Doc leaned back, one leg crossing over the other with mechanical grace—like she was loading a catapult.
"Now that I know you can heal like a beast," she said, tapping her tablet once to put it to sleep, "we can finally turn to the reason you're here."
Her eyes slid sideways and locked onto Bismarck like a targeting system coming online.
It was like the weather changed! Gone was the purring sarcasm. Gone was the lazy Boston lilt. What remained was something harder, meaner, older. Mercy Vega—Death in a pencil skirt.
"What in the fuck was you thinkin'?"
Bismarck didn't move. She didn't blink. She just sat there, spine straight as a pylon.
Rowan flailed upright, panic reflex overriding caution. "It was an accident, Doc! Really! I got in the way!"
Doc turned her head. Slowly. Like an owl deciding whether it wanted to kill a field mouse or just glare at it for a while. "You done?"
Rowan immediately shut up.
Doc didn't even look at him again. "I didn't ask you, did I, Red?" she said, her voice as sweet as battery acid. "I asked the fawkin' war maiden here to explain it."
She turned back toward Bismarck with a look that could dent bulkheads.
Bismarck inhaled through her nose, slow and precise. Then, with careful deliberation, she removed her cap and folded it in her lap. "Jawohl, Captain Mercy," she began, voice firm despite the undertow of nerves. "I—"
"It's Doctor, sugah," Doc snapped, not missing a beat. "I didn't go to med school to have my qualifications overridden because my beautiful, sentient can opener chose me."
Invisibly floating above Rowan's head, Lightning gasped in shock and tried not to burst out laughing. Doc didn't react. She just let her eyes flick slightly to the left—just off center. Like she was staring through a crack in reality no one else could see. Not at Lightning, but somewhere to Lightning's left.
And then Doc grinned.
A slow, sharp grin full of mischief and menace. "Awww, look at 'er," she purred. "She's all pissy. Hates when I call her that."
Rowan blinked, stunned. For a half second he could see it—not with his eyes, but the echo. Like a presence flickering in and out of sync. And it hit him:
It was just like him and Lightning.
He almost laughed.
Here was another Captain arguing with empty air—and still somehow winning. Her words were brutal, sure, but there was something deeply familiar in the rhythm. The way she talked. The dry affection laced through every insult. It wasn't just sarcasm—it was sisterhood.
Doc cocked her head. "Oh, flippin' me off now? Real mature." She rolled her eyes skyward with theatrical flair. "How noble, ya little digital shit stain."
Lightning let out a delighted wheeze from wherever she was hiding. Rowan covered his mouth with one hand, trying not to laugh. He didn't want to encourage this woman, but God help him, she was kind of amazing.
Doc turned back to Bismarck like she hadn't just cussed out a war machine.
"Sorry, sugah," she said breezily, as if she hadn't just put the fear of God in the whole room. "Didn't mean to cut ya off. Go on now."
Bismarck sat up straighter, spine like a ramrod, hat folded neatly in her lap. Her voice, when it came, was low and contrite. "It is true," she said quietly. "My actions directly led to Herr Rowan being injured. I accept full responsibility."
Doc didn't blink. She just stared.
A long, slow, unimpressed stare that could have scalded steel. "Yeah, I got that much, silver tits," she deadpanned. "But why? Why the hell did you and the Duchess of Tea and Tantrums think reenacting the Battle of the Atlantic on the goddamned roof was a good idea?"
Rowan buried his face in his hands.
Lightning let out a strangled noise—half gasp, half giggle.
Bismarck's ears turned pink. Not red. Pink.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then tried again. "We were attempting to settle a matter of… interpersonal honor," she said stiffly.
Doc leaned back and arched one perfectly sculpted brow.
"Oh. Interpersonal honah. Well la-dee-da. Shoulda put it on the fawkin' calendar. Maybe sold tickets. 'Two regal morons beat the tar outta each other while the boy they're tryin' to impress plays meat piñata in the middle.' Real high-brow. Real dignified."
Bismarck actually winced. "I did not intend for anyone to get hurt."
Doc's eyes flashed. "Did not intend—sweetheart, lemme break this down real simple. When two world-class murdermaidens whip out hardlight weapons and start dancing the tango of trauma four stories up, somebody is gonna end up in the ER. And today? That somebody was my patient."
She jabbed a thumb toward Rowan without looking at him.
"Next time you wanna prove who's got the bigger torpedo tubes, try a foot race or a karaoke battle like the rest of the dumb horny population. Or you do it like Captains. Set a time and date and then blast or beat each other's brains out."
Rowan cleared his throat weakly. "Uh, Doc?"
She cut her eyes at him like a scythe. "Still not your turn, Red."
Rowan instantly shut up.
Doc leaned back, one leg crossing over the other again. She looked Bismarck directly in her eyes.
"We have duelin' grounds for precisely this type of shit," she said, her voice as dry as gin over ice. "No matter how fuckin' stupid I think it is."
Her eyes narrowed. "So. I'll ask again. And if you're honest, things might—might—be okay. Why?"
Bismarck opened her mouth, but Doc raised a hand.
"Don't give me the shined-up polished version, sweetie. Just be honest with old Doc. I'm beggin' you here. Don't make me start throwin' clipboards."
Bismarck inhaled.
Then stopped.
Her fingers clenched slightly around the hat in her lap, leather creaking. She could feel the weight of every eye in the room—Rowan's worried, Lightning's invisible wariness, and Doc's laser-etched scrutiny.
Why? Why had she done it?
The question bounced around in her skull and came back like a sonar ping.
She could've walked away. She should have. But something primal had ignited when she'd seen Hood standing there on that rooftop beside him.
Would it have been the same if it had been Yamato? Wisconsin? Anyone else?
The answer was simple. No, no it would not have been the same.
Because it wasn't any of the others. It was Her Majesty's Ship Hood.
Because they were supposed to hate each other. Because the whole world had written a tragedy in advance and named them its stars. Because history didn't forget and neither had she.
Bismarck exhaled and swallowed. She opened her mouth and closed it again, her jaw clenching in frustration. She searched for the words...
Doc didn't let her look very long. "None of that shit," she told Bismarck, gently but firmly. "Don't do that. Don't try to pretty it up. Don't give me diplomacy and daddy's legacy and national pride. Just say it. Right now, doll face."
She leaned forward, and her tone softened just enough to sting. "Don't let that German pride thing you got goin' on get in the way of sayin' somethin' real."
Bismarck closed her eyes for one beat.
Then opened them again.
"It was because it was the Hood," she said quietly.
Lightning made no sound. Rowan barely breathed.
"Her presence sets my blood on fire," Bismarck continued. "My whole time as a Captain, I was told she was coming for me. That she would be my trial. That our names were entwined in war, and that one day, we would finish what began in 1941."
She looked up, eyes clearer now. "And when I saw her up there with Captain Takeda…" she paused, then straightened slowly, like a ship raising anchor. "I lost my head."
Her voice did not waver. "I lost control. And I regret that."
Rowan's heart twisted with grief for the two woman who had carried him down from the roof. Despite their differences, they were both good. Rowan could feel it in his bones!
He had meant what he'd told Hood.
If these two could ever let go of the ghosts that history chained to them, they could be—should be—friends. Maybe even sisters-in-arms. But first they'd have to stop re-fighting a war that had nothing to do with them.
Doc let out a long, guttural sigh, dragged from somewhere beneath her ribs.
"That is the first honest fuckin' thing you've said since you walked into this goddamn infirmary."
She rubbed the bridge of her nose and muttered, "Jesus, Mary, and the fawkin' drydock…"
Doc waved Bismarck back into her chair like she was herding a particularly troublesome cat. "Sit your ass down, sweetheart, you're not off the hook, but you ain't the target right now."
She didn't even look at her as she said it. Her attention had already shifted—slightly up and to the left, toward the corner of the room, where someone stood.
Or rather, where someone stood that neither Rowan nor Bismarck could see.
"This is what I been bitchin' about for years!" she snapped, jabbing a manicured finger at the air like she was filing an official complaint against the void itself.
Rowan blinked. Bismarck turned subtly, trying to track her gaze.
Doc wasn't looking at them. She was ranting. At her AI.
"You hear me, Mercy? This stupid shit right here?" she said, throwing her hand back toward Bismarck like she was citing evidence in a murder trial. "This right here is exactly what happens when you let the fuckin' museums write the curriculum!"
There was a pause.
Doc listened—actually listened—to a voice no one else could hear. Her expression twisted as she caught whatever Mercy was saying, then scoffed like it personally insulted her IQ.
"I did, ya fuckin' harpy!" she barked. "I make a note every fawkin' year! That they should cover this shit on Day One—Day goddamn One!—soon as these girls get off the boats!"
Another pause. Her eyebrows shot up. "Oh don't you dare start with me. You know I brought it up at the faculty meetin'!"
She turned to face Rowan and Bismarck, still addressing someone neither of them could see. "We are not here to replay Jutland, we are not here to re-fight the Atlantic, and God for-fuckin'-bid the Americans and Japanese students get into it again—"
She turned back to the corner and stabbed her finger forward accusingly. "You remember that shit? When they used to sort dorms by nation?"
Her face contorted with the bitter bile of someone reliving ancient trauma. "That was a fuckin' disaster! It was like Gangs of New York in the fuckin' hallways!"
Bismarck looked baffled.
Rowan mouthed Gangs of New York? with a confused little twitch of his lips.
Doc was just getting warmed up. "I had students walkin' around with bayonets! One girl got stabbed over a dispute about the Russo-Japanese fuckin' War!"
She flailed a hand toward Rowan again. "I had to suture a gluteus maximus, Mercy! That's not in the handbook! That's not in any handbook!"
Another pause.
Then, flatly: "Yes I'm still mad. Yes it's been six years. You don't get over somethin' like that, not when you're elbow-deep in someone's ass cheek, racing their own healin' factor from closin' her up without her ass attached!"
She let out a sharp breath, then turned slowly back to Bismarck and Rowan—eyes fierce, chest rising with contained fury.
"Point is," she growled, "this ain't on you two. Not entirely. This is a systemic failure. And trust me, sugar tits, I am gonna go full broadside on Curriculum Oversight for this one."
Doc's voice dropped low. Almost gentle. Almost.
"But that don't let you off the hook."
Her arms crossed under her chest like stormclouds forming. Then she cocked her hip and raised one brow, grin spreading like a knife being drawn.
"And guess who's in charge of your punishment?" She gave Bismarck a slow, deadly once-over. "That's right, me!"
Bismarck didn't flinch, but her shoulders visibly locked tighter.
Doc took a breath and spoke with mock solemnity. "Now, I gotta follow the formalities. Legal procedure, code of conduct, blah blah blah, Geneva Conventions, etcetera, etcetera."
She turned to Rowan, who—God bless him—looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. His blanket was up around his ribs like a bulletproof vest.
"So. Rowan." Her tone was suddenly polite. Sweet, even. Which was terrifying.
"Do you wish to file formal charges of reckless endangerment against the war maiden over here for nearly getting you kebab'd in the crossfire of her rooftop rage duel?"
Rowan glanced at Bismarck, who was sitting upright with military rigidity. Then back at Doc. Then down at his hands.
"…No, ma'am."
Doc arched a brow. "That a real no, or a guilt-no?"
He gave her a helpless smile. "It was a fight. She didn't mean for it to go that far."
Doc muttered something deeply profane under her breath about men and martyr complexes.
"She watched Lady Murdercheeks put a pigsticker in you and still wanted to throw hands. You sure?"
Rowan nodded. "I don't want her in trouble. She's not a villain. Just—"
He glanced at Bismarck again. "Just hurting. I think."
Doc's face crumpled like she'd just sucked a lemon dipped in idealism. "Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You're too good for this place, you know that?"
Then, to no one in particular: "He's gonna let old Wonder Ass stab him again if he thinks it'll bring world peace."
Lightning snickered from wherever she was hiding. "Wonder Ass?!"
Doc ignored her and turned back to Bismarck with the gravity of a torpedo lock.
"Did you know," she said softly, "that while I had him under, opened up and out cold on my table, this dumb little motherfucker kept muttering 'It wasn't her fault'? Over and over like a broken fuckin' record."
Bismarck's mouth parted. Her composure flickered—just once.
Doc didn't let up.
"He defended your sorry asses. Both you and Lady Fancy-Pants with the accent and the murder eyes."
She leaned forward.
"So since he declines to press charges like the good boy he is, that means I get to decide what happens next." Doc stood tall, hands on the curve of her ridiculous hips. "You ready for that, Silver Tits?"
Bismarck braced for impact.
"As of today," Doc said, her tone shifting into a deep, grounded calm, "you, Bismarck… are officially in nursing school."
Rowan blinked. "Wait, wh—" That was not the sentence he had expected. He glanced at Bismarck and she looked like her reactor had been hit! She was just locked up, eyes wide, breathing harshly through her nose.
"You're gonna give me twenty hours of clinic duty a week. Starting tomorrow." Doc continued, ignoring his sputtering.
"No arguments. You wanna play field surgeon with your fists, then you better learn to fix what you break. Maybe—maybe—learning how to patch up the damage will help you think twice before you and some other battle-bitch decide to reenact your historical trauma in the middle of my goddamn campus."
Bismarck's mouth opened—then closed. The color in her cheeks was rising like a barometer under pressure.
Doc wasn't finished.
"And," she added, voice softening just slightly, "Mercy had a good idea."
She glanced to the side—clearly listening to her AI—then nodded once and returned to Bismarck.
"I want one-hour therapy sessions with you. Every Monday. No excuses."
Bismarck stiffened like she'd just been shot with a discipline beam. "I—I do not require—"
Doc held up a hand, sharp as a cleaver.
"Eeeeh! No. That ain't gonna fly, honey."
Her voice shifted again. Still hard, but gentler now. Steadier. Something in it rang true.
"Look. Listen to me."
She stepped forward and leveled her gaze at the war maiden who, for once, looked very small in that chair.
"You're young. You got hormones all over the place. You got nanites in your veins, and you dream in targeting solutions. You've got a voice in your head that's for you and you alone. Nobody else hears it. Nobody else lives with that."
She exhaled.
"And your big sister being who she is?" Doc snorted. "Yeah. That ain't helpin' things either."
Bismarck's mouth twitched, eyes narrowing.
"Don't look at me like that," Doc warned. "I ain't judgin'. I get it."
She crossed her arms again—slower, now. Less like a shield and more like a weight she was willing to hold.
"So you and me… we're gonna talk. Once a week. As long as it takes. Because I've seen what happens when a girl like you keeps all that inside."
Her voice cracked just slightly on girl.
"Being a warship don't mean you gotta go it alone. Ya get me?"
For a long moment, Bismarck didn't move.
Then—slowly—she nodded.
"…Jawohl, Doktor."
Doc reached out and gave Bismarck a surprisingly gentle pat on the head—like she was dismissing a particularly well-behaved German Shepherd.
"Good. Now go on. Get outta here."
She jerked a thumb toward the door, already turning back to her tablet.
"And take his stupidly heroic ass with you. He's good to go. Fucked if I've ever seen anything like it. Be back here at 23:30 sharp, lover boy. I'll pull that thread out."
Rowan gave a grateful nod. "Thanks, Doc."
Bismarck bowed slightly. "Thank you, Doktor."
They both gave Doc a respectful handshake. Bismarck gathered her things and walked toward the door. But before Rowan could finish letting go of Doc's hand, she tugged him in close.
Her voice dropped, warm with danger and rich as syrup.
"And hey—if you ever decide older women are your thing, Red… just let me know."
Rowan blinked.
"I could show you things about your anatomy these young bitches ain't even dreamed of."
His face went full emergency crimson. Bismarck's jaw physically dropped. And from somewhere behind the vitals monitor, Lightning audibly gasped.
Doc just howled with laughter, throwing her head back like she'd been blessed.
"Jesus Christ, kid! I'm fuckin' with ya!"
She slapped his shoulder and leaned back, positively delighted.
"But man, you should see the look on Kaiser's face! Don't even consider it, kid. I'd fold you like fuckin' lawn furniture."
She pointed at Bismarck without looking. "You. 20:00 tomorrow. Don't be late."
Still stunned into silence, the two of them shuffled out, one awkward step at a time.
The door hissed shut behind them.
Silence lingered.
And then—
"…What?" Doc asked the empty room.
Lightning, still invisible to all but Mercy, hadn't followed. She hovered, quietly listening as the doctor rolled her eyes.
"Oh don't give me that look, Merse. I was playin'."
Doc paused, then shrugged. "Okay, maybe I'd take him up on it. What? He's fuckin' cute!"
She sighed, grabbing her tablet again.
"And damn if he ain't the most heartwarmin' little shit on this whole island. How many dudes you know get stabbed and then try to make sure his ass-kickers don't get in too much trouble? Huh?"
A beat.
"It's adorable."
Lightning didn't say anything. Not out loud.
But her code updated silently, one flagged tag slot receiving a gleaming, mischievous label:
[PROJECT: HAREM HUNTER] // New Entry Logged: DOCTOR MERCY VEGA
She grinned—and zipped away like a thought on fire.