She sat with her arms folded, gaze fixed out the window as though she were too dignified to acknowledge the air around her, let alone the absolute catastrophe that had unfolded just ten feet outside. But Rowan knew that look. That perfectly still coolness. That micro-tilt of her jaw.
She heard everything.
Her eyes flicked to him just once. Sharp. Icy. Assessing.
And then she looked away.
Like he didn't exist.
Oh no. Oh no no no no no.
He clutched his bag tighter—shield, lifeline, social chastity belt—and slinked to the third row like a scolded schoolboy trying to vanish through sheer willpower.
His heartbeat was thunder.
Why do I care? he thought, flopping gracelessly into the chair. She's not my girlfriend. Not really. We're not even friends. She basically threatened to take me hostage via frozen yogurt. But still. That glance. That cold, cutting dismissal.
It stung.
Like he'd failed a test he didn't know he was taking.
----
She had, in fact, heard everything.
From the moment the Yamato and he had crashed into each other to the moment Wisconsin's delighted cackle echoed down the corridor, Bismarck had heard every single humiliating second.
She hadn't turned. Hadn't flinched.
But her ears—traitorous things—had absorbed every word. Every squawk. Every innuendo.
She told herself it didn't matter. That it had been an accident. An unfortunate, clumsy convergence of limbs and timing. Not a declaration. Not a betrayal. Not worth reacting to. She'd decided to let it slide. Gracefully.
Dignified.
Because they were nothing official. Because the only reason they were "dating" was because she had miscalculated wind vectors during a low-pressure system. Because he was crazy enough to drop anchor mid-storm and challenge her like a madman with lightning in his eyes.
Because she respected him.
And maybe—just maybe—because she'd let herself hope.
Just a little.
That this might become something.
And yet...
He hadn't even said hello.
No nod. No glance. Not even a sheepish little "Sorry you had to hear that, by the way."
Just walked past her.
Like she was invisible.
Her fingers curled slightly against her uniform sleeve.
She hadn't expected flowers. Or flirtation. But a nod? A look?
She grit her teeth. Refused to look back at him.
She could still smell that ridiculous cologne he wore—somewhere between sea salt and teenage anxiety—and it only made the quiet ache worse.
Fine.
Let him slink into the background.
Let him wallow in embarrassment.
She wouldn't show it. Wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
But it bothered her. It bothered her more than it should have. Because for a brief, stupid second— She'd thought he might be different.
----
Lightning was many things. Incorrigible matchmaker, supercomputer to one of the most advanced warships ever built and a total drama goblin. But what she wasn't, was imperceptive or cruel. So when she glanced through one of her nanite mesh swarms and saw Bismarck cast a longing glance, just a quick one, with the tiniest downturn at the edge of her mouth. Her heart ached for the girl.
Rowan was halfway through pulling out his laptop when Lightning tapped him—digitally, of course. Just a soft brush across his awareness, like a thought wrapped in fingertips.
"Hey, Cap." She said, serious.
He blinked up at her. "Yeah?"
"You need to go talk to her." Lightning told him gently.
He frowned, glancing up just enough to catch a sliver of silver and sharp posture at the front row.
"What? Why?" he whispered. "Did you see how she looked at me? She's furious. I just completely made an ass out of her and me. There is no way she wants to talk."
Lightning didn't banter. She didn't sass. She simply manifested at his side—just for him—a subtle shimmer of soft blue, her face unusually serious. Her voice was quiet. Grounded. "She does." He stared at her and She held his gaze. "I saw her shoulders."
"…Her shoulders?"
"She's sitting too perfectly. Too rigid. As soon as you walked past and didn't say anything. It's girl-speak loud and clear. Fine, it says, if you don't want to talk to me, I won't talk to you." She sighed, "Except her version is all cold and soldiery."
Rowan swallowed.
Lightning reached out again, laying her translucent hand gently over his.
"Just say hi. That's all. You don't owe her an apology for falling or anything. But you can't just let her think you're snubbing her or anything."
The world around him didn't stop. It kept humming—students murmuring, bags unzipping, chairs creaking.
But something in him did. Lightning could feel it. He glanced back down at his laptop.
Then up again.
Toward the girl in the front row who was dating him on a glorified dare, and the person whose smile he had seen once and would die to see again. So, Rowan gathered his things and stepped down to the girl with steely eyes and a Hugo Boss uniform.
He paused just behind her.
"Um… Good morning," he said, voice lower than usual. Unsure. Honest. "Is it… Frau? Frau Bismarck? Is that the proper thing to say?"
She turned slightly. Just enough to acknowledge him with one shoulder. Her face stayed neutral. Eyes fixed forward.
He winced. "Sorry. I'm making an ass out of myself. Again." Still no answer. So he kept going. Quiet. Measured. "I should've said hello when I walked in. I just—after that whole… incident—I was sure you were mad."
Bismarck didn't look at him but she asked, "Why would you think I was mad? Did somebody here tell you I was always angry?"
Rowan blinked then raised his hands, half in self defense and half in confused flapping. "What? No! Nothing like that! I haven't really even talked to anyone besides you and the faculty, at least not anything real. Weirdly, you're the closest thing I have to a friend in this whole place!" His breath hitched. He hadn't meant to say that but oh well, it was true. So he sailed forward. "It's just that I was embarrassed and I was sure I had embarrassed you by association. And I thought… maybe it'd be easier if I just slinked past and disappeared." He hesitated. Then added: "I'm sorry."
A breath passed.
Then another.
And finally—just as he began to consider fleeing—Bismarck spoke again. Not loudly. Not coldly.
"…It's Kapitanin."
Rowan blinked. "Wait, seriously?"
Still not looking at him, she clarified, "Frau is fine for civilians. But within academy bounds, among peers… I hold rank. I am Chosen, I expect it."
He stood there, stunned for a second too long.
Then nodded. "Understood, Kapitanin."
She turned toward him at last. Not all the way. Just enough for one eye to meet his.
It wasn't angry. It was... evaluating.
And somewhere, Lightning whispered, proud and smug: "Atta boy."
He lingered a moment longer than he should've.
Then, noticing the empty desk beside her, he blurted without thinking, "May I—uh, may I sit beside you?"
Silence. Not hostile. Just unreadable.
His cheeks went red almost instantly. "Oh gosh—I'm sorry, Kapitanin. That was really forward. I'll just go."
He turned, flustered, one foot already stepping away.
And her hand shot out.
Not roughly. Not even urgently.
Just a quiet reflex—like a sudden current pulling against the tide. Her fingers closed gently around his wrist. He froze. And so did she.
Bismarck didn't look at him. Didn't say anything. She didn't even seem to realize she'd moved—until her own gaze dropped to where her gloved hand met his skin. Then, almost reluctantly, she loosened her grip.
"…You may sit," she murmured. A beat. Then, a touch quieter: "And your German is terrible."
He glanced back, wide-eyed. And she still wasn't looking at him—but the corner of her mouth twitched, just once, like the ghost of a smile trying to surface through decades of steel.
He sat down. Still blushing. But smiling too.
----
Bismarck on the other hand was dealing with an emotional hull breach, and taking on water fast.
What was she doing? What in God's iron-clad name was she doing? Her hand was on him. Still on him.
She hadn't meant to. She'd just… reacted. Instinct. Muscle memory she didn't have. Some subroutine of longing buried so deep in her body it bypassed protocol and pride alike.
And now he was looking at her.
Not with fear. Not with smugness. Not even triumph.
Just that same dumb, warm-eyed concern he always wore—like he honestly cared what she thought of him. Like her approval mattered.
Her fingers released before she could second-guess herself again. She turned slightly, enough to hide the fire blooming in her cheeks, and muttered the stupidest thing that came to mind.
"You may sit."
You may sit. As if she were a queen in court. As if that wasn't the single most human request anyone had made of her since she came to this damn island.
She heard the rustle of his bag, the cautious creak of the desk as he took the seat beside her.
Still without looking, she added, quieter now:
"…And your German is terrible."
A pause.
Then the faintest sound—his breath catching. A soft, startled smile.
Good. Let him think it was a joke. Let him think she wasn't unraveling thread by thread.
Because the truth was—he hadn't had to come back. He hadn't owed her anything. They weren't dating, not really. This was the result of a refusal of mercy, shouted in front of the entire harbor like they were characters in some idiotic academy romance— She'd yelled at his AI for God's sake. A total breach of decorum.
And yet…
He'd come back. He'd apologized. He'd asked to sit beside her like it meant something. He had said something so stupid and bittersweet and he didn't even realize it. Closest thing I have to a friend... It hit harder than any silkworm missile ever could.
And she?
She had stopped him. Because the sad truth was, it was true for her too. The closest thing she had to a friend, was the boy she had tried to sink on orientation day. This stupid kind, idiot boy.
----
Rowan was halfway into his seat—backpack slung off one shoulder, still trying to will the red out of his face, stunned by Bismarck's cold kindness — when the room shifted again.
A shadow fell across the desk next to him. A quiet girl with an intensity to her presence had been sitting there—submarine class, according to the pins on her lapel. Pale, small, and far too observant. She hadn't said a word, just sat there with her tablet and a sharpness in her gaze that made Rowan uneasy in a different kind of way.
She was about to be removed.
"Hey. Beat it, sonar thumper."
Rowan turned just in time to see the source of the growled command—Wisconsin, standing cockily, with her hands on her hips, grinning like she'd just been invited to a demolition derby.
The submarine girl looked up, startled. "You—excuse me?"
Wisconsin leaned forward, predatory glee in her smile. "What, you deaf too? I said beat it. This seat's taken."
"You can't just—"
"Wanna fight about it?" Wisconsin purred, delighted. Her whole body flared, just subtly—those telltale circuit seals across her arms and jaw lighting with that signature red glow of muzzle-flash warnings. Her hardlight tattoos began to shimmer, condensing across her fists like she was about to drop a shell on the girl.
The sub-Captain blinked, face going pale.
"…eep."
She grabbed her things and scooted three seats over without another word.
Wisconsin slid into the now-vacant desk like a queen returning to her throne, and leaned the chair back putting her boots up on the desk.
"Thanks, sweetheart," she chirped after her, then threw Rowan a wink. "Sorry, pretty boy. Hope you don't mind me third-wheeling."
Rowan opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Then looked straight ahead, utterly defeated. "Why is everyone at this school insane?"
"Hey, now," Wisconsin said, elbowing him lightly. "Only the hot ones."
From the seat beside him, Bismarck gave no indication of having heard anything.
But Rowan saw the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth.
He wasn't sure if it was irritation or amusement.
He wasn't sure which would be worse.
Before Rowan could even begin to recover, Wisconsin leaned over the shared desk with all the subtlety of a fireworks display on the Fourth of July.
"Hey, look," she said, loud enough that half the row turned to listen. "I don't know what you and Miss Fourth Reich got going on—"
Rowan choked on air.
"—but I'm just gonna say it plain." She smiled, wide and proud. "You're better off hooking up with me."
Rowan blinked. "I'm sorry what—"
"The Iowa-class is faster than Bismarck," she continued, ticking off fingers like she was reading off specs on a sales pitch. "I got bigger guns. Don't be fooled, I know this sports bra doesn't do me any favors and I bind em down to be sleeker, but if I let these girls out?" She sat back in her chair with a grin that could melt alloy. "It'll rock your world."
Rowan looked like he wanted the floor to eat him. Possibly the building too. "I… I don't even…"
"And besides," Wisconsin added, shrugging one massive shoulder like this was all just friendly advice, "which would you rather have: third-rate, over-engineered Nazi trash or good ol' American steel?"
A strangled silence followed.
Even the whispering stopped.
Rowan dared a glance toward the front of the classroom—Bismarck's shoulders were rigid, her spine straight as a gunwale, and her hand white-knuckling her stylus.
Rowan immediately leaned away from Wisconsin, whispering under his breath, "You are going to get me killed."
Wisconsin beamed. "Only if I don't get you laid first."
There was a snap in the air—electric, sudden, unmistakable.
Rowan didn't breathe.
Because Bismarck turned.
Not a flinch. Not a twist.
A full, calculated turret rotation. Smooth. Mechanical. Lethal.
Her silver eyes locked onto Wisconsin with the precision of a targeting laser.
And then—soft, oh so soft—she spoke.
"I'm sorry," she said, voice sharp as a sabre's edge. "And who are you?"
Wisconsin grinned, completely unfazed. "USS Wisconsin. Iowa-class. Fastest battleship ever put to sea."
Bismarck didn't blink. She fired.
"Oh. Is that a new frame?" Her words dripped with faux innocence. "I've never heard of it."
Rowan made a sound. It might've been a whimper.
"Bullshit, bitch!" Wisconsin roared, half-rising as the red marks across her collarbones and knuckles flared bright. "My name served in four wars while your crapheap was rusting at the bottom of the Atlantic!"
Rowan flinched. "Ladies—"
But the powder keg had already ignited.
Bismarck rose. Slow. Deliberate. Her own marks came alight—cool blue and silver, crawling down her arms like frostbite and pride.
"My name," she said, pronouncing each word like it deserved a war memorial, "terrorized the Atlantic, du ignorante Schlampe. For months. They still sing songs about me!"
Wisconsin cracked her knuckles. "Yeah. How you fought one battle. Then sank. Like a bitch."
And that was it.
Both girls surged to their feet, hardlight flaring like ignited gasoline—one glowing with the icy menace of the Kriegsmarine reborn, the other sizzling with all the pent-up muzzle-flash aggression of the U.S. Navy's meanest daughter.
Rowan, caught dead center, looked to the ceiling like it might help.
"Lightning," he whispered. "I'm gonna die, aren't I?"
From somewhere above and behind him, her voice echoed sweetly.
"Probably. But you'll die super hot."
Bismarck and Wisconsin were squared up now. A zweihander formed in Bismarck's hands. Germanic and brutal in its elegance, red light made into something wicked and deadly. A different shade of red covered Wisconsin's hands and forearms. Gauntlets with bladed knuckler dusters. And Wisconsin growled "Bring it on, bitch..."
Then the door slammed open as The bell rang and the temperature dropped.
Not physically—but in that visceral, battlefield way. Like a barometer falling before the blast. Like the hush before thunder.
A shape filled the doorway.
And the room—half poised for deathmatch, half paralyzed by awe—froze.
Her stride was not rushed. It didn't need to be. It carried the weight of 100,000 tons of authority and the confidence of a woman who had never once asked permission to exist.
Her name was USS Gerald R. Ford.
And she had not been decommissioned.
She had chosen to teach.
Hard light shimmered off her skin—not the flickers and flourishes of rookies, but the steady hum of a warship at combat readiness. Her command aura wasn't a trickle. It was a storm surge—coalescing at her shoulders like a carrier's halo, visible and vast.
Her voice cracked like a whip through the tense air:
"Sit. Down."
The blast of presence sent a shudder down Rowan's spine—and, to his awe, both Bismarck and Wisconsin instantly obeyed.
Bismarck, bristling but disciplined, snapped back into her seat with soldierly stiffness.
Wisconsin flopped back like a chastised child, but even she didn't mouth off. Her hardlight fizzled out, retreating beneath the surface like a submerged artillery platform.
Ford walked forward, boots striking the tile with unhurried force. She radiated power—not in heat or threat, but in the quiet confidence of someone who had commanded fleets and won wars before these girls were even commissioned.
"I expect conflict," she said, sweeping the room with sharp blue eyes. "But if you plan to posture like children, I will have you dropped from the roster before your marks even cool."
Her gaze landed briefly on Rowan.
It did not soften.
"And you—Captain Takeda—if you're quite finished collecting enemies and romantic liabilities, I'd like to begin."
Rowan nearly fell out of his chair sitting straighter. "Y-Yes, ma'am!"
Ford turned back to the front. She stopped at the lectern, placing a single slim tablet on its surface. Then she lifted her hand.
The class registry projected behind her in crisp, holographic text.
She didn't turn back around.
"Welcome to Avalon Institute," she said coolly. "Class 1-C. Your first lesson is simple: nobody cares how many likes your viral shirtless photo gets. They care whether you can keep your frame afloat."
There was a pause—pregnant, dangerous, and oddly reassuring.
Then, quieter:
"Now let's begin."