Ford stood tall behind the lectern, the blue glow of the registry display casting sharp lines across her face. She didn't turn toward the class immediately—she didn't need to. Her presence alone did the work.
"I am USS Gerald R. Ford," she said at last, voice like steel through velvet. "Former frontline carrier, Atlantic Fleet. Chosen. Retired with full honors. I did not leave service because I had to. I chose to come here. To teach."
Her words landed with the quiet weight of a salvo—measured, unflinching, final.
"I was there when the first generation of Captains took to sea. I've seen what happens when command is treated like a game. When a Frame moves without conviction, or a Captain hesitates. Do you know what happens?"
She didn't wait for an answer.
"People die."
The room was silent.
Her eyes swept across them now—measuring, unyielding. "Make no mistake. You may be young. You may be brilliant. But you are not irreplaceable. Not yet."
A flick of her fingers and the registry dissolved into tactical schematics—the shadow of a burning coastline, a Shipframe half-submerged, its Captain's lifeline flickering red before vanishing into black.
"In a real engagement, there is no crew to carry the slack. No helmsman. No gunners. No one to catch your mistake. You are alone in the command cradle. Your Frame listens only to you. It will fire when you say fire. Hold when you say hold. If you give the wrong order—"
She gestured at the projection.
"This is what's left."
A breath. Controlled. Powerful.
"So. Your first lesson."
The display shifted again—schematics becoming silhouettes of various Frames: cruisers, destroyers, battleships, carriers.
"What does it mean to be a Captain? It means bearing the will of your ship. Not its crew—because there is none. Only the soul. And the soul of a Shipframe is unique to each Frame."
She let that hang in the air.
Then, with terrifying calm:
"Treat it like a simple tool and you will be buried in pieces."
Ford stood motionless behind the lectern, her eyes scanning the classroom with a cool, assessing stillness.
"We at Avalon can't determine what you and your bondmate will become."
She let that sit for a breath.
"Some of you will leave this place as soldiers. Others, as deterrents. Some of you will play at being gladiators in televised duels, preening for the crowd while your AI carries the weight. A few will go into politics. A smaller number will try to live like saints."
Another pause.
"And some of you—God help us all—will become famous."
That last word dropped like a depth charge. Not celebratory. Not admiring.
Warning.
"You'll sign autographs. You'll trend. You'll be offered endorsement deals by arms manufacturers, or be asked to star in dramatizations of battles you haven't fought yet. There are nations who will want to put your face on postage stamps. There are others who will want you buried beneath them."
She stepped out from behind the podium, her boots clicking against the tile in even, measured beats.
"But here, in this room, none of that matters. Not your name. Not your rank. Not your sponsor. The only thing that matters here—"
She turned, her presence magnetic and heavy with history.
"—is whether you can command."
Gerald R. Ford paced slowly across the front of the lecture hall like a thunderhead measuring its strike. The doors had barely clicked shut behind the last student before she began.
"We are Captains of Shipframes." she repeated.
Her voice was low. Unhurried. But it carried the weight of launch protocol and carrier decks. Every cadet snapped forward in their seat.
Ford folded her arms behind her back and turned to face them—every inch of her was composed, severe, and radiating a calm that spoke of decades at sea. Her hardlight shimmered faintly around the edges of her shoulders and collar, like the warship in her blood refused to ever quite dock.
"Does anyone know when the first Shipframe appeared to the world at large?"
Silence for a beat. Then, from the first row, a hand rose.
Ford's eyes locked on him. "Yes, Captain..." Then her eyebrows quirked upward. "Takeda. Avalon's new wildcard," she said, and for the faintest instant, her lips quirked like she almost smiled. "Go ahead."
"Two-thousand three," Rowan said. "That's when the first confirmed Frame made its appearance."
Ford nodded. "Correct. Bonus point if you can name the vessel."
Rowan swallowed once. The thing was more ghost story than naval vessel and its name sent shivers down the spines of hardier captains than he. "The X-01."
That got murmurs. Ford's gaze sharpened, intrigued. "You've been reading ahead."
"I—uh, yes, ma'am. A little."
"Then tell the class: what made the X-01 so unique?"
"It didn't match any known naval classification," Rowan said, his voice steadier now. "It was a hydrofoil. Black armor, red trim. And it moved like it didn't obey the same physics as the rest of us. No nation ever claimed it. It flew a Jolly Roger. And in less than twelve months, it destroyed nearly every functioning naval fleet on Earth. Disengaged, then vanished, like it had never been."
The room was dead silent.
Even Bismarck, arms folded and jaw set, didn't interrupt.
Ford turned to the board behind her and pressed a button. A flicker of hardlight projected a grainy satellite photo—blurred, almost distorted. A sleek, angular form knifed through ocean mist, glowing with an eerie red underlight.
It looked… wrong. Like a shadow made of bone.
"This," Ford said softly, "was taken by a dying drone off the coast of Singapore. Last known sighting of the X-01."
She turned back, eyes settling on Rowan again.
"No one ever confirmed who Captained her. Or if she even had one. She was too fast to track, too brutal to intercept. The United Nations called her a rogue AI. The U.S. called her a hostile prototype. Japan claimed she was a myth."
"And you, Professor?" Rowan asked before he could stop himself. "What do you think she was?"
Ford paused.
Her expression softened.
"…I think she was trying to protect someone."
Rowan blinked.
Before he could ask, she clicked the projector off.
"History, cadets, is more than tactics and treaties. It's about people. Every war ever fought was shaped by a name. And every Captain who sits in this room carries the weight of what came before."
She paced slowly again, her boots clicking like the echo of distant gunfire.
Ford let the image of the X-01 fade, the screen behind her returning to blank steel.
"For months after the X-01 disappeared, the world held its breath. No transmissions. No sightings. No more attacks. Some called it a ghost. Others, a warning."
She turned toward the class, eyes sharp.
"And then—came the blueprints."
A low murmur rippled through the room. Even Yamato straightened slightly.
"No source. No encryption. No demands. Just… a download link. On the open net. Terabytes of code and schematics—complete, brutal, and revolutionary."
She began to pace, slower now. Each step measured.
"The designs outlined a new class of warship: the Shipframe. Autonomously piloted. Armor-reactive. Quantum-cooled. Fully integrated with an onboard artificial intelligence."
Ford stopped in the center of the room, hands clasped behind her.
"And one critical limitation."
She let the silence hang.
Rowan's pen stilled against his notebook.
"They required a Captain. A singular pilot, not assigned—but Chosen. Each Frame needed a bond, a connection deeper than machine logic. Something neural. Something emotional."
She tapped her temple once. "These AIs weren't tools. They were… people. People made of light and mesh and code, yes—but people nonetheless. And they would only function to their full capacity if they found a human they could trust."
She let that hang as she walked toward the windows, gazing out at the sea.
"And once those plans went public, the world changed overnight. Nation-states scrambled to build their own Frames. Every power with a coastline entered the new arms race. But unlike missiles or tanks, these ships couldn't be mass-produced. Not because of resource limitations…"
Her eyes flicked back to the class.
"But because they kept rejecting their pilots."
A few cadets looked uneasy. One girl—nervous, slight, with a slim mark glowing faintly behind her ear—lowered her eyes.
Ford didn't miss it.
"For the first three years… it was chaos. Dozens of half-bonded Frames. Proxy wars turned hot. Pirate states with stolen hulls. A.I.s gone rogue after their pilots were killed. Humanity came closer to annihilating itself in those first thirty-six months than during the Cold War's entire span."
She let that settle.
"But we didn't."
Ford's voice grew quieter. Reverent, almost.
"Because during her initial strike, X-01 had disabled every ICBM carrier, every nuclear submarine, and nearly every air-dropped payload system across the globe. She didn't just target ships. She went after launch viability. And anytime someone attempted to use Frames for conquest or open war she appeared like God's own vengeance. And whatever she was—whoever she belonged to—she prevented the worst outcome."
She turned fully, facing them now with the gravity of history etched into her posture.
"That is the world you inherit. Naval power has returned, but it does not resemble the fleets of old. Now, a single ship can move at near-supersonic speeds. Can level coastlines with focused kinetic strikes. Can kill before satellites can react. Traditional warfare is the exception not the rule. Most disputes now are settled by naval duels, not invading armies."
"And every one of you," she said, eyes sweeping the room, "was chosen by a god of metal and memory. Treat that bond with reverence."
Then, more softly: "Or it will end you."
A hush lingered in the room, as if even the walls were holding their breath.
Then—
"See? Told you. You're special."
The voice was teasing, warm, and impossible to ignore. A soft glow of blue mesh shimmered into being just behind Rowan, her limbs folding around his shoulders in a hug only he could feel.
Lightning.
Her presence slipped against him like silk and static—head nuzzling into the curve of his neck, breath cool and ticklish in a way that wasn't possible, and yet was. Synthetic, yes. But somehow... tender.
Rowan stifled a laugh, trying to elbow her away. "Get off me, you digital gremlin."
His arm passed harmlessly through her—of course it did. Her touch was a one-way street. Contact without substance. Presence without pressure.
"I live here now," she declared, legs swinging like a child clinging to a favorite tree branch. "You're stuck with me, Captain Cuddlepile."
Ford, mid-sentence again, paused.
Her gaze slid toward Rowan with the cold patience of a woman who'd once ordered naval strikes from orbit.
Rowan blinked. "Uh…"
And from the front row, someone whispered, "...Is he talking to his ship?"
Ford's gaze didn't leave Rowan.
She stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until the room's attention funneled entirely toward him.
"Captain Takeda," she said, voice steady but curious now. "Why don't you join us at the front?"
Rowan hesitated.
Lightning gave him an encouraging pat on the head—well, the feeling of one. "Go on," she whispered. "Be luminous."
He stood, cheeks pink, and shuffled toward the lectern under the weight of a hundred eyes.
Ford folded her arms. "Ladies," she said, turning back to the class. "What makes Captain Takeda here different?"
Silence.
A few glanced sideways. Others stared forward, unmoving. Bismarck's arms tightened across her chest, jaw like iron.
Then—naturally—
"Uh. He's a guy?" Wisconsin drawled from her desk, a boot propped brazenly on her desk.
Ford didn't miss a beat. "Exactly. And get your damn boots off the desk, Wisconsin. You represent the U.S. Navy, for God's sake."
A snort of laughter rippled through the room. Wisconsin groused but obeyed.
Ford held up a hand, then turned fully toward the class. "Yes. Captain Takeda is male. And nearly all Shipframes will not bond with males."
She let that sink in.
"Ninety-nine point five percent of Captains, globally, are women. That's not conjecture. That's not politics. That's cold, hard data. No matter how many resources have been poured into research, recruitment, or training—AIs choose. And they overwhelmingly choose women."
She turned, regarding Rowan not with condescension, but with professional curiosity.
"And yet—Lightning chose him."
Ford turned, hands clasped behind her back, and addressed the class with the precision of a carrier cutting across calm seas.
"Captain Takeda. There's been scuttlebutt circulating campus. That, unlike others, your AI can manifest herself—visually, audibly. To those besides her Captain."
She tilted her head slightly. "Is that true?"
Rowan let out a groan, dragging a hand down his face. "Please don't encourage her. She already does whatever she wants."
That was all Lightning needed.
A crackle of blue light. A shimmering zip through the air.
She appeared midair behind Rowan, twirling joyfully like a ballerina striking center stage, then darted forward and—
SMACK! A dramatic kiss to Rowan's cheek.
"Mine!" she declared with impish glee, wrapping her arms around his shoulders from behind in a faux possessive glomp.
Then she turned toward the room—blazing mesh-blue eyes locking onto the other cadets—and gave them a fierce little glare, all glitter and challenge.
She vanished in a puff of light, a trailing giggle and the scent of ozone hanging in the air.
Rowan stood there, cheeks pink, trying in vain to swat at the now-empty space over his shoulder. "Digital gremlin," he muttered.
Ford's expression didn't change. Not even a twitch.
"…Confirmed," she said evenly. Then, to the class, "Let's move on."
Wisconsin, lounging two rows back, muttered just loud enough:
"Okay, but like—am I the only one kinda jealous of a ghost?"
Bismarck rolled her eyes but didn't answer. Yamato hid a smile behind one hand.
Ford didn't let the moment pass.
She stepped forward, hands behind her back, her presence effortlessly commanding.
"This, ladies," she said with crisp finality, "is what a bond between a Frame and their Captain should be."
She turned and gestured vaguely at the now-fading space Lightning had vanished from.
"Loud. Obnoxious. And a public menace."
A ripple of laughter cut through the room, nervous but genuine.
"Captain Takeda," she continued, gaze pivoting back to him. "You caused a disturbance yesterday by engaging in a formal duel—with Captain Bismarck, no less. Care to explain why?"
Rowan scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. "Uh… well. She wanted me to give up command of Lightning."
"And you weren't willing to do that."
"No, ma'am."
Ford's eyes narrowed, not unkindly. "Why?"
Rowan hesitated. Then, quietly:
"Because… she's my Lightning."
The room stilled.
"She's special," Rowan said, voice growing firmer. "She's a pest. A drama goblin. A sparkly menace made of hardlight mesh and glitter."
A few chuckles.
"But she's also… my best friend."
He swallowed. "I haven't had a lot of those. Not really. And she's always there. Always. So when our bond was on the line... that insane tactic I used? That was because I would rather have drowned with her than been separated from her."
Silence.
Ford let it hang in the air, thick with quiet reverence.
Then, she turned to face the class again, her voice sharper now.
"How many of you," she asked, "have spoken to your Bondmate outside of combat drills?"
The silence deepened.
Ford's gaze moved across the room like searchlights through mist.
"How many of you," she pressed, "even know their names?"
Yamato lowered her gaze. Bismarck's jaw tightened, unreadable. A few others looked down at their desks.
Ford didn't soften. She never did when it mattered.
"Captain Takeda's bond isn't perfect. But it is true. And that truth could carry him farther than a dozen synchronized formations or memorized protocols."
She folded her arms.
"Remember this: a Shipframe is not just a weapon. Not just a prize. Not a status symbol."
Then, quietly:
"They are someone who chose you."
Ford tilted her head slightly.
"Since you're so far ahead, Captain Takeda... do you know the story of Jessie Winters?"
Rowan blinked, surprised. "Yes, ma'am."
She gestured for him to stand.
Rowan rose slowly. "Jessie Winters was a Navy corpsman. She was supposed to be bounced out for medical discharge—chronic asthma. Nobody. Barely cleared for sea duty."
He swallowed, then continued.
"But in 2007, she made contact with the refitted USS Alabama. And Alabama... chose her."
Ford's eyes stayed on him, unreadable.
"They called it a fluke. Said she couldn't possibly maintain the stress load, much less form a deep bond. But they were wrong. She and Alabama were so close that she changed her name. Legally. Took Alabama's as her own."
He looked down for a beat, then back up.
"It's what started the tradition, right? The first of the name-changed Captains."
Ford gave a slow nod.
Rowan's voice quieted. "She went on to be one of the most effective Captains in naval history. Fifty confirmed kills. And—"
He hesitated.
"—One."
The mood shifted. A chill washed through the room.
Even Wisconsin sat up straighter. Yamato's hands folded neatly in her lap. Bismarck's arms loosened from their defensive cross.
Ford let the silence stretch until it nearly cracked.
"They tried to force her to retire," Rowan continued. "Said someone younger, stronger, better-trained could take Alabama further. But Alabama refused. And so did Jessie. They..."
He exhaled, just a little.
"They scuttled themselves."
Someone in the back gasped.
Ford took the floor again, her tone soft as cold steel.
"They didn't die in combat. They weren't destroyed by an enemy. They chose the deep. Together."
A pause.
"It has not happened since."
Her gaze swept the room.
"And it will not happen again. Because that story is now taught. Engraved. Embedded into your training, your doctrine, your obligations."
She stepped closer to the rows of stunned cadets.
"But never forget what made her extraordinary wasn't the numbers. It was that the Alabama never once fired for anyone else."
She looked to Rowan again.
"That's what it means to be irreplaceable."