angels.

Vestal, meanwhile, was halfway through her 17th hour without sleep, sipping from her coffee mug that now said "Holy Crap Technician" thanks to a sticky note. She looked at Richelieu like someone trying to choose between therapy and screaming into a trash can.

"So…" Vestal muttered. "You gonna tell me what that was? That didn’t feel like any Siren corruption we’ve seen before. Felt more… territorial. Spiritual. Not your flavor of ghost."

Richelieu exhaled slowly, rubbing her temples. "I thought it was residual Siren tech. Bound to corrupted AI logic. Mirror Sea infection, maybe. But you’re right. There was… something else."

Vestal tilted her head. "Elaborate."

"I felt it push back." Richelieu said grimly. "Not like a machine. More like a… guardian. Ancient. Vengeful. Hungry. Not from our liturgy."

Vestal raised an eyebrow. "So what, we exorcised a Japanese spirits with French prayer and science duct tape?"

Richelieu paused.

Blink.

"…Oh no."

Vestal’s voice got flatter. "Oh yes."

Richelieu smacked her own forehead, muttering in rapid French. "Merde… cross-religious exorcism. Do you know how many rules that breaks? That’s spiritual identity theft! That's—you don’t just shout Latin at a kami, Vestal!"

"Apparently you do." Vestal said with a deadpan shrug. "And it works just long enough to make the problem worse later."

Richelieu groaned. "It’ll retaliate. They always do. That thing’s still partially bound to her. We didn’t purify it—we just kicked it out of the control room."

Vestal sighed and looked down the hall toward Zumwalt’s wing. "So we need someone who does speak its language."

"An Onmyōji." Richelieu said. "Or a shrine maiden. Or… something older. Eastern."

"Fantastic." Vestal muttered. "You know anyone with holy water brewed from Shinto's moonshine and dragon tears?"

Richelieu looked like she had an existential crisis on the spot. "We may have to ask the Japanese Empire for help."

"Didn’t they ally with the Sirens?" Vestal asked flatly.

"They got betrayed by the Sirens, too." Richelieu muttered. "They’re desperate. They may listen."

Meanwhile, across the base…

Geo had already disappeared the moment the nurses said "stabilized." She was now at a small, outdoor café near the docks, leaning on a railing with a drink in her hand, twirling her long red hair with her finger and laughing at something a confused but very enamored Taiwanese maintenance officer just said.

"You’re funny." She purred. "You fix ships with wrenches. I destroy shit with bombs. Same line of work, different... voltage."

The poor man turned red to his ears.

Geo winked and whispered. "Tell me, sweetie, ever danced with a supercarrier in the moonlight?"

Back at the hospital.

Vestal groaned and sipped her coffee. "Goddammit, I have to do diplomacy and surgery now?"

Richelieu just shook her head. "No… we have to find the right priest. Otherwise, next time Zumwalt goes under, we might not be able to pull her back."

The hallway was dim now, most of the hospital staff either tending to Zumwalt or quietly avoiding the escalating diplomatic disaster brewing outside her room.

Vestal leaned on the wall with crossed arms, sipping from her cracked mug like it was a cocktail of caffeine and spite. Richelieu, still somewhat regal despite the exhaustion, was pacing slowly back and forth like a lioness stuck in a marble cathedral.

"So let me get this straight." Vestal said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "We need to find some Eastern spiritual bigshot who won’t explode if I hand them a scalpel and say ‘help me exorcise the ghost glued to my patient’s spine?’"

"Oui." Richelieu nodded, already annoyed by the tone.

"And this… kami, or whatever it is, won’t respond to your Gregorian ghost-be-gone holy water?"

"I told you." Richelieu replied with a tense breath. "It is not a demon by our standards. It is more akin to a sacred guardian spirit. Ancient. Proud. Your methods…" She gestured vaguely. "Crude."

Vestal smirked. "Thanks. I’ll add that to my work Applications. ‘Vestal, saved my soul, but culturally insensitive.’"

Richelieu’s eye twitched.

Vestal noticed—and poked the bear.

"Look, I get it. You’ve got fancy cathedrals, stained glass, wine that's older than my entire workshop—"

"It is not just wine."Richelieu snapped. "It is heritage."

"Oh, mon dieu, whatever you say." Vestal replied, waving a hand mockingly. "Listen, I’m not gonna argue religion with someone who lights incense before plugging in a defibrillator."

Richelieu stopped mid-step. "You—! That is not what I do! I bless my tools out of respect, not superstition! Unlike you, who shouts at corrupted souls like they’re faulty engines!"

"Well, it worked, didn’t it?" Vestal shot back. "If I hadn’t MacGyver’d a containment field out of scalpels and soul-sealing duct tape, Zumwalt would be toast by now!"

Richelieu threw her hands up. "C’est absurde! You have no reverence!"

"And you have too much! You're like if a rosary became a person with a superiority complex!"

Silence.

A beat.

Richelieu inhaled deeply through her nose, her gloved hands curling into the fabric of her sleeves.

Then, slowly, with righteous fury:
"…You are murdering my culture, Vestal."

"Oh, come on, don’t be so—" Vestal smirked. "Le dramatic."

Richelieu blinked once. Twice. Then nearly exploded.

"ARRÊTE! Arrête de tuer ma belle langue avec ton accent d’abomination!!"

"Oh-ho-ho, mona… mona—what is it—monami?"

"Non! C’est mon ami, imbécile!!"

"Mon-army—"

"PUTAIN! You just called me ‘my army’!"

"Hey, you’re the one who keeps marching around like you own the place, so—"

"Sacré bleu, I’m going to stab you with a crucifix!"

"Make sure it’s sterilized first!"

A nurse, holding a clipboard, cautiously peeked around the corner, heard one line of the screaming in half-French and Vestal laughing like a gremlin, and immediately turned around.

....
.....

Singapore Naval Headquarters, 21 January 1942.

The morning sun filtered through the arched windows of the colonial-era Governor’s Mansion, now commandeered and refurbished into a Shipgirl Command Post. The British flag fluttered above the rooftop, but beneath it flew the white and blue banner of Azur Lane.

Inside the polished teakwood war room, Queen Elizabeth stood atop a modest step-stool behind the command table, a teacup perched delicately in one hand, her free arm tucked behind her back like royalty. She was barely five feet tall, her royal coat tailored immaculately to her petite frame. Her golden twin drills glimmered under the ceiling fan's slow turn, and though she looked like a porcelain doll come to life, her violet eyes carried the weight of two world wars.

"This… is an insult to the Empire and Azur Lane." She declared with a dramatic flourish of her teacup. "The Red Castle stands—mocking us. And now Zumwalt—poor girl—has been violated by Siren corruption so badly they had to summon Richelieu from bloody North Africa!"

Warspite, barely an inch shorter than her sister and every bit the terrier behind the throne, stood at attention beside her, arms folded behind her back. The white-gold sheen of her hair was tied back in a practical bun, and her eyes were alert—bright, sharp, the eyes of someone who still saw trenches and dreadnought duels in her sleep.

"She held out longer than expected, Your Majesty." Warspite said, her voice even but heavy with restrained fury. "Reports say she cut through over a dozen Siren escorts. No normal Shipgirl could survive that, and yet… she did."

Elizabeth turned away from the war table, heels clicking smartly on the tile as she approached a sideboard and poured herself more tea. She glanced toward a large painting of HMS Hood—a somber reminder of the recent tragedy in these very waters.

"Surviving is not enough." She muttered. "She came back wrong. Her hull pattern is fractured. Her rigging? Mutating. And have you seen the way her eyes glow now? There’s... something whispering in her."

A pause hung in the air, filled only by the soft tick of the brass clock.

"She’s talking." Warspite added quietly. "But… it’s not all her voice anymore."

Elizabeth nearly dropped her cup.

"She talks?! By George… I had hoped the corruption wasn’t that deep." She sat on the edge of the table, posture collapsing just a little. The weight of command was a crown that pressed down even on the mightiest of monarchs—especially when you barely reached someone’s shoulder. "And Richelieu? What is she even going to do? Splash her with holy water and sing hymns at her?"

Warspite gave the tiniest hint of a smirk. "Possibly. I heard she’s bringing Dunkerque and Jean Bart too. And they plans to modify a Repair Vessel to act as a mobile exorcism bay. It look weirdly similar to a Cathedral."

Elizabeth blinked. "A floating cathedral. How charmingly medieval."

"She’ll need it. Zumwalt’s showing resistance to Vestal’s healing ability. Whatever the Sirens did… it’s biological and spiritual."

The monarch of metal looked out the window toward the harbor, where the silhouette of HMS Illustrious, moored alongside Unicorn and some other Royal Navy, Royal Netherland Navy and some Aussie ships.

Elizabeth's lips tightened into a thin line. "The Americans bring in a girl from the future. We bring in nuns with cannons."

"Not a bad mix." Warspite quipped. "And you’re forgetting—we have tea... And scones.x

A snort escaped Elizabeth. "God save the King…"

Warspite stepped forward, her expression softening. "She’ll live. She’s strong. If anyone can drag her back, it's Richelieu."

"She’d better." Elizabeth’s eyes turned steel again. "Because when this campaign is over, I want to decorate Zumwalt personally. And then I’m going to strangle whoever let her go out alone on that suicidal raid in the first place."

Excellent. Let's continue the scene with a sharp, clever discussion—mixing a little gallows humor, British sarcasm, and high-stakes seriousness as they try to make sense of this unholy fusion of science fiction and divine horror.

Ten minutes and two cups of tea later...

".... So let me get this straight." Queen Elizabeth began, setting her cup down with a clink that sounded entirely too regal for the sentence she was about to finish. "They splashed her with seawater blessed by Richelieu, played a hymn through the Hospital's loudspeakers, and stuffed her into a nano-baptismal pod. And that—somehow—helped?"

Warspite, with the patience of a woman who had once led the Royal Fleet charge under fire, nodded. "That’s what Richelieu’s report says. The entity inside her ‘screamed’ when the Ave Maria played."

"Screamed?! Warspite, I scream when that infernal Cruiser San Diego sings the national anthem off-key—doesn’t mean I’m possessed!"

"She levitated." Warspite added calmly.

"…Oh."

The elder sister pinched the bridge of her nose, frustration carving faint lines into her otherwise porcelain features. "Why is it that in the face of interdimensional techno-eldritch abomination, the best our combined military-scientific force can offer is Catholicism plus nanotech?"

"I believe Richelieu refers to it as a ‘multi-axis soul-purification protocol.’"

“It’s a rosary in a blender, Warspite.”

“And yet—Zumwalt’s vitals stabilized. Her corrupted rigging began to retract. Even Vestal was impressed, and she’s borderline atheist."

Queen Elizabeth stood and paced toward the large naval map table, boots clicking sharply. She jabbed her finger at a glowing red sector near Kyushu labeled "Holy Shit, we should fuck that shit up immediately."

"I don’t care if Richelieu wants to hold a séance in a swimming pool—this is a matter of Fleet security. I want peer-reviewed theology, damn it. Not… Sister Act with cannons!"

Warspite fought to keep her face straight. "Shall I contact Oxford or the Vatican?"

"Both. And throw in MIT for good measure. Maybe someone there has a quantum crucifix lying around."

She paused, her expression growing grim. "And if there’s truly a consciousness within her… a parasite or… or a possession… then we need to know what it wants. Whether it’s intelligent. Whether it’s still her."

The room fell quiet.

Warspite stepped closer, voice low. "What if it’s not her anymore?"

Elizabeth didn’t answer for a moment. Her gaze dropped to the center of the table, where a tiny carved model of Zumwalt—burnt and cracked—rested among other shipgirl markers. The air felt colder.

"I won't accept that." She said at last, softly but fiercely. "She’s one of us. And if there’s even a sliver of her left in that warped hull, then we owe it to her to pull her out."

Warspite nodded. "Then I’ll ready the necessary requests. Vatican first?"

Elizabeth sighed. "Vatican first. And Warspite—when you ask them—don’t mention the floating cathedral or the Ave Maria stunt. Just say it's a case of advanced combat fatigue. Last thing we need is to be written off as a bloody fanfiction."

Warspite finally allowed herself a smirk. "Too late for that, I fear."

Warspite, halfway through drafting a communique to the Holy See, paused mid-sentence.

"Wait… Elizabeth. The Vatican is in Rome."

"Yes?" the Queen replied, raising a delicate brow.

"And… Rome is under Mussolini."

There was a silence so sharp you could cut hull armor with it.

Elizabeth blinked. "Oh, for God’s—bloody Axis! Of course! Of course the one time I need a proper exorcist, he’s sipping wine under a fascist regime and probably blessing Panzer tanks in Latin!"

She threw her gloves onto the war table with such force they slid off and landed on a model of Malaya.

"No Vatican, then. Wonderful. Maybe next we’ll write to Berlin and ask if Wilhelm's ghost can recommend a shaman!"

Warspite cleared her throat carefully. "There is always Richelieu and her Cathedral repair ship retrofit…"

"Oh, don’t get me started on that walking contradiction."

Elizabeth turned back toward the window, arms crossed, stewing like a colonial teapot at full whistle. "Holy water. Photon scripture implants. Faith-based plasma channeling—it’s not a chapel, Warspite, it’s a heresy engine wrapped in stained glass!"

Warspite, eternally patient, folded her hands behind her back. "Vestal did say the results were promising—"

"Promising?!" Elizabeth spun back around. "We’re patching souls with Whatever the hell is that and praying with freaking science! If this goes on, they’ll start handing out rosaries!"

She grabbed a report off the desk and waved it dramatically. "Look at this! Richelieu describes Zumwalt’s corrupted Cube as a ‘cross-dimensional fragment of Siren code-entity possessing bio-neural lattice structure.’ That’s not a diagnosis—it’s a techno-babble exorcism gone rogue!"

Warspite hesitated, then added diplomatically, "She did survive. Stabilized, even."

"Yes, she survived." Elizabeth hissed. "Thanks to a blonde paladin nun with a Golden Cross and a drunk medic who thinks morality is optional if you’re patching corrupted Shipgirl!"

She paced again, faster now.

"It’s necessary, I get it. God knows I’d sanction it again if it meant saving Zumwalt—but don’t ask me to call it holy. It’s madness wrapped in miracles and served with a side of quantum sin."

Warspite raised an eyebrow. "...Quantum sin?"

Elizabeth froze, blinked… then sighed, slumping onto the edge of the table. "I don’t know, I’m tired. Just—just tell Richelieu I want a full rundown. Every method, every chant, every suspicious drone-mounted cross. If she’s going to fight devils with firmware, I want to approve the update."

"And Vestal?"

"Oh, Vestal’s brilliant. Mad, but brilliant. Tell her to stop flirting with damnation and get me results. And for heaven’s sake—no more poorly written scripture protocols. If I see another line of biblical text signed by Jesus himself I’m defecting to Free France."

Warspite finally chuckled. "Understood, Your Majesty."

Elizabeth leaned back, massaging her temples. "I’m too small for this nonsense."

Warspite, dryly: "You always were."

Elizabeth threw a biscuit at her.

The biscuit bounced harmlessly off Warspite’s shoulder with a dry thwap, followed immediately by a muttered. "Good arm, that one."

Before Elizabeth could recover her royal dignity (or fetch another projectile), the ornate double doors creaked open. The air shifted. A soft breeze floated through the hall, perfumed like a spring morning. The sounds of muffled harp strings—because of course she brought her own background music—seemed to herald her presence.

HMS Illustrious, in all her divine glory, stepped gracefully into the war room.

She wore a flowing white dress that shimmered like moonlight on the ocean. Every step she took seemed choreographed by angels. Her long, silky white hair framed a face so serene and gentle, one could swear the woman prayed with dolphins in her free time. Her figure was… well. The kind that gravity loved, the kind that Elizabeth didn’t have, and the kind that made perfectly respectable monarchs want to commit small crimes.

"Ah, Your Majesty." Illustrious said with her usual reverent and demure tone, curtsying as if they were in the throne room and not a cluttered wartime headquarters. "Apologies for the intrusion. I come bearing… gifts."

She held out a brown, clearly rushed parcel. Elizabeth stared at it. Then stared harder at Illustrious. Then back at the parcel. Her expression was sour enough to curdle milk.

"And what, pray tell, is that?" She asked, already bracing for nonsense.

Illustrious smiled, completely immune to the tension. "A care package from Vestal. Direct from Formosa. She asked that it be delivered with haste and, quote, ‘under no circumstances opened near tea.’"

Warspite raised an eyebrow. "That’s oddly specific."

Elizabeth took the parcel reluctantly. It was taped like someone had fought off three Sirens mid-wrap, and written across the front in black marker, in Vestal’s awful handwriting, were the cursed words:

"How Not to Die and Screw with the Medical Crew 101: A Casual Guide for Idiots, Corrupted Shipgirls, and Anyone With Hero Complexes."

There was a pause.

Illustrious folded her hands sweetly. "It’s… rather blunt, isn’t it?"

Elizabeth gave her a look colder than the Arctic convoy route. "Yes. Well. Subtlety isn’t Vestal’s strong suit. Neither is diplomacy, or manners, or writing titles that don’t make me want to set something on fire."

Warspite peered over her sister’s shoulder, smirking slightly. "Page one says, 'If you feel the urge to solo a Siren fortress, slap yourself and call a therapist.'"

"I am the therapist." Elizabeth muttered. "Everyone’s therapist. Everyone’s governor. And clearly, everyone’s personal doormat for bizarre eldritch med-tech drama."

Illustrious gave a gentle laugh, the kind that somehow didn’t sound smug but still lit a little bonfire of jealousy in Elizabeth’s heart.

"Perhaps you should take a rest, Your Majesty." Illustrious offered sweetly. "You’ve borne the weight of command—and the Empire—for so long. Let someone else carry it, just for a few hours."

Elizabeth didn’t even dignify that with a response. Instead, she stared once more at the cursed package, muttered something impolite under her breath, and declared. "Fine. I’ll read the damn thing. If only to find out what new breed of sacrilege Vestal’s cooked up this time."

Illustrious clasped her hands. "Blessings upon you.*

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "And blessings upon gravity, you walking cathedral. Now out. Before I conscript you into a bikini just to balance the moral scales."

Illustrious chuckled and curtsied again, gliding out of the room like an angel departing a battlefield. The scent of white roses lingered in her wake.

Elizabeth stared at the door for a long moment.

Then looked at Warspite.

"I hate her."

"I know."

"She’s perfect."

"She knows."

"God save the King."

"And his envy."

..
....

Twenty minutes later.

The package was open.

The "guide" within was a dense ring-bound manual covered in stickers—yes, actual stickers—including a smug-looking chibi Vestal holding a clipboard with the caption:

"You dumb, I fix. Repeat until morale improves."

Queen Elizabeth stared at the cover like it had personally insulted her and the Royal bloodline.

Warspite, leaning over her shoulder, already had one hand over her mouth, suppressing laughter.

Elizabeth flipped to the Table of Contents, which included gems like:

•Congratulations, You’re Not Dead (Yet).

•Why Going Alone Into a Siren Fortress Is Stupid and You Should Feel Bad. (Looking at you, Zumwalt).

•How to Tell If You're Possessed, Corrupted, or Just Extremely Dumb.

•Emergency Detox Protocols That Probably Won’t Kill You.

•Medical Ethics Are a Suggestion, same like Geneva Convention.

•What Would Jesus Do? Probably Not This.

•Advanced Heresy: A Beginner’s Guide to Angelic Nanomachine.

•If You’re Reading This, You’re Feral and On Fire.

•How to Fake Being Okay So Vestal Doesn’t Sedate You.

•Bonus: Printable Cute Stickers for Your Soul.

Elizabeth blinked hard. "Is this a… joke? Is this real? Did she write this during surgery?!"

Warspite turned the page. On the inside cover, in all caps, was a handwritten note:

"TO THE TEMPORARY GOVERNOR OF SINGAPORE AND HER TEACUP DOG.
Please read this thoroughly before coming to criticize my miracle science.
Also, please hydrate. You looked dry the last time we meet.
—With love and exasperation,
Vestal."

Elizabeth’s eye twitched. "She called you a teacup dog."

Warspite beamed. "I’m taking that as a compliment."

They flipped to Chapter 3: "How to Tell If You’re Possessed, Corrupted, or Just Extremely Dumb."

A quiz awaited them:

Question 1: Do you hear voices in your head?
— A. Yes
— B. No
— C. It’s the Queen, so I ignore them
— D. I am the voice

Question 2: Is your rigging growing extra tentacles or whispering ancient truths?
— If yes, please put this book down and lie face-first into holy water or just any water, there's no different, Holy water just a scam.

Question 3: Did you recently do something brave, stupid, or both?
— If you answered yes to this, you are 94% likely to be corrupted and 100% an idiot.

Warspite pointed. "That one’s definitely about Zumwalt."

Elizabeth snapped the page over with unnecessary force. "It applies to half this fleet. I need a drink."

Chapter 5: "Medical Ethics Are a Suggestion" began with a full-page image of Vestal flipping the Hippocratic Oath into a paper airplane.

Key Takeaways:

"If it's a choice between the patient’s dignity and not becoming a murder vessel, always choose indignity."

"Shipgirls don’t operate on mortal physiology. So neither does my medicine. Shut up and let me operate."

"Holy water is optional. Swearing loudly is not."

Elizabeth put the book down and stared at nothing.

"…We are in the hands of lunatics."

Warspite gently patted her back. "Lunatics who save lives."

Elizabeth sighed, reaching for her cold tea like it held the secrets of the universe. "I hate how much I needed this stupid book."

She turned back to the page.

Bonus: Printable Holy Stickers for Your Soul.
— "Stick these on your rigging. Each one comes with passive buffs and passive-aggressive commentary."

One sticker read: "Blessed by Priest Of Steel. Forged in the fire of zeal. Powered by petty vengeance."

Another: "Corruption Resistance +5, Patience -20."

Elizabeth grumbled. "I’m not putting stickers on my royal rigging."

Warspite, already peeling one off. "Too late."

Elizabeth glanced sideways. "What does that one say?"

Warspite stuck it to her uniform and smirked.

"Certified Not Possessed. Yet."

Outside the Governor's Building, Singapore.

The afternoon sun was gentle, casting golden light over the stone facade of the Governor’s building. The tension of war hadn’t yet stained this particular patch of the courtyard—at least not until someone opened their mouth.

HMS Repulse was lounging on a bench like it owed her money. Legs spread, sleeves rolled up, boots half unlaced, aviator shades somehow acquired and worn at an angle. She had a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and a grenade in the other—for balance.

"Y’know." She said aloud to no one in particular. "I reckon if you stick two bayonets on a broomstick, it's basically a trident. Right? And if Neptune can use one, so can I."

"Still inventing war crimes in the sun, I see."

Repulse looked up to see Illustrious approaching like a divine swan in a cosplay. Her white dress shimmered, and she practically glided as she walked, hands folded with unnatural grace.

"Oi! Luscious!" Repulse grinned, standing and giving her a two-handed high-five that felt sacrilegious just by existing. "I thought you floated back to heaven after the last sortie."

Illustrious chuckled softly, embracing Repulse like an old friend despite their wildly different vibes. "And I thought you’d be in a brig by now."

"Oh, I tried. The bars bent."

They sat together, side by side. Illustrious with poise; Repulse with both feet up on the bench’s edge like a gremlin at a café.

"So, what’s the chaos level up there?" Repulse asked, nodding toward the governor’s office.

Illustrious gave a peaceful sigh. "Let’s just say Elizabeth received a book so offensive to protocol it may be declared a war crime."

"She still mad ‘bout her height?"

Illustrious just smiled mysteriously.

Suddenly—

CRASH!!!

Glass exploded from the third-floor window like divine judgment.

A small figure shot outward, flailing slightly before gravity took over.

Warspite.

The loyal, dependable, eternally patient Warspite—flying face-first out the building like a yeeted corgi—hit the concrete with a loud, unceremonious SMACK.

Face. Down. Ass. Up. Dignity? Nowhere in the postcode.

Repulse blinked behind her crooked shades.

"…Was that Warspite?"

Illustrious covered her mouth in mild horror. "Yes. I believe it was."

They both turned toward the shattered window above. Queen Elizabeth stood there, practically glowing with righteous rage, screaming Latin insults like an angry Roman senator possessed by caffeine and generational trauma.

"INFIRMISSIMA MENTIS TIBI EST, WARSPITE!!"
(Translation: "YOU ARE OF THE WEAKEST MIND, WARSPITE!!")

"ETIAM MURUS MORTIS PLUS FORTIS EST QUAM TU!"
("EVEN A WALL OF DEATH IS STRONGER THAN YOU!")

Repulse tilted her head. "...Is she casting a spell or having a stroke?"

Illustrious tilted her own. "Possibly both."

Warspite, still face down, raised a shaky hand. "I’m okay…"

Repulse sauntered over, helped her up with a grin. "Damn, you flew far. Ten outta ten form. Graceful arc. Stuck the landing. Proud of ya."

"I… merely pointed out that the sticker was charming…" Warspite groaned, brushing shards of glass from her hair.

"She called me 'Possessed Adjacent'." Queen Elizabeth howled from above. "I AM NOT POSSESSED! I AM ROYALLY PISSED!*

Repulse threw an arm around Warspite’s shoulders. "Come on. Let’s get you patched up. And maybe some ice for your ego."

Warspite muttered. "And holy water."

Illustrious, descending the stairs like a literal angel, added with a warm smile. "Tea, perhaps?"

Repulse reply. "Yeah. With whiskey."

Governor's Office – Singapore HQ, post-Warspite Yeeting Incident.

The room was in shambles.

Papers scattered. Window broken. Tea spilled. A single biscuit lay tragically uneaten, crumbling near the base of a knocked-over globe. Queen Elizabeth stood alone now, pacing in her tiny fury like an angry, caffeinated noble ferret.

She was still seething. Muttering in Latin. Eyes twitching.

"Possessed adjacent. Pah! I AM ABOVE POSSESSION!" She spat, rifling through Vestal’s survival guide again with the kind of aggression that usually preceded property damage.

Her voice rose. "And now Richelieu and that walking violation of nature are performing techno-holy fusion exorcisms?! What’s next?! A demonic contractor?! A SIREN-BLESSED ROSARY?!"

She grabbed a tea-stained page from the guide and read aloud:

"In case of emergency possession, recite the following incantation to cleanse the soul—or possibly open a door to another realm. Do NOT read this out loud during menstruation, Mercury retrograde, or before tea."

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed.

"Oh, grow up."

She read it anyway.

Loudly.

In flawless, angry, vengeful Latin.

The lights flickered.

The air thickened. The temperature dropped five degrees.

A low, guttural growl reverberated through the room as shadows warped, coalescing into a swirling black mass behind her desk.

Elizabeth blinked. "...What the bloody hell—?"

Then, PLOP.

A seven-foot-tall demon emerged. Hulking. Horned. Flaming eyes. Wings of soot and broken glass. Entirely confused.

It looked around the office like it had taken the wrong bus to the wrong hell.

"Uh." It rumbled. "… Who summoned me? Is this Malta? No? Damn, I was promised a goat."

Elizabeth froze.

Then slowly turned.

Saw the demon.

And screamed with the shrill pitch of someone whose mental gears immediately snapped into emergency battle mode.

"DEUS VULT—YOU'RE NOT ON THE GUEST LIST!"

KA-BOOM.

With a wild command, her rigging materialized from golden light—sleek, stately, and very much battleship-sized.

The demon barely had time to register that it was in the presence of an angry 4'10" sovereign with full naval firepower before—

FULL. ROYAL. BROADSIDE.

Shells exploded across the office. Walls cracked. Chandeliers shattered. The tea cart disintegrated like it owed her taxes.

The demon was launched backward through what remained of the Governor’s wall, trailing smoke and screaming. "I JUST WANTED A SNACKKKKK—"

Silence followed. Dust settled.

Elizabeth stood there, hair slightly singed, crown askew, breathing hard through her nose.

"…Bloody hellspawn."

She adjusted her gloves.

Warspite’s muffled voice floated from outside. "Was that a cannon?!"

Repulse, instantly on her feet. "I knew it! She summoned something!"

Illustrious peeked through the now second destroyed window. "Should I fetch someone or perhaps a mop?"

Elizabeth calmly picked up her shattered teacup. "Fetch me a priest, a physicist, and a plumber. Not necessarily in that order."

Then she looked to the heavens.

"Vestal, you godforsaken wrench-wielding menace… this is your fault."

Late Night.

Warspite walked quietly down the darkened corridor, boots clicking softly against marble floors. The building was hushed, the kind of stillness that only came after far too many meetings and far too little rations.

She rubbed her sore temple. "Just drop off the paperwork, check on Lizzy, then find tea and something deep-fried." She mumbled to herself.

The door to the Governor's Office was slightly ajar.

A warm light spilled through the crack.

Curious.

Elizabeth never kept lights on past ten. Her Majesty valued two things above all: the Empire… and her beauty sleep.

Warspite pushed the door open—and froze.

Queen Elizabeth was seated at her desk, in full regalia save for the crown, which rested beside an empty teacup.

Stacks of reports surrounded her like castle walls. Her tiny fingers scribbled in quick, aggressive loops with her fountain pen.

Across the desk—hunched awkwardly over another stack of papers—was the very same demon that had been full-salvo’d out a window earlier that afternoon.

He had reading glasses now. Tiny ones. Perched comically on his long nose.

A fountain pen—clearly stolen from a Dutch officer—was clutched between two taloned fingers, as he attempted to fill out a requisition form for diesel fuel.

He looked like a tax accountant from hell. Literally.

Warspite stared.

Elizabeth looked up, entirely unfazed. "Ah, Warspite. Back from your logistics check. Good."

Warspite blinked. "IS THAT THE DEMON?!"

The demon paused mid-signature, looking sheepish. "...Hullo."

Elizabeth waved a dismissive hand. "Oh do calm down, I gave him a stern talking-to. Turns out he wasn't a proper demon—he’s some kind of an infernal middle-manager from the Tenth Hell Bureaucracy. Strictly admin."

"I process celestial-exempt paperwork." The demon mumbled.

Warspite’s eye twitched. "You shot him through a wall—!"

"And he came back to apologize. And then filled out my backlog of requisition requests in thirty minutes." Elizabeth sipped cold tea like nothing was wrong. "Frankly, I’d rather keep him than half the War Office."

Warspite turned to the demon. "You came back? After getting naval-bombarded?!"

The demon shrugged. "Honestly, I get worse at the Monday morning meetings."

Elizabeth snapped her fingers. "He’s helping us with forms, war-gear inventory, and assisting some of our nerd Department in deciphering the blasted techno-magic hybrid exorcism nonsense."

The demon proudly held up a notebook that read:
"Cross-Dimensional Ethics and Soul Evacuation Flowcharts v3."

Warspite stood there, jaw open, papers forgotten in her hand.

Elizabeth scribbled something with great venom. "By the way, inform the kitchen staff I want proper scones, not those soft colonial muffins they keep trying to pass off as imperial pastries."

Warspite mumbled. "We’re in the middle of a war…"

Elizabeth didn’t even look up. "Exactly. We must hold the line somewhere."

The demon leaned over to Warspite and whispered, "Do you know what a crumpet is? I think I insulted a whole dynasty."

Warspite turned, walked out slowly, and muttered.

"I need tea. Or a gun. Or both."

The sound of heavy boots echoed once more down the hallway.

Warspite reentered the office, tray balanced expertly on one arm. The tray was packed: a bottle of Scottish whiskey, a tall glass of red wine, a teapot (still steaming), several croissants, shortbread biscuits, and something that looked suspiciously like a jam tart someone had aggressively stabbed.

She set the tray down on the war table with the quiet dignity of someone who had completely given up trying to understand the day.

Elizabeth didn’t look up. "Ah, finally. If I read another report printed on French stationary without something strong in my glass, I will declare war on their fonts."

The demon raised his hand with awkward enthusiasm. "Is that… whiskey? I’m allergic to holy water, but distilled spirits are fine. Technically neutral."

Warspite handed him a glass. "You’re still here."

Barry the demon raised his glass in toast. "Bureaucracy never sleeps."

Elizabeth swirled her wine, eyeing the folders in front of them. "Now, focus. Reports from Indochina—Cleveland and Prince of Wales are embedded with French resistance cells near Hà Nội and Huế. Apparently, the Free French are attempting to unify their factions under a singular command structure. God help them."

Warspite sipped whiskey and pulled a chair. "Who’s winning?"

Elizabeth sneered. "No one. Yet. But the resistance is spreading, thanks in no small part to our girls."

She opened one document, its cover marked with the fleur-de-lis. "Report from Capitaine Fournier, says Prince of Wales led a daring ambush on a Japanese convoy last week. Minimal casualties, seized weapon caches, and apparently commandeered a local noodle shop as a forward outpost."

Warspite blinked. "You mean she turned it into a field HQ?"

"No." Elizabeth deadpanned. "She turned it into a noodle shop. They’re making dumplings and resistance leaflets out the back."

Barry let out a deep, gravelly chuckle. "Multitasking. I respect that."

Elizabeth slid another file across the table. "Now this one’s from Cleveland. Says she’s formed a bilingual intel network using schoolchildren, bicycle couriers, and two nuns who ‘may or may not be trained in Krav Maga.’"

Warspite raised an eyebrow. "Is that standard American doctrine?"

Barry shrugged. "Sounds like something my cousin deals with. Chaos and Catholics."

Elizabeth’s finger tapped a large map of Indochina laid flat before them. "They're spreading influence into Laos and parts of Cambodia. If we can supply them through Burma or Malaya, we may be able to open a secondary front—divert Japan attention and free up our Pacific fleet."

Barry adjusted his tiny glasses. "Problem is other party interference. Siren are growing stronger near the coast. That Red Castle business… it’s leaking influence even this far."

Elizabeth sighed, setting her glass down. "Richelieu warned me of that. Something… festering. She says the soil feels wrong. Her words, not mine."

Warspite leaned over. "Do we send reinforcements?"

Elizabeth frowned, then looked at Barry. "You’ve read all this. What’s your read, Barry?"

The demon shifted, looking thoughtful. "Cleveland is doing fine. Wales is running on anger and Earl Grey. But what they need is cohesion. The French officers trust no one but themselves. If we don’t send someone to unify the factions, they’ll fracture again."

Warspite nodded slowly. "So… diplomacy?"

Barry sipped whiskey, visibly pleased. "Or intimidation. Preferably both."

Elizabeth sighed. "Fine. I’ll write to Churchill. Maybe get him to approve sending Illustrious to run air raids from the Gulf of Tonkin. She can bring medical aid, and divine presence might calm the locals."

Warspite groaned. "You mean calm you. You're still bitter about her figure."

"I am not—" Elizabeth started, then muttered under her breath, "…Voluptuous harlot."

Barry coughed politely. "I’m still right here."

Elizabeth gestured at him with a pastry. "You’re part of this now, Barry. Keep scribbling."

Warspite leaned back with a sigh, poking at the crumbling edge of a shortbread biscuit.

"Actually." She said between bites. "Illustrious isn’t available. She’s already under orders to set sail for Taiwan."

Elizabeth’s pen stopped mid-sentence. "What."

Warspite continued casually. "She's making an official courtesy—showing the flag to those American girls that have been blowing Sirens and Japanese fleets into seafood salad for the past month. You know, diplomacy, reassurance, the usual."

Elizabeth stared into the abyss for a full three seconds. Then gently lowered her pen. "So... not only did that woman with a divine neckline and cathedral-grade thighs upstage me this morning, but now she gets to sail into the sunset with a hero’s welcome and a tropical tan?"

Barry muttered helpfully. "I believe Americans call that a ‘PR win.’"

Elizabeth inhaled sharply. Warspite leaned away slightly, sensing the coming monologue.

"And WHO, pray tell." Elizabeth seethed. "Is left to represent the Crown in Indochina? To coordinate with the Resistance? To liaise with Cleveland and Wales? To remind the French they still have allies with functioning navies and table manners?"

There was silence.

Then, almost sheepishly, Warspite said.

"Repulse?"

Elizabeth dropped her forehead onto the table with a dull thunk.

Warspite winced.

Barry did not. In fact, Barry adjusted his notepad and said:

"Well, statistically speaking—if we factor in Repulse’s combat resilience, irregular tactical thinking, and her uncanny ability to befriend civilians, monks, stray cats, and warlords, she is actually the optimal candidate."

Elizabeth slowly lifted her head.

"You cannot be serious."

Barry swiveled his notebook around. On it, in flawlessly infernal handwriting, was a chart titled:
"Projected Operational Efficiency of Repulse: Chaos Edition."

It showed a surprisingly stable upward trajectory.

Barry continued, animated now. "I’ve run the numbers. Repulse has a 78% chance to rally at least two major resistance factions, a 54% chance of turning an Axis-aligned province, and a 92.3% chance of accidentally becoming a local folk hero. Also, she once defused a minefield using only sarcasm and a baguette. That’s… statistically unreplicable."

Elizabeth’s face twisted through all five stages of bureaucratic grief.

"She's a walking hazard. A diplomatic calamity wrapped in a jacket and a bad haircut."

Warspite poured more whiskey. "Yes, and?"

Barry leaned forward with the confidence of someone who once filed taxes for an archdevil.

"Ma’am, if she doesn’t get herself and the French Resistance killed in the first week... she will probably win the war in that region out of sheer dumb luck and overwhelming charm."

Elizabeth sighed like she had just aged ten years. "Very well. Draft the orders."

Barry raised his clawed hand. "Already done. Printed. Translated. Sealed. I also booked her passage on a escort transport. It leaves in five hours."

Warspite snorted into her tea.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at the demon. "You’re far too competent for someone who smells like sulfur and failed communion wine."

Barry beamed with pride. "I strive to serve, Your Majesty."

Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, scowling. "f she ends up accidentally marrying a Vietnamese freedom fighter and starts a revolution-within-a-revolution, I’m blaming you."

Barry paused, then added a note in his book:

Contingency Plan #47: Repulse Forms Guerrilla Monarchy. Prepare coronation cake.

....
.......

Somewhere near Huế, French Indochina, Jungle Resistance Outpost.

It was well past dusk. The thick Indochina air hung heavy with smoke, steam, and incense. Prince of Wales, sitting cross-legged under a patched tarp, was halfway through reading a coded message, sipping lemongrass tea with dignified suffering.

Cleveland barged into the tent, still wearing her baseball cap backward and holding a half-open report folder.

"Wales! I just got a message from Singapore! They’re sending us support!"

Wales looked up with regal calm. "Splendid. Is it Illustrious? Warspite, perhaps?"

Cleveland scratched her head. "No, uh… it's Repulse."

There was a long pause.

A chill wind somehow swept through the sealed tent.

Wales’ teacup rattled in its saucer. "Repulse."

"She’s already en route." Cleveland confirmed, flopping into a bamboo chair. "ETA two days. She’s bringing arms, tea, and allegedly—three crates of novelty Union Jack sunglasses."

Wales exhaled slowly, clutching her temple. "I fear for the stability of the region."

Just then, a faint, ghastly shimmer flickered in the shadows. A floating head with glowing red eyes peeked into the tent—Krasue, the ghostly, disembodied woman of the night.

"Miss Wales." She whispered. "Your tea is cold."

"Oh, thank you, dear." Wales replied primly, handing the cup over. "Cleveland, you’ve met Krasue, yes?"

Cleveland blinked. "Still can't used to see that."

"Yeah, bug She’s helping us secure jungle trails." Wales said casually. "Also quite good at reconnaissance. No one notices a floating ghost head at night around here. It’s rather normal."

Another spirit—Ma Da, the shy forest ghost—emerged from the shadows, offering an intel scroll made of banana leaves and ghostly mist.

Cleveland leaned back, mildly overwhelmed. "Y’know, I thought I already used to weird, but this is... spiritual as hell."

Krasue, floating nearby, muttered ominously. "We sense chaos approaching."

Cleveland narrowed her eyes. "You mean the Sirens?"

"No…" Krasue whispered. "A louder chaos. Wearing aviators and chewing bubblegum."

Wales sighed and stood up, brushing off her skirt. "That confirms it. She’s really coming."

Cleveland flipped the next page in her report. "Well, according to this, Repulse once ‘liberated’ a nightclub in Saigon before it was even occupied. She said it was ‘preemptive morale engineering.’"

Ma Da blinked with quiet wonder. "Your ally sounds like a shaman."

"No." Wales said wearily. "She’s a very specific kind of British disaster."

Krasue hovered slightly higher. "Shall we prepare protection wards?"

"Yes, please." Wales said without irony. "For our allies. Not the enemy."

TBC