Rowan walked toward the staging grounds like a man marching to the gallows, eyes hollow, shirt collar limp, and Lightning floating solemnly beside him like a spectral pallbearer.
The marble courtyards and leafy walkways of Avalon Naval Institute had never felt so long.
Nor so loud. Not with footsteps. But with whispers.
"Two freshmen are gonna duel."
"Today?! That's nuts."
"Like, official? On orientation day?"
Rowan winced and tried to keep his head down, but the tide of murmurs was rising, following him like a wake.
"I heard he broke into her room."
"No, no, he jumped through the window. Like some kind of maniac!"
"Wait, is that even allowed?"
"Apparently, nothing he did was allowed."
"Who is it? What ship is he?"
"Lightning. The Lightning-class prototype."
"That ghost AI? The one that people say that they can see sometimes."
"Yes. I saw her! Just for a second. At the announcement formation. She's kinda hot, not gonna lie—"
Lightning preened for half a second before remembering they were walking to a duel for their survival and immediately resumed frowning. The whispers continued.
"So wait, he tried to peek on Bismarck? Bismarck?"
"Yeah! Caught her in her underwear—just stood there!"
"What a creep."
"Gross."
"…But also, kinda brave?"
"...And he cute though. Like for real."
"Right?! Those eyes? I'd forgive him."
Rowan groaned audibly and rubbed his face.
"I'm dying," he muttered.
"You're famous," Lightning corrected. "You'll be remembered forever. In memes."
A group of upperclassmen sitting on a low wall watched him pass. One leaned over and whispered:
"Dead man walking."
Another saluted him mock-seriously.
"It was an honor, Captain."
Rowan didn't reply.
He just kept walking toward the field of honor.
Where a girl with knives in her soul and fury in her posture waited to break his spine and take his ship.
---
The ready room echoed faintly with the soft click of sealing clasps as Rowan adjusted the bodysuit over his chest. It fit like a second skin, exposing the glowing thunderbird seal above his heart and the circuit traces spidering down his limbs—bare, vulnerable. Every Captain wore one. But this was his first time putting it on outside a test chamber.
The room was stark. Just a locker. A mirror. A bench.
And a whole storm of nerves.
He stared at himself.
"This is insane…"
SLAM.
The door burst open without warning.
Rowan spun, clutching the front of his suit. "What the hell—?! I'm getting changed! Have you people never heard of knocking?!"
The woman who entered didn't flinch. She leaned in the doorway like she belonged there, her coat flaring behind her with the movement, one gloved hand resting idly on the hilt of a saber. A tricorne hat perched coquettishly on her head, her blue hair was pulled into a perfectly sculpted braid, and her eyes—cool, appraising, far too amused—narrowed as they scanned him.
"So," she purred. "This is the foolish new boy." Her accent was thick with British nobility. It made Rowan's ears tingle with the dangerous pleasentness of it.
Rowan gawked. "Who the hell are you?"
She stepped closer, head tilted, curiosity gleaming behind the noble mask. "A boy. How strange. And so brave. Did you really peep on her? The Iron Bitch herself?" Her smile curved like a knife. "Too, too bold, dear boy. I hope she squealed."
Rowan looked like someone had just thrown a thesaurus at his skull. "Wh—what the fuck are you talking about, lady?! You can't just come in here monologuing like some villainess!"
That made her laugh.
A low, purring, positively aristocratic laugh.
"Villainess?" she repeated, savoring the word. "Excellent choice. I like that. Perhaps we'll be friends after all… if you sink her."
Rowan's mouth opened. No words emerged.
She crossed to him in two precise steps, gaze flicking across his sync seal, then rising to meet his eyes—measuring something unseen.
"A word of advice, Captain," she murmured. "Her turrets rotate slowly. Stay mobile. Nobody survives her full broadside. Don't get caught."
And with that, she turned on her heel and swept from the room.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Rowan stared after her, deeply, profoundly rattled.
"…Okay. Nope. I'm hallucinating. I've died. That's the only explanation."
Rowan stared after her like the laws of reality had just briefly stopped applying.
Then—
SLAP.
"OW! What the hell?!" He jerked and rubbed his cheek.
Lightning hovered beside him, her small translucent palm still raised in midair, smug as sin.
"Just checking to make sure we aren't actually dead," she said sweetly. "Because that lady gave serious 'elegant executioner' vibes."
Rowan scowled. "Why can you hit me?! Other AIs can't do that!"
She twirled a lock of glowing blue hair and shrugged innocently. "Because you're awesome."
He glared at her.
She beamed.
"…God help me," he muttered. "I'm going to die surrounded by beautiful lunatics."
"Better than dying alone!" Lightning chimed, chipper. "Suiting synch protocol," Lightning said softly, her teasing momentarily replaced by something ceremonial. "ICS Lightning accepting Captain Rowan Takeda."
The moment the bodysuit activated, the seals across his skin pulsed to life—electric, resonant. He exhaled through gritted teeth as the last of it settled into place and the neural spine contacts clicked. It always hurts, every time.
He was in.
He was the Captain.
"Vitals good. Muscle tension… elevated but within range. You're nervous." Lightning's voice was lower now, wrapping around his thoughts like silk. "Want me to flood your synaptic responses with a combat suppressant? Just a smidge of juice?"
"No," Rowan muttered. "I want to feel it. Even if I get my ass kicked, I want to remember it."
"Oooh," she purred. "Spicy."
A panel slid open before him, revealing a long bridge of light leading to the personal dock chamber. The cradle extended. Beyond it, the warm light of the afternoon filtered in over the water.
Rowan took a breath—
—and paused.
Lightning was humming.
He narrowed his eyes. "What?"
"Oh, nothing," she said, far too quickly. "Just… noticing Hood's baseline lymphatic levels were elevated during that little villainess monologue. Not dramatically—but for a girl that regal? That's basically screaming."
Rowan groaned. "Can you not?!"
"What? You're cute when girls threaten your life!"
"You've been trying to hook me up with anything in a skirt since I graduated!"
"Correction," she said, smug. "Since you almost graduated. We were bonded two weeks before. The moment I activated, I knew my job was twofold: protect your life, and enrich it."
"You're not my mom, Lightning." Rowan groused but there was no heat in, instead he was smiling. Lightning was a pest but she was his pest. He playfully pushed her away from him with his shoulder.
"I could be your sexy ghost stepmom if you'd just believe in love, Rowan." she giggled and draped herself over his shoulders.
"I'm stepping onto the bridge now and if I trip, I swear to God, you're getting a factory reset."
"Promise?" she cooed.
He rolled his eyes and walked forward, the drydock humming around him. The light pulsed with every step—matching his heartbeat.
---
Bridge of the GNS Bismarck
Subsurface. Drydock.
The chamber was vast—cathedral-like in its precision. Cold steel ribs arched overhead, framing a command throne mounted on rails, coiled in hydraulic fury. The space felt like it had never known warmth, only purpose. Only war.
Bismarck stood alone on the platform, her boots clicking softly on the glassy floor, clad now in her full sync armor—dark, gunmetal-black layered over pristine white. A ceremonial cape draped one shoulder, her silver hair bound in twin braids that framed her neck like imperial cords.
Before her, glowing faintly in the air, was her AI.
He was tall, severe, with a face carved from centuries of seafaring legend. One eye was a lens, glowing dim red behind an old-style eyepatch. The other was ice-blue and furious. His officer's cap bore the faded insignia of the Kriegsmarine. His nameplate read:
Otto.
"Captain," he rumbled in a voice like distant naval guns. "The boy approaches."
"Let him come," Bismarck replied, rolling her neck once with a satisfying crack. Her voice was cold, composed—only the tiniest tremble in her fingers betrayed her excitement.
Otto tilted his head. "Are you ready?"
"Jawohl."
"Will you fight?"
"Jawohl."
"Will you defend the name of our ship, our nation, our legacy as the pride of the seas?"
Her eyes blazed. Her back straightened. She shouted:
"JAWOHL!!!"
Otto's face split into a wolfish grin.
"Then let us speak the oath."
They spoke together now, as flaring circuits lit across the walls in response to their synchronization. Power bled into the air.
"We are iron. We are sea."
"We rise not for glory, but for wrath."
"Our name is thunder. Our bones are steel."
"Let the oceans tremble beneath us. Let the skies split in fear."
"We are Bismarck. And we do not yield."
Otto's voice roared as Bismarck slid into her command throne like an empress.
"THEN LET THUNDER THE GUNS OF THE KING OF THE OCEAN!"
Sync: Complete. Status: Combat-Ready.
Bismarck sat back into her command throne, her spine pressed to the sync-plate as lines of light crawled up along her skin-tight armor. Circuit seals shimmered with power—iron sigils etched across her shoulders, spine, and wrists now pulsing with warlike rhythm.
Otto stood ghostlike at her side, hands folded behind his back as if he stood on some ancient deck of wood and salt.
"All systems green," he intoned. "Shall I release her?"
Bismarck didn't smile. She didn't blink.
She gave a single, curt nod.
The drydock shook with a rising tremor.
WARNING. DOCK RELEASE IN PROGRESS.
MASSIVE DISPLACEMENT—STAND CLEAR.
Far below the bridge, the cradle arms of the docking gantry groaned and slid back, clunking loose their magnetic grip. The bay beneath her surged, and water thundered in from floodgates, spraying upward in twin white geysers as the locks cracked open.
The beast was waking.
Bismarck's shipframe—her true body—trembled once, then rose like something reborn.
Fifty thousand tons of gleaming, modernized warsteel. Railguns mounted where once sat archaic turrets. Her hull cut the water like a scalpel through flesh. Twin lines of hexagonal plating shimmered down her flanks as her shield arrays activated, light rippling like oil across chrome.
She bore no rust. No rivets. She was pride made manifest. Nuclear-fueled, rail-propelled, divine.
And still—still—her steam stacks remained. Not needed. But never removed.
A monument to history.
She slid out from her berth, prow first, her engines low and growling with latent wrath. Her wake split the inlet like a scar.
Bismarck had taken to the sea.
The duel would commence shortly and she had no intention of letting that boy get the best of her.
----
The wind whipped hard across the open platform, the ocean stretching wide and glittering like glass under the sun. Below, the surf roared. Above, distant railgun towers hummed with latent energy. And at the edge—facing all of it—stood Rowan Takeda.
He exhaled.
"You good?" Lightning hovered beside him, flickering softly with a faint electric hiss. Her small, translucent form danced on the breeze like a guardian spirit from some ancient myth.
"Yeah," Rowan said, jaw set. "I'm good."
"No really," she said, cocking her hip and folding her arms across her barely-there toga. "Because it's my glowing blue butt on the line too if you screw this up."
"I know that," he muttered.
Lightning floated closer, narrowed her eyes—then slapped him again.
Lightly.
Rowan rubbed his cheek. "Ow! What was that one for?!"
"For dramatic effect," she smirked, then ruffled his hair with surprising tenderness. "I know. We got this."
The wind calmed for just a moment.
"You ready?" she asked.
Rowan nodded.
"Then it's time to say the oath."
He inhaled, bracing himself as the deck panels behind him began to shift, parting like petals. A deep rumble echoed upward as Lightning's true body stirred beneath the waves—her berth glowing with blue fire.
"Right..." he whispered, placing a hand over his heart. The circuit seals along his arms began to glow.
And slowly—solemnly—he began the words.
"I, Rowan Takeda—
Captain of the ICS Lightning—
swear upon steel and sea,
upon honor unbent and burden unbroken,
to guide her with hand and heart,
to shield those who cannot shield themselves,
and to strike like judgment
when the time of reckoning comes.
Where she sails, I follow.
Where I fall, she rises.
Until our keel breaks or heaven calls us home—
we are one."
---
Lightning's light flared in answer—brilliant, electric, alive. Circuit seals across Rowan's arms surged with radiant pulse. The sea itself seemed to answer the words as her hull began to rise.
With a shuddering hiss of rising platforms and magnetic locks disengaging, she surfaced—the ICS Lightning, reborn into open sea.
She was beautiful.
A sleek battlecruiser, low-slung to the waterline like a predator skimming just beneath the surface. Her hull shimmered in cobalt alloys, pulse-lines of energy tracing the seams like veins. Not made for brute force—but for precision. For speed. For victory earned in inches and milliseconds.
Six guns crowned her forward deck—two turrets, each a different beast. The first, a gleaming array of railgun barrels, humming faintly with the charge of absolute focus. The second, sleeker still, a rotating set of directed energy emitters, designed not for splash, but for erasure.
A single rear turret stood sentinel at her aft, a railgun nested like a sniper's perch—silent, lethal, final.
Flanking her prow, barely above the waterline, two torpedo tubes blinked online—low-profile but deadly, waiting for the signal.
Down her sides, light anti-aerial batteries bristled—compact, fast-tracking, built to swat down anything foolish enough to challenge her from above.
Compared to Bismarck, she looked underarmed.
But one look told the truth: Lightning didn't need to outgun you.
She just had to hit first.
The sea beneath her surged, circuits lit in spiraling blues and ultraviolet. Her shield array shimmered into existence—a thin shell of hexagonal facets tracing along her flanks, silent and seamless as breath.
And then—she purred.
Not a roar. Not a growl.
A sound like a whisper behind thunder. A promise of speed. Of storm.
Rowan stepped onto the bridge of the ICS Lightning, breath shallow but steady, heart pounding somewhere in his throat.
The command throne rose from the deck, sleek and dark, shaped to support him like it knew him. He slid into place, fingers curling against the interface grips. The seal at the base hummed to life—his bodysuit syncing with the console in a ripple of pale light. Circuit seals across his arms flared bright white-violet.
Lightning perched behind him, half-sitting on the back of the throne like a smug little gargoyle made of static and beauty, arms crossed under her chest. She wasn't flickering now—she was solid enough to feel real.
"Lightning—full steam ahead," Rowan said, tightening his grip. "Make for the cover of the nearest island. Don't let this bitch think we are about to fight in open water "
Her grin turned razor sharp. "Now you're talking like a Captain."
With a shudder and a hiss of drive engagement, Lightning surged forward—water splitting at her prow like the sea itself recognized the urgency.
Rowan pulled up a holographic map from his right panel—terrain, depth readings, elevation lines. A cluster of rocky islands dotted the near quadrant, just enough cover to force line-of-sight repositioning.
"Time until the starting announcement?" he asked.
"T-minus seven minutes," Lightning replied, eyes flicking blue-white as she scanned alongside him. "It's gonna be tight, but we might make it."
"Good. We need to be close enough that she can't lock us with missiles from her launch arc. If we're still in open sea when this starts—"
"She'll flatten us like a pancake at Oktoberfest," Lightning said cheerfully.
Rowan swore under his breath, zooming in on a craggy outcrop that might give partial visual cover.
"We're not winning an open slugfest," he muttered. "So we don't let her start one."
"Now that," Lightning said with a purr, "is the spirit of a battlecruiser."
Captain and ship sped forward. The game was about to start and Rowan was putting everything on this opening gambit. And it actually all depended on if he had read Bismarck right. He was a new Captain closest he had come to naval combat was playing World of Warships. He'd never even fully helmed Lightning outside of three trial runs. And he hoped against hope that it was that fact that would give him a slim chance of victory. C'mon, Bismarck. Let me show you what we're made of.
----
The bridge of the GNS Bismarck was a cathedral of cold steel and discipline. Her command throne sat elevated, flanked by brass-paneled support columns and red velvet trim. From here, she looked down upon the instruments of war as if surveying her dominion.
Bismarck reclined with one leg crossed over the other, the posture of a queen already bored with the opening act.
Her gloved fingers tapped against the armrest as holographic displays swept across her vision—terrain maps, water depths, satellite overlays. The Iron Shoals were her theater today.
"He'll make for the island in this sector," she said flatly, lifting one elegant finger to a rocky cove to the east. "It favors his class."
Behind her, a deep voice rumbled like a diesel engine.
"You are certain, Kapitänin?"
She did not glance back. "Of course. He's green. Very green. And lightly armored. Any child could tell you a battlecruiser will attempt to leverage speed, hit-and-run tactics, and natural cover."
She exhaled through her nose, almost bored.
"We don't know her top speed," she added, finally narrowing her eyes at the pulsing icon of the ICS Lightning. "She's too new. Barely out of drydock. No official test logs. Her Captain is unranked."
A long pause.
"But," she said at last, tone sharpening like a scalpel, "what's your guess, Otto?"
Otto materialized beside her.
"I estimate top cruising speed between 48 and 53 knots," he said. "Her build is sleek—an emphasis on speed, not armor. But if she overcommits—"
"—She dies," Bismarck finished.
Otto smiled faintly. "As she should."
Bismarck rose from her throne in a single elegant motion.
"Then let us oblige her, Otto," she said, voice like chilled wine. "Let us draw her out. And when the little princeling makes his move, we will teach him the meaning of naval superiority."
She raised her hand and snapped her fingers.
"Battle stations. Load all tubes. Lock all batteries. Prime the main gun."
She turned toward the glowing sea, where the horizon shimmered like a mirror waiting to be broken.
"Let thunder roll," she whispered, "and let him learn the sound of God's disapproval."
-----
T-minus 01:12 — The Iron Shoals Combat Arena
In the command tower overlooking the bay, thick panes of reinforced glass gave a panoramic view of the Iron Shoals. The water gleamed with projected overlays and tactical markers. Two glowing outlines traced across the sea—one angular and heavy, the other lean and darting.
Bismarck was already rotating into prime bombardment position.
Lightning was surging full steam ahead toward the closest island, cutting the water in a tight vector. But it wasn't going to be enough. Not in time.
A low klaxon echoed once, a reminder to all observers: one minute until the battle began.
HMS Ark Royal stood with arms folded, her dark coat catching the blue tactical glow from the readout table. Beside her stood USS Barb, a sleek and commanding looking woman with armsbehind her back, fists clenched.
"You know he won't make it to the island before the bell sounds," Barb muttered, her sharp green eyes never leaving the display.
"I know," Ark Royal replied evenly.
"You know he can't fight her in open water. She'll tear him to pieces. Her guns outrange his by miles."
"I know."
There was a long pause, the soft beeping of vector alignments and environmental calibrations ticking away.
"It's the simplest tactic," Barb said. "You could've refused the duel. Shut it down. First day or not, he's new. Untrained. That's not an evaluation. It's an execution."
"I know," Ark Royal said again, voice quiet but resolute.
Barb finally turned to face her. "So why, Admiral? Why let it play out?"
Ark Royal's gaze never shifted from the screen.
"Because you and Bismarck both underestimate him."
Lightning's icon flashed on the screen—flickering, stuttering. Not a glitch. A pulse.
"She chose him. Lightning chose him," the Admiral said, voice softening just enough for something like reverence to slip through. "Not a veteran. Not a prodigy. A boy who sketches girls with swords and builds models of mecha in his free time."
She turned now. Not to Barb. But to the Shoals. To the horizon.
"I need to know why."
------
T-minus 00:47 — Student Viewing Deck, Northern Observation Ring
A crowd of students had gathered around the wide display panels that ringed the Shoals. It was packed now—new cadets pressing shoulder to shoulder with second- and third-years, the feed flickering between live drone views and high-angle tactical overlays.
And in the middle of it all, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a prizefighter on a sugar rush, was Temper Temper—Captain of the USS Wisconsin, her cropped sleeveless hoodie barely clinging to her hyperactive frame. Her short red hair bounced up and down in time with her and her blue eyes were nearly manic with excitement. She started shadow boxing. Too much energy bundled in her chest.
"C'mon new guy! Give it to her!" she shouted, fists pumping the air like rocket boosters. "Turn her into a coral reef! Let's gooo!"
Another student beside her flinched as she jabbed the air an inch from her nose.
"I'm tellin' you, Iowa class never got to throw down with Tirpitz! Not once! Not fair! But this?" she bared her teeth in a manic grin. "This could be history!"
She bounced again, coiled like a spring, barely able to contain herself. The screen lit up with a feed of Lightning charging toward the island—fast, sleek, defiant.
"YEAH! Look at her go! That's my girl! C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!" she sang, rhythmically slapping her own biceps. "Sink that Teutonic ice queen! Do it for FREEDOM!"
Nearby students backed up half a step. One of them leaned to a friend and whispered, "Why does she sound like she'd date the guy and beat him up on the same night?"
"Because she would," the friend whispered back.
Temper Temper let out a wild whoop as the countdown hit thirty seconds.
"Rookie, you better show me some chaos," she growled with glee. "Make her BLEED, Lightning boy!"
---
T-minus 00:10 — Central Command Tower, Avalon Naval Institute
The final ten seconds dropped like hammers.
Students fell silent. Tactical feeds stilled. Across the Iron Shoals, the very waves seemed to wait.
On the highest platform in the control tower, Admiral Ark Royal stepped forward—her silhouette cut sharp against the glass, coat trailing like a battle standard.
Her voice, when it came, was crisp and clear, transmitted to every screen, shipframe, and soul within range.
"The stakes are known. The challenge issued. When all other recourse fails, let the thunder of guns serve as answer. Fight well, Captains. Weapons free."
T-minus 00:00
A sound like a buzz-saw crossed with a cathedral bell ripped across the Shoals—a resonance engineered to echo like a digital foghorn. It rolled over the water, vibrating in the bones.
And then—
From Bismarck's deck, the word cracked out:
"FEUER!"
Eight missile hatches slid open without ceremony—rectangular bays hidden between her primary turrets. The launch was immediate. Brutal. Precision in motion.
Missiles surged skyward, screaming contrails in their wake.
But they weren't aimed directly at Lightning. No, they were aimed ahead, arcing toward the narrow stretch between the oncoming ship and the island she raced toward—anticipating where she would be.
A trap.
A closing jaw of steel and fire.
---
"Weapons free!" Came the announcement and the sound of the starting horn.
Rowan screamed! "HARD TO STARBOARD! NOW!"
Lightning jolted, her projection flaring with static as the bridge tilted from the sudden maneuver.
"Starboard? That takes us in front of the island—into open water!" But even as she protested, her systems obeyed.
ICS Lightning whipped into a sharp arc, skimming across the sea's surface like a stone with an engine.
"Pop smoke! Deploy anti-air chaff—now!"
The sea behind them exploded into haze.
Dozens—hundreds—of glittering silver threads burst into the air from Lightning's sides, tumbling upward in lazy spirals, each one disrupting missile locks, redirecting targeting sensors, confusing everything.
The first salvo of Bismarck's missiles streaked past harmlessly, wide of mark, chasing a ghost. The second—launched with more aggression—began to spiral in confusion as their signals splintered against decoys and interference.
They detonated harmlessly in the air, lighting the sky like dying stars.
"Torpedo bays one and two, ready!" Lightning barked, still reeling. "You better have a plan, because if she gets eyes on us, she'll—"
"She won't," Rowan cut in, eyes locked on the tactical feed, grinning and panting like a wolf hyped up on adrenaline. "Not if she can't see us."
Lightning blinked, then stared at him. "...What?!"
Rowan turned his grin to Lightning, who felt a shiver in her circuits
"Did you check the weather conditions for today's match? Because I did."
And then the ocean began to change.
The horizon blurred. The winds shifted. And out of nowhere, the swells began.
Crashing. Roaring. Towering waves rose from nothing—not natural but deliberate, conjured by Avalon's Iron Shoals weather control system to simulate heavy storm conditions.
A chaotic sea. Random wave patterns. Just what Rowan needed.
"She thought that first barrage would cripple our mobility," he said, scanning the rising tide. "Bet money she figured she could guess our speed, slow us down, get a hit before we got into cover."
Lightning's eyes widened as the fog rolled in.
"But she guessed wrong," Rowan said, calmly now. "She still doesn't know what we can do. She can outrange us. In a calm sea, we'd be screwed trying to fight her gun to gun at normal combat ranges. So instead, I'm gonna tie our bows together. Let's have a knife-fight!"
The Lightning purred to life beneath them—hungry, hidden, and ready to strike. Making way, straight at Bismarck.
----
On the bridge of the GNS Bismarck, Otto snapped his boots together, standing rigid behind the Captain's chair.
But even he couldn't hide the flicker of concern in his good eye.
Bismarck's grip tightened on the arms of her throne, nails digging into the polished brass. Her voice, when it came, was low. Furious.
"Scheiße." The translated curses didn't do it justice. "He knew," she hissed. "He knew the strike was coming. He deployed countermeasures before the missiles cleared their tubes."
Otto stiffened.
"Impossible. The solution was perfect. We had the angle. The speed. The projected route—"
"And he knew," Bismarck spat again, cutting him off. Her grey eyes tracked the swells now crashing across the arena. The tactical readout blurred, static rippling across it as interference grew. "He moved before we fired. Before we locked. That's not luck."
Outside, the rain began—thick and heavy, pounding across the deck in wide silver sheets.
The swells surged, tossing even her monstrous weight. She felt the warship under her strain and shift as wave after wave bucked the hull.
"A storm?!" she barked, standing. "Now?!"
The screens lit with dozens of false echoes. Rain scatter. Chaff blooms. Smoke blooming into the air. And beneath it all, Lightning vanished like a fox into brambles.
"Our guns are accurate to a millimeter at 24 miles." Otto said, clearly trying to recover their edge.
"Not in this sea," Bismarck snapped. "Not when the barrel rises and falls a meter every second. Not when he's faster and under cover."
She turned slowly, one hand tightening behind her back, the other still burning with conjured hardlight.
"Such a stupid mistake. I didn't even check. Why didn't I check?"
Otto opened his mouth, then closed it.
Because he's green. That was the answer.
Because no first-year boy should've been able to outthink her on positioning, weather conditions, and missile timing.
Because she had assumed.
"Nein," Bismarck whispered, her voice colder than steel. "This isn't just some fluke." Her face hardened as the rain rolled down the viewing glass. "This is war."
---
The rain howled.
Spray slammed across the deck as Lightning darted between rising swells, vanishing into the chaos like a silverfish through surf.
Inside her bridge, Rowan Takeda gritted his teeth, steadying his hands over the fire control holograms. Lightning crouched low behind his throne, eyes flicking across data streams with a manic glee.
"Target locked, Captain."
"Ten miles. Range isn't ideal," he muttered.
"Velocity compensator's green. Recoil will hammer us, but the round will land."
"Good."
He didn't need a hit.
He needed a message.
"Fire one round. Stern railgun. Manual correction to zero-point-four west off bow. One shot. Then full reposition."
Lightning blinked. "That's a warning shot."
"Exactly."
A split-second later, the rear turret of the ICS Lightning bucked—hard. A ripple of energy cracked the air, followed by a sonic scream as a hypersonic slug tore through the rain like divine judgment.
Across the Iron Shoals, in the far shadows of the storm, a single white plume of water erupted a few ship lengths off Bismarck's prow.
Too far to damage.
Too close to ignore.
---
On Bismarck's bridge, the silence cracked.
The impact had missed.
But it had nearly struck home.
Not blindly. Not recklessly.
Just close enough to make her think.
Otto frowned. "That wasn't a blind shot. That was calculated."
"Or lucky," Bismarck countered aloud, voice sharp. But she didn't believe it. Not fully. Her brain parsed the battlefield, the sea, the target vector. This wasn't some coward running into the rain. This was someone—something—baiting her. "He wants us to think he has a plan," she muttered.
Otto nodded slowly. "Do you think he does?"
A pause.
Bismarck's eyes narrowed, staring across the waves at the blank, storm-churned void where her enemy had vanished. "...Verdammt if I know."
But for the first time, her hand hesitated on the grip of her throne.
And that was all Rowan had wanted.
He didn't need a direct hit.
He just needed her to blink.
----
Lightning snarled across the waves like a phantom, chasing the storm's rhythm. Wind tore at her deck, and each crashing swell felt like a coin toss between glory and capsizing.
Six miles.
And closing.
Inside the bridge, Lightning's avatar flitted between consoles like a blue wraith, her voice tinged with tension now.
"We are cutting this insanely close, Rowan! We're threading the eye of a goddamn hurricane and Bismarck's no blind nun—she will see us!"
"I know." Rowan replied, bouncing his leg I'm nervous tension.
"Her guns will kill us."
"Yup."
Lightning spun midair and glared at him, hands on translucent hips. "Do you have a plan?!"
Rowan grinned. It was more sickness than bravado. "Maybe."
Lightning sputtered. "Maybe?! That's your answer?!"
"On the next swell, get ready to launch. Both tubes. Time it so they leave the tubes at the exact moment our hull smashes back down into the water."
Lightning's jaw dropped. "That'll give her line of sight—"
"Just a flash." Rowan argued.
"And in that flash she's going to lock us, track us, and serve us up like schnitzel with a side of 'oops, I died.'" Lightning snipped. Irritated.
"Not if we move fast enough." Rowan said with a nervous smile. "Her turret rotation speed, remember?"
Lightning stared. Then exhaled hard. "You're lucky you're cute."
The storm surged.
Five miles.
The ICS Lightning rose up the next wave like a bullet chasing a heartbeat. Rain blurred vision. The ocean screamed beneath her keel. Timing would have to be perfect—not good. Not lucky. Perfect.
"Five seconds!" Lightning called.
"Open bay doors!"
Steam vented. Hydraulics hissed.
"Three…"
The swell crested, carrying them high—higher than any sane Captain would allow.
"Two…"
"Trajectory locked," Lightning hissed, hair whipping in artificial wind. "This is crazy."
"One…"
"FIRE!" Rowan screamed!
The torpedoes launched, slicing into the air for the briefest second before gravity and physics snapped them downward, piercing the storm-churned sea.
The Lightning smashed down with them—vanishing below the horizon again as Bismarck's sensors screamed with ghost echoes.
---
Inside the GNS Bismarck, the storm battered the reinforced hull, but it might as well have been a calm day for all the concern on her bridge. Bismarck sat poised on her command throne, back straight, chin lifted. Even the sharp turbulence didn't shake her.
Her AI, Otto, barked over the roar of threat indicators:
"Torpedoes in the water. Vector—tight and low. They're using the swells to mask approach."
She narrowed her eyes at the readout.
"Four tubes. Maybe two from each side. At best. A pointless waste of ordnance." A beat. Then she gave her orders. "Full reverse. Starboard lean. Curve us wide. We're not going to chase him—we're going to bleed him."
Otto didn't argue. He never did. And already her engines were surging backward, driving the bulk of her prow away from the predicted intercept path. To Lightning's credit, one scored a glancing hit. The ship rocked and a minor warning blared. Nothing major. Her armor had held.
"Ready main battery. Aim directly in front of our prow."
Otto's artificial eye flickered. "You believe he'll attempt to cross us?"
Bismarck grinned—sharp, dangerous, and unmistakably amused.
"Nobody is that crazy." Otto remarked.
Then a pause. A single, low breath.
"He is." She stood, her boots echoing off the armored plating beneath her as she moved to the edge of the tactical display. Lightning's signature danced across the sea like a firefly on adrenaline. Too fast. Too reckless. No trained naval officer would attempt this in open water.
"That single railgun shot earlier? Bluff. A warning. He missed his timing window to draw us into his main battery. So he fired one shot from the lesser position to make me hesitate."
Otto blinked. "It worked."
"Almost." Her voice was cold steel now, not admiration—command. "He's trying to force an angle. If I chase him, he'll cut across our nose and slip into a shadow where my guns can't follow. So he tempts me to react, to anticipate wrong. He is trying to fight close, hoping to use my rotation speed against me."
A second's silence. Then she laughed. Not cruelly. Not even angrily. Just—
"Well done. You made me doubt." She snapped her fingers. "I will correct that mistake."
----
On the Bridge of the ICS Lightning Rowan wanted to vomit. The rain battered the viewport like God was pounding his fists on the hull.
Rowan stared at the tactical readout, watching the movement arcs spiral into red.
She didn't chase.
The realization hit like a punch. His plan—his whole stupid, reckless plan—hinged on baiting her forward, drawing her nose into the arc of his broadside. But she hadn't chased. She'd seen it.
Shit.
Lightning hovered behind him, her translucent feet just above the deck plating. She didn't say anything.
Rowan swallowed. Looked down at the floor.
Then up.
"Hey, Lightning..."
She blinked. "Yeah?"
"If we've got any shot of surviving this…" A pause. And he swallowed again. "I'm gonna have to hurt you. I'm so sorry. I'm out of options."
Her face didn't falter. No hesitation. Just a flicker of that same quiet mischief she'd always had. And a sharp, crisp nod.
"Aye aye, Captain."
He gripped the armrests of his command throne like grim death. His fingertips touched the glowing seals embedded in the console. His tattoos flared.
"Brace for sudden stupid."
----
Otto was already counting down.
> "Target acquired. Main batteries ready."
Bismarck stood tall at her console, cold calculation in her eyes. Lightning was exposed. Open water. Side-on. Just like she'd predicted.
"Fire."
Her forward batteries barked out one after another with horrifying synchronicity. The scream of railgun shots tore through the chaos of rain and wind, and then—
> BOOM.<
Lightning's sleek frame dipped—hard—to starboard, so fast it almost rolled. A brutal crash followed as white spray exploded across the waterline.
Bismarck's eyes widened. "What—?!"
Otto's voice was alarmed now. "Anchor deployed! Starboard chain! At this swell height—impossible!"
One rod from Bismarck's guns struck high, carving through Lightning's forward deck like a god's fingernail—blasting through her shielding and shredding a swath of armor—but it sailed far above the waterline, utterly missing the core systems.
And then the swell fell.
Bismarck saw it.
And she understood.
Lightning had yanked herself sideways into the swell's collapse. A Crazy Ivan. With a ship. Mid-battle. In a storm.
"He dropped anchor," she whispered. "In a swell."
Otto didn't respond.
Because Lightning was already surging upright again—stabilizers howling, mainline power diverting—and her entire port side now aligned cleanly with Bismarck's. All seven guns—rail and energy—glowed like a neon guillotine. Perfect broadside. Bismarck stared. "He's insane."
Her screen beeped softly.
[POSITION UNTENABLE: Would you like to yield?]
"He couldn't have." Bismarck's voice trembled—not with fear, but with disbelief. Her gloved fingers gripped the brass rails at her station so tightly they creaked. "Who does that?!"
Otto didn't answer. He was staring, just like her, at the tactical display.
The ICS Lightning sat in perfect firing position. Steady. Level. Bloodied—but not broken. Her seven guns glowed with charging energy. At this range he couldn't miss. Bismarck was still stunned. "He could have capsized," Bismarck whispered. "He could've dragged his prow under… or snapped the chain—! It's madness."
Otto finally spoke. Soft. Reverent. "Insanity..."
A beat of silence.
Bismarck let out a long breath through her nose. She stepped forward, shoulders stiff. She stared at the image on the screen. At the boy—the boy—who should've been nothing. At the beautiful, lunatic bastard with the glowing seals on his arms and the storm at his back. And she whispered in bitter awe: "He beat me."
Her hand moved. Slow. Controlled.
And with one flick of her fingers across the console—
> [SURRENDER SIGNAL: TRANSMITTED]
The red glow across her weapons died.
On the Lightning's bridge, Rowan saw the readout flash.
[ENEMY HAS YIELDED. VICTORY CONDITION MET.]
He slumped into his chair. Breathless.
Lightning blinked. Then blinked again. And muttered, stunned: "…Holy shit."
The tension broke all at once. The targeting HUD blinked green. Rowan's seals dimmed from radiant white to a dull, sleepy blue. All across the ship, systems began winding down.
Victory.
Rowan let out a long, shaky breath and slumped back in his command chair, sweat plastering his bodysuit to his spine. Lightning perched on the back of his chair, upside down now, her glowing hair trailing like static fog.
"You know," she said casually, brushing imaginary dust off her shoulder, "you totally wrenched all my sight alignments out of whack with that little death dive stunt." She gestured vaguely toward the sealed viewports. "If Bismarck hadn't surrendered right then and there, I have no idea where those shots would've gone. The Pacific? The Moon? A dolphin's bachelor party?"
Rowan managed a grin, crooked and exhausted. "And that, my lovely blue lady," he said, tapping her nose with a fingertip, "is knowledge reserved only for you, me, and the good Lord above." He closed his eyes. "I'll carry that secret to my grave."
Lightning snorted. "You're damn right you will. Because if you ever pull that again without warning me, I'll put you there."