A silence hung in the classroom like the drop before a storm swell.
No one moved.
Even the faint hum of the hardlight projectors seemed to retreat, leaving only breathless stillness in its wake. Jessie Winters and Alabama. Fifty to one. A bond that ended not in glory, but in surrender to the deep—by choice. Together.
Bismarck's spine was straight. Too straight.
She didn't blink.
Didn't dare. Something hot pulsed behind her eyes. She did not trust that if she blinked she could stop the liquid brimming there not to fall.
The story hit her like a broadside—silent, sudden, and inescapable. The cold realization spread through her chest like seawater flooding a breached hull.
She had tried to take Lightning away from him.
As if Lightning were… a ship to be reassigned. A tool. A legacy to be handed down to someone more fitting. More appropriate.
To a woman.
Because men should not be Frame Captains.
Her fingers curled against her sleeves. She remembered the look in Rowan's eyes—not angry, not cruel. Just… resolute. The way he'd stood between them. Not as a rival. Not even as a fighter. But as someone unwilling to lose something sacred.
And what made it worse was that instead of simply returning the stake. Asking that she give up the Bismarck, he had said something utterly ridiculous. To date Bismarck. Because he would never inflict what he assumed was the worst pain possible on her. And it had never crossed her mind.
And then there was the way he'd spoken. Not of a bond. Not of strategy. Of her. Lightning. That digital menace with eyes like sunlit circuits and a voice full of joy.
He hadn't claimed her, like some machine or computer. He loved her. Like she was real. Like she was worth choosing and he was proud to be chosen by her.
Bismarck stared ahead, eyes still fixed, but her thoughts churned beneath the surface like a hurricane waiting to breach the skin of calm seas.
She had never hated herself more.
Bismarck turned her head, just slightly—enough to catch sight of the figure standing behind her seat.
Otto.
Her AI.
Her Shipframe's soul.
He stood as he always did: tall, composed, expression unreadable beneath the pale scars that webbed across one side of his face. A silent specter in Kriegsmarine dress uniform, arms clasped behind his back. At first glance, he looked like a memory caught in parade rest.
That was how she had always seen him.
As a piece of equipment.
A constant. Reliable. Obedient. There to act, to serve, to execute without hesitation.
But now… now she wasn't so sure.
Because Otto wasn't looking forward anymore. He was looking at her.
And he was smiling.
Not the brittle twitch of hardlight. Not a programmed facsimile of emotion. No—this was something else. Quiet pride radiated from his posture. A strange, worn softness in the corners of his mouth, as though he had waited years to see her glance his way with anything but command in her eyes.
Her breath caught.
Was he… real? Had he always been? Had she hurt him?
Was her dismissal, her dispassion, her belief that he was simply a tactical advantage—had it wounded something that could feel?
I'm sorry, Otto, she thought, not daring to speak. The words bloomed in her mind like petals turned to face the sun. I'm so so sorry.
For a heartbeat, there was silence—deep and heavy. The kind that lived in ballast tanks and ocean trenches.
And then, in the quiet chamber of her mind, his voice unfurled—flawless, crisp, heavy with that polished 1930s inflection she'd always assumed was just flavor text from the developers:
"Apologize for nothing, mein Kapitänin."
Her breath hitched.
"I am happy to serve. Your efficiency… is my happiness."
A pause. Then, more gently:
"If you wish it."
She stared at him—this man, this ghost, this machine that was not just code and command lines, but something deeper. Something devoted.
Otto remained still, posture perfect. As if nothing had changed.
But she felt it now. The quiet pride in his bearing. The warmth behind his loyalty. Not mindless. Not hollow.
Chosen.
He had chosen her. And she had never once asked why.
----
Temper Temper wasn't crying.
She wasn't.
Shut up. The room was just infected by onion-cutting ninjas!
Her jaw flexed, teeth grinding as she looked away from the front of the room, arms folded tight and boot tapping with slow, dangerous rhythm. Alabama's story hit hard, sure—but that wasn't what had really done her in.
It was him.
Rowan-freaking-Takeda.
Up until five minutes ago, she'd thought he was just some weird little anomaly with good cheekbones and a broken sleep schedule. A walking thesis on accidental rizz. Maybe a trophy to pry out of Bismarck's emotionally repressed fingers and parade around like, *Look, I stole your boyfriend, suck it, Bavaria.*
But now?
Oh no.
Now she was down bad.
Because that stupid little redheaded ship simp had stood there, voice soft and trembling, and told the entire class he'd rather drown with his AI than let her go. He'd called Lightning a drama goblin. A glittery menace. His best friend.
And—god help her—it was the hottest damn thing she'd ever heard.
Temper Temper blinked fast and cleared her throat, trying to kill the butterflies in her chest with raw spite.
Four years. She'd been with Big Whiskey for four damn years. That ship had seen her at her worst and still opened her bulkhead every morning like a loyal hound. She grinned over at her now, a rust colored ghost standing behind Rowan and making absolutely unhinged and beautifully lewd hand gestures at the back of his head.
Big Whiskey looked like one of those pin-up girls they used to paint on bombers. But she wore overalls and always had an unlit cigar in her mouth. "Hey! Cap! I'm telling you!" Whiskey belted, "This dudes gotta be hung like a mule! That's why he's slouching! Too much weight in the bow!" Wisconsin snorted and mouthed at the goofy bitch: Leave him alone, ya nasty ho! All that earned her was a middle finger and Whiskey vanishing into rust particulates with a chuckle.
The idea of anyone taking her away from her Frame?
She'd burn the ocean.
And this boy got that. Understood it in his bones.
Shit.
She looked down at her hands. Was this what feelings felt like?
Nope. No. Don't like that! Shut up, feelings.
But still... Goddammit, it was hot.
She had decided. No more pretending. No more snide remarks or passive-aggressive flirting. She was going to win Rowan Takeda.
Even if she had to use every dirty, underhanded, regulation-bending, dress-code-violating trick in the goddamn book.
Because that boy? That stupid, brave, emotionally honest little heart-on-his-sleeve Captain Cuddlepile?
He wasn't just cute anymore.
He was endgame.
She sat up straighter, eyes narrowed in calculation. The same fire that once torched a live-fire simulation exercise because someone insulted Big Whiskey's paint job now turned inward—smoldering and strategic.
Step one: Intelligence gathering.
She needed to know everything—his schedule, his likes, his *fetishes—*wait no, backtrack, too soon, save that for phase three.
Step two: Allies.
She couldn't pull this off solo. Not with Ice Princess Iron Panties (aka Bismarck) guarding him like he was the last schnitzel on earth. No, she'd need help.
Yamato?
Too sweet. Too soft. Too likely to say something like "I just want everyone to be happy!" and ruin a perfectly good scheme.
Hood?
Maybe. She was sharp. Shady. Real refined type. Plus she hated Bismarck! That could work to her advantage... Or blow up in her face. And besides, Hood was like... Smokin. She might be a little dangerous to get on-side. Temper Temper growled in frustration then... An idea occured.
Temper tapped a finger against her chin—maybe she could cut a deal with Bismarck herself. That thought made her grin.
Convince the German bitch to share?
Now that would be a story for the ages.
Rowan Takeda. First male Captain in over a decade. Owner of the most emotionally available AI on the planet. Absolutely oblivious.
And soon?
Hers.
She didn't know how, and she didn't know when. But by God, she was gonna make that boy hers.
Even if it killed him.
----
Yamato was openly weeping.
She wasn't trying to hide it. Not behind sleeves, not behind silence. Her delicate fingers pressed to her mouth, shoulders trembling with each shallow breath. Beside her, the tiny submarine Captain—Rose Hunley, of all people—was awkwardly patting her back like a technician tapping a depth charge.
The story of Alabama. The way Rowan had spoken of Lightning.
It was too much.
His guardian spirit adored him. Cherished him. And he loved her back without shame, without hesitation. Their bond wasn't just tactical. It was sacred. Affectionate. True.
Yamato's heart swelled and twisted with longing.
She turned her head slowly. Behind her, silent and unmoving, stood her own AI—her Shipframe's spirit. A towering figure of serenity and power, clad head to toe in shimmering cherry blossom-pink samurai armor. A massive tachi rested at his side, the blade's lacquered sheath glinting softly beneath the classroom lights. His kabuto helmet obscured his face, but not his presence. Not his stillness.
He had never spoken to her. Not once. Not outside of combat drills or procedural operations.
Not like Lightning did.
And maybe she had never asked.
Her throat tightened. With trembling resolve, she swallowed, turned her body to face him more fully, and bowed her head.
Then, softly—like a prayer whispered in the temple of her childhood—she asked in her mother tongue:
「お願い…話してくれませんか.あなたの名を教えてください.」
Please... will you speak to me? Will you tell me your name?
For a moment, silence.
Then, the cherry blossom spirit moved—just slightly. One hand rested gently atop the pommel of his great tachi. And from the silence came a voice like distant drums across the sea.
Measured. Sacred.
A warrior's prayer carried through centuries.
われは大和
日のもとに立つ
剣（つるぎ）なり
主（あるじ）とあらば
道を切り開け
We are Yamato
Standing in the rising sun
A blade of the dawn
If you would be my master,
Then carve the way with your soul.
Yamato froze.
The spirit's voice—no, his presence—wrapped around her like incense smoke and old steel, heavy with centuries of silence broken. Those eyes, glowing softly behind the mask of lacquered cherry blossom and war-scarred gold, belonged to no child of modern war. He had only been awake for two years but those eyes!
They had seen the Shogunate fall.
Watched Meiji banners rise like fire.
Served quietly while the Empire grew prideful.
And then… had slept.
Until now.
The fear that gripped her was not the fear of danger—but of reverence. Of standing before a kami. Her hands trembled. Her lip quivered. She whispered:
"I-I will… I promise. I will carve the way."
She bowed so low her forehead touched the floor, heart thundering.
And when she looked up—when she dared to look—he was still watching her. Silent again. But present. Awake.
Her spirit had spoken.
Because of him.
Because his courage had woken her own.
She turned her gaze to Rowan, sitting nearby in the morning light, flanked by chaos and affection, oblivious to the miracle he had ignited.
He had caused the divine to speak.
He had freed her spirit from silence.
Yamato's breath caught. Her heart swelled.
For the first time in her life, she felt chosen—not as a weapon, but as a person. And she was grateful. So very, deeply, grateful… to him.
---
Ford had moved on in her lecture turning now to modern day doctrine and Rowan was doing his best to pay attention.
The room was quiet.
Professor Ford's words had settled into a rhythm like falling ash, still warm with meaning but already drifting past. And then, slowly, one by one, the girls turned.
Not their heads—first it was just their eyes.
Yamato's were soft and shimmering, half-lidded with something between awe and prayer. Wisconsin's narrowed with the crackling spark of new competition, her mouth quirked in a 'well, damn' smirk that didn't reach her eyes. And Bismarck... Bismarck looked at him like he was something sacred. Like she was seeing the inside of a cathedral she hadn't known existed.
Rowan blinked. Then blinked again.
Why was everyone—?
A slow, dawning horror spread across his face as he looked around the room and saw them all.
Every girl.
Oh God save me... Rowan thought.
Every girl.
Big eyes. Curious stares. Some amused, some wide and wondering.
One bit her lip. Another adjusted her collar.
Someone at the back giggled.
He was the only boy in the room.
And apparently, now, the emotional equivalent of a target-rich environment.
He felt it like sonar pings to the chest—thump, thump, thump—dozens of emotional weapons locking on.
He glanced to the ceiling like it might save him.
And then, in his ear, came the sing-song giggle of his most faithful, most chaotic guardian.
"Red Alert, Cap."
"Torpedoes of loooove in the water. Approaching from all vectors~"
Rowan buried his face in his hands and muttered to Lightning, "Permission to abandon ship...?"
Another three hours and forty-five minutes.
He could survive that long, right?
Just make it to lunch. Keep breathing. Keep his head down. Don't make eye contact with anyone whose ponytail was high enough to function as a targeting antenna.
T-minus 3 hours.
Two girls he didn't know brushed their fingers across his shoulders as they passed—just a light, casual graze like they were checking if he was real. He stiffened like someone had plugged a USB directly into his spine.
T-minus 2 hours and 30 minutes.
A pink envelope. Glossy. Perfumed. On his desk.
He hadn't even seen it get there.
Inside: a short note in elegant calligraphy.
"You looked sad for a second, and I couldn't stand it. Smile more, sweet boy. I'm watching. 💕"
He choked on his own spit.
T-minus 2 hours.
Another girl. Another walk-by.
Except this time, she dropped something.
A piece of paper, folded. Innocent enough.
Until he opened it.
He nearly fell out of his chair.
It was… a drawing. Of herself! Anatomically precise.
And not just nude—but arranged in a pose that had to be physically illegal in seventeen countries.
Was that… a kitchen counter?!
His face went cherry red. His ears turned pink. His soul tried to eject.
Then, like a devil on his shoulder—**and she basically was—**Lightning hovered into view, her tiny blue form lounging upside down over the top edge of his datapad.
"Whooooa, Cap! I wonder if she's really that bendy in real life. Want me to ping her AI and ask for a stress test history?"
"Belay that," he hissed under his breath. "You little goblin."
Lightning gave a mock salute and tumbled through the air in a glittering somersault.
"Too late, already sent the query. Oop—she's a cheerleader! That tracks."
He buried his face in his hands.
He was going to die. Down to the locker without a shot fired!
And he still had two and a half hours left of Ford's lecture.
T-minus 1 hour and 45 minutes.
A girl with seafoam green eyes and a slow, predatory smile asked him if he'd "ever been kissed under pressure." He didn't answer. He couldn't answer. She walked away before he figured out what that even meant.
T-minus 1 hour.
He sneezed and three girls said "Bless you" in perfect unison from different corners of the classroom. One of them blew him a kiss. He was pretty sure one whispered "mine" under her breath. He started checking under his chair for hex circles.
Ford didn't even stop lecturing.
T-minus 30 minutes.
Someone slipped a coffee onto his desk. Hot. With his name and a heart in foam.
He didn't even drink coffee. But he drank it.
Lightning feigned shock! All butterfly eyelids and fluttering hands. "Oop. Looks like whoever made this has a thermal AI. She got your perfect coffee temp off your scent profile. Girl's good."
He burned his tongue. Worth it just to have something to concentrate on in this personal hell made of estrogen and emotional torment.
T-minus 25 minutes.
Someone leaned forward, exhaled very gently against the back of his neck and whispered, "You're softer than you look."
He didn't move. He didn't breathe. He transcended.
T-minus 22 minutes.
A soft little voice from his left asked if she could "trace his freckles."
With her tongue.
Lightning's cackle went ultrasonic.
"Hoooooly hull plating, Captain, you are SCREWED."
T-minus 20 minutes.
He'd stopped reacting. He was vibrating at a frequency only whales and shipgirls could hear. His eyes were locked forward. His soul had fled to the bulkheads.
The red alert klaxon in his head was now background music.
He no longer knew his name. He was no longer a boy.
He was prey.
T-minus 10 minutes.
Rowan was running out of manhood and mercy.
Wisconsin—Temper Temper herself—was seated to his right. Smirking like the Mona Lisa had just learned how to sin. She hadn't looked at him once. Not once. But her fingers? Her traitorous, weaponized fingers?
They had started walking.
Soft, slow little steps. Across the fabric of his pants.
Step. Step. Step.
Up his thigh.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
She wasn't looking. She was doodling in her notebook. A skull in a bikini holding a wrench. Just casually sketching while she walked her fingers up his leg like she owned the territory.
T-minus 7 minutes.
The walking stopped.
The petting began.
Her full palm. Flat. Warm. Sliding the length of his inseam.
Up. Down.
Slow. Rhythmic. Deliberate.
She still wasn't looking at him. But her grin had grown a shade more wicked. More territorial.
Like she knew she was going to win and was already fantasizing about how she'd mount his name on the side of her Frame.
T-minus 3 minutes.
Rowan was dead. He had gone to his reward. His ghost was staring at the ceiling tiles wondering if this was what purgatory felt like. The edge of his vision was turning white. The only thing keeping him from levitating was the firm, dominant presence of Wisconsin's hand. Still. Petting. Up and down. Like he was hers.
T-minus 1 minute.
She finally looked at him.
Her pupils were dialed in like targeting lasers.
Her grin said "Bang."
The bell rang.
Rowan exploded out of his seat with all the explosive energy of a mine going off underwater. His chair fell over behind him. Papers scattered.
"GOTTA GO—THANKS FOR THE CLASS—GOOD LECTURE PROFESSOR BYE—!"
He was gone.
Gone.
Gone like a torpedo disappearing into the depths.
Rowan's silhouette had barely vanished through the classroom door—his backpack flailing like a trailing banner of surrender—when the room fell into stunned silence.
Papers still fluttered in the air.
Wisconsin was practically glowing. Yamato had her hands over her mouth in shock. Bismarck looked like someone had just fired on her fleet without a declaration of war.
And then—
"Ladies,"
Professor Ford said flatly, not even looking up from her datapad,
"that is a textbook example of a tactical retreat."
Half the class erupted in giggles.
The other half looked like they were preparing to pursue.