Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[Captain Francesco Solari] 

The captain stood on the conning tower of his bright, shiny new battleship and watched the harbor. A squadron of mass-produced ships was getting under way. Some of the Trento class escorting three Conte de Cavours . He shifted his gaze to the command console and regarded his own mass-produced battleship, the borderline arcane interface showing him that there were no detectable malfunctions in the ship's machinery. Everything was flawless. As it should be for the maiden voyage of the next generation mass-produced battleships. The Littorio I would replace most of the old battleships. But this was a- no- the Littorio II; the more impressive variant of the template designed for flagship duties: the machinery was more advanced, giving it a better rate of fire, faster response to commands from the helm and a command console capable of feeding the real-time status of an entire squadron of ships. This extended to the other crew station in the conning tower as well. The central dais the primary command console sat on was ringed in three directions by other panels for fire control, helm and navigation, damage control, and a station dedicated to managing the aft aircraft catapult. In truth, the conning tower of the Littorio II resembled some bizarre science fiction more than any period warship.  

But most of the mass-produced ships shared the same features to a lesser degree; they were products of the Siren war; incorporating alien technologies scraped off the ocean floor and near-alien methods of fabrication bordering on witchcraft to produce largely mechanical ships of various classes at shocking speed. It took two months for the Littorio II to hit the waves from the drawing board. A brand-new battleship ready to define the modern era of Sardegnan naval power! But... why was he here? 

 Captain Francesco Solari sighed with consternation. He was, by all accounts, not a battleship captain at all; at best he could be considered a competent cruiser captain- a convoy man! Keeping the sea lanes open with a fast and maneuverable ship under his feet- that was his area of experience. He knew nothing of lines of battle and floating fortresses, and hardly considered himself prepared to captain a battleship, let alone to test-sail a ship designed for a fleet commander. On some level he knew the Sardegnan admiralty knew this- he had them to thank for his guest. Only, “guest” isn’t the right word, this was more her home than his, after all. He stole a glance to his right and was met with ruby eyes and instant regret. 

“ Mi Comandare~” sang an amused voice, “wipe that frown from your face, for you occupy a place thousands of people could only ever dream of. You stand center stage in the heart of Littorio!” The ruby eyes winked at him. 

Next to him stood Littorio. The Littorio. The manifestation of the soul of the original ship. Well, he knew the girl and the ship were related, and he had heard rumors of rumors of a process called “soul formation.” Whatever she was, she was here and appeared to be enjoying herself thoroughly. 

There was a kernel of truth to her incessant teasing too: many aspiring naval officers would kill to receive command of a mass-production battleship, and most would probably have to; while the same could probably be said of any potential suitors of the young battleship. He couldn’t help but smile slightly at the double meaning. She was a clever wordsmith; he gave her that much. 

He did not trust her. The shipgirls of the Imperial Guard and those assigned to them were an irregular force that worked parallel to the national fleet. It was unclear exactly who could command them, what authority they held and what exactly they were to begin with. They were sapient weapons, as much metal and magic as flesh. But if they were more than constructs... if they really had souls... would it matter? Sardegna needed them for their war, and while he did not like a weapon he could not trust, he understood the mutual interest of the empire’s survival. 

“Even so, all eyes are still on you.” This was true too: the crew of the mass-produced vessel had taken more notice of their guest than she might have warranted under normal circumstances. Not that ruby eyes, long green hair held back with a spiked headband, and an impressive gilded, white dress uniform with a deep emerald-lined black cape and brilliantly shining sword resting at her hip did not paint a stunning picture, but he was becoming less amused with the number of times he had already caught his sailors staring. Oh, but the battleship with the spiked crown did so adore attention... “We await your command.” He was, however barely, able to mask his indignation at the words. Even if he did not know what rank she held, she was part of the Imperial Guard assigned here by the senate; she sure as hell had the authority on the bridge. 

“Let us stretch her legs, Mi Comandare, take us out to sea. If all goes well, this little experiment will bring a new era of splendor to the empire... and to you.” At this, he swore that that accused shipgirl winked at him again. 

With an internal sigh, he began issuing his orders: Set this heading at that speed, these degrees to that direction, get us underway and so on. Making minor adjustments, course corrections and the like until they were sailing the Mediterranean within the hour. And making excellent time: the Littorio class was faster than he had ever imagined a battleship could be. The captain was stunned to see that she was holding at 30 knots- almost 10 knots faster than her predecessors! They were practically flying over the sea! And, he had to admit the ship and the way it cut through the waves were... beautiful. This was what all the droning on about “glory” and “splendor” and “pride” had been about. He had seen the back end of the dreadnought era- cumbersome war machines of pure power projection- castles with rudders and an unmistakable menace. This was altogether different. The image of the sleek design of the hull capped with red and white lines on the bow, almost obscured by the trunk-like barrels of the massive high velocity guns was altogether much more graceful than any dreadnought he had ever seen.  

A hand on his shoulder pulled him out of his reverie and he turned to meet a very smug battleship. 

“ Mi Comandare, its rude to stare.” She almost suppressed a light laugh. Almost. “We’re coming up on the target area. There, you will engage in a training exercise but...I’ve decided I’m not going to tell you what your targets are... yet.” Her smug grin transformed into an amused smirk. 

This was a dangerous idea. Nobody was supposed to be within tens of miles of this chunk of sea today, but it was procedure to be as transparent as possible to further safeguard against catastrophe. But when he raised a hand in protest, the emerald-haired battleship took him by surprise when she grabbed his wrist and put a finger to his lips. 

“There is nothing in the area that should not be here, my recon plane has been scanning the waters all morning. Even so, there is not a standard combat shell on board: just dyed training shells. I want to put this ship through as close to a real combat scenario as possible: it must find, identify, and engage targets without prior knowledge. There is no challenge in identifying what you already know is there, and nothing gained by shooting preplanned targets that was not already accomplished on a testing range for the guns. Trust me, Mi Comandare and play along.” 

There was a tense moment between the two, and Littorio would have to have been blind to miss the varying levels of confusion, irritation, and indignation behind the captain's eyes. But eventually, he lowered his hand, turned back to the con, and barked out orders. 

“Action stations! Be on the watch for any other vessels and get the recon plane up in the air. We are on the hunt for an unknown enemy force.” 

___________________ 

The wait was maddening. Here they were, gliding over the surface of the calm, warm waters of the Adriatic bearing 337 degrees north-northwest, with the greatest guns Sardegna ever put on a battleship with enough shells to paint the Sistine Chapel twice over. And there was nothing but the hum of the machinery and occasional buzz of the scout plane making its rounds. But most maddening of all was his acting admiral of the day-now-dusk. It was progressing into the evening now, and the girl had stood next to him silently, with the hint of a grin, since she had given him his current set of orders.  

“She knows something I don’t.” He thought to himself. And then he had another thought. “Helm, bring us about and set a new heading at 112 degrees east-southeast, and then start steering us in a wide arc progressing to straight southern heading in half an hour.” His helmsman shot him a puzzled look at this frankly bizarre instruction, but set himself to the task nonetheless. This would, gradually, double them back along their track: the captain was looking for pursuers. As the vessel came about from the northern heading, he caught an eyebrow raise from his guest out of the corner of his eye.  

“Good” he thought. It was a trick he used to use while running convoys, just in reverse: rather than a sudden dramatic course change to avoid or shake a superior enemy, he had made one in the hopes of intercepting one-one which was probably tying to catch him too, just chasing an old heading. Judging by Littorio’s reaction, he was on to something. And if he was in his rumored enemy’s shoes, he would be lingering about waiting for an opportunity to trap his prey against the western coast of the Adriatic. 

It would be another hour before he ordered another change in course, this time southwest at 225 degrees. He had hoped to catch his opponents course correcting to follow him. And he was right, the southeastern arc he had taken his ship in had placed him parallel to his pursuers, who had to turn northeast to intercept him before he broke from the coast entirely. Then, the southwestern dash placed them heading straight at where the enemy would now be, assuming they had caught on to his change in course. Before long, the recon plane returned with news. Despite cloud cover, the pilot reported three destroyers and two cruisers on an intercept course coming straight at them on a heading at 67 degrees east-northeast. He took note of the brilliantly painted destroyer in the center of the formation as the lead ship of the squadron, which was bizarre; rarely did light ships lead formations. Solari chuckled to himself over the absurdity of fighting a lone war of maneuver in a battleship. 

“I’ve got you.” He muttered. “General quarters, general quarters, all hands to battle stations!” So caught up was he in the moment that he missed the uncharacteristically focused look on his guest’s face. 

And so, the MPRM Littorio II came to life with activity. It was true that mass-produced ships required a fraction of the crew as a warship would under normal circumstances. Their machinery was much more complex: many parts of the ship work autonomously and can be controlled from the conning tower by way of primitive electronic interfaces. Fire control, fire prevention, engine power and the entire firing array were linked to the conning tower. The only crew that remained were cooks, mechanics, and command staff, plus the aircraft operators. The Littorio II was as much a testament to the improvements in the complexity allowed by the cube-forges at La Spezia, Genua, and Taranto as it was to the changing scope of naval war. But for now, it mostly meant that panels in the conning tower were lighting up and status reports on the ship were being fed back in near-real time.  

“Leave the destroyers to the secondary batteries and set a course at 157 degrees south-southeast. Fire control, give me a target.” The captain spoke confidently. 

The cruisers began to open up at their max range, about 31km. The first two volleys missed, but they had the range by the third; scoring two hits on the deck and three useless hits on the armored belt, painting a third of the port side secondary battery a hideous shade of orange but causing no critical damage 

The green-haired battleship was amused. “Turning away from a few escorts and their charges Comandare ? I must admit, I’m surprised. The light batteries will make short work of those destroyers, and the cruisers couldn’t withstand your main battery at all. Why turn away?” 

“Those are Trento class cruisers, and I happen to have prior experience; I used to captain one. Though I can’t quite tell yet what those destroyers are, I’d be shocked to see a destroyer that does not mount torpedoes as well. It’s also why I suspected that the enemy was behind us, trying to trap us against the coast where we can’t maneuver away from the smaller and faster ships. You aren’t as subtle as you think you are. ”   

The guns of the battleship roared, and the master gunner clicked his stopwatch. A very long minute passed before shell plumes erupted directly ahead of the target ships. A pretty good start as far as fire control was concerned. 

On the captain's orders, the guns fired again, and while many shells went wide, massive red spots appeared on one of the cruisers from Semi-armor-piercing “hits”. By now, the leading destroyer was in secondary battery range sailing due northeast, and the conning tower was alive with the flashes and thuds of lighter gunnery as the small ship was rendered a respectable neon green by the weight of the barrage. One down, three to go.  

But there was a problem. The leading destroyer had laid down a smokescreen. The secondary batteries could no longer see the remaining two destroyers. No one could see them.  

Littorio stood over the command console, the green light playing off her features as her face twisted into a mischievous grin. “Tell me, Mi Comandare ... do you dance?” 

The captain paused for a moment. They were within torpedo range. Alter his course away from the remaining destroyers, assuming they hadn’t launched torpedoes yet, he would be giving them all the time in the world to pick their shots. If they had already launched torpedoes and he did not change his course, this game would be over. On the other hand, the destroyers were probably feeling the pressure of time, their cover would dissipate, and the game would be over for them. Could that have encouraged them to launch their torpedoes with his current heading in mind? He made his judgment.  

“Hard to starboard, we’re crossing the smoke.” 

The ship lurched beneath them as the rudder struggled to get 40,000 tons going at 30 knots on a practically 90-degree course change. 

“Ready starboard-side secondary batteries, main battery shift to starboard.” He smiled grimly on receiving an affirmative from both gunnery stations. They were almost across the smoke screen, and if he was wrong, he figured it would be about seven seconds before he was bracketed by torpedoes. 

7... 6... 

The bow emerged from the smoke screen. 

5... 4... 

The forward guns locked in their targets 

3... 2...  

The ship shuddered as the man battery fired at the brilliantly painted leader of the destroyers. 

1... 

... 

There was no great pounding of 533mm torpedoes on the armor belt, only the comparatively gentle thudding of the unscathed starboard battery exchanging fire with the last of the destroyers. 

Then, Littorio began to clap, and a cheer rang out around the conning tower. 

“ Very good Mi Comandare, you will lead the rest of the ships that participated in this exercise back to port. I’m sure it will be the first of many fleet commands you will be granted. If you would walk with me a moment, I’ll answer any questions you have about what transpired here today.” 

“Navigator, get us back to La Spezia, you have the con.” Then the captain turned to speak over what passed for an intercom. “All hands, the coast is clear, we’re heading back home.” It would be a few hours before they made port, and he was exhausted and starving after all the excitement. 

___________________ 

The captain had followed Littorio out on the deck of the ship, open now that they were not expecting any trouble. This was little more than a victory cruise on their way home, after all. Looking over the railing, he had gotten a much better appreciation for how fast they were going, and it took him briefly out of Littorio’s musings on the future of naval warfare. 

“... critical flaw in the fleet-in-being concept and... you’re staring again captain; you should get out more.~”  

The captain spun around. “Yes yes, ‘the ease of blockade and the rise of air power presents a critical flaw with the fleet in being concept. I pay attention. But what does this have to do with this exercise?” 

“Consider it a proof of concept for capital ships acting as active combatants while still holding up greater than their equal in naval assets; fulfilling the aim of a fleet in being whilst also doing more than presenting an easy target for those who can act on the constant knowledge that it is there. Now, if you wouldn’t mind sliding over, I’d like to join you~” 

This request puzzled the captain, there was plenty of space along the railing. While he was still piecing this together in his head, his back was facing away from the sea, and away from the brilliantly painted battleship slinking up behind the formation. Masked by the sound of the Littorio II’s engine and flow of the water as she carved through the waves, the Littorio had snuck up behind him, and he was none the wiser. He had not noticed the battleship’s... battleship attempting to come alongside his. And he was still registering this fact when the great horn on the Littorio nearly blew his eardrums out. Being surprised by a battleship horn is, by far, one of the quicker ways to put the spring in somebody’s step. A spring that earned a cackle from the green-haired girl she failed to contain her laughter in the slightest. But after a few choice words to his guest, and a few to his helmsman, the Littorio was sailing alongside the Littorio II. 

When he had collected himself, and when the battleship had contained her amusement, he spoke, annoyed: “Was that strictly necessary?” 

“When you make admiral, you’ll understand the value of a dramatic entrance. Consider it just one more reason you’ll remember me~” Ruby eyes winked at the captain. 

“Is that also what the paint job is for?” he prodded. 

She looked slightly taken aback at the question. “ Mi Comandare,” she purred, “have you never sailed alongside the Imperial Guard before?”  

He turned away from his aghast guest and leaned over the railing so she could not see his smile. “You mean the parade fleet they keep moored at Taranto for the propaganda films? I can’t say I’ve seen them. Never watch the propaganda either, come to think of it. Only ever caught it on the radio out on patrol.” 

He could practically hear the indignant cogs turning in the head of that red-eyed she-demon of the senate. But before she could speak, another voice called up to them from somewhere below. A much younger voice... 

“That’s no way to talk to your superior!” 

The captain spun around and peered over the guard rail, only to narrowly avoid the mass of blond hair and green cloth that was now sailing through the air above him from the setting sun. He turned, again, to face his new guest, who had landed cleanly next to Littorio; and took in her details. She was wearing a dark green tricorn with her blonde hair curled inward and she had lighter purple eyes. White epaulets adorned the shoulders of her coat which hung loosely over her evergreen uniform. She was much younger in appearance than Littorio, at least, much smaller in stature. Most notable of all however, was the antique firearm slung over her shoulder. He wracked his brain. She looked like she had stepped out of the pages of a history book. It was almost like she was trying to emulate one of those... 

“Carabiniere on deck! Salutations captain!” And he could not help but smile at her enthusiasm, even if the shock of her sudden appearance hadn’t quite worn off yet. 

“At ease, Carabiniere, and welcome aboard. It is a rare honor to host one of the Imperial Guard, let alone two. To what do I owe your visit?” He hoped he was keeping the wariness out of his voice. This was unusual and the alarm bells in his head were blaring. The last thirteen years of his career had gone by without a visit from Sardegna’s favorite weapons. He knew of Littorio from the propaganda reels and newspapers, but he did not know this Carabiniere. He had seen her before; she was always in the background when “the eternal flagship” gave an address, but he knew nothing about her. 

“I wanted to meet the captain who messed up my paint job.” She stepped towards him and offered a handshake. 

He cautiously shook her gloved hand and began to connect the dots. There had been a destroyer painted in a similar style to the Littorio among the small fleet he faced in the exercise. That answered the question about the odd destroyer, but it posed a few more. He was unaware of any precedent for normal humans to be pitted against shipgirls in naval exercises. Changing naval doctrines, new waters being tested in technology and training. What was going on back there in Sardegna? The captain snapped back to the present. 

“You were... you are the painted destroyer... I was wondering what that was about. They had me staring down the barrels of the imperial guard...” He shot a look over at Littorio. “So that is why you kept quiet about the exercise. This whole circumstance is absurd.” 

“You worry too much, mi Comandare, it is really all so simple: the Eternal Flagship wanted to experiment with a new strategy, one that the old guard captains would not approve of. She needed someone relatively experienced and prone to a different philosophy of sailing and you, with a few sorties as captain of a cruiser and 26 years bouncing around the lighter ships of the fleet before that, fit that bill extravagantly. She, of course, sent her breathtaking sister as an observer and chose her young aide de camp here as your dance partner.” Littorio spoke almost as if she was bored, but kept her usual sly grin. 

Carabiniere on the other hand, was smiling broadly and barely containing her enthusiasm. “How did you know where I was? How did you guess where we were moving? What kind of crazy move was crossing my smoke?” She was obviously caught up in the afterglow of the exercise.  

“ Carabiniere ~” sang the battleship, placing a hand on each of her shoulders to steady her, “you’ll hear all about this from Veneto, for now, I’d like you to go compile your half of the report so that we can submit them together as soon as we return.” 

Carabiniere snapped to attention saluted Littorio, and made a quick bow towards the captain. “Aye aye admiral, I’ll compile my report and return to La Spezia. Veneto will want to speak with you on your return.” She clicked her heels before launching herself back over the railing and gliding across the water back to her ship.  

Littorio and the captain watched her go. The restless mind of the captain had almost begun to wander when a slap on his back brought him out of his reverie. And who else could it have been other than his acting admiral... 

“ Mi Comandare~ you seem to have left quite the impression on young Carabiniere with your little dance. And you have also made quite an impression on me as well...” the grin on the battleship's face told him that he was not as subtle as he might have wished, and he was probably, in fact, blushing at least a little. Satisfied that he knew that she knew, she continued; “You will have my personal recommendation to stay on as captain of this vessel. When the admiralty board approves your posting, which they will; I, Littorio, will see to it, you will be the first captain of this new age of warfare.” As she said this, she held her arms out to the side and slowly spun around, gesturing to both the ship and the small fleet that had been traveling with it. 

Unbeknownst to him, the Littorio II was the only mass production ship designed to command other mass production ships; this had not been tested for at all during the exercise against Carabiniere. But Littorio knew a lot of things this freshly minted battleship captain did not. Sardegna needed an edge, and mass production ships presented an opportunity: there were only two tried and true ways of commanding mass-produced ships; these involved either a rudimentary form of programming or by synching them with a shipgirl’s wisdom cube. If they could overcome those limitations, there would be no limit to the size of their fleet, and Mediterranean dominance would belong to Sardegna at least! 

But the captain was none the wiser at the moment; and the shock from the battleship's words began to fade. Eventually, he managed to stammer out something coherent: “why me?” 

The emerald haired shipgirl put a firm hand on his shoulder which prompted him to turn and face her. He did not expect, and was taken aback by, the echoes of conflict swimming in her eyes. “Because the stars aligned for you. The Old Guard of the Empire will rest on their few laurels while its glory fades, and the ambitious generation that is just entering service now does not understand what the empire represents. Our senate debates endlessly while the dream it still barely represents withers on the vine while our emperor is sidelined in favor of shortsighted populists who-” A hiss of discomfort refocused her thoughts: as she had spoken, her grip on the captain's shoulder had been tightening, and shipgirls were much stronger than they appeared to be. 

She muttered an apology and released him but finished answering the captain’s question. “You’re here because you’re what I think the Empire might need.” And with that she turned around, walked to the edge of the deck, prepared to jump, but stood stock still instead, peering out over the water. Twilight had come faster than it should have, and an almost tangible, liquid darkness had sept into the world around this small fleet. Even from the deck of his own ship, the captain could just barely make out the outlines of the ships around him and the darkened wakes they left. 

“What manner of weather is this?” The captain questioned, something approaching concern entering his voice as he practically stirred the air with an arm. It was as though the whole world had become engulfed in an ever-thickening blanket of black fog.  

Before Littorio could answer he saw the horizon, where the setting sun should have been, begin to glow a pulsating red hue. And the captain watched as a ray of light, like a bolt from a furious god, cut through the heavy fog like a lance and struck one of the cruisers. A wave of light and heat emanated from the explosion; had that ship been armed with proper ammunition the magazine would have exploded. Instead, the powder and primer burst into flames and began to engulf her. The flames licked experimentally at the darkness and cast the squadron into stunning relief while illuminating their situation: Of the seven ships present, only the Littorio herself and Carabiniere might be equipped for battle and one of the cruisers wasn’t long for this world.  

One thought echoed in his mind: Sirens, here?   

Littorio managed to overcome the shock first and turned to him, the fire casting an ominous glint in her eyes as she spoke. “Mi comandare, this shouldn’t be but... we’re in a mirror sea. None of your ships are prepared for battle. I will take Carabiniere, and we will handle the Siren squadron.” 

At that, she effortlessly leapt the distance from to her own ship, which was already turning from the formation and heading straight towards the Siren Squadron.  

The Captain began sprinting back towards the door to the conning tower when a tentacle shot out of the impossible darkness and bound him about the waist before tearing him from the deck of the ship and depositing him on one of the catwalks atop the Littorio II’s superstructure. Standing atop the conning tower roof near to him was two thirds eldritch horror and one third strange girl. 

The creature spoke in an impossible, multilayered voice. “ And here I thought she would never leave...”  

A tentacle shot out and restrained the Captain’s hand as he grabbed for his sidearm. 

“Well well well, Captain. You are not the fly we are trying to catch. But you are not what we expected either.”  

One of her larger tentacles wrapped slowly around his torso before pulling the captain in. The siren held him so close he could see the corners of her mouth turn upwards, as though amused with his awestruck state. 

“ But I see you now, and I for one cannot wait to see what you do. Only, we cannot have you interfering with the coming reenactment...”   

As she said this, the tentacle around his chest began to tighten, and he could feel the strain on his body. And his ribs began to break. The captain shrieked in agony as a sequence of audible cracks told that at least three of his ribs were snapped.  

The siren seemed to be enjoying herself until gunfire from a lower catwalk brought her attention to two of his officers. They had their handguns drawn and were firing up at the siren through the murk, the only illumination coming from dull yellow lights from the siren’s own rigging. A tentacle shot down and swept them both off their feet. 

“ It seems I’m an unwanted guest. I can take a hint. But before I go, I have one favor to ask of you." The captain felt rather than saw the sucker clamp down on one of his eyes. “ Do keep an eye on your green-haired friend for me...who knows what trouble she might get into.” With a pop and a thud, he fell crashing down onto the catwalk. The siren was gone.  

Chapter Text

Four weeks later 

Taranto Harbor 

[Littorio] 

“On my path of conquest, having yet to witness the light of dawn that I seeked, I found myself lost deep in the woodlands; dim, dark, and dreary. Entombed within the darkness of those dense copses, I stood alone, trembling with fear, and I could do naught but curse myself for my ignorance and my foolishness. O, when did I stray from the path of righteousness? How much time has passed?”  

Littorio awoke in a cold sweat. Breathing heavily, she stared at the ceiling of her quarters. While they were more spacious than normal crew quarters, they were hardly luxurious. She was a warship after all; a glorious warship, but a warship all the same. And even then... 

“How much time indeed...” she muttered softly, almost absentmindedly before letting out a dry and mirthless laugh. 

 She rolled over, wincing before looking out the window. Not enough. For a proper rest, or anything else for that matter. It was early, too early: the sun had not even begun to peek over the horizon. Slowly, gingerly, she sat up and swung her legs to her bedside. The air raid on Taranto had swept her off her feet in more than just one way. Both the splendor she witnessed during her battle with the armored carrier Illustrious, and the complete loss of her rudder and steering gear during the action had left their marks on her.  

And right now, she was feeling the latter more. It was, frankly, miraculous she was able to limp to the ‘Jewel of Calabria’ in time for the battle. The Pugliese system was, no doubt, to thank for this; it was why she wasn’t in a wheelchair from Taranto at any rate. She absentmindedly ran her hands over a few of the bruises and scars from the previous week’s battles before steeling herself and rising to her feet. 

She hissed a curse in Italian, staggered over to her sink and splashed cold water on her face, staring at herself in the mirror. “Did I stray from the path of righteousness in my pursuit of glory?” she asked her reflection. “Did I do the right thing?” She knew the senate was meeting soon to discuss the gambit made at Calabria and the political ramifications of the resulting defeat. She shook her head. “History has shown us time and time again that the fruit left for those who blindly place their faith in others is bitter indeed. And Senators are not exempt.” 

The senate had been too divided for too long and something needed to be done. She had moved forward without consulting the senate. She had pressured her flagship, her own sister no less, into forcing a confrontation against the Royal Navy under the flag of truce. And yet “Where was the glory in that?” she sighed. And soon, the consequences of her actions will be made apparent. 

The ruby-eyed battleship stood at that mirror for a long while, mulling the matter over in her head. She wasn’t accustomed to this feeling, this... uncertainty. She could see it swimming behind her own eyes: doubt. The very thing she had lambasted both the senate and her sister for a thousand times. Littorio slammed her fist down on the counter, remembering the words from the dream. “Is that all I can do? Curse myself for ignorance and foolishness?”  

It was then that the first light of dawn began to creep its way up the wall of her room. Looking down, the battleship unclenched her fist and exhaled. She knew that she was behaving improperly: she was the pride of Sardegna! And she could not be seen moping about. Here resolved, Littorio sought out her uniform. So what if it was just barely the crack of dawn? Seeing her up, walking, and in good spirits despite her injuries would help morale as the empire moved forward into the murky waters of tomorrow. 

___________________ 

The slow, rhythmic tapping of metal on metal could be heard as Littorio traveled the deck of her ship in the early morning quiet, surveying the repair work being done on her hull. Going out to Calabria had been like tearing off a scab, and much of the repair work needed to be redone due to the battle. At this thought, she smiled grimly. Illustrious had dealt with the most recent Siren threat, the Royal Navy was standing down, the Iron Blood were apathetic at worst and allies otherwise, and the Iris were still fighting amongst each other. She was eager to get back afield, but their situation was no longer urgent. The pride of Sardegna eyes scanned Taranto harbor where much of the Sardegnian navy was moored and under repair. There was the cruiser Zara and Pola . Then, her own sister’s, Vittorio Veneto.   

“...and there’s Cavour...” Littorio muttered to herself as her gaze fell on the barely floating hull of the Conte di Cavour. The old veteran sat low in the water - a marked improvement since the aftermath of the Taranto disaster - the blast marks below her waterline somewhat visible from the torpedoes that nearly sunk her. Then, it occurred to her that she had not checked in on Cavour since the Battle of Calabria, and, seeing as she had a clear calendar... 

___________________ 

When Littorio arrived at the Conte di Cavour, Cavour herself was already awake; no doubt because of the whirring and banging of tools as the dockworkers and engineers embarked on another day of repairs and maintenance on her hull.  

“Permission to come aboard, mio Conte?” sounded the young battleship to the old. Though you would be forgiven for thinking their places were reversed.  

“Permission granted, Littorio. Welcome aboard what is left of my ship.” Cavour called back, making little effort to disguise her bitterness towards her situation. But her tone softened, and the hint of a smile crept over her face. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from the mightiest battleship in the Mediterranean?” 

Littorio couldn’t quite keep the smile off her own face at that remark. Cavour, ever the diplomatic type, had a knack for that sort of thing. 

“Come now Cavour, it is part of my noble duty to spread what light I can wherever I can.” The emerald-haired battleship struck a heroic pose. But then her stance and her smile softened at once. “And you, my old friend, could use some these days. I can still see the marks on your hull from my ship, how are the repairs coming along? And... How are you faring? We haven’t had much time to process what has happened over the last several days.” 

Cavour smiled, a strange mixture of humor and solemnity dancing over her expression before she spoke. “I’ve been better, and I’d love to say I’ve been worse but...” Her eyes panned over the harbor: “... I’ll be looking at this scene, beautiful as it is, for a long while.” 

It was then that Littorio’s form eclipsed the panorama of the harbor Cavour was slowly getting lost in. 

“Come now signora,” she said, full of her usual bravado, “I have a clear calendar, allow me to brighten your scenery, if only for a day!” 

This remark earned a smile from the veteran. “But of course. Walk the decks with me, if you would, there is much you might bring me up to speed on meanwhile.” 

And so, she did. Littorio spun the tale of her furious charge out of the burning port of Taranto, the inconclusive duel between the pride of Sardegna and the Moon-cast goddess of the sea; of the titanic clash along “The Coast of the Gods” at Calabria, and the wager sworn to by the flagship of the imperial fleet. And... how they lost. 

“...and now, Veneto is in Rome, pitching the whole thing to the senate to see if she can’t get that... treaty of sorts... ratified.” It was well into the evening now, the sun starting to dip below the horizon, and the two figures looking over the bow of the Conte de Cavour were wreathed in an orange glow. As was the surface of the water. As the waves gently rocked back and forth, the water constantly shifted between near-black and orange in the light of the setting sun. Littorio subconsciously rubbed the back of her neck. She could still feel the heat from the oil fires and hear the screams of the dockworkers. She stole a glance at Cavour and wondered aloud. “Do you dream about it?” 

Cavour’s eyes were locked on the water, as if in a trance. And when she spoke after a lone moment of silence, her steady voice was barely more than a whisper. “Yes. I dream about it all. Most nights it all plays out as if in slow motion. I feel the scorching heat when the depots exploded, I hear the roar of frantic firing into the pitch heavens as well as the faint buzzing of aircraft and the near imperceptible splash of torpedoes hitting the water and... I feel the rest. But would you believe me if I told you that none of it bothered me?” Cavour stood up from the railing she was leaning over. “I can live with the dreams,” she murmured to Littorio, “but what they mean hurts more than a torpedo ever could.”  

She then made a slow, sweeping gesture around the port as she spoke. “I have watched our navy ascend, from nothing, to a glorious armada that struck fear and awe into the great powers of the world. But the memory of our glory is fading my friend. Our future will not be one of a glorious empire of wealth and majesty; it will be Taranto, Malta, and Calabria.” She practically spat her last words as the railing dented slightly from her grip: “I have watched us rise, and now I will witness our fall.”  

Littorio stood in stunned silence. As much as she wanted to argue, she was among the ships who bet their future at Calabria, and she was among those who lost that bet. Sardegnian dreams of Empire were sitting at the bottom of the Mediterranean, buried under the hulks of dozens of mass-production ships and its gravestone was those of its sailors. The Royal Navy took the Mediterranean, the Iron Blood abandoned them, and the Iris of all stripes held them in contempt. What was left to them? To crawl back to the Crimson Axis in shame, or become unwilling members of the Azur Lane by necessity? She did not envy Veneto’s role as flagship. 

“Cavour...” 

“Yes?” 

The fading light illuminated a single golden tear making its way down Cavour's face as she looked back out over the harbor. 

“I’m Sorry.” 

When Cavour turned to address Littorio, she was already gone. 

___________________ 

There was one more visit that the young battleship intended to make tonight, but time was running short. The city of Taranto was slowly quieting down. Streetlights provided illumination and painted the city with a dull glow as she moved quickly over its long concrete corridors. The streets themselves were far from vacant; pedestrians still flitted between streets and shops or gathered outside restaurants and bars in small groups. Taranto never slept, not entirely. 

At length she made her way to her destination: the Imperial Guard barracks, colloquially revered to as Acton . Most of the major cities had at least one of them, and the major naval base at Taranto all but guaranteed that this one was well guarded and fully staffed. Of note to her was the hospital wing of the barracks, her destination. A hospital wing that was likely just as full as the rest of the base. It was a grim thought, and it must have shown on her face as she approached the checkpoint at the entrance, as the guard sprang to attention a bit faster than was typically warranted. 

“ Capitano di Gaurdia Littorio, to what do we owe your visit?” The guard stammered. It was incredibly rare for the face of the Regia Marina to drop in unannounced, and even rarer to see her wearing such a dour expression.  

“I am here to visit a friend. Is Francesco Solari still here?” Littorio answered him, not with the dull military bark of someone on official or urgent business, but with her normal playful banter. Which had the desired effect of smoothing over the anxieties associated with unexpected visits from important people, such as herself. 

“I wouldn’t know ma’am. I don’t have a copy of the admittance roster.” He gestured to another man in the nearby gatehouse, and the barrier began to rise. “If I might ask, was he one of the wounded from Calabria? Last time I was on watch, most of the people still around weren't in great shape.”  

Littorio shook her head. “He was admitted almost three weeks ago. I have not had the chance to stop by, with the sirens and the business with the Royals.” She scowled at the thought of the events of the last few weeks. She hadn’t seen Solari since they carried him off on a stretcher, and she could not shake the feeling of partial responsibility for his injuries. That was why he wasn’t in one of those dreary old navy clinics, but the finest the Taranto Guard could provide. 

“Ah I see, in any case, you can head in.” The guard waved her through the gate. “I’m sure whoever is there will be happy to see you.” 

With that she proceeded through the checkpoint into the guard hospital. It was a grand place, shaped like a ‘T’ with a long top and styled like a classical temple. The base of the ‘T’ was the reception area. And this was where she found herself now. It was mostly vacant, and she had the suspicion her presence was a nonstandard affair, what with it being so comparatively late. But all the same, she was here, and being regarded bemusedly by the receptionist. 

“It is past normal visiting hours, Ma’am, but I somehow don’t think whoever you’re here to see would care much. Anyone would be honored by a visit from the Signora di Smeraldo herself.” The receptionist spoke as though she could not quite make sense of what was happening, though that did not seem to bother her. “Who are you here to see?” 

“Is Captain Solari still here? He was admitted a few weeks ago.”  

This prompted a moment of ponderance before the receptionist began flipping through a large book. 

“If he is still here from before Calabria, he would be in the north wing. Take a right at the courtyard.” 

___________________ 

At the nexus between the three wings sat an open courtyard in the style of an old Roman forum. The hospital was a very modern building despite its looks; no doubt a part of the great classical revival that was occurring in Sardegna directly before the founding of the Imperial Guard. All as a part of a bid to reclaim the ancient splendors, birthrights and glories of ages long past. All this struck her as she passed into that moon-lit sanctum. The young battleship understood, instinctually, the allure of pursuing splendor. Even her name, “Littorio”, called back to ancient authorities and faded gravitas. 

All this was pushed from her mind as she rounded the corner into the north wing of the hospital and was taken aback at what she saw. She stood at the entryway, staring into the gaping maw of causality. The long room was filled with row upon row of beds. Most were occupied: soldiers and sailors missing limbs or covered with burns. The scent of dried blood rolled over her like a tidal wave and it took all she had to keep from gagging.  

She stood there, awestruck, while her eyes panned the room. Most of the men were sleeping, but a few medical personnel still flitted about, and a few curious heads briefly regarded her before returning to whatever it was that they were doing. A few of the patients watched her as she, almost as if in a trance, began to travel the long rows of the injured. She did not recognize any of them, but she knew they recognized her, and every so often she had to stop one of them from trying to salute her. This was not the time, or the place, for honorifics.  

She traveled the room a long while, memorizing faces and trying to picture the events and circumstances that led to their injuries. Sebastiano from Abruzzo, an AA gunner on a Trento, scorched to the bone by an explosion amidships ; Gregorio from Genoa, a cook on a Cavour, lost a leg when debris from when a shell penetration tore through his compartment ; Antonio from Palermo, a loader for a torpedo launcher on a Maestrale was lucky: his crew had just fired off a salvo when an explosive shell struck the launcher assembly, and he only cracked his skull off the superstructure when he was thrown backwards by the explosion; and so many more. She wondered to what extent she was responsible. Some of these men were no doubt here because of a fight with the Sirens. But the rest... they were all from her fleet... 

“So, what do you think?” A voice she almost recognized spoke softly behind her, and she spun on her heels to face it. A single eye regarded her blankly. 

“Captain...” She took in the eyepatch, the cane, and the hospital garb. “I’ve been around this room twice and I didn’t see a spec of you.” 

Captain Solari held up a hand and gestured for her to follow as he began walking back out towards the courtyard. “This isn’t where they keep me. I’m not nearly injured enough to be kept in the north wing. But why are you here?” Captain Solari seemed quite amused to see her playing the fish out of water for a change. 

“In truth, mi Commandare, I wanted to see how you are recovering... and to apologize. I bear partial responsibility for your injuries, and I cannot deny that this causes me no small degree of guilt.” 

The captain began to speak, but Littorio shut him up with a finger to his lips. “I am sorry commander. I only wanted to push you in the right direction, but it seems that all I did was impede your progress.” 

They were back in the courtyard now, and the captain stopped. “That is twice now that you’ve spoken of my fate and your effect on it; once as a foretelling of glory before the training mission that lost me my eye, and now again, as though you’ve stopped it in its tracks. What are you getting at?”  

The ruby eyed battleship managed an amused smile. “Your ‘fate’ has been touched by the most glorious battleship in the world. That may yet count for something.” 

Solari rolled his eyes but could not object. He had seen the way that the patients had reacted to her presence in the hospital: she had touched their lives for the better, however slight. 

“You never answered my first question, Littorio.” 

The smile gradually faded from her face. “What do I think, Mi Commandare ? Actions have consequences, and no matter how much I detest them, they are not things even I can ignore.”  She relaxed the hands that had clenched into fists without her notice. “There are so many places in the world that yearn for light, but all lights cast a shadow, even mine.” 

Chapter Text

Rome  

[Vittorio Veneto]  

___________________  

Ah, Rome; La Citta Eterna. There could never be another city quite like it. Vittorio Veneto, Eternal Flagship of the Sardegnian fleet, stood gazing out over the harbor. A long sigh slipped through her conflicted smile. The city was beyond compare; it played host to a vibrant culture practiced by vibrant people in beautiful buildings long scenic streets. Rome held a special place in her heart, as it did indeed the hearts of all Sardegnians; it’s a birthright, a legacy, and an obligation. 

She pondered this, as she watched ships sliding in and out of the harbor. This city was their pride and what made them who they were. It was the ‘why’ to the empire’s ‘what.’ She stood where the greatest civilization to grace the world had stood, and she did so as a claimant to their legacy. How many others had stood this way; pondering the state of their empire? Was she worthy to stand among them now? The ‘greats’ of Old Sardegna, as her sister Roma referred to the great empire that came before them, cast a long and heavy shadow. And today, she felt all too well the crushing weight of history sitting heavy on her shoulders.   

“My Eternal Flagship, we should get going.” Her shadow’s voice pierced her melancholy thoughts with its staccato cadence.  

Her shadow had a name, in addition to a voice, and it shot to attention as soon as it was addressed.  

“Carabiniere, come here. And tell me what you see.” The battleship intoned to her escort.  

“Erm... as you say, Eternal flagship.”   

Out of the corner of her eye, Veneto observed her companion rapidly examining the port, and couldn’t stop herself from chuckling at the little ship’s misplaced enthusiasm. And after a moment placed a hand on her shoulder.  

“You aren’t going to find what you think I want you to look for. You can’t ‘see’ what I want to you to find.”  

The confused musketeer looked up at her helplessly: “What could I see that can’t be found?”  

Veneto gave her a small smile of encouragement and gestured to the harbor with an open hand. “You can see all the little details, now take them in all at once: what do they mean to you?”  

Wracking her brain with a furrowed brow, the destroyer paused a long moment before giving a shaky answer: “I... was a scout before I was an escort. Beyond Sardegna’s shore is everything we don’t know. This harbor is what I know now but... you’re right, I can’t see what I don’t see, and maybe that’s what I see.” She broke from her trance. “We must be going, Eternal Flagship!”  

Veneto gave her friend a proud pat on the shoulder. “Let’s be going then.”  

The pair worked their way through a few alleys and backstreets until they reached where they had parked. Carabiniere jaunted up to the white car engraved with the symbol of the Imperial Guard; a cross over a shield flanked by laurels, and opened the door for her flagship, who slid in behind the driver's seat after thanking her. Carabiniere who drove how she talked, unfortunately for Veneto, slipped behind the wheel and began the drive to their destination: the Palazzo Madama, where the senate would soon hear her out on the ‘Calabria Disaster’  

Veneto watched the eternal city pass her by, and hints of bitterness began to creep into her normally stoic expression. She was happy the windows were tinted just enough to hide her face at a glance: she had read the papers and she knew the city had already decided her guilt on the matter. Had the colorful buildings that lined the streets on the way to the Palazzo always been so tall?  

“My eternal fl... Veneto, are you alright?”  

Veneto cursed internally. They were there of course, those damn lilac eyes, stealing glances at her in the rearview mirror. Those eyes that saw right through her...  

“I never expected this city to feel so much like a prison Carabiniere...what’s going to happen to me, to the empire, to all of us?”  

“Nothing, so long as I’m your escort.” Chirped the destroyer.  

Veneto managed a laugh. “I wish I had your confidence Carabiniere.”  

Veneto sat stunned for a moment as those prying eyes picked apart her soul.  

“My flagship, if I may be so bold... maybe you should try to forget about the things you can’t see. This city isn’t a prison, and you’re not on death row. You made a choice when no one else would, and I’m sure you had good reasons to.”  

 Veneto started to speak again but was cut off by the screech of the brakes. Too soon, that had arrived at their destination. Before she knew it, her door was open and Carabiniere offered her a hand, which she took and offered her gratitude.   

But before the small ship released her, Carabiniere spoke: “Leave your worries with me. I’ll keep them safe for you until this is all over. Trust me.” She released her grip and saluted.   

“So you shall.” Veneto returned her salute and entered the building.  

She made her way down a long, ornate hallway; she might as well have been walking through a renaissance painting while she began running over what was about to happen in her head. It would be a hard sell, convincing the majority pro-ironblood senate to rejoin the Azur Lane. They had had their reasons, good ones even, for leaving in the first place. Her mind drifted back to her sister endless raving about taking fate into your own hands.  

She was right, admitted a little voice in her head, not that she would ever tell.  

In truth, both the Azur Lane and Crimson Axis were opportunists and extortionists; all great powers are by their nature. The Royal Marksman had not lied to her; they desired a safe and stable Mediterranean. But they didn’t care about Sardegna, they cared about imperial logistics and shipping lanes. And the Crimson Axis was no better; each of them had already sold their own souls to the Sirens for power, the same sirens terrorizing her sea. How much control over its own fate could their fledgling empire hope to enjoy under siren guidance?  

It was then that her thoughts were interrupted by a waving hand and a familiar face. In her peripheral vision stood an aging man in uniform practically sparkling with medals.  

Her scowl vanished from her face. “ Maresciallo!? What are you doing this far North? Hasn’t Sicily been giving you enough trouble since the siren scare?”  

Maresciallo dell'Impero Desi Lombardo gave a hearty chuckle. “You have a very persuasive friend in Cavour, and I’ve always had a weak spot for the old girl and shes had me up here longer than I’d planned. Do you have time?”  

Veneto shrugged. “I wish I had more. Surely, you’re here for more of a reason than Cavour’s diplomatic success...”  

The Imperial Marshal’s big greying mustache turned serious for a moment as he spoke: “Indeed, its more than that. Sardegnian history is about to be made, one way or another.” He plucked one of the medals from his chest and offered it to her. “Take a long look at it and commit it to memory.”  

Veneto took the medal and examined it before the significance of what it was set in: “A service medal for the battle that gave me my name-”  

“-and a reminder of our friends and foes. Keep it, eternal flagship. We both owe who we are to the Battle of Vittorio Veneto, and we owe what we will be too. I believe, young Veneto, this is where we part ways.”  

 And this was true, they had arrived at the entrance of Vittorio Veneto’s ultimate goal...  

___________________  

The Sardegnian Senate- The Palazzo Madama  

Vittorio Veneto stood before the Senato del Regno Sardegna and drew in a deep breath. She stood at the center of the room, surrounded on three sides by the semicircle of chairs that held all the most important politicians in Sardegna. Behind her was the raised platform where the Prime Minister sat, and the massive ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling illuminated the whole room. A room which radiated power: from its expansive, dark wood supporting columns that ringed the room and held up audience platforms to the contrasting scarlet carpeting. Her eyes gradually worked their way over the room, taking it all in. She was here often, more than she cared to be, but the room itself had never ceased to inspire awe in her. This was the focal point of the empire’s power and prestige.   

There was a lot to see in the anything-but-humble room. The myriad parties bickering quietly in petty displays of factionalism that would make any schoolyard on the peninsula proud, the ever-stoic Imperial Guard   who stood watch over the squabbling politicians, green and white statues sworn to the empire, and even a few small banners of office hanging from the balconies to denote the imperial governors in attendance. There were four such banners today, one for Naples, one for Lombardy, and one for Umbria; the peninsular governors, who were almost always in attendance.  

But, waving among them, the crest of Sicily on its diagonal field of red and gold flew proudly. There was no reason for the Island governors of Sicily and Sardinia to make their appearances, and that was doubly true for the three overseas governors of Rhodes, Libya, and Abyssinia: they were appointed directly by the senate on contested frontiers at best and were a form of political exile at worst. They had no pressure to play politics, and the presence of one now was a sign of the times.  

Veneto stared at the out-of-place banner and caught a glimpse of Carabiniere having at her from next to it; enthusiastic as ever. But her attention was almost immediately drawn to the entrance: eight Guardsmen advanced into the chamber in two columns, one bearing the coat of arms of the King, the other bearing the nation’s flag. Behind them walked the Dictator and Marshal of Italy with two of his Palatini honor guard, who exchanged the green of the guard for a deep royal purple. This procession paraded its way around the room once before the flags were planted to either side of the ornate chair on the commanding dais, and the dictator took his seat while one of his Palatini announced him. 

“By the grace of the emperor and the weight of his word, Amadeo Spinola, 2 nd dictator of the empire; Marshal of Italy by decree of the Imperial Senate. On his authority, we begin the proceedings.”  

The purple and white dressed man bowed towards Veneto, who bowed back. But when she lifted her eyes to meet the mans, he seemed to flinch from her gaze.  

So that’s how it is? She wondered internally while drawing herself up and regarded the array of people before her. How rare it was to see them all so focused on something! A shame it had to be her...  

Nonetheless, she began to speak:  

“Friends, Sardegnians, countrymen! I have come to tell you what many of you already know. Several days ago, on my authority as the Eternal Flagship of the Imperial fleet, the Guard Flotilla began an escalation of hostilities that nearly led to, in no uncertain terms, open war against the Royal Navy. A war that would have happened, were it not for the restraint of the Royal Navy’s Mediterranean fleet.”    

This got a murmur from the crowd. The senators knew of the few battles and the attack on Taranto; they had read the reports. Some had made public denouncements of Veneto herself already because of her conduct, while others had railed against the Royal Navy as war criminals for the bombing of Taranto.    

“Members of the Guard Flotilla and various auxiliary navy arms seconded from their usual roles participated in a sequence of actions at Matapan, Taranto, Malta, and Calabria. The first of these actions began under a flag of truce, the final began as a gambit. A gambit to determine where we stand in the world. A gambit we lost. As such, I am compelled to honor a promise made to the people I betrayed on behalf of the nation that I have embarrassed. We must rejoin the Azur Lane.”    

The room exploded in argument and uproar.    

“Since when did ships conduct foreign policy!?”    

“I will not allow Sardegna to be dragged kicking and screaming back into the clutches of those Royal dogs and those Iris swine!”    

“Because shining the shoes of Ironblood while they trod all over us is obviously the key to our Irredenta...”    

“How dare you suggest we betray the only people in any position to help us reclaim the Mediterranean...”    

“-the only people in the  position  to help us is  us, and you’re deluded if you think any of those vultures will ever-”    

“Neither the king nor the prime minister would ever agree to this!”    

Veneto held up a hand, and gradually the room began to quiet down.    

“The Royal Navy had conducted themselves fairly, and I believe them when they say they will welcome us back with no strings attached. No concessions. No loss of our overseas possessions. But there is more. We called upon the Ironblood to help us at Calabria, and they made excuses. They said they could not come, and that was fair; we did not consult them nor ask them to prepare for this little war. But then one of the guard submarines, Torricelli, spotted something on the fringes of the Battle of Calabria. The battleships Scharnhorst and Gneisenau from the Ironblood, sitting just out of view, watching the battle unfold. Our ‘allies’ abandoned us!”    

Again, the room exploded with accusations. This time levied at the pro-Ironblood majority of the senate.    

“You’ve left us to the wolves and now they nip at our heels!”    

“...we’re nothing but a distraction to them!”    

“Better off with our ‘enemies’...”    

On and on the senate bickered in contemptuous circular arguments, exchanging dogma and well-rehearsed talking points. In truth, the voices that agreed with her, or at least opposed the alliance with the ironblood, were never going to win any debate or pass any motion in the senate, but she had hoped they would at least have been loud enough to reopen the question of Sardegna’s political future.  

How long had it been? A minute, five, ten? It could have been a year from where Veneto was standing. But Marshal Spinola eventually brought a heavy scepter down on the podium; a sound that made everyone from most firebrand demagogue to compromising peacemaker flinch.  

“Vittorio Veneto, Eternal Flagship of the Imperial Fleet . Am I to understand that you are advocating for us to politically realign with those backstabbers and pretenders in the Azur Lane?” And am I to understand that before doing so, you knowingly brought our fledgling empire to the brink of war without consulting either the Senate or the King beforehand?”  The Marshal’s voice struck the silence like a hammer against glass.  

Veneto, of course, nodded. “I am. Our current ally has all but cast us out, and we lack the strength to defend our sea alone. And the Royals promise to aid us in just that.”    

 More hushed whispers and quiet bickering from the senators punctuated the silence, a few of the soldiers exchanged glances and fiddled with their uniforms.  

 “You lack faith in our Empire and it’s people Veneto. And for that, I pity you.  Vittorio Veneto, I accuse you of treason, of conspiring with the enemy to sow confusion and discontent in Sardegna, of committing acts of war under the flag of truce and breaking the ceasefire without ever consulting the government. I relieve you of command. You are a collaborator and a terrorist, and you will answer for the deaths you've caused from Matapan to Calabria. Take her away.”     

Veneto stood in complete shock as five of the eight guardsmen moved from the entrances they were guarding and began to advance on her. Carabiniere sprang to life, leaping the long distance from the balcony to the center podium and landing next to her, rifle drawn.   

The world held its breath.  

The senators were shocked silent, the soldiers readied weapons and exchanged more uncertain glances.  

In the long second, Veneto’s eyes were drawn to these men, and noticed peculiarities among some of their uniforms.  

“Carabiniere...” the larger-than-life voice of the Dictator boomed. “The empire never knew a more loyal subordinate. Lower your weapons, all of you.” The soldiers gradually stood down and a moment later Carabiniere lowered hers.  

The world allowed itself a tentative exhalation; whispering from the senators. A few soldiers' hands went unconsciously to things on their uniforms, and Veneto was almost sure what they were  

“You have been betrayed, Carabiniere, by your superior. She has abused your trust to commit heinous acts against the interests of her empire and her people...” Carabiniere slowly turned to Spinola “...You are under no obligation to protect her. Shes has dishonored her people and brought tragedy upon them because  she  has forsaken  her  superiors.”    

Carabiniere wrestled with this dilemma for a long moment. Loyalty was everything to her, and she was loyal to her superiors. But she knew Veneto; she would have had her reasons, wouldn’t she? She swore an oath when she was brought into the Imperial Guard, to protect the empire and serve it unwaveringly. Was loyalty to the empire loyalty to her flagship, or loyalty to her government? She looked over at Veneto, who beneath all that diplomatic grace, she knew well enough to see how confused and betrayed she felt. She looked over at her head of state; the picture of boisterous populism. She made her choice.    

At the end of that long moment, Il Duce asked her, without his usual bluster: “Carabiniere, where do your loyalties lie?”    

“Veneto and I swore oaths to defend the empire and advance its interests across the seas. I don’t understand why Veneto did what she did...    

 ...but you will not take her!”  

The destroyer brought her rifle back up and pulled Veneto behind her, and the five men began bringing their own rifles back up when something fell from the upper wings.  

The standard of Sicily fell between the opposing parties, and in the moment before the shooting started, she finished the puzzle.  

“ Ricorda Vittorio Veneto!” The three uncommitted guardsmen returned their hands to their rifles, revealing the likeness of the medals given to the heroes of that very battle, and opened fire on their comrades!  

The rest was a blur: three of their assailants fell to the floor before the Palatini cut down the medal-wearing with their submachineguns. The senate exploded into a formless panic, and before Veneto knew it, Carabiniere had dragged her running through the halls. Halls which themselves were alive with gunfire as the building was engulfed in chaotic fighting, Imperial Guardsmen fought each other, aided by either the Marshal of Italy’s or Marshal of Sicily’s own personal guards. If they didn’t escape soon, the national army troops stationed in Rome would surround the building and trap them. The Esercito di Umbria would most certainly side with the dictator.  

And so they went, dodging down an alcove here, taking a side route there, until they reached their exit. A minute later they were on the street, Carabiniere having shoved Veneto into the back of the Guard car they arrived in and was fiddling with the engine. Their ruse would have been discovered by now and Umbrian Soldiers would be on their way.     

“Carabiniere, what the  hell  was that?” Veneto practically shouted.    

“They aren’t taking you away. Not while I am still your escort! I don’t know why you did what you did, but I trust you have the best interests of the empire in mind.” Carabiniere replied as she began to drive.     

They had to get out of Rome, to the dock where the  RM Carabiniere  was docked.  It wasn’t a long drive, but it was long enough for someone to telegram one of the local Umbrian Garrisons, one of which sat staunchly between them and the harbor. They had to get going if they were ever going to make it.  

“Carabiniere slow down!” Veneto demanded. “You’re going to get someone killed!”    

“No time for that. Just trust me: Destroyers are good at going fast!” Carabiniere put on a brave face and never raised her foot from the gas.    

They were practically flying through the streets; the buildings Veneto had thought seemed so tall before seemed now to her like the bars of a prison cell. Bobbing and weaving through traffic punctuated by the blare of horns, the only reason the police were not chasing them yet was because of the Guard car they drove; the police had long since given up trying to apply law to high-ranking officials in the government or military. But inevitably, word began to spread through mouth, radio, and telegram: there was a guard car screaming around the city at full speed, and it needed to be stopped. And, at the next intersection, two trucks and an armored car gave chase.     

“Vittorio Veneto, slow down, pull over. Surrender now and no harm will come to you or your friend! This is your only warning” An officer was leaning out of the armored car and speaking through a megaphone.    

“So close... so close...” Carabiniere was muttering to herself while she drove like a maniac. They had almost made it to the harbor.   

But there was something off about the port; smoke was rising from it, and people were fleeing towards them...  

But then the  ratatat  of the heavy machine gun on the armored car sang out and the car began taking hits.     

They’re aiming for the tires!  Veneto understood what was happening; if they shot out the tires from the car then they’d be as good as caught. Adrenaline coursing through her veins, she grabbed Carabiniere’s rifle from the passenger seat and took aim, inexpertly channeling her wisdom cube through a piece of rigging that wasn’t her own. But where to shoot? The armored car was, well, fully enclosed in armor and she could not properly operate Carabiniere’s equipment. She started firing ineffectually. She knew she couldn’t do anything to them, but they might not know that; nobody really knew what shipgirls could and couldn't do after all.  

And sure enough, the armored car began to lightly swerve. It couldn’t keep up with them while maneuvering, big cumbersome thing that it was. They could see the checkpoint at the entrance of the military port...    

BAM     

The car lurched with the impact of a large-caliber shell. The 47mm cannon on the armored car had made itself felt and they were veering to the left. A huge chunk of the left side of the car had been savaged and Carabiniere was struggling to bring it back under control. But a second hit from the cannon sent the car tumbling side-over-side. By now, the port was in view and the guard station could see them. And the soldiers at the gatehouse began firing at their pursuers. But not all the men wore the green and white of the guard, some wore dark blue uniforms and helmets with the Sicilian Crest embossed into them. For what must have been the hundredth time that day, Veneto had no time to process what the presence of Sicilian Marines might be.  

Meanwhile, the battered hunk of metal that was once the car had overturned a mere 20 meters from their destination. But Veneto, who had been too preoccupied holding Carabiniere’s rifle to hold on to the car, found herself between Carabiniere’s car and her pursuers. She brought herself to a crouch as quickly as she could, the bullet impacts around her refocusing her thoughts. She had to find Carabiniere, and she had to make it to the naval troops. She started to run to the car when she took a bullet in the back that knocked the air out of her. Her friends at the barricade shot down the man who had broke from cover to shoot her. With everyone distracted by the steadily escalating firefight, Veneto staggered to the car,    

“ Carabiniere”  Veneto hissed and scanned beneath the car.     

“Carabiniere... of the Sardegna Empire... Reporting... for Duty” came a weak reply from the front of the car.    

Then Veneto saw her, drenched in her own blood and leaking a brilliant, glowing bright blue from her side.     

Carabiniere smiled at the shocked look of horror on her flagship’s face. “Must’ve got me... with that damn cannon... I’ll be fine... just get to safety.”    

Veneto slung Carabiniere’s musket over her shoulder and slipped her arms under Carabiniere’s shoulders. In this manner, she hauled Carabiniere out from under the car and dragged her to her feet. Carabiniere fell against Veneto, incapable of standing on her own: the 47mm cannon had made a mess of her left side below her ribs. Veneto pulled her wounded companion’s arm across her shoulders and started the 20 meter odessey to the naval base. A few of the men saw what was happening and rushed out to meet them, bobbing and weaving through the bullets to assist them. One never got further than the barricade, as a bullet struck him. But a few more made it to take up positions by the ruined car and another took up Carabiniere’s other arm.     

“Veneto... the cannon...I have to stop the cannon...” The determined destroyer forced out, gently pushing the marine away from her good side and reaching for her gun on Veneto’s shoulder.    

The armored car had occupied itself with blowing up a few of the hardpoints around the entrance, obviously content to win the fight first, then drag the now wounded shipgirls back to the Palazzo for public sentencing.    

Veneto reluctantly let her valiant escort shift the musket from around her shoulder. And Carabiniere shifted all her weight against her and took aim. Carabiniere concentrated for a moment, took aim, and fired. But she fired a shell much larger than her antique rifle ever should have been capable of. In Carabiniere’s hands, her musket could be a proxy for one of her main battery guns. A 120mm semi-armor-piercing shell reduced the armored car to a cloud of debris and red mist before exploding in the street behind it, effectively ending the small battle. No man could ever be asked to stand in the face of naval artillery in a firefight. They had lost, and they knew it, so they ran. In under 15 minutes, 8 people had died and over a dozen were wounded.     

And first among the wounded was probably Carabiniere, who’s triumphal act had caused her wisdom cube’s energy to leak out a bit faster. And she was still losing a lot of blood. Veneto and the sailors who had braved the gunfire to help them quickly brought Carabiniere to the port hospital. There, they pulled out metal from her wounds and stitched her flesh up where they could. But her wisdom cube was another matter.    

They had gotten surgeons from around the port as quickly as they could, but all had stood around the operating table shrugged. The cube could not be stitched, the energy it leaked had defied most attempts to patch it. And many of the surgeons, frankly, were uncomfortable working on the bizarre mix of flesh and metal that was the insides of a shipgirl.     

“We can’t patch her... heart I suppose.” Explained the surgeon. Generally, shipgirls took care of their own; nobody really understood how to mend a wisdom cube with normal tools and techniques. Even accessing her glowing ‘heart’ had proven almost impossible through the metal endoskeleton that makes shipgirls so durable, even without their rigging.    

The Eternal Flagship wracked her brain. She knew of only a few shipgirls with healing abilities, and the one she was most familiar with; Aquila, was out of reach at Trieste. She knew of the repair ships of the Sakura Empire and Eagle Union who had made names for themselves in the Pacific, but they were too far away. The Ironblood were too proud or stubborn to manifest any healers and wouldn’t help anyone from Sardegna anyway. She knew nothing of Iris or Northern medicine, not that the Iris would help them anyway. And that left one rather ironic choice.    

“Can you get Carabiniere ready to move? We need to set sail as soon as possible.”    

Chapter Text

[Littorio]  

Dictator Amadeo Spinola’s voice crackled through the captain's cabin. “My countrymen, today the very seat of our government came under attack by some of its staunchest defenders. The Eternal Flagship of our fleet mighty fleet, Vittorio Veneto, has evaded judgment for her crimes with the aid of the Treacherous Marshal of Sicily, Desi Lombardo, and sympathizers within our own military...”  

Littorio sat slack jawed by her radio and listened. No news had come out of Rome concerning...well, anything. She had thought it something banal, perhaps the radio or telegraph lines had been acting up, the technology was relatively new, after all. But this? A shootout in the senate building, Veneto being charged as a criminal, the apparent revolt of a governor...   

But it just kept getting worse and worse. The voice on the radio continued: “... it is clear that pro-Azur Lane sentiment lies at the core of this terrorism. And it is clear that Veneto and her fleet comprise the very core of this sentiment. Therefore, the indictment of Vittorio Veneto shall extend to all individuals who participated in her unsanctioned acts of violence and treachery. I call upon the loyal Military forces, gather yourselves and bring these dissidents to justice!”  

Littorio’s heart skipped a beat. All of them? Her, Veneto, Zara, Pola, Cavour, Cesare, and now even Carabiniere- And all the Guardsmen who had sailed with them in the auxiliaries had been declared criminals! She ran out onto the maintenance catwalk around her superstructure and jumped into the water, calling her rigging to her as the Littorio broke up into blue particles before reforming on her back.  Cavour and Cesare weren't far, and she needed to gather them up. They would need to act quickly- the Esercito di Napoli could be here in a few hours, and their garrisons within the city may be mobilizing against them even now. 

She skated quickly across the surface of the waves towards the battleship anchorage. Cesare must have seen the dramatic flash of blue from the dissolution of the Littorio, because she had already rushed out onto the deck of her own ship to see what all the fuss was about. Littorio leapt up onto her ship and grabbed her by the shoulders.  

“Have you heard the news from the senate Cesare!?”  

“Why would I care what goes on in the senate? Just bickering children that-”  

“-Have branded us all traitors and has sent our own army to bring us to them in chains!” Littorio cut her off.  

Cesare stared at her blankly, briefly slack jawed. She blinked a few times, and nodded once with a stern expression set in her features.  

“Your orders, flagship?”  

Littorio pondered their situation for a moment. Here in Taranto, on the heel of the boot all the way down at the bottom of Naples, they were far from the center of power. Practically, this meant that there may not be as many bought and paid for political appointees in positions of power. That didn’t necessarily mean that the city was safe, but it did mean the city was not necessarily lost to them. As an important naval yard, the Imperial Guard maintained many garrisons throughout the city; an Imperial Guard that would probably support them. If they could gather the forces of the Imperial Guard in Taranto and rally enough patriotic officers from the national troops, they might be able to get ahead of the situation.  

There were three prominent garrisons in Taranto that flew Guard flags, one for each of the prominent population clusters. Each was named after a Sardegnian admiral from eras past. The closest one to the battleship anchorage was Acton, named for Alfredo Acton, a veteran from the last era, located a few blocks to the east. At the southernmost mouth of the harbor was Amero d’Aste; which was a proper coastal fort and would likely not come under siege. In the north across the harbor, over two bridges, the artificial central island and a few blocks of urban sprawl, stood Faravelli.  

“Cesare, quickly raise a force of volunteers! The more patriotic officers of the military might join us if they think we have a chance of victory. If we can control the city quickly enough, we can prevent it from devouring us. I’ll get Zara and Pola for Cavour’s defense. As soon as you are able, march for Bastione Acton and secure it’s loyalty I’ll be back shortly.” 

All this ran through her mind as the young battleship made her way back to the harbor waters. Zara and Pola would need to be brought up to speed. It wouldn’t be long before, once again, her long green hair flew in the wind as she dashed over the ironically calm waters of the harbor. Soon she would arrive at the cruiser anchorage, but for a moment she was alone with her thoughts  

They didn’t capture my sister, and the Marshal of Sicily is helping her, but why; could he also wish to see the alliance with the Azur Lane restored?  

We are trapped in this city, but where is better to be?  

Am I making a mistake?  

Too soon, she reached the cruisers. Zara and Pola were moored alongside each other. Leaping up onto Zara Littorio began calling out to the sisters.  

“Zara, Pola! Get out here, its urgent!”  

Several moments passed before an exhausted looking Zara lurched onto one of the catwalks extending from her conning tower.  

Rubbing her eyes, the redhead called down to her. “Wh... What can I do for you, flagship?”  

Littorio checked her watch and shook her head in a show of resignment and frustration. “Find your sister and bring her here! Our world is falling and you’re going to help me stop it from crushing us.”  

Littorio could see the form of the young cruiser droop as she staggered onto her bridge and sent a message to Pola. A minute later, both cruisers stood at attention before their flagship.  

And Littorio briefed them about their situation.  

“You two are going to keep a watch on the ships in the harbor. Cavour can’t fight, Veneto isn’t here to control her ship, and the mass-produced ships might be needed in the coming days. Don’t let anything happen to them. Understood?  

“Yes, Flagship!” the two chorused.  

XXX  

[Francesco Solari]  

Bastione Acton, hospital.  

___________________  

A confused Captain Solari awoke to the sound of shouting voices. He couldn’t quite make out their words through the heavy door to the room they had put him. Apparently, he was important enough for such things now.  

He checked his clock, only to learn that he had slept in; perhaps they had stuck him from the patients list already? That shouting was getting louder and... was that... gunfire?! He moved to the dresser where the medics had packed his items after he was admitted and searched it. It had to be there... aha!  

Solari withdrew his trusty sidearm from underneath a pile of clothes. Donning his captain’s hat, he carefully moved through his door. He could see down the long hall into the courtyard where a squad of Guardsmen were setting up a barricade of sorts. The afternoon sun shown through the open-topped courtyard, glinting off an old Breda machine gun as the centerpiece. This was bad; they didn’t exactly keep machine guns around the hospital, so what was one doing here?  

He had nearly processed this when the rest of the gun team began firing in the direction of the reception area, and a moment later the big gun joined them, with its lethal ta-ta-ta. But the one, maybe two boxes of clips they carried wouldn't last them long. He began to run towards them, he would find out what was going on and he would offer his help- he was Sardegnian navy after all! But the sinking feeling in his stomach wouldn’t go away, even when he reached the courtyard barricade.  

One of the men reflexively drew a rifle on him but lowered it immediately at the unmistakable sight of his cap and eyepatch. “Captain Solari! What are doing here?”  

“Here to help!” Solari shouted as the Breda choked out another burst of lead.  

The ensign gestured to the ranking officer. Solari nodded his thanks and moved to him.  

“ Sottotenente, what is happening, and what can I do?”  asked the captain to the young officer.  

“It’s the Esercito di Napoli! They’re trying to take the bastion- the gatehouse and outer wall is lost, we’re making our stand here. As for what you can do, go to the other wing and see if any of the wounded are well enough to fight, and bring who you can back here. We have a few spare weapons. Godspeed, captain, Avanti Sardegna.”  

The captain echoed the phrase and dashed off into the wing. He managed to find the headspace to wonder if Littorio had anything to do with this. The girl spoke in riddles, and the Siren had warned her to keep an eye on her, not that he could...  

Soon he stood among the wounded calling for able-bodied volunteers, about five people from Calabria’s lost and damned gathered themselves and joined him; none were without injury, but they all had their limbs and wits about them enough to arm themselves for their own survival. The six of them started back towards the barricade and had almost reached it when a huge explosion threw them to the floor, shattered pieces of masonry falling about them.  

Solari was dimly away of a melancholic silence as he struggled to pick himself up; no shouting, no gunfire, no more of the dreary crumbling sound of cracking stone.  

Am I dead, is my hearing gone?  

He struggled to his hands and knees and took in the sight. Some manner of artillery, probably a big mortar, had struck the barricade through the open ceiling in the courtyard and ignited the small stockpile of ammunition the guardsmen had gathered. Small, but enough: nothing was left of their position, at least nothing he could see through the slowly settling cloud of dust.  

There were flashes in the dust too, and in them he could barely make out the ghostly outlines of figures moving through the gloom. Flashes were always accompanied by an echoey popping sound that sawed away at his fraying nerves.  

He could start to hear voices in the gloom, but he couldn’t understand them through the filters in the masks they must be wearing and the ringing in his ears.  

A sequence of flashes followed the unintelligible conversation, revealing outlines of people, if only for a split second. He counted five, but there had to be more nearby...  

An uncomfortable thought wormed its way into his mind: I have to go, and I have to go soon. The thick dust would settle, if he wanted to slip by the soldiers, he would need to move. He slowly drew himself up, leaning on the wall for support as much as concealment, biting back a hiss of discomfort. So help me God, if my damn ribs broke again I’ll never forgive her for whatever part she played in this...  

As he cursed his fate and his erstwhile companion, he tread gingerly over the mess of splintered stone on the floor- it wouldn’t do to trip. He was back in the courtyard and moving low along the wall; the dust had settled enough for the sun to shine on the helmets of Neapolitan soldiers as they started to secure the building. His new blind spot made watching them harder, but he could hear them now.  

“Everyone in here is complicit in Veneto’s treason. Bring any officers you find back to me, leave the enlisted. We haven’t time or space to carry them all back to Napoli.”  

Solari quickened his pace, he could see the light coming though the broken door. He had to get out, he had to warn the port, he had to... stop.  

The clack of a rifle bolt cut through the quiet he had struggled to maintain for at least an eternity. And a voice from his right- of course it was from his right, why would one of the last soldiers have the kindness to stand in the peripheral vision of his remaining eye?  

“Drop your weapon, hands behind your head!”  

Solari’s handgun clattered to the floor, and he complied with the guards command.  

“Turn around slowly.”  

Again, Solari complied.  

The soldier regarded him, a regard which went from scrutinous to incredulous at the sight of his missing eye, and then to amusement at the sight of his hat.  

“Well well, Capitano. You’ll be the major’s prize catch, start walking!” The soldier gestured with the barrel of his gun, and Solari felt quite compelled to listen to him.  

The perilous indignity of being made to walk the distance he snuck at bayonet point lasted longer than he’d like. But at long last he stood before the Neapolitan leader.  

The major regarded him curiously. “I though all the battleship captains at Calabria died.”  

No introductions or pleasantries, or so much as a second glance.  

“They did, I wasn’t at Calabria. I was injured in a fight with the sirens almost a month ago, I’ve been being treated for broken ribs and my missing eye.”  

The major looked down at his clipboard. “You might even be telling the truth, but I have my orders .If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear at the court martial. If you’re right, it’s your lucky day Captain, you’re getting a trip to Naples on the army’s dime. Behave, and we won’t gut you like a fish. Take him.”  

Another trip at rifle point saw him shoved unceremoniously into the back of a truck alongside some of the other patients and a few Guardsmen that had been captured. He decided to take his chance and ask one of the guardsmen what had happened.  

“So what happened back there? Why the court martial, why the battle?” Solari asked the man; his name had been singed off his uniform, but true to form it was the uniform of an officer. Maybe he knew something.  

“The way I see it, we’ve all been branded traitors. Problem is, nobody seems to know if the senate or its pet dictator has the authority to do that. So, our commander refused to surrender the bastion and the men in it. There was a tense moment, and someone shot. You can see the rest...” the man gestured about the back of the truck.  

“Traitors?! Why?”  

“Wish I knew, but the army seems convinced of it.”  

“Because you’re all complicit in Veneto’s treason.” A soldier with a submachine gun had climbed into the truck and sat between his charges and the back. “The question is only to what degree.”  

Solari had not had a radio; he knew nothing about Veneto’s address or her indictment, and the state press had kept quiet on the finer points of most of the skirmishing in the Mediterranean. He was tangentially familiar with the Battle of Calabria, but that was only because he had caught snippets in the hospital. He had heard many labels applied to Veneto by the sailors, but never ‘traitor.’  

“Veneto’s treason?”  

The soldier raised an eyebrow. “Lose your memory along with your eye? Senate wants her head for nearly starting a war with the Royals, and you lot helped her.”  

Cogs started turning in Solari’s mind. Treason among the guard made sense, most of them would follow Veneto. He didn’t know Veneto, but she had made a name for herself as the Navy’s political advocate. Would she start a war? Was she starting one now? The cogs turned back time to his conversation with Littorio and her vague prophecies considering his and the empire’s fates, her open disdain for the senate, and the closed-door nature of the naval exercise that lost him his eye. Littorio would start a war, he was sure of it. Call it hindsight, but he knew something was building back then; was this what it was building to?  

“Why?”  

“You tell me, traitor.” The soldier practically spat the words. “What was worth a war?”  

“What indeed.” Solari let his thoughts wonder.  

The engine of the car kicked into life, and soon they were off speeding through the streets of Taranto. The streets ringed with buildings gave way to peaceful suburbs, then the suburbs themselves faded to reveal the farms and rolling green hills of the Sardegnian countryside. All this he saw through the back of the truck as it passed him by, never seeing where he was going- only where he had been. And he wondered if he would ever be here again. He had never been to Naples; rather he had never gone ashore at Naples. The port was beautiful, and he expected the rest of the city was. It was a shame he would be visiting in chains before a trial that was just as likely to be for show as it was for justice.  

In spite of himself, the warm weather and image of the serene countryside began to replace his cautious weariness with a very real drowsiness. And soon he was nodding off, to the amusement of their guardian soldier. And soon he began to dream.  

___________________  

He was standing at the highest point of Sardegna’s great eternal capital. It was the dead of night, but the city was well lit. Not by city lights, but by fire . Bloody metal serpents stalked the backstreets, rows upon rows of uniformed soldiers paraded over ruined roads, flags he couldn't place held high.  

He stood in shock and horror for a moment, before a savagely enthusiastic voice sunk its claws into his mind.  

“ Beautiful, isn’t it? All the problems that fix themselves are...”  

He turned to face the speaker. Even in the abyssal night, her features were illuminated by the pulsing glow of the burning city and the yellow glow of psychotic, expressionless eyes bore into him. An absurdly long ponytail of pale hair ran nearly twice the length of a body dressed in parody of a schoolgirl.  

A Siren... she had to be...  

“ ... fire, is there anything purer?!”  

Solari found his courage. “What am I doing here, who are you, how did I get here?”  

The siren gave him an exasperated sigh. “ You’re here to see, cyclops. The rest isn’t important.”  

In his shock, the wayward captain neglected to notice that he was seeing through the wrong eye, earning a gasp from him now.  

The siren let out a chilling laugh. “ You... you really didn’t... oh man, you really are something! What, did you think Observer just ‘wanted’ your eye? For shits and giggles? Oh if only she was so interesting!”  

Solari shook himself to his senses. “So what am I seeing?”  

The siren tilted her head and grinned mischievously. “ Your beloved empire... and everyone in it, will burn, it already has, it will again. Maybe by my hands, maybe by yours. Or maybe it won’t.”  She shrugged sarcastically.

The siren was speaking in riddles and Solari hated it. “Which is it, siren?!”  

“ You’ll figure it out. It’s what your history should be. Or it will be. Eventually. If it isn’t, I’ll have to burn it down, again and again, until it is.” Her features turned serious, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "It never gets old."

Solari shook his head. “What do you mean, what is this?”  

“A warning.”  

The siren offered him her gloved hand and he took it, with some hesitation. And he was startled that, despite giving off no sign cold, it was a frigid metal thing. So cold that he could feel his skin flash freezing to her glove. But despite this it was revoltingly perfect, more perfect to the touch than any human hand could be. It was wrong, this being was wrong, something that played with his thoughts and flirted with his fears. Something that should not be.

It was this that sent shivers up his spine, and it was the shivers that woke him. But the frigid grasp of the abomination lingered on his skin for a great while longer.  

Chapter Text

[Giulio Cesare]  

She had gathered up her volunteers; a band of 18 men, mostly guardsmen with a band of five marines among them. Not a lot, but with her it would be enough. And when Littorio arrived, even more so. She had heard the gunshots, seen the columns of smoke rising from her objective. She knew it was too late when the gunshots stopped. Even if Bastione Acton had fallen, its fortifications could be retaken, and its stockpiles repossessed.  

It was only the local army garrison that could have rallied this quickly, and only a part of it. And she was familiar with their target; they’d have to go through a gatehouse, a ring of bunkers, and would need to capture the old star fort that made up the primary bastion. Taking it back would be a task, but she was confident.  

But, its not like she had ever done this before either: she was a warship unaccustomed to land combat, and rigging wasn’t something you could take cover, clear houses, or check corners with. And god help her if she needed to escape down an alleyway or hop into a car. But as she turned the corner and the first few bullets plinked off her armor, she was reminded what her rigging was still good for.  

A moment later, two of her men fell in a burst of tracers and small cloud of kicked up dust.  

“Machinegun! Get down!” Cried a voice from someone behind her as the bursts of a clip fed machine gun began dousing the street with bullets.  

Cesare’s guns began to turn. Almost contemptuously, the ten guns of her rigging leveled at the offending concealed position and reduced it to rubble. An outstanding waste of munitions, perhaps. But it sent a message to the Neapolitan soldiers; it could be them next, and quite a few would dare to ask themselves what they could even do to prevent such an unfortunate occurrence- and would find ‘not much’ as their unfortunate answer.  

She advanced through the storm of dust and shrapnel kicked up by her show of force, oversized shell casing falling to the dirt in her wake. A few of the more enterprising, enthusiastic, or naïve men followed at her heels. They were coming up on the second line of defense, and there were bound to be more emplacements, but chances are a few would be damaged, and most would be undermanned. But the settling dust worked both ways, and Cesare wouldn't fire her guns blindly at the heart of the city.  

She became aware of a quiet whistling sound, steadily growing in intensity in her mind's eye a moment before the first shell fell among them. Shrapnel sparked as it struggled to embed itself in her armored body or otherwise simply glanced off her in a brilliant shower of lights.  

“Mortars! It’s the shrapnel more than the blast!” Sounded voices in the choking dust, growing thicker now from the relentless hail of light artillery falling upon them. As the unending barrage continued, it became increasingly apparent that someone needed to silence those guns.

She glanced towards the nearest voice in the chaos, recognizing the uniform of a Neapolitan Marine, and called to him: "Grab a few men and flank around the side, their artillery will end this if we don't end it first."

"As you say, Comandare!" And the man was off into the chaos.

Cesare was afforded little time to dwell on her course of action; the sparking of metal on metal highlighted her to anybody with a weapon that cared to be watching; which was at least five bunkers judging by the number of flashes she spotted as ambitious or hopeful soldiers fired at where they thought she was. In this way, Cesare fought a game of cat and mouse: shrapnel would reveal her, barrel flashes would reveal her targets. Flashes that never appeared again when her own guns found theirs.

But soon her little game would end. No more desperate grenades fell upon her from the heavens, a sign that the mortars had been dealt with.  She stood nearly alone in that hell blasted strip of land between the entrance and the command building. Her uniform had seen better days; parts of it had been ripped by bullets or torn by shrapnel. The smoke was still rising gently from a few of her gun barrels.  She took in the crescent of ruined concrete that used to be a defensive line and grimaced; it would take too long to repair them, and she made a mental note to keep the main bastion intact.  

A few soldiers were trying to make their way to the central bastion. With the wave of her hand, she shot them down before they made it halfway, lighter caliber guns this time; her message had been sent.  

She was a fearsome sight to her friends as they hauled themselves up from where they had dived to escape imminent death; standing in the heart of no-man's-land, shrapnel lodged in superficial wounds that would be fatal to any mere man, a diorama of death and destruction arrayed in front of her. But all the same, they hesitantly made their way up to her.  

“ Comandare Cesare, why have we stopped? They’re bound to be shaken up, but that won’t be true much longer.” Spoke the uncertain voice of a guardsman.  

“I want to give them a chance to surrender, surely they know they won’t win here.” Cesare busied herself casually plucking various bits of shrapnel from herself. Scarlet eyes flicked to the guardsman: “In the meantime, could you check the base of my rigging for anything that shouldn’t be there, I feel something poking around.”  

The man gave an uncertain nod and she turned. Fixed to the spine just below her shoulder blades was the interface point of her rigging and sure enough, wicked shards of metal poked through the cloth of the battleship's uniform all along her back. Cesare felt him start to tug at what felt like the largest piece, and chuckled audibly at the sharp intake of breath let out by the man when he placed a hand on her back to steady himself.  

“Speak your mind, sailor.” Mused Cesare, evidently enjoying a bit of the mystique around her.  

“You... You’re not... your skin is... practically metal...”  

“Warships are made of metal, and all the metal from my ship had to go somewhere.” Cesare flicked another shard of jagged steel from her neck. “Was seeing not believing Mr...”  

“...Sottocapo Luigi Baresi.” Finished the man

Soon, the chunk of shrapnel the man was tugging at came free and Cesare relaxed noticeably.  

“So it does hurt then...” Baresi muttered absentmindedly as he finished his tending.  

But Cesare was paying attention; “In much the same way as a large splinter; skin is still skin even if a few thousand tons of metal have been absorbed into it.” Cesare’s smile came out in her voice “Most gunfire might as well be rain, but shrapnel seems more like a sharp hail. Thank you, Sottocapo Baresi. But now I believe we have a battle to win.”  

She regarded her company. A dozen able-bodied men remained, arraying themselves in the shell blasted trenches in front of the main bastion. Most of the uncertainty in their eyes had been replaced by something like awe. Despite herself, she was enjoying the spotlight. And now it was time to do something with it.  

“Loyal fighting men of Sardegna,” she addressed them, “History will remember you brave few as the first men take up arms to save the empire! The corrupt and jealous senate has branded the Emperor’s finest servants as traitors.”  

“They want to drag you all back to Rome and hang you for treason, will you let them?!”  

“ No, Comandare!”  

“Will you stand idly by as the petty ambitions shortsighted populists tear the empire apart?!”  

“No, Comandare!”  

The slick sound of her officer’s sword clearing its scabbard filled the air as she leveled the blade at the entrance of the main bastion. “ Men of the empire with me! Avanti Sardegna!” And with that, she leapt the trench and began the last rush.  

The twelve men echoed her and began the eighty-meter dash. Three machineguns, one in each of the facing prongs of the star fort and one in the center wall fired upon them. But the armory’s old Bredas could only fire in bursts and judging by the long pauses between them, the guns lacked full crews. Still, four of her men fell in that first volley.  

Cesare’s AA guns spat at the emplacements in an attempt to suppress them, and that was enough to get the men to the entrance. The remaining two marines were fiddling with a bundled charge of some kind, but there wasn’t time...  

“Stand back and cover your ears!” Cesare yelled, putting a shell through the door lock a moment later. Then eight of them were fighting their way inside, the marines taking advantage of the shock from Cesare's shell and their automatic weapons to reap a bloody toll on the group of defenders in the fortified entrance hall.  

Cesare could no longer effectively use her guns in the close confines of the fortress, they were cumbersome to begin with and firing them in a hallway was dangerous to the people around her. So she cut her way through the resistance she found on her way to the command center, her retinue following loosely behind her as they secured side rooms and corridors.  

“She’s coming, make ready!” A voice from somewhere ahead of her echoed through the passageway.  

Turning a corner, she found herself staring down eight men. All eyes were on her, and all fingers were on triggers.  

Her scarlet eyes locked with those of the closest soldier, and she raised her saber so that they were staring down its blade. There was the edge of a plea in her voice as she gave them a chance; “None of you have to die here.”  

She watched the eyes of the man travel from hers, to the man she supposed was his commanding officer, and then to the point of her still-dripping sword. A moment later, he dropped his rifle and raised his hands. One by one the scene echoed across the entire squad. The bastion was theirs again, and no more blood would be drawn from its stones today.

The Neapolitan Major bitterly threw his own sword on the floor, and sarcastically spat an ancient promise and curse: "Vae Victus"  

___________________  

[Vittorio Veneto]  

Vittorio Veneto looked back through the gathering darkness as Carabiniere limped through the waves towards Malta. The only illumination was the increasingly distant smoldering port of Rome and distant lights from coastal towns. They had not gotten very far, but they were far enough. Carabiniere herself was bandaged, splinted, and stitched all over, but she was just strong enough to coax 20 knots out of her engines, even if she was gritting her teeth the whole time.  

“Carabiniere...” Vittorio Veneto spoke gently to her wounded friend. “...get some rest.”  

Carabiniere broke concentration for a moment to speak, and immediately her ship began to slow. “Veneto we-”  

“-are in no danger.” Veneto gently but firmly cut her off.” It’s going to be pitch black soon, nobody will be out looking for us, much less be able to find us, and you need to take more care of yourself while you recover...”  

“But-”  

“-But nothing.” Veneto gently laid a hand on the shoulder of stubborn destroyer. “You’ve been a fantastic escort and a good friend to me. And speaking as your friend, not your flagship, you need to allow yourself some time to heal, if just for the night before we reach Malta.”  

Carabiniere was silent for a long moment, and Veneto could see a mix of pain, fear, and exhaustion swimming around behind her conflicted expression before she shook her head clear of them.  

“...Okay, Veneto. I’ll get us to Malta tomorrow. I promise.” With that, the destroyer shakily rose to her feet and headed towards her cabin, and with the creak of a bulkhead door, Vittorio Veneto, Eternal Flagship in exile, was alone with her thoughts for the first time in what felt like a month.  

Her mind traveled first to her sister. What would they do with Littorio? There was no foreseeable future in which she would play along with her own sister and flagship being hunted as a criminal. Would she take the Calabria fleet and leave for Malta as well?  

And what of her other sisters, Roma and Impero? She had not met them in ages, but she had had correspondence with them. Impero was the secretary ship of incumbent Military Governor of Libya. Veneto wracked her brain for anything else; Impero’s letters were never long or descriptive, but she seemed to recall her sister was docked at Tobruk for the time being.   

Roma was always up north in Genoa and never left, with nominal control over a fleet of her own. She was charged with staring down whatever the Vichya had docked in Toulon at any given moment. Beyond that she did very little. The government kept her on a short leash; she was inflammatory, uncompromising and exceptionally Ambitious. All her letters included some scathing remark or two about the current political landscape they found themselves in.  

 What did she make of all this? Veneto could not help but wonder where she stood: the uncompromising imperialist would have a lot of common ground with the Dittatore dell’Impero, but would she go against the Emperor for him?  

Most of the shipgirls were either in her ‘Imperial Flotilla’ or Roma’s fleet: whatever was happening in Sardegna, most of the major Regia Marina assets would be out of the Senate’s direct control. But what of the army and the air force? All were supposedly loyal to the king as the Regia Esercito and Regia Aeronautica. But the governors that led them were senatorial appointees; nominal yes-men that owed their careers to the senate.  

Veneto shook her head and exhaled. She was getting ahead of herself, and she knew it. This wouldn’t escalate into a civil war, even if the governor of Sicily started a gunfight in the senate building, right? Even so, there was nobody in Sardegna that could help them right now. That was why they were headed to Malta, after all. There was, at the moment, no part of her government that would protect her or anyone in her fleet.  

The empire was simply... turning its back on her...  

She balled up her fists and slammed one down on the crew station she was sitting at.   

The empire she had been born for. The empire to which devotion was carved into her very soul for. The empire she had stained the waters of the Mediterranean as red as her uniform with her own hands for, and led thousands of others to do the same, had cast her aside for political expedience. Forsaken by dictator and King alike through abuse on one hand and apathy on the other.  

“It seems I must reassess the Empire’s future...”   

But what could that future be? It still couldn’t be anything worthwhile while Ironblood stooges maintained a steely grip on Sardegna’s internal affairs; the Imperial ambitions of Sardegna would never be realized as long as they were subjected to double dealing machinations of those shark-toothed vultures. If only there were enough patriots left in the senate to oust those turncoats. But there weren’t anymore. She would have to appeal to the governors, starting with Marshal Lombardo- wherever he and the rest of the Sicilians had ended up after Rome.  

Veneto glanced around the bridge of Carabiniere for a pencil and a piece of paper. Upon finding what she was searching for, she began drafting letters for all audiences- from governors to soldiers, politicians to commoners, she had to plead her case and beg for support. She hoped the royals on Malta had equipment she could use to produce these messages in bulk.  

The floor began to fill with crumpled up drafts and revisions. Unbeknownst to her, lilac eyes watched her through the crack of a barely open door. Every once in a while, the crumpled balls of discarded paper would land close enough to that door for the figure within to stealthily snatch them up. Unbeknownst to her her antics had awoken an observer, one who read them filled with horror and fury.  

Carabiniere flung herself at an extraordinarily shocked Veneto, and Veneto was thrown from her chair as the injured destroyer landed on top of her- hands gently squeezing her neck.  

“ YOU’RE PLANNING A WAR!?” The disheveled destroyer shrieked through clenched teeth. “ All we have already done to cause chaos in our home, and you only plan cause more?!”  

Veneto held up her hands in a gesture of surrender, searching the smaller ships chaotic face for the right words. She was trapped, not because she couldn’t overpower Carabiniere; but because she didn’t want to. The messy blond hair that fell to either side of Carabiniere’s face, and filled her own peripheral vision, was twice the prison little hands on her neck could ever be- she was forced to keep the furious stare of her friend’s pained eyes. And if she messed up here, there was a chance Carabiniere would never trust her again.  

“Carabiniere...” Veneto quietly hissed. “... why did you save me in Rome?”  

The destroyer’s grip relaxed slightly. “Because I didn’t think you were a traitor... I thought you knew what was best for the empire!" Her grip tightened.  

“Even though you knew I was guilty of everything they accused me of?” Veneto choked out.

“I... yes.”  

“Do you think me a traitor; have I ever steered you wrong? Have I ever acted against the Empire's best interests?

“...” Carabiniere softened her grip.

“Carabiniere, do you still trust me? Will you stand with me now, when I need you the most?”  

Veneto watched the destroyer struggle with herself; horror, fear, fury, disgust and doubt ebbed and flowed together to create a complete desperation, and it was under the weight of this desperation alongside her wound that the poor destroyer released her grip and collapsed onto her.  

“I...” The destroyer's whole body shuddered, and Veneto held her as she unraveled.  

“...I killed them... my own countrymen... Husbands that will never return to wives or children... Sons that will never return to their parents. I've turned my back on all the things I took oaths to defend... except my superior. Maybe it was the adrenalin, maybe it was necessity, maybe it doesn't matter, but was it worth it. Was it right?” A few tears fell from her eyes, eyes that were begging for an answer that Veneto couldn't really give her.  

Veneto began to stroke the grieving girl’s head. She had hunted Sirens, Royals, and even the Iris without pause, but she had never killed a human before- let alone a Sardegnian. And Veneto's plans revealed it wouldn't be the last time she might have to.  

“It isn’t your fault.” Veneto cooed, “You chose between the fate of a few and the fate of the empire. You made a hard choice, but it wasn’t a wrong one.”  

A century came and went before Carabiniere spoke up again in a hushed voice, muffled further by proximity. “That’s what you do as a flagship, isn’t it?”  

 “In a way, yes. I would be lying if I said they were easy choices to make. And I’d be lying if I said they didn’t weigh on me. But there are always hard choices to make, and it seems it has fallen to us to make them.”  

Chapter Text

[Warspite] 

The Grand Old Lady was rather pleased with the spot she had chosen for her morning tea. And no one, especially her similarly sized companion, would disparage that sentiment. Massive fortifications lining the dual harbors of Valletta and gave a stunning view of the sunrise on the crystal blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea.  

A sea free of Sirens, a sea free of the perfidious machinations of the Ironblood and soon, hopefully, a sea free of the Crimson Axis entirely. The lynchpin of the great Royal Highway across the world itself deserved as much. And Malta, the fulcrum point of that lynchpin, was ever-ready to ensure that crucial seaway got what it deserved. 

“Will big sis... be back soon?” Came the tentative voice of the purple-haired girl that sat next to her. 

Warspite gave the girl a reassuring pat on the head, careful not to hit the small metal tower protruding from her head. 

“Have no fear Unicorn, I’m sure Illustrious will be more than happy with the work you’ve done.” 

HMS Illustrious was moored in the Grand Harbor, a few dockworkers still flitted about making a few final touches. But the lion’s share of the work was already done, courtesy of an emergency redeployment requested by none other than Unicorn herself; she could never rest knowing ‘big sis’ Illustrious had been hurt. And Unicorn had personally conducted and oversaw the repairs to the fleet carrier. A carrier whose elevator needed repairs where it had taken a shell from a Sardegnian battleship and, as a result, whose hull needed some patchwork from a subsequent fight with the sirens. 

Warspite saw the way Unicorn fixed her gaze to the Illustrious whenever she didn’t think she was paying attention, and idly wondered if Unicorn wanted to surprise her ‘big sis’ with a job well done. Illustrious had no idea Unicorn was here, a request Warspite had honored. Soon, the floating island would be back to pick up her ship. Now, she was probably sipping tea with her sisters in a quiet place somewhere. She would be happy to see Unicorn, Warspite knew that for sure. What she wasn’t sure about is how long she could hide Unicorn here in good conscience with the needs of the pacific squadrons in mind. The situation there was heating up, what with the ascent of that firebrand carrier to the position of flagship. 

Warspite allowed herself to sigh outwardly, bait which Unicorn, abound with youthful curiosity, took hook, line, and sinker. 

“W-whats wrong grandma?” Chirped the light carrier, oblivious to how the aged battleship chuckled inwardly at the title. 

After a moment of hemming and hawing theatrically, Warspite decided it was time to give Unicorn a window into the bigger picture: “I’m glad you took it upon yourself to speed up the repairs of Illustrious’s ship. Ironblood or the Sakura Empire might be emboldened if they were to find out we were down a carrier.” 

Unicorn sat staring for a moment, somewhere between slack-jawed and glazed-eyed. “But what about Sardegna, they’re the ones who hurt big sis? What if they try to hurt her again?” 

Warspite ran a hand over the fortress wall, fingers dragging slowly over the concrete battlements as they warmed under the morning sun. “They couldn’t if they wanted to, Illustrious is safe here. Besides, the Sardegians aren’t our enemies anymore.” 

Again, Unicorn looked confused, and it occurred to Warspite that she probably had no idea what had happened over the last few weeks beyond Illustrious being hurt. 

“The Sardegnian flagship is going to convince her people to rejoin the Azur Lane.” 

To Warspite’s surprise, Unicorn’s confused expression twisted into one bordering irritation. 

“I don’t want to be friends with the people who hurt big sis!” 

This reaction gave Warspite pause. Sardegna rejoining the Azur Lane could only be a good thing, assuming the goal was maintaining a climate of free and safe navigation of the seas. Which was her own goal. But what about if the goal was different? Unicorn’s evidently was, even if her reason was simple distrust. Sardegna and the Royal Isles didn’t have the greatest history together, and she knew Veneto’s deal wasn’t founded on trust so much as a need to survive; that was why the whole ordeal was founded on a show of force and not just good faith. Or maybe Veneto did trust her, and that was why she made a leap of faith... but what was the basis for that trust? 

Alarm bells pierced the thoughts of the Grand Old Lady and the fortress sprang to life in a flurry of activity, and soon Warspite saw why: A Sardegnian military vessel was lurching its way into view. It wasn’t big, and it wasn’t fast. But it bore a bizarre paint scheme she had only seen certain ships with. But why would a member of the Sardegnian Imperial Guard be sailing to Malta? At this point, there could only be one reason: they must be coming to her to announce their rejoining the Azur Lane! It was admittedly a bit strange that it wouldn’t be announced over more official channels, but she could not blame them for being cautious. Maybe they were attempting a Fait Acompli so that the Ironblood couldn’t interfere? That would mean her survivalist opinion of the Sardegnians would be the correct one after all... 

But as the small ship, she identified it as destroyer, was moving very slowly. 

“They must be trying to avoid provocation.” Thought warspite to herself. The Sardegnians had been taught a healthy respect for the guns of the Maltese coastal batteries, after all. She decided that she would meet these envoys personally after a short stop at the port authority to explain the situation, and began to make her way down the tall fortifications.  

After a respectable walk she arrived at the harbor itself where, much to her chagrin, an eclectic group of garrison troops and military police had gathered to welcome their guests with weapons ready. She couldn’t blame them, they had been under Sardegnian cannons for too long to not be cautious, but she couldn’t help but wish to begin their reforged alliance under better circumstances. And to be frank, she wasn’t tall enough to see through the crowd and the curiosity was killing her. But when she called out for her men to stand down and make a path, she found herself witness to a scene she couldn’t have prepared for. 

There was Vittorio Veneto, flagship of the Sardegnian fleet, and her aide Carabiniere, who had been in the process of disembarking when the welcoming party had caught up to them. That was an expected and even welcome sight. But the rest of the scene was wrong. Veneto was a mess, her uniform pockmarked with scrapes, bullet holes and dried blood. Her arms and legs were covered in mostly superficial scratches and scrapes, and it looked like someone had got her by the neck along the way. She was roughed up, which was its own surprise, but otherwise mostly alright. 

But her escort was a different story; an evergreen overcoat was cast over her shoulders for the sake of appearances, but one of her arms was draped over Veneto’s shoulder as she held herself up; it did little to hide the bandages that covered most of her torso. A spider’s web of black stitches burrowing their way through her ghostly pale skin was visible in places along her chest and side. A few of the stitches had popped as her chest rose and fell weakly with haggard breaths. It was a miracle so many had held; Warspite could tell the work was hastily done even with her lack of medical expertise.  

The unsteady and uncertain eyes of her men darted between her and their guests, unsure of what to do or what to make of the situation. These furtive glances were juxtaposed by Veneto’s piercing stare. Silver eyes that had faced down politicians, sirens, and soldiers alike now fixed themselves to Warspite. Eyes that told her one thing: Sardegna’s flagship could not openly beg for her help, but she was trying to. 

So Warspite elected to give all the eyes on her what they wanted: “Get that girl a stretcher and stow your weapons already! These are our guests for the time being.” 

She received uneasy affirmatives from her men. They knew these Kansen, the face of Sardegna and her attaché were well known by anyone who paid any attention to Sardegna, through desire or necessity. For them, it was assuredly necessity. No one was enthusiastic about the whole affair, be they Maltese or Sardegnian. But, Warspite held hope that this may be an important step in rapprochement between all of them, and treating the Sardegnians with hostility in their hour of need might ruin everything she was trying to build. Veneto trusted her enough to come here, and she had to know what happened to her. 

A moment later a pair of MPs returned with a stretcher and with great hesitation Veneto allowed them to take Carabiniere who, with even greater hesitation, allowed herself to be taken away. This left the battered flagship of Sardegna alone, slowly walking down the gangway  

“Do you need medical attention?” Warspite gently asked her, unsure of the true state of the battleship, and offered a hand to help her down. 

After a long moment, Veneto spoke in a political and calculated way. “I’ll heal. It’s my friend I’m worried for.”  

Veneto crouched down to take the hand of the much shorter ship before taking the last step off the plank onto solid ground. Warspite was, privately, overjoyed that the flagship had accepted her gesture of goodwill. And she caught a sigh slip from her as her feet landed on the island. Which was odd to her; Kansen were practically sea creatures. 

The Sardegnian knew the question, though Warspite had given no sign she had it. Or perhaps, she was just talking. She couldn’t be sure yet. 

Staring up at the concrete fortifcations that towered over the harbor, massive guns pericing the sky, the Sardegnian spoke: "Sailing into Malta flying the ensign of the Imperial Guard and the Sardegnian Navy... and not getting shot to pieces. If I’m careful how I tell the story, my sister will be so jealous...” Veneto began to laugh bitterly, water pooling under her eyes. Relief? Exhaustion? Humiliation? Fury? Warspite did not know, but she had the feeling she was about to find out. 

“...for over a century we’ve coveted this damn island as a natural part of Sardegna. And for over a century it's been the jagged knife you’ve twisted into our side... a constant reminder that our sea isn’t ours. But right now? Right now, I couldn’t be happier we could never rip it from you.” 

Warspite said nothing. This wasn’t the time or place to press Veneto on anything. So, she waited while Veneto gathered herself. It didn’t take long before Veneto spoke up again. 

“My friend, Carabiniere... Sardegna can’t help her. We lack medical expertise when it comes to Kansen. But your light carriers have a reputation as miracle workers...” the exile forced out, “I have nowhere else to go.” 

___________________ 

[Littorio] 

Ruins tell stories, thought the Lictor idly. And she was right. 

It was what she said to herself before Calabria, as she pondered what it was exactly, they were going to fight for. The answer then was a legacy; that legacy was a story told in ruins. A legacy that inspired the very ruins her footsteps now echoed in.  

Ruin was rather dramatic, came the sardonic chime of the sarcastic voice at the edge of her mind. And it was right too. The hospital at the reclaimed Bastione Acton was mostly intact despite some blast damage and collapsed columns. But that voice missed the point: there was a story this place she had to know; the only glimpse she would have into the minds of the forces arrayed against them. And a matter of personal interest to her. A personal interest which piqued as her foot struck something small and metallic, half buried in fallen dust and debris. 

A pistol...  

She brushed the dust from the handgun and lifted it to the light. Standard navy issue. It lacked the detailing on the grip that the Guard’s arsenal enjoyed embossing onto its firearms. But that could be a function of wear and tear... 

She took aim and noted how the light danced oddly across its side. Running her thumb over it, she understood why. 

The faint echo of a hollow, circular mark had been imprinted in...no... pulled out of the metal above the grip. One that she recognized, or imagined she did at any rate. What else could it be?  

I wonder...  

Littorio reached into her memory and pulled out the wing her erstwhile companion had mentioned they ‘kept’ him. She had a theory to confirm. But where to confirm it? She didn’t exactly know which room Solari had stayed in, and the receptionist had long since gone. She couldn’t stay long, there were preparations to make for what was blossoming into a war. But she couldn’t leave yet either... 

So room after room she searched. And room after room revealed nothing to her, until one in particular stood out to her. The doors of most of the rooms were either opened wide, likely in a panic. Others were closed, probably just vacant. But one was barely open, as if done carefully and deliberately. A longshot, she knew, but she was a battleship; landing long shots was the point. 

And sure enough, the room held her answers: A captain's uniform and an empty holster, and a glove with a similar mark to the one on the handgun: that of some tentacle’s sucker. Odd, she couldn’t find a cap. But she was piecing his fate together. He had been taken with the other officers even if he had had nothing to do with Calabria, but where? All the way to Naples? Or into the custody of the army that was likely advancing on them now? 

She shook her head in disgust. No good deed goes unpunished.  

But she would do another before the day was out. She folded Solari’s uniform and draped it over her arm, slipped the pistol back into its holster and, on a whim, fixed the holster to her own hip. She’d return these items to his cabin, then set about planning for the next skirmishes.  

She then turned and came face to face with a smug Vincenzo Gioberti. 

“Well, who is he?”  

“Vincenzo, what are doing here?” came her own mildly startled response. 

“Figuring out what you’re up to in here. Cesare’s getting worried.” 

“Tell her I’ll join her in the citadel after I’ve... settled accounts.” 

“Ok, but with who?” Gioberti persisted, her smug grin unwavering.  

So that’s how it must be...  

Littorio shut her ruby eyes, tilted her head, and gave a shallow, wide shrug in response, indirectly but purposefully showing Gioberti the medal ribbons on the uniform she held. “Who knows?” 

Gioberti, all bark as always, immediately fell to wide-eyed fluster. “N-no way... are you...” 

The melodic laugh of the battleship echoed through the empty halls. “No, but the fate of this particular Captain is partially my responsibility, and I intend to return his items to him in some capacity before I return to the war room. Another hour won’t kill Cesare.” 

Gioberi did her best to compose herself. “But she might kill me...” 

Littorio winked and ruffled the destroyer’s hair. “She’s not so scary once you get to know her. You could learn a thing or two from her you know...” 

The destroyer squirmed away, Littorio knew she thought herself too old for headpats; and thus, headpats became Littorio’s favored way of teasing her.  

“... like not to flounder about as soon as you bite off more than you can chew. Now run along and tell Cesare I’ll be by soon.” 

Gioberti started to stammer something and, blushing, stopped herself. “As you say, my flagship.” With a bow, she was off. And Littorio was again alone with her thoughts. 

___________________ 

Her stroll through Taranto was more leisurely than it probably should have been. But she was, in spite of herself, enjoying it. The streets were abuzz with activity, and she found herself stopping and chatting with passersby. Little quips about how wonderful the weather was and questions about Veneto and how she was holding up, which she returned as inquiries into the business or the family. She loved the attention- she was the shining light of Sardegna! And it would be wrong not to shine that light into the hearts of her countrymen. It was one thing to make appearances on Regia Marina posters and give one-liners over the radio, but this was something else. Something better. 

And it was almost normal. But she wasn’t blind: she saw the bakeries and the groceries boarded up and closed. It was obscenely early for them to be closed, the busiest parts of the day were still ahead... if only their stock hadn’t already been bought up in a panic and the farmers weren’t waiting out the storm in the countryside. 

Was the uniform draped over her arm always so heavy? 

Sighing and shaking her head, she answered her own question aloud: “It’s my responsibility either way...” 

Soon, she was making her way up the boarding ramp of the Littorio II. She would never admit it, but this ship made her uncomfortable. All the mass-produced ships of her class did, but she rarely had the misfortune of needing to embark upon one. On one hand, this ship was the pinnacle of what the Sardegnian navy could produce and a focal point for its pride. But it was also a soulless husk of her, a hollow simulacrum stuffed to the brim with bizarre technologies to accommodate the way humans were meant to interact with the siren war and its sibling conflicts. It was like walking around in your own home blind for the first time, every time. She wondered if she would ever get used to it, and prayed she would never need to. 

But it was still practically her even if it seemed more to her like a corpse, she knew where all the rooms were she just... couldn’t feel them. The wires, pipes, currents of electricity, lights and tubes that snaked throughout the ship deafened her with their silence.  

But all the same, she worked her way through the cold, dark ship. And it was cold and dark... and exceedingly empty: no one had been in her for half a month. Her footsteps echoed up stairway after passageway after stairway again until she finally made her way to the captain's cabin. 

It was austere by civilian sensibilities, and even her own. It was barren, undecorated. There were only two things of note: an old officer’s saber and a small pile of boxes.  

“Was your reassignment really that fast, or didn’t you think it would last so long?” Littorio asked Solari, not that he was here. But something needed to fill the silence.  

“Surely you wouldn’t mind...” 

Littorio set his uniform on the bed and approached the pile of boxes. She knew she was probably lying to herself: there was every chance that Solari would be justifiably irate if he knew she went through his things. But the idea was dramatically more compelling than standing around in a stuffy map room with Cesare playing at marshal; that was always Veneto’s thing: Littorio saw herself as the hands that do, not the eyes that see. On some level she knew it really was time to step up and take responsibility for the empire, and she couldn’t hide from Cesare forever... 

But she could manage another hour. 

Opening the first box, she found nothing of note: just some annotated maps, record-keeping equipment and a few pencils. The next was just as boring: some clothing and a spare uniform. But the third was interesting all the way down. And at the top was something wrapped in a think cloth of black and gold. She hesitated a moment before unwrapping the object, only to find that it was a framed photograph. There was a young man wearing the uniform of naval officer that she couldn’t place, but he was the spitting image of Solari. At his side was a young woman wearing a simple dress. Between them stood a very bored-looking little boy. 

“My my...Solari... are you...” 

Curious, the battleship turned the frame over to check for a date: which she found: Veneto, 1897. 

“So he’s your father, and that’s your mother.” It was here that she drew a connection between the ornamental sword in the image, and the one resting at the foot of Solari’s bed. 

She retrieved the black and gold cloth and began to rewrap the photograph when she noticed the imprint of embroidery in the center of the cloth. Flipping it over, she was greeted by an elaborate coat of arms set over a massive black eagle with two heads. She took a moment to memorize the details to bring up with Cavour later, and returned the photo to its box. 

She then turned her attention to Solari’s saber. She drew it up and slid it from its scabbard and held it level with her arm, looking down its spine as she rotated it in her hand. It was well polished; she could see her own reflection in the flat of the blade, but far more interesting was the engraving on the bottom of the grip: the very same double-headed eagle. She took a few experimental swings with it, and to her chagrin found it better balanced than her own sword. 

“Having fun, my flagship?” The ice in her voice froze Littorio on the spot. 

Giulio Cesare stood leaning on the doorframe while Vincenzo Gioberti did her best to hide behind her, giving Littorio a look that said ‘ it was you or me.’ Cesare was teetering between furious and deeply amused at the horrified look on her face. 

“Have you settled your accounts?” 

“I suppose I have,” sighed Littorio. 

“Good, now come along. We have a war to win.” 

Chapter Text

[Pompeo Magno]  

A man in a red and gold uniform had handed her a missive of summons and a train ticket on her way out of the senate building. Ever dutiful, she had boarded that train heading to Genoa. When she arrived at the station a few hours later, a car was waiting for her. But it had was not a typical guard staff car. Normally they were painted in white and trimmed in green, with the symbol of Sardegna- that of the house of Savoy- embossed on the hood. But this was different from any other Guard vehicle she had ever seen: painted in red and trimmed in gold, the embossment of the hood was that of a crowned eagle, its wings spread as it stood in its nest of Laurels. It was Roma’s own self-adopted crest.  

She was to set sail tomorrow afternoon for Napoli at the head of a small Senatorial reinforcement fleet . What Roma could possibly want from her that could risk imposing on express orders from the Senate itself, she did not know. It was bad news; Roma was sitting pretty in Liguria for a reason. And now she was giving Orders of Summons to her of all Kansen ?  Truth be told she was as curious as concerned, and she attempted to indulge her curiosity as her driver took them through the winding roads of Genoa’s portside old town.  

“Do you know what Roma intends to ask of me.” Pompeo questioned her driver.  

“I know better than to ask questions, Captain.” The stern voice of her driver filtered back from the front seat.  

“Then perhaps you can tell me about Roma’s... alterations... to this vehicle? I’ve seen one like it...” Pompeo attempted to pry further.   

“The inheritor does as she will...with the time she is given.” said the man of stone. “But you’ve must admit Ma’am, it makes much more of statement then the standard scheme.”  

Pompeo could not see the eyes of the man through the brim of his cap, but she thought she could see the slightest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of the man's mouth.  

She sighed to herself, giving up the hunt for knowledge, and instead directed her attention out her window. And endless wall of aging brick buildings stretched out to either side of her as they drove down the winding cobbled streets. She was surprised to see how much life was being lived in this old corner of the city: shops and street vendors, performers, musicians and restaurants galore! And as a result, the streets were crowded with people taking in the sights, sounds, and smells, or giving into the temptation to indulge themselves in all that was Sardegna! It filled her with pride to see the light of all she fought to protect shine even here.  

She had begun to consider this fact when the cityscape around her began to change. With increasing frequency, old bricks began to mingle with new stones that took on the appearance of something much older. Elaborate limestone facades accentuated and supported by stone columns, open forums and elaborate gardens ringed pristine fountains as they made their way in between shops and buildings, as if to accommodate and enhance the life of the streets.   

And then the walls broke away, and she found herself gazing across the landscape of their destination. Amid the rising sea of new classically styled houses, several much larger structures rose to either side. On the left, where she sat, a complex of three peaked buildings ringed in columns stood connected by covered walkways that partially doubled as aqueducts cut through manmade pools of water they fed.  

“What are those, off to the left?” She asked the driver.  

“Pet projects of the flagship’s. The large one in the middle is an opera house, flanked museums of Sardeginian art and History.”  

“And to the right?”  

Two large, rectangular structures in a similar style, slightly more industrial and purpose built, if such a thing could ever be said of a classical era imitation, rose to their right.  

“Those are just storage buildings,” replied the driver as he took a left towards the port and its main building.  

“Who allowed all this? She’s practically running her own kingdom!” As impressive as it all was, it signified something to Pompeo: exile had not dulled Roma’s ambitions.  

“Thats too far above my pay grade, Captain Magno.”  

From there, they proceeded down the long road. It was more evidently lined with barracks, more storehouses, and a larger building she picked out to be the hospital. Even between these military buildings, though less frequently, were the fountain centric gardens and open spaces that characterized the rest of the complex. As they made one final turn, they came to a street that was lined with pairs pf stone statues of Sardegnian heroes, from their adopted classical legacy all the way through the risorgimento. Romulus faced Remus, Julius Caesar faced her own namesake, Gnaeus Pompeius, Christopher Columbus faced Marco Polo, Leonardo Davinci faced Michelangelo. On and on it went...  

Pompeo Magno found herself in awe. She had been acquainted with the revival of classical architecture and art on several occasions; since the unification and crowning of the Emperor in declaration of the empire, as well as the foundation of the Imperial Senate, many Sardegnians have been enraptured by the idea of claiming the legacy of their precursor empire. The one her summoner was named for: Roma. She had seen the Imperial Guard adopt this style in its newer buildings, she had seen the senate design museums in the image and had even seen shops pop up featuring prominent architectural features like columns...  

But never anything like this.   

Never anything like a large-scale, concerted effort to revive the image of the classical city!  

Roma’s ornate fortress, for who else's could it be, sat on a pike jutting out into the harbor, allowing Pompeo to glimpse the fleet she had gathered there.  

A gasp caught in Pompeo’s throat at the size of it.  

On either side she could see the painted ships of Kansen in anchorages surrounded by mass produced ships of all classes. Here was a destroyer moored with seven of her mass-produced counterparts, there a cruiser was moored with a full battle capable squadron, further on was another squadron of destroyers. But off in the middle distance, looming over them all, was the battlefleet of the Governorate of Lombardia.  

At its head was the proprietor of this fortress. The towering white form of the battleship Roma, stood in stark contrast to the blue of the sky and the green-grey of the other ships in the fleet. It sat in the commanding position in line with two mass-produced Littorios and a  Conte di Cavour that flew the Eagles and Snakes of Milano, marking it as the Governor’s own flagship. Otherwise, the squadron contained Five cruisers for each Battleship, and four destroyers for each cruiser. This was the fleet meant to keep the Iris from getting too bold. Seeing it now, Pompeo believed it.  

“It is an incredible sight, eh Captain?” The amusement in the voice of the driver was unmistakable.  

At last, the car came to a stop before the great citadel, and she was bid to disembark. She stood a moment and watched the scarlet car fade into the distance. She felt... small... in this place. Smaller than she knew she was. Was it the statuary? Was it the style of the buildings? Was it the true excess of Sardegnian naval power around her? Was it the great looming fortress at whose gate she stood? Or was it what it all implied: how much of this was   Roma’s doing?  

A woman stood by the gatehouse dressed in stark contrast to the red and gold uniformed guardsmen running about.. A white officer's cap sat atop black hair that cascaded back over shoulders crowned by the epaulets on a long white overcoat. One that hung open, revealing a black corset and white skirt, starting the black and white theme that carried down to the alternating stockings she wore. All of her was trimmed in gold and green, but it wasn’t what she wore that struck Pompeo.  

From a distance, everything about her seemed... faded. Her skin was white as the alpine snow, and the sun that shone off her gauntleted hand reflected more as pale silver than the darker steel of a warship. Even her eyes looked as though they had once been a vibrant red.  

The ethereal woman called out to Pompeo as she approached: “Captain Pompeo Magno, welcome to Genova, and welcome to B astione Vittoria!”  

Pompeo gathered herself and returned the greeting, “Never have I had a more impressive welcome outside of the La Citta Eterna itself! Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”  

The woman bowed. “I am Bolzano, first and only Bolzano-class cruiser and castellan of this fortress as appointed by Roma herself. Now, if you would follow me, Roma would speak with you.”  

The castellan turned, and Pompeo followed her though the various gates and security checkpoints before they arrived at the keep. Progressing down several corridors, Pompeo noted the interior was almost entirely marble, with paintings of battles modern and ancient lining a walkway indicated by red carpeting and lit by oil lamps.  

“What is this place?” Murmured Pompeo, more to herself than anyone who might be listening.  

Bolzano must have heard her, because she gave a rather simple response. “It’s what Sardegna was, and what it could be again.”  

“But how? How did Roma manage all this without ruffling any feathers in the Senate?” Pompeo asked, more directly this time.  

The Class-of-One chuckled. “She didn’t, but she knows they need her. They know it too. Even more so now that most of the two southern fleets are playing at insubordination.”  

“With her sisters in revolt, what do you think Roma will do?” Pompeo risked the question.  

Bolzano hesitated. “I think... She’ll do what she can to ensure the best future for the empire.”  

“But what does that mean?” Pompeo pried further.  

“Fortunately for you, you’ll have the chance to ask her.” Bolzano responded curtly, and it was clear she would humor no further prodding.  

As they progressed into the guts of the keep, the natural lighting faded to be replaced entirely by the orange glow of the oil lamps. The black veins of the marble walls seemed to pulse with life as the light danced off them. Pompeo felt herself shrinking even more; if the outside had radiated splendor and prosperity, the interior inspired a different sort of awe all together. But right as they reached a set of large wooden doors, Bolzano stopped.  

Pompeo’s heart skipped a beat. “What’s behind this door?”  

“Roma.”  

The first ship of her class opened the ornate doors and led her inside. It was a great hall unlike any she had ever seen. The room was bisected by the carpet they had been following, and four long tables dominated the center of the room. Busts of famous generals partnered with large, framed maps to tell a panoramic story of the rise and fall of the old Roma from the conquest of the Etruscans to the final fall of the eastern capitol. But the most impressive feature of the room was the massive marble statue of a winged woman gripping a wreath of laurels along the back wall.  

The figure she assumed to be Roma was seated in front of the statue, and Bolzano began approaching her. Pompeo followed her somewhat nervously, unsure of what to expect. She still had no idea what she was here for.  

Bolzano took one more step and sprang to attention. “My flagship, Pompeo Magno has arrived as requested.”  

Roma slowly stood and moved towards them. In the lamplight, Pompeo could see that she was the opposite of Bolzano in every way. Everything about her was vibrant! Rather than a uniform, she wore a white dress that fanned out around her with red cloth joined to her chest by belts and pins. A similar red cape hung from her elbows, and gold embellishments of laurels were omnipresent, bending the light and casting it about the room as she walked. It was as she walked that Pompeo noticed the swaying of the golden chains about her arms and the large, pointed ornamental weights that hung from her dress.  

An eye of gold, and an eye of sapphire regarded her stoically, but could not entirely pull Pompeo’s attention away from the golden laurel pattern that was... embedded ... at the center of her forehead.  

“I am Roma, the inheritor of Romulus' will. How shall I address you?” The surprisingly cordial voice of the battleship seemed to fill the vast room with every word she spoke.  

“I’m Pompeo Magno... uh... Provisional Captain of the Senatorial Reserve squadron.”  

“Pompeo Magno, Provisional Captain of the Senatorial Reserve Squadron. I am sure my castellan has given you a proper welcome to my corner of Sardegna already. But tell me, what did you think of it?”  

“I am at a loss for words... I have been since I arrived.” This wasn’t a lie; she was still struggling to form a coherent opinion on Roma’s empire building in Genova. And luckily for her, Roma seemed satisfied with her answer.  

“It is my great ambition to return all the empire to the very same indescribable brilliance, and that is why you are here today, and to that end I believe we can help each other.”  

“What would you ask of me?” came her own shaky reply, equally concerned as intrigued.  

“All I would ask of you,” beseeched the melodic voice of Roma, “is to take a squadron of my ships, under an officer of my choosing. She’ll be subordinate to you for the duration you need her; this will remain a senatorial operation and you will remain in command. But senate is too stubborn or too paranoid to ask for my help, and you need it. I have the largest loyal fleet at my command- I have ships to spare, and you’ll never stop my foolish sisters with the archaic ships in the reserve fleet.”  

Pompeo flinched at this proposition. Even if Roma was right, quelling this uprising with Roma’s fleet would send a message: Roma could succeed where the senate failed. This presented a problem for the Provisional Captain of the Senatorial Reserve Squadron.  

It was an open secret Roma’s hawkish rhetoric kept her as an unpopular figure in the war-wary senate, and that was why she had so much time to engage in local development in Genoa. It looked bad to their Crimson Axis neighbors when a prominent member of the Imperial Fleet starred on the national radio station advocating for ‘imperial reclamation’ when it so happened, they sat in part or in whole on the lands she would have Sardegna reclaim. The unspoken understanding was that she’d be left to do as she would as long as she sat in port to keep Iris opportunists from doing anything rash, and she herself did nothing to inflame their political situation.  

But now, Roma was once again trying to reenter the Sardegnian political world. Using her expedition as an excuse!  

“Why would you want to help the senate?” Came the cautiously measured question of the confused destroyer. “How can I be sure that this isn’t the prelude to another power-play by the Littorio class? I cannot risk being the first domino to fall against the men who have entrusted me with the fate of the empire...”  

Roma rolled her eyes and let out a tired sigh. “Is that really still what you think of me? Spare me the party rhetoric. I do not agree with my sisters’ decision to play lapdog to the Royals any less than I do the Senate’s conciliatory policy towards the Ironblood. But I am a Sardegnian! More a Sardegnian than my senators or my sisters. And if you cannot trust my words, look at what I’ve done and see that my actions have empire’s best interests at heart. Now let me help you stop this madness before it swallows us all!”  

Slowly, and with great hesitation, Pompeo Magno offered up her hand. “You’re right. I don’t have a choice. I don’t have enough to do what the Senate asks of me, and I fear for the empire should I fail. There is a way this must end.”  

“I’m very glad you think so,” declared the battleship as she lowered her hand to shake Pompeo’s.  

But as she did so, the gold chains coiled about Roma’s arm loosened and slid down Pompeo’s bare forearm, sending a shiver down her spine as the cold metal shifted over her skin. Was Roma toying with her?  

When her questioning eyes searched the even gaze of the battleship, neither gold nor sapphire yielded an answer.  

___________________  

Pompeo was relieved when she once felt the warm, coastal breeze on her face again  

That... wasn’t actually so bad. She thought to herself: Roma could be judged by her actions, and she had doubled the force she would be taking south. If she played this well why... the navy needed a new darling, now that the Littorios were out of favor... why not her? After all, she would be the hero of Taranto! There was just one outstanding factor.  

“Hey, Bolzano,” she addressed the woman that led her out of the keep, “I don’t suppose it’s you Roma intends on sending with me?”  

The faded, red eyes of the cruiser signaled surprise at the question. “No, I could not accompany you... a castellan should not leave her castle.”  

“Then who-”  

“ POMPEO MAGNO!?”  

A blinding light obscured her attempt to identify the figure who had, loudly, screeched her name from somewhere to off her right.  

Rubbing her eyes, Pompeo’s hands fell away to reveal a girl with a camera. Darkened glasses of a similar style to something worn by pilots of the SM.79s she often saw coming and going from La Citta Eterna to the four corners of the empire adorned her face. She wore a short, white dress with ‘O.A’ printed in black and red lettering on the side under a greyish jacket, under another black overcoat. A red tie with golden cameras on it fluttered in the breeze over the strap to the camera’s case.  

Bolzano suppressed a chuckle. “ That , Miss Magno, is who.” Clicking her heel and spinning on the spot, the Class-of-One walked away.  

When Pompeo turned to face her Roma-given attaché, she had already closed the distance between them.  

“It really is you huh? Pompeo Magno... it must be bad down south... I’m Alfredo Oriani, name ship of my class of destroyers! Conserve vowels and just call me Alfredo! Go ahead and take me to the front where all the action is!”  

Roma is sending me south with a journalist. She thought to herself, instantly reminded of the weight of Roma’s cold chains on her arm.  

___________________  

[Solari]  

The vast, rolling hills of Naples had given way to suburbs, and then to a city. A bright sun made the view from inside the dark truck resembled more of a wash of hazy grey than anything Solari might recognize as urban.  But it was still a welcome change over the scorched and skeletal city the Siren had shown him. The siren whose frigid touch was fading slowly but could still barely be felt.  

The guardsmen he had been shackled with on this journey through the countryside found it rather comical that, for most of the ride, he looked like he had seen a ghost. He might've, for all he knew. Was that Siren telling the truth? Could they really travel across realities? Was what he saw another world, or his own; the Siren hadn't exactly been forthcoming with details. But it was real enough. He had seen it through his right eye, the very same eye the sirens took from him, and he could still feel the cold the creature had left behind.  

The truck was coming to a stop now. As the engines quieted, he thought he heard waves slapping off concrete.  

We must be near the port... He thought to himself.  

But why would that be, the army are our jailers...  

“DISMOUNT! Keep your hands where we can see them!” The call came from someone outside, and the soldier sitting across from him waved him out with his handgun.  

The light was blinding as he emerged from the back of the truck into the pale haze of the city. Their five or so trucks had dumped them all in some sort of offloading area for freight. A massive structure filled his view, not far from where they were. It was the old castle that guarded over the port of Naples, from long before the Risorgimento. Castel Nuovo Maschio Angioino had been the seat of foreign kings for over six centuries before the House of Savoy wrested control of it. It was a massive thing; it had to have been to survive for so long, but that was exactly why generations of kings, and now the Governor and Marshal of Naples, had chosen it as their regional headquarters.  

In addition to national soldiers and a few military police, there were extravagantly dressed men in deep blue uniforms braided with gold across the chest, which occasionally connected to the epaulets along their shoulders of the same gold. In comparison to other Palatine uniforms, the red trim and trousers seemed almost out of place in their foregoing of the customary white.  

It was these men, the Palatini of the Neapolitan Governor, that were filing groups of prisoners into the fortress. Soon it was he and his group’s turn. As first out of the truck, he was first in line as they made the long walk. Solari wondered why the trucks had not brought them to the castle itself, until he saw the reason firsthand: the only way to get inside was through a few narrow walkways ending in even narrower bridges across a thick moat.  

I’m never getting out of this...  

Over the bridge and through the outer wall, they were herded down a long, winding spiral staircase. Deeper and deeper into the belly of the beast, the temperature descending alongside them. That was until they were directed down a long, poorly lit hallway lined with iron bars. At the end of this hallway, Solari and the poor soul behind him were shoved unceremoniously into the cell furthest from the entrance. The dim corridor came alive with shouting, protestation, and the clang of the heavy iron-barred doors as they were shut and locked.  

Their Palatine guide was leaving now, and the lamp he had brought for his own sake went with him, leaving his eye desperately trying to grasp for any shred of light to acclimate itself to its surroundings.  

His cellmate sprang to the bars, shouting down the hall after the man: “Hey! HEY! What’s going to happen to us?! Answer me dammit!”  

Solari rolled his eye but kept exasperation out of his voice. “He’s gone, son. And he wouldn’t care to tell us anything anyway.”  

“Forgive a man for trying...” said the man, as he slumped against the wall opposite Solari. “Damn it all!”  

A long moment passed between them, and it the reality of the situation began to set in; they may be here a while. If that were so, Solari reasoned they might as well get to know one another.  

“What do they call you guardsman?” Solari asked the man.  

“ Sottetenente Amborgio Palmiotto, of the first guard squadron.”  

“First guard squadron huh? One of the vaunted ‘Veneto’s Own’... I guess that makes sense. What ship were you stationed on?”  

“I am- was- an officer on the MPRM Conte di Cavour I-VII. ‘Lucky Seven’ We called her. I like to think she passed on some of her luck to her survivors.  

“What happened to her?” Solari asked, somewhat hesitantly.  

“She had plenty of luck to go around for Matapan, and even Taranto. But at Calabria a Royal battleship punched a hole in her forward magazine and that was that.” Amborgio said with a sigh.  

“So you were there for the whole thing, you know what happened and why?” Solari saw his chance to learn about what had happened while he was in the hospital.  

“Hardly, we were escorting Veneto at the time of Matapan, practically sat Taranto out- thank god they didn’t mistake us for the real Conte di Cavour- but we did see action at Calabria. And there isn’t much to tell. The Kansen sought each other out in the chaos, while their mass-produced fleets tore each other to shreds. Ships as far as the eye could see over either horizon. We managed to nail a pair of Yorks, and I’d like to think we were holding our own against a Queen Elizabeth before it blew off our bow. I don’t remember much after that.”  

Solari whistled, “I can’t say I’m sad to have missed a scrap like that. I’ve only been in one before, and I’m still wake up every day grateful I survived it.”  

“Is that where you lost your eye?”  

Solari laughed, “No, that story is altogether more bizarre, and It begins over a month before Calabria. It was the first siren to enter the Mediterranean since our alliance with the Ironblood that did that. Popped it right out of my skull-” Solari made an exaggerated popping sound that echoed slightly through the hall, “and left me two broken ribs for it.”  

“You got that close to a Siren? How?” Asked an incredulous Amborgio.  

“She boarded my ship while my escort was distracted. I myself have been piecing together why ever since. Little girl with big black tentacles, spoke in five voices at once. I’ll never forget it.”  

“She spoke to you? About what? I didn’t even know they knew our language!”  

“She spoke in riddles, but she told me to look out for someone with green hair and the trouble they might get into. I suppose she meant your Littorio?” Solari prodded the guardsman.  

The former officer chuckled to himself. “Anything the Emerald Maiden does that the sirens would call trouble is a good thing indeed. But you know? It makes sense. Sirens like the Ironblood, the Ironblood likes our senate the way it is, and Littorio and Veneto plan to flip the whole thing on its head. Seems like your story isn’t so complicated after all: they’re afraid of losing their puppet.”  

Solari toyed with the idea for a moment. There was every chance the sirens were manipulating him into upholding the status quo that they had engineered. And maybe that status quo would brink the empire to ruin, and that was what they wanted. But neither of the Sirens he had spoken of the empire or him with particular malice. It was impossible to tell what the Sirens really wanted; if they wanted the empire burned, why not just do it with their war machines and superior technology?  It made no sense to him, and that was why he could rationalize taking them at their word.  

“Earth to navy...” chimed the gaurdsman.  

“What? Oh... Solari. Capitano Francesco Solari. But just call me Solari, and don’t bother saluting. I practically lost my command alongside my eye.”  

“Then what did you used to be captain of?” pressed the guardsman.  

“A Trento. Ol’ I-III.” He chuckled. “God, she hated me. Guns always jammed in place, rudder never wanted to behave, engines needed a rebuild what seemed like weekly. I imagine she’s still down there running convoys to and from Libya and the Ortientale. And I’d bet any sum that she’s behaving just fine for her new captain.”  

This got a laugh from his cellmate. “Ever give her a name Captain?”  

The captain smiled wryly. “My men liked to call her ‘the charmer,’ but I never was as kind to her.”  

“But surely you called her something?” implored the guardsman.  

“The Southeastern shitbucket.”  

“Oh man... no wonder she hated you.” the giggling guardsman managed to respond.  

“That’s what she gets for giving me most of the grey hairs you can see now.”  

Shouting from down the hallway caught both their attention. Amborgio flew back to the bars, but Solari knew he wouldn’t be able to see down the dark passage. Though he could hear shouting of protest and the opening and closing of one of the doors. Then the suffocation silence returned.  

“...What do you think will happen to us Captain?” Amborgio asked, defeat creeping into his voice.  

“How long have you been in the guard, son?” Returned a question, trying to sound as calming as he could.  

“Only a year or two.”  

“If you play your cards right, they may just discharge you. They might ask you to testify against your comrades, and you might be wise to take them up on their offer. Either is preferrable to being found guilty of treason.” Reasoned Solari, but his new acquaintance looked shocked.  

“Testify? Against the men who fought and died alongside me? You’re advocating I betray my friends and brothers for the sake of my own survival, on the whims of our wrongful captors no less!” Amborgio almost shouted at him.  

“Consider this: your duty is to the empire, not to your personal sense of honor or brotherhood. And if the difference between losing three of her finest officers, or only two, is your willingness to save your own life, then the empire will be better off for your choice. It isn’t about selfishness of selflessness, Sottotenente. It is about all of us; it is about stacking the deck in case the Royals, Ironblood, Sirens, Iris, or any other malevolent force comes knocking. One officer could be the difference between stopping a war at the borders or seeing millions of our people washed away. Your duty to the empire is to survive to lead generations of men in its defense, not to make the choices that help you sleep at night!”  

“A Sardegna like that... where we sell each other for ‘the empire’... it would destroy the meaning behind being Sardegnian in the first place. It would shatter the bonds that hold up our society, and our culture and way of life would be sacrificed alongside it. The empire wouldn’t be worthy of defense, it wouldn’t be worthy of our loyalty. It isn’t enough to simply exist, something must be worthy of existence.” Amborgio’s tone revealed him to be somewhere between frustrated and uncertain.  

“Think about what Veneto has done,” pressed Solari, “she’s sold your lives for what she thinks is the good of the empire, if you believe her cause to be just. We are the currency with which the empire’s future will be bought. But we are not expendable, neither your life nor mine have been gambled for an insignificant personal reason. If you have a chance to save your life, for the good of the empire, take it.”  

“Veneto has a worthy vision for Sardegna,” protested the guardsman, “One where we’re free of those Ironblood dogs and their stranglehold on our senate-”  

“-As opposed to the Royal’s having their dirty paws in it?” Countered Solari.  

“You don’t approve of Veneto’s actions?”  

“I don’t, they keeps us the same place we were before, without any guarantee of protection from the sirens, even a hollow one, and with a real military threat on our borders. The armistice with the Royals suited us fine. If we have to play second fiddle, it is safer to do so with the Ironblood.”  

“How could you possibly know that? There is every chance that the Ironblood will back down if we rejoin the Azur lane!”  

“Because I was there Amborgio! I saw the Ironblood war machine grind tens of thousands of men into dust and memory on the slopes of the alps! I saw the wounded and the damned carted up and down the mountains, the same looks on their faces- the eyes raising the question ‘why me?’ to heaven and hell both! I’ve witnessed firsthand that joining the Azur Lane will not save us.”  

Amborgio flinched as the thousand yard stare Solari’s single eye fixed him with passed through him. “You fought in the last war? Against the Ironblood and the Styrian Commonwealth?”  

“I fought in the war that gained Sardegna Trentino and Trieste. Such a conflict should not- can not, ever be fought again. I would not see another several hundred thousand Sardegnians dashed against those unforgiving peaks, nor would I see the Adriatic Sea painted once more with the blood of the brave and foolish.” Solari extended a hand to the young officer’s shoulder, “Survive Amborgio. if not for yourself and your empire, for their sacrifice. And when next Veneto calls you to war against your countrymen, think long and hard before you grab a rifle and toe the line.”  

Chapter Text

[Littorio] 

The young battleship looked out over the port from her position atop a cruiser, enjoying the sea breeze in her hair with a smile plastered over her face bright enough to light up the whole of Sardegna. Why wouldn’t she be happy? They had survived the first probing jab of the Esercito di Napoli. Recruitment was up- the high support for the monarchy in the south meant that there were no shortage of volunteers to fight for the Emperor’s own Imperial Guard against a corrupt and sloth-like senate. But there was more to be thrilled about, more even than a strong showing from local patriots. 

“Soon, the governor will cross the strait and land in Calabria...” Proclaimed a voice beside her, dripping with pride and gravity.  

It was the empire’s flagbearer- the flagbearer of the imperial guard and of Veneto herself. She had arrived at dusk, illuminated by the red glow of her arcane halo. In her wake came a few divisions of Guardsmen and marines from Sicily, with extra munitions, supplies, and all the tools necessary to turn the city of Taranto into even more of a fortress than it already was. 

“...my vanguard will ensure this city will stand until they arrive.” Then, the woman bowed. “I, Luigi di Savoia, Duca Degli Abruzzi, place myself and my men at your disposal.” 

Littorio returned the bow. “I speak for everyone here in Taranto when I say we are privileged to have you with us.” 

When Littorio returned to her full height, she was staring down a raised eyebrow from the flagbearer.  

“Littorio, you’re positively glowing this evening, and it isn't just from my halo...” 

The provisional flagship would not deny it- why would she? Their position was, by all accounts, hopeful. 

“To tell you the truth, Duca Degli Abruzzi, you need only look around you to answer your question.” She began indicating parts of the city with sweeping gestures. “We have the largest concentration of battle-ready Kansen in Sardegna, a core of hardened guardsmen supplemented by new recruits from a local countryside that supports us, and now the governor of Sicily marches to our aid at last!” 

The battleship took the cruiser by the shoulders, and the red light from Abruzzi’s halo cast their faces in ghoulish relief, the stoic and expressionless dignitary juxtaposed against the manic smile of the Lictor. 

“We might finally be in the position to win this, not just earn a negotiated peace for my sister’s acquittal but a real victory! Think about it...” Littorio’s voice soared, “...we will be the masters of our fate again! Even if that fate sits in the shade of the Royals it will be a fate of our choosing... better than the steel cage the Crimson Axis has built for us...” 

“A moving sentiment.” Responded Abruzzi, a hint of surprise sneaking its way into her tone, “I was unaware you thought much of the political destiny of our empire.” 

“In truth, I haven’t had much cause to until recently,” Littorio admitted as she stepped away from her ally, “But it’s possessed me since Calabria.” 

 A chuckle escaped the dignitary; “It seems everyone’s been possessed by something after that disaster. The Ironblood decided once and for all that we were not any ally worth having, the Royals extended an olive branch, Veneto took to the field personally, and the senate managed to stop squabbling long enough to indict her- and now you’re playing politics while half the country brays for blood. What better time to make our mark on Sardegnian history...” 

It was Littorio’s turn to be surprised. “I had never thought of you as much of an opportunist, duchess. What changed?” 

“I’m not an opportunist,” came the sardonically casual response of the diplomat, “I am a servant of the empire, one with its best interests at heart- much like you. It so happens that I think the empire is rotting from the inside out under the current authorities, and there will never be a better time to change that than now.” 

“And Governor Lombardo is of the same mind?” probed Littorio. 

“Enough to risk his station, his life, and the lives of those loyal to him.” Retorted a defensive Abruzzi. 

Littorio’s eyebrow rose as a sly smile stretched over her features, “My dear dignitary-duchess.... you have no idea what the governor is thinking do you?” 

“No, I haven’t the slightest idea why the governor was so quick to support Veneto.” Admitted the silver-haired cruiser with an open shrug and her own soft smile, “But how different could the story be from what it usually is? A political slight here, a chance to satisfy an old grudge there... being on the winning side in a civil war has always been among the fastest ways to advance a career.” 

“Perhaps being out in the heart of the Mediterranean- and the heart of the siren war- has shown him how dreadfully ineffective our senate is?” 

“Lictor, did your experience with the sirens turn you into less of a glory seeker? Did it change your mind about anything, or have circumstances transpired to give you a chance to act as you've always wished to?” 

“Careful duchess...” Littorio’s words slid from her like a drawn sword. 

“If the governor is anything like you, my flagship, then you need not worry about him. It’s likely you and your sister’s actions have given him the chance to do something he has always wanted to do.” Finished an undeterred Abruzzi. 

“I... don’t know what to make of that.” 

“Cheer up, Lictor. It means a third of Sardegna’s military might will stand with you till the end.” 

“Wait... are you implying that making war on the senate is something I’ve always wanted to do?” 

“Yes, Lictor. As a matter of fact, I am. You have always resented the senate, and for good reason. Is it so hard for you to believe you are the only one? Even now, with the support of some of the local soldiers, a small army of volunteers and a sympathetic governor? You might not trust anybody without a direct connection to Veneto to join you in taking out their frustrations on our government; but it ultimately doesn't matter if you are looking for revenge, revolution, or rapprochement. Some advice from a diplomat, Littorio; you share an enemy with these people who are going to do their best to use you- why not be willing to use them too. Both of you are already using Veneto as an excuse...” 

“I am not using my sister as an excuse to wage war against my fellow Sardegnians!” Littorio was almost shouting. 

"Who are you trying to fool? If the senate offered to pardon Veneto tomorrow, on the condition you lay down your arms and rejoin the fleet... Would you really waste this chance to right all the wrongs you know are in our government?” Abruzzi pressed her further, raising her own voice. “Has Calabria really sapped away your will to set Sardegna on the right path?” 

“What’s the verdict, zealot , am I a coward or an opportunist?!” 

“I haven’t decided yet...” Stated Abruzzi in her normal, conversational tone, “... but neither have you.” 

Littorio was visibly shaken by this response- the dignitary had seen right through her. “If... You'll excuse me...” 

“Of course, flagship. Do stop by again once you have found your answer to my question.” Finished Abruzzi for her in a perfectly cordial manner, so much so you would be forgiven for thinking they hadn't almost engaged in a shouting match. 

___________________ 

The echoes of her footsteps were lost in the hum of the equipment in her ship, but she barely noticed either. Her mind was bolted to her conversation with Abruzzi. All the talk about motivation, nature inclination, secret desires, and implication had recalled a set of old questions she had felt compelled to excuse herself for a search for answers. 

Were her actions that of the stoic sentinel of the empire, taking up the mantle of responsibility from an unworthy government? 

Or were they the actions of a glory seeking opportunist, defaulting on her responsibility to the empire for her own selfish reasons? 

She closed her eyes and stood for a moment, before asking aloud the question that surfaced into her memory like some great whale: 

“O, when did I stray from the path of righteousness? How much time has passed?” 

The walls and machinery of the Littorio did not answer her. She knew they wouldn’t, and what's more, she knew this was a question that she had to answer for herself- not with her actions but within her own heart.  

She held a hand to her chest in contemplation.  

Is my wisdom cube so different from a human heart? Am I so different from the governor?  

A wry smile crept over her face. She knew her great question wasn’t hers: she knew if from an old Sardegnian epic. If the doubts of a human poet could so perfectly echo her own, who’s to say they were all that different?  

What did victory mean to her? She knew what it would mean for the rest of Sardegna- the twilight of their clumsy senate and dramatic reentrance into the Azur Lane treaty. 

But for her? She had gone along with Veneto’s grand plan, trusting in her to navigate the strategy of it all, in the same way that Veneto had trusted her with personally leading the fleet. But they had both failed: Veneto had failed their strategy politically, and the ‘Mediterranean's mightiest battleship’ had led the Guard in a stunning string of defeats.  

Littorio picked a wall and slumped against it, her cape forming a soft barrier against the cold, firm surface. 

“Damn it... Damn it all...” came her voice, soft enough to nearly be a whisper. 

More words from her dream fell to the floor alongside her: “On my path of conquest, having yet to witness the light of dawn that I seeked, I found myself lost deep in the woodlands; dim, dark, and dreary. Entombed within the darkness of those dense copses, I stood alone, trembling with fear, and I could do naught but curse myself for my ignorance and my foolishness.” 

Despite herself, she smiled as she rested her head on the steel wall. “Here I am! Lost in the trees, with nobody but myself to blame- searching for the light I was supposed to cast...” 

“What of me now? What of us all?” her muffled voice barely audible. 

She was, at least for now, the inheritor of Veneto’s will. A will to change their destiny: to not share the fate of the Vichya as either a Royal trophy or Ironblood puppet.  

But now, both of those were fair game. If she lost another gambit, the Ironblood may force them into their war with the Royals as an act of penance. Such shame she could not bear... they had already fought that fight and lost. They were already just trophies... trophies the Royals had not been cruel enough to claim. This fact gnawed at her metallic bones- she could never un-lose the battle of Calabria, she would never wipe that shame away. The scars she earned in her fight with Illustrious would fade, but they would never heal. And the memory of the choking smoke as her world burned to ash at Taranto would never leave her. And the memory of the fires’ heat drove out the cold of her ship’s hull. 

She closed her eyes and buried her face in her gloved hands, as memories flowed like tears- washing her back to the ‘Coast of the Gods’ 

___________________ 

The Battle of Calabria: The day the empire died. 

This was the day!  

Littorio stood at the bridge of her own vessel, sensory information coursing through her brain from the squadron of mass-produced ships linked to her. 10 Zaras and 14 battleships, mostly Conte di Cavours, but four of them were Littorios; comforting in familiarity but strange to the touch of her thoughts, like wearing four pairs of gloves. She was tasked to capacity, maybe even pushing a little further than that. They all were, and for good reason: Today was the day! 

Today I will be vindicated!  

Today I will reverse the losses we have suffered and stains on our honor!  

Today I will add to the millennia of glories gracing these shores!  

This operation was among the largest Sardegna had ever attempted, challenged only by their great show of strength against the sirens that set this all into motion. Zara and Pola had taken a dozen cruisers with them each and were out hunting for their enemy. They should be reporting back soon... 

It was her, Zara, Pola and... At long last, Veneto herself took the field with them. All at the heads of mixed formations of all the battleships and cruisers that Southern Sardegna could provide them. And behind them, massive formations of crewed mass-produced ships from the Imperial Guard served as a reserve. Even some lighter formations from the Regia Marina had volunteered to take part in what was sure to be a glorious moment in their history.  

Littorio could barely contain herself- she and her sister were about to enter history alongside Regulus and Vulso at Ecnomus! Like the great consuls before them, they would strike a mortal blow to the Thalassocracy that stands between them and their fate as masters of the Mediterranean world! 

Zara and Pola’s squadrons were out looking for the enemy, poking and prodding around to find the position and disposition of their adversaries. But on and on the hours crawled. Afternoon turned to dusk, and dusk was threatening to turn fully into night when her radio crackled to life: 

<<<Pola to Flotta Imperiale , one aircraft Carrier and her escort fleet have broken through our lines, heading for the Jewel. We’ve held up Warspite a bit, but she must have some new technique for night battles. Use caution. We’re giving chase. Glory to Sardegna!>>> 

As flagship, her sister responded: <<<Affirmative Pola, Glory to Sardegna>>> 

Littorio was ecstatic.  

So there will be a fight after all!  

As Veneto bid her do once they had made contact, she began to radio the Ironblood Adriatic fleet. It was small, mostly a few U-Boats and destroyers. Veneta had caught rumors that two Ironblood Battlecruisers had been transferred there after the Siren incursion- and they would be perfect to fill in for Cavour and Cesare. Seeing as the Ironblood already failed to keep up their end of the bargain, Sardegna was owed a favor... 

<<<Littorio to Ironblood Adriatic Command, the Royal Navy is sailing for Calabria and we require your aid as a member of the Crimson Axis>>> 

<<<Ironblood Kommand von den Adriatische Meer here, a night action against the Royal Navy would be ill conceived with an overabundance of variables we cannot control. We cannot promise any support for an operation with such an unnecessarily high risk.>>> 

Littorio heard the Ironblood admiral flick his receiver off as the radio filled with soft static. 

Wretched dogs! Fine, more glory for us!  

Littorio stood, quietly fuming for a while, before a pair of footsteps gave her pause. Spinning around, she found her sister at the entrance of her conning tower. 

“So, they aren’t coming?” Veneto’s expression fell slightly. 

“Those cowards are scared of the dark!” 

“Then its settled. We are little more than pawns to them... just like the Vichya. I had such hope for the Crimson Axis... they were our path to empire. But now? How does that epic of yours go? ‘The lion. The she-wolf, and the leopard?’ We need a way out, or they will tear us apart...” 

“You were always the diplomat... do you have another world class navy hidden in the folds of that cape?” 

Veneto managed a smile, and she wasn’t sure if it was forced or not. “No, but... you know how Cesare always makes a fool of you at cards?” 

Littorio bristled as red as her eyes “I’ll have you know that-!” 

Veneto held up one hand to silence her, and the other to hide her own grin. “She does it to me too, but don’t worry- it’s time for us to both cash in the luck we’ve been saving. What would you say... to a wager?” 

___________________ 

The two remaining Sardegnian Battleship-Kansen stood out on the water. The Royal Navy’s Carrier and escort had arrived, and off in the distance she could see three Kansen, free of their rigging, skating across the waves toward them- a sign that the Royals had accepted their offer to parley.  

Littorio smiled. Here they were. Standing on the pale, crystalline sea surrounded by the echoes of time. She could feel, more than see, the ruins that lined the shores. A thousand years of glory. A thousand years of splendor and beauty. An era of gold, silk, and myth. The epitaph of legacies neither fact nor fiction could ever again compare to. And ghostly testaments of the mantle they claimed. When the moon struck the pale and rotting stones perfectly, out of the corner of her eye, those ruins appeared as they had a thousand years ago: the fleeting, phantasmic afterimage of what they all aspired to be. 

The Royal Kansen reached them, and she caught Zara and Pola’s squadrons slipping back into their positions at the flanks of the main fleet. The stage was almost set. 

None of the Royals broke the silence for a long time. Littorio watched as Warspite’s main battlefleet arrayed itself before them, a silver outline on the horizon lit only by the moon. The small Kansen was working her way toward them now, and the Royal carrier finally spoke. 

“This... all of this... it’s all the jewel of Calabria...” 

Littorio maintained her smile as she stepped forward, “You’ve been eavesdropping on us... but yes. ‘The Coast of the Gods’... Sardegna’s National treasure.”  

She held her arms out in a wide, open gesture, indicating the entire scene. “Thousands of years of history, culture, art... look upon their ruins... look upon their testament... read the gospel of glory between the cracks of stones that stood before the words even existed to describe them! They represent a legend, the pursuit of which is the most glorious endeavor than any other... a pursuit whose splendor is only rivaled by my pursuit of you, bella signora.” Littorio finished with a wink and the toss of a rose. 

A rose which formidable caught carefully, a faint blush on her cheeks. “Why... are you both here? Why have you come here? What do you want? It would have been easier just to start with the battle...?” 

A panting Warspite finally slid into the conversation. “Indeed... why... aren’t... we fighting?” 

It was Veneto’s turn to step forward: “We’re here to make a wager. Between you, and the Ironblood. The crimson Axis has all but abandoned us already. If we win here, they may take us seriously- maybe even afford us a modicum of respect. But we’d be living on borrowed time. This sea, this jewel, will never be safe under the crimson axis. If it is not lost to us, it will be defiled by the sirens-” 

“So join us! We want the same thing as you! And we can help you if you’d only ask!” Stammered a perplexed Formidible, the hint of a plea in her voice.  

Veneto shook her head. “Bluntly, we don’t know if your Azur Lane will actually win your war against the Crimson Axis and their siren puppet masters and we aren’t about to join the losing side. But a victory over us here would go a long way to proving that you’re not fighting for a lost cause.” 

“So that’s it then. Res non verba...” spoke Warspite, mostly to herself. 

Warspite then addressed the Sardegnians. “If we win here, you’ll rejoin Azur Lane?” 

“You have my word as flagship of the imperial fleet.” 

“So be it. Barham, Valiant, return to your sections. Formidable, the sky is yours.” 

“Zara, Pola, and all members of the Imperial fleet, let the light of Sardegna pierce the darkness. Lunga Vite All’Impero! ” 

___________________ 

Not long after Littorio returned to her ship, star shells began exploding over them, and flares were dropped from planes to mark their positions. Then the real shells started falling, and first blood went to the Royal Navy when one of Littorio’s Zaras exploded.  

Anger followed the slight jolt from the synaptic feedback of violently losing one of the ships linked to her wisdom cube. With a thought, her formation advanced, firing back into the gloom. Through her rangefinder, she watched the shells zip towards the offending line ship as best she could. She couldn’t precisely identify it in the darkness, be she thought she saw the sparks of an impact and an explosion. Which was good enough for her. Opening her mind’s eye, she began picking targets for the rest of her formation. Soon, a steady pattern of fire developed as they pushed ever onward into the fray. 

The plan was a simple one- there was no chance at victory while the Royals had an operational fleet carrier, thus the sole job of her task force was to break through their defensive line and rob them of that carrier.  

An explosion violently threw back the darkness as one of her shells found something important in one of the Royal Battleships. She and it brough a smile to her face. 

The light of Sardegna shines so beautifully from the barrels of my guns...  

Her moment of euphoria was short lived, as she felt the violent lurch of one of her own ships as it took a hit that destroyed the forward gun turret and set a raging fire on deck. The illuminated ship was then pummeled to death by every ship with guns loaded, and she felt it ripped from her control.  

She groaned internally as she made rapid course corrections so the rest of her formation would miss the wreck. She learned one particularly important lesson from the loss of one of the Cavours- there were more Royals than she thought there would be. 

<<<Veneto, there are a lot of them. Mobilize the rest of the fleet! We’ll need them all.>>> 

She didn’t wait for a response from her sister. They were almost close enough... soon they would- 

“ GAH!” Littorio shrieked and fell forward onto the command console as a wave of feedback stuck her. The display panel registered the sudden loss of three of her battleships and a cruiser, and the afterglow of one of the explosions revealed how: aircraft were buzzing around her like a swarm of carrion birds. 

But she had tried to prepare: each of the five Littorio class ships sent up three fighters from their airplane catapults. Littorio was not a carrier, she lacked expertise commanding a large air wing like this and it was exhausting business. But sailing with a slight zigzag in a straight line didn’t require much effort on her part anyway. And anything was better than waiting for that carrier to sink her entire formation. She shifted what attention she could to punching through the thin line of cruisers that had revealed themselves with their barrel flashes. Explosions lit up the night as her fleet carved straight through them, only losing one ship to torpedoes. And then, it was time. 

She clicked a stopwatch as the eight remaining Zaras engaged their exhaust smoke, shrouding her fleet as it closed the final stretch of water. Glancing blows harmlessly struck the bow armor of her ships, and then began to miss entirely. Star shells cast the thick smoke with an eerie glow, and she took the opportunity to focus more on her losing dogfight with the Royal carrier. The 9 remaining Re.2000s danced with Fulmars and Barracudas above the artificial cloud. 

Her newfound concentration claimed four Barracudas and a Fulmar before the Royal reformed and tore three Sardegnian planes from the sky. Higher and higher the furball spiraled. Littorio knew little more than chasing tails and hoping, and for each attempt the Royal took another of her aircraft.  

But their obsession with keeping her main fleet illuminated had inadvertently illuminated the Royal carrier as well, who must have been too occupied with their sky-bound tango to notice. Littorio dove her last pair of planes straight at the carrier, at the cost of giving the Royal AA and fighters a clear shot. Their wreckage plunged down into the crystalline sea like a pair of falling stars. But their job had been done: she had the range. The six barrels of her forward turrets locked into place and began firing blindly through the smoke, using the last known position of the carrier and some guesswork. She hoped they hurt. 

Her stopwatch rang, and she gave the signal for her cruisers to turn hard and launch torpedoes. The smoke had run out, and it was fading. She grit her teeth as a succession of jolts coursed through her body as her cruisers rapidly fell to royal gunnery. A savage cannonade broke out between the battleships as battle lines tore each other to pieces. Adrenaline kept her from seeing stars as the extensions of her consciousness were blown apart and ripped to pieces.  

An armor piercing shell found her forward turret, destroying it entirely and filling her with a sensation of heartburn as the ammunition below the turret cooked away behind the massive bulkheads that prevented a catastrophic chain reaction. 

She scanned the darkness for the ship that had picked her out and fired back with her remaining front turret. Semi-armor piercing shells dug into the offending warship and exploded, leaving it out of action.  

A moment later, a cluster of high explosive shells plunged down into the base of her superstructure, setting a fire at its base but achieving little else. But a horrible shift of the superstructure told a different story as the conning tower gradually began to lurch forward. 

Realizing what was happening, Littorio threw herself out one of the shattered windows as the tower collapsed onto her last frontal turret. Along with it went most of the sophisticated fire control systems and rangefinders, along with her radio and command interface for the last scraps of her fleet. 

But it was still her: and rummaging through her tangled consciousness, she found enough fire prevention systems were still functional to stop the fire amidships.  

Littorio quickly overcame the shock, and attempted to stand, but immediately fell to one knee. “Heh... damn... leg... patches weren’t enough...” 

She slowly, carefully as her situation allowed for, stood, and unclasped her smoldering cape, letting it fall to the deck to finish burning itself out. She still had a job to do. It was just her battered ship, missing both front turrets, most of her bow and conning tower, and the flaming hulk of her last mass-produced copy left. 

A copy which was quickly extinguished by a pinpoint shot straight into its magazine, ending is misery. 

So, this is it? That’s too damn bad....  

She coughed up a bit of blood onto the deck and focused all her being into not falling to her knees. She was surprised, and gratified, to see only red and not any of the electric blue of a damaged wisdom cube. The damage was painful, inconvenient, and hampered her abilities... but it was not lethal.  

 Then, the world around her exploded, throwing her back to the deck. Torpedoes from the cruisers struck the Royal battleships arrayed before her in a great fan of destruction, so forceful that it swept what was left of her smokescreen and knocked planes from the sky. She managed half a grin of smug satisfaction.  

“Got you... arrogant bastards...” 

 Fire and moonlight entwined the burning sea in stunning relief, a forest of twisted, sinking metal all around her. There was no sailing a ship through that, and she still had to reach the carrier.... 

Littorio took a deep breath, hauled herself up, and lurched over the fractured railing. The sea was full of ship parts, and probably oil too, but smoke was all she could smell. She braced herself and leapt into the shattered sea. 

Her face contorted in agony as her floating wreck broke itself down into wisdom cubes. Jagged pieces of energy merged with her as torn and warped metal struggled to merge back into her skin, cube, and form her rigging. She struggled to hold back a scream as the sensation of minute pieces of sharp metal forcing themselves to fit alongside her cells carved through her. But soon, it was done. She wasn’t entirely incased in the metal skin of a full rigging, but most of her was still here, and she still had one functional turret. 

Onward... to glory...  

She drew her sword, and began to slowly drift her way through the sinking, burning, metal jungle. She could hear the rest of the battle going to either side of her. It was as though the battle had formed around this great burning crucible, none could cross it, and none could see through the towering column of smoke that her killing field had created. But planes... she could still hear the planes. She still had a job. So, she worked through her hell, careful not to get spotted by the planes. She had made it past the wrecks of her own cruisers and into the graveyard of Royals, then finally into the wreckage of the royal battleships. To her horror, there was still a squadron of four battleships stationed around Formidible. Formidible’s attention must have been elsewhere because the ships took no notice of her. 

She focused all the energy she had left on her remaining turret. Three guns would have to be enough... 

“ Arrivederci !” 

To you, or to me.  

Her remaining barrels spat battleship caliber shells at an astonishing rate, enough to put the rest of the carrier’s escorts out of action, and even managed a good hit on the armored carrier herself. The carrier exploded into blue light a moment later, and Littorio knew the show was over. 

She recalled her words to Veneto- ‘It's almost time for the denouement.’ 

And now it is.  

A Fulmar came screaming through the darkness. She tried to dive out of the way but... something stopped her . Her limbs wouldn’t cooperate, and the strain on her already shaky legs began to increase tenfold. 

The wing of the plane caught her in the midsection and continued onwards. She had just enough time to register the furious looking Formidible looming above her before her image was gone, and the plane slammed into the wreckage of an unrecognizable ship. She was thrown back hard, thankful for the second time today that her rigging joint reinforced her spine as it met the bulkhead behind her with a sickening crunch of metal.  

Littorio struggled to get up, but she couldn’t. She struggled to raise her sword or bring her guns about against the carrier, who was leisurely walking towards her. Again, she could not. 

“And so... the curtain falls for the other sister as well .” The carrier mocked her. 

“What. Did. You. Do?” Littorio managed to force out.  

“Told you to stop.” Replied the smug carrier, “That ought to teach you not to sneak up on a lady like that.” 

“What. Now?” came another forced question 

“Ladies of the Royal Navy have many virtues, but mercy to enemies is not one of them, unfortunately for you.” The carrier cooed as she pried the sword from Littorio’s hands, “For what it's worth, you were a worthy adversary...”  

Littorio watched as Formidable raised the blade high, the fire dancing off one side while the moon illuminated the other. The battleship closed her eyes and waited. But again, the denouement never came. 

“ ENOUGH!” Came a voice that Littorio thought she recognized but could not turn to acknowledge. 

Her sword fell back towards her, not in some lethal drive to her chest, but in freefall to the ground next to her as whatever power held her in place dissipated. Its clatter on the wreckage was lost amid her own coughing and sputtering as her breathing was finally allowed to resume its normal pace. 

“Are you alright? By the Queen... what happened to you?”  

A light voice, a small, outstretched hand... that commands Formidable... Warspite!  

“Hey! Can you hea-” 

The lictor held up a hand to silence her. “Listen...” 

There were no cannons, no planes, not even the screeching of metal sliding beneath the waves. Just sea, and the flickering flames. She gently rose to a sitting position and took in her surroundings. The Jewel of Calabria was no longer visible to her- smoke blocked the moonlight, oil and debris covered the waves, and the wreckage blocked her view of the coasts.  

She managed a pained laugh, coming down from the adrenaline high she had worked up during the fighting. 

“...So that’s it then. It’s over. I- we, are to take our seat in your shade... instead of waiting for the Ironblood darkness to claim us.” 

The battered, bloodied, and broken Littorio hauled herself to her feet, with the help of Warspite’s outstretched hand, and found herself relying on Warspite until she found her balance, prompting a response from the other battleship. 

“Oh, how I despise the hard knocks of war...” 

“You’ve got a talent for it... you who spites war... you only have that luxury... because you've already won...” 

“That luxury is why I am choosing not to issue a formal declaration of war after your actions at Matapan. And it’s a lesson you should take to heart as someone who so barely escaped becoming a kill stripe to Formidible.” 

“I place myself... at your mercy.” Littorio emphasized Warspite, doing her best to stand free of her. 

“Your sister is waiting for you, with the others. Can you make it back on your own?” 

“I’ll manage.” the Sardegnian replied, turning to go. Before a thought occurred to her. 

“Formidable!” she shouted after the carrier, who paused her own departure.  

“What?” the carrier asked, curtly. 

“Take a message back to Illustrious for me!” She shouted, the fire dancing in her eyes, “When the passions of this land fade at last, let us reignite the passion between us.” 

With that, Littorio sped off as fast as she could manage. 

It was first light by the time she approached the battered remnant of the Imperial Fleet. A lone figure in red and black stood away from the fleet, waiting for her. It was Veneto, her hair was a mess and the wind blowing in her cape revealed the holes and scorch marks of her tattered uniform. But most striking to Littorio was the growing look of horror on her sister’s face as she approached.  

Rigging in tatters, bleeding from the shallow cuts from absorbing her ship’s shattered metal, uniform scorched and dirty from the fire and smoke, and with a leg she could barely direct herself with, she eventually presented herself before her sister with as much of a bow as she could muster. 

“Reporting in, my eternal flagship.” 

“Littorio..." her sister stared at her, wide eyed and hand on mouth, "what happened to you?” 

“I'm sorry... I... failed... I-”  

Littorio began to stammer when Veneto sprang forward and pulled her up into a hug. 

___________________ 

Whether it was the force of the hug, the surprise, or the excruciating pain it had caused back then, she did not know. But it pulled her back out of her waking nightmare. 

She was back in her ship, now lying against the wall on a bed of fabric made by her cape. She reflexively ran through a check of her systems. Everything was there: all the turrets, all the fire prevention, range finders, her radio- even the airplane catapult and its squadron. 

She sighed in relief and frustration.  

“I can’t keep living like this,” she said aloud, as though saying them made the idea more real, “The empire needs me, and my sister needs me. I’ve already failed them both... but now, with this little army of mine... I can make things right. Whether for the empire’s sake... or for mine alone.” 

She clenched her fists 

“I will suffer no more humiliations.” 

Chapter Text

[Pompeo Magno]

As her fleet steadily closed the distance to Naples. They were making good time, even with the steadily worsening weather.   

All the better. She reasoned to herself.  

Bad weather would ensure no aircraft would be out scouting for them, either from traitorous elements of the Regia Aeronautica or the ship-launched planes some of the more modern battleships carry. The late morning sun had been swallowed entirely by clouds and the seas were beginning to pitch and arc, but it wasn’t a problem yet.   

That wasn’t to say she enjoyed sailing through a gathering storm, but the boys at the Ministero dell'Intelligence Imperiale had finally done something useful: the Esercito di Sicilia was making the crossing at Messina and would be doing so over the next three days. The sooner she could rally with fleet in Naples, the sooner they could strike a decisive blow against the upstarts! She could end this war before it really began, and before it spiraled out of control.  

It had to be her. That was how it worked. The more you did, the more you were trusted to do. Action is the finest and only proof of loyalty. Those battleships forgot that, with their privileged status as Sardegna’s darlings. Is it any wonder their loyalty collapsed at the slightest test? The lights of Sardegna had been blinded by the spotlight.  

A buzz and a voice filled her cabin, derailing her self-righteous internal monologue.  

<<< HEY POMPEO! >>>  

It was Oriani. Of course it was. Who else would it be?   

She sighed and picked up the end of the receiver.   

<<<You don’t need to shout, Oriani, what is it?>>>  

<<< DO YOU- *cough*- do you think there will really be a war?>>>  

<<<Littorio doesn't strike me as the type of Kansen to back down. And she’s running out of time to sit down and talk. Besides, I know what she wants, and I know the Senate won’t give it to her. We aren’t sailing south with a fleet because we expect a peaceful resolution.>>>  

<<<Then I’ll be the first reporter on the scene! Imagine it! My big break- I'll finally be more than just a hobbyist!>>>  

Pompeo could feel the patience draining out of her head and onto the floor of her command post.   

Is this all a joke to her? Some dumb game? A ploy for publicity?  

The captain balled her other hand into a fist as she listened to Oriani prattle on. Not that she heard a word the journalist was saying- they all bounced off her ear and landed on the floor alongside her patience.   

Pompeo was about to rebuke her for breaking radio silence when the radio... went silent. The signal simply vanished. Pompeo flicked through the channels, one after another.   

Dead. All of them.    

Morse code began to flicker all along the crewed ships she had brought from Rome as electrical systems failed. Pinpricks of light pierced the gathering storm through rain that fell much heavier than earlier. Lights that all rocked up and down on the steel-grey sea on waves that rolled much higher than before. Not broken, just... switched off. Oriani was frantically signaling that she had lost her connection to the mass-produced ships.   

Pompeo swore, fastened her overcoat, tightened the neck strap of her helmet, and began to make her way towards her own signaling lamp. She would need to think of something vaguely reassuring to a fleet that was beginning to drift in a stormy sea. But there was something else. It felt as if frigid fingers were poking around her brain.  

They forced a gasp from the destroyer as they found what they were looking for; she felt the four boilers of her engine room grind to a halt. She was dead in the water, with the sneaking suspicion that the same was true of every other ship in her flotilla. What could tear her control over her own ship  

What the hell is happening?  

There was a knock at the door of her cabin, but that was absurd! The waves were too large for anyone to have rowed over, Oriani was still frantically signaling, and she was a crew of one...  

It had grown too dark in the hallway to see more than a silhouette at the small window on the cabin door, and the lights had gone out with everything else. Pompeo drew her ornamental saber, took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped back as an echo of a memory that was not hers stepped into the natural light of the smothered sun.  

Pompeo’s sword clattered to the floor; she was shocked. She recognized every inch of this woman from head to toe, but none of her was right: Boots and leggings of a striking pure black had become muted and diluted, their gold accents tarnished to a sickly dull off-bronze, and their white sides replaced by faded crimson. Her uniform had lost all its green, and paralleled lines of dull gold traced up her torso to the only thing that hinted at her being, or having been, a Sardegnian Kansen: alternating red-white stripes on a pair of small flaps. An armored brace sat around her collar, and metal pauldrons covered the torn and frayed epaulets of an overcoat that had been reduced to tattered shreds of cloth around her arms. Her long purple hair fell to her ankles, almost concealing the wicked piece of metal that hung where a sword must once have been. But her smile was the same as it always had been.  

“...Trento? What happened to you?” Pompeo took another step back.  

“Pompeo Magno... it's so, so good to see you again...” The strange Trento wiped a tear from her eyes and strode the distance between them pulling the smaller woman into an embrace, one that would have been warmer once, but not for lack of trying.  

Pompeo knew better than to attempt to escape a hug from Trento, even if she barely recognized her. Something was off with Trento, she felt different. Something radiated from her- the air was uncomfortable and being this close to Trento made her feel uneasy.  

At length, Pompeo disentangled herself from her visitor. “Trento... what's going on?”  

Trento- if it was indeed her, released Pompeo with some reluctance. “I’m here to help you. Do you know where we are?”  

“We’re in the Tyrrhenian Sea, on our way to Naples. Or at least, we were...”  

“Very good.” sounded the soothing voice of the cruiser. “You were. Now, you’re in a mirror sea.”  

A chill ran down Pompeo’s spine. Mirror seas were something she had heard whispers of, but the pact with the Ironblood had kept the sirens out of the Mediterranean; there had been no mirror seas for them to study, and nobody was eager to have what they had pieced together pass into the public domain. But she knew just enough to know that they were trapped, and she certainly didn’t know how to break them all out.  

“If this is a mirror sea, then what are you doing here.” Pompeo regarded her new acquaintance cautiously.  

“I knew you would be here, and I came to help.”  

“But how did you know I would be here? How did you know any of this? How do I know you are who you say you are?”  

“I have outside context that you don’t, and hopefully never will, have. And you’ll have to trust me. You don’t know enough about the Sirens to know I’m not one of their pawns.” As she said this, she bent to pick up Pompeo’s fallen weapon, offering it back to her.  

The shaken Pompeo received it, after a moment of hesitation, and returned it to its place at her side. “It would seem our lives are in your hands...”  

The strange Trento managed a smile, and even a little giggle. “You could say that.”  

“But how are we to navigate this place? None of our systems are working- we're dead in the water in and we can’t conduct maintenance or modifications in a rising storm...”  

Trento’s smile began to grow. “You said so yourself, Pompeo Magno, you’re in my hands.”  

Pompeo stared in dismay as her friend raised an open hand, as though reaching for something nobody else could see. And her dismay grew as Trento’s arm became cloaked in some thick, eldritch, deep red fog that roiled with a silent hum of movement. The cruiser leveled her arm and gestured around the room as Pompeo’s ship came back to life. Miasma that took the same form as the fog on Trento seeped into the systems of her vessel, wreathing them in a brilliant blood red.  

“Haha! Trento! I have no idea what you’re doing, but its incredible!” Pompeo had never felt so alive! Whatever Trento was doing to her felt incredible! Currents of energy flowed through every part of her like a rogue wave.  

The radio sprang back to life and Pompeo was clued into the bigger picture: captains from around the fleet were corroborating the things they were seeing: some manner of red smog had engulfed their systems and had restored power and control of their ships.  

“Trento...” she breathed, pulling herself from her state of euphoria, “What is this?”  

“The faded light of a shattered dream.” Came the bitter words through a sad, strained smile. “You’d best get underway... I’ve never done this before, and I don’t know how long I can manage it.”  

“What’s our heading?”  

“That massive spire to our southwest, can you see it?”   

“Not through this mess.”  

“Heh... okay...Hold still...” Trento muttered as she placed the miasmic hand on Pompeo’s shoulder.  

“Hey! What are you-”   

It was like someone had torn off a blindfold. Pompeo could not see so much as perceive a depth of information on a scale she had never experienced: topographical, navigational, weather, distance... it was overwhelming to her senses. But she ‘saw’ what Trento was referring to, and duly set in a course heading south by southwest.  

Both Kansen were relieved when Trento pulled away again, Pompeo because it felt like her brain would explode and Trento because powering fifteen ships and the senses of another Kansen was pushing it. But their linked moment clued Pompeo Magno into something critical: Trento was not whole, and more than whole- there were parts of her missing, both in body and soul. Were they things taken from her or things she left behind? And there were parts of her that didn’t belong, as if grafted into her.   

“Stay on alert, there should be a defensive fleet around the tower.” murmured Trento, ignoring the questioning look in the golden eyes of her companion as she closed her own eyes and concentrated. Now, cannons and fire control shared the red glow of the other systems, and Pompeo assumed the same would be true of the other ships in the fleet.  

Before them was a Siren battlefleet. It was arrayed in the Siren’s standard configuration: eight Pawn -class destroyers as a vanguard, two Rook -class battleships on the flanks, two Knight -Class light cruisers on the inside, followed by two Bishop -class heavy cruisers, a Queen- class aircraft carrier, with a Peace Breaker- class humanoid battleship playing the part of ‘king’ on the chessboard.  

Pompeo’s heart raced as she ran through her own order of battle. Fifteen ships, including herself and Oriani. She had brought nine ships from Rome: seven of them were Turbine -class museum exhibits that might have filled the role of destroyers over a decade ago on loan from the senate’s reserve fleet. Their outdated nature was a grim reminder that they were crewed, first generation mass-produced ships. The two others were Capitani-Romani class, like herself ; an autonomous honor guard from the cube-yards at Ancona.   

It was a bitter feeling that most of her firepower came with Roma’s seal stamped on their prow. Oriani commanded five Zaras. A simple, and importantly, modern squadron of heavy cruisers. Roma’s little stunt might just keep them all alive. 

“How long until we’re in range?” She asked of her strained guest.  

“Not long now. Twenty seconds.”  

“My calculations return another minute and a half!”  

Trento shot her an impatient look. “Thirteen seconds.”  

Pompeo focused her attention on her ship, folding her consciousness into its machinery. She felt more closely the excess energy flowing through her. Humoring Trento, she took aim at one of the Pawns. Sure enough, she felt how much further she might be able to engage it at.   

The clock struck zero. She exhaled, and two twin 135mm cannons fired off over the gloomy sea and parting the sky with great red streaks. The shells flew further, and faster, than they ever should have. The shells struck the Pawn , blowing the Siren vessel in two with a great red explosion of energy.   

We might survive this yet!  

<<<All ships, engage at will!>>>  

<<< Time to make some headlines!>>> affirmed the overenthusiastic voice of Oriani.  

 Her confused fleet took a moment adjusting to their boosted capabilities, with their first volleys undershooting or missing entirely. Sirens shot back, their own red-purple weapons striking the sea around them, sending up massive clouds of steam as they burnt the waves.  

One of the Rooks picked her out, sending a purple comet through the dark sky. It was too fast to dodge, even with Trento stitching her engine together with her bizarre powers. Her world was gradually filled by its violet incandescence. As the light became blinding, as the heat began to lick at the metal of her hull, it dispersed in a great cocoon around her. The air shimmered around her as her world was engulfed in purple flames. And then it was gone, leaving only the last gasp of heat.  

“What on earth...” Pompeo was awestruck.  

“ Focus on the battle!” Shouted Trento through gritted teeth.  

The battle was progressing well.  Half the Pawns were burning in the water, and Oriani’s group were getting the better of the Siren cruisers as one of the Bishops detonated. The night was a terrible patchwork of light, energized shells carving the murk into pieces as the fleets circled one another. Alien-looking aircraft streaked through the heavens, dropping bombs as they weaved through columns of anti-aircraft fire with ominous grace. Despite the furious onslaught, there had been no reports of damage from any of her fleet or from Oriani.   

Under normal circumstances, she would have no right to command this low-tonnage fleet as a battle line. But there weren’t normal circumstances: Trento was protecting them, at least that was her best guess. And the strain on Trento would be just as much for a hit on her broadside as any other angle. They needed to win this, and they needed to do so before Trento ran out of steam.   

With a thought, the Capitani-Romani trio spat twenty-four shells into the darkness towards one of the Knights while Oriani’s squadron put down the second Bishop. The Turbine group was making good account of itself as well; they bobbed and weaved through the aerial bombs and Pawn torpedoes, firing as they went.   

Soon, all that remained were just the four capital ships in the Siren fleet. Three arcane monoliths stood tall; hulls carved with sigils etched in scarlet light. Somewhere out there, was the humanoid Peace Breaker. But where was she hiding? If Siren ships worked anything like the mass-produced technology derived from them, destroying her would end the battle.  

<<<Oriani, focus your fire on the westernmost Rook, I’ll handle the other!>>>  

<<<Aye aye Captain!>>>  

The two squadrons began pounding away at the Rooks and the Rooks responded in kind, washing the fleet in the purple fire of three triple turrets to the tune of Trento’s pained breaths. It was an endgame that Pompeo’s fleet was winning, as the guns of the Rooks gradually fell silent, the lights of their battered hull dimmed. Illumination came only in the form of the crimson fires that straddled their decks. They would sink, eventually. But they needed to close the distance to the Queen anyway and they had torpedoes to spare.  

Even with two runways, the Queen had been unable to fabricate new aircraft at a faster rate than they were being lost. It had no squadrons left to deploy or had recognized the futility in sending more. It did not matter. Even as the largest of the Siren ships, it possessed considerable firepower for its own defense. But as the last of the Siren ships, it did not possess nearly enough to matter. As the first shells pierced its flight deck, chain reactions of bizarre fuel and munitions tore through the ship from its hangars, causing an explosion that turned the artificial night into an even more artificial day- if only for a moment.  

That leaves the humanoid. Nothing left to manage, nothing left to protect. Nothing left to do but make her stand... so where is she?   

Shells fell from the heavens, wreathed in a sinister red-black energy. They fell twelve at a time, and rapidly began to work over Oriani’s Zaras, which had done the most damage against the Siren fleet, looking for a crack in the armor. The air pulsed as whatever Trento was doing to shield the ships, and even seemed to flicker.  

An unsteady groan from Trento caught her attention. Pompeo glanced over in horror to find her friend had fallen to her knees, panting as a deep blue-black ichor dripped from her mouth and nose.  Pompeo rushed over to her.  

“Are you alright!?” She placed a hand on the shoulder of the struggling cruiser.  

“We have to go get her I... can’t do that again.” breathed the cruiser, managing a sheepish smile. “We have to go get her... call Oriani... we’ll go together. Quickly! ” Her last word came out in a hiss.  

Pompeo dashed to her radio, <<<Oriani! Rally to me! Leave your ships and bring your rigging.>>>  

<<<Um... alright Captain Pompeo.>>>  

A flash of bright blue and a few moments later, Oriani was standing on the stern of the Pompeo Magno with an anxious look on her face.  

“She’s here,” muttered Pompeo, “are you alright, can you stand?”  

Trento said nothing, but the red miasma that had powered Pompeo’s fleet withdrew from the ships back into the Kansen, who inhaled deeply.  

“I’ll be fine,” grunted the exhausted Kansen, “Let’s get underway.”  

Trento wiped her mouth and stood up, walking briskly to one of the side doors that led to the observation platforms outside. Pompeo followed her, noting the abnormal pace of her breathing. When they reached the platform, Trento drew in a long, ragged breath, and leapt into the water. Pompeo followed, her ship breaking up into thousands of little flecks of light blue, integrating with her as she fell through the air. By the time she landed, she was a battle ready Kansen, armored and armed to the teeth.   

Both her and Oriani still bore the marks of Trento’s assistance; their riggings were imbued with a faint red glow. How strange it was, then, that Trento appeared to lack rigging herself. And she was already speeding off through the night after the Peace Breaker. Pompeo and Oriani chased after her, with Oriani stealing a moment to question Pompeo about their guest.  

“She doesn't look too much like Trento, or act much like her either... are you sure it’s her?” whispered Oriani as they skimmed across the still water of the mirror sea.  

“It’s her but... less... and more. I don’t know what she is, but she is Trento.”  

“Is this weird magic hers?”  

“It is her doing.” Finished Pompeo. “I have no idea how, or what, but it; and she, are why we’re still alive and capable of functioning at all in this place. Had things been slightly different, we’d all be charred hulks sitting at the bottom of this ocean.”  

“I guess that’s good enough a reason as any to trust her.” Oriani admitted, “but...”  

“But what?”  

“Take it from a reporter, no matter how unlikely or strange, there’s always a reason something happens. Trento was here... why?” Concluded Oriani.  

“She's here to help us... she said she knew we would be here.”  

“You don’t think she’s a time traveler, do you?”  

Trento stopped, and a moment later they caught up to her. The trio stood in the shadow of the siren spire from earlier, and across the quiet sea from the tall, pale figure of the Peace Breaker.   She appeared almost angelic in the golden glow of the lights arrayed along the many arms of her void-black ‘rigging’ as it fanned out beside her like wings. Her body bore technological enhancements: Her right eye had been augmented with a metal fixture for, what Pompeo assumed, was an extra optical and fire control computing device. She had metal grafted all along her body as a bizarre form of integrated armor. Pompeo wasn’t sure if the humanoid had skin; there was every chance that some other form of arcane metal made up a pale outer shell.  

A scowl of displeasure was etched into her face. She said nothing as her unaugmented eye regarded the three of them.   

“Running the numbers Executor? Trying to figure out if it was actually a good idea to draw us away?” Trento spat, with an uncharacteristic contempt that surprised Pompeo. “Surely you know you’re outgunned, outnumbered, and outmatched.“ As Trento said this, she drew the mangled spike of metal from her hip and leveled it at the humanoid, a blood-red spout of energy wreathed its shattered blade, hardening into a strange pulsating lance.  

“You’ll die here... not that you care! Soulless pawns, all of you!”  

The air crackled around Trento as her mist pooled above her. Pompeo watched, mouth agape, as a massive steel crown began to form above her head. It was a scorched, warped thing; held together by whatever arcane power this Trento wielded. This mass of shattered metal floated above her, Pompeo noted no hard connection to her body, like every rigging she had seen. Even the humanoid siren’s ‘rigging’ joined to her neck.  

Right as Trento tensed to lunge, the silent siren spoke.  

“ My Tester bids you welcome.” Sounded the faintly robotic voice of the humanoid, clearly unused to and not really designed for speaking.  

As she said this, she raised one of her arms and gestured behind her. One of the red, geometric veins of the vast spire split and parted, revealing a door.  

Pompeo and Oriani shot confused glances between each other, the door, and the Executor.    

The flotilla leader nodded towards the entrance.  

“Oriani, you wanted something to write about, no? I’m sure Sardegna would love to read an interview with a Siren.” Pompeo was, frankly, terrified at the prospect of waltzing into a siren stronghold and asking politely if they could leave. But she was also fascinated, completely and utterly, by the idea of meeting one of their illusive secondhand ‘allies’ in their halfhearted cooperation in the great struggle against the Azur Lane.  

Oriani regarded her with cautious stars in her eyes. “It would be something never done before.” She muttered, gathering her courage, glancing into the gaping entrance of the spire. “I guess she won’t come out. Which means...”  

“We’re going in.” Finished Pompeo, trying her best to keep the concern from her voice.  

“What's up with her?”   

Pompeo refocused her attention from Oriani to Trento, who was shaking, and had grown noticeably paler.   

Pompeo quickly moved to her side, careful not to provoke the Siren. Laying a hand on the stricken cruiser.  

“Trento?”  

At her touch, the strange Kansen practically collapsed against her. Her steel crown shimmered and faded; her strange sword reverted to being little more than a wicked metal spike.   

“I... I thought I...” The stammering Trento shut her mouth and meekly walked towards the entrance.  

“H-hey!” Oriani sprinted after her, messing with her camera satchel, “wait up!”  

Pompeo shook and followed them, a thousand questions running through her mind. What was going on with Trento? Why would a Siren invite them in after trying to kill them? Why would one of their ostensible allies trap them in a mirror sea to begin with?  

How unfortunate that answers lay only in the heart of darkness.  

___________________  

The siren tower was a labyrinth of red lights, black metal, and the almost imperceptible hum of machinery. Massive hallways comfortably accommodated the rigging of their guide as she led them past row after row of server rooms and processing cores. The further in and further up they went, the more Pompeo began to piece together the purpose of this structure. This place was a massive mechanical computing device of some kind. She had never seen technology like this, but she recognized it as a far, far more advanced version of electronics on mass-produced ships.  

It was frigid, despite the obscene abundance of energy she could feel pulsing through the entire structure.   

Sirens must not care about the cold.  

Every so often the play of red lights from the faces of the hallway and yellow of the humanoid was interrupted by a blinding flash of light. Oriani was attempting to make the most of her time in this great dread-monolith, though Pompeo wondered how much of her photography wasn’t just to stave off the nerves.   

Pompeo’s thoughts had almost glazed over the monotony of the interior. How could there be so little of interest in a siren fortress? Just red lights and echoing footsteps. After an eternity of featureless, red-cast hallways they arrived at a dead end.   

“What!?” exclaimed Oriani. “This one must be defective. Hey Siren! You owe- oof!” Grunted Oriani as Pompeo elbowed her in the side.   

The humanoid turned to regard them with the same cold, passionless scowl as before. Then, she waved her hand and the wall lights pulsed yellow. The dead end parted onto a walkway over a dim chasm. Flickers of lights and sparks dotted the abyss, and the siren led them across it.   

Pompeo stepped out onto the walkway after Oriani, and Trento followed silently behind. In the abyssal flashes and sparks, Pompeo caught brief glimpses into what was going on: Siren vessels were being actively fabricated, no doubt to replace recent losses. It reminded her much of the shipyards at Ancona, except she couldn't discern what was being used to create them.   

As they passed, the walkway rumbled as they were pelted with sea spray. A moment later, a red glow illuminated the room from below: a new Queen was coming online after being dropped from its gantry, Its twin decks marked by glowing red chevrons. One by one, the rest of a Siren standard fleet fell from their gantries and began to glow with energy. A new battlefleet ready to sail.   

“It can’t have been more than an hour...” muttered an aghast Pompeo. “Were our own yards half as fast...”  

“You could conquer the waves with a gesture.” finished the shaky voice of a troubled Trento.   

“So why haven’t they?”  

Trento gave no response.  

If they wanted the world, they would have it. If they wanted us gone, we would be.   

They reached the end of the catwalk as the new ships began making their way down long tunnels that must have led outside. Another dead end pulsed yellow, and they passed through it.   

Pompeo hoped Oriani took good pictures.   

The hallways were lined now in yellow light, replacing the monotone red that had highlighted their path through the monolithic siren fortress. At the end of a final hallway, their guide stopped.  

“ Proceed” crackled the voice of their guide, pointing to the futuristically ornate door in front of her.  

Oriani looked back at Pompeo, who inhaled deeply and stepped towards the door, pulling a reluctant Trento alongside her. The siren snapped her fingers and ushered them in as the door opened.  

Wires.  

Cables.  

Screens.  

The dome-shaped room was filled to the brim with them. Yellow energy swam along geometric lines and angles in the floors’ metal, as though the whole room was a processor transmitting electric signals from the whole building. A central dais dominated the center of the room, the nexus point for all the wiring and destination of the data pulses. This dais was lined with yet more screens and interfaces, organized around a columnlike obelisk.  

Their hostess hung from this obelisk, held up and connected to it by wires and cables. Her eyes were closed, and her body displayed the same glowing, geometric patterns as the rest of the room as whatever was in the streams of energy made their way into her. She appeared to Pompeo to be slightly more human than the Peace Breaker: she wore a black vest that crossed over her chest and around her neck and shorts that hid little. Pompeo couldn’t tell if the leggings that fell below the augments on her knees were part of her legs or accessories, but she assumed the former.   

The presumed Tester’s eyes flicked open. Wires withdrew themselves from ports along her limbs and she fell to the dais with a grace Pompeo could not fail to notice, pale white hair falling in a fan around her.  

Trento winced as the metal of the Siren’s feet struck the metal of the floor, and flinched with every step she took towards them.   

“ My my, we have a full house tonight. .. and the prodigal daughter among them! ”  

Her voice was like nails across the chalkboard of Pompeo’s ears. It was like three voices were tangled up in each other, their tones waxing and waning as the siren slowly strolled her way through her sentence, as though savoring the opportunity to speak.  

“ I wasn’t sure who would know how to poke and prod their way into my humble abode. But once you strip away all the variables why... the answer stares you right in the face ...”  

She strode up to a trembling Trento, whose hand sprang to the sword at her hip, without care.  

“ Who else could power a fleet by herself, see through the terrible weather I’ve conjured up, and win a battle simultaneously...” Tester waltzed up to Trento and took her by the chin, glowing yellow eyes bored into the petrified woman... “ Leaving you, my dear, as the only possible solution to this little equation. I’m just disappointed I didn’t catch it sooner. Welcome home.”  

“ Never say that again!” Shrieked Trento as she brought what passed for her sword up to the neck of the siren. “You Testers are all the same- you all share the same ridiculous self-importance... a pox on this world and all the others!”  

Tester tilted her head with. “Let me show you something, little Sardegnians.” She glanced at Pompeo with something approaching a prideful smile. “Trento dear, drop it!” 

Faster than her eyes could blink, a pulse of yellow traveled across Tester’s arm and through Trento’s skull. Trento let out a terrible cry of pain, and deafening clatter echoed through the room as Trento’s metal spike hit the floor. Tester stroked the cheek of the trembling woman with a simulacrum of compassion, wiping away a tear.  

“ shhh... I forgive you. It’s your Sardegnian friends you should apologize to . Dragging the ignorant on an endless crusade against the only things you have left. So irresponsible, kicking down the door to my humble home and letting these two fall through it. ”  

“Trento, what is she talking about?” Chirped Oriani, confused.  

“I... would never lie... I-GAH!”  

Yellow shot up from the floor and coursed through Trento’s body and the Siren let her fall to her knees. Pompeo moved to help her, but the Siren held up a hand to stop her.  

Pompeo and Oriani trained the guns of their riggings on the ominous figure of the Siren, who flicked her piercing eyes between the two them with something like amusement as the Kansen split up, moving to either side of her. Something large, and mechanical, stirred high above them.  

“ I have no quarrel with you, my Sardegnian friends. You quarrel with yourselves enough as it is ...”  

The look of amusement on her face only grew as Pompeo made her first demand.  

“What is this ‘crusade’ you’re talking about, and what does it have to do with us?”  

Tester regarded them with a similar faux sympathy as she had with Trento. “You’re caught up in a misguided bid for revenge for things that haven't happened yet. Your friend here blames me for something, I even have an inkling about what it is. My fingerprints are all over her fractured soul.” 

This elicited a gasp from Pompeo, which garnered the full attention of a now-beaming Tester.  

“ Go on little ship, solve for X!”  

Wheels began turning; the strange attire Trento wore, the wistful and reverential way she spoke, the advanced technology bordering on magic, and the jagged feeling she had felt when Trento lent her ‘sight’ to her... not all of her was her, but all of her had been familiar...  

It was then that Trento launched herself from her half-kneeling position, snatching up her fallen sword and tackling the Siren. They fell to the ground in a messy tangle of limbs that left Trento straddling a Tester who was straining to keep Trento’s metal spike from being driven through her neck. The size of Trento’s weapon was working against her in such close proximity to the creature she was trying to stab. The Tester had grabbed hold of the former blade, which sparked against the siren’s hands as it slowly, inexorably, forced its way down. More of the painful, yellow pulses of energy surged through the strange Kansen, but they didn’t stop her.  

“ I’m going to kill you... EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU! One timeline by miserable timeline !” growled Trento, in a voice that could freeze hell, “You, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your misery!”  

“ It won’t bring them back!” mocked the Siren, “ and it won’t heal your shattered soul...”  

“ But I can stop them from being lost again... and I will!”   

Pompeo and Oriani shared a glance, the former of whom shook her head. They couldn’t fire without risking hitting Trento, and Pompeo was too fascinated by the brawl between two her two nominal allies. Not that she really had a choice. She couldn’t help the Siren because she wouldn’t harm a friend. But she couldn’t help Trento; the Sirens were a secondhand ally through the Ironblood, and it would be irresponsible to risk a war; the same kind of irresponsibility that was already fracturing Sardegna.   

As spectators, they had the freedom to watch struggle. Pompeo couldn’t tell if time seemed to be crawling or sprinting. And, as spectators, they watched a large, metal creature dotted with the same dull, yellow lights as the humanoid siren from before flew down from the ceiling. It looked like a manta-ray born of eldritch metal and arcane technology. It appeared to have an array of weapons across its ‘wings’, but it wasn’t using them.   

Instead, it rammed headlong into Trento, bowling her over and lancing her through the midsection with its cruel metallic stinger, forcing the breath from the cruiser as it dragged her along, leaving an ichorous trail behind before leaving her in a spastic heap on the ground and ascending back to its place above.  

Pompeo did her best to hide her shock and did so much better than Oriani, who let out her own audible gasp. It was all over in an instant. They both stood there, staring at the woman who had just escorted them through hell without out so much as a singed hair.  

A mangled metal hand sent chills down her spine as it rested on Pompeo’s shoulder. Had it not already been so cold in the room, the hand might have frozen to her. A glance over at a petrified Oriani told her of a similar experience. The momentary silence was deafening. It had never struck Oriani that a Siren wouldn’t breathe, or that her clothes wouldn’t brush against her skin with each small, imperceptible movement. But there was no breathing, no little movements and shifting of weight. Just perfect, mechanical silence.  

“Your friend will be fine. I will stitch her up. And with luck, set this ship back on course.” Scraped the voice of the siren through the silence. It was the most stable the siren’s voice had ever been, and it had a ceremonious air to it that surprised Pompeo.  

One that begged a question.  

“Why?” asked Pompeo forcefully, as though making a point of breaking the Siren’s spell over them, prodding at the atmosphere of icy intimidation around the strange metallic creature, “Why go through all the effort? She just tried to kill you!”  

“Not only that!” piped Oriani, “She was talking about other timelines, wasn’t she? What was all that about?!”  

The siren laughed and passed between them; a dry, hollow laugh that was cut short when Pompeo grasped her metallic arm. This might be, Pompeo knew, her only chance to make sense out of everything that had happened. She would not let it walk away.  

“Why help her... what is she?”  

“T ake a sum of everything you know and love, subtract everything but the dreams and memories, then divide your soul by the remainder . The solution is her; scraped up from the ashes in pieces and stitched back together with all the other failed variables from some grand experiment.”  

“ So this is your fault, as part of some experiment?” pondered Oriani, trying to keep up with the Siren’s riddles.  

Again, the tester laughed. “No, I set the stage over and over again. I place all the actors where they should be- I know the way history should play out. But sometimes the actors themselves do something different. And every so often, they generate something like her. She is what I’m looking for. But I’ve indulged you for too long already... you should be in Naples by now.”  

Puddles of yellow energy broke from the circuit lines in the floor and gathered around the Sardegnians’ feet.  

“W-wait! You haven’t said anything but riddles! A-and what about other timelines!?” the journalist was frantic, fumbling around for a notepad to record closing words from the siren that never came.  

A moment later, as though at the snap of a finger, they stood once more on the Tyrrhenian Sea. Pompeo looked around in her own frantic moment: the whole fleet was there, not a scratch on them. And there was Napoli on the skyline.  

“It's as though we were never anywhere else... by the grace of the empire... incredible.” she muttered, carefully bending over and slipping her hand through the surface of the warm waters of her homeland. Never had she been so grateful to stand once more on the Mediterranean Sea!  

“Pompeo, c’mon, we have to tell governor what we saw! ” Oriani tugged at the captain’s arm with an acute sense of urgency.  

“Or... we could not...” ventured Pompeo, “We all have more pressing concerns than our mysterious spectator. And... she’s friends with our friends. There’s no reason to cause a panic or strain our diplomacy even more- let the neutral party stay neutral, the senate can make what it will of the Sirens and what parts of our treaties with the Ironblood extend to them later. Rejoin your squadron and join me in port. We’ll meet the governor together, and we’ll keep quiet about this whole affair.”  

“But... Aye aye, Captain Pompeo”  

Chapter Text

[Veneto]  

 Small, square tiles blossomed out from the center of the room and climbed halfway up the walls before stopping. Behind her, shelves adorned with odd beakers and vials and God only knew what else. An old radiator hummed away beneath a curtained window. Light peaked out behind the corners of the thick, white cotton. It was early, because she had stayed late tonight. The little carrier had tried to pry her away from this room but had given up. She would have to leave soon anyhow, work would resume, and her hostess was expecting her. But that was soon, not now.   

She sat beside the bed that dominated the back of the room, resting her gloved hand over that of its sedated occupant. Her white glove was still the same bleach white hue as Carabiniere’s skin.  

How many days had she been like that? Three? Four?  

It galled her.   

Why isn’t she getting better?   

Why did it have to be her?  

The exiled flagship slowly stood as the heavy, industrial-looking handle on the door made a heavy *click* as it turned.   

It was Unicorn, who did not say a word as she entered. The light carrier only glared and gestured towards the open door. Unicorn, it was clear, had not forgiven her for being the sister of the battleship who injured her surrogate sister, Illustrious.  

One word of calculated cold slid from Veneto: “Fine.”  

With that, the Eternal Flagship reluctantly took her leave of her wounded companion. She did not trust the purple haired carrier. It was clear to Veneto that she would rather see them at the bottom of the sea than on her operating table, and in such a vulnerable state as Carabiniere was in it would not take much to-  

She shook the thought from her head. She didn’t trust Unicorn, but she trusted Warspite, and that was enough. It needed to be.   

She pondered this as she made her way down the long corridors of the portside hospital. The place was beginning to come alive with activity. And it dawned on her anew, as it had every day before she pushed it back from her mind, why this was; her own actions. This was the other side of Calabria. When she had stood in their own hospital back at Taranto, what had she felt? Shame? Anger? Resignation? Here on the other side of the glass, she felt guilty. A deep, pervasive guilt at what she had done, and what she would need to do for the Empire. But that was what made it so easy to forget: she could rationalize what she couldn’t push away, and the Imperial Guard’s chief representative was very good at it.  

That was why throwing away decades of bitter history with the Royals didn’t bother her as much as it probably should have. And she had been given strong signals the Royals would be open to a rapprochement. Bringing her back to the matter of Warspite.   

If the first among the Queen’s knights had wanted her harmed, she would have died at Calabria. If the Grand Old Lady wanted a war, then the shores of Sardegna would lie in ruins now. If Warspite truly wished Sardegna ill, she had had ample opportunity to see to it, first hand. But she had not, Veneto was no longer sure the Royals were even their true enemy. She was on her way to tea with them, after all.  

Had the Ironblood ever shown them anything approaching that courtesy? She wondered as she stepped through a pair of double doors and out into the crisp morning air. The sun illuminated everything, from the city to the sea, with a soft orange glow.   

She took a moment to close her eyes and take it all in; the warm sun on her skin, sea breeze blowing gently in her hair, the sounds of the port waking up and, a pair of footsteps getting steadily louder.  

“Miss Veneto!” piped the voice of the footsteps.   

Veneto did not immediately react to the newcomer, waiting for them to announce themselves. It was not enough to simply know her by name. Everyone knew her by name.  

“Erm... Miss Veneto? Lady Warspite sent me to fetch you from the hospital. She knew you’d be there. The flow of the force must have told her where you were, just as it guided me right to you!”  

Veneto opened her eyes and turned around. Before her stood a girl with brown hair done up in two tails. Green eyes added distinctive pinpricks of color to a currently uncertain looking face. She stood in Veneto’s shadow, keeping the orange glow off of her red and white uniform, but dulled the impact of it’s gold accents. The long red ribbon in her hair fluttered lightly in the breeze and... she was nervously running something... like a drop of dusk through her fingers.  

“Oh! I’m the York class cruiser... well... York!” She said, extending her hand while her uncertain look took on a mischievous edge.  

Veneto took the bait and took her hand. “Vittorio Veneto, of the- geeuulkh!”  

The drop of midnight slid straight up York’s arm and down Veneto’s glove. It felt as though someone had distilled the nothingness of a pitch-black night into some sort of thick slime, and it was exploring her hand, slowly, and inexorably waxing, waning, hardening, softening, and shifting around seemingly of its own volition. All while the heavy cruiser in front of her just continued to smile.  

“What are y-”  

Whatever it was slid back from Veneto to a smugly smiling York.  

“Come along, Lady Warspite awaits.”  

As she began to walk away, Veneto followed her.   

“What did you just do to me?” Demanded a perplexed Veneto, wringing the lingering cold from her hand.  

“I consulted took a read of your destiny, and your reaction told me you definitely felt the flow of the force.”  

“What else did you learn?” Pressed a curious Veneto. “Why is the flow of the force, as you call it, so slow, stagnant, and cold?”  

York shrugged. “Your fate must be slow, stagnant, and cold. Do you believe in fate, Miss Veneto?”  

“Before Calabria, and before the Sirens entered our sea, I did not. But I’m starting to.” Confessed the battleship.  

“Fate is calling for you Miss Vittorio Veneto, Eternal Flagship of the Sardegna Empire. You have only to let its wheels drive you onwards.”  

Veneto was getting ready to respond when York bowed and excused herself. Their conversation had taken them to her destination: Fort St. Angelo, Warspite’s command center. It was in and of itself an antique, hearkening back to the great siege undergone by another claimant to the legacy of the great precursor empire. A legacy, Veneto reminded herself bitterly, that they too had fallen short of claiming.   

Her only point of access was a long, narrow bridge that began at a guard post. The men eyed her warily. Most Royal military men, particularly those in the navy, had no love for Sardegnians. And she was a very well-known Sardegnian.   

“Warspite requested I stop by her command center when I was able.” Veneto spoke, producing a writ of passage given to her by the Grand Old Lady after their first conversation.   

Without a word, the nearer of the two guards snatched the piece of paper from her, scrutinizing the seal of approval on it.  

“Sergeant Morgan, everything appears in order. Raise the gate!”   

The bar across the narrow bridge lifted, and the unnamed man stepped forward. “Miss Veneto, if you would accompany me, I shall take you to Commander Warspite.”  

“Lead on, Mr...”  

“Lieutenant Alain,”  

Veneto followed the lieutenant across the long, narrow bridge. To her right, a steep drop into the sea. To her left, a small, secluded port that would have been used to supply the port during a long siege. She had read about the first great siege of Malta for a long time, and dreamed of the day they would seize the fortress-island for almost as long. But seeing just one of the fortresses filled her mind with images. She understood then, how the great colorful waves of shock troops broke against the walls of the great stone bulwarks, so close to victory but even closer to defeat.   

She stifled a bitter, cynical laugh, but was only partially successful. Unfortunately for her, the wind carried what escaped to the unwitting Lieutenant.  

“Um... is everything alright, Miss?”  

“Would it be for you, had your hubris damned your country? Humor an exile for a moment.”  

“I... suppose not. No.”  

“Therein is your answer. You might look upon this place with pride, and you are right to do so. But where you see an unwavering symbol of your empire’s resilience, imagine what it must be for me.”  

“I don’t think I could, Miss,” hesitantly replied Lt. Alain, stopping before the gatehouse on the other end, gesturing to have it raised.  

“You could, if you put your mind to it.” Veneto stepped through the second gate.   

Warspite was waiting for her on the other side, and duly waved her over. When Veneto turned to thank the Lieutenant, he was already some distance back across the bridge. With a sigh, she turned back and addressed Warspite.  

“You sent for me, ‘Commander’ Warspite?” A hint of curiosity crept through Veneto’s words, as Warspite’s rank hung in the air between them for a moment.  

The Royal veteran waved it away with a smile. “Don’t worry about my honorifics, unless you want to drag every exchange we have through the murk of our mouthfuls of titles. How are you, Vittorio Veneto?”  

“Just Veneto, for both our sakes,” Veneto returned the smile, “And, all things considered, I’ve been treated very well. Some of your men have been slower to trust a Sardegnian battleship, but I don’t hold it against them, and most have been very accommodating. Even that Unicorn girl, despite resenting me for the actions of my sister, has humored my want to stay with my friend most nights.”  

Warspite laughed. “She’s a kind soul and wouldn’t hurt a fly if she could help it. I know you’re worried about your friend, but there are few finer medics in the world.”  

“One that doesn't seem thrilled about the prospect of an alliance. You must understand my reservations.” Veneto’s tone grew severe for a moment.  

As did Warspite’s, “I know you’re here because you need to be, not because you like any of it. But have some faith in us, as I have placed some faith in you. Follow me and think on my position for a moment.” Warspite began as she ascended the flight of stairs to the keep. “I’m harboring the Sardegnian flagship, without the knowledge or consent of either of our governments. I have bound my men to secrecy as well as I can. And in doing so have risked an island wide charge of treason.”  

As she elaborated on her position, Warspite led Veneto down a short hallway lined with suits of old Hospitaller armor and paintings of what Veneto assumed to be the Grandmasters of the old knight order. They told a story; one of good intentions, loss of faith, alliances of convenience... and an unwavering, inspiring commitment. The ambient lighting twisted along the row of hollow men to either side of them, rendering their reflections little more than vague blobs of color without form. But this prompted a question, one unbidden but unavoidable.  

“...Warspite?”  

The Royal Veteran’s speech halted.  

“Go on, Veneto.”  

“From one stranger in a strange land to another, what do you see in the armor?”  

“The way it bends the light, it’s hard to see anything.”  

Veneto chuckled. “You sound just like Carabiniere. Try... what does it represent to you? Or... what does it mean?”  

“I’ve been around too long to give you some grand, romantic answer. I see people doing their duty because of oaths they’ve sworn and the loyalties they have.” Warspite replied flatly. “Much like the modern soldier.”  

“That’s a... tame answer.” Veneto’s voice yielded a hint of surprise.  

“Oh?”  

“The Royal navy projects an almost... if you’ll forgive my candor... arrogant or aristocratic view of themselves. You strut the seas as if they belong to you, alongside your knights and queens and maids. You’ve adopted nobility as part of your identity. I was expecting your answer to reflect that.” Veneto talked over eggshells.  

Warspite laughed, surprising Veneto. “If it’s any consolation to you, I understand. When I sailed out to meet you and your sister before Calabria, I was expecting you both to grandstand about your glorious empire and being the greatest in the Mediterranean. Because to us, you Sardegnians come off as, well, arrogant upstarts. For me, that was true until you made your wager with me. Then, you became a proud people claiming a proud legacy, made desperate by losing power over yourselves. I’m not blind to that, and I sympathize. That is why I haven’t extradited you and your companion, and that is why nobody knows you are here. You have shown me who you are. Let me return the courtesy.”  

As they entered Warpite’s office, Veneto paused. She couldn’t fail to notice that Warspite had not been hyperbolic: there was, in fact, a table set with tea for two. But around the rest of the room were photographs. Places Warspite had been and the people she had met, drawings and maps of battles she had been in... Veneto was surprised.  

Warspite was deeply amused by Veneto’s moment of awe. “Come in, Eternal Flagship, do you take your tea with one lump or two?”  

The Sardegnian shook herself back to the present. “Make it two, I suppose. The sugar will make up for the late nights.”  

Warspite poured Veneto’s tea and handed it to her. As Veneto began to drink, Warspite questioned her. “How is your throat healing?”  

Veneto coughed through her cup, “...What do you mean?”  

The Royal lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve been wondering what sort of fight the Sardegnian flagship gets into that leaves her with a bruised neck. A human would be hard pressed to overpower a Kansen of your class, and the sirens have been quiet...”  

Veneto’s eyes grew wide as they peered from behind the rim of her cup. “Noticed that, did you?”  

“Everyone with eyes noticed it. But our medic, as you noted, hates you and you seemed content to leave it unmentioned. But, if you would indulge me, I am curious.”  

Veneto subconsciously rubbed her neck, speaking in a voice ill at ease. “I see... would you believe me if I told you, it was Carabiniere?”  

The Royals second eyebrow rose. “Your own escort. Were her injuries your-”  

“No.” Answered Veneto curtly. “...how much do you know about what’s going on in the Empire?”  

“I know you and your fleet, plus one of the empire’s marshals, are wanted criminals for your sympathies with the Azur Lane, your ‘prime minister’ and his national address weren’t very subtle.” Warspite’s eyes lifted as she shuffled through her memory. “Something about terrorism and an attack, but you don’t strike me as a terrorist...”  

“An open question, one Carabiniere had briefly answered for herself.” Again, Veneto rubbed her neck. “She had a change of heart, luckily for me. But I ordered no attack and have yet to intentionally harm any of my countrymen.”  

“Not yet.” Warspite produced the brace of letters that the Sardegnian flagship had written to various governors and commanders.  

Veneto’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re trying to blackmail me...”  

“I told you; I sympathize with your position. And I want to help you, not threaten you. You’ve already trusted me because you must. Now trust me because you can. I can have these letters of yours delivered anywhere you want them to be in the whole of the Mediterranean. And I’ll do, all you have to do is ask.”  

“How would you do that? Sardegnian intelligence is probably working overtime trying to find me, and Spinola is probably locking down major population centers. What you suggest would be impossible for a Sardegnian, let alone you.”  

“We... have our ways. There’s every chance I know more about what’s happening in Sardegna than you. You don’t become a world power by sitting around in the dark.”  

“I see my sister isn’t the only light still shining in Sardegna.” Veneto mused, on the border of sarcasm as she sipped her tea  

“So you’re familiar with Littorio’s revolt and the shootout in Taranto then?”  

Veneto spat out her tea and fell into a fit of gasping and coughing. “ What!?”  

A self-satisfied smile tugged at the corners the smaller of the battleship’s mouth, “Oh yes, the army occupied one of those little forts you build for the guard and shipped off the officers they captured. Most of them have probably been tried and convicted of treason. Your shipmates took back the fort as I recall. That was two days ago.”  

Veneto quickly regained her composure. “I really shouldn’t be surprised that my... imperious sister picked a fight with the... rest of Sardegna.” The exile set down her tea, buried her head in her hands, and sighed. “...With no plan beyond trying to beat up the senate until they give up.”  

Warspite reached across the table and patted Veneto’s stack of letters. “There’s a lot of people who need to get these, and I’m the only one who can get them to their intended destinations. As a token of goodwill, I’ll even start sharing some of our intelligence with your... what did you call her... ‘imperious’ sister. Not everything, mind you, a lady has to keep her secrets. But enough to matter.”  

As Warspite addressed her, she raised her hand from the stack of letters and offered a handshake to the Sardegnian. Veneto thought hard, but not long. Warspite had asked nothing of her and had given much in the name of burying the hatchet. She couldn’t bring herself to abandon Carabiniere, and her sister would need help surviving her losing war. She could sort out all of those issues by shaking hands with the lion, and long-term risk be damned she needed Warspite now.  

So the eternal flagship shook the hand of the Royal Veteran.  

___________________  

[Littorio]  

There was very little in her life that compared to the simple pleasure of standing on the docks on a calm day. The port itself was anything but calm; an army was making landfall after all, but when she closed her eyes and focused on the waves and the sea breeze, that was easy to forget. She tilted her head back as the gentle gusts of warm wind drifted over her face and neck, sifting through her hair, they took all those uncomfortable thoughts away as they passed. All the time spent in dingy war rooms or lurking around the halls of ships had taught her not to take these little moments for granted. To her, the warm caress of the sea breeze on her skin was the Mediterranean's way of showing appreciation.  

But a nudge pulled her out of her reverie. She had almost forgotten what had brought her out here in the first place, and now she was being reminded. With a long sigh, she straightened herself out. Perhaps today the Mediterranean was not offering appreciation, but condolences.  

“Better, but square your shoulders!” hissed the insistent voice of her friend.  

Conte di Cavour had insisted on joining her today. She had also roped in Cesare, who had brought her band of volunteers from the second battle of Bastione Acton as an honor guard , styling themselves ‘Cesare’s Cohort.’   

Littorio was not here to enjoy the breeze, they were all here to welcome the Sicilian governor to Taranto. And they were all just standing there, waiting for Duca degli Abruzzi to announce the governor and his entourage. At least the wait afforded her some peace between the inspections and meetings. It was hard to believe it had only been about a week since the chaos started. Things were moving quickly, and she considered Abruzzi’s words from their last conversation.  

Were we all opportunists, just waiting to jump at the chance?  

That would explain the rapidity. But it didn’t really matter right now. They were, for better and worse, in this together. And she wondered idly how many other coiled Sardegnian serpents were watching them from the fringes with keen interest, waiting to determine if now was the time to act. If the first real battle against the Senatorial armies went well, imperial politics would become very interesting indeed. The Acton skirmish showed they could defend themselves, now they needed to show they could win.   

And here came the man that was going to help her show the empire just that.  

Luigi di Savoia Duca degli Abruzzi strode from the boarding ramp of one of the ships docked nearby, holding high the Sicilian banner and announcing the governor: “now presenting Governatore della Sicilia, Maresciallo dell'Impero, Desi Lombardo!”  

An aging general, grey uniform covered in medals and alternating red-yellow braiding hanging from his epaulettes to his chest, strode down the ramp after Abruzzi, followed by two of his Palatine guards. They wore what appeared to be fairly normal evergreen uniforms, but they had taken some inspiration from the Gorgoneion at the center of their flag, with snakelike patterns around the seams, cuffs, and collar in a more muted interwoven red-yellow.   

Littorio noticed the same pattern featured much more prominently on the old general’s cap as it caught the light as he came to a stop across from her, his vast white mustache turned up at the corners in a wizened smile.  

“Greetings, Sailing Sister of the Eternal Flagship! Vittorio Veneto always spoke highly of your talent for quick and decisive action, and here you have truly exceeded even her wildest exaggerations!” He beamed, offering her a hand, “Sicily stands with you!”  

His enthusiasm was contagious, despite herself Littorio cracked a smile and shook his hand, “I was preparing Taranto to stand alone, I’m overjoyed to find my sister has found such a loyal friend and I have discovered an enthusiastic ally in you, Governor.”  

“Ha! Side by side, we’ll grind the Esercitio di Napoli to dust against your great Tarentine Redoubt!” He reached out with his other hand and energetically shook her shoulder. A moment later he spun on his feet, “... and Cavour! It’s been too long old friend; I hope you’re holding up better than the newspaper photos... I knew you’d pull through in the end.”  

To Littorio’s surprise, Cavour’s shock, and Cesare’s thorough amusement, the governor knelt down and embraced the short battleship. Was she imagining things, or had she heard the governor whisper something to Cavour? Whatever it was, it was drowned in the rising tide of Cesare’s laughter.  

Still, she would keep an eye on the governor. It was hard to say what he hoped to gain by supporting her and Veneto and she knew better than to ask. Her roll as one of the flagships had largely spared her the intricacies of imperial politics, as was Veneto’s forte, but it was time for her to start learning. Yet, she trusted Cavour enough to assume that if it was anything truly important it would eventually make it’s way to her. That wasn’t her immediate source of concern either.  

Duca degli Abruzzi had been standing quietly alongside the governor’s Palatini silently and stoically. Out of the corner of her eye, the Lictor had been watching the Dignitary. Where once her face was static and expressionless, now it bore an austere smile that wasn’t directed at the scene playing out between Cavour and the governor. It was directed at her.  

“That’s enough Lombardo...” squeaked the now thoroughly embarrassed Conte di Cavour as she finally managed to escape the governor’s embrace, staggering backward into the still laughing Cesare; who Cavour promptly shut up will an elbow to the gut.  

“How large will your expeditionary force be, Governor?” Littorio’s voice interrupted any further banter.  

“Two hundred thousand of Sicily’s finest will join you. By tomorrow they will be streaming in from the landing site on the Calabria peninsula by the thousands...” Stated the governor proudly, “More than enough to seize the south before the senate could ever-”  

The Lictor cut him off with a warm embrace of her own. The overarching sense of formality between the two parties had long since been obliterated by the jovial nature of the initial meeting. This time, it was Cavour’s turn to laugh at a truly stunned Cesare. And, looking over the shoulder of the governor, she watched as Abruzzi shifted the flag to her forearm and mimed a slow clap of approval.  

“All of Taranto owes you a debt of gratitude for your extensive commitment to our shared goal of forcing the senate to see reason.”  

Abruzzi’s words echoed in her mind: you share an enemy with these people who are going to do their best to use you- why not be willing to use them too?  

Was that how this was to be won, with smiles, half-truths, and elaborate games of charades?  

“It is I who owe you, Flagship of the Imperial Guard. I shudder to think at what my position would look like without your Tarantine guard, with no place to land and no fleet to protect any convoys that might try. Our strength lies in the capacity for quick and decisive action, and being stuck on Sicily would only have given the senate time to find its feet and crush me at their leisure.” Admitted Lombardo, giving Littorio a solidaristic pat on the back.  

This was a more honest answer than the provisional flagship had expected, and that was all the more worrying. Was this man being honest about lesser evils in the hopes of gaining enough trust to make his greater lies more believable later down the line?  

Did he feel as though acknowledging his position in the form of a debt would make rest easier in the knowledge that he might owe her something? If anything, this faux honesty was proof of the intent to lie, and admittance of a debt showed the intent to betray her once she let down her guard. But she knew something else: for now, they needed each other. Lombardo needed her support to legitimize his actions, and though it galled her to admit it, she needed his army to seize the south. That mutual self-interest was something she could trust.  

God, do I miss Veneto! I understand the strict, borderline bitter temperament of Abruzzi better every minute of these mind games.  

Abruzzi... can I trust Abruzzi? The cruiser has been forthright with me so far, to the point of belligerence. She has made no attempt to suck up to me, but she also seemed to be enjoying herself too much.  

And what of Cavour? What could be going on between her and the governor? How did they know each other, and why did she never tell me about it?  

It was enough to make her head spin. But she couldn’t let anyone know that; she could smell the power struggle brewing, and she would need to keep up appearances and grab as much glory as she can in the coming weeks to avoid being sidelined. If the governor was using her, as both she expected and Abruzzi warned, she would use him up first!  

“If it is a debt you wish to claim, and make good on, you’ll have plenty of time to pay it back as we march north. In the meantime, feel free to make yourself at home. Again, welcome to Taranto.”  

___________________  

The warm sun hung low in the sky, much lower than when she had received the governor’s entourage. And the sea breeze was a bit cooler than before, enough that she was glad to be wearing her full uniform, cape billowing behind her as she made her way to the Conte di Cavour.  

It was time she paid her friend another visit. There were a few questions only she could answer for her, and it was high time she did more than play diplomat and sulk.  

There were no maintenance crews working their magic, no engineers stitching steel plating back together with blowtorches and sparks. Just the faint sucking sound of the gentle waves sliding to and fro against the ship’s hull. And of course, the faint metal tapping of her footfalls on deck as she showed herself up the gangway and along the ship.  

Littorio knew where she would find Cavour, the emerald maiden had seen the old veteran standing on the bow of her ship many times, always with the same listless expression on her face. An expression she only allowed herself, Littorio knew, because she did not think anyone would see her.  

And there she was, staring out over the harbor. Cavour made no move to acknowledge Littorio, just as Littorio made no effort to hide the seemingly deafening sound of her approach.  

The two of them stood quietly, side by side, for a long moment.  

“Permission to come aboard, mio Conte ?” Littorio broke the unusual ice between them.  

“Permission granted, Littorio.” The shorter battleship spoke, and Littorio could hear the faint smile that must have been forming on her face. “It’s always a pleasure to host the mightiest battleship in the Mediterranean.”  

“You’ve been staring at this harbor for a while... how are the repairs?”  

“Slowly,” grumbled Cavour, “there are a lot of things that need to be done, and not a lot of hands to do them. Priority has shifted to repairing the dockyards to better accommodate the soon to be constant stream of supplies into port.”  

“I-”  

“Don’t apologize, Littorio. There is much more at stake than my being bored.”  

“... maybe I can help with that at least.” the words of the ruby eyed battleship were punctuated by the metallic sliding of a saber from its sheath.  

Cavour spun around, unsure what cause her friend would have to be drawing a weapon, but immediately understood she was in no danger.  

“My my... where on earth did you of all people dredge one of those up?”  

Littorio held flat in her hands the ornate saber from Solari’s cabin, and presented it to Cavour, who received it carefully, giving it a few experimental swings.  

“I was hoping you might know something about it.”  

Cavour smiled, a distant look in her eyes as she returned the sword to Littorio. “A few have passed through my hands. See the gold, double-headed eagle on the grip?”  

“I had a feeling you would know something about it, I must admit my history outside of Sardegna is weaker than it should be.”  

“You’re familiar with the War of Tirolian Redemption?”  

“It doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, but any true Sardegnian knows of our great ‘mutilated victory’ that caused such a political scandal as to create the Senate.”  

Littorio spat that last word. It was true of course, at least mostly, that the Senate had resulted from their miserable war against Styria in the Alps. Practically, it was because the military had found itself so weakened by the war and so apathetic towards the king who had sent them to fight that they likely would not have stopped a popular uprising had it occurred. It was the one thing the senate had ever managed to do, and the last good thing that would ever come of it from her perspective.  

To the hawks, they had not gotten everything they deserved from the war and had no love for the king they saw as a coward and a traitor in their nationalistic zeal. To the doves, they had lost too much to make it worth it to keep fighting, and they had no love for the king who had sent hundreds of thousands to die in the mountains and valleys of the Alps. Founding the Senate gave the people a voice and gave the bitter generals fancy chairs to sit in. Everyone was happy.  

No, that wasn’t true; everyone was placated. It was still a giant tinderbox waiting to burst into flames.  

“The War of Tirolian Redemption, Our Mutilated Victory, the Fall of the Styrian Commonwealth, the Containment War, the Great War. A rose by any other name...” murmured Cavour, as though she was fed up with all the differing interpretations of the war, each charged with their own petty bias. “What do you know about the Styrian Commonwealth?”  

“Other than our Balkan rivalry with them, nothing.”  

“Then propaganda has done you a disservice... In many respects, they remind me of us. They too sat as the center of a multi-ethnic empire, as we are beginning to. They too traced a legacy, legitimate or not, to Romulus, much like we as a nation do. Our history with them was short, and fraught with distrust. We could not forgive them for centuries of occupation, and they could not forgive us for wanting to be rid of them. So how on earth did you come across one in Taranto without robbing a museum or an antique shop?” Cavour finished, eyebrow raised, eyes still fixed on the double-headed eagle.  

A half-truth slithered its way uncertainly from the mouth of the lictor; “I... borrowed it from an acquaintance. But all you’ve done is give me a history... what does this sword tell us about that history?”  

Cavour rolled her eyes; “You should know better to lie through omission to me. I’m not a seasoned diplomat like Luigi di Savoia, but I know a thing or two about smithing words.”  

Littorio smiled sheepishly, embarrassment an uncommon and unwelcome emotion for one so proud a sure of foot as she, “I’m sorry. I took the sword from the personal effects of a captain I helped promote. I believe I had mentioned him to you once or twice; it’s Captain Solari’s. He is not around to claim them or chastise me for snooping. I’ll return it when we’re done here... I’m not a thief! But I am curious, perhaps too curious for my own good...”  

Cavour laughed, “That’s your big secret of the evening? Very well. I’ll answer you, but only if you agree to answer a question I have for you afterword.”  

“I accept your terms.”  

“It’s a badge of office of a Styrian flag officer, probably of one those early battleships. There were given out to officers who exhibited exceptional valor. It makes me wonder what was done to earn that sword, and who did the did. I Would very much like to speak with your friend, should he ever return for his things,” concluded the veteran, an unmistakable tension coloring the end of her explanation.  

A tension she did her best to remove from her question. “Tell me, honestly, why did you feel the need to lie to me?”  

“Because...” Littorio trailed off, working hard to find an explanation that felt comfortable.  

There was a lot that was true: she had been unsure what Cavour would make of her stealing from her subordinates. She had been unsure of the objects significance and how being associated with someone with it might make her look. But neither of those was really the reason, even if they were true. But, she couldn’t just tell Cavour she was suspicious of her and Governor Lombardo either, it was too early to play her hand...  

“Because I wasn’t sure how you would see me after learning that my pet project captain might have Styrian sympathies. I don’t know much about the war, but I know it must have been traumatic for you. I didn’t want to risk you associating me with the people that caused you harm.”  

It killed her to lie to Cavour, who had been among the first to welcome her into the Sardegnian navy and had been an invaluable font of advice ever since. But, it seemed like Cavour and the Governor had a very close relationship, they may have served side-by-side against the Styrians. Littorio didn’t want to challenge Cavour on her loyalties just yet, not while there was a chance she would lose! For the Imperial Guard... her Sister... for the empire as a whole, her internal victory over the Governor would need to be absolute for her external victory against the senate to mean anything; for the empire’s sake she could not allow one petty, tyrannical opportunist to replace the one they already had. For the empire’s sake, she lied to her oldest and closest friend.  

And part of her even wished it hadn’t worked.  

But after a short pause, with Cavour weighing the merit of her friend's words, she smiled softly and muttered a reply; “You don’t have to worry about something small like that, Littorio. Have a little faith in me, alright?”  

Though outwardly she did her best to appear relieved, her blood froze as Cavour’s eyes rested on hers.  

Does she know?  

Cavour turned back out to face the sea, “It’s getting late, and if I don’t get some sleep soon I won’t beat the maintenance crews.”  

“I understand, permission to disembark?”  

“Permission granted...” Cavour said with the same smile that welcomed her aboard  

“Goodnight Littorio.”  

“Goodnight, mio Conte.” muttered Littorio as she left, Cavour's words echoing alongside her footsteps

"Have a little faith in me, alright?"

How could I?

Her own thoughts echoed back with growing intensity, all the way to Solari's old ship and then to her own:

How could you?

How could you!

Chapter Text

A Siren was something you could kill, of this Pompeo was certain. With enough force, you could blow one apart or cut it to pieces. In this regard, it was an adversary that could be managed; one that had to play by certain rules in line with its need to preserve itself. This was what made them inferior enemies to the one she faced now... 

“Let's see here...” the voice of a man, clearly bored, underscored the rustling of papers. 

“...any perishable cargo?” 

The Neapolitan port was full of ships shining in the afternoon light, and the military port was full to capacity. She could not wave around her Senatorial Authority in the civilian harbor she was now trying to dock her ships in. So, she fell upon the mercy of the trundling leviathan of Neapolitan bureaucracy.  

Pompeo furrowed her brow and pinched her nose. “Yes, those ships in my squadron that are manned have enough food stored for a voyage of several weeks. But I have no intention of-” 

“Can I see a shipping manifest?” 

“A shipping manife- wait a minute, no! Nothing is being shipped, this is a strictly combat squadron, not a supply convoy!” Pompeo’s patience boiled over, “All the arrangements were already made with the Governor, any inspections, paperwork, manifests, and whatever else have you, are unnecessary.” 

More rustling papers. The man was looking through his clipboard. 

“I have nothing here that suggests-” 

“-That will be enough, Capitano di Porto,” Boomed a new voice from further down the anchorage, “ No need to torture those here at our request.”  

Pompeo’s heart soared: the man coming down the pier had a very fancy looking uniform, with enough bars and pins for the sun to dance off. Maybe, just maybe, this man was important enough to be her knight in shining medals, come to save her from the leviathan serpent of Sardegnian bureaucracy! 

“Ammiraglio di Squadra designato di Armata di Governatore degli Napoli...” recited the most bored serpent ever to slither up from the depths of the Port Authority, lingering on each syllable, fangs dripping with venom, “To what do we owe the pleasure?” 

He was young, to her eyes he appeared to be in his mid-thirties. His light brown hair had only just begun to grey in places, and his movements still held the lively and energetic spring of a lower officer unburdened by desks or major commands.  This made him at least a decade early for his rank. But he wore the unform, bore the insignias, and his naval cap bore the full crest of the Royal House of Savoy instead of the eagle of the Regia Marina.  

Is the empire so desperate?  

Pompeo’s knight drew from his pocket a talisman, one even mighty enough to pierce the scales of this terrible beast: “I come bearing a writ from the Governor granting our guest and her fleet’s docking rights in the civilian harbor, independent of the normal procedures.” 

The harbormaster took the writ, read through it twice, and unceremoniously clipped it into the small hoard of papers he had been interrogating her over. “Everything appears to be in order, acting captain. Enjoy your visit to Napoli .” 

With a click of the heels and a turn, the harbormaster was gone, no doubt on the hunt for someone else to constrict for a while in the vice grip of bureaucracy. 

“It’s finally over... I owe you a debt of gratitude, Ammiraglio, I wasn’t sure I would make it out of there alive,” muttered a thankful but bewildered Pompeo, “But who is it I have to thank? I didn’t catch all of that mouthful from the harbormaster. 

“Admiral of the squadron in command of the fleet of the Governor of Naples, Tacito Sabbatiani, at your service.” 

“So, you command the Neapolitanus ?” 

“More that I start every day with a prayer I won’t have to command that museum ship. But Governor Montallo insists on keeping his flag on a battleship that hasn’t seen the refit yards since they launched her over two decades ago. I think he’s nostalgic for the last war.” 

“Your luck is running out then, you must know by now why I’m here...” 

“Because there’s a battle to be fought off Messina, no?” 

“That’s the short of it. Do you know if he’ll send us out today?” 

“I don’t know, but I doubt it. The Governor is a cautious, plan-centric man.” 

“I don’t suppose this plan might level the playing field a bit,” Pompeo rubbed her neck, betraying some degree of nervousness, “If they sail out to meet us in force, we’d be doomed. Even with their massive losses from Calabria, some of which they have undoubtably replaced by now, they still have at least four battle-ready Kansen.” 

“Six.” Noted the Admiral. 

“Four,” insisted Pompeo, “Cavour is damaged, and Veneto is absent.” 

“Six,” reaffirmed the Admiral, “Trento and Trieste have been sighted escorting the Sicilian convoys.” 

“That’s too many...” 

“The Governor knows that too, and he’s still going ahead with the mission. So, he must have a plan to equalize the balance of power...” 

The loyalist Kansen winced internally. Admiral Sabbatiani was placing a lot of faith in an aging man, who apparently refused to modernize his flagship. It was a faith that the Neapolitan Governor had not earned from her yet, at any rate. 

But that was unfair, and she knew it: she too was here, on the fringe of the gathering storm, at the behest of a bunch of has-been aristocrats from the last era. Men who, out of hubris, frugality, or nostalgia- though she doubted the latter- had sent her south with a museum fleet of her own. She was no different from the admiral. 

“One of the triumphant generals of the last war must have some scheme,” Pompeo reasoned, “And it will have to be one hell of a scheme. What is the state of the Neapolitan battlefleet?” 

“On paper: Two Cavours , in addition to the Neapolitanus, and two Trentos for each. A semi-modern force of five Maestrale class destroyers as a screen, and I seem to remember we have a trio of Brin class submarines somewhere.” Answered the faintly frustrated tone of the young admiral.  

“On paper?” Pompeo started, “that isn’t a promising provision Admiral...” 

A long sigh denoted the beginning of the admiral’s reply; “In truth, it’s a poorly maintained fleet and at least a third of it isn’t fit for combat. I’d say only about half of the Trentos can sail, one of the Cavour’s power plant needs a rebuild, all of the destroyers were well maintained but two of them defected to the rebels. Most of their crews have been dismissed, and I’ve had to replace them with the fresh and inexperienced. The Brins are out there somewhere already, shadowing the straits as Messina.” 

Pompeo grew steadily more concerned with each point of elaboration the admiral listed, but now was her chance to address the elephant in the room; “What happened to your superior? If you’ll forgive my candor, you don’t strike me as the most likely person for to bear the burden of fixing the fleet...” 

Sabbatiani let out a dry laugh, “Caught that did you? Glad to see my Angel of Providence isn’t blind. But you’re right, it shouldn’t ever have fallen to me to sort out this mess. The revolt in Taranto caused the governor to, for the first time since the last war, look to the status of his fleet. When he found it neglected, mismanaged, and dysfunctional he elected to fire almost all his officers in a fit of rage.” 

They walked as he talked, and as they progressed to and through the military port towards the looming castle that dominated the skyline, Pompeo saw what he was talking about: rust crawled up the hulls of the ships, their crews flailing about as inexperienced officers tried to bring their vessels up to standards. Technicians fluttered about, doing what they could to save what machinery they could. In front of them, down the line, a handful of sailors were clumsily coordinating with one of the dockside crane operators to replace one of the 13 guns on an original configuration Conte di Cavour.   

Wait, that isn’t supposed to lean like that...  

“ Hey... HEY!” Shouted the admiral, who saw what Pompeo saw: the 63-ton gun was tilting dangerously back, straining the crane and threatening to slide from its harness!  

They must not have secured it properly...  

Pompeo’s eyes followed Admiral Sabbatiani as he jolted off in the direction of the looming catastrophe, gesturing wildly to the crew of the ship. By miracle alone, they heard him shouting ‘ get it over the water’ over the din of the bustling harbor. 

A hideous shearing of metal-off-metal cut through that din of maintenance as the balance of the heavy gun passed its tipping point, and it slipped from its harness, twisting a chunk off the crane as it plummeted down. 

Down... 

Down... 

FWOOSH  

A towering column of water sprang up as the sea rose in revolt against the fall of the heavy gun as it smashed through the calm surface. The towering spray had nowhere to go but up... and up... until, satisfied that its protest had been made, it fell back upon the dock, soaking them all in a final act of spite. 

“AAAH!” 

Pompeo smiled secretly to herself, recognizing the exclaiming voice and guessing what had occurred. 

“Still happy you came along? Have you had your fill of our trials?” Pompeo did not turn to address the voice. She could keep the snark out of her voice, she knew, but could not wipe the smile from her face. 

“I have a spare notepad...” groaned the voice of Alfredo Oriani, “... but re-copying my notes will be such a waste of energy!” 

“Now now, the admiral mustn't see you pouting. He has enough to worry about, and I would hate for either of us to do something that makes us, or our masters, look uncertain in our actions.” 

“Oh, come on Pompeo lighten up! It’s been nothing but speeches and Si-” Oriani recoiled from the warning glare shot to her over the shoulder of Pompeo, “si... si... situation reports, yeah... it's been nothing, but speeches and situation reports form you the whole way here! If I need a quote from you, I’ll just ask, but I think you’ve already volunteered enough to have whole column done on your sense of duty alone!” finished an exasperated Oriani, waving around her papers to either make a point or dry them. 

The gall!  

Pompeo spun on her feet, “And have you ever once thought why I say those things over and over? Do you know why I’m so insistent on duty and decorum?!” Snapped the destroyer leader to the destroyer, unconscious of the rising volume and vitriol of her voice. 

“Because you’re the senate's lapdog and they have you trained!” insisted the shaky voice of the frustrated Oriani who figured she might as well go all in at this point. 

“Can’t you understand there’s more at stake... that what you and your master are doing will kill people? That your big break will be written in the blood of your countrymen? Doesn’t that make you hesitate?” Pompeo was practically shrieking, if Oriani was going to commit, so would she. “I’m trying to save you from yourself! Look at you... treating this whole twisted charade like it's some sick game... a chance to get your story, your scoop, your big break! This is all some big opportunity for you.... Profiteer! Vulture! Opportunist! You and Roma... you’re no different from your traitor sisters... picking at the open wounds of the Empire and people you owe everything to!” 

“And I’m supposed to believe you do it all for charity huh?” exclaimed Oriani, finding the confidence to stand her ground more firmly, “I don’t buy it Pompeo. I’ve spent these years reading your interviews and accolades in the papers, and I have to say... you enjoy the spotlight too much. And those awards and enthusiastic quotes are always on the front page but flip a few more and you’ll see the stupid gridlock, petty squabbling, and obvious corruption of the government you and people like you prop up! You love our sick empire because it keeps the spotlight on you, because you sure can’t love it for how well it works! Stop pretending you’re better than the rest of us because our dumb leaders like you! At least Roma has a vision for Sardegna... even her REBEL SISTERS have a better vision for Sardegna than YOU! “  

“ How dare you!” Without thinking, Pompeo’s hand flew to the hilt of her saber, and only realized her error in the instant after. 

“Think carefully, Captain Pompey,” Oriani’s voice dropped to a normal, insufferable tone, from a mouth that had curled into a smug smile, “You wouldn’t want to risk your relationship with the press, or with Roma. You've got a reputation to hold up and a fleet to hold together...” 

Damn her!  

Pompeo closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting the warm, calming air of the Mediterranean wash away the tension building across her body and soul. She could feel the eyes of the whole harbor upon them. Seeing Kansen was probably rare enough for these men, even more so that they were mostly new recruits. But to see two of them fight, even verbally, would have made quite the spectacle. 

She released that deep breath and lifted her hand from the saber hilt, holding it up and away from her waist. That way, both Oriani and the onlookers could see that the situation was deescalating. She offered this same hand to Oriani, who shook it with some hesitation. The sight of Adrenaline running in rivers behind the eyes of Oriani was not something she had ever seen in the journalist.  

“I’m glad you came to your senses, I would hate for either of us to do something that makes us, or our masters, look uncertain in our actions.” parroted the smug Oriani. 

The journalist had stood her ground, and that warranted some begrudging respect from the bigger of the two. But that respect did not extend to tolerating arrogance. 

“No... no... You’re right. We have to behave ourselves...” Concurred the icy calm voice of Pompeo as they shook hands. 

“... and remember our places in this important mission.” 

The fire in Oriani’s eyes flickered as Pompeo’s grip gradually tightened and was soon put out by the growing discomfort swimming behind her features. Pompeo was the bigger destroyer, practically a light cruiser, and was not insignificantly stronger than Oriani as a result. Oriani knew this and knew better than to push her luck. 

“You’ve made your point, Captain Pompeo.” Oriani retracted her hand, massaging it gently. 

“Good.” Pompeo’s word was more of a statement of fact than a recognition or a reply as she clasped her own hands behind her back and spun on her heels once more. 

Her cold eyes fell upon the uncertain, soggy Admiral Sabbtaiani, who remembered himself upon seeing the controlled fury of his ally. 

“Alright everyone, shows over! Get those ships ship shape, move it!” His attention returned to the belligerents of the day’s first battle. “Come, we’re late and the governor has not seen in a patient mood for days...” 

Their walk to the Castel Nuovo was a short, but silent one. 

___________________ 

Centuries of relics lined the walls of the great hall from the many wars, occupiers, and governors that had graced and cursed Napoli in countless power struggles. Greater Toledo and the old Iris’ monarchs had fought for, won, and lost this fortress dozens of times each. To Pompeo’s memory, the Iris had been the most recent occupiers. Something of a wonder the governor had left all the Fleur de lis and other such paraphernalia up alongside the symbols of the old kingdom, and even more so alongside the short-lived Irisian eagle- which Pompeo acknowledged as quite like their own. 

They were, currently, being spared the evident ire of the Governor. He was too busy barking at another man, who was dressed almost as elaborately.  

“You’ve had a week... A WEEK! And THIS is all you could muster?”  

Pompeo could see the veins bulging from his scarlet neck from meters away where they stood, as he cast what must have been a small stack of muster rolls to the ground in front of his general. 

“ Mio Mareschiallo, the senate has already denied your request to instate a draft. We can only muster a few divisions of volunteers into our already existing army.” Muttered the general, “what we already have should be more than enough to-” 

“-what we already have, Generale Vecellio, is a disjointed, unprepared mess scattered across the south!” 

“In time, we will-” 

“You. are. out. of. time! Take your two regiments of volunteers and march down the western side of the Apennines to Reggio and wait for Generale Bianchi. If I see a single banner from 4th or 7th Corps again before tomorrow morning I will have you shot for dereliction of duty. Now... get out of my sight...” 

“On your order, Mareschiallo.” The general bowed, spun on his feet, and walked by, regarding the trio with a sympathetic look as he left. 

The governor’s gaze fell upon them, and immediately softened. 

“Ah, Pompeo Magno! At long last the fates grace me with someone cut from a different cloth than these dithering halfwits...” intoned the governor, a distant frustration laced through his words, “It’s like they don’t grasp the severity of what is happening down there... they don’t see it... it’s one city today sure, but mark my words, if we aren’t careful half the south will join them, and soon they’ll be ramming down the gates of the Castel Neuvo!”  

“ All the more important that we strike quickly and decisively. Do you have a plan for me?” Pompeo snapped to attention. 

“If only my own officers were so enthusiastic... but yes. My admirals and I have come up with a plan to nullify the overwhelming advantage in firepower their fleet can bring to bear long enough to devastate their transport convoys. There was a technology we were preparing to strike at the royals, in port, in the dead of night, to do incalculable damage at minimal risk: manned torpedoes. And they suit our needs perfectly. But it has to happen tonight, and we are missing crucial information: the current positions of the ships at anchor. I don’t suppose either of you have this information?” 

Pompeo and Oriani shared a glance.  

Nope  

“ I saw in the papers that you had lifted some guardsmen from Taranto, would they know?” 

The governor shook his head. “None of the ones we questioned had seen the port in almost a month. But...” 

“But?” Oriani pressed. 

“There was another man in among the guardsmen, a navy captain.” He shook his head, “but records say he had been hospitalized a month earlier than the rest of them. He wouldn’t be of any use...” 

“What was a navy captain doing in a guard bastion?” Pressed Oriani further, garnering a look from Pompeo. 

“Oriani... focus...” 

“Captain Magno, I am focused. We have no other even remotely interesting leads...” 

The governor shrugged, ignoring their exchange. “Go ask him. He’s still in the holding cells below. He isn’t guilty of any of the guard’s crimes, as far I know.” 

This gave Pompeo a start. “You’ve been holding an officer of the empire without reason?!” 

The governor bristled back, albeit in a much more controlled manner than with his general, “My suspicion is all the reason I need, I’ve simply been too busy to deal with him. Nonetheless, my steward will take you.” he finished, waving over a man uniformed as one of the Neapolitan governor’s Palatini.   

“Follow me miss, I will take you to the holding cells.” sharply declared the blue uniformed soldier. 

“Lead on.” 

They passed through several ornate halls, lined with paintings and suits of armor that shined oddly in the light of the electrical lamps strung up to the ceiling of the passageways connected by arcs of wire between them. It was an odd sight, seeing the medieval castle, once built solely for military use, then turned into something of an ornate gallery by a previous ruler, who must have found the austerity of fortress life undesirable, only to then have the fortress subjected to the same sorts of hasty, utilitarian modernization that modern armies so enjoy doing to their headquarters buildings. 

Eventually, they reached a locked grate barring a spiral staircase, which the Palatine soldier unlocked and pried open which a tooth chattering, blood curdling screech of rust on rust. 

“The modernizations are... ongoing...” he apologized, “... this way.” 

Down... down... down they went, the air getting colder and light growing dimmer as oil lamps took over for the electric lights of the walkways upstairs. Another turn, and another grate, and they were there: a long hallway lined with iron bars. 

The soldier passed, undaunted, through the resentful gaze of the prisoners. They regarded the Kansen with suspicious or hopeful mutterings. 

“ Lapdogs...”  

“Are they here for us?”  

“...here to grant us amnesty, you reckon?”  

“No way that’s who I think it is...”  

“Here.” Almost at the end of the hall, the soldier stopped. “Captain...ah” he checked his list, “...Captain Solari, is it? You have visitors.” 

“Hear that Solari? Your butcher’s bill has come due... about time!” 

There were two figures in the cell. The speaker, the younger of the two men was dressed like almost every other prisoner. While the other was dressed in a hospital gown and a naval captain’s cap. Pompeo couldn’t figure out which part of his garb was more out of place. But, as the man lifted his head to regard her, his other bizarre features became a distant memory: the eyepatch over his right eye drew and held her attention. 

“Hm. I suppose it has. Very well...” the older man stood and approached the bars of his cell. “What would you ask of me, Kansen?” 

“Captain Pompeo Magno,” she offered her hand through the bars, and Solari, out of habit more than desire, shook it, “My friend thinks you might be able to help us.” 

“Alfredo Oriani,” again, hands shook, “But you can just call me Alfredo. We have a lot to talk about.” 

“Could we talk somewhere more hospitable? The chattering of my teeth and the unceasing shivering is distracting.” 

Oriani shot a look at Pompeo, who shot a look at the Palatini who shrugged and fumbled with his keys. “You’ve behaved yourself and you’ve no connection to the traitors in the guard. An hour or two out of your cell won’t bring down the empire...” he slotted a crude iron key into the cell door, and a heavy latch released with its turning, “let's be on our way.” 

The one-eyed man stepped forward from the murk of his cell to the dim hallway and acknowledged the perplexed look on his cellmate’s face. “I trust you won’t find some way to valiantly sacrifice yourself in the next hour but... do your best to not defy that expectation.” 

The governor’s man snorted and led them back down the corridor, and up the stairs. But rather than turning back down the hallway they came from, the man led them on deeper into the castle.  

“So, what’s with the getup?” chimed Oriani, sliding over to the cyclopean man. 

Pompeo was, internally mind you, screaming.  

Could she not wait five minutes before going on her reporter spiel?   

“Which part of it?” sighed the man, evidently growing begrudgingly used to the question. 

“Um... all of it?” 

“Alright… Siren took my eye, Taranto took my uniform, I took my hat. Satisfied?” 

Oriani missed a step as her heart undoubtably skipped a beat, “A Siren took your eye?!” 

This earned a laugh from Pompeo, “Oriani... he’s messing with you. A Siren has never showed its face in the Mediterranean... sure they sent a fleet, but there was no Siren with them...” She allowed her voice to trail off while giving the reporter a brief but serious look. 

“There’s a first time for everything,” Oriani clapped back, “besides, who would make up a story nobody would believe?” 

“Who indeed? Why would a likely wrongfully incarcerated Captain of the Regia Marina have any incentive to not to cooperate with us fully?” Pompeo asked out loud, but not as another shot towards Oriani; a curious but poignant glare into the captain's single eye carried the question directly to him. 

“You want to know if you can trust me Kansen, is that it? I’ve served the King’s fleet for decades, my record- beyond my understandable but unnecessary detainment- is spotless. I have no love for the Imperial Guard, or its Kansen, and complete contempt for the actions of Veneto and her goons...” 

“Ouch...” Muttered Oriani, looking defeated, “... we aren’t so bad once you get to know us...” 

“Here we are.” Declared the Palatine Guard. 

They had arrived at the entrance to a dusty cabinet. It was unlit, but the fading light of the afternoon shown through two small windows that were more like holes in the wall. A few dusty tables, wardrobes, and an ash filled fireplace filled the room. 

 “I’ll be wanting him back Kansen, don’t take too long. Yell if he does something stupid.” As he said this, he took his place by the door but gave it an unusually wide berth. 

The unlikely trio filed into the room. Oriani began dusting off a place for herself at the table, Solari immediately went to the fireplace and started looking around for something to burn, cursing upon finding nothing. 

This gave Pompeo, who entered the room last, an idea. Even if Solari did not like them, they stood nothing to gain from an adversarial relationship with the man. This in mind, she strolled over to one of the wardrobes and flung it open, sending great, winglike gouts of dust out to either side of her. In it, she found an old uniform, one old enough to be in some of the more recent paintings in the galley of the Castel Nuevo. It had simple, deep blue overcoat and red-brown trousers. It was moth bitten, dusty, and faded, to be certain, but it would make a fine peace offering. 

“Hey Pompeo, what are you- ack!” Oriani was consumed by the small dust cloud emanating from the uniform after Pompeo gave it a few good whacks. 

“Captain, I think you’d freeze a little slower in this.” She called as she tossed it to captain, whose impaired depth perception caused him to fumble it for a moment. He caught it by a long, white bandolier that hung from an epaulet to the belt of the same make. 

“Much obliged,” muttered captain, some embarrassment slipping into his voice, “Even a dust angel is still an angel, it would seem.” He slid into the uniform, the overcoat fitting easily over, and trousers easily under, his hospital garb. 

“Let's get started!” came the enthusiastic decree of the reporter. 

“What is it that you want to ask me about?”  

A switch flipped in Oriani, and she leaned forward in her chair, “What can you tell us about the anchorage at Taranto?” 

“I haven't seen it in over a month, but I’d imagine the battleship anchorage is mostly the same as it always is minus its screening line of mass-produced ships. Rumors say Calabria wasn’t kind to Veneto.” 

“We know. But can you tell us anything we don’t?” Pressed Oriani 

“It might surprise you to learn that I didn’t spend much time in Taranto. I am a cruiser captain, or at least I was, escorting convoys across the Orientale . There is only so much you can expect of me”  

Pompeo, who was pacing the room behind the captain, was filled with a certain nagging curiosity and moved to stand on the side of the captain. She leaned over the table, and then spoke: “That’s a big leap, bouncing around the far shores of the empire to internment in a hospital in the center of one of the Tarantine Imperial Guards bases...” 

“Would you mind filling in those gaps for us?” concluded Oriani. 

Pompeo had been around enough politicians, ranking officers, and public figures in her time as the senate’s favorite problem solver to know when someone was hiding their hesitation. She could see the cogs working in the captain's mind, hinting at an industry attempting to produce a palatable version of the truth.  

“Think captain, this is your time to show you can be trusted and dispel the suspicions that saw you locked up...” encouraged Pompeo. 

“Almost two months ago, I was called away from my command by the then Eternal Flagship. I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect, but the Eternal Flagship made good use of her power to use the Royal Seal, and I cannot refuse a royal decree. Over the next few weeks, with as much secrecy as could be maintained, Littorio herself oversaw my retraining as a sort of test captain for the trial phases of the Tarantine Guard’s efforts to create a serious of mass-produced battleships of her class...” 

As he said this, Pompeo watched as he drew a rough diagram of the port as he remembered it. 

“... if you’ve been keeping up to date information, you would notice a third Littorio Class battleship in port, one that has done nothing since the first and only battle against a Siren fleet in the Mediterranean, even missing Calabria...” 

He drew a small star on one of the bigger ships in the harbor. 

“...that is the Littorio II, my most recent command . The day came to take her out on her maiden voyage, I fought a mock battle against Carabiniere, though I did not know it at the time. On the return trip, we were ambushed by a siren fleet. After the Kansen left to fight a rearguard action, a Siren boarded my ship, cracked two of my ribs and tore out my eye. I woke up a few days later in the hospital, I would later learn that Littorio feels some level of responsibility for me. And that, Kansen, is the end of my story. I was still at that hospital when the governor's men stormed it, and they dragged me here.” 

“Littorio is quite the character in your story... you know her well?” Oriani was furiously scribbling down details. 

“I know her well enough to know that, if she really is in command of the Imperial Guard now, she has no idea what she is doing. She’s an inexperienced strategist and an even less experienced politician. She’s too sure of herself to back down, and she’s too vain to reflect on her mistakes.” 

“Your new command, the Littorio II you called it?” It was Pompeo’s turn to prod. “It doesn't take a month to train someone to command a mass-produced ship; manned ships are largely uncomplicated things- they have to be to be made so quickly...” 

She had a hypothesis to test. The Roman numeral “II” delineated Solari’s ship as a second-generation mass-produced ship. They were more advanced, often crewless ships that could only be operated through remote tether to a Kansen. Solari was lying, he had to be- there had been no manned series II ships, what would the point of them be? They were designed with Kansen in mind- designed to take advantage of the arcane technology of the wisdom cube to manage vast fleets of robotic ships. 

“It was unlike any ship I had ever commanded across my thirty years of service. Yes, the mechanical automations present in all mass-produced ships were there... but there was more. The systems were all more advanced, they worked and responded faster, there were more elaborate displays for position and communication, and it required even less crew than normal. The whole ship practically hummed with energy for the various consoles that lined the coning tower. I would have liked more than a month to understand it all.” Solari's recollection was distant, almost reverent in its appraisal of his old ship. 

Fascinating  

“... and your positive that this is the layout of the ships in the harbor?” continued Pompeo, gesturing to his drawing. 

“Littorio wouldn’t have changed it.” 

“I see... are we done, Oriani?” 

“I’d say so, yeah.” 

“ Palatini! He’s all yours.” 

___________________ 

“Oriani... you’re the journalist, what did you think of him?” Pompeo broke the silence as they made their way back through the long halls of the castle. 

“I think he has terrible luck.” Oriani muttered, after a moment of thought. 

“So, you believe him?” 

“His story isn’t crazier than ours so far.  

“The whole thing is hard to believe, but one thing led into another cleanly and... its plausible enough. His assertions about Littorio line up with what I know about her, so maybe he’s right and the ships are all still where they always are.” 

“I’m sure you’ll have great time telling the governor...” 

“Oh?” Pompeo’s eyebrow shot up. 

“I saw a communications room somewhere around here... I bet they have a typewriter, and I just stumbled onto the best story of my career yet: Exiled captain from the spider’s web speaks out against the Lictor!”  

Pompeo started but cooled down just as quickly. This could be a propaganda victory for them- someone who knew Littorio better than most people in the south ever would had just given a scathing report of her qualities as a leader. And if the governor planned to act tonight, the southern traitors wouldn’t know what they knew until after their stunning victory! 

“Very well.” Pompeo muttered, “Write well and you’ll make yourself the propaganda master of this little debacle. I’ll inform the governor of our findings...” 

More glory for me...  

Chapter Text

[Francesco Solari]  

The cold of his cell would be more bearable now that he was wearing a proper uniform. It was old, dusty, and probably Irisian, but warm. Moth-bitten cotton is still cotton. But it was still the same dreary, faintly damp freezer he had quickly come to resent. Still, he was in high spirits. He was certain that his time here would not be long; he had noticed the camera, writing materials, and journals of the smaller Kansen from before. ‘Alfredo’ as she asked to be referred to, was a journalist, and he was not blind to how bizarre his story was. It is a story he knew she would write, and the attention it brought to him would compel the governor to release him.   

But for now...  

“In you go, captain.” his jailor shoved him back through the door to his cell and slammed it shut behind him. “Enjoy your stay.”  

The echoing sound of rusted metal sliding against rusted metal woke the napping Amborgio, who shot him a dirty look through the murk.  

“I see you didn’t manage a heroic sacrifice while I was gone.”  

“And you didn’t manage to sell Sardegna save your skin.”  

“We’ll see.” Muttered Solari.  

“You really are insisting on cooperating with your... our captors?” The guardsman was incredulous.  

Solari let out a patient sigh- as patient as any sigh could be- before continuing. “I intend to keep ‘wrongful’ as part of my imprisonment. I don’t hate these people...” finished Solari “I do not blame them for being unaccommodating to my strange and exceptional situation. They are servants of the empire, as am I.”  

“Servants of the empire? They don’t deserve you.”  

“Did you think they would be perfect? So soon after unification? So soon after the war? Look around you; nobody knows what they’re doing- Not Spinola, and certainly not Veneto.”  

A long silence stretched out between the two of them, and Solari began to wonder if he had pushed the boy too far or had broken through to him. He wouldn't get his answer, not now anyway.  

The guardsman would eventually find his voice: “... Last November... no, the one before that... I was in Taranto selling produce from the family farm. It had been a terrible year- they all had been since my father lost his arm at Caporetto- and I clearly had no talent as a farmer. But I was optimistic, and so was my father, for once. The Giorno Della Vittoria celebrations always attracted a big crowd...” 

Solari watched with interest as his cellmate seemed to drift into a different place, the cold walls of the cell forgotten as he told his story.  

“... so that’s where we went. I drove- Of course I did- papà had a hard time driving since the war. Just loaded up our old shitbox Lancia and drove all the way down from Bari. With him swearing each time we hit a rut in the road.”  

“Southern roads aren’t as Kind as I wish they were.” Solari muttered, recalling his own far-off years, “The drive from Matera to Brindisi – where they gave me my command and sent me overseas.”  

Amborgio chuckled, “They’ve always been terrible? I’m not sure if that should make me feel better or worse... but all the same, those awful roads carried us to Taranto. They carried everyone else too- the city was packed, just like it was all the other years. Barely enough room to throw up our humble stall. People came and went in a constant stream, but the public eye eventually fixed on the festivities as the local police began clearing the streets for the big parade.”  

“I’ve spent years dodging similar parades. It's always hot as hell, or half the Mediterranean falls from the sky. And we sing that ridiculous song the whole damn way...” Cursed Solari.  

“HA! Wait, do I... ah yes~   

Stanotte o marinar',  

 si dorme nel quartier'!  

 La novella nave italica nel porto affonda l'ancora”  

Sang S ottotenente Palmiotto, somewhere between joking with and mocking his cellmate, clearly enjoying himself.  

“Enough, enough... why do you know the navy’s march?” It was Solari’s turn to be incredulous.  

“The guard happens to enjoy it too. We’re practically your brothers, Captain Navy, acknowledge us or not. Sons of the empire all.” Retorted the now-smug Amborgio.  

“Brothers that seem to by trying their best to be stricken from the will.”  

“Yet, when the time came for that parade on that fateful November day it wasn’t the Regio Esercito, Regia Marina, or the Regia Aeronautica that redeemed the Empire.”  

“They ‘redeemed’ Tirolio well enough...”  

“Hush, let me tell my story. Now, my father left to go fight in the war out of a sense of patriotism. He took his deep love of Sardegna along with him. But, somewhere along the way he lost it. Maybe it bounced out of his pocket on the shit roads the government doesn't fix, or maybe it got caught on the Styrian shell that blew clean through his leg. Either way, my father was only with me to help sell our meagre crop...”  

Solari could tell that the topic made him slightly uncomfortable. They were after all, military men, and it was only natural Amborgio would feel some discomfort admitting, in essence, that his father might regret his service. He had nothing to fear of course, from someone who had seen some of the last war.  

“... And then the strangest thing happened. Two guardsmen, in their stunning green and white...” Amborgio patted his own uniform with a proud smile, “...came over to our stall. One was younger, a lot like me, I guess. And the other was older- not as old as you-” Amborgio teased, “but old enough to have a few service medals. Two he displayed proudly, one for the battle of the Piave River, and the second for the great Vittorio Veneto. Well, these two men got to talking about the weather, then the business, then the farm. And eventually, the older man fixed my father with a sorrowful eye-  

‘Where did it happen?’ the man had asked my father  

“‘Caporetto.’ my papà had told him in the gruff and joyless tone that had become too common while eying the man's medals, somewhere between disdain and envy.”  

“It was then that the younger man, piped up about how they needed to get going, and that their unit would be marching soon and that they had to go and get in formation, even shot me an apologetic look for good measure. But, Captain Navy, there’s something about you old souls I grew to appreciate right then. Care to guess what it was?” the lieutenant beamed.  

“Let’s see, I don’t suppose it’s our infallible wisdom?” the captain joked back.  

“Your vanity is showing Captain Navy, but you’re close. You lot have the best Idea of the way things need to be, so sure, wisdom of the ages and all that. Well, the old guardsmen agreed that they needed to get going but there was an unswerving gleam in his eye. You see, he had had an idea. And when one of you old bastards get an idea its always something wild...  

… but the day would continue after that, that big fancy parade I keep alluding to finally got going. And we watched the rest of the branches of the military, and it was about as you’d expect. Until the older guardsman from before leapt from the staff car he was riding in and, with three or four men in tow-one of which was the younger man from before- ran towards us across the road and through the crowd. And they all gathered around me and my father, just for a moment, just long enough for the older man to declare ‘It's time for you to be a Sardegnian again!’ and they picked him up, mindful of his leg, and carried him off. Best I could tell, they plopped him down in one of the staff cars and off they went with him!”  

Amborgio chuckled, “When next I heard him it was dusk, and I was busy packing up our truck. I heard him before I saw him. It sounded like there were two other guardsmen with him, joking, and laughing like I hadn’t heard in too long a time. I had been surprised, and quite confused at the time, to hear a woman’s voice among them.  

‘Is this Palmiotto’s?’ asked the most musical voice I had ever heard, and I had spun around to meet it. Standing there, next to my father and his new friends was a woman I had never seen, wreathed by the moon, with hair woven from starlight and a strange uniform as red as a heart that just skipped a beat.  

 And I told the voice yes.  

‘Here’  

“And she handed me a bank note for more Lira than I would have expected to see in months, maybe years at the current way things were going! A note written by Vittorio Veneto to my father. And I’ll never forget what she said to me.”  

‘Your father is a good man, it’s a shame what happened to him. We as a nation might not be able to help everyone who gave more than their fair share. But one is better than none.’  

“And, silly as it might seem in retrospect, I believed that wholeheartedly. I took a week to ease my father into retirement on Veneto’s dime, and I joined up with the people who gave papà his pride back!”  

“So that’s how you see it, sottotenente ? The guards as the means of restoring Sardegna’s pride?” Solari prodded.  

“It’s not about pride it's about... decency. About winning for ourselves a state that will at least try to help its people. A state that will at least try to find the money to fix the roads, or find money- real money, enough to live off of- for the soldiers of its wars. Veneto understands that... she-”  

“Captain Solari!” the voice of the Palatine Warden shattered the rapport of the two men, “Come with me, Governor’s orders.”  

_______________________  

The only one who was more surprised than him was standing before the governor in his great hall, it had to have been Pompeo, who regarded him with a stupefied expression.  

“My Governor... Mio Marschiallo... you can’t be serious...”  

“He’s the only one who knows how it works if his story is to be believed. You believe it, don’t you?”  

“Yes, but he doesn't-”  

“Then you’re taking him with you. You’ve seen the state of my fleet!”  

“I have, and-”  

“Enough! Pompeo, you are taking the good Captain, and you will ensure his cooperation by any means.”  

Solari scanned the room, from the proud and self-satisfied look of the governor to the resigned befuddlement of Pompeo Magno, to the smug Alfredo Oriani that was already teasing her. And suddenly, so very suddenly, he yearned for the cold comfort of his cell and ceaseless banter with Amborgio. But he hardly had a choice in the matter.  

“You called for me, my Governor?”  

“Captain Solari, a man of circumstance if ever I have met one. You and Pompeo are already acquainted well enough, she seems to take you at your word, even if her display a moment ago might give the opposite impression. You will be accompanying her on tonight's sortie. You’ll leave within the hour aboard Pompeo Magno, understood?”  

“Understood, sir.”  

“See Pompeo, he’s willing to put aside his distrust of Kansen on demand, you would do well to learn to do the same with your distrust of the Navy.”  

“I don’t distrust the Navy, I just-”  

“Good, now make ready to leave.” With that, the governor waltzed off.  

“Hey Pompeo, ~ looks like someone’s gunning for your spot as Governor’s pet! Ow, hey!” Oriani elbowed Pompeo mockingly and received a much sharper elbow in return.  

“Oriani, I will crack you over my knee if you so much as-”  

“Enough! Both of you! Are you not sailors of the Empire? Carry yourselves with some decorum.” Solari could not entirely keep the disdain out of his voice, but Oriani at least had not seemed to notice.  

“You two great sticks in the mud will have such a fun time sneaking around Taranto together. It’s a shame I have to go join up with that Admiral what's-his-face with the main fleet. The governor is giving me dibs on the scoop for the first big battle of the war! I’ve already got a title: Into the Spider’s web.”  

“Lucky you.” Chorused Pompeo and Solari. One out of vanity, the other out of disgust.  

“You two will get along just fine!” Oriani yelled behind her as she ran off, leaving the two of them alone.  

“It’s all a game to her, is it?” came Solari’s icy question.  

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Came the defeated reply of Pompeo.  

“When do we sail?”  

“Now.”  

“Are you going to tell me what it is that we are doing?”  

“On the way. We’re already late as it is, if we are to be there and back before the sun rises.”  

___________________  

On their short, silent walk to the Pompeo Magno Solari understood why the governor had seemed to have such a low opinion of his fleet. Even as it prepared to get underway, it was clear that it was far below standards held by any naval base he had been on, which had been a few by now. The best ships were, by far, those of the Senatorial Kansen. They were forming up on the small, painted destroyer Solari assumed was Alfredo Oriani.   

“Answer me this, Kansen,” began Solari, “This is a night raid, right? A port strike to cripple the Tarantine fleet... so why is that sluggish relic getting under way?”  

“The Neapolitanus,” sighed Pompeo, “Is going to take the fleet and sink convoys in the straits of Messina. And no- I do not approve, and I made my displeasure known. Neapolitanus is five knots slower than she should be, and that assumes her engines are even running well... but I’m not a governor, a marshal, or an admiral.”  

“Be honest. Is that a note of bitterness in your tone Ms...”  

“Provisional Captain.” Pompeo finished for him, “And watch your tone, you’re on a parole of sorts, remember?”  

Solari shot her a smile, one that seemed to him to make her slightly uncomfortable.  

“You certainly don’t seem to like the orders given to you, your friend, or the Neapolitanus. Liking our orders is not a necessary part of following them, Provisional Captain. Nobody is a perfect subordinate, not you, and not I. What matters is that we are prepared to follow our orders anyway.”  

“I take your point, but all the same. You’d do better by giving me reasons not to have you thrown back in your cell when we return.” Pompeo glared back at him down the gangplank as her foot landed on the deck of her ship. “You’re being given the chance to prove your innocence, you’re not off the hook yet.”  

Solari, of course, followed her. “The governor seems to think you already-”  

He cut himself off, briefly stunned into silence. They were not alone. Men dressed in full-body black diving gear and tanks lined the deck. They stood and crouched in groups of two around long, fan-tailed cylinders.  

Frogmen!? Here!?  

Further to his surprise, the Frogmen gradually rose to salute him, to the chagrin of Pompeo.  

“Well, Quinta Flottiglia MAS seems to think highly of you. Captain. Aren’t you going to dismiss them?”  

“Oh... At ease!”   

At that, the Frogmen went back to prepping and checking their equipment.  

“Where did-”  

“No idea. I’m told the governor is the planning type. Maybe he’s been cooking this one for a while.”  

“What have you gotten me into?”  

“You mean ‘What have I gotten myself into?’ And the answer is quite simple: You’ve played loyalist well enough that the governor thinks we can steal your Littorio II and a sizable portion of the Tarantine mass-produced fleet. I described your old command to the governor, and he seems convinced it's designed to be some sort of control ship. And before you start, yes, I know you probably have no idea how to operate the ship in such a manner. But I might.”  

“Aren’t you capable of stealing their fleet yourself? You’re a Kansen, commanding our autonomous ships is half your job. I see no reason why you’d bring along a captain you’re reluctant to trust to steal and control a fleet of competitive strength to the one you’re ostensibly helping.” He argued, as they made their way into the superstructure of her ship.”  

“You answered your own question. The prize, Captain Solari, is the control ship- the one that can emulate a Kansen’s fleet control. A ship I cannot control, or probably can’t, you’re the trained captain... Just because I’m a Kansen does not mean I universally understand how to command all ships. We aren’t stealing one of me, we're stealing a battleship. And that battleship will be the thing stealing the fleet, sparing me the effort.”  

“I... understand. Slink into Taranto in the dead of night, we steal what the Frogmen don’t damage, and hope we sail out before the coastal artillery wakes up.”  

“How perceptive... yes.” Pompeo then, without warning, spun in place and regarded him with half a smile and gold-eyed stare in the dim corridor of her vessel.  

“You asked me to be honest before, Captain Solari? Well, to be honest, I find the plan absurd, naïve, and ill conceived; it’s the stuff legends are made of.”  

The pupils of her golden eyes dilated as her ship lurched beneath them, causing Solari to stumble briefly as they got underway.  

“And it’s time to add to mine.”  

___________________  

Boring. Stressful. Tedious. Pleasantly warm. These are the words either of them would use to describe a 13-hour voyage in the late November Sea, with strict radio silence. ‘Fast’ would join Solari’s growing list of adjectives as the Pompeo Magno roared through the waves at over 40 knots. The ride was smooth enough, most of the time. The Mediterranean was kind tonight.  

Counting adjectives, unfortunately, didn’t seem to be making sleeping any easier. He laughed bitterly.  

Most comfortable quarters I’ve had in weeks, and I can’t seem to take advantage of it!  

He had stopped keeping track of time and found his mind wandering. If either of Sicily’s Kansen were out and about they were doomed. If they got there, and any of the Tarantine Kansen happened to look their way, or ping the harbor with sonar on a whim they were doomed. If Pompeo guessed the times, or the season, or the route wrong, they were doomed. If Pompeo fell asleep at the wheel, they were doomed.  

Pompeo...  

He couldn’t place her. Sometimes she was all business, other times she seemed to have more in common with her chatty partner. Other times still, she bounced between professionalism and an odd candor he wouldn’t expect from someone unwilling to trust him. Before they got underway, she seemed to offer him an olive branch of sorts. Maybe it was time he did the same.  

He hauled himself from bed and began making his way to the bridge. Would she feel his footfalls? Was that how that worked?  

I suppose I’ll find out.  

He found his way to his destination and found the heavy door already open. Interest piqued, he carefully showed himself in.  

Inside was something he did not expect to see. Pompeo had her back to him as she leaned over the display panel of her ship. It was the only light, other than what little was coming in from the halls. She had discarded her large, pompous cloak and even her hat. The silhouette of her hair was a mess, and she was muttering to herself at an incredible pace.  

She stood bolt upright and stock still for a moment and let out a long sigh. A sigh that closed the door behind him and brought up the lights of the room, though not to their full luminosity. She glanced at him apologetically, and slowly gathered herself up. She did what she could for her hair, hiding most of the mess with her cap and clasping her cloak back around her neck as she went.  

“You were supposed to be asleep.” She stated, matter-of-factly, disappointment in her eyes- more for herself than towards Solari.  

“Hard to, the way you’re sailing.” The captain offered a joke.  

“You’re an awful liar.” Pompeo said, returning an attempt at a smile.  

“Perhaps. I don’t have too many big secrets to keep. But I have one or two. Care to trade with an old soldier?”  

Pompeo laughed a dry, sarcastic laugh. “No. You’ve seen enough as is. All you need to know is that nothing is impossible for Captain Pompey!”  

“Done being honest already?”  

“It... has nothing to do with honesty.”  

“You don’t seem believe it.”  

“It has to be true, whether I believe it or not.”  

“Delusions of heroism started this war... do you really think they’ll end it?”  

“They will, tonight.”  

“You guardsmen are all the same... whether loyal to the senate or not... all gloryhounds. You’re all saving the empire! As though there will be an empire left by the time, you’re through ‘saving’ it!”  

Solari wasn’t expecting the slap from the small Kansen. And from the mortified look on her face, she wasn’t either.   

“I...”  

“...”  

“I’m not a traitor... or a criminal... I...”  

“Go on Kansen, speak your mind.”  

“I am tired of being accused of causing the Empire’s decline! It isn’t me. It isn’t the Guard. I am not... we are not guilty by association! Everything I have done; I have done on orders from our government... I am only guilty of enjoying the praise I get for building the empire up. I have done nothing wrong!”  

“You don’t act like you believe that either.”  

“That’s unfair! What’s one breach of composure to a hundred sorties carried out with all the confidence that befits Captain Pompey the Great?”  

“Because it isn’t just one breach of composure, is it?” said Solari, with a sigh. “It’s almost every night. And some nights you wake up in cold sweats, or screaming, or gasping for air. Other nights, you can barely sleep at all. And I understand.”  

“You... have no way of knowing that. By what right does a presumed criminal... from the Navy no less... judge the most loyal Kansen of the Imperial Guard!”  

“Because I remember where you earned your reputation, I remember why the convoys to the Orientale needed a military escort in peacetime, and I was in port for the founding of the Imperial Guard of Tobruk. If I recall, the Fiasco on the Fourth Shore fell to you and Impe -”  

“- Don’t!” Pompeo growled, “You’ve... you’ve made your point. But as much as I’d love to pour my heart out on the cabin floor for the whole world to see, it's time for us to do the impossible.”  

She stormed out of the bridge onto one of the catwalks and leapt from it, twisting in the air to regard him with a devilish smirk.  

What happened next was not something Solari would ever quite be able to explain to someone who had never felt the superstructure of a ship turn to sand beneath them. Nor could he explain how that metal sand, in an instance, fused together into a static pool of blue light; as though someone had melted an ice sculpture, but the water held its shape. Before his mind could even fully recognize that the cold steel beneath him was now something else- before he could even begin to sink into it, the light crystalized and shattered into thousands of little cubes and arced towards Pompeo, leaving him in freefall.  

Some absorbed themselves into her body, giving her skin a momentary blue glow. Others began to form the miniature weapons and armor at their sides that they called rigging. Her feet hit the water an instant later and leapt back up into the air, the last flecks of light trailing behind her as she caught the falling captain.  

“Now captain, it wouldn't do to get that fancy old cotton uniform of yours- ACK!”  

During Pompeo’s moment of smug triumph, the multitude of massive, manned torpedoes of the Frogmen of Quinta Flottiglia MAS hit the surface, showering them both in the waters of their national jewel.  

Pompeo folded her rigging back behind her to form as much of a flat surface as she could before shifting Solari back over her shoulders onto it. Picking her hat out of the water before the sea claimed it, and judiciously wringing out the pompous fluffy ball that crowned it, she managed “Not a word, just hang on and shut up.”  

Pompeo then set her feet and shot off over the waves at 30 knots. Gripping her cannons for dear life with one hand and his own soaking cap with the other, Solari gained the impression that this was a limitation imposed for his sake, and not because Pompeo was having even the slightest trouble carrying him. They rounded a corner of the winding cliffs of the Sardegnian coast and found themselves face-to-face with the glowing harbor of Taranto.   

From his vantage point, it looked to him as though the guess this whole operation was riding on was correct: Littorio had not moved the ships. But he had been wrong on one count; the screen of mass-produced ships was alive and well, meaning two things; there was probably a Kansen on watch, and that the Tarantine Guard was quickly recovering its losses from Calabria.  

There were at least half a dozen squadrons of mechanical warships, superstructures bearing geometric, glowing green stripes against the black sky. Bundles of mixed destroyers led by a Zara class cruiser.  

And he might have noted as much is he was not on the back of a Kansen that was now bringing herself up to full speed for the final dash through the screen towards their prize. Shifting her rigging up, Pompeo ensured that the force of her mad dash would hold Solari against her rigging, instead of tearing him off. And then she Bolted.  

At 41 Knots, Pompeo tore through the sea leaving the waters churning in her wake. They shot past the first squadron of screening ships, then the next, and then the next. This alone would have been insane enough, but Pompeo was taking great joy in ramping herself up into the air on the wakes of the larger vessels. She zipped around them, between them, and had even jumped herself over the stern of a Maestrale I. By the time they reached their destination, Solari had begun to wonder if he had done something to offend her. But, in a moment it was over.  

A great battleship loomed before them in the darkness, equal parts intimidating and majestic. Pompeo leapt onto the airplane deck of the Littorio II, which was lower than the rest of the ship for the sake of more easily recovering floatplanes, and deposited the thoroughly rattled Solari onto the boards before offering a hand.  

“Lead the way Captain, it's your time to shine.”  

“Could’ve... given me a heads up... damn Kansen...” he gasped, recovering from having the wind knocked out of him. “To the bridge.”  

They wound their way down yet another set of dark corridors. The going was long, and before long Pompeo was on point with her miniaturized searchlight and Solari was navigating through the guts of the slumbering vessel.  

“Just admit you’re lost already.”  

“ WE are not lost. It’s just a big ship. And losing an eye does not mean I’m blind. See? Here.”  

Up a hatch and two flights of stairs later they were where they needed to be: the conning tower. Barely illuminated by the static lights of the city outside its windows given a slow, unsteady quality as the vessel gently rocked on the water; Its machinery lay dormant, its glowing panels devoid of light, but beyond the gathering layer of dust, all was as it should have been aboard the Littorio II .   

Solari could not help but smile at Pompeo’s own wonder, revealed to him by the unsteady path her searchlight took as it drifted from console to console, system to system, and interface to interface.   

“So... Governor Montallo was right... she is designed as a command ship...” Pompeo murmured, balling her hands into white-knuckled fists.  

She hesitated. Solari could see her silhouette struggling with something.  

“Littorio spoke of her as the future of Sardegnian naval power shortly before I was wounded.” Offered Solari.  

“She said that? Her? Really... I wouldn’t think she would approve of something designed to make her less important.”  

“Maybe she learned something from watching the other powers squabble. Shine a light over here.”  

Solari was fiddling with something in the wall, having wrenched a panel free.  

“Aha! Let there be light!”  

Nothing.  

“I said... let there be light.”  

Nothing.  

“...Pompeo could you find your way back to that huge room we sort of sped by early in our trip? I need you to go start the boilers manually.”  

“Captain, nobody just ‘jump-starts’ a forty-thousand-ton warship...”  

“That’s why I’m so glad that... what was it... ‘nothing is impossible for Captain Pompey the Great! I’ll be here to authorize the second stage start-up, so you only have to make the trip once.”  

 He could feel her glaring at him as she went and waited for her footfalls to fade before carefully making his way to where he knew his old quarters were. It would probably take Pompeo a while, he reasoned, to sort out the task he had given her, and his ancient Irisian cotton musketeers uniform was soaked. He had a dress uniform stashed away in his room, and while uncomfortable, it was better than being cold and sopping wet.  

He eased the door open and strode into the dark room. Just enough light was seeping through the command bridge glass for him to see what he was doing. Trundling over to his closet, he extracted his dress uniform and laid it out on his bed. And was surprised to find his standard naval uniform there already, having been hidden by his lopsided vision until now.  

“How kind of her...” he muttered to himself, slipping out of his wet uniform and the gown he still wore beneath it, and then slipping into his old uniform.  

He searched around for his sword and did not find it where he remembered leaving it. He eventually found it on the floor by his desk, as though it had been placed hastily and fell over.  

“Couldn’t help yourself, you big strutting peacock. Couldn't leave well enough alone. But Kansen never were good at that... you’re all always stirring the pot... heh... no, rocking the boat...” He finished, sliding the sword into the loop of his belt with a smile. But something was wrong, something was missing. And he wracked his brain for it as he returned to his commanding station. Pompeo, after all, would be done soon and he would need to finish the startup on his end.  

He had taken the first step, and then the second.  

*click*  

He stopped.  

It was the softest sound he had ever heard. And it was deafening. It fixed itself in his memory. He did not hear the soft whir of the ship’s mechanisms start up, or the faint hum of the emergency lights as they cast his world in a faint red relief.  

Because it was the click of the safety on a Baretta 1935.  

He turned his eye downward and sure enough, his was not the only shadow being cast by the emergency lights. The shadow was big and almost blocky, largely overlaying his own as though it were wearing a cloak or cape of some kind. It was tall, tall enough to be cast over most of the bridge from the hallway behind him. He could see, distantly, a reflection in the glass of the conning tower. The reflection did not provide him much beyond a blurry silhouette, made even more indecipherable by the competing lights of the city. But it gave him enough to guess: along the shadow’s head were the vague impression of four peaks or points, given the appearance of shifting, devilish horns in the messy array of light pollution.  

“Mi Comandare! Welcome back to Taranto~” sang the beaming voice of the most glorious vessel in the Mediterranean. “I see you found your uniform, and that endlessly fascinating sword of yours...”  

He turned slowly, very slowly, to regard Littorio. Her ruby eyes glinted with a savage delight, the only major pinpricks of color in her dull, red washed silhouette. They were, in and of themselves, a juxtaposition against the gaping black maw of her pistol’s barrel. She held it in one hand, arm casually extended. She turned it, letting the light glisten and bounce off its barrel as it reflected on the walls. Never enough to shift the barrel away from the shocked captain, but enough to keep his attention fixed firmly on it. Firmly enough to note that the metal on the right of the barrel reflected the light in a strange way.  

They stood there for a long moment, the Lictor drank in the drama of the whole situation, and the captain watched and wondered.   

“What are you doing here?” Solari questioned in a low, baffled voice, and took a step back.  

This act delighted Littorio, whose smile grew as she stepped forward in kind. “Welcoming you back of course! When I heard Pompeo would be in town, my friend neglected to mention you’d be coming with her. How curious!”  

“Since when did Kansen carry sidearms?” Solari backed against the control panel and did not do anything with it. He had a plan.  

“When did Naval captains start dropping them in piles of rubble?” Littorio was happy to take as much ground as Solari would give and then some.  

It was then that the emergency lights died,  

“I see. So , what happens next?”  

“You are going to help me win my war.”  

“Why me?”  

“You love that question, don’t you?”  

“Then maybe tell me. Why you? Why your war and not Venetos?”  

“I’ll explain it all to you soon. All you, dear comandare, must do is-” 

“ Drop it!” Screeched the voice of Pompeo Magno as her rigging arrayed itself towards the Lictor.  

Littorio did not turn, or flinch, or even seem to acknowledge her, “Firing all that, in this small space, would be a terrible mistake, Pompeo~” she practically sang. “You’d kill poor Solari here in an instant. And you don’t have the time to fight me, if you want to be back in time to warn your friends about Trento and Trieste.”  

“You’re bluffing!” Pompeo   

Littorio let out a laugh, born equal parts adrenaline-fueled mania and now a very real and imminent sense of the danger she was now in. “Am I? Use your spotting scopes and look at the harbor! Tell me If I’m bluffing!”  

Solari saw Pompeo’s expression focus, and then contort into one of horror.  

“You played the game, and you lost. Run on back to Naples while you still can- and while you still have a fleet left to save!” Jeered the Lictor.  

For a moment, Solari saw what Littorio could not: he saw the look of horror on Pompeo’s face replaced by a determination he had only ever seen once or twice. That was the last he saw of Pompeo before the lights went out again, Solari having had other things on his mind than starting the ship. The only light coming was, once again, light from the port. While it twisted and warped Littorio’s features, as well as his own, it did not stretch back to Pompeo.  

“Solari... for what it’s worth...” it was Pompeo’s somber voice that addressed him  

I’m sorry we won’t get to have that chat.”  

And then, she blew the conning tower apart.  

At least... she should have. He saw the barrel flashes, he saw Pompeo’s pained expression in the backblast as she made her choice, he saw the world behind Littorio erupt in fire, fragmentation, and smoke, how elements of the superstructure warped and twisted from the forces that buffeted them.  

And then he saw the shimmering blue barrier of hexagons set against the smoke, and watched Littorio’s manic smile twist into a laugh, and he saw Pompeo, equal parts shocked and frustrated sprint like a bat out of hell, blowing a hole in the wall for her escape.  

To his left, the door to one of the exterior catwalks screeched open. A well-endowed woman with fiery hair adorned by a beret and accented by smoldering eyes sauntered onto the bridge wearing a short green, white, and black uniform. A red-lined black cape sat upon her shoulders, and her fingers danced upon the pommel of an ornate sword at her hip. Her other hand made a small wave to the shimmering blue field, and it dissipated.  

“ Don’t think you can pierce my armor so easily!”  

This earned a chuckle from Littorio. “She’s already gone, Zara. But thank you.”  

“I’ve brought you victory and glory, just as I promised.” She fixed Solari with an amused stare. “And he is your prize?”  

“He,” began Littorio, “was not part of the plan.”  

“Shall I lock him up with the frogs?”  

Littorio considered something for a long time, and evidently found an answer.   

“No... He is an undercover agent come home from his intelligence mission in Naples, don’t let the uniform fool you. He handed us those frogs on a silver platter, and we almost caught Pompeo Magno as well. He will not be jailed as a traitor; he will be hailed as a hero!”  

Looking into the Lictor’s eyes, the captured captain shuddered. He knew those eyes. He could not begin to guess at the plan behind that twisted smile.  

Chapter Text

[Pompeo Magno]  

Where had it all gone so wrong?  

Pompeo raced across the sea. She would be cursing to herself if she wasn’t already running out of breath. A scowl of exhausted frustration carved across her face; joining the soot and blood from the blast and debris that that damnable shield had driven back towards her in giving her a ghastly appearance.  

No time... no time...  

She had no love of Oriani, or Admiral Sabbatiani aboard the Neapolitanus. But she had a mandate from the Senate and a war to win... letting the Sicilian Navy and their two Kansen destroy the only real loyal fleet in the Tyrrhenian Sea would only make the next battle harder to win. Her career was at stake!  

My career...  

She would need a scapegoat. Someone to blame this fiasco on. It wasn’t her fault, and that was enough to justify avoiding the fault that would be assigned to her as the only survivor of a failed mission.  

Solari... it must be Solari... a naval captain found under suspicious circumstances... that the enemy took alive... the public will eat it up!  

There would be a time and place for the blame game, and she shook it from her thoughts. She saw flashes in the distant darkness. The Neapolitan-Senatorial fleet would be in the straits of Messina by now. Right into the jaws of the Sicilians that should have been asleep.  

Something loomed out of the darkness, and she barely pivoted in time to pass it by. It was, she noted solemnly, the sinking hull of a vessel and slowed her speed. There was a silver lining- it meant that the fight was moving back towards Naples and the fleet was at least trying to withdraw under fire. Perhaps Sabbatiani had seen this for the engineered nightmare that it was...  

The sky lit up as it filled with artificial stars. And a moment later shells began to fall around her. She danced through the field of debris, now well lit, as columns of water got closer and closer to her with each interval. But always behind her, driving her forward... ever forward.  

Just then, the tempo of the barrage changed and painted her view with sea spray in an arc in front of her. Through the spray, she could make out a faint flash of blue light in the middle distance. The water fell back to the sea, and a new blanket of stars filled the sky above her. Then, nothing. She stood alone among the floating debris, which joined her own ragged breathing in her ears it gently knocked together in the shifting sea.  

Flashes in the darkness to her left made her dive as shells struck the waves where she had been before. She again began her maneuvers, but the blinding lights above her kept her eyes from picking out anything in the darkness. And each time she made a dash towards her hidden enemy, the sea before her would erupt with shellfire. The large destroyer was limited to brief dashes between the wreckage of ships as her assailant skated around the edges of her flare’s light, striking at her in constantly shifting angles.  

I don’t have time for this. I have to go! The fleet needs me...  

... and I can’t afford to be left behind...  

Pompeo took a moment- only a moment- to gather herself. In this bizarre game of cat and mouse, her opponent was constantly moving. Which meant that there was nothing between her and the naval battle happening in parallel. Then, her dash began.  

She flew off into the night doing her best to keep as much debris between her and her adversary as possible. Even with attention to her spacing, the shots came in close and the sky above her continued to burst with new lights as she ran. Soon, the shells from behind stopped in favor of an intense cannonade from the rearguard of the Sicilian fleet as she closed the distance.  

I have to break through... one final effort...  

Pompeo Magno sailed onward into the rush of fire as the idle rear guns of Sicilian rearguard, who had no other target than her, began to dial her in. Her world became engulfed in salt, spray, and shrapnel. She bobbed, and weaved, and swore her way through the fire. And for a moment it slackened as she found herself within the minimum range of the ships firing at her, and the main battle line wouldn’t dare fire at an enemy that was practically hugging their compatriots.  

She launched torpedoes in wide spreads around her, and soon, behind her as she passed them by. Her disentanglement from the reserve line was marked by a series of tearing explosions as her torpedoes sent at least six cruisers to the bottom of the sea, briefly illuminating her against a backdrop of fire.  

A backdrop that undoubtedly allowed for the five battleships waiting ahead of her in the darkness to find her range. Their great big guns chorused all as one, and their accuracy was superb. Of the 25 shells streaking towards her in the darkness, 17 struck near enough that she felt the rush of air, and two hit her. One struck her left shoulder, and the other blew off some of the armor on her left -side rigging.  

The force of the impacts sent her staggering back, and the accuracy confirmed her fears: they were second generation Conte di Cavours, and their Kansen master had to be lurking nearby . That meant that Littorio had not been bluffing... there were two rebel Kansen in the mix. But she had to keep going.  

Charging forward again, she juked and jilted erratically. Every salvo was close, every salvo whistled in her ears and doused her in spray. But at 43 knots she was a devil to strike. The flashes doubled- the battleships ahead had turned to bring their full broadside against her. To no avail. Three shots they took at her. Three times, 50 shells soared through the night like red-trailed comets through the sky. Not one shell impeded Captain Pompey’s march!  

She was among them, and the story played out again. A sea of torpedoes tore apart the line of battleships in a brilliant series of flashes. They burnt as fires from their ammunition engulfed their decks. And Pompeo allowed herself just a moment to close her eyes and breathe.  

When she opened them again, she was amazed to find only one ship before her, a way off in the field of burning ships. She would have moved to strike it just then, but it was illuminated well enough by the fires to reveal it was an old Cavour, one that flew the Neapolitan crest proudly atop its mast: the battered Neapolitanus, beaten but not defeated, still barely floated. Her guns were gone, her bridge was a pile of rubble, she sat low in the water, and her stern was on fire, but she had not gone under.  

“Right on time~ way to go, captain~” A figure moved towards her, backlit by a burning battleship, blade aloft in salute and gleaming in the firelight.  

“Show some restraint with the teasing!” A voice behind her shouted, as the sky lit up once again with flares.  

The flares illuminated a sea awash with bright colors from shell dyes- bright greens, and reds, and purples, as though it were the flowing, rolling, twisting canvas of an abstract art piece. upon this canvas, wreathed in fire and flare, stood the figure before her; A long, white cloak adorned her green and white uniform. Long black stockings climbed her even longer legs. Her blue hair contrasted perfectly with the red eyes that gleamed in the light. It was Trento, name ship of the Trento class.  

She glanced over her shoulder to find, backlit by her own handiwork, another Kansen: she was a near perfect contrast to Trento. Her cloak and uniform were predominantly black. Her pinkish hair was done up and did not hang long like her companion’s. Her eyes were a soft green instead of a striking red. This was undoubtably Trieste, sister to Trento.  

“Damn... it's just not my night huh?” breathed the already exhausted Pompeo  

“You’ve fought courageously. And blew quite the hole in our fleet. But it’s over.” Called the voice of Trieste.  

“Surrender to me~ We’ll treat you well~” Sang Trento.  

Pompeo hesitated. This was bad. She couldn’t abandon the Neapolitanus. She couldn’t fight two Kansen like this. She had nothing left to give. The situation was hopeless. But... that hadn’t ever stopped her before...  

The pair tried again, betraying their uncertainty.  

“We don’t want to hurt you Pompeo... don’t make this harder on us all~”  

“You won’t win here. Not all the discipline in the world can overcome impossible odds!”  

Impossible...  

...impossible?  

...no!  

Pompeo began to laugh, a dreadful, desperate, hair-raising laugh.  

“ Impossible ? What would either of you know about impossible? Nothing is impossible for Captain Pompeo... nothing!”  

She heard riggings lock into place, and a sword being drawn from its sheath. She drew her own, with a declaration.  

“ You two are just the next step in my march on towards triumph!”  

An orb of fire, like a small sun the color of her eyes, grew in her open hand. It illuminated her manic, ghoulish face. Salt, soot, and blood had mixed and ran such as to become indistinguishable on her face and neck. Her scorched, soaking, and fraying uniform was blackened and torn by shrapnel, and her cape had been reduced to rags. The water around her began to steam, but the heat never touched her. After Libya, how could it?  

Trento, a kind soul if there ever was one, was spooked by this display and wavered slightly.  

She is the weak link.  

Pompeo hurled the small conflagration across the water like a skipping stone at Trento, who dove out of the way. And she almost made it clear, save for the tail of her cloak which was immediately scorched black like her sisters.  

“Trieste...!?”  

“Discipline, sister, discipline brings victory!” Trieste opened fire with her rigging, and a moment later Trento joined her.  

Pompeo was ready, dodging and weaving through a sea that became more lead than water. It would have been an incredible sight to see; it likely was for whoever was left on the Neapolitanus and whatever ships she missed in her furious drive forward. White tracers, yellow tracers, and red tracers cut across a sea already painted a myriad of stunning colors by shell dyes from the previous battle under an illuminating blanket of artificial stars.  

Divide and conquer!  

 The dancing destroyer cast a series of flaming orbs in quick succession, forcing the sisters to separate while keeping them off balance with her own carefully placed shots. One side of her rigging dedicated to each ensured they both felt the pressure of her attention.  

“ Give up Trento! Your battle is over!” She called through the cavalcade, inching ever closer, “ You can’t escape me!”  

To her credit, Trento decided to split the difference and lunge at her, drawn sword in hand. The two clashed briefly, and then again. Trento was skilled, and this was a problem. Trieste would be better, and she would be there soon to help her sister...  

She dumped torpedoes behind her to delay Triest and began calling forth one last ball of fire from her thoroughly exhausted body. Trento filled with panic as her world heated up, Pompeo could see it in her eyes. She could not get away, not as fabric and hair burnt, or as skin dried out and reddened. She could only scream and do her best to stave off Pompeo’s saber as her owns metal burnt her palms.  

Pompeo’s fire flickered out as Trento fell to one knee. She was out of energy, she couldn’t do that again, but they didn’t know that. And the horrified look on Trieste’s face betrayed the fraying of her own precious discipline.  

Now or never...  

“Take her and go.” Pompeo tried to keep the exhaustion out of her voice. “You’ve done all the honor of battle requires. My fleet is decimated... your convoys will get where they need to go. But you will go. You will spare the Neapolitanus, and myself along with it... take her and go!” she finished with a growl.  

Triest gave her a long look and nodded. They watched each other closely as one stepped towards the stricken Trento, and the other stepped away. As Trieste picked her scorched sister up from her half kneel, Pompeo sped away towards the stricken Neapolitanus .  

A spotlight fixed itself to her as she approached, and a great cheer arose from the Neapolitan crew. She could not force her legs to jump up to the deck. So, they threw down a boarding net for her, and she held on as best she could as they hauled her up; no small feat as she still wore her rigging.  

Eventually, with great effort, Pompeo’s feet hit the mostly intact deck of the ship, and then her knees. A small blue flash briefly illuminated her back and her heavy rigging disconnected from her and fell to the deck with a loud thud. Her hands hit the deck next as she fell forward, and then she collapsed.  

Before she passed out, she heard what sounded like running footsteps and a voice she thought she knew: “My God... is that Captain Magno?!”  

___________________  

[Littorio]  

“A hero? Is that why you’ve been holding him at gunpoint?” Zara’s question was an obvious one.  

“It isn’t mine to put away.” She strode forward without breaking eye contact with the optionless captain before reversing the gun in her hand and offering it. “Captain, I believe this is yours.”  

The good captain cautiously took his pistol from her. “Of course. Now that I'm... back from Napoli, what would you ask of me?”  

“You’ll be taking command of your ship of course! But we’ll need to get you a new uniform. And there will be questions about you from my allies who, as Zara can attest, have no idea about you.”  

“Uh... yeah... Anything else you want to tell me about, Littorio? You obviously didn't expect to see him back...”  

“No, I wasn’t... Captain, why are you back so soon?” she prodded.  

He will lie for me to save his own life... I know he will.  

It was a risk, to be sure. But she had never known the good captain to be slow witted. And, she suspected that the captain was very fond of being alive. Self-preservation was something she could trust.  

Solari grew slightly paler when put on the spot, “I... the stakes had become too high, the fleet would have been crippled, and they were becoming suspicious... I can do no good from prison, so I let slip about the Littorio II and how only I have been trained to sail it. They had to bring me along if they wanted to use the Littorio II to steal a large chunk of the Tarantine fleet. Governor Montallo’s own fleet is in horrible disrepair, and I believe he wanted to augment his force.”  

You’re a born liar Captain... keep going.  

“ I’m shocked Pompeo would take someone along she didn’t trust...” Littorio pushed.  

“It wasn’t her choice.” The Good Captain continued with a small shrug, easing into his role. “The governor insisted she take me. Between us we were to figure out how this damnable ship works.”  

“Anything to add?” The Lictor glanced at Zara.  

“No.” Zara muttered, though continued to stare at Solari with a hint of disapproval.  

“Zara, Zara...” Littorio approached the fiery cruiser, “That scowl is unbecoming of you...”  

“...Permission to speak freely, my flagship?”  

“Of course.”  

“I... do not trust spies, and I detest espionage. And...”  

“And...?”  

“And... nothing.”  

“Zara~” She placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder and was surprised to feel her flinch. “What troubles you?”  

“... I don’t like the idea of slinking around in the dark. Leave it to the M.I.I for that sort of thing. You’re the flagship of the Imperial Guard... a shining beacon of Sardegna’s honor and prestige. Don’t muddy your hands playing spymaster... point us at your enemies and we’ll bring you victory and glory for the whole world to see!”  

Littorio smiled at her friend. She could not fault the cruiser for her doubts- in many ways the battleship saw herself in the cruiser. But Zara had not spent the nights with Veneto or Abruzzi. She did not know, and could not be expected to understand, that there was more to conflict than glorious, honorable battle. Such a singularly direct approach had brought her only embarrassment.  

“I understand your concerns, my friend, I do. And I pray you never have to understand mine. But with Veneto, with her wide range of contacts, missing... we cannot let ourselves be blinded. We’d be taking shots in the dark at an enemy we don’t know enough about... just like...”  

“Calabria...” Zara finished for her.  

“There are places Sardegna’s light does not reach. So, we send men like the good captain over there to shine their own light on the situation.”  

“...fine.”  

“Good.” She knew it wasn’t, but she hoped that with time Zara would make her peace. “Have faith in me.”  

She grimaced internally as the words left her mouth, recalling that Cavour had said much the same thing to her a few nights ago. She knew Zara was lying, albeit Zara was a terrible liar. Did Cavour know she had lied to her?  

“Zara. Go get some rest. Thank you for your assistance tonight, I’ll commend your dedication in my report. And... I’ll leave your misgivings out of it, if you wish.”  

“Th-thank you, my flagship!” The Redhead saluted, and exited the way she came. Briefly letting the light in as the exterior door swung open and shut behind her.  

“I must say, mi comandare, you seem to have settled into your role.” Littorio teased.  

“You might say I have an excellent incentive. I’m no good to the empire behind bars, or dead.”  

“Fair enough, fair enough. You’ll have your chance to serve your empire.”  

“Why am I still standing here? Despite what you’re trying to sell Zara on, I am still a navy man loyal to the empire...”  

“I know. In fact, I’m counting on it. And I’m also betting you intend to survive whatever it is you think is going on.”  

“You still love speaking in riddles... but you’re right. I intend to survive all this.”  

“Then you will do what I ask of you. And you will start by following me to the docks.”  

The battleship led the captain as they progressed through the guts of the dark battleship that lay silent once more. When they reached the floatplane deck, she stepped over the railing and onto the water and offered a hand up to the good captain.  

“You can’t be serious...”  

“Well, mi comandare, I’m not going to wait until someone can row out to the anchorage and pick you up. Jump to me.”  

And he did, finding no alternative. The battleship caught him by the waist as he fell into her, and she found herself grinning at his obvious discomfort as he gripped her shoulders to keep from falling back, and to get at least some of his legs out of the water.  

“I asked you once, if you danced, do you remember? It’s obvious to me now that you do not.” She chuckled.  

“I doubt you have much dancing planned for me. Now spare me the embarrassment and get me back on dry land.” Solari huffed.  

She obliged him, though mostly because he was heavy and not out of any concern for the Good Captain’s discomfort. She charted her course off towards the city, and they eventually came upon the assembly of men and material that was their objective. She smiled again at the barely audible gasp her guest let slip when he saw what was going on.  

There were an assembly of armed men in green and white uniforms, around twenty in all. They were gathered around the twelve frogmen that had been caught planting explosives about the fleet. A woman, similar in dress and appearance to Zara, but with violet hair, sternly paced up and down the line of prisoners. She was giving some small, scolding speech. Some of which traveled on the cool sea breeze as they approached.  

“... almost commendable, such audacity. But the line between audacity and hubris is fine! What a shame you small fry never learnt your place... but you’ll have your chance now... you’ll all have plenty of time to reflect on concepts like ‘hubris’!”  

One of the guardsmen called “flagship on deck!” as she approached the assembly, and murmurs of confusion rippled through the mass as they saw the naval uniform of the man she walked with. Pola pivoted and stood at attention, waiting to be addressed by her flagship.  

“At ease Pola! You’ve outdone yourself tonight! Is this all of them?”  

“Yes, my flagship. What shall we do with them? And who have you brought?” She regarded Solari with an inquisitive glare.  

“A spy back from Napoli. He’s who we have to thank for the tip that there would be an attack tonight. As for the frogmen... lock them up. We’ll barter them for our officers stuck behind bars in the Neapolitan. Fortress."  

“As you say, my flagship.” Pola saluted her, before turning to regard the gathered guardsmen. “Marrota! Get your squad and get these men out of my sight! Amero d’Aste will keep them nice and safe!” A moment later, Pola marched off to oversee her officers.  

“ You’d hand such valuable assets back to your enemies? Even after they almost left your whole fleet in ruin?” It was Solari’s question, and it did not surprise her.  

“ I’d rather spend our valuable time and limited funding feeding and training my own men, as opposed to spending the whole war housing theirs. And mi comandare, have I not just proven the utter folly of a manned torpedo attack on Taranto? Those are loyal men... how much more loyal will they be after I bring them home?”  

“I take your point. But tell me this: how did you know? If you hadn’t, you’d be gazing at a burning harbor and a ruined fleet...”  

“ That is a state secret.” she replied cheerily. “You’re not here because I can trust you with the finer details of grand strategy.”  

“Then why am I here?”  

“You’re here because we have a common cause despite our differences. Are you familiar with the Sicilian Governor?”  

“Not personally, but he is a marked man. Only Veneto is higher on the list of people the legitimate government of Sardegna wants brought to justice.”  

 “You’re going to kill him for me.”  

She chuckled at the stunned look on the good captain's face. And let the weight of her statement set in. The cogs turned behind the captain's brow, and she could imagine the questions between its furrowed lines. She would not answer them, even if the good captain asked her. But she would raise her own silently with an offered hand.  

A hand which the stunned captain took and shook with clear curiosity.   

“Good. Walk with me.”  

She led him up a few flights of stairs as they made their way to the road, where the car and driver that had taken her there still sat. The driver had already gotten up and opened the door to the cab. Solari entered first at her invitation, then she followed. They got underway, and she took a moment to enjoy the hum of the car as they got underway before speaking again.  

“For your incredible heroism over the last few weeks, your rank as captain seems insufficient. Tomorrow, I’ll elevate you to Sotto Ammiraglio. It’ll be a short ceremony; few will attend and even fewer will know you. But I for one, cannot wait to see what you look like in green and white~”  

“As you say... my flagship.” the words fell from his mouth like stones.  

“Just think, mi comandare, of all the doors your promotion will open for you. Why, at this rate you’ll be rubbing shoulders with Sardegna’s most important military men. In this tumultuous time, who's to say who will be important to know?”  

They rode on in silence, her with a smile and he with a frown.  

___________________  

[Bolzano]  

Calling it a window would have been generous. It was more like a small porthole than anything else, and it gave an absolutely terrible view of the outside world. With one garnet eye closed, and the other pressed as close as it could be to her small window to the outside, she could vaguely see the lights of cities and towns far below her in the valley. Bergamo, Como, and Milan.  

And that over there must be Turin...  

She sighed, a hint of irritability in her voice. None of it made sense to her, and the suffocating air in the car of the armored train made it impossible to think.  

“Is something wrong, Lady-Castellan?” A man to her left voiced his concern, caution in his voice.  

“If I might be candid, Maggiore Luoni, I have no idea why I’m here.”  

The Mountaineer-Major chuckled, “That’s simple enough, Lady-Castellan. Whoever sits above you in the chain of command wanted you here.”  

“Liaison to the Alpini  was not something I ever expected to have on my service record...”  

“And none of my men ever expected to be finding themselves working alongside a warship. But here we all are.”  

She pulled her head from the small porthole and looked around. There were fourteen other people in this metal box with her, not including the major. Each one of them was one of the vaunted Alpini:  specially trained and recruited mountaineers. They regarded her strangely in the dim light. They were all asking themselves the same question she was asking herself.  

What is a Kansen doing so far from the sea?  

“I’m going out for some air.” She declared and stood up.  

No one said a word as she moved to the robust steel ladder that dominated the center of the room. She proceeded up, and then through the thick hatch that had been left open. There was someone up there already, tending to the large anti-aircraft gun atop the heavy metal box.   

“Oh! Lady-Castellan!”  

The man began to get up, but she stopped him, “You’re fine where you are. I won’t be but a moment.”  

To her left, the rolling foothills of Lombardy stretched out to the horizon, dotted with patches of light. To her right, the Alpine mountains stabbed defiantly at the sky. The train was not long, only about five cars- two devoted to people, one engine, one for equipment and one large gun house. It was an ugly thing, and she was thankful the engine was behind her car as it breathed its putrid smog.  

She walked to the edge of the gun cradle and took a deep breath, watching the tracks slide underneath the armored train as she leaned on the small wall that surrounded the platform. At least here, she could breathe properly. What was Roma thinking? This was hardly her forte, she could barely see the sea from where she was now. Even with all that had happened to her, she was still a Kansen.  

She smiled bitterly to herself. She knew exactly what Roma was thinking. Roma wanted to give her something to do, something she could take pride in, something to help her stamp her name onto Roma’s new golden age. Her flagship had not given up on her yet. In her own way, she loved Roma for that.  

She wants me to be a part of this...  

The smile lost its bitterness, her fingers dug small dents into the steel, and a single tear slipped from her eye.  

“Damn you and your pity...” she whispered to herself, “But... thank you.”  

I owe her that. I owe her everything.  

Another tear. She had to control herself. This was not the time for sentimental indulgences. Lifting her gauntleted right hand from where it had been digging into the metal of the train, she admired how it gleamed in the moonlight while she wiped her eyes with her other hand. It reminded her of how little of her there was left, and it kept her debts in perspective.   

She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the armored train as it slowly thundered over the rails; the wheels pounded, armor creaked, somewhere down below her the men cracked a joke. She let the cool, gentle wind tug at her hair and struggle to fill her heavy cloak. She was here, someone wanted her-needed her- here, and that was what mattered.  

With a heavy sigh she descended back into the hot, stifling, generally unpleasant armored car.  

“Find what you were looking for?” Major Luoni joked.  

“Maybe.”  

“Not a big talker, are you?” the Major tried again.  

“No... I’m sorry... I mean no offense...”  

The major, to her surprise, smiled behind his big, bushy mustache. “And I take none from you. Sit. Sit, and I will talk.”  

She sat down where she had sat before; next to the Major, who began to speak.  

“You might not understand why you are here, but do you know why I am? Why we all are?”  

She though a moment, searching for the words and finding only the Major’s own: “Someone above you in the chain of command wanted you here?”  

The Major laughed. “You might not like to speak, but you listen well enough! Yes. Someone above me wanted me here. But why me? Why us? Why is the governor sending his Piedmontes  Alpini across the country to  Tirolio?”  

She did not answer him. It didn’t make any sense to her. The governor was moving elite troops with vital training off the semi-contested border with the Vichya and moving them in to the completely secure holdings along their border with the Ironblood in the eastern alps. What was going on?  

“I’ll tell you why... There’s a job over there only we can be trusted to do!” He beamed.  

“... but that does not mean sending you was wise...” she muttered to herself more than the major.  

“That may be, but that isn’t for us to worry about. Leave that to the generals and the governors and the marshals!”  

“But how do you know that your commander is making the right choice?” She found herself pressing the question with more passion than she intended.  

“I don’t.” Shrugged the Major with a gleam in his eye, “But I trust them.”  

“I see.”  

“Do you trust yours?”  

“With my life!” again, her response came out more passionate than she intended, bordering on offended. She must visibly have recoiled from herself, judging by the small chuckle exuding from the major.  

“Then you have nothing to worry about, Lady-Castellan.”  

She grew quiet again. She trusted Roma, didn’t she? Of course she did! Roma had never steered her wrong before. Why was this leap of faith giving her pause, out of all the others? Was it because she wasn’t here with her? That shouldn’t matter...  

Her offhand clenched into a fist and did not relax for a long time. She knew that Roma knew what was best for her. It might as well have been the only thing she knew. But that was so much easier to say when the orders made sense!  

Bolzano. You will serve as my castellan, and you will take upon yourself a multitude of administrative and organizational duties as befits your circumstance.  

That made sense!  

Bolzano, take the train to Turin. Here is your ticket. There you will board an armored train heading into the alps where it will take you and a detachment of the governor’s Alpini to Tirolio. Something is wrong there, and you must help me find out what. Will you do this for me?  

She had agreed. But she could never have refused her inheritor, no matter how nonsensical her command. If an investigation needed to be done, it should have fallen to Leonardo Da ’Vinci. If it was a political issue, it should have been Garibaldi...  

Why me? Why did you want it to be me? Could I not serve you and your ambition better as Castellan?  

She gazed at her gauntleted hand. Her pale, distorted reflection told her nothing.  

Is this your way of granting my request? Is this why I sit in this bulky, steel beast surrounded by elite killers armed to the teeth? Am I to blame?  

The reflection in the gauntlet grimaced at her. She was equal parts frustrated and humbled why Roma’s trust. Or more importantly, her flagship’s faith in her. It was not faith she had deserved or done anything to earn. That was just Roma’s way: to find something decaying and recognize the chance to rebuild it. Roma chose to believe in her, even when she was incapable of such kindness towards herself.  

Damn her!  

The reflection in the gauntlet warped and shifted as a tear struck it, flowing along the grooves of the metal.  

She felt a warm, stiff hand on her shoulder.  

“Are you alright?” Came the quiet voice of the Major.  

“It’s... like you said... I have nothing to worry about. Our leaders have their own reasons for giving us the tasks they do, and those reasons are probably even good ones.” Her distorted reflection’s voice was bitter.  

“We’ll all get through this, whatever this odd mystery mission of ours is. And you will too, right by our side.”   

She tore herself from her own eyes and rooted around for her pocket watch with her offhand. This was her only way of telling time; she didn’t have the luxury of her ship’s chronometer anymore. They would reach their destination soon, and she was glad for that. All this waiting had allowed her mind to roam, and she hated the places it wandered to. It was what she liked about her role as castellan. Something always needed to be done, and it kept the hands busy while making Roma’s life easier. She flicked the watch closed with a sigh.  

“You’re anxious. Is this your first time so far away from the sea?”  

“It is. Whatever it is we are doing... garrisoning, policing, showing strength at the border... I have no experience in it. Kansen tend not to range far from the sea. We’re for fighting Sirens and sirens don’t make landfall.”  

“We all serve how we can. I think having one of the mythical Kansen around is good luck!” piped one of the other soldiers near to them.  

“Roma’s right-hand woman no less! Whatever we’re doing must be important!” came the voice of another.  

Bolzano blushed. She was unaware of how loud she had been when voicing her concern, but now would be the best time to ask...  

“Do any of you actually know why we’re out here?” She asked an open question to whoever was listening and got a variety of answers that didn’t answer her question.  

“The Major said so.”  

“Just trying to do my part!”  

“A man’s gotta eat!”  

“It gets me out of the house.”  

“I keep forgetting to stop reenlisting.”  

“I love the mountains too much to go home to the city.”  

Around they went. A lighthearted joke or jab at a friend occasionally thrown in for good measure. Bolzano felt the distance between her, and these men increase. And she had just begun to recede into her own thoughts when they came back around to her.  

“And what about you, Lady-Castellan?” a voice questioned jovially.  

“H-huh? Me?”  

“Yeah, you... a Kansen has to have a hell of a reason to be breathing mountain air with us landlubbers!” joked a different voice.  

“Roma bade me come and investigate whatever is happ-”  

“No no! Why are you here?” a third voice, punctuated by some small bouts of laughter cut her off.  

She thought a moment about how to answer the men, but the Major stepped in to save her.  

“That’s enough lads, leave the castellan be...”  

“No... it's alright!” she responded, barely whispering. “I’m here because...  

...  

...I have a debt I can never repay.”   

Chapter Text

[Alfredo Oriani]  

She was glowing. There was no other way to describe her as she skipped down the halls of the Castel Nuovo towards the great hall as the first rays of light began to poke through the slit-like windows. It was a new dawn in every sense of the word. And her career was rising with the sun. For she held in her hands a small manuscript; the governor had kept his word, and her breaking news story would be the first the public heard of the Battle of Messina.   

Pompeo will be so jealous!  

She had successfully extricated most of the fleet in a daring breakthrough against the squadron of ships led by the soon-to-be infamous Trento. But what had become of Pompeo? She had not seen the unfortunate ‘provisional captain of the senatorial reserve flotilla’ since the beginning of their exceptionally long night.  

Has she been captured? Oh, that would be rich!  

She couldn’t say as much, but she had thrown in a paragraph about how the senate’s prodigy had disappeared. It was right after her heroic portrayal of the last stand of the Neapolitanus and its commander, who had valiantly laid down their lives so that the rest of them could escape the cunning trap laid by their conniving foe, and how the last she saw of her, her guns were firing even as the vessel burned.  

She chose to omit the admission that escape for that old lumbering beast would have been impossible; she simply wasn’t fast enough. But a heroic sacrifice makes for a better story over morning coffee.  

And makes me look like a patriot willing to spin a story. Surely, the governor will want me to write more after this!  

She was still grinning to herself, almost smugly, when she rounded the last corner and stepped through one of the side passages into the great hall. Nobody announced her, of course, they did not need to. She had arrived back hours earlier and Governor Montallo was expecting her. The governor himself already sat upon his austere throne, more like a steel chair with a generous armrest than a throne, with a newspaper propped open.  

She smiled as she saw that it was today's issue, where her first ‘propaganda’ piece would be. It was more of a hit piece on Littorio and an attack on the legitimacy of her ‘government’ in the south than anything else, but she wrote to impress. There was no telling how many chances she would actually get to show off the talents she knew she had.  

“My governor, you gave me what I asked, now I give you the result!” she exclaimed as she proudly thrust her handiwork towards the seated governor.  

“You must be the fastest writer I have ever met...” One of Montallo’s eyebrows lifted slightly as he accepted her offering.  

“As much as I would like to agree with you, I wrote most of it on the voyage back.” chirped the destroyer.  

“Whatever the case may be... hmm... Crossing the Line: the Messina Raid.”  

His eyes grew, as did Oriani’s smile, as he read. The journalist had spun the story, making their entirely indecisive nighttime brawl that cost them the flagship into a daring tale of defiance, cunning, and martyrdom. And judging by the slight upward curl on the edge of the governor’s mouth, he seemed to like what she had done.  

“Have you ever written propaganda before?”  

“No... at least I don’t think so...”  

“This,” he wagged the papers at her, “proves you have the talent for it. Take a day, and a second if you need it. Then, you will go to Molise, where you will meet up with General Bianchi at the mustering ground for my army. You will be his aid de camp and write the stories of the campaign he and General Vecellio are embarking on to retake Taranto.”  

“Of course, my governor!” Oriani beamed, “I’ll head there as soon as I’m able!”  

“See to it that you are. History is being written, and you may yet be the hand that writes it. Dismissed!”  

She practically jumped from her position of attention to the passageway from the great hall and skipped down the faded carpet of its halls. It had been a long night for her, and it was true that she hadn’t really stopped to process it. But it was shaping up to be a great day for her, and she permitted her beaming smile to twist with a hint of irony knowing that she was about to sleep through it. That would come in time, though. There was one more thing she needed to do.  

The euphoria of her new role in this whole charade was dying down: it was a big castle, and a Kansen can only be expected to skip so far before she starts to feel self-conscious. Oriani got further than most would have but found herself at a walk before sliding into her assigned quarters.   

She could appreciate the drama of living in a castle, and it pleased her. It pleased her even more to note that someone had come by and properly prepared the room: the dust was largely gone, though still evident in the air. Just more evidence nobody had expected her, and a reminder of how much weight Roma’s name still had in the provinces, even here, far from her quiet exile. Otherwise, she’d be wasting away in some guard barracks. Sure, it would have been fancier than the rank-and-file -she was still a Kansen- but not gilded everything and a big, floofly bed.  

No... not yet...  

Her body protested as she hauled herself over to the small table at the center of the room she had repurposed as a workbench of sorts. And she began writing a report, a much less flowery one than she had written for the governor. Her liege was a busy woman and wouldn’t be as appreciative of lengthy embellishments and wordplay. She sighed as she finished it. It was artless, and soulless, and absent of her usual flare, but she set it aside for cramming into an envelope later.  

A longer sigh slid from her as she fumbled around for one of her many notepads, withdrawing the one she knew held what she needed. Or rather, what had survived the torrential aftermath of the accident that welcomed her to this blasted port. But enough of it remained. She tore off a page, and the rest wrote itself- it already had, in a sense.  

Pompeo would be furious if she ever found out, but Oriani knew she wouldn’t. Unfortunately for that arrogant busybody, Oriani did not answer to her. But she knew Roma would want to know about their adventure in the mirror sea. The strange Trento, the bizarre powers she wielded and the battle they fought, the fortress they crawled through and the Siren they met. Along with as many of the navigational notes that had survived being drenched.  

The journalist slid these into the crease of her far less interesting report and folded them over before tucking them into the envelope. She could feel her grin return as she pulled the Senatorial wax press Roma had given her for this exact purpose. A melting globule of wax shined in her eyes as she delicately set about applying the seal. No-one would dare break a senatorial seal, so nobody would give this little message of hers a second glance. Supposedly, all she needed to do was get it mailed and somewhere along the way Roma would handle the rest.  

Her body protested more loudly than before as she stood up and began the trek to the mail room. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she is she still didn’t need to be careful. It wouldn’t do for her to be seen mucking about with Senatorial mail, even if she could just play it off as running an errand for Pompeo. It was a lie, of course, and she wanted to avoid lying. She had seen enough scandals, and reported on a few herself, to learn that lies tend to get away from people.  

Though, going behind everyone's backs for Roma still made her hair stick up just a little. She didn’t enjoy espionage, if it could even be considered that. She was just... mailing her flagship, and there was nothing wrong with that.  

But goodness, was the trip to the mail room always this long? Not that she had ever made it, mind you, but that just made it worse. And the silence was deafening; the fortress still slept. Eventually she found herself humming, and the sound of her footsteps welcomed the company. Now that her footfalls had a friend to keep them company, her mind could wonder.  

What happened to Pompeo?  

It was an uncomfortable question. Oriani had followed her heroics, from the pacification of Libya to the occasional border skirmishes with one of the two Irisian factions. And she had always accounted for herself well.  

Better than well...  

She was likely the most personally experienced Kansen in the fleet, having been left largely unattached from the fleets-in-being at either pole of the empire. Those fleets which rarely, if ever, sortied. They made for terrible places to launch a career, journalistic or otherwise. In this regard, her flagship had spoilt her.  

She had initially resented being assigned to Roma, and Roma had seen that. Oriani remembered the subtle shift in her new flagships face earlier this year, when they had met for the first time. The destroyer had grown used to spending most of her time in the capital, writing what she could about anything she could, meeting people, reading things.   

All that had come to an end when the Iris Orthodoxy collapsed and anyone who wasn’t watching the Royals got shipped off to Genoa to watch the self-styled ‘Vichya Dominion.’ A new problem needed a battlegroup, and the new battlegroup needed its shiny new flagship.  

___________________  

It was a dreary day as they all stood then, rank by rank and file by file. The sun that normally shown upon the Ligurian Sea and the port of Genoa hid behind just enough clouds to matter. A faint mist whipped through the port, though whether or not it was the beginnings of a rainstorm or just sea spray carried on the breeze was anyone’s guess. And, in truth, it did not matter if the sea itself rose to wash them away: they were all gathered, rooted to their places such that no act of divine spite could move them: they waited to welcome their flagship.  

What a sight they all were! It was a shame she was too busy standing at attention to snap a photo or two for posterity. Everything was new. Everyone was new, even most of the ranks of green and white uniformed men of the Ligurian Imperial Guard. Quite a few were surprisingly old, some were young, and she made a mental note to interview a few of them; their reasons for answering the call for volunteers would make a good morning column...  

“Have you ever seen anything quite like this...” slipped from a girl next to her, clearly equal parts uncertain and enchanted; afraid of being annoying but unable or unwilling to keep her thoughts contained.  

Oriani shifted slightly and turned her head just enough to catch a glimpse of long, pink hair set against a black overcoat, and a head that tiled to regard her with a pink eye.  

“...Oh, where are my manners. Navigatori -Class destroyer, Emanuele Pessagno.”  

“Alfredo Oriani, nameship of my class! Just call me Alfredo. And no, nothing quite like this. It’s not every day Sardegna founds a new fleet. You’d think they’d give us more than just three destroye-”  

“Two.” Chirped Pessagno confidently, cutting Oriani off slightly.  

“You’ve got poor eyesight for a navigator. Three, me, you, and blondie down the line.” Oriani couldn’t quite keep all the bluster out of her voice.  

“Uhm... no... look again. Her hair is soaked, and when the wind blows that coat of hers, you’ll see she’s wearing a swimsuit. It's obvious she’s a submarine.”  

The girl in question evidently felt the volume of side-eye she was getting, and her autumn-orange eyes peered down the line of Kansen at them, past the epauleted shoulders of a taller woman with long, black hair and a mostly black and white uniform; who herself stood between Oriani and a slim woman whose light green hair bore ends as red as her eyes.  

Soon, as though Oriani and Pessagno’s glances had tipped over the domino that fell and shattered a thin layer of ice, eyes of all colors flicked up and down the line of five Kansen. And a few of them had even begun to murmur introductions when Pessagno suddenly snapped to ridged attention.  

“S-she's coming...”  

Oriani, in spite of her comrade, took another moment to glance around.  

“Where!? I don’t-”  

“There!”  

There!  

Pessagno’s voice overlapped with her thoughts for a moment, as, off in the distance, a ship slid into view on the edge of the horizon.  

It was almost impossible to see; a testament to the Navigatori class that Pessagno had even managed to make it out. It hid well against the grey sky and steely water, and as it grew in her vision, she came to understand why this was: the ship was painted stark white.  

Not like your sisters, are you?   

Closer and closer the white ship sailed, and eventually the photographer within her could be suppressed no more. It wouldn’t be perfect, it would need to be fast, and the lens would certainly be muddled by the spray, but in that moment she didn’t care.  

She slid the heavy device from its bag at her side and took aim. The natural ability of Kansen to judge distance meant that the camera’s focus, zoom, and position were all calculated before it ever left her bag. Levelling the device, she snapped a picture of the ship.  

But she had already come this far, what would another be? Besides, something odd jumped out to her: the Royal Sardegnian crest that featured prominently on the painted ships of the Imperial guard was absent in favor of an eagle design she had never seen before... could make for a good image for that column she was planning.  

She focused the camera again, zooming and shifting towards the bow of the ship. She took aim and... froze. On its way to the bow the frame lingered on a figure that stood on the deck. Heterochromatic eyes bore into her in silent judgment, burning themselves into mind and memory. Even almost a year later, Oriani did not know the verdict they passed on her, and had been kicking herself for not taking their picture over since.  

 She might have stood there, gawking through her camera for the rest of time had the figure to her left not intervened, gently pushing her arm down and forcing her back to the here and now.  

“Careful... Alfredo, was it? Wouldn’t want to get that too wet...” A soft voice slid from a soft smile, one that told Oriani it knew more than it let on.  

“Yes... right... thanks...”  

They stood then, in silence, as the voyage of the white battleship slowly came to an end at its mooring. And for a long while, it seemed as though nothing was happening. They all stood there in the damp, gloomy air, and waited. A century came and went, and Oriani had begun to get restless when a gasp slipped from Pessagno. Soon, it became obvious as to why.  

Their flagship advanced upon them.  

She strode across the waves like an army on the march. Six anchor-like weights scythed across the surface of the water as they hung from her long dress, cleaving apart those few waves brave enough to rise in protest of her passing. With each step she conquered and subjugated a new patch of sea, and the mist swirled along the path of her long, golden standard, being caught up in its wake as it moved it through the air.   

This is the woman that will conquer the sea...  

They were all silent as she approached them. Maybe it was decorum and respect, or a mix of fear and awe, and some were simply speechless. But Oriani knew one thing: her days of quiet garrison work and bountiful time to indulge her hobbies looked to be over. And this belief was reinforced as Roma began to walk down the assembled ranks of personnel, and she heard her flagship’s voice for the first time.  

“ My legion! The enemy sits at our gates once more, their mouths salivating at the thought of devouring Sardegna and its empire. Such is the want of all barbarians... braying at the threshold of the heart of the  world. La Citta Eterna stands far from our uncertain frontiers, but Roma stands with you. We shall protect our glorious and ancient homeland. We shall secure Piedmonte and Liguria from the upstart Dominion along the alps. We shall march, side by side, into a new golden age for the empire. This task falls upon you not from your flagship, the Senate, or even the emperor himself: it is a mission passed down to you from great Romulus himself! Avanti Sardegna!”  

 ___________________  

Oriani smiled to herself as she deposited her letter in the mail. It hadn’t been the greatest speech she had ever heard, but it had been good enough to gain the approval of the ‘legion.’ It had made for a few good headlines, not that she had had the chance to write any of them. Roma had never found much value in having a journalist; a destroyer would do just fine. They had never really liked each other for that reason alone. Yet here she was, playing propagandist on Roma’s dime; an offer too deliciously ironic to pass up. Not that she could have refused anyway...  

A true patron of the arts aren’t you, in spite of yourself...  

___________________  

[Vittorio Veneto]  

Sister,  

If you and Littorio are intent on toppling the Senate, you have picked a ridiculous time to fight for a ridiculous cause. I cannot justify rallying my governor’s garrisons off the border with the Vichya and marching on Rome because you chose to commit treason. Imagine what would happen if we failed to answer a provocation at our borders now, of all times. I will not allow Sardegna to be carved up like so many of the Ironblood’s old allies. Even now, I suspect they prod at the eastern Alps, itching for an excuse, and you are giving it right to them!  

There is no love lost between the Senate and I, you know that well, but we are of one mind on this and only this: you’re making a mistake, a mistake that will burn down everything we have built since the Risorgimento. I will not support your war, I will only offer to serve as a mediator for negations when you and the fools in La Citta Eterna come to your senses. You have set us on the road to being just like the Iris and I will not see my countrymen set against each other by foreign powers to sate either of your egos.  

Vae Victus,  

Roma  

Veneto let out a long sigh and took a sip of tea.  

“Vae Victus indeed...”  

Across the table, Warspite regarded her evenly.  

“Not the greatest of news?” tried the grand old lady.  

“The best my romantic of a sister will do is nothing.” Veneto replied flatly.  

Warspite permitted herself a smile. “You called Littorio imperious, but Roma’s the romantic? I seem to recall ‘the emerald maiden’ as quite the flirtatious young woman...”  

Veneto tried to laugh, but there was no heart in it. “In truth, every Sardegnian is a romantic. Just... most of us aren’t Roma. She is a caricature that waltzed out of the pages of Sardegnian history. A rabid imperialist who views most letters other than offers of surrender or tribute as an insult. A visionary, casting our fledgling nation as inheritors of a great classical legacy. She wants nothing more than to return us to the level of renown, culture, and prestige of Old Sardegna.”  

“A romantic indeed. A very dangerous romantic. Isn’t your government afraid she’ll march into Vichya now that you’re practically out of the Crimson Axis?”  

“She’s bold, brazen even, but not delusional. I don’t think she thinks she can fight the entire crimson axis with the army of Lombardy alone. A lack of support from the Senate’s national army or the other governors keeps her on the border with her hands tied.”  

“I must say, I never understood how radicals like her find and keep their commands. It seems far too dangerous to have a firebrand who hungers for empire and hates the central government in command of such a large force so close to a contested border...”  

Veneto could have sighed. That was bait, and they both knew it. The Royal was fishing for answers about the internal political squabbles in the empire. The Sardegnian found herself between insulted at the idea she would fall for it, and proud that there were some things her hostess’s spies hadn’t turned up. So, she ignored Warspite.  

“Would you believe me if I told you she is the sister I envy most?”  

“Not Littorio? You don’t speak nearly as fondly of Roma as you do her.”  

Veneto allowed herself a small smile. “I wish I had Littorio’s confidence, but her vanity does her no favors. But Roma? To only be half as certain as Roma in belief and action... I would count myself lucky, if not blessed.”  

“You say that... but could you imagine a world where it would be Roma, or Littorio sitting across from me? Half of Sardegna is certain that I’m their enemy, and the other half is just scared of another war with the Royal Isles. Your Senate was certain that joining the Crimson Axis was their path to a Mediterranean Empire. Your sister was certain that your fleet would triumph over mine. Being certain is all well and good if you’re right... but are you?”  

“You sound like... me...” Veneto’s voice began as accusatory, but it softened as she connected the dots.  

It was true. And it was the constant worrying about whether or not she was right that had marked her as a cautious flagship. Her habitual lack of certainty had made her an excellent political advocate: she was much more willing to compromise than many of the other talking heads in the Eternal City, and her Sisyphean pursuit of certainty often manifested itself as exhaustive research into what exactly she needed to get and how to get it.   

But still, something was missing. Something she saw in her sisters. They all possessed a transcendent sense of self she lacked. There was nobody or nothing Littorio would rather be than Littorio, Impero possessed an obscene confidence in herself and her position, and Roma possessed a complete certainty of purpose that Veneto had never seen anywhere else.   

And maybe Warspite had a point: certainty might breed arrogance. And maybe, it wasn’t certainty she aspired to. Maybe, she reasoned, a little arrogance or confidence or whatever it was she might name it was needed to pick up the pen and begin to write history.  

 Her eyes had slipped from Warspite’s face to the empty tea kettle between them, to the small stack of letters in front of her. It was smaller than she had hoped. So few of the officers and generals and admirals she had appealed to had responded to her call to arms. Most of what sat before her were promises of non-intervention. The governors of Lombardy, Abyssinia and Rhodes would do nothing, as would many of their fighting men. Maybe they wouldn’t need them... maybe. A drop of fell upon Roma’s letter as she stared at it, lost in thought.  

“What am I going to do Warspite? My empire has abandoned me, my other sisters have been either accusatory or silent. Sardegna cannot survive under its current leadership, but it might not survive if I remove it...”  

Warspite took a thoughtful sip of her tea. “Veneto, what do you actually want to achieve?”  

“I... want to be able to go home as a free woman, I want Sardegna to have real allies... and I want to do it all without making a pawn of my homeland.”  

“So you need to win, and you need to do it before the Ironblood decide to intervene.”  

“Or the Royal Isles... even if you and I are on good terms, I do not trust your government to not take advantage of Sardegna’s perceived weakness and attempt to ‘secure the imperial highway’ in the Mediterranean...”  

Warspite briefly bristled, only revealed to Veneto by the slight flutter of her eyebrows. Before steadying herself. “No... I suppose you wouldn’t. Not after our long history of... we’ll call it ‘pragmatic’ foreign policy. But times are changing, perhaps because we are changing, or that we are being confronted with a world that is changing into something that will not fit in the palm of our hand. Recall that we did not use your actions as a pretext for war against Sardegna, even after we knew the Ironblood abandoned you.”  

“You don’t spend much time around politicians, do you?” Veneto murmured, regarding her with a sad smile. “The Royal Isles did not invade Sardegna because the Ironblood would have marched down from the alps, setting up a new and far more Ironblood centric government than the one we’ve already blundered into having. A bitter trench war in the Apennine mountains against the Ironblood wasn’t in your interest and would have only made the security of your imperial highway more tenuous. Sardegna as it was a better neighbor to you than a Sardegna divided between Royal and Ironblood Occupation would have been. I don’t think your politicians cared much that I had promised to rejoin the Azur Lane: what would they care that one of Sardegna’s weapons of war trying to convince her pro-ironblood government to leave the Crimson Axis? But... you should know something.” Veneto finished by tossing Roma’s letter across the table.  

Warspite retrieved it, and Veneto watched as her eyes widened slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Roma believes there will be fighting on your northern borders?”  

“They lack faith that their puppets in La Citta Eterna will stop the southern rebellion, one that is nominally dedicated to me and my wish that we rejoin the Azur Lane- at least, as far as the Ironblood care. And those Vichyan vultures will not miss the opportunity to wrest the Western Alps from us, at least, should the Ironblood commit to a border war. The European members of the Crimson Axis are preparing to carve us up, just as they have with so many others... you can tell that to your government and see for yourself their response.”  

“You are asking much of me if you’re asking for direct military support in either a border war or your civil war...” Warspite’s narrowed eyes peeked over the top of the letter, and Veneto was struck with the feeling of being searched.  

“The only thing I’m asking of you is to keep your government appraised of the Sardegnian situation and remind them that there is already a faction in Sardegna whose quick triumph would serve their strategic goals better than an Ironblood proxy state.”  

Warspite folded the letter and slipped it into a pocket of her uniform. “I’ll need to do my own investigating before I bring this to her Majesty... I’m sure you understand.”  

“I do. You have time, I doubt the Ironblood were expecting a civil war in Sardegna and won’t be prepared to launch anything major. But, you should make haste... the security of the Mediterranean depends on what we do in the next few weeks.”  

Veneto paused, and took a moment to marvel internally at the fact she was thankful for the imminent threat of being carved up by the Crimson Axis states. Such an existential threat would solve... everything. The senate would be forced to recognize the Ironblood were not their friends, maybe even join the Azur Lane or pardon her. The Royals would be forced to help her if they didn’t want the Ironblood threatening their shipping through the canal, and proving that the Azur Lane would protect them against the Ironblood. All they had to do was survive...  

“I would temper your expectations, Veneto...” Warspite began, “I am not certain that the Ironblood will cross the Alps yet, and announcing Royal support for your cause would make that possibility more likely if not a certainty...”  

“Are you not already at war with the Ironblood? You have the chance to put incredible pressure on them now. Help me resolve my crisis of government quickly, and we will join you in your struggle, just as I promised. You have a chance to secure the Mediterranean and force the Ironblood to fight you in the most defensible terrain in Europa!”  

“There are... limits to what I’m willing to do to help you. I’ve already put myself at risk by giving you the help I am already providing. Any true intervention in Sardegna will come from my government, not from me. My glory-seeking days are largely behind me, and I am not in a rush to return to the battlefield.”  

“I... apologize. I do not wish to overextend your hospitality. Take your time, do what you must, and speak to your commanders and... do you hear that?”  

A very distant buzzing could be heard, and moments later shouting and footsteps began to echo through the walls of the fortress. One of the captains, wearing the patches of the Maltese military police, casually strutted into Warspite’s office and flashed a salute.  

“Report.” Warpite spoke without any sense of worry or haste.  

“Lookouts report multiple squadrons of Sardegnian warplanes flying in from the Southeast, they appear to be naval fighters.”  

“Re.2001s I recognize the sound of the engines, they must be bound from the Fourth Shore... but why?” Veneto chimed.  

“Both of you, with me. To the radar center.” Warspite rose from her chair and motioned the two to follow, and Veneto fell in behind the officer as they worked their way to the fortress's command center.  

Veneto followed, marveling at how nonchalant everyone seemed to be about the prospect of a Sardegnian air raid. Was it confidence, or hubris? She supposed that the island had earned it, either way. Her amazement only grew as she entered the command-and-control center. Rows of boxlike machines with screens and dials lined the walls, and a large map table dominated the center of the room. Uniformed men bustled about with papers or read back information to other men who updated the positions of the oncoming Sardegnian aircraft with chips on the map.  

Warspite strode through the organized chaos without pause and began to collect reports. The radar showed three flights of planes, seven each, organized as points of a triangle centered on a lone plane. They were flying relatively slowly; did that mean they were carrying a heavy payload, or did it mean they were not gearing up for an attack run?  

“40 seconds before they reach us. Batteries S-2 and E-1 standing by. What shall we do, Commander?”  

“Veneto, give me a reason not to fire on your countrymen.” Warspite glanced at her. Her words were serious, and the picture of professionalism. But her eyes were imploring.  

“We’re at peace... the senate wouldn’t attack!”  

“What if they found out you were here?”  

“I don’t recognize that formation from the spotting books and if they were going to attack and try to bomb a fortress at such low speeds would be suici-”  

“20 seconds Commander, anti-air batteries standing by.”  

“Veneto! Are they going to attack my island?”  

“No! No... It wouldn’t make any sense! You took a chance on me once before, I beg you to do so again.”  

“10 Seconds Commander...”  

Veneto saw Warspite’s brow furrow and could only imagine the thoughts running through her mind. On the one hand, she faced the prospect of an international incident if either party picked a fight- one that might spark another Mediterranean war. On the other, she couldn’t just risk letting the Regia Aeronautica blow them to smithereens.  

“Tell the batteries to stand by, do not fire on the Sardegnians.”  

“As... as you say Commander.” The officer said, shooting an accusatory look at Veneto as he relayed Warspite’s command.  

The aircraft would be close enough to see now, and rather than continue to try to make sense of the situation from a small, hot, busy concrete box she elected to walk out onto the ramparts. Sure enough, there they were: three wings of Sardegnian naval aircraft. They flew in perfect formation, and almost lazily drifted through the skies as close to stall speed as she had ever seen pilots try to maintain.  

It was then that the plane in the center of the three squadrons broke from formation and dove towards her. The sound of its engine filled her ears as it skimmed the tops of the other ramparts before flying parallel to hers. Yet, her attention was not on this act of perilous piloting, but rather on a figure casually standing on the wing, lightly gripping the side of the open cockpit.  

Cleanly, calmly, and with effortlessly contemptuous grace, the figure stepped from the wing to the rampart as the aircraft sped by with a great gust of wind, twisting in the air and turning sharply upward to rejoin its formation. Veneto held up a hand to shield her face from the loose dirt and dust the plane’s passage had kicked up, and when she lowered it, she found two bored-looking Green-blue eyes staring at her. Windswept light red hair cascaded down the long, white cloak she wore in a mess she did not bother to tidy up.  

“You... how... why?” Veneto was shocked.  

“Seems the wind brought a letter straight to my desk.” She said, holding up an envelope.  

“But that’s... impossible. The Royal Navy assured me no one would be able to trace my letters back to me...” Warspite stared, aghast.  

“Ask your escort later. But now, I will take you back to Sardegna. Where you belong...”  

The newcomer shot a look over Veneto’s shoulder. Warspite and a group of armed men had, by now, caught on to what was happening and were rushing to greet their new guest.  

“Veneto, what is this?” Shouted a confused Warspite  

“Really, sister? You let these snakes address you so casually?”  

“Warspite,” Veneto said with a sigh and stepped to the side, “Allow me to introduce my most ‘brilliant’ sister, Impero.”  

Impero rolled her eyes, “Wonderful, introduction over... now, back to the fleet. Come along sister... you need to take command so I can catch up on my rest- being brilliant is exhausting...” Impero finished with a yawn. “Oh, speak of the devil...”  

Their collective gaze set upon the passage they had all come out of, when Unicorn was helping a crutch bound Carabiniere stay upright, though the former was clearly uncomfortable. Slowly, they made their way through the gathered Royals, with Unicorn stepping back to take her place among them.  

“My flagship... I have come to see you off.” Carabiniere’s voice was pained, and her free hand held her side.  

“You contacted Impero? How... why?”  

Carabiniere glanced back at Unicorn. “I... found help, and I found help because Sardegna needs you. You can’t stay here. And you can’t choose the fate of one over the fate of the empire... I'll make my own way back.” Carabiniere fixed her with a stubborn, accusatory glare.  

It struck Veneto that her escort was using her own words to make a point, and that Carabiniere’s glare revealed that she was still not fully on board with Veneto’s plan. Maybe she was being a hypocrite, Carabiniere seemed to think so, and the destroyer would brook no disagreement. She sat here, drinking tea while people fought and died for her. It was time to go. She had gotten Warspite’s help for Carabiniere- and then some. She would go with Impero. But without her, someone would need to keep courting Warspite’s support...  

“I see... very well. Carabiniere, I hereby appoint you as my attaché to Warspite’s command until you are fit for duty. Serve her as dutifully as you would serve me.”  

Carabiniere’s features shifted from subtle accusation to subtle confusion as she flashed a salute. “As you say... my flagship.”  

Then Veneto turned to Warspite as the sound of a plane’s engines grew louder. “I will not forget your generosity. You will always have a friend in me, and should I succeed, you will always have a friend in Sardegna.”  

“I am very happy to hear that. We will take good care of Carabiniere.” Warspite raised her voice to be heard over the rumble of an oncoming plane.  

“I’ll be sure to-”  

“Grab on, sister.” Impero cut her off and wrapped an arm around her waist, holding up a hand.  

A second later, an Re. 2001 skimmed the top of the rampart, and Impero caught its landing gear. Then they were off. Veneto might have appreciated the view had she not been somewhat preoccupied gripping her sister for dear life. She may have even been screaming, not that anyone could hear her over the engine of the aircraft.  

Even reinforced for carrier landings, the landing gear on the fighter were not designed to carry the weight of two Kansen. As this occurred to her, she became absorbed in watching the base of the landing gear for any signs of breakage.  

Right up until Impero let go of her.  

The next several milliseconds stretched out into eternity. Veneto’s eyes flicked to her sister with an expression of purest betrayal, and met the distant, languid hint of a smirk arrayed on the face of the carrier. Her grip on the traitor reflexively tightened, but she found herself sliding down the sleek fabric of Impero’s cloak inch by infernal inch.  

This is it...  

This is how I die...  

Her feet touched something solid, and she glanced down involuntarily. Another fighter had come up below them, and her feet touched down on the wing where it met the fuselage. She flashed a dirty look at her sister, who pointed to the cockpit, its canopy sliding back and inviting her in.  

With great hesitation, and some coercive waving from Impero, she gripped the side of the cockpit and, fighting against the wind, slid inside of it. The canopy slid shut automatically, and she turned back to her sister. A third plane had fallen in behind her, and it flew closer and closer until it was underneath Impero, practically scraping against the bottom of her aircraft. At which point Impero simply let go, falling perfectly into the cockpit of her own plane.  

A headset hung loosely from the instument panel in front of Veneto, and she slid it on.  

Impero’s crackled voice sounded through to her. “Please don’t mess with the instruments or the flight stick, it's hard enough keeping everything flying perfectly to begin with. We’ll reach the fleet in an hour, feel free to take a nap. And sister, welcome back.”  

Chapter Text

[Bolzano] 

Her gauntleted hand dug imperceptibly into the table’s edge as she and the Alpini Maggiore stared at various maps poured over status reports collected by the old local civilian police and the Imperial Guard that were acting as gendarmerie during the waning years Tirolio’s integration into the empire. Her adoptive city stood as the seat of the empire’s newest mainland territory, nestled into the mountains that chased the Adige River to the Adriatic Sea.  

She didn’t bother looking up when the sharp thud of a fist striking the table sounded: she already understood and sympathized.

None of it made sense. 

“If nothing is wrong, then what are we doing here... why cart us across the country? What is that flagship were your flagship and my governor thinking!?” the major’s voice bellied his frustration.

By all accounts, a pile of accounts big enough to fill a mattress, there was nothing that gave any indication of any trouble whatsoever. The local authorities were just as puzzled as they were, those they could understand anyway. Why had the powers-that-be dumped two flavors of the empire’s finest here for nothing? 

No, that isn’t right! It can’t be right... can’t it?

The major must have seen some doubt swimming across what he could see of her face. “We must assume that we are here for a reason, no matter how obtuse it might seem to us now... we cannot prove something isn’t amiss yet. Damnable and fruitless this has all been so far, there must be something there!”

“Maggiore... we will never be able to prove something isn’t going on. And the library of reports in front of us suggests everything is fine. My flagship made a mistake!” In a tone that surprised them both.

Raising her voice was not something she did often, nor was it something she considered her place to be doing. The next surprise came an instant later as a splintering crack spiderwebbed its way across the wood from Bolzano’s armored hand as the intensity of her unconscious gouging spiked. Her gaze remained fixed on the table exactly where they had been before without any acknowledgment of what had passed beyond her now very wide eyes, and a distant hint of embarrassment. 

The Major’s eyes followed the splinter’s path, then climbed the arm of the frustrated Kansen before resting on her mortified face. 

“We’ve been at this for too long. It would be prudent to revisit a few of these again tomorrow with fresh eyes, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I... I’m fine. Ready for duty. Ship shape, even...” 

“You might be, but I haven’t slept in a day and a half and the letters are all blurring together into a useless, fuzzy blob. Now, I can’t command you to turn in for the evening, but you’ve been going at least as long as I have... unless you Kansen don’t need to rest?”

“I... take your point.”

“Good, and take an extra hour or two tomorrow morning, as I will. We won’t need to be here before the people that bring in the papers are done with their work.” 

___________________

She had stapled herself summarily onto the local guard garrison, even though the Alpini had made the armored train something of an operating base, she couldn’t stand sleeping in that horrid box. A slightly cooler, slightly larger box at the garrison suited her much better. They had known she was coming anyhow, and it would have been seen as... distasteful to distance herself from the guard in favor of the governors' troops. Besides, the Garrison Commander had insisted, even offering up his own room for the duration of her visit. An offer she accepted: living in the barracks with the men of the guard was, with nothing against her comrades in arms, another distasteful idea. 

So, this is Bolzano... 

It wasn’t anything like Genoa, big bustling city that that place was. It sat far from the sea, high up in the mountains. Bolzano was more of a town than any city she had ever been in. The cold mountain air brushed against her face, cooling her body as much as her temper. As her frustrations were swept away in the breeze, she found herself appreciating the irony of her situation.

Here I am... a stranger to my own name, one who houses nothing but strangers and introduced to me by strangers. One with some lingering sickness nobody can see, farther from the sea than I have ever been. Perhaps Roma has a sense of humor, or maybe she saw this as something fate demanded of me. Enough plays I’ve seen have had less dramatic setup than this... 

Fortunately, the walk to the garrison from the train station wasn’t long: nobody had wanted to drag building materials far from the station, and to be able to project power over such a vital strategic transportation hub probably helped sell the idea: it was the only piece of infrastructure that could provide reliable transport back down the mountains. 

“Ach! Shau dort! Ein Schiffmädchen... hier?! Kansen, herüber!” 

She turned to face the voice, recognizing the word Kansen among the other words she had never heard before. There were three men in uniforms she knew, in front of some kind of tavern, waving her over from across the street. 

She gently checked her watch and recalled the major’s words to her. 

I have time, and a drink sounds great right now... 

She stowed her pocket watch and strode across the street to the cheers of the three, evidently somewhat inebriated, Guardsmen. 

“Nie gedacht, dass Ich ein Kansen sehen würde!” Said the first man, in an incredulous but welcoming tone. 

“Ich auch!” 

“Niemals!” 

“I don’t underst-” 

“Ich bin Felix, Sie sind Marcus und Dominic!” the first man, evidently Felix, pointed to himself and his compatriots in turn. 

“Wer bist du?” Felix pointed at her. 

“Bolzano.” She pointed to herself. 

“Bolzano!” the three chorused. 

“Das Stadtschiff! Viel Glück! Komm!” One of the men, Marcus took her by the arm. 

“Ja! Komm!” The other man, Dominic as she recalled, took her other arm. 

And they were off! Led by Felix, Bolzano was whisked away through the doors of the tavern. The warmth and noise struck her like a wall, cutting a stark contrast between the quiet and cold streets of her namesake. Patrons filled the room, chatting amongst themselves amid the din of clanking glasses. She was surprised to see so many uniformed members of the guard among them, either having just got off, or soon to be going on, duty. One such group, gathered around one end of the bar, appeared to be her intended destination.

“Kameraden! Machts weg! Dass ist das Kansen von dieses Stadt!” Barked Felix, and a small human wave parted with cheers and applause. 

The wave carried her, in a more literal sense than she could have anticipated, to a stool. Excitedly, or perhaps something akin to bewildered, the men chattered to her and to each other, not that she understood a word. Fortunately, excitement in the air transcended the language barrier. Though it was not the only thing to do so... 

After much enthusiastic waving and hollering, the largest mug of... something. It smelled, and looked, like a golden vat of liquid bread, lightly fizzing and foaming in a glass mug as tall as her head and twice as wide as her arm appeared before her. But for just a moment her tired mind took a moment to reflect. 

Hold on... maybe this isn’t a good- 

And then the chanting began. 

“Trink!” 

“Trink!“ 

“Trink!” 

Ah, screw it... the Ansaldo Dockyards did not lay down a coward! 

The class-of-one lifted the vast mug and tipped it towards her mouth as her small, but growing, audience rhythmically pounded on the bar or stomped on the floor. And she began to chug the golden beverage. It slid down her throat cool and filled her with warmth as it went.  

This was a moment that stretched out for an eternity: the small ocean she was attempting to swallow seemed endless, and she soon found herself resisting the urge to come up for a breath. But it was also true that the shipbuilders at Ansaldo had not laid down a quitter either. Some odd mix of personal and Sardegnian pride, peer pressure, and desire to blow off some steam saw her finish the vast beverage, slamming down the mug in triumph. Though, it hit the counter a little harder than she had intended. 

Right next to another full mug of beer. 

“Prost!” shouted a stranger, and the squad-sized throng of guardsmen began knocking their glasses together with loud *clinks* 

A toast was another thing that transcended the language barrier in this bizarre corner of the empire. She gripped her second mug of the evening- she had come this far after all, and she was starting to overcome the shock and exhaustion enough to find herself enjoying it.

“Zum wohl Stadtshiff, zum wohl!” Came the words of another stranger, along with a hearty clap on the back. 

The night continued in this manner for some time: After a hundred galas and parties and formal functions attended on Roma’s behalf, the heavy cruiser was no lightweight. Even so, she was not immune to the effects of the liquid gold.

_______________

“I’ll tell you something mi amico… I’ve got no idea what I’m doing here!”  she clumsily jabbed her finger at the countertop. “I mean, what was she thinking? Picking me up and plopping me down out here…” she muttered after taking another swig of ‘bier.’

It was the first, and only word she had learned from the local guardsmen, and it was the only word they seemed to have in common. She knew that when she said it, another towering mug of the cool, warming drink would appear in front of her, and her new friends seemed happy to foot the bill.

“…wasn’t I enough of an embarrassment in Genua? Is the eagle throwing me out of the nest to see if I still have wings?! What right does that Bastarda have to send me off on some viaggio dell’eroe ridicolo!? Looking for shit that isn’t there around people I can’t understand… BIER! Grazie…”

How many had she had? At some point she stopped counting, and it had stopped mattering to her even earlier.

“Quel maledetto Bastarda… sending me away… like this… to a city so far from il mio mare… so far away from the only casa I’ve ever known! A fitting city il mio nome! A city without a port for a girl without a ship! Ha un crudele senso dell'umorismo…” the Kansen downed half of the fresh mug and continued her tirade, “she must know this is a doomed errand… but I can’t fail again… so what is this, some sick test of loyalty?! Haven’t I proven enough?”

She stared a long time at her reflection in the gently foaming liquid and pondered her outburst. The beer offered no answers, nor did her reflection. These questions had no answers, and it was just as well nobody could understand her anyway. That fact became suddenly very comforting; it wouldn’t do to be seen ranting and raving about Roma, especially now in this time of growing uncertainty. She fiddled around in the breast pocket of her overcoat for her pocket watch.

Her eyes went wide upon seeing the time, and she moved to excuse herself, downing the rest of her drink and staggering to her feet.

“Grazie per le bevande, amico, but I have duty in the morning…” she said, with as much authority and coherence as she could muster and was relieved that she would not understand any attempts to implore her to stay.

It was slow going at first, and it took a lot of effort for her to establish the rhythm of movement that would carry her forward without tipping her over. It carried her through the crowd of amused guardsmen and patrons and through the door, back out into the cold air of an Alpine night. Air which sobered her up a little, but only a little. It still took her an embarrassingly long time for her to negotiate her arms into the sleeves of her overcoat.

Now which way to the garrison?

She began to retrace her steps to where she began her little escapade and drilled her memory for the directions she had been given. Upon striking another vein of memory, she felt around in her pockets and produced the letter she had been given written in Sardegnian- glorious Sardegnian! Never had she been so happy to see her mother tongue!

She staggered off into the night, armed with some knowledge of her destination. And yet, as she strode her path in the starlight. But the walk dragged on, and on. Perhaps she had taken a wrong turn somewhere? Eventually, she came across a pair of warehouses with the flag of the Sardegnian Royal house on them.

Alright, progress! I just have to find someone to ask for directions… but who would understand me?

There!

She spied two guardsmen wheeling a few crates into one of the warehouses, the crates had a tarp over them, but part of a symbol remained uncovered: the bottom half of an eagle.

Roma’s Eagle! Sardegnians!

“Countrymen! You have no idea how happy I am to see you! Which way to the garrison from here?” She staggered towards them, waving her arms wildly, looking like some lunatic.

The guardsmen’s first reactions were something of understandable confusion. Then it was Bolzano’s turn to be confused as they called back to her in the same foreign tongue that had dominated the rest of her evening.

“I don’t suppose either of you can understand me?” She tried in vain.

“Ach… um… was machen wir?”

“Wir… wir mussen… verdammt… was sollen wir machen?”

She couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but she could tell they were on edge. It seemed to her as though she had given them quite a start, though in their position she could hardly blame them: a madwoman they did not know had started randomly shouting at them in a language they didn’t understand in the middle of the night.

“Wir sollen… Sie zum Kommandant nehmen! Die Kommandant wird Anordnung haben!”

“Ja… Ja! Junge Madel! Komm mit uns!” One of the men shouted to her, and gestured empahtically for her to follow.

She recognized the command; she was being told to come with them. And ‘Kommandant’ sounded a lot like ‘commander.’

I may be on the right track after all!

She fell in line with the first man, and the second fell in behind her as they walked. Still… something about them seemed… off.

Am I being escorted… or guarded?

No, surely it was just her imagination.

The trio walked down one of the long alley between the buildings before turning in to one of the warehouses. Then the man she was following stopped so suddenly she almost ran into him, opening a door and gesturing her inside. A command which she obeyed with a moment’s hesitation.

Inside was… a warehouse, with a high ceiling and stacked high with boxes. After proceeding down a narrow aisle of boxes, the space opened up, revealing a few tables and what appeared to be a makeshift office. A few guardsmen bustled about, apparently taking inventory. This was not what caught her eye, however; at the heart of this small storm of administration was a young woman. She wore a white uniform with a black skirt, and a short black cape with red lining. Long, white hair cascaded down her back, where it met the scabbard of the sword that hung at her hip. Though her ornate blade marked her as an officer, her chest was free of the medals or commendations that often accompanied such a rank, and she was unlike any officer of the guard she had ever seen.

“Kommandant! Wir…”

The strange woman held up a hand, silencing the man and taking a moment to finish whatever thought or calculation she was running through before looking up from her clipboard.

“Was so interressantes war, dass… ah… I see…” The woman’s tone changed completely when she saw Bolzano standing confused and focusing too much on standing straight.

Blue eyes flecked with red regarded her own with something between surprise and horror, before reverting to a steely evenness.

“You… you speak Universal?” Bolzano’s bafflement only grew more complete.

“Any proper officer would.” The woman was almost dismissive.

“Wha- who are you?”

“Don’t worry. We will become better acquainted soon. Though it is a shame our first meeting had to be here… I still can’t believe a building this large doesn’t even have a coffee maker! But I suppose there will be time enough for that later. We must get you back to the garrison commander; he’ll tear the town apart if he thinks he managed to lose Roma’s darling. We wouldn’t want him to worry.” A hint of a smile crept onto the woman’s face as she finished.

“That… would be great.”

“You are in no condition to find your way… Shultz! Nehmen Sie zum fest! Los!” 

 One of the men, who had evidently failed to look busy enough, shared a mutually sympathetic glance with the men who brought her in, and left his clipboard on one of the boxes before stepping away.

“Komm.” The man’s voice betrayed his lack of enthusiasm at leading her around.

There it was again- Komm.

The third goose chase of the night…

Neither of them could understand the other, add in the growing headache and compounding exhaustion and Bolzano hardly minded the silence of the walk. Besides, walking was still kind of hard and required a bit of focus. But soon, they came upon the comparatively ornate building she had long pined for. Its classical architecture giving it away.

“Hier. Gehts.” The man pointed to the obvious entrance.

“…”

“…”

“… Grazie.”

_______________

She had never been happier to see a bed and made a mental note to thank the commander once again for surrendering his quarters to her for the time being. Most of the room had been emptied; barring a suitcase that held what she had brought with her, having been brought up from the train for her convenience. They really had spoilt her, and it gave her mixed feelings. Generosity was… complicated, and that had been the greatest enduring lesson of late.

It was a small matter for her to loosen her scabbard’s belt, allowing it to fall down her legs with what seemed to her to be an impossibly loud *clank.* And that was that; she did not even bother to change out of her uniform.

I made it…

With the force of a nearly fourteen-thousand-ton heavy cruiser, the nearly fourteen-thousand-ton heavy cruiser fell like a tower struck by a frustrated god. Down she plummeted, landing face first into a horrible cot, made into the most luxurious bed by the blanket of deepest exhausted relief.

_______________

Boom

Boom

She groaned awake. Her throbbing head was killing her, the poor girl had drunk a lot and had only consumed a packet or two of field rations on her train rides to the city. It no longer felt like she had been struck by an angry god, now it felt like she had been struck by a furious one.

A moment later, another pounding throb spiked her headache as she struggled to rise, dashing her back to the cot. Her face fell into her cap, which had fallen from her brow in the attempt to rise. It, along with the mattress, muffled her groan. Frustration? Exhaustion? Regret? Defeat? Agony? It was for her hat to know, but the truth was probably somewhere in the middle.

It was the fourth big boom in her head, louder, that gave her pause and brought a chorus of snaps, whips, and shouting into focus.

Wha… what’s going on?

Her heart raced as she clumsily forced herself to her unsteady feet and lurched towards the small window. She had an elevated view of the chaos unfolding in the trainyard further down the slope of the mountain. Two towering columns of smoke split the bright blue sky like a pair of festering wounds.

The train station itself was largely obscured, but she could see groups of armed men swarming about the place; men in green and white crept down the street towards a hastily formed defensive line of black feathered helmets and mountaineering caps. Below her, men small teams of men streamed out of the garrison to recover casualties and render aid to men who had fallen around a large, fresh shell crater.

This is madness! I have to find the Commander… I have to find Major Luoni… I have to stop this!”

She fled from the window and retrieved her sword from where she had unceremoniously dropped it the evening before and took an extra moment to retrieve her sidearm from her suitcase, just in case. Now, there was simply to act.

She nudged the door to the hallway open carefully and peered around. Empty, save for some concrete dust shaken from the ceiling.

Nothing…

She darted down the hallway past empty offices and meeting rooms as quickly as she dared, making it to the staircase moments later. Down one flight, then another, then two more. An explosion rocked rocked the building, followed by impossibly loud *cracks* of rifle fire from somewhere nearby, made all the worse by the confined space.

Come on, move!

She cursed as she ran towards the commotion, even as every ounce of her body urged her to reconsider her rapid advance. Upon turning the corner, she set her eyes upon quite the scene: eight or nine Alpini strode through a cloud in smoke and debris into what appeared to be the garrison’s mess hall, having shot down four guardsmen in the chaos.

She dove to the side as a pair of bullets sailed by her, and a few more harmlessly struck the piece of wall she was hiding behind before someone called a ceasefire.

“Hold your fire! HEY! Lady-Castellan is that you!?”

“Y-Yes! What the hell are doing?!”

“You can start by telling us whose side you’re on!”

“I… I don’t even know what’s happening! What are you doing here? Why are you fighting the guard!?”

Silence, some murmurs, then a command: “Alright, come on out, we won’t shoot you.”

A moment later, Bolzano stepped into view, and was relieved to see a few of the men she recognized from the train.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” She stammered, her breath catching as she stared down the barrels of seven rifles.

“Sergente, it’s her. If there’s a conspiracy here, she was never part of it.” Vouched one of the more familiar faces, lowering his rifle.

A long moment passed while the Sergente weighed his options.

“Alpini, stand down!”

“Doves never roost in loaded rifles Sergente…” Bolzano spat.

“Can you blame me? The guard hit us in quarters this morning, blew up the tracks and tried to blow up the engine of our little war train. And you’re wearing their uniform. Now, are you with us, Lady-Castellan?”

“I’m with you. Roma sent me here to find out if anything was wrong… well… I get the feeling this is what our leaders expected us to find.”

 “Good. Do you know where the radio room is? We saw antenna’s up on the second floor, we’ve got to get a message to Milano.”

Bolzano shook her head. “I haven’t had much time to look around… lets find the communications room. And see who we might gather along the way; no loyal member of the guard would dare fire on a Kansen.”

Here resolved, they set out back towards the stairs, to be greeted by the sounds of rushing footsteps and more gunfire echoing from the stairwell.

“There are more of you on the second floor?” Bolzano asked as she broke into a run.

“No! I have no idea who’s fighting!”

Bolzano’s sprint took her flying up the stairs and bursting out onto the second floor, colliding with a guardsman on the way up. Her momentum sent him flying to the floor, and she barely recovered from her own stumble. By the time she turned to face him, he was bringing his rifle to her chest.

He never got the chance fire: the first Alpini up the stairs shot him dead.

“Dammit!” Bolzano cursed, “You never gave him a chance!”

“He wasn’t going to give you one,” the man uttered gruffly, “now keep moving. We have to find-”

“KANSEN?!”

She froze, and the other man held up a hand to stop the rest of the Alpini from filing up the stairs after them. Down the hallway, taking cover behind doors and in doorframes, were three guardsmen in varying states of injury, held together by adrenaline and improvised tourniquets.

Then closest of the three men had addressed her, both as a command and a question.

“Bolzano, of the Imperial Guard!” She shouted back slowly holding her arms out to her sides, as though to show she was who she claimed to be.

Two of the men shared a glance and murmured something she couldn’t hear. Cautiously, the man broke from his cover and walked into speaking distance.

“Glad to see another Sardegnian… the Styrians have gone mad! Came into our barracks, rifles drawn and… well…” His eyes flicked to the red-soaked binding on his side. “… you can see the rest. It’s a damn good thing they were too drunk to shoot straight…”

“Drunk?” Bolzano repeated, question in her tone.

“Could smell it on them. Can smell it on you too…” His eyes shot wide open with recognition and began to raise his weapon.

She was a split second faster, tackling the wounded man to the ground.

“Nobody shoot!” she yelled as they fell to the floor.

“Yes! I spent the night drinking with a bunch of guardsmen who didn’t speak Sardegnian. No, I don’t know or have anything to do with whatever insanity has turned us against each other, but I will find out, and I will stop it. Are you with me, guardsmen?”

 He turned his head to regard the arms that held him to the floor, as though searching for something.

“Alright. We’re with you.”

“Thank you.” She stood and helped the man to his feet, a silent sigh of relief passing through all of them. “Now, we’re heading to find the radio center. Do you know where it is?”

“Yes, I do. We’ll take you there.”

The guardsman moved past her and into the growing cloud of Alpini, who exchanged wary glances with each other and then her. She waved them on while she herself lingered over the fallen man for another moment, as more men filed out of the stairwell. Her eyes rested on the growing patch of red welling up under the fabric of his uniform.

Just like that… a clumsy moment, an accident. All so quickly…

 Her reverie was interrupted by the squad leader turning over the body and sliding off the vest that held a pair of ammunition pouches. He tossed it to her.

“Put this on, be quick about it before his friends come looking for him. And take this- “

She had just finished untangling herself from the vest and clumsily got it fixed to her shoulders and waist when the fallen man’s rifle was thrust against her chest.

“You’ll want more stopping power than that Modello of yours, do they train Kansen with rifles?”

“No, but…” she took a moment and pulled back the bolt, guessing the rounds in the clip at four, “I’ve practiced.”

She aimed the weapon low, and checked the sighting, and an element of the fallen guardsman’s uniform leapt out at her. Hidden under the butt of the rifle had been a red cloth armband.

“Not a standard piece of kit I take it?”

“No… it’s not… What could it mean?”

“Something to make them stand out… an officer?”

“That’s how the Styrians know their own… the men who tried to kill us in our beds all wore them…” One of the other guardsmen had made his way down the hall, and he and the third man had come beside her and the Sergente unnoticed.

“At least we can identify friend from foe… that’s something.” Bolzano sighed.

“Come on. There may still be more friends to find…”

The Sergente indicated the right passageway, more sporadic rifle rapports sounded off in that direction. After silence returned to the hallway, he led the way with his Barretta submachinegun, and waved them all to follow.

As they crept through spent shell casings and bullet holes and little dashes of red, Bolzano’s mind continued to race. Occasionally they’d come across a body, sometimes they had the curious red armband, while others didn’t. A picture began to form in her mind, a set piece whose story was told in debris and detritus. Chaos… a power struggle… a tragedy the signs of which became more and more common as they progressed.

“Wait…” Bolzano hissed as they came to a corner.

The signs of fighting here were the heaviest they’d seen. Bullet holes riddled the walls like buboes of shattered concrete, as though the building had become infected by a foul disease. Little splashes of red dotted the scene, dripping or drying or flowing gently through tiny, imperfect valleys in the flooring. A pair of bodies lay like toppled statues, pulled to the side out of the line of fire; a parting favor from friends that must have gone for help or pressed ahead.

This has to be it… what else would anyone be fighting over so far from the battle… but still, who is fighting?

Her eyes caught the red bands on the arms of the fallen statues and let out a deep breath.

“… announce me, Sergente.”

“What?” he looked back over his shoulder at her, bewilderment swimming behind his visible eye.

“Announce me. Loyal men won’t shoot me, but I’m not going to try my luck against friendly guns without warning twice.”

“What if none of them speak Sardegnian?”

“Then announce me in Universal.”

“Agh… fine… but you owe me the wine that washes it off my tongue…” he muttered.

“NOW PRESENTING LADY-CASTTELLAN BOLZANO!” He shouted down the hall as well as he could before turning to her and theatrically wiping his mouth, as though he had just drunk something horribly bitter. “You’re up boss.”

With a deep breath, Bolzano drew herself up to her full height. Closing her eyes, she took a moment to fantasize about the next. Would she find loyal men of the guard, would she find answers to all this confusion, would she find another team of stray Alpini? Had they taken a wrong turn? Were they even where they wanted to be? What would it feel like to get shot?

She pushed these thoughts from her mind and took a step. And then another. She stood in the flickering pulse of the hall light, supplemented by knives of illumination that cut through the occasional portholes in adjacent rooms. The class-of-one turned, eyes screeching open like a door with rust for hinges and took a step forward.

Then another.

Then another.

She knew they could see her: she could see them. Silhouettes of helmeted heads poked over a makeshift barricade of beds, boxes, and tables. They glanced among each other hurriedly, perhaps confused, perhaps surprised, or nonplussed. Or, maybe they just hadn’t understood the Sergente at all. Perhaps they were joking and jiving about the stupid woman they were about to put down?

Yet, no lethal hail of lead struck her. Or even attempted to. What struck her was, oddly enough, much less welcome than bullets: a rousing cheer from the barricade.

“Lady-Castellan! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes… its more than just you I hope… have you found anyone else?” An aged, gruff voice called to her from the barricade.

“Comandare?! What is going on?!” Bolzano beheld the garrison commander, handgun in hand, standing tall amid the men of the barricade.

“You tell me! I was almost killed by my own men! It’s been a fighting retreat all the way from the bunks! Caught us while we were sleeping, red-banded bastards! Were afraid they got you too… tell me you’ve brought reinforcements, someone anyone loyal to the empire, I’ve only got seven left and one’s too busy trying to un-do the damage the traitorous operator did to the radio!”

“I’m with a trio of guardsmen and eight Alpini, from the train. They’ve also been attacked in-station, but… who are we fighting?”

“I don’t know yet, but they want their radio back badly. Summon your allies; this is the only radio room in the city, and they’ve been testing us. The hammer will fall soon, and we need to be ready to hold this place long enough to get word to Milano.”

It was a small matter to coax the Sergente down the hall; the prospect of being caught in the middle of a firefight stuck in a hall with no cover was not something he had wanted to live through. It was lucky they arrived when they did: the Comandare had been modest about his numbers; almost all his men had at least minor wounds, and two weren’t really in a condition to fight. But they had risen to the occasion, as she would now have to.

Why don’t they just destroy the radio tower poking out of here? Surely it would be easier…

Her eyes flicked shut, and she took a moment to center herself. Safe among allies, the adrenaline that had carried her this far flickered. In its absence, her headache reasserted itself. It pounded in time with the steps of the Alpini as they approached. She slumped down against a crate and propped her forehead up on her recently acquired rifle. The smooth wood anchored her headache for a moment, and for this she was grateful.

“You look like hammered shit, Kansen.”

Each syllable like a hammer on an anvil, the words pounded in her head from a voice she recognized as the Sergente’s.

At least they’re in a language I understand…

She did not open her eyes or turn to acknowledge him.

“Long day, long night, long morning. Some quiet would be nice.”

“Hmpf. I sympathize, but there isn’t the time, and this isn’t the place. On your feet soldier…”

“Soldier… that almost hurts more than my head… besides, listen…”

The Sergente took a moment, trying to listen, looking about as though he thought he was missing something obvious.

“What are you talking about? I don’t hear anything…”

“Shhh… listen.”

Another sweet, sweet moment passed. In her mind’s eye she pictured the exaggerated features of the Sergente twist in concentration.

“There’s nothing to listen to!” the Alpini failed to keep the irritation out of his voice.

She cracked the smallest of smiles, hidden by the cool, smooth, comfortable rifle she still rested against.

“You know… you’re right. But thanks for the quiet.”

“Very funny.”

“We could all use some levity. Or at least, I could.”

“Watching a hungover Kansen stumble around a warzone has been funny enough for most of us.”

“I never told you that!”

“But you suck at hiding it.”

“It’s… I’m not… It’s not like I’m an alcoholic! I’m usually not like this.” She felt herself flushing slightly with a warm embarrassment.

The Sergente shrugged, the frustration of his features having been replaced by a broad smile.

“We all have our reasons, I’m sure yours might even be good ones. But, the fact of the matter is you’ve got to pull yourself up. It will be easier to fight the hangover than live knowing you might have got someone killed.”

 “Life never stops… true enough. But one must take back what they can from it.” She muttered, offering up an arm.

He rolled his eyes and pulled her to her feet, but his hand lingered on her forearm.

“You’re more… solid than you look… and you’re freezing… are you alright?” There was a concern in his voice, one she found surprising.

“There’s a small bit of steel in my skin… think of it like armor.”

He released her. “Is it worth a damn?”

She let out a wry laugh. “For most, yes. You’d need a lot to crack a Kansen in full rigging. I am not so fortunate, and I’m not in a hurry to find out how much less fortunate I am.”

“What makes you different?”

“The longest night of my life, and a military secret. But if you stop talking, I’ll tell you about it after we make it out of this mess.”

“I’ll keep that in- hey! Look alive!”

A set of pops followed by hissing filled the entrance of the hallway they had come down before. The not-so-distant intersection filled with a thick, white, obscuring smoke.  

Her ears filled with shouting, the scuffling of footsteps and the clicking and clanking of weapons being brought to ready across the barricade.

“Men of the guard, on my command!” shouted the Garrison Commander.

A momentary quiet set in, crystallizing around their throats. Perhaps if no one spoke, then the silence wouldn’t break into the jagged shards that would cut the tension. Perhaps, if they just stayed like this forever, the coming storm would not roll over them. Who could say what was out there, lurking just out of view in the artificial smoke?

The roar of a beast with a dozen throats arose from out in the fog, and the rumble thunder of dozens of feet began to roll towards them. In that same instant, the command came down from on high:

“OPEN FIRE!”

Minutes became seconds, and seconds stretched on to eternity as the snaps and clacks of rifle fire rose to meet the charge of the many-headed beast. The Sergente’s machinegun sang its baleful song, striking down one, then two, then three before they reached the barricade. She herself earned two scratches on the butt of her new rifle, to say nothing of the rest of the line’s efforts.

Pull, up, back, forward, down

Pull, up, back, forward, down

Just another day at the range…

It was automatic. Natural. Rhythmic. The shorter barrel made it quick to swing in line with new targets. It’s lighter weight barely registered the comforting certainty of the recoil as the force of the shot flowed back into her shoulder.

She pushed the identities of those ‘targets’ from her mind, abdicating any moral issues she may have had with firing on people she might have called friends a few hours ago, and allowing herself a unity of mind and body.

It felt good.

This was what she was for.

How long had it been since she acted with purpose?

Her mind filled with scenes from plays she knew and loved; glorious last stands, impossible odds, betrayal, drama. She lived a legend, standing atop the massive walls of ancient cities, shoulder to shoulder with the heroes from Sardegnian legend.

She was right there! Cesare’s hand rested on her shoulder, Garibaldi’s commands guided her shots, the waters of the Piave lapped at her ankles… and Roma’s smile flashed in the afterglow from each shot.  

The attack faltered, and for a moment it seemed as though they’d held them there, and that she’d have time to contemplate being in the line of fire again… time to contemplate staining her hands with the blood of her countrymen. But off in the smoke, a small red glow was building, and building, and building.

It launched at them, a ball of energy blacker than the void of the abyssal sea and wreathed in a deep, rich, crimson glow. It struck the center of the barricade, about a meter from her and burst, enforcing an artificial silence and bathing them all in a rancid, festering red. A conical blast of black-red energy erupted from it, dissolving, disintegrating, or scorching beyond recognition all that it struck.

As the sound gradually returned to the scene, the first thing that reached her ears was screaming from her side. She tore her gaze from the hall and turned to face its source: the Sergente had fallen, clutching a side that was falling apart as the foul energy streaked, arced and dissipated from where it struck him.

What the hell… how did they… a weapon like this? Here?

Images. Memories flashed through her mind of the night that had cost her hull and very nearly her life, obliterating her fantastical imaginations in an instant. She had suffered those same energies as they burnt through layer after layer of steel and machinery.

No…

She froze, horrified eyes reflecting the flickering energies of the dissolving man as he gasped out for help she knew she could not give. She froze, even as the battle resumed and the shouting and clamor filled her ears, seeming to her as if they were a thousand miles away. She froze, a memory of the dissolving energy playing across her skin, and she lurched away from the barricade, falling to her hands and knees.

Burning…!

A phantom burn forced a voiceless scream from her mouth as it filled with the taste of brine and oil.

Something pulled her to her feet.

Was it shaking her, or was it her shaking?

A voice.

Words flowed into her flooded ears, but they were so far away…

Focus damn you!

With a distant cry the arms holding her up went limp. She fell back to the floor, the force of her head striking the concrete floor brought her partially back to the present. As her vision came into focus, a horrifying scene played out before her.

Her comrades fell along the shattered line, many before they had made sense of what had just hit them. Traitors poured in through the gap or charged the barricade, following through on the shock of whatever foul weapon they had fired. Those whose senses returned to them followed the command to retreat into the radio center, those whose hadn’t faced an altogether grimmer fate.

A fate I will soon share…

Something like adrenaline surged through her body, returning life to her stiff, unresponsive limbs. She became aware of a foreign weight on top of her, undoubtably the man who had tried to get her to stand just moments ago. Obscured by the body, nobody had paid her any heed. A parting gift she vowed to repay.

I never knew any of you, not really, but I would have liked to. You’ll be avenged.

Any sane person probably would have attempted surrender: the battle was over and those cut off from their allies had only one meaningful chance of survival.

But Bolzano was not a person. She was a war machine with metallic skin and a powerplant for a heart. A powerplant which fueled an artificial soul, one wholly and irrationally dedicated to the service of an empire and people whose hopes and ambitions were baked into every layer of her being.

A people and an empire that these traitors, these dogs, these barbarians at the gates now threatened to triumph over. There would be no surrender to successionists, seditionists, or savages: her heart and soul demanded retribution.

She gently, silently as she could, slid out from under the body of her would-be savior. But she had to be quick: there was a turncoat checking bodies, and she could not give up the element of surprise, not yet.

Her ornate handgun would be too loud. Biting back a deep breath, she drew her sword, what little sound it made as it cleared its scabbard was lost in the small fight over the door to the communications room that occupied most everyone’s attention. Still, it was only a matter of moments, seconds even, before someone realized there was an armed and angry Kansen in their midst.

She swallowed the distant hesitation born from that strange place where necessity and inexperience met like the oil and water whose echoes still tinted her mouth.

Now isn’t the time to the be girl buries herself in stories…

She lurked towards her chosen target: the man checking around for wounded among the bodies.

Now is the time to be the Kansen who writes them!

Bolzano was not an assassin, practiced with a sword as she was; quietly running someone through was different- so different- than the practice bouts with Garibaldi. But… fiction is full of slit throats. A gift from the girl to the Kansen.

How hard could it be?

The heavy cruiser lunged, her hand flew over the man’s mouth, and her silver blade flickered red against his neck. Instinctively, the man’s hands flew up to his throat, but it was too late. Yet, there was one immutable fact: he had dropped his rifle.

With a deafening clatter, the rifle fell to the floor, loud enough for Roma- hell, loud enough for that other traitor all the way down in Taranto to hear.

As the shouts of alarm rose, she dropped the dying man and dove at the momentarily surprised gaggle of former guardsmen with a speed reflective of her design. A few panicked shots rang out to meet her. A few whipped past her ears, one nicked her shoulder, but one shot dug itself straight into her chest.

“Guh!” Her stride broke, and she staggered forward. But it had not been enough to stop her.

And they had not been fast enough to get away, especially those who had taken the time to properly aim and fire. This was what she was trained for, designed for: strike fast, strike hard!

“Avanti Sardegna!”

A disemboweling slash across the first man flowed naturally into the impaling thrust that caught the second. A third attempted to run her through with a bayonet but succeeded only in leaving a deep scrape as what little hull she still had diverted the stab off center.

Her off hand grabbed the barrel of the rifle as grazed off her body, and she struck her assailant about the head with her gauntleted fist. Tearing the rifle from the dazed man’s hands, she prepared to plant the bayonet meant for her into the man when a voice stopped her.

A woman’s voice. One barely familiar to her.

“So it you causing all this commotion? A museum piece is what stands between me and my mission?”

It was the white-haired woman from the warehouse. Her red-flecked sapphire eyes bored into the Sardegnian Kansen, searching for something. Bolzano found herself staring back, defiance and fury brightening her own eyes of faded red.

“You.”

Bolzano’s word was a statement. She was too fed up to be surprised, too tired to be curious; if this was how it was to be, so be it.  

“I told you we would be getting more acquainted, Bolzano of the Sardegnian Imperial guard.”

“Well… here I am.”  Bolzano spat, lancing the still struggling man with the end of his rifle before letting it drop. Retrieving her own weapon from the body of its last victim, she leveled it at the woman in white. “Let’s get acquainted.”

“So be it.” The white woman’s brow furrowed as she brought her own blade to bear.

Silence.

Neither the loyalists who had rallied to Bolzano, nor the reinforcements brought forward by the white-haired woman made any move to engage each other. Everyone watched and waited.

Bolzano fought back the urge to act aggressively. Her wounds weren’t mortal, but they did hurt and they would add up if she wasn’t careful. Besides, she just had to buy time, sell her life dearly and, maybe, survive all this; acting rashly wouldn’t help any of those goals.

How many characters have met rash ends in all my stories?

I won’t join them…

Come on White… come get me…

It was on the white-haired woman to make the first move. And eventually, she did, perhaps knowing the clock was ticking, even if she may not have known exactly why.

‘White’ took a cautious step forward and poked at Bolzano, who batted away each attempted stab without making any attempt to return the strikes.

The drama of it all…

She cracked the barest hint of a smile, and White’s brow creased just a little bit more before she launched into a series of rapid cuts. Each of which Bolzano deftly parried, and eventually, found an opportunity to riposte.

Bolzano’s steel flickered in the light as it cut down towards White’s face, but it only cleaved through some of her long, white hair as she twisted away from its thirsty edge.

She’s new at this… newer than I am at any rate…

White snarled and immediately threw her weight into a vicious counterattack. It would have bisected the Class-of-One diagonally from shoulder to hip. But it was what Bolzano had been waiting for. The Sardegnian heavy cruiser stepped around the strike, slipping the reverse flat of her blade against the edge meant to disembowel her and diverting it off to the side while letting the momentum of the cut carry both blades down towards the floor.  

Taking a step forward the instant both blades were clear of her target, she thrust her gauntleted sword-hand, which still held the hilt, into the unguarded cheek of her enemy. Twisting to throw as much of her bodyweight behind it as she could manage, there was nothing her adversary could do to stop her after being put off balance by the weight of her own missed strike.

A deep *clunk* sent the black-caped woman reeling, nearly losing her footing as Bolzano’s metal fist struck home. The blow sent her staggering against the damaged wall of the hallway, very nearly losing her footing.

“Give it up!” Bolzano hissed, “If you and your men surrender, I can guarantee you good conduct and a fair trial.” She forced down the urge to gut the woman.

I’m not a monster… don’t make me any more of one…

please…

“Surrender… really? How laughable…” the woman pushed herself from the wall and wiped the some of the trickling stream of blood that flowed from her mouth and nose.

“You’re outmatched! I’m offering you a way out!”

The barest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of the woman’s bloodied mouth.

“If it’s experience I lack, then there’s nothing to do but humbly acquire more… your shattered cube will make an excellent gift.” she drew herself back up, and stood defiantly across from Bolzano, holding out a hand as if grasping something unseen.

“…hear me, Bolzano of the Sardegnian Imperial Guard! I am the experimental cruiser Mainz of Ironblood, and you will die by my hand!”

The black-red energy Bolzano had become all too familiar with began to father and roil around Mainz’s outstretched hand. And immediately Bolzano’s eyes went wide. She felt her limbs start to lock with a frigid, crackling burning in her mind.

No!… I have to move… have to stop her!

Bolzano ducked the first void-spawned orb, and forced Mainz on the defensive before she could summon another one. Blinding white light poured in from a freshly dissolved hole in the wall behind the heavy cruiser as she found herself suddenly forced onto the attack. It was her turn to constantly risk overextending herself as she desperately tried to prevent Mainz from using whatever Siren ability she seemed to possess.

But it wasn’t enough. Bolzano made a cut meant to sever Mainz’s offhand, but the Ironblood Kansen simply pulled her hand back and dug her blade deep into Bolzano’s side. The Sardegnian felt, rather than heard, the screech of steel on steel as it collided with metallic ribcage.

Not dead, not yet…

In desperation, Bolzano grabbed Mainz’s sword hand to prevent her from doing anything more to mess up her insides, or from retrieving the weapon from her side. She began to hack wildly at White, no longer worried about blocking or parrying anything. Rather than suffer the same fate she had inflicted, Mainz grabbed the Sardegnian’s blade, preferring the risk of a lacerated hand over a gaping wound somewhere else.

And Mainz was ready when Bolzano dropped the weapon and took an iron-fisted swing at her; catching her arm with her bloodied hand and establishing a brief stalemate. A stalemate that, to Bolzano’s relief, she was beginning to get the upper hand in, if barely.

“Give. It. Up.” Bolzano growled through gritted teeth, seeing the realization register in Mainz’s determined eyes.

And then Mainz, with wrenched the Sardegnian onto one leg and threw her weight into her, sending them both the ground, where she landed firmly atop Bolzano. The pair grappled clumsily for a moment, but before Bolzano could leverage her slightly superior strength, Mainz pounded her wounded torso with a flurry of knee-strikes.

The sudden immense pain shifted her focus just long enough for Mainz to regain control of her sword arm, and she flicked the blade deeper into Bolzano before gracelessly tearing it out and launching herself to her feet, out of range of any retaliatory blows, evidently done with surprises or desperate gambits.

She struggled to stand, making it halfway up before falling under her own weight and keeling over onto all fours.

Ahh… well then… That’s… a lot…

She could see the blood pooling under her and knew that, even if the blood loss wouldn’t kill her, it would force her body to shut down while her cube stitched her back up; leaving her unable to protect herself against any enemy that seemed determined to rip it out. She could already feel her senses slipping.

“Dannere… merda…” She collapsed onto her side, clutching at the wicked gash along her flank. She could see Mainz’s winded, but victorious face. Backlit by the white light pouring through the great hole she had created in the wall with her occult technology.

I failed… again…

What a beautiful end to my story…

“You… fought well, as well as any archaic Kansen could be expected to. I should thank you. it was a… valuable experience, and your death will clear me of any doubts my superiors might have had.”

Bolzano stared into the eyes of her killer. And her own went wide, not with fear, disgust, contempt, or any natural emotion. Her eyes went wide with recognition. She saw herself in those dispassionate blue eyes. She saw a desperate woman looking for purpose, willing to do anything to please the powers that gave her life any shred of role or reason. She knew what it was like to harbor that corrosive need to please, knew how it only grows the hole it was meant to fill, and knew the endless, malcontented questions that must be playing through this woman’s mind. She found it within herself to feel nothing but pity for this woman; this woman who walked the same road to ruin as she once had.

 And in spite of everything, she let out a long, painful sigh.

“Take it… from me… Mainz… living… for your orders… won’t fill… the hole… in your heart.” Her breathing was labored, as fragmented as she felt.

“I don’t need to justify myself to you.”

Behind Mainz, Bolzano could see a new column of smoke rising from the trainyard, and for a precious moment, she felt hope. Maybe, just maybe, they had not failed. Maybe, just maybe, she had bought enough time…

“No… you don’t…” Bolzano smiled, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. “Listen… for a moment… drink… it in… you won’t… want to forget… a detail…”

Off in the distance, there were still sounds of fighting: Gunshots, far away shouts of adrenaline-filled struggle, even occasional explosions from grenades, but the fighting was dying down. In fact, it had died down just enough that the distant, rhythmic pumping could be heard, gradually increasing in frequency. She would never know the details of what happened at the trainyard, but Major Luoni must have pulled through: the armored train was under way, and soon it would take word of the fighting all the way to Milano.

A moment later, a loud *thwoom* sounded from off in the distance.

“Ciao… Mainz…”

The massive shell from the armored train’s big gun howled as it pierced through layers of concrete, boring deep into bastion below them and exploding. She was thrown from the floor face first into something else. She struck it with enough force to send stars dancing across her closed eyelids, and before she lost consciousness she thought of Roma.

I did what you asked of me.

We found what was wrong.

What a shame it found us first.

Chapter Text

[Pompeo Magno]

Am I dead?

An apt question.

Creaking metal

Distant sounds of the sea

Her senses gradually returned to her, as though someone was leisurely flicking switches in her head.

Warmth

Comfort

The bed she found herself in, it was probably a bed anyway, felt too comfortable to be in a hospital.

She flexed the digits on each of her limbs, like some form of bizarre prelaunch checklist.

All accounted for.

She finally allowed herself a breath and god, did it hurt. Never had she been so sore.

So that answers that…

With a second pained breath, her golden eyes creaked open.

So far, so good.

She was in a ships cabin, that much she could tell. And it couldn’t be any other ship than the Neapolitanus.

The Admiral must sleep comfortably…

But, as her eyes panned the room, it became clear that she wasn’t where she thought she was. And it was generous to call the flame-kissed third of a bed they had managed to salvage from… somewhere comfortable.

Someone dragged all this into an auxiliary storage room…

… for me?

She tried to sit up. An action which every cell in every muscle in her body firmly and vocally rejected.

“Ow…”

Voice still works at least…

She tried again and, with great effort and a lot of grumbling about how ‘nothing is impossible for Pompey the Great’ she managed to prop herself up on the bulkhead behind her.

“Come on Pompey! You’re not gonna sit here and starve, fatigue be damned!” she muttered, mostly to herself.

She forced her legs to move.

“C’mon damn you, one final effort!”

And wow am I getting sick of final efforts…

To her credit, and likely chagrin, her ‘final effort’ lifted her up on shaky legs.

“And so begins my march on toward triumph” she quipped, voice dripping with sarcasm, to no-one.

She unlatched the door to her provisional room, and took in the beautiful sights and smells of a ship on the sea. There were only one major problem with this scenic picture of the Mediterranean: It was framed by layers of scorched, torn bulkhead.

She winced. This ship was soulless, and she knew it. It couldn’t feel pain, it couldn’t think… it was just steel, pipes and wires. But it was a ship. It was like watching someone else getting gutted. Her stomach couldn’t help but twist into knots. A patch on her side began to tingle as if her nerves were checking to see if was all still there.  On some visceral, instinctive level she knew what it was like to be so struck, and counted it a blessing that this metal was not blessed to feel.

“We’ll get you back home, ol’ girl.” She laid a hand on the cool steel of Neapolitanus.

I promise, one ship to another.

“But how to do it?” Her voice echoed slightly down the mostly vacant hall.

Distant sounds of what could only be construction echoed back, distantly.

Her eyes flicked back to the massive gouge in the hull near to her, and shuddered at the prospect of anything being higher up on the repair queue. She should go help, or at least start the process of reporting to the Admiral.

Her clanking footsteps joined the distant hammering as she attempted to make sense of where she was going. The further she went from the depths of the vessel, the more the echoes seemed to surround her. Conte de Cavour was a ship unfamiliar to her and, following the sounds as best she could, she hoped to find someone who was. But, as she came upon the intersecting hatch between decks that the sound seemed to be emanating from, her eyes barely found anything in the lightless abyss. What’s more, she could hear the gentle lapping of water against metal that water should never been in contact with.

Those who can, must. Come on Pompeo…

She slowly began her descent into the darkness.

*thunk*

*thunk*

*thunk*

*thunk*

*thunk*

 *thlup*

Her boot was surrounded by a watery mixture of god-knows-what, coaxing a hissing exhalation from her. She was on the cusp of trying to summon up a bit of her fire as a light source when she inhaled the fouled air. It tasted sweet on her tongue, and made her hungry mouth water, but it was very, very dangerous.

Oil!

The prospect of wading through a foot or more of oily water was not one she welcomed with joy, but there were perks to being a Kansen. She smiled at her own ingenuity and stepped out onto the water. The ceiling was low, but she wasn’t tall: she would just skate across the surface of the slick water.

What could go wrong?

She took another deep, sweet breath as she stepped out onto the water. And immediately sunk a bit above her knees in the oily murk.

Drat.

Just enough water to be an obstacle, but not enough hold her up. It was among the strangest things she had ever felt in the brief moments her embarkation forced the water and oil to mix, but there was nothing to do but continue.

She clumsily felt her way through the darkness and rancid water, occasionally almost tripping on the raised bulkhead doorframes as she moved through sections and waterlogged compartments. After another bulkhead and a right turn, she could see lights up ahead.

As she got closer, she was able to make out the forms of a damage control team. As she got even closer, she was able to discern the object of their fascination: a section of the pump system for this portion of the ship. She waded towards them like some bored swamp monster, schlepping towards them as obviously as she could, but the heavy masks they wore prevented them from hearing her, so when she called out to them…

“Hey sailo-“

“Gah!” the closest man’s muffled shock propelled him away from her and into one of his friends, sending them both tumbling into the slick water.

Four flash-lit helmets, like what you might see coal miners wear, fixed her in their beams, blinding her immediately.

“Hey! Lay off the lights, will you? I’m here to help if I can…” She offered an oil-slickened hand to the closer fallen man.

After two failed attempts at pulling the man, who was also slick with oil, to his feet the pair gave up, much to the amusement of the rest of the damage control party.

“Heh… much obliged Miss Magno, but I but I think the Admiral would want to know you were up and moving.”

“Fixing the ship is more important.” Her tone brooked no argument.

Uncertain lights regarded each other.

“As you wish. Know how to fix a hydraulic pump?”

“Not at all… but I can learn!”

“Really? You are a Kansen, aren’t you?”

She could hear the raised eyebrow in his voice and knit her brow.

“If you found a person with a broken arm, you’d need to take him to a doctor to have it fixed, right? Just because I’m a Kansen does not make me a master mechanic…  but if you give me a wrench and tell me what to do, I can do it!”

Beams of light regarded each other.

“Here’s the thing… we don’t really know either. A lot of us are…”

“New.” She finished for him, recalling the state of the Neapolitan fleet on her arrival.

“Yes.”

“Right, we’ll learn together then! Who has the manual?”

Three beams of light illuminated the oil-soaked man that had fallen most completely into the water.

“Damn. Alright. Where’s central damage control?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?!”

“…Along with what was left of damage control’s senior officers.”

“I see… well. What’s the state of the manual pumps for this section?”

“They need some welding back down the path you came through, so we’re trying to get ventilation going. A fire amidships fused the deck vents, so we’ve been opening compartments to funnel the gas to somewhere that it can be ventilated. You’ve been following our footsteps somewhat. If we don’t vent it, and we flick the power back on…”

“A spark would blow the whole ship up from inside out… How is this ship even still afloat?”

“Counterflooding and being very, very careful about which compartments we unseal.”

“You should all be proud of yourselves. Whoever was training you would be.”

She reflexively bushed a hand against an intact pipe.

You too.

“Which way to central damage control?”

“It isn’t far, but there’s nothing we can do from that burnt, flooded, shredded ruin."

“Humor a Kansen, take me there. I’ve seen a friend work wonders on ship’s equipment and I might be able to recreate a fraction of her success.”

“Very well… Montalti, take Miss Pompeo to damage control, and help her if she needs it. We’ll wrap up here.”

“Aye aye. With me Kansen, hope you’re a miracle worker.” Montali’s cheery voice sounded through his respiratory mask, and set off down the passage.

“Nothing is impossible for Captain Pompey.” She quipped as she followed behind him.

They made quick progress, following his light was a lot easier than feeling her way blindly through the darkness.  But it also allowed her a few glimpses at the state of the ailing ship. Washed out rooms and systems, scorched metal, and hastily patched bulkheads that only barely held out the sea.

“Must have been terrifying first fight…” Pompeo muttered, absentmindedly.

“Yes… it was. I’m still not sure how I survived, or how the ship did. Watch your step.”

“That’s always the question…” Stepping over the threshold of another bulkhead door, her slightly strained voice took on a somber air.

“Ma’am?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“As you wish… here we are.”

It looked like a bomb had gone off, probably because it had: Montalti’s helmet light traced the path of a shell though the room and into the lower levels, obvious even though the floor and ceiling had been hastily patched up.

“Why bother patching this room up at all?”

“Needed to stop the fire from reaching the center guns magazine… seemed like a good idea at the time…”

“It probably was a good idea at the time.” Pompeo offered a half smile when the light regarded her.

“So… what do you intend to do here? Its all broken.”

“… but not unrecognizably so.”

She strode past her chaperone, whose light followed her to one of the more intact looking control panels. Valves and buttons spread out before her, water damage, spalling, and a hint of scorching told her it was probably inoperable even if it did have power. Power which, if turned on, would blow out the ships internals. Still, she placed her hands upon it.

Now… how did you do it?

“Ma’am… there’s no way that-“

“Hush. Not a word. Let me concentrate.”

Pushing the scent of oil and feeling of slick water rolling gently against her skin from her mind, she focused every ounce of her attention on the place where her hands pressed against the cool metal.

How hard could it be…

Just like when creating her orbs of fire, she focused as much energy from her cube as she dared to into her hands.

So far, so good…

Pompeo closed her eyes and imagined the hum of a ship, life coursing thought its copper veins. This image consumed her imagination, and she built upon it by picturing as many pipes and systems and valves as she could in her minds eye with her own ship as a reference.

Come on girl, work with me…

Bright blue light poked through her shut eyelids as she pushed the energy from her into the stricken ship’s systems.

Immediately her senses were flooded with an overwhelming deluge of information. She felt herself being stretched, as if both ends of her soul were being tugged through different cracks in an ever-expanding labyrinth of jagged nooks, crannies, and dead ends.

There was no machinery to make this easier like in mass-produced ships, there was no other cube to split the burden with like Trento enjoyed with her. It was just her playing conduit for a broken ship. The only thing to do was painfully force herself into as much of the ship as she could, through as much of the damage as she could, staying as focused as she could on the various damage control systems. Pompeo gathered her willpower.

On…

The command traveled through her and into the ships myriad systems, and returned a barely perceptible pulse into her splitting head: the ship had responded.

It can be done… come on Pompeo…

She gathered as much of herself as she could; all of what wasn’t searing in agony trying to brute force past all the missing chunks of the system she was trying to command, to try again.

ON!

For a brief moment, she felt parts of the ship flicker to life: progress, but she would need to try harder.

Work with me…

“GRR…COME ON DAMN YOU!” she cursed as forced all the disparate parts of herself scattered throughout the ship to force the shattered steel to obey her command.

And it did, she felt the water pumps spring to life, she felt the air pressure valves for mechanical ventilation begin to suck the rancid air out and fill the compartments with something more breathable, she felt the fuzzy whirring of a living ship as the room around her complied with her command.

She felt her jaw unhinge in a scream she couldn’t hear as the powerplant designed for a destroyer, a cruiser at best, was forced to power a dreadnought battleship through its fractured compartments. What was once a feeling of being stretched was replaced with a feeling of being ripped.

Her acts were, as far as she knew, unprecedented: she had no idea what would happen if she failed to hold herself together. Wisdom cubes were not known to overload, but she had no intention of being patient zero for a cube collapse.

For almost ten minutes, she grit her teeth and bore the agony of her endeavor until her distant perceptions no longer felt water or foul air.

But she had done it.

She gradually withdrew her energy back into herself and the world began to come back into focus. The new air in the room was cool. Oily water no longer lapped at her legs. Only then, once all of her was in the same spot, did she fall to her knees and rest her head against the console.

To her surprise, her knees and forehead struck something damp.

“I thought… all the water was… oh… oh… I see…”

She rested in a small puddle of purple fluid whose poorly mixed portions revealed it to be a mix of blood and cube fluid dripping from her nose and mouth, even flowing from her eyes like uncontrollable tears

“Ma’am?! What did you do? Are you alright?”

“Fixed your ship… help me up.”

“Do you need medical attention!?”

“No… no. No I don’t. I’ll be… fine. I need to eat something…”

“Uh… yes ma’am… I think the galley is-“

“Don’t bother… take me aft and drop in a fuel tank…” she wheezed, wiping, her face as best she could.

“Have you lost your mind?!”

“Heh… you don’t spend a lot of time around Kansen. Humor your… twice savior.” Her purple-stained mouth twisted into a smirk.

“Okay… this way…”

She stepped forward on a shaky leg that immediately gave out under her. But the next thing she hit was not the now-drying floor. Her chaperone managed to catch her.

“Ah… thank y- huh!?”

Perhaps she looked as bad as she felt or, she reasoned, maybe worse. Why else would this sailor have chosen to carry her? Normally, she’d find the energy to scold the man for having the audacity to presume that Captain Pompey the Great was incapable of walking. But, right now she was tired and the man had chosen not to needle her with questions during what was probably the strangest event of his life. Maybe he had earned the privilege.

She closed her eyes. The ship was still dark, and the man’s light was so bright…

She listened to the pounding of footfalls on steel, the stressed breathing of the masked man, and smiled at her own heartbeat. It beat softly than it had before, but she still felt it pulse through her as it tried to recover.

“Montalti! What the hell happened to her?!”

So far away… or maybe my ears are clotted up…

“She did something to the ship, wants me to drop her in a fuel tank. I think she’s worse than she looks.”

“Understood. We’ll inform the Admiral not to flick the engines on. Get going.”

“Yes sir!”

Another long bout of footfalls passed before she felt herself being put down. A moment later, a long screech and hiss of a seal released was followed by the thud of a hatch opening. Again, she was lifted up and then, clumsily stuffed through the small hatch.

Her back hit the pool of oil first, enveloping her head and sliding up her limbs, encasing every finger and filling her shoes. The cool, thin syrup encased her completely, and it felt excellent.

Relief washed over her, and soon within her, as the oil worked its way in through the place where her rigging joined to her body. It was a warm bath after a long day, and a perfect night’s rest. She was glowing, literally: her veins lit with a faint blue as her heart drank in the black gold.

She had no idea how long she soaked in the oil for, nor did she care. Thinking nothing of the passage of time, she allowed herself this rare indulgence. Twice now, she had saved this ship in one form or another.

I’ve earned this…

I deserve this moment…

_______________

Her oil bath lasted a lot longer than it had needed to, not that anyone would know, but eventually the moment needed to pass. Hearing the distant sounds of voices discussing something, she judged now was time to reemerge.

Gripping the lip of the hatch, she gently heaved herself up.

“She’s been in there a while, Ammiraglio. Surely you have better thangs to be doing than wait for her?”

“So do you, as I recall. Most of the barriers stopping you from fixing the ship have been removed, is that not so?”

“Y-yes, Ammiraglo. But-“

“I agree, it is prudent to stick around and hear exactly what she did.”

“I… yes sir!.”

“And there she is.”

“Pompeo Magno, ready and- AH!”

As she disembarked from the oil tank, slipped and lost her grip. The destroyer slid from the tank like a comet with a slippery black tail, and struck the floor hard.

A clank, followed by a long silence.

“… reporting for duty.”

_______________

[Littorio]

“My flagship…”

It was Cesare.

It was always Cesare.

If anyone ever had something to say about any plan any of them could possibly come it with, it was Cesare.

“… it is unwise to stay holed up in Taranto like this now that the Sicilian army has finished the Messina crossing. We should take the fight to the enemy and seize as much of the south as we can before winter.”

Cesare had a temper, more of a temper than Littorio had ever given her credit for. And in the cramped, poorly ventilated war room tempers were bound to flare; Littorio, Cesare, Cavour, Marshal Lombardo, Zara, Pola, and Duca Degli Abruzzi all stood around a map of the old Kingdom of Naples. It was covered with poker chips of various color and magnitude denoting the suspected dispositions of the forces, courtesy of Cesare.

And while yes, they could probably sally forth and attack the Neapolitans while they were forming up, it was, frankly, a stupid idea and she could not believe Cesare would even suggest it. But she had to say so carefully.

“Signora-“

“Don’t you signora me!” Cesare cut her off. “We can’t sit in this city until the Neapolitans occupy or destroy the farmland that Taranto requires to feed itself!”

“My dear Cesare. You don’t waste words and I admire your passion. In fact, I could not ask for a better second in command, but you’re out of line. Now let me explain why I believe what I believe. You’re right, you absolutely are: December is right around the corner and soon the battle lines will be drawn when everyone digs in for the winter. They can’t siege us out, we control the seas to the east of Messina, and I’m sure Sicily can keep us supplied enough- not to ask even more of you, Governor-“

“Think nothing of it, Sicillia is fully committed to this endeavor. Whatever you require, she shall provide.”

“- and the Neapolitans must know that. They will try to crush us before the winter sets in, as they won’t want to try to logistically support their massive army in the winter either. And I have it on good authority the army marching towards us now is a hastily gathered one: Napoli wants to finish this quickly, they’ll attack us here where we’re strongest.”

“Why would they stop for winter, it doesn’t snow down here does it?” Abruzzi asked aloud.

The longer haired Kansen exchanged a glance.

“Not really,” the acting flagship admitted, “but it rains. Ceaselessly. The whole countryside turns into a muddy mess.”

“It would be impossible to move an army through the south’s… neglected infrastructure once the roads reduce themselves to mud.” Lombardo added, versed in managing an army in the southern ‘winter.’

“Still, even right now, it would be suicide: the Sicilian army is gathered in Calabria. The Neapolitans aren’t organized enough, nor are they numerous enough. Why would they march to their deaths?” It was Cavour this time.

Incredible.

For once, the Cavour sisters seemed united in opinion. A real shame it was giving her a headache.

“They don’t know we know they’re coming. And they don’t know how much of the Esercito di Sicillia made the crossing. General… oh who was it… met him at a gala once… Vessellio… Vecellio- yes that was him- probably doesn’t even know they lost the battle of Messina, and he’s one of the new breed of officers- the ones that are too eager to prove themselves for their own good. He’ll attack.”

It was Abruzzi, of all Kansen, who defended her. And Lombardo was hot on her heels.

“You’ll have nothing to worry from the second half of the Esercito di Napoli. It will be led by General Bianchi, and while he is an excellent general, he will be stuck wrangling Montallo’s incompetent and lethargic military bureaucracy. He is in no condition to reinforce Vecellio, who I agree will not wait for him.”

“Then he’s a fool!” Cesare stammered.

“No. No he isn’t. He’s a Sardegnian. And that is how I know what he’s doing; its exactly what we did at Calabria, Mattapan and Malta.” Littorio’s words were almost involuntary.

“That was different!” Pola protested, “nobody was doing anything when something needed to be done!”

“… which is exactly what I convinced Veneto of before Mattapan. When we almost lost you. Audacity is a virtue, and to him I’m sure his strategy to seize Taranto before our forces can unify and ending the war in a season makes perfect sense. But he doesn’t know what he’s walking into, like we had no idea what we were sailing into. He will lose his army the same way we lost our fleet…”

She made a point of moving half the ‘Neapolitan’ chips towards the ring of ‘Tarentines’. Then she surrounded them with the ‘Sicilians’ before flicking them away- towards Cesare.

“He will assault our fortifications, Lombardo’s men will cut off their retreat, and we’ll grind them to dust. Our victory will be more complete at less cost than marching out to fight them in the open could ever be. Any objections?”

Nothing.

That shut them up.

“Zara, you’ve been quiet.”

Zara’s eyes were wide, staring at the place the Neapolitan chips used to occupy.

“I’m used to laying traps for people, I even enjoy watching them squirm as they realize I’ve got them but… this is so different than making people carry my bags…”

“It is what we must do to keep ourselves from being left squirming in the clutches of the world.”

“The world isn’t something we need to navigate by the sword alone…” Cavour muttered aloud.

“It isn’t giving us much of a choice is it?!” Cesare snapped at her.

“Did we ever give it much of a choice?!” Cavour snapped back.

There they go…

“Our countrymen certainly didn’t, and that’s what matters for now.” Abruzzi cut the both of them off.

“Our countrymen will stop supporting Dictator Spinola after we seize Napoli come spring.” Lombardo’s words were uttered with adamantine conviction.

“You sound certain.” Abruzzi remarked, before glancing a knowing look at her.

“Why wouldn’t I be? Our cause is just, the people love Littorio, and my position as Governor, though in dispute, legitimizes our little government. We have all the elements we need for a just and legitimate transition of power.”

“I suppose so… who better to become the next head of the senate than a war-hero whose merit already earned him a governorship…” Abruzzi did not shift her eyes from Littorio’s until she had finished her remark.

“We will cross that bridge when we come to it, I have no doubt that whatever remains of the senate after we clean it up will appoint who they believe is best for the job. It could very well be any one of us, or some up and coming officer who will distinguish themselves in the coming weeks.” Lombardo dismissed her comment quickly.

Perhaps too quickly…

Abruzzi was right. It was unlikely that, given any alternative, the Sardegnian Senate would not appoint Lombardo as the its head, Dictator even, when they win. He was, in fact, human, a war hero, and already in government. His possible appointment to Marshal of Italy was probably why he was being so supportive…

“Napoli is a long way from here. Let us not start dividing the spoils before we’ve won them. There will be plenty of glory for us all.” Littorio moved to deescalate the situation, “might I remind you, Abruzzi, that overconfidence is exactly why the empire now tears itself apart. And it is what we’re counting on to deliver the Neapolitans into our clutches.”

“Of course, my flagship.” The dignitary bowed her head in acknowledgement.

“Now, if there are no further additions… I declare this meeting adjourned. Dismissed!”

“Yes, my flagship!” All the Kansen chorused, and all began to file outside of the dockside HQ except for one: Cesare.

The Sicilian glanced between them, nodded curtly, and left.

Leaving just Cesare and her alone.

The silence was deafening.

She seems… uncomfortable.

She chose to break it.

“What’s wrong Cesare, you seem troubled.”

“Damn… Cesare inhaled dramatically, “I’m sorry for my outburst before. I meant no disrespect.”

“Cesare, think nothing of it. In truth, I’ve always found your lack of care for decorum something of a charming thing~. Its why I’ve always I’ve always enjoyed our banter. I wouldn’t come down on you at all if my position wasn’t so… fragile.”

“The times really are changing… what could possibly have the mightiest battleship in the Mediterranean in a twist?”

“Funny, signora. Very funny. But they are. When would you have ever seen me laying out plans in war room, gesturing at maps and trying guide our little coalition into something coherent.”

“Never, your sister did it. But… it suits you, if you don’t mind my saying. Veneto never much liked to take a hardline stance on anything.”

“She never needed to… it was Veneto’s talent to get everyone to agree on something without much conflict. Even from you, my cantankerous signora, who went straight for my neck today…”

“You managed to break free of my grasp just fine. I’m a little embarrassed, to be honest.”

“My dear Cesare~…” she practically sang the name, tasting each syllable and dragging out the last, ”…you’re a passionate woman who cares deeply about the outcome of our struggle. And sometimes our passion gets the better of us. Nobody is perfect, not even me. But I will always-all-ways-,  appreciate your willingness to plant your flag; half the issue with our senate is that it is full to the brim with spineless yes-men. But next time you feel the need to throw yourself at me like a rabid animal, instead of in the middle of an important meeting, wait until I’m off duty~” She winked at Cesare, who faintly blushed.

“I’ll keep that in mind in case you ever do something I take issue with…” Cesare tilted her head slightly to the side with cautious curiosity.

Littorio was about to tease her further when the alarm bells began ringing, then footsteps as various staff officers flew and flitted about. She dashed to the door, pulled it inward and marched out into the hallway.

“You! Report!” She snatched an officer from the stream of flesh coursing through the building’s concrete veins.

“Incoming fleet sighted; they aren’t ours!”

“How did they slip through the straits?!” Littorio was baffled.

“They couldn’t have come through the straits… around maybe?” Cesare speculated.

“Regardless of how they got here, they’re coming. We have ten minutes before they’re in range, but Amero d’Este will keep them occupied while we ready ourselves for battle. As you were guardsman… Cesare, with me!”

“What’s the plan?”

“Why, sail out and demand their surrender of course!”

They already weren’t far from the port; she could see her ship from the window of the conference room they had just departed. So, the pair of battleships joined the river of captains, clerks, and guardsmen as they flowed out into the midday sun.

“Do you feel that, Cesare?” Littorio beamed, surely as the sun did.

“Relishing the idea of sailing into battle again? Even after everything?”

“Signora, I have been playing every game but mine for a month! Papers and papers upon papers upon papers upon requisition forms upon meetings followed by bickering and bickering followed by plotting… let’s go get some glory for a change!” Littorio smirked at her companion and began sprinting towards the water.

“As you say!” Cesare followed at her flagship’s heels, her voice betraying her own enthusiasm.

The Lictor did not even wait for her rigging to materialize around her before her feet hit the water, instead electing to race her own energy to the horizon. Bolts of blue light twisted, arced and stretched their way towards her in a dazzling display of light. She looked incredible, and she knew it. Ever the performer, she sailed as fast as she could in a sweeping path along the port, chased by a dozen steadily encroaching comets. And, ever the flirt, she winked as she passed by a rigged-up Cesare, who rolled her eyes as the Lictor looped around to her side.

“Would it kill you to take this more seriously?” the buzzkill grumbled.

“It would kill me not to take advantage~” The flagship sighed as her rigging fully materialized.

The comforting weight tugged at her balance, attempting to tease her into falling backwards with the same gravity of a warm bed on a cold morning. She shifted it’s weight in turn, her cannons flicked around her like one might wrap themselves in a heavy blanket. Her rigging eagerly wrapped itself around her too; steeled hardened her skin like scales woven into her body, her brain filled with information from all the mechanical systems.

“Battleship Littorio, setting sail!”

Her body pulsed with a new cold, metallic warmth. An overwhelming sensation of completeness filled her, even as she was the least human she could be. If someone gripped her wrists hard enough, then might still feel the faint pulse of her 'heart' through her alloyed flesh.

A false heart that beat like it hadn't in weeks. Her blood sang as she surged across the surface of the water, and wondered if this was how the gulls felt when they took to the sky? No, this was more effortless for her than a birds flight.

"Slow down Littorio!" Cesare called after her, being just a few knots shy of being able to keep up with her flagship.

"Ah of course... I should know better..." Littorio looped back around and brought herself alongside an amused Cesare.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to escape me."

"My Darling Cesare, YOU are the one always dragging me to meetings... maybe its your turn to get dragged~"

Without missing a beat, the Emerald maiden took her companion by the arm and shot off across the waves at full tilt, with the hapless Cesare in tow.

"H-HEY! WOAHWOAHWOAH WHAT ARE YOU DO-ING" The normally stoic Cesare floundered as she desperately tried to keep balance, suddenly dragged 4 Knots over her normal capabilities.

Eventually, Cesare sorted herself out and was shakily skating in her Lictor's wake.

"You've got a quick heartbeat Cesare, have you never had your hand held before~"

"I'd hardly call your death-grip handholding! And I don’t go 30 knots!"

"Your heart does~ Now get serious, I see our targets on the horizon."

"Now get serious." Cesare repeated sarcastically, "they haven't started shooting yet, that's a good sign.

An admittedly unimpressive battlefleet arrayed itself across a quarter of the horizon. A few old Trento-class cruisers and half-dozen Navigatori-class destroyers filled out most of the fleet. At its core was, to her eyes, one Zara-class cruiser and… an aircraft carrier.

An aircraft carrier?

Sardegna only had two; they didn’t really even mass-produce them like gun-ships.

And it wasn’t Aquila, it couldn’t be: they would have seen her slip her Adriatic moorings, and she wouldn’t ever be sailing towards them from the south.

Leaving one unexpected answer.

It was then that Littorio stopped dead in the water: there were two figures approaching them, a pair Littorio knew well.

"Really, sister. Is this how you welcome us home?" A familiar carrier chided, somewhat amused by the look of shock on the Lictor’s face.

"Littorio... You've had a busy few weeks." Her companion awkwardly called out to her, hesitation carrying on the wind.

"Veneto... Welcome back to Taranto.”

For the first time they had stood face to face since Veneto stood at her bedside after Calabria… was that really the best she could muster? 'Welcome back to Taranto' like her sister had gone out for a walk…

“You’re not good at this are you, Littorio? At least give her a hug!” Impero drawled, already bored of their reunion.

“That’s enough, Impero. She has a lot on her plate.” Veneto quipped at the carrier.

“You’re right… but she is too.” The Lictor crossed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around her favorite sister. “Welcome home, Veneto.”

Maybe it was because she was armored up, but there was little warmth in their embrace and not through lack of trying. Something was missing.

"My flagship... we should return."

Both she and Veneto turned to look at Cesare, whose eyes darted between them. Littorio, with a reluctance she didn't understand, deferred to her sister.

"Shall we, my eternal flagship?"

“I am… eager to see how you’ve been doing.”

“Not as eager as I am to hear how you escaped the Eternal City…”

“I have Carabiniere to thank for that…”

“Your aide d’ camp escaped with you? Where is she?”

“Malta… as my liaison to Warspite.”

“Your what?”

“You heard me. Warspite hasn’t given up on our deal and neither have I.”

“I see.”

“You don’t sound excited that we have a powerful friend abroad…”

“We will talk later, politics and strategy spoil anything. Though I’m sure Cesare will miss dragging me to meetings. I do have something I would drag you to, in the meantime, should you wish.”

“Planning a party? What ever for?”

“I was going to promote a captain into the admiralty this evening, though my authority to do so just vanished. It will have to be you that does the honors. It was going to be a small thing, but now that the prodigal daughter of Sardegna has returned…”

“Say no more. If anything I heard about on Malta is true, than Taranto needs a moment. Perhaps I can help you give it one.”

“What do you say Cesare, will you shut up about the war for an evening and enjoy yourself?”

Littorio lagged back to where Cesare had fallen behind the faster battleships and threw her arm around her.

“That would be… absurd.”

“Veneto?” Littorio gave her sister her biggest, most pathetic puppy dog eyes, still clutching Cesare.

“You’re coming, Cesare.”

“Tsk. As you say.” The modern dreadnought’s eyes fixed Littorio with an unyielding glare.

A small, involuntary snicker caught the eternal flagships attention.

“As are you, Impero.”

“Fat chance. You owe me a nap, and I’m collecting.”

“Oh don’t be like that, it’s been so long since you’ve been on the mainland!”

 “Festivities are too… exhausting. That was half of why I never came ‘home.’ There were never parties I had to go to in Tobruk, and that was fine with me.”

“My goodness Veneto… we can’t be the only Kansen in Sardegna that aren’t sticks in the mud?”

This earned a chuckle from the silvery woman; “Among the battleships, we may be.”

Chapter Text

[Littorio]

 It’ll be a short ceremony; few will attend and even fewer will know you.

Her words had aged like milk.

People filled the great hall of the old castle-turned-fort-turned-naval base. Guardsmen, sailors, Sicilians, Tarentines, curious civilians, and people with nothing better to do or nowhere better to be strode about making merry. A winding tapestry of blue, green, white, red and gold shimmered and waved as the crowd mingled, eating, talking, and dancing. The navy’s band was currently playing a rousing rendition of Marcia Reale. It had been an impressive turnout for something she had escalated so suddenly and without warning; word that the Eternal Flagship had returned and would be conducting most of the proceedings had traveled fast.

Solari was going to kill her.

Few would know him, that was still true. But it wouldn’t be short, and it would be full of about as many people as could be packed into Castello Aragonese. It was the one place in Taranto that the Regia Marina still clung to, having refused to integrate with the Guard at the beginning of the war.

Even though those stubborn nationalists had fought with the rest of them at Calabria, even though they would undoubtably hang alongside the Guard should they all fail, even though they barely had a cruiser to their name, even though their numbers had been quartered and officers decimated, when the city was quiet and the sea calm, sometimes the wind would carry a verse or two of La Ritirata  from the walls to her in the harbor.

They hadn’t quite disowned Solari enough to deny her request that he be promoted in the restored great hall of the old fortress. What an odd place he would occupy as captain of the Navy and admiral of the Guard. It struck her that they had almost been enthusiastic, no, insistent that he be promoted here; as if to reaffirm their claim over one of their own.

“Ma’am.”

Always ma’am, never Comandare or even Littorio… Stubborn nationalists.

She chided herself for her petty spite; these men did not answer to her. She should just expect their formality as a sign of respect, even outside of their command chain.

“You’ve outdone yourselves Sottocapo~ This place looks magnificent!”

“We’ve had a lot of time on our hands, few of us there are. Everyone in the military starts as a janitor.”

“Ha! But it is true, even I spent some of my early life with a barnacle scraper.”

“Really? I didn’t know Kansen did much menial work.”

“My darling corporal, there is much for you to learn about Kansen… and there is much we could teach you~” she finished with a wink.

“So! Uh… where is the man of the hour. Its about time for you whisk Solari away from us, no?”

Littorio chuckled. “I have no doubt the old man is cursing his miserable ass of while Pola drives him over from the tailor, and that he’s only being kept in the car at all by Zara’s polite but firm grip on his shoulder.”

“I imagine he’s thrilled to be duped into a big party- by a Kansen no less.”

“Ah… yes. Do you know him well?”

“No,” the man admitted, “but the ‘Cyclops of Ionia’ is gaining a bit of a legend.”

“Wait wait… you call him what?” Littorio’s smile only grew.

“I Ciclopi di Ionia, Veteran of the Redemption War, sailor of the empire’s four corners, chosen of the flagship, the first mortal to face down the sirens in the Mediterranean and live, Captain of the newest ship in the fleet, soldier, sailor, spy, and now Admiral of the Guard.”

“You can’t be serious…” Littorio chuckled, concealing a tinge of jealousy.

“Legend has it that, when the sirens took his eye… they left something behind.” A passing sailor added.

“I hear he sees things nobody else can see…” A second man declared as he too passed by.

“You’ll have to forgive them; their imaginations have run wild. They tell stories to keep their janitorial work interesting.”

“Does he know you call him that?”

“He’s begrudgingly accepting his place in the spotlight but… never have I seen a man so resistant to claiming his glories. He’s the least Sardegnian Sardegnian I’ve ever met…”

“He once told me he wants nothing more than to retire to some old house in the Northern Countryside. Of course, he was lying, his tour was up a year ago. I doubt he would have signed on again if he thought he'd be spending most the year with me…”

“You know, he doesn’t talk much about what you…”

“He wouldn’t. That man resents me, always has and always will. But here I am, throwing him a party. I’m sure it eats at him.” She didn’t resist the urge to smile.

“And there he is, exactly as you suspected.” The sailor gestured to the big double doors they had left propped open- vast, ornate things with the crest of an old kingdom embossed into their vast face.

“At least he has the good decency not to scowl. Excuse me, Sottocapo. I must attend to my guest.”

The soon to be Sottoamiraglio in question strode into the room flanked by the two Zara sisters. Their small procession turned heads, but not many. She was sure many wondered at who the one-eyed man was to be so unheard of, yet warranted the company of two sea goddesses, and the attention of a third.

“Welcome, mi Comandare~ What do you think of your new uniform?” Her grin stretched as wide as the Mediterranean.

“It will take some getting used to, but I won’t complain.”

His eyes told her he would, if he felt he could.

“Excellent.” She ignored those eyes, “I trust that you didn’t give these two lovely women too much trouble?”

“I can’t detest the Kansen,” he stressed the word, “for following orders.”

“He was… better behaved than you said he’d be; we caught him disembarking his ship. Nowhere to run.” Zara regarded Solari with a wry, mirthless smile generally unbecoming of her disposition.

“I’ve never seen a man so bitterly resigned as the Captain here.” Pola regarded him with slightly more sympathy and regarded her with a raised eyebrow.

“The good Captain has always had an acute sense of circumstance, it’s why he stands here now, and it’s something you both could stand to learn.” Littorio chided them both, “Now run along, enjoy yourselves. The night is young.”

With a mirrored salute, the pair of Kansen dispersed. Leaving the pair alone in the crowd.

“You really should smile, Solari. Many officers would kill to stand where you are now…” Littorio offered an olive branch.

“Even so, all eyes are still on you.” The as-of-yet captain accepted her offer, his slight frown smoothing out. “Unless Veneto is about?”

The Lictor rolled her eyes as the moment passed.

“She’s in the back. My sister isn’t the biggest fan of parties. You and her are quite similar in that regard, it seems.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

Her jaw slackened for a split second before she recovered control of it.

“You? Excited to meet my sister? Did you hit your head on the car door when Zara stuffed you through it?”

“I’m not in a hurry to make a friend of her, don’t worry. But who wouldn’t want to meet the Kansen that caused it all?” The self-satisfied smile on his face revealed his amusement at her lapse of control.

“Then come, I’ll take you to her. It’s high time we began the festivities properly.”

Littorio turned with a beckoning wave and strode off through the crowd, and Solari followed.

“So… they’ve taken to calling you the Cyclops of Ionia?”

“Let them have their fun, as you do yours.”

“They also say you can talk to Sirens.” She glanced back over her shoulder, amused.

“Yes, and I can fire lasers out of my empty socket if you listen to some.”

This earned a laugh from her; “That should come in handy if you ever need to repel boarders… again.”

“The rank you’ve elevated me to is about as old fashioned as a boarding action. When was the last Sub-Admiral of Sardegna?”

“Come now, surely you didn’t expect me to give you real authority over any of my-Veneto’s loyal flag officers?”

“You wound me, where’s the trust?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Ah, I must have left it in my other uniform. Now, square yourself away and enter.”

They had arrived at the antechamber- if you could even call it that- on the far side of the great hall. Littorio pulled the door open and gestures for her charge to enter before following him in.

“This was what was originally planned.” She announced to the back of his head.

Over his shoulder was a gathering of senior flag officers, of few of which had even been on the Littorio II as staff officers at her… request. They had all since been promoted. Even the senior officers were quite young after Calabria.

After Calabria…

How many of my thoughts start and end that way?

The star of the room was undoubtedly Veneto, resplendent in her signature Crimson amid a shallow sea of blue and green uniforms.

She made eye contact with her sister, who smiled.

She enjoys this more than she’ll ever admit.

The silvery woman strode across the room, the sound of her slender sword clearing its sheath silencing the murmurs of the officers.

They gathered around in a semi-circle, a wall at attention around the three of them. On this rare occasion, she stepped back, away from the center of attention to watch.

“Capitano Francesco Solari. Step forward.” Declared the Eternal Flagship.

Littorio’s amused eyes followed as the Captain stepped forward with some hesitation; she had never bothered to tell him that her sister would be conducting the proceedings, nor had she warned him that they would begin immediately.

“We’ll forgo the kneeling, but bow your head.”

Again, the Captain complied.

The shiver-cold flat of Veneto’s sword brushed both shoulders and then the top of the man’s graying head.

“Rise as Sottoamiraglio di Guardia. The first in a generation.” Veneto pronounced.

“You honor me.”

“Get something to drink, Admiral.”

Over his shoulder, she watched Veneto’s expression soften, and the Admiral departed.

Littorio regarded her sister with a warm smile as she stepped closer; “You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“Truthfully, I am. Breaking bread with my countrymen is something I took for granted up until recently. And, it’s nice to drink something a little more… relieving than tea. Care to join me?”

Littorio nodded, and Veneto led her to a table off to the side of the room and sat her down next to a bottle and two tall glasses of wine.

“You still haven’t told me why I just promoted your favorite captain yet. I trust you weren’t just flexing your provisional power?” Veneto joked, but her joking tone did not entirely hide her curiosity.

Littorio laughed with her, “No, but I will miss it just a little. The good Captain, well, Admiral now, was instrumental in thwarting a manned torpedo attack on the harbor after returning from an errand I set him on.”

First Cavour… now you…

“You have the Captain you spent all that time training running errands for you? My sister really has let the power go to her head…”

“Someone needed to go see what was going on in Naples. It ended up being him.”

Veneto nodded in approval. “If there is one thing my time abroad taught me, it is the importance of knowing.”

“I wonder, must we talk about the war tonight? I’m sure Cesare would chat your ear off about strategy and conquest and ‘washing away the stains on our honor with the blood of our treacherous senate’ but, honestly, I could use the break…”

“Are you alright? I’ve never heard you talk like that…”

“It was all… easier when all there was to do was whine about the Senate and accompany you around the Empire to parties much like this.”

“Amazing what barely half a month can do, isn’t it?”

“I have no right to pout. Every action I’ve taken was for the greater good, no matter how they might have ended up. And I have no regrets. Our cause- your cause, is just. And we will triumph in it. Rest assured I will drag your accusers out of the rubble of the Eternal City itself if that is what it takes to see this through.”

“… and yet… you’re pouting?”

“No. I’m not.” She shook her head, denying Veneto and shaking her own doubts from her mind. “I’m your sword, the Thorned Rose of the Empire, ready to bloody those that would try to tear us from the earth.”

“You’re also my sister, and you can tell me what bothers you.”

Those silver eyes bored into her, flaying through her attempts to lie to them with her expression.

“Ah… signora… your time at court and capitol has armed you well…”

Veneto regarded her sadly. “I’ve travelled the empire up and down, from the Alps to Sicily, across every sea to every colony and corner. The ruins and the revival. I’ve sat in more palaces, spoken to more generals and nobles and politicians than I can count. And I have found fault in every inch, person, and place in the empire. None of it is perfect. But it is all beautiful.”

“That is why we fight to save it from itself, lest its flaws, like weeds in the garden, strangle all that makes it shine.”

“Littorio.” Veneto reached out and placed a firm hand on hers, sending a shiver down her spine through her arm. “Sardegna is beautiful even though it isn’t perfect. I think that’s true of you as well. Allow yourself to be less than perfect.”

“Your heart is in the right place, but we both know that just isn’t true. People aren’t fighting because neither of us can guess at what the empire will look like when were finished with it, they’re fighting because the women on the propaganda posters have given them a righteous cause, and we would do well to keep up the image of perfection.”

“You were never so cynical before… what changed?”

“Oh dear… Cesare must be rubbing off on me… she’s been teaching me a lot about what it means to lead. And you know, I think that’s what makes her so…”

“Direct, intense, stern?”

“All of the above.” She said with a smile, “And a massive buzzkill. I think a scowl looks much better on her. Oh how she clashes with my cheery disposition!”

“You’ve spent a lot of time with her in my absence?”

“Whenever it can’t be helped! In the same way that I drag you to battles, she drags me to staff meetings.”

“Dear sister, from what I saw of your interactions with her, you deserve it. You can’t tease a girl like that and expect her not to also try to make your life awkward and miserable.”

“I think she likes it, underneath that iron façade of hers.”

“I think you’d have no idea either way.”

“Signora, there are not many things I’ll claim to be an expert in, and even fewer I actually am, but trust me, I know.”

“And how are you so certain?”

“Simple. Everyone, and I mean everyone, likes feeling like the center of the universe. And… I owe it to her. If she didn’t take this all so seriously we might be a lot worse off. Plus, if she didn’t want to be chased she wouldn’t run, and there is nothing quite so glorious as the hunt~”

_______________

[Conte di Cavour]

She needed to see for herself.

Her time phoning old friends and sifting through old archives and reports had born fruit. But she needed to be sure.

She stalked the crowd, looking for a face she recognized. There was bound to be one around…

Zara was making her way back from the makeshift bar with another bottle of wine.

She would have to do.

“Greetings, Zara, enjoying your evening.”

The fiery cruiser turned to face her on unsteady legs. Her face was flushed, her smile was wide, and her breath smelled like berries. It was not her first bottle.

“Heyyyy Cavourrr… I’m doin… sho goood. How… howryou?”

“I’m looking for Solari, the man with one eye?”

“The shyclopss… he’s… uh… with the flagssship.”

“Thank you and… consider slowing down a bit; you look ready to faint.”

Zara just blinked at her, confused. “Can’t.”

“Why”

“Cheshuray.”

“What?”

She gestured, clumsily, across the room. Sitting there was Cesare, similarly blitzed, and Pola, who was trying to keep her head upright.

Cavour glared a moment at Cesare, who smiled with a rare mischief and shrugged.

“Bet. Embarassssing bet. Won’t lossse.”

Cavour pried her eyes away from her misbehaving sister and regarded Zara.

“Thank you for your help, give my sister hell; she deserves it.”

Departing her comrades, she sought where her flagship would likely be. With luck, her quarry would be there too.

Entering the antechamber, she looked around the dim room. Veneto and Littorio were talking and laughing like they always had, and it warmed her heart to see it.

And there, in the back, was the one-eyed man, seated with a few other officers sharing stories.

They stopped when she approached. The men looked between themselves and Solari, evidently seeing something behind her eyes, rose.

“Excuse me, gentleman. I must take my leave of you. Enjoy your evening.”

“Nonsense, sit. We were just leaving.”

She nodded to the men, who nodded back as they filed out, and sat down.

“Have a seat, please. I don’t know if we’ve ever been formally introduced. I’m Conte di Cavour, but Cavour will  suffice.”

“Sottoamiraglio Francesco Solari. At your service.” He sat, and regarded her warily.

“Ah, Littorio’s rising star. A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is mine. I was unaware I had caught the attention of one of Sardegna’s great veterans.”

“Littorio talks.”

“Ah… that she does. With vigor and enthusiasm. What does she say?”

“Not enough to matter, but enough to pique my interest. A damaged ship has a lot of time on her hands.”

“And she uses that time to inquire after old sailors?”

“To brush up on her history. I’ve spent the last twenty years learning about the twenty years before them. You might say I’m haunted by them, and I am.”

“They haunt everyone that saw the war. There's no shame in that.”

“Did you lose family?”

“My father. At Otranto.”

“I lost a sister at Otranto.”

“I didn’t know Kansen could…”

“We aren’t invincible…” She snapped, but regained her composure, “Were you and your father close?”

“His first love was always his country. What little time we spent together, he instilled in me the virtues of service. He’s why I joined, and stayed, in the navy.”

“What were you before?”

“There was no before. As soon as I could, I ran to sea.”

“You have that in common with us. Granted, we don’t have a choice.”

“What was your sister like?”

“Extravagant, unlike Cesare and I. With a bottomless passion for the arts beyond belief. She gilded everything with red and gold, living like she had never left the Florentine Renaissance. Paintings filled her walls, I still have most of them; each one a loving rendition of famous people and places from her travels across the empire. I’ll never stop missing her.”

“What would she think of all this?”

“She’d probably appreciate the chance to paint something new.”

A smile crept onto the face of the new Admiral.

“Stay a moment.” He got up and left. Leaving Cavour alone with her thoughts for a moment.

Could you have been one of my sister’s killers?

Soon, the Admiral returned with a pair of glasses.

“To your sister, and your health.”

“To your father and yours. Cheers.”

She drank the toast and took a moment to let the liquid warm her chest before she took in a deep breath.

“Admiral, we’ve treated with one another, told a bit of our stories, shared the surface of our grievances. Tell me, honestly and without fear, are you a Styrian?”

The Admiral said nothing for a long moment, but cracked the barest hint of a smile over the rim of his glass.

“What gave me away?”

“Nobody commissions as a captain. And you don’t exist on any Sardegnian paperwork until ’21. There was no Solari in the Sardegnian navy.”

“Very good. I was commissioned into the Styrian navy as a Seefähnrich in 1911. I saw the war out in full. After Otranto, the Commonwealth needed captains. I survived, so I got promoted. When the war ended, Sardegna needed captains that spoke some Styrian just like all the engineers on the large, mass-produced prize fleet they took. Someone had to translate the manuals, at the very least…”

“If I hadn’t done digging, I never would have known. You don’t look, or sound, like a Styrian.”

“I was born in Trieste before it was ‘Redeemed’, my Sardegnian is as good as yours.”

“What are the chances I’m sitting across from one of my sister’s killers?”

“Not high, but not zero. What are the chances I’m sitting across from my father’s killer?”

“Not high, but not zero.”

“Does honor demand anything from us now?”

“I… have always sought some closure for my sister… as a fellow officer of the guard, I could challenge you to a duel if you wish…”

Cavour was surprised at her own words, and so was the admiral.

After a long moment of consideration, the admiral responded.

“After the war.”

“Do you have a death wish?” Cavour was incredulous.

The Admiral searched for the words in his glass for a long moment.

“The world is moving on, Kansen. I know you feel it. Styria is gone, divided, and annexed. Sardegna is either going to follow in its footsteps or live forever as a bystander. We’re loyal to corpses. Perhaps we, as among the last of the old guard, owe it to ourselves and the things we once fought for to go out with a roar…”

“If you believe that, why sail for the empire at all? Why serve a corpse?” It unnerved her to hear her secret thoughts coming from the mouth of another.

“It all needed to be for something, didn’t it? Perhaps the double-headed eagle no longer flies over Trieste, but its people live on. I live on. The Commonwealth died so Sardegna could rise. And it was the Sardegnian navy or begging on the streets or being taken advantage of like thousands of other war veterans. I can’t forgive the empire for dooming my country, and I can’t forgive the empire for giving me a second chance any more than I can forgive myself for taking it. But I can do more good on a ship than on streets: the empire must survive, or it all will have been for nothing.”

“Were it only the case that we were all that much better off for our victory… I wonder how much of the support we enjoy now is because our Senate has failed to make our national sacrifice meaningful. How we fought a great war, at such terrible cost to ourselves, only to be stabbed in the back once by our old allies, and then again by our newest ones?”

“You should also wonder if the reason the government enjoys such support from the rest of the empire because they’re tired of fighting, and perhaps, that the honor of a Kansen isn’t worth a civil war.”

“But maybe it is… maybe Littorio is right about our senate. All those people fought so that Sardegna could gain its place in the world, and our senate would sit in Rome and let our glory fade.”

“How many crosses are you willing to plant for pride?”

“About as many as you. Sottoamiraglio di Guardia. But, we should stop.”

“You’re right, we ought not to be stabbing at each other until this grand drama has played out…”

“I still can’t believe you’re serious.”

“Come now, don’t tell me the chance of getting some closure isn’t appealing to you…”

“Littorio wouldn’t approve…”

“To hell with her. I don’t want anything to do with her after-”

Just then, three Kansen barged into the room. Three very drunk Kansen: Zara, Pola, and an uncharacteristically nervous-looking Cesare.

Cavour watched her sister stumble  straight up to the green haired woman  after being clumsily shoved by the two cruisers.

“Vvvveni, vidddi, viiici!” Cesare shouted at the top of her lungs before grabbing Littorio’s almost full glass of wine and downing it in one massive gulp.

When the green haired woman opened her mouth to protest, Cesare tackled, but more like fell onto and pushed, the Lictor to the floor.

Cavour could not see what happened next, but a few moments later a red-faced Cesare stood up, saluted, about faced, and walked out of the room. Cavour heard her break into a clumsy run as soon as she passed out if view.

Moments later, a confused, similarly red-faced but smiling Littorio also stood, bowed to Veneto, and chased after her. Leaving the laughter of the Zara sisters and the befuddlement of everyone else.

“Pola, explain to me what just happened.” Cavour was on her feet, closing with the cruisers.

“Cesssare lost the bet.”

Cavour shot a look between the two of them, and all they could think to do was keep smiling like idiots.

“Well done Zara.”

“Oh, were you the mastermind behind this heinous attack on my dear sister?” Veneto accused, hiding most of her obviously smiling mouth behind a white-gloved hand.

“I assssure you, Eternal Flagssship Cavooour is *hic* innocccent!”

Zara came to her defense, stepping forward, pointing at the ceiling in declaration, tripping over her own feet, and was only barely caught by Solari, who was about as surprised at having a heavy cruiser in his arms as the heavy cruiser was to be still mostly upright.

“My *hic* hero…” In spite of herself, the redhead sidled up against her knight.

The Admiral rolled his eyes; Cavour surmised that that was his favorite thing to do, and promptly foisted the drunk cruiser onto her slightly, slightly less drunk sister.

“I believe this is yours.”

Veneto, unable to contain herself any longer, burst our laughing. Dominoes fell as everyone, including Cavour herself, but excluding a still confused Zara and a slightly flustered Admiral.

“Ha…ah … alright… Pola, go sit your sister down somewhere, you’ve caused enough trouble this evening. Conte di Cavour, it seems am now in want of company, care to join me?”

“Of course, Veneto. I would be glad to. Take care, admiral.”

Cavour followed Veneto back to her table, and righted the former seat of Littorio.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about our mutual friend Lombardo.”

“Ah, yes. Our Sicilian Samaritan. What about him?”

“I met him in Rome, just before my address to the Senate. He was there at your request, but why?”

“Not beating around the bush tonight, are we? Very well; I worried they would try to sell your life, as I thought they might. To them, it was yours or theirs; our senate would never break with the Crimson Axis while it appeared they were winning.”

“I knew it was a long shot, but I thought the Ironbloods disregard for us might have been enough to convince enough of them that we would be better off with the Azur Lane. I mean, I’ve spent my life traveling the country and meeting with them. I suppose I misread my countrymen. Perhaps I thought too highly of them, or maybe I was starstruck… I’m still much never at this than you...”

“You might know those men from parties and galas, but I know them from the war room. They may mostly be elected or appointed, but the war heroes still have the real power. And the business of Generals to exchange life for gain, political or strategic. They would have sold yours to buy time to see if they can’t keep waiting out the war.”

“And in doing so, they brought a war on themselves. Or rather, our friend brought a war on us. The first shots fired in the Palazzo Madama were his. He seems quite committed, more committed than I am, to fighting the Senate. I don’t suppose you’d know why?”

“He’s read the room and realized that our Senate lives on borrowed time. And I managed to convince him that our state of cooperation with the Crimson Axis and truce with the Azur Lane won’t stand forever; when war breaks out Sicily, and his neck, will be the first things to be put at risk.”

“I don’t suppose you could pull that same stunt in the rest of the empire? I haven’t had much success…”

“You seem to have compelled Impero out of her lair, a feat of diplomatic prowess I wouldn’t dream of.”

“I… wonder about that. She’s signed to the governor of Libya. A man who did not make any promise of support during my exile. I don’t know why she’s here.”

“I can’t guess at the mind of your most frustrating sister, she does what she wants, when she wants, for reasons that make sense to her alone.”

“Really,” Veneto drawled, “I’d of thought you’d have thought of Roma.”

“Roma is guided by glory, I respect that even if I don’t support it. I don’t know what guides Impero beyond what will get her back in bed the fastest. The question you need to answer is why she thinks fighting your war will make her life easier.”

“Why indeed? I wish she had joined us, I would have liked the chance to pick her brain.”

“I think she knew that.”

“That’s probably true.” Veneto cast her eyes down. “In spite of herself flaws, her claims to brilliance aren’t unfounded. It’s effortless for her, and I envy that she can live effortlessly.”

A brief quiet set in as she tried to find the right way to respond to the flagship’s soul-searching statement.

“I used to envy Cesare, did you know that?”

“How did you stop?”

“Its… different than that. It wasn’t a choice I made, just a thing that happened. Envy is a luxury you eventually lose. When everything is falling apart and falls to you to hold it together, you don’t have the time for envy.”

“Ha… well… everything is falling apart. And someone will have to hold it together. Why not me?”

“You’ve got the best shot at it. Spinola's Sardegna is dead. Finishing it off is a formality. The Neapolitan governor will die with it, and the overseas territories aren’t important enough to play for power. It will be you, Lombardo, and maybe Roma, if she gets off the fence, arguing over what Sardegna will look like.”

“You make it sound like there aren’t a few hard months between now and then…”

“I was hoping I was making it sound like you had nothing to worry about…”

“I appreciate that, truly. I don’t know where I would be without allies… I’m sorry… friends.”

“What is a friend, but an ally you’re willing to drink with?”

“I’d like to think it’s more complicated than-“

“Veneto. Don’t worry, I understand the way you have to think right now. I’ve been there, and I’ll be here.”

“Thank you.”

_______________

[Solari]

“So you’re Littorio’s favorite.” Stated an unimpressed voice he did not recognize.

His eye flicked up, saw cobalt blue looking down at him from behind a pair of glasses, and flicked back down to his most recently acquired drink.

She wore a simple dress which gave absolutely no hint to her identity, or the reason she was accosting him.

“You have me at a disadvantage.”

“I suppose I do. Care for a dance?”

“I never have. I’m a terrible dancer.”

“Then I will lead.”

“I wouldn’t-“

“I must insist.”

A cool, firm hand closed around his forearm, sending a shiver down his spine. It, nor the woman it was attached to, would take no for an answer.

“Very well.”

“I’m glad we understand each other.”

He regarded her as he stood, and was perplexed at the strange color of her hair; the faint violet-white cascaded from her head almost down to the floor.

Another damned Kansen… but who?

“Lead on.”

It was some opera that he had never found the time to hear, and on occasion it was clear the navy band hadn’t either, nor had his partner. But that was not where his mind was.

Those two blue eyes remained fixed on him while he did his best not to trip over their owner.

Curiosity.

He had never had cause to feel like a zoo or circus animal before. But the feeling that those blue eyes were appraising him like an exotic pet saleswoman might eyeball cargo.

“So who are you?”

“A partial observer, not unlike you I hope.”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

“There’s a great game being played for the future of Sardegna. Don’t tell me you haven’t picked a side yet?” The more she talked, the less she was able to hide her accent.

She isn’t Sardegnian.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“You’ve switched sides twice.”

“So you say.”

“I’m not here to argue. I’m here to tell you that you’re on the wrong side now. When the hammer falls, it doesn’t need to fall on you.”

“Interesting words to level at the guard’s newest admiral.”

“Anyone with a brain knows your promotion is purely political. And I warn you, the longer you play nice with these upstarts, the more blood will be on your hands- not the least of which may be your own. But it’s not too late to cut a deal. Heed me, and you will walk away from these events as whatever you wish.”

“That accent… Ironblood if I’m not mistaken?”

“You shouldn’t be after years in that Styrian Academy. Though I must say, our cross suits it more than the old flag ever did…”

“What’s from stopping me from turning you over to the guards?”

“Because I can kick the door in on this whole charade you’re playing, the sea has eyes and so do I. Tell me, do you prefer hanging or a firing squad?”

“As it happens, I’ve just recently made an engagement with death, and It would be rude to have to cancel… so what do you want?”

“That which you give most freely; your loyalty. The Ironblood want peace in Sardegna more than anyone else, and a return to the status quo suits us all. You can go back to doing nothing in our war against the everyone else and we both can stop worrying about our alpine border.”

“You’ve come to the wrong man, I don’t have any authority in Rome or Taranto. Littorio knows I don’t support her, and this promotion destroyed any chance of the paranoid senate taking me back. I am persona non grata to every power in Sardegna.”

“I know. That’s why I’m talking to you. Soon, I think you’ll find other powers in Sardegna are asserting themselves. And when they do, they will be very charitable to those who align with them.”

Alarm bells went off in Solari’s head. There were fears among the senior staff, spoken in hushed whispers behind closed doors, that the Ironblood would invade to ‘secure the peace’ if things began to go too poorly for the National Government. But they hadn’t won any major victories yet…

He shuddered involuntarily, and the widening smile on the stranger’s face told him she had felt it. For a moment, memories of the war swam behind her piercing blue eyes. As his Commonwealth began fraying at the seams from the pressures of the war, the Ironblood had increasingly committed themselves to directing their war effort. Their soldiers, sailors, officers and industry had poured forth from their steel-hearted land to aid them. It was a war machine he had seen in action, and being on the wrong side of it was a bone-chilling proposition.

“I… I see. But I won’t swear myself to a cause that doesn’t exist yet.”

“I didn’t expect you to…”

As they danced, she slipped something into his uniform’s breast pocket.

“… simply wear it wear it to that dive you slip off to when you think nobody is watching. We’ll find you. And enjoy your evening Flottillenadmiral…”

As the music faded the strange woman bowed to him, as sarcastically patronizing as a bow could be, and excused herself. She did not look back, nor did he. The music had stopped for a reason, and soon that reason became apparent.

Veneto had begun to address the room, flanked by Governor Lombardo, and Cavour.

“My countrymen, the last many of you heard from me, I stood before the Senate and they branded me a traitor. I stand before you now. And I could not be happier, or prouder, that you all have stood for me in spite of the odds we face. The haste and passion you have shown in your support for my sister’s call to arms is proof we are all of the same mind: Sardegna deserves better. It deserves better leaders, better allies… and if we’re all being honest, better roads…” Her smile came out in her voice at her last comment.

Murmurs of approval and amusement spread through the crowd, and Veneto let them die out before continuing.

“… But we’ll only get what we deserve if we fight for it. Now is our moment! And we do not stand alone. Volunteers from every corner of the empire flock here, to Taranto. Every day, our strength grows and our position becomes more secure. Soon, perhaps very soon, we may even enjoy support from abroad. To commemorate the day of my return  at the head of the Battlefleet of the Libyan governor, and in recognition of the steadfast support of Sicily-whose governor stands beside me now- it is time to formalize this alliance. To thus end, I announce the creation of the Regno d’Mezzogiorno! May we be the guiding light Sardegna needs to make it through this storm!”

The room exploded with applause, coming first from the more enthusiastic guard and caught on like a plague around the rest of the spectators.

He did not clap.

Chapter Text

*Pong*

Bathing in the glowing green of her sonar display, lounging- as much as she could lounge in such confines- in her chair, the autumn-eyed submariner pondered their situation with a growing mix of excitement and curiosity.

Once more on the hunt!

The steady wump of her propellers churned the briny depths of the sea as she slowly pushed through the water. Machinery hummed and whirred through her halls, punctuated by the loud pong of the sonar as they searched...

And searched…

And searched.

They sort of knew what they were looking for, as least, she had an idea. She had read the reports, written down the coordinates, lost them in a pile of blueprints and schematics of her own make, before finding them again during the sail over.

Were they sailing?  To her mind they weren’t: if she were to build a ship that sailed, it would have to have at least one sail- a vast canvas to catch the wind, allowing them to harness the power of the heavens to propel themselves across the water.

Perhaps, with big enough sails and the right engineering, they might sail through the sky. She began to daydream, finding herself at the head of fleet of airships…

Focus

Not only had the era of airships already passed, but it would be useless to pilot one now.

She wouldn’t be here otherwise.

Roma had wanted something quiet. Something the world would never see. An ironic position to be in for any Kansen, let alone an inventor like her. But she had made the most of it.

It had been too long since she had felt the water’s cool caress envelop her like a wet canvas. It clung to her tightly, trying to hug, crush, and suffocate her all at once. Her presence here filled her with the smug self-satisfaction of a trespassing teenager.

But, she wasn’t just here to trespass in Neptune’s domain for her own amusement.

Closing her eyes, she opened her mind to the submarine around her and took a look at the ocean around her.

*Pong*

It was strange seeing the world through her sonar. A pitch-black void without the barest hint of sun or moonlight alternated with a pulsing green afterimage of the sea around her. Brief flashes of seeing, followed by long periods of Nothing.

Like blinking! Except… backwards.

Nothing

Even though they knew their destination, there was no way of knowing when they’d find it.

Mirror seas were like that, or so she had been told.

“Wouldn’t it be safer to take a more… charted route?” muttered the voice in her head.

If her command bridge could be considered her head anyway.

Roma, in her infinite wisdom, had seen fit to assign her a navigator. The fleet that would no doubt follow their expedition would want to do so in its footsteps, and their merry band had better mapmakers than she.

The pink eyes and pink hair of her companion were similarly washed out in the dull green of the various instrument panels.

“Nobody has charted our seafloor, that’s half of why you’re here… and what do you think, have you ever traveled the sea in such a genius way?”

*Pong*

“I miss the sun… and the sky! My skin is crawling… it feels wrong… we belong atop the waves… not under them. It’s like… I’ve been buried alive at sea… how do you stand it?”

“This is where I belong, and it’s incredible! Aren’t I a magnificent triumph of engineering? Think of all the calculations and components and ideas that all had to be correct for me to be able to do what I do! Astounding, simply astounding!”

“Would it have killed them to install some windows? You asked me to map our course… but all I can see are the outlines on this damned box!”

“Actually yes, it would have! The glass would no doubt shatter under the pressure differential and water would come pouring in! The sonar will have to suffice.” The submariner finished happily.

“But how will we see what we’re looking for…”

*Pong*

“Nothing.”

“Of course…” the exasperated girl muttered, walking over to the machine that was spitting out the various sonar readings the first was taking. “We wouldn’t see it even if it was there…”

There was plenty to see. Valleys, hills, small cliffs, narrow chasms, centuries of naval engineering, shattered, discarded remnants of eras long past.

They would make excellent gifts for Roma, assuming she came back empty handed.

“Oh don’t be like that! I modified our scanning equipment myself. If anything is out here, we’ll find it!”

*Pong*

The Submariner's eyes went wide, as did her navigator’s. The debris field was changing. Semi-familiar ships from their history, even their modern ones, were literally crushed and replaced by stranger, almost alien designs.

She had never seen Siren ships before, but she did not need to be told what they were.

“I thought the southern fleets fought the sirens further south…”

“Here be dragons…”

“A sign we’re on the right track!”

“Alfredo failed to mention a graveyard…”

“She wouldn’t have seen it. But we’re in luck… Hey, isn’t that in poor taste?!”

Her navigator, who had been mapping out their travels so far, had begun to pencil in sea monsters along their projected course.

“For… a very long time, this was tradition… humor me. Who knows what might be down here…”

*Pong*

A green circle appeared on the active sonar display.

The pair froze.

That dot meant only one thing: they weren’t alone. Sonar had found something. Had they found it?

*Pong*

The sonar lit up like a Christmas tree.

No… those readings are moving… Tarentines?

She willed her submarine to stop, carefully guiding it into a space between two halves of a shattered Siren Aircraft carrier, and cut the power.

“Head to the Canguro-“

“I-I have no idea how it works!” The navigator stammered.

“But you need to breathe, and I can’t use my rigging if I have to keep this bubble of air for you. There’s something out there, and I want to go take a look.”

“I’ll… come with you.”

“No, I don’t really want to put you at risk before you find your undersea legs. Lay low while I handle this.”

“Alright… If you’re sure.”

“It… would make me feel a lot better, thank you.”

Dim red emergency lights lit their path as the pair worked their way to the aft of the submarine, where four torpedo launchers had once been.

In their place was a heavily modified CA-class midget submarine: dubbed by her as Canguro. It was smaller and faster than a stock model, and she had jammed it full of as much new technology as she could. It could practically drive itself.

It would hold her companion, and most of her misplaced valor, until they had come to grips with their situation.

“Canguro will take care of you, mostly. It should be as simple as sitting in the chair and thinking.”

She heaved herself up onto what passed for the small sub’s conning tower, and offered a down hand.

Her navigator took it, and with her help, slid down through the hatch into the dark, claustrophobic belly of the craft. She followed.

Her feet clanked gently as they hit the metal grating of the floor, and guided her companion into the seat that dominated the center of the small compartment, purposefully guiding the girl’s hand to a lever on the side of the seat.

“Pull that when you’re ready. You’ll feel a slight tug at your back… and maybe the weirdest sensation of your life, but don’t fight it!”

The smaller hand beneath hers complied, and a gasp was forced out of its owners throat.

“What… is…”

A dim, blue-green light began to overlay the pinkish eyes of the destroyer, and then began to course through the thick cable that had lodged itself into the Navigator’s rigging port.

“Tell me how you feel.” Her own voice was curious but underpinned by uncertainty.

“Strange… so… so strange…”

“No pain? Dizziness? Headache? Nausea?”

“I thought you were an inventor… not a doctor…”

“I am! So I have no idea what happens to a destroyer when I plug her into a submarine!”

“Nothing bad yet…”

“Do you feel ready to launch?”

“How will it feel?”

“Like… you’re swimming. 4/5^th of you will want to hold your breath, and you might feel trapped or claustrophobic because of the water pressures you aren’t used to, but trust the 1/5^th that is the Canguro. You’ll be okay.”

Determined pink eyes pierced through their greenish glaze.

“Alright, I’m ready.”

She let out a long breath. “Ok, there’s a mask above you hooked directly into an air tank, and there’s the rest of a dive suit under the seat in case anything goes wrong. See you soon.”

The inventor pulled herself up out of the hatch, and a moment later it hesitantly closed.

She slid down the small submarine, and her feet hit a floor that was already breaking down into fractal, crystal-blue flecks of lights.

Water rushed against her from all sides as it filled in the pocket of air her submarine had once occupied, and closed around her like a cool embrace.

Reaching out into the darkness, she grasped her rigging and pulled herself up onto it. The smallest ping of her sonar told her exactly where her friend was, and she let in a big, briny breath of relief to see that she had not immediately plummeted to the seafloor.

Wheeling about, she was barraged with signal lights.

[.-.. . --- ..--..]

Her brain, having come into being with a complete knowledge of Morse code, read it immediately:

[Are you there Leo?]

It was her nickname; one she’d earned from calling Emmanuel Passagno ‘Emma.’ But here, their nicknames would work: ‘Leo’ was quicker than .-.. . --- -. .- .-. -.. --- / -.. .- / ...- .. -. -.-. ..

[You Ok?]

[Yes. I’m fine. Breathing is hard. Thinking is hard. But I am getting the hang of it]

[Think short. Less light.]

[Fine]

[Hide.]

[Fine]

Slowly, she slunk along the hull of the sunken Queen. It was fascinating to her, and she wished she could spend more time to study the obsidian black metal. What manner of metal was this? How was it assembled? Why had the sirens adopted a twin runway design? Her mind swam with a school of question she forced herself to ignore.

She had a cat and mouse game to play, and win.

Seaweed brushed her legs as she skirted the floor as low as she could, slipping through the wreckage.

*pong*

Sonar gave her a decent picture of where she was, with her companion behind and their unidentified, unwelcome guests off in the distance.

She would be hidden, mostly, if they kept to the weeds and wreckage.  It was time to close in, before something went wrong.

As elegantly as possible, she snaked through dark metallic caverns on an intercept course.

Soon, off in the distance, a red glow began to fill the sea. In its wake were three submarines in a ‘V’ with the same obsidian hulls and futuristic designs as the wreckage. They were bigger than sonar had let on, and much more heavily armed than she had expected. Streaks of red light splintered across their hulls in geometric webs.

They were menacing, and beautiful, and all things in between. But what mattered was that they were in range.

Away!

Four 533mm torpedoes surged forward from her rigging.

As a timer ticked down in the back of her mind, she imagined the torpedoes racing closer and closer to their targets. Her heart raced alongside them.

The sea did its best to soothe her, and she loved it for that. For a moment, the only things that existed were the sound of her heart, the currents grazing her skin, and that distant red light. But every moment has to end.

Three explosions rocked the Siren formation. The sub closest to them exploded as it was bracketed by torpedoes, momentarily casting the sea in stunning red-black as it’s ammunition and electronics cooked off and consumed the ship in an instant.

Meanwhile, the lead sub lurched visibly as it took a hit just behind where she guessed its forward torpedo launchers were, its light flickering out as it began its downward arc unto the seabed.

Rising dust mixed with falling debris, but did not entirely obscure the remaining submarine. Yet, the third simply drifted to a stop. da Vinci was preparing another volley when a flash of neon yellow in the fresh wreckage poked through the murk.

At the same time, the Siren submarine came to life with activity, coming about on an intercept course. Da Vinci’s hydrophones picked up no less than six torpedo tubes flooding, preparing to fire.

She heard them launch, and could even see their own little red lights as they flew through the water like it was air. They were fast, so fast.

Immediately, she turned to retreat deeper into the graveyard.

The world behind her exploded, the force of the blast almost tearing her from her rigging. Heat washed over her skin and shrapnel whizzed through the air around her. One long, black shard embedded itself into her shoulder blade. The sea muffled her cry of pain.

Now she was the one obscured in a whirling mass of metal, dirt, and seaweed as it angrily churned in the water around her. She couldn’t bet on her quarry thinking they got her.

Darting through ruins of a Bishop, she took a chance and glanced over her shoulder. And that was when she saw her quarry clearly for the first time.

It stalked through the labyrinth of twisted metal, the settling dust swirling gently in its wake. A great metal beast, not entirely unlike a lobster, shimmered in its own neon-yellow glow.

Upon its back, almost obscured by the metallic steed, was a woman with pale skin and even paler hair that trailed behind her in a long ponytail. A black box-like fixture covered her eyes, it’s one yellow light giving her a cyclopean appearance. She wore only a small breastplate and short skirt in an odd parody of modesty. Protruding from her back was a small, almost finlike slip of metal with a vibrant glowing wire trailing down into the metal lobster. From this distance, Da Vinci could not tell where the woman’s legs ended and her machine began.

A Siren?

In her brief study of what little they knew about the sirens, she had never seen anything about this; a Lurker class executor.

But she- it- wasn’t whole anymore. As it twisted to look around, Da Vinci could see that one of its sides was horribly mangled, and the lobster was missing a claw.

She would have to finish the job.

The wreck began to tremble and shake, and the world turned redder and redder as the remaining submarine thundered through the depths above, close enough the shake the decaying Bishop with its wake.

The Assassin would be a problem, but experience already told her that it would fall dead in the water if it’s handler did first.

Breath…

Fire!

Two of her torpedo tubes whispered their lethal payload into the water through the same hole she entered. They were perfectly aimed- she couldn’t possibly miss!

At the last possible moment, the Lobster’s tail fanned out and pulled at the sea, launching the Siren back out of the path of the torpedoes, which slammed into another wreck and detonated harmlessly.

Damn!

The hunt was on.

Still, how hard could that glowing bastard be to catch?

But where would she be?

DaVinci crept out through a different hole in the hull as silently as she could. A careful listener could probably hear her fast-beating heart on a hydrophone.

I need to calm down.

This was new to her. She had spent most of her career hunting the cool Atlantic for fat, slow supply ships. Knife-fighting a Siren in a graveyard wasn’t something she was as confident in.

For once, she was the mouse.

She motored along at a tiptoe pace, somewhere between caution and indecision.

Until she heard a torpedo launch.

From where!?

It struck too close to be completely ineffective, and she took a moment to reorient herself when the wreckage that had been struck began to buckle and fall towards her.

Everything became a blur as more explosions caused more debris to fall as the collapsing metal maze tried to swallow her. She dodged and dove and wove through the sinking chunks of metal.

How many torpedoes does she have!?

Something clipped her rigging, and it bucked harshly. Between the shock and her still wounded shoulder, she lost her grip and tumbled through the water.

Her back hit something, hard, and jammed the chunk of shrapnel deeper into her shoulder. She drifted to seafloor with stars in her eyes.

Down the broken path, yellow light began to fill her vision as she struggled to bring it into focus.

It was cautious as it came. As far as it knew, it already killed her once already and she had survived. Basic pattern recognition told it that she might have survived again.

Think da Vinci, how will you get out of this pickle?!

She had a moment, a few seconds at most. Unarmed and separated from her rigging, she was a sitting duck.

The Siren was getting closer, she could make out its expressionless face.