Bismarck dropped to one knee and yanked open her bottom drawer.
Uniforms. Uniforms. Gym clothes. More uniforms. Dress uniform. Pajamas...why did she even have so many duplicates?
Panic fluttered in her chest.
She slammed the drawer shut and turned to the closet. Still worse. Coats. Full-dress formals. Nothing... casual. Nothing soft.
Her throat tightened.
"Otto," she barked, voice strained, "tactical assessment. Is there anything I can repurpose for civilian use?"
Otto flicked his wrist, projecting a gallery of candid photographs into the visual center of her brain: students at cafes, girls on the boardwalk, couples sitting close together under patio lights.
Bismarck stared, horrified.
Flowing skirts. Soft textures. Laughing faces in pastels and streetwear. And her standing in front of her own closet and chest of drawers, it looked like a military parade in grayscale.
"I don't own anything that soft," she whispered.
A small, awful sound escaped her throat, a whimper, almost.
She chewed at her nail, pacing again. Four steps. Pivot. Her steps grew shorter, erratic. Her hands were shaking.
Bismarck paced tighter now, like a warship caught in its own wake. The air in the room was thinning by the second.
"I've prepared the battlefield," she muttered. "I ran the route. I timed the approach. I accounted for his conversational vectors. Why didn't I think of this? Why didn't I think of this?!"
She spun toward the closet again like she could will something new into being, but there was nothing but monochrome wool and regulation hems.
A soft tap of porcelain broke the silence. Hood, still seated at her desk, set down her teacup and rose with the careful dignity of someone about to do something beneath her station.
"That's enough," she said evenly.
Bismarck blinked. "What?"
Hood didn't answer right away. Instead, she stepped to the foot of her bed and pointed at a large, dark blue steamer trunk with brass buckles.
"That one," she said. "Open it."
Bismarck hesitated. She eyed Hood, curious.
"Yes. I'm giving you permission." Hood crossed her arms, her chin high, her expression unreadable. "It contains garments not issued by any military academy. Open it."
"But..." Bismarck started but Hood merely sniffed dismissively.
"Oh, get over yourself, Bismarck."
That landed harder than it should have. The name. She said it casually. Not with hatred or fear. And the tone. It wasn't cruel. It was laced with... something soft. The sort of softness nobles offered when they'd decided to be kind and didn't want you to make a fuss about it.
Bismarck knelt in front of the trunk. Her fingers hovered a moment before she flicked the buckles open.
Inside lay soft things. Casual things. Things meant to breathe in. Folded knits, cardigans, flowing blouses in subdued pastels and creams. A little blue dress that looked impossibly gentle.
She stared at the contents like she'd discovered contraband in the Queen's luggage.
Hood didn't smirk. She didn't lecture. She only said, "You're not going to win his heart with tactics alone."
And then, as though nothing had happened, she turned and went back to her tea.
Bismarck stared down at the open trunk. The fabrics looked impossibly comfy. Cotton and cashmere, jersey knits and carefully folded linen. Not one uniform. Not one badge of rank. Just... clothes. Civilian clothes. The kind girls wore on dates.
She reached out, fingers brushing over a light cream cardigan, then paused.
Her eyes narrowed. "Why are you helping me, Hood?"
Hood didn't even flinch. She set her teacup back in its saucer, crossed one leg over the other and looked at Bismarck, the very picture of the smug, womanly aristocrat. When she spoke, it was smooth and poised, but the smile she gave wasn't kind. It curled at the edges like a drawn blade.
"Because," she said, "beating you at a disadvantage is not sporting, dear."
She leaned forward slightly, just enough to let her crimson eyes bore into Bismarck with their precise beauty.
"I want the battlefield conditions equal. So that way when I win his heart, you will know it wasn't because of my station, my wealth or my wardrobe. It was because he chose me."
And with that, she turned back to her tea and books as if she hadn't just declared open war on Bismarck.
But frankly...
Bismarck appreciated the openness and sporting attitude. They had both radar locked the same target. But they seemed to be doing it for very different reasons. Hood seemed to genuinely want Rowan. Bismarck wasn't sure what she wanted but... She didn't like the idea of losing to Hood. In any arena.
Verdammt. Now she had to look good. And she had to do it her way. Bismarck straightened, her posture crisp, her chin lifted. She pointed directly at Hood.
"No. I will win under my own power."
Hood didn't rise. She only smirked behind the rim of her teacup.
"With what, darling? Your dress whites?"
Bismarck said nothing. She turned on her heel and marched from the room without another word.
Otto was already bringing up reference images in her visual feed. She scrolled through them rapidly as her bare feet carried her down the corridor. Streetwear, lounge fashion, date-night casuals. Then—there. A look she could emulate. Modest, modern, soft without being saccharine. It would do.
I do not need Hood's pity.
---
The knock on Rowan's door nearly gave him a heart attack.
He scrambled out of the bathroom, nearly slipping as he wrapped a towel around his waist.
"Y-Yeah!" His pinky toe hung on the doorframe in his rush "Just... Aeeee!" He hopped in place on one foot for a second. "Shit fire to save matches! Every time!!! Just a second!"
He hobbled over and cracked the door open, fully expecting to see Lightning playing a prank, or maybe Hood with more study notes. What he got instead was Bismarck.
She stood there, flushed but composed, dressed in her soft gray sleepwear. Her silver hair was tied back, and her expression was as serious as if she were delivering a strategic ultimatum.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph! He was only in a towel! Rowan turned beet red, flattening himself behind the door.
"B-Bismarck?! What are you... uh, what's up?"
She glanced deliberately away, her voice formal and low.
"I apologize for the intrusion. But I require one of your shirts. An older one. Preferably one you do not wish returned."
Rowan blinked. "Wait, what?" This was completely out of left field!
She didn't deign to answer. She only held out her hand.
Rowan gawked. "Wait, what? Why do you want... What?"
Bismarck's eyes snapped back to him, sharp as a deck knife. "Ask no questions. Just do as I ask."
"Y-Yes ma'am!"
He ducked back into the room, heart pounding like he was under fire. He yanked open his closet, digging for something ratty, an old paint-stained tee maybe. Something that wouldn't matter if it disappeared forever.
That's when Lightning appeared in a shimmer of light, floating just above his laundry basket like an irritated seraph.
"Absolutely not!" she barked, crossing her arms. "Belay that action, Cap!"
"What?!" Rowan hissed, waving the sad old shirt like he was signaling surrender. "She's in the hallway! In her jammies! Asking for a shirt! This is a shirt! We're doing great!"
Lightning didn't budge. She pointed commandingly toward a neatly folded red T-shirt on the second shelf. A clean, soft favorite with The Flash's lightning bolt emblazoned on the chest.
"Give her that one." She said, a wistful smile playing across her face.
He blinked. "Why?"
Lightning lowered herself to eye level, voice calm but firm. "It's a girl thing. Trust me. Give her that one and tell her it's one of your favorites. No jokes. Just… let her have it.*"
Rowan hesitated, then gave a little nod. "Right. I have no idea what's going on but if you think it's important, I'm game." He flashed his girl a sunny smile and she gave him a little thumbs up.
Rowan grabbed the shirt and headed to the door when Lightning suddenly shouted,
"Wait!"
He froze mid-motion. "What now?! If a security officer walks by, she's gonna get in trouble just standing out there!"
"Shush. Just trust me."
Then she vanished.
Rowan blinked, confused. "I do trust you," he said silently. "But you are being super weird!"
A blur of blue zipped past him. Lightning reappeared, this time darting out of the bathroom clutching his bar of Bleating Goat soap like it was the nuclear football. Before he could say a word, she was furiously rubbing it into the armpits and neckline of the shirt. She did two passes working furiously against her own existential clock.
"There!" she whispered, triumphantly. "Perfect. Now give it to her!"
And with that, she vanished again, seven seconds up, leaving the soap to thud softly onto the floor.
Rowan stared at the shirt, at the bar of soap on the tile, then back at the shirt again.
He had no clue what she was doing, but Lightning was Lightning. He was positive there was a method to her madness.
So he stepped back to the door and held it open, presenting the red tee to Bismarck with both hands like he was giving her something important.
"Here you go," he said gently. "Take good care of it. It's one of my favorites."
---
Bismarck's expression didn't so much as flicker. She took the shirt with both hands and gave the faintest nod.
"Thank you," she said, voice like cut marble.
Then she turned and walked down the hall. She maintained her composure and counted the steps between their rooms. 35 steps exactly.
She did not run or rush to open her door to hide, but the moment it clicked shut behind her, she sagged against it like her knees had given out.
Her breath caught. That had been one of the scariest moments of her life!
The shirt was still in her hands. She looked down at it like it was some kind of artifact. A relic from a foreign world she wasn't sure she was allowed to touch.
His favorite?
Why?
Why would he do that? He had no idea what plans she had for the shirt!
Did he not understand she might ruin it? What if she spilled something on it or tore it? The very idea made her stomach twist. She pressed the shirt to her chest.
Then the scent hit her.
Faint, but unmistakable. Clean and masculine. The fabric had trapped the smell of his soap.
Her knees gave way and she sank slowly to the floor.
Otto's hologram flickered into the corner of the room, looking concerned.
"Mein Kapitänin…?"
Bismarck stared straight ahead, expression blank, mouth slightly open.
"I am...not emotionally prepared for this mission."
Otto, for his part, had never desired to give his Captain a fatherly pat on the head more in his digital life. So instead he simply sat on the ground beside her. "There there, mein Kapitänin..."
---
Rowan stood over the sink, still in a towel, staring into the mirror as he brushed his teeth like a man who had just seen a ghost in sleepwear.
"Okay," he muttered around the toothbrush, spitting into the sink. "Spill. What the hell was that about?"
Lightning appeared on the bathroom counter, cross-legged and practically vibrating with smug energy. Her grin could've lit up the whole dorm.
"Think about it, Cap. Really think. You think Bismarck brought anything cute to war college? Huh? Any little sundresses tucked between her dress whites and naval reports?"
He froze.
"No…"
She leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Exactly."
His face went pale. "You don't mean to tell me..."
"Oh, I mean," she cooed. "That wasn't just any request. That was the ritual. She's gonna be wearing your shirt tomorrow."
Rowan reeled. "We are not at that stage yet!"
Lightning pointed a finger-gun at him and winked. "You are now, bitch!"
Rowan spun on his heel like a man possessed, eyes wild with sudden purpose.
"Nope! Nope, I can't just let that stand!" he shouted, already halfway across the room. He grabbed a pair of shorts and hopped into them, underwear be damned. He grabbed the white tee he had discarded earlier and shoved it on. Looked at his shoes and decided that he didn't need them.
Lightning blinked into visibility above his shoulder. "Cap?! What are you doing?!"
"That was a huge gesture!" he said, flinging open the door to his balcony. "She's trusting me with that shirt! That's like... That's practically a bonding ceremony in girl terms, right?! I gotta return it. I have to. It's only fair!"
Lightning flickered beside him midair, barely stabilizing as he stepped up onto the railing.
"Wait, hold up, what exactly are we doing?" she asked, though her grin was already forming.
"I have an idea," he growled, and without another word, leapt off the balcony.
---
He hit the grass running, hardlight kicking under his feet for traction as he bolted toward the faculty side of campus. The hour was late. The lights were dim. But he knew who he needed to find.
Lightning zipped ahead, a trail of translucent blue sparkles marking her path. "This is insane!"
"It's romance!" he shot back.
Lightning let out a shriek of delighted laughter. "Oh my god, I love you."
"Mutual!" he yelled. "Now will ya pipe down, if security catches us before we can talk to the big boss we're cooked!" He poured on the speed, praying he could outrun the patrols.
And together, they tore through the night headed straight for the one woman who might be able to grant Rowan his request:
Headmistress of Avalon Academy,
Admiral HMS Ark Royal.
----
Ark Royal had, of course, been surprised to see him. Not only was it well past curfew, but his request was, by every standard, insane.
And, she had to admit, insanely romantic.
She studied him over the rim of her teacup, her robe pressed and pristine even at this hour. "Are you certain about this, Captain Takeda? Some will view it as… inappropriate."
"I don't care," Rowan said without hesitation, he bowed low at the waist, trying to show his earnestness and reverence for her station. And to impress how important this was to him. "I know it's ridiculous. I know it is. But I have to return her gesture, and this is the best way I can think of."
Ark Royal leaned back on her couch, appraising him in silence. Then, slowly, she nodded.
"You have my permission. I believe you can be trusted. But you are not to travel beyond forty miles of the archipelago."
Rowan stood straight and snapped a crisp salute, hand over his heart, head bowed. "Thank you, Admiral."
---
As soon as she heard the door click closed, USS Barb stepped out into the light. Barb leaned against the bedroom doorframe, one hip cocked, her tiger-print panties doing very little to conceal her dark, powerful frame. Her long, poison-green hair tumbled down her back like jungle vines.
"I can assume you heard all of that?" Ark Royal asked still sipping her tea, looking at the door where Rowan and his ghost had just departed.
"Every word." Barb said, giving Ark Royal a crooked grin. "The hell is that kid thinking?" she drawled. "That girl's gonna explode. Her little icy heart's gonna seize up right there on the dock."
Ark Royal didn't even look up. She just smiled, still sipping her tea. "Yes… but it would have melted you, too."
Barb's grin widened. "Yeah, I'd have jumped your bones a hell of a lot sooner."
Barb crossed the room in two lazy steps and caught Ark Royal's hand. "C'mon. Come to bed. Damn romantics got me all worked up."
"You are absolutely incorrigible," Ark Royal murmured, but she was already rising to follow. The teacup was set gently aside, as Ark Royal let herself be dragged away.
Crazy kids had gotten to her too...