The sky was on fire. It was covered in dark, almost black clouds that hid the sun, turning day into night, illuminated only by the frequent flashes of unnatural, red lightning that tore through the air with loud peals, lighting up the sky, water, and land. The wind howled, unleashing hurricane-force gusts that nearly tore trees from the ground.
Sevastopol was under attack. Fighting raged here and there as the city's brave defenders desperately battled the invaders. The city streets were barricaded, and dozens, hundreds of soldiers hid behind them, occasionally peeking out to fire a burst at the approaching enemies.
Meanwhile, something entirely different was happening in Sevastopol Bay. A multitude of strange ships, vaguely reminiscent of Siren vessels, were lined up at the entrance to the bay, maintaining constant, relentless fire from all their guns, sending huge plumes of water into the air. Among them, small, squat torpedo boats darted about desperately, their crews trying to get their vessels out to sea to inflict at least some damage on the enemy armada threatening to destroy the city.
At the same time, larger ships—Kansen, some on their rigging, some on their hulls—tried to fight back. The battleships stood on their hulls, hoping that large targets like their hulls would draw the enemy's attention and fire, protecting the others. Submarines tried, along with the boats, to exit the harbor. Diving deep couldn't save them—too many shells were saturating the bay, plunging underwater and falling to the bottom like hail.
In all this chaos, two cruisers desperately maneuvered on their rigging through Sevastopol Bay, evading enemy fire.
"Sister!" cried Pamyat' Merkuria as another column of water erupted right in her face, showering her with spray and shrapnel.
"Argh!.. I'm fine..." exhaled Ochakov through clenched teeth, wiping drops of water and blood from her face, which slowly trickled down into her eyes. "Are you okay?"
Pamyat' nodded almost imperceptibly:
"All right..." she said, relaxing for just a moment before raising her hand, "Ochakov!" she shouted, pointing at something ahead of them.
They were at the very tip of the engagement, ahead of everyone else, buying time for Tashkent and Krasny Krym to evacuate the others, so they were the ones who had to bear the brunt if anyone appeared. And it happened.
A figure of a girl with unnaturally pale skin, brown-yellow eyes, and a black-and-blue uniform appeared within sight. From under her dark grey-blue, straight hair, a pair of jet-black horns protruded upwards, adorned with barely visible blue dots. Behind her back was a massive rigging of black and grey with blue veins, vaguely resembling the head of a beluga whale. On each side was a triple-gun turret, and the caliber of these guns could terrify even a battleship Kansen. On the lower part of the rigging were triple-tube torpedo launchers, whose charges, like the gun barrels, glowed with a blue light.
Ochakov quickly turned her head in the direction Pamyat' had pointed. It took her only a fraction of a second to make a decision.
"Pamyat'! We have to delay her! Help me!" she shouted, rushing towards the Siren.
Merkury barely had time to move forward in a desperate attempt to stop Ochakov:
"Ochakov, stop!" she cried after her sister, who had already picked up speed.
A second later, her guns snarled with fire and metal, and in the next moment, the steel of Ochakov's blade flashed. Pamyat' had no choice but to rush after her sister.
Ochakov quickly closed the distance with the enemy, firing constantly from her guns. The fire was delivered in volleys, just like the sailing ships of the line fought in their time. This reduced the density of fire, but in return, each new volley possessed monstrous destructive force for guns of a destroyer's caliber, though now it wasn't noticeable.
Every volley fired by Ochakov slammed into a strange, almost otherworldly barrier surrounding the humanoid Siren, who was also getting closer and closer, closing the distance with Ochakov and Pamyat'. Her monstrous guns were silent, but they were slowly tracking their target.
When the distance between her and Ochakov became insufficiently large, the Siren's huge guns, glowing blue, snarled with a bright blue, almost electric flash, spewing six massive shells that immediately rushed towards Ochakov.
The girl had only an instant to realize what would happen. Her pupils narrowed in surprise, and her rigging moved forward, creating a shield in front of her meant to protect her. At the same moment, her own barrier, composed of hexagons, flared up, and a moment later, the Siren's shot found its target.
"Sister!" cried Pamyat' Merkuria as Ochakov was obscured by a cloud of black powder smoke that enveloped her sister after the impact. The Siren's shells slammed into Ochakov's shields, breaking through them and heading straight for the Soviet girl's rigging.
For a moment, it seemed to Pamyat' as if everything had gone quiet, as if there were no sounds at all, and her breath froze. Her gaze fixed motionlessly on the cloud of smoke hiding her sister. A shot from within the smoke, breaking through like the sun in a thick, clawing fog, seemed to restart the flow of time for Pamyat'.
New tracer shells, bursting from the smoke, rushed towards the Siren, and a moment later, with a guttural cry, Ochakov herself followed them, charging at the Siren. Pamyat' didn't have time to get a good look at her sister, who had reappeared in view, instead opening fire on the Siren.
Ochakov's steel blade flashed in the darkness, rarely illuminated by shots and lightning. Raised for a strike, it was pulled back. Maintaining constant fire, Ochakov quickly closed in with the Siren, and at that same moment, her blade descended upon the Siren, aiming to take her head off. However, at the last moment before the steel touched the invader's skin, a dull metallic screech was heard.
Ochakov and the Siren froze. The blade of the white-haired girl was stopped by a hand in a steel, clawed gauntlet. A strange, slightly amused expression appeared on the Siren's face, and her lips were twisted into a strange, sly grin.
The Siren's rigging moved as its monstrous guns began to train on Ochakov, locked in the clinch.
"Ochakov!" cried Pamyat' Merkuria, who in those seconds had managed to get close enough for her own attack.
Neither the Siren nor Ochakov had time to react to Pamyat's cry when she, at maximum possible speed, swung her high-held scythe. The blow was delivered on a tangent, like how a scythe is used in a field. The blade struck the Siren's rigging. It acted like a fishhook.
The blade caught on the rigging, piercing the plating of the Siren's rigging and, due to the force of the impact, pulled it further. Instantly, she lost her balance and was forced to release Ochakov's blade, and the next moment, Pamyat' threw her. The Siren flew several meters away from the Russian girls before stopping.
"Are you okay?" Pamyat' asked concernedly, approaching her sister, who was slightly stretching her arms during the short respite.
The older girl's hand reached up to her face, wiping away a few drops of blood that had begun to seep from freshly appeared wounds:
"Been worse," Ochakov replied with a reassuring smile, then suddenly started. Her gaze was directed past Pamyat's back—towards the shore.
For a few seconds, the world around them was flooded with a blinding,前所未见的 white light that burned their very eyes, and both Kansen instinctively squeezed their eyes shut. When the glow faded and they opened their eyes, they saw a crimson mirage blooming on the shore—a flower of flame. A huge pillar of fire and smoke rose on the shore in the city center, climbing kilometers high. The clouds that had previously covered the sky parted, revealing a sky that seemed to glow with an orange color.
Then the shockwave hit. A visible, semi-transparent wave rolled over the water's surface at the speed of sound, raising waves. Ochakov and Pamyat' barely had time to react when the shockwave, with a terrible roar, slammed into them. The impact was terrifying, like an earthquake. The water literally shook, and waves beat against them. The echo of the explosion, many times louder than thunder, roared in their ears. The sisters barely remained standing, not losing combat capability, but even so, it stunned them.
Ochakov was the first to come to her senses. Her trembling gaze shot towards the shore. The city had become one huge bonfire, where everything in sight was engulfed in flames, and ash fell from the sky like snow.
"Sister!.." Pamyat' called out to her in a breathless voice. "What happened?.."
Ochakov turned her head to her sister, who was trying to stand up straight while wiping away blood that slowly flowed from her ears. The older sister looked at Pamyat' with pity, not knowing what to answer. Words simply wouldn't come to her mouth. Suddenly, her gaze darted past her younger sister's back, to the Siren, who was quickly closing the distance.
Ochakov quickly moved, pushing her sister aside. Steel flashed again, and with a new metallic screech, the Russian girl's blade clashed against the Siren's armored gauntlets.
"I won't let you, you beast!" she spat, baring her teeth at the Siren.
She blocked the strike from the Siren's hand, but the Siren, with an almost expressionless face, raised its other hand for a strike. Ochakov barely had time to react, stepping back a step, but even so, the enemy's claws slashed across her stomach, tearing her clothes and slightly scratching her skin. Ochakov's guns fired at point-blank range, aiming for the Siren's head, intending to take her out of the fight. The Siren was thrown back again, but it didn't sustain significant damage.
Ochakov was ready to shout to Pamyat' that they should finally end this Siren's life together, but at the moment she turned to her sister and reached out a hand to help her up, her gaze caught on something on the horizon. It was as if the sea itself was blazing there. Fire raged everywhere one looked, and smoke rose to the sky, forming a huge impenetrable wall, and only barely visible white silhouettes with blue, yellow, and red glow darted across the water.
"These aren't ours!" Ochakov said with a gasp, slowly turning her head from side to side, then added quietly, stunned and depressed, "We've lost..."
"Ochakov?" Pamyat' asked, barely staying on her feet, looking at her sister with trembling eyes.
Suddenly, drowning out all sounds around them, space seemed to tear open a dozen meters away from them in a bright pink, alien flash. The rift in reality was like a lizard's pupil, but after a few moments, it expanded sharply.
Ochakov and Pamyat' gripped their weapons tighter, and their rigging aimed towards the portal, ready to meet whoever would come through it. A second later, a girl in black attire, with white, silver-like hair, and a bandage over her left eye appeared before them. Her weapon was lowered in a non-aggressive posture, making the sisters relax slightly.
Her hollow, stern voice carried through the air:
"Quickly, if you want to live, follow me," she said in a voice that was both hurried and calm at the same time.
Pamyat' and Ochakov exchanged glances, hesitant to move after the stranger. They both understood this girl was right, but they couldn't bring themselves to step after her.
"Ochakov," Pamyat' addressed her sister, "I don't know, I..." She didn't get to finish.
Too quiet for such a large combatant, but not enough to go unnoticed, the Siren crept up behind the two sisters, preparing to attack. Ochakov noticed her at the very last moment. There was no time to draw her blade or react in any other way. With her left hand, she grabbed Pamyat firmly by the collar and with all her remaining strength threw her towards the portal.
She flew almost the entire distance, collapsing a meter from the saving rift in reality, at the feet of the unknown girl, and the next moment, a vile, crunching, and squelching sound was heard—a sound that should never be heard under any circumstances. Merkury immediately raised her head towards her sister.
She was standing in the same spot where Pamyat' herself had been a second ago, facing her. Her rigging was spread out like the wings of a bird, and her eyes looked straight at her. It seemed everything was fine, but the next moment she saw something else.
Four blood-red claws were protruding from Ochakov's abdomen, blood slowly dripping from them onto the ground. Suddenly, Ochakov began to cough violently, and blood flowed from her mouth.
Pamyat's gaze trembled. Her heart beat wildly. Her breath became ragged. She tried to get to her feet:
"Ochakov!" she screamed, trying to rise, but immediately collapsed back down as if her legs had lost all strength.
A strange, joyful smile twisted Ochakov's face—the smile of a person with no regrets. Her quiet voice, which shouldn't have been audible in the general noise, and yet Pamyat' heard it:
"Run!.."
"No!" cried Pamyat' as tears began to flow uncontrollably from her eyes. "Ochakov! No! I'll stay with you!" she continued to scream as the hand of the stranger who had appeared from the portal rested on her shoulder.
"It's time to go," she said quietly, slowly pulling her back towards the portal.
"No! No! Let me go! Ochakov! Sister! No!" Pamyat' couldn't resist. Strength seemed to have left her body, but the only thing she could do was scream and beg.
A moment before completely disappearing into the portal, she saw the Siren tear its claws out of Ochakov's back, and she, losing all support, collapsed to her knees. She closed her eyes, accepting her fate, and whispered quietly:
"Forgive me..." and in the next moment, a deafening volley of artillery guns shook the world. Following this, with a roar, Ochakov disappeared in a fireball of detonating artillery magazines.
"No!" screamed Pamyat' before finally disappearing into the portal.
***
"That's how it was," said Pamyat' META in a sad, depressed voice. "That's how she, my Ochakov, saved me... and stayed there herself," she added, looking at the ground.
She, along with Ochakov, walked slowly along the embankment under the rays of the setting sun. Throughout Pamyat's story, Ochakov walked beside her, not daring to utter a word, listening carefully to the story of the one who called herself her sister.
She would never admit it, but listening to how you die, even somewhere else, was very difficult. At one point, a lump formed in her throat that she tried to swallow.
"And... why did you tell me all this?" she asked in a slightly muted voice, glancing sideways at the META cruiser.
"I... I don't know," Pamyat' sighed dejectedly, continuing to look at the ground. When she raised her head and looked at Ochakov, the latter recoiled, seeing what she never expected to see on the META's face—tears that had barely gathered in the corners of her eyes.
Pamyat' continued:
"I've kept this inside for so many years, never told anyone... and here... You... I just wanted you to understand why I'm doing all this," she sighed heavily, wiping the tears with the back of her hand, and continued, "I know you don't believe me, and I understand your suspicions, but... I want you to understand why I'm doing all this. I want to save you, save all of you."
"You know I'm not that Ochakov you remember, the one you call sister, right?" Ochakov asked quietly.
"I know... I know perfectly well," Pamyat' sighed. "You are no longer her... but I am not that Pamyat' Merkuria you knew either. And yet, you are my sister, whom I want to save," she stopped and looked straight into Ochakov's eyes, "I believe that you... that you will make the right decision. I cannot bury my sister again..." she finished, staring at the ground again.
Ochakov didn't want to associate herself with this girl who called herself her sister. She didn't want to sympathize with her and her story, but when she finished, Ochakov couldn't help but lower her head, deeply immersed in her thoughts. She knew she shouldn't believe her, knew she shouldn't sympathize, understood it was most likely manipulation, but... she had the face of her younger sister, whom she hadn't seen for a quarter of a century. That was taking its toll.
Suddenly, Pamyat's thin voice, like a knife, cut her hearing:
"Can... can I hug you?" she unexpectedly asked, raising her, for some reason, red eyes, looking straight at Ochakov.
The latter was taken aback for a moment, but still nodded uncertainly. Pamyat' quietly snorted as a crooked smile appeared on her lips:
"Thank you," she said, immediately hanging on Ochakov's neck, who was, after all, slightly taller. Ochakov was somewhat surprised by this as the META's arms closed around her neck and her head buried itself in her shoulder, "How long has it been since I did this," Pamyat' muttered into Ochakov's shoulder.
A minute later, she released Ochakov. There was a happy, yet sad smile on her face.
"Thank you for letting me do that," she said with a slight bow, then walked past Ochakov with slow steps, stopping by the embankment railing, "I know you will make the right choice, sister," she said, then deftly vaulted over the railing straight into the water. In a flash of light, her rigging appeared, and a moment later she sped off towards the location of her squadron, leaving Ochakov in thought.
***
"Madame Terror, one thing I can't understand. Do you think Pamyat' can convince Ochakov that they need to join us?" asked Powerful.
After switching to serving the Sirens, the Ash-Kansen hulls received advanced sensors and communication means, and the data they collected was fed into a combat information center located in the place of the former combat bridge. Here and now, the cruiser was looking at a three-dimensional image of Bizerta and its surroundings, generated by aircraft.
The response was Terror's cold laugh, sitting on a throne at the other end of the room.
"Hehehehehe. It would be splendid if her trick helped us convert Ochakov and her squadron. But alas, my dear Erebus underestimated her rivals in her time. I will not follow her example!"
Powerful knew perfectly well that this topic was a sore spot for her mistress. Erebus had underestimated her opponents in a game where lives were at stake. She, like a grandmaster, played the game, making moves and predicting her opponent's actions, but at some point, her opponent turned out to be someone smarter, more cunning, and more insightful than her. In the end, Erebus staked her life... and lost.
"I don't think Ochakov, despite Pamyat's words, will decide to join us. It's not in her character to do so, and words won't be able to persuade her. To sow doubts—perhaps, but to make her agree—no," Terror continued her thought.
"Then why did we even get involved with her?" asked Powerful, meaning Pamyat'. "If she can't influence Ochakov in any way, what use is she?"
"Hehehe," Terror laughed maliciously, "even if she fails to win Ochakov over to her side, she can certainly sow doubt in her head. However much she tries to deny it, she is the flagship, everything rests on her. The Russians like to say—the fish rots from the head. So let her start doubting, and everything might crumble. And then those who disagree with her will go looking for help anywhere," a smile spread across her face, and her voice became quiet, like that of a contented cat, "and then they will come here, begging for mercy. And perhaps, I will find out where the one who killed my sister is hiding," she finished in a barely audible whisper.
"But, Madame Terror, from what I heard," Powerful began, her voice tinged with doubt, "I don't think there's anyone there who would come to us. They were looking at us quite aggressively."
"Well, wouldn't you react the same way in their situation, if you were in their place?" There was a smirk in Terror's voice.
The other froze for a moment, pondering her flagship's words. She thought for a few seconds, staring at one point, then nodded:
"I suppose, yes. I would have done the same."
"That's the point," Terror said in a sweet voice. After a short pause, she continued, "Their reaction is normal and quite expected. The amount of time they've been stewing in this cauldron—few could endure it, hence the reaction. They are barely holding together because of their own characters..." her voice became strangely detached, like a poet passionately trying to find a rhyme for his work, "...and it only remains to bring a lit fuse, and everything will burn in the fire!"
"And they might also unite because of us, setting aside their squabbles," Powerful noted in a serious tone, "as happened last time when your sister perished, Madame Terror."
Terror's smile faded, and she seemed to freeze in place, whether from uncertainty, from rushing memories, or perhaps from contemplation. She stood in such a way that Powerful couldn't see the storm of emotions raging in her sovereign's eyes. Emotions she thought she had gotten rid of over all the past years, especially in recent years.
"Such a thing... is almost impossible," she said in a slightly muted, rumbling voice, "too much time has passed since they were at war. Over that time, they've lost their spirit, so their, as you said, unification, is almost impossible. And as for my sister, she made a mistake. Overestimated her strength, her skills, and underestimated her opponents, for which she paid, and not alone, the same Renown. Hehe," she gave a short laugh, continuing her speech, "besides, she thought she was fighting an equal opponent, but that was just a pawn. The real player appeared later... and she realized her mistake too late."
"But aren't we in the same situation now? You yourself said that Ochakov is just a figure on the game board."
"Correct," Terror nodded weakly, as the vanished smile reappeared on her face, "but unlike my sister, I understand what we are dealing with. And perhaps, if everything succeeds, I can get on the trail of the one who outwitted and killed Erebus," she finished, clenching her fist so tightly that if there had been any object in it, it would have shattered.
"Receiving! Pamyat' Merkuria is heading back! Over!" a voice suddenly came from the radio.
The transmission ended as quickly as it began. Terror raised her gaze to the ceiling thoughtfully, then said with irony:
"Let's not linger here any longer, Powerful. Let's go and meet our Russian friend and find out how her meeting with her sister went."
"So be it, Madame Terror," the cruiser nodded.
A few seconds later, both Ash-Kansen left the command center and walked towards the exit along the ship's narrow stairs and corridors. On the deck, they were met by a cool sea breeze that ruffled their hair and tickled their skin, and the rays of the already setting sun faintly illuminated the ships anchored around Terror's hull.
To the left and slightly behind stood Powerful's hull, which, even against the background of the Sirens' massive aircraft carriers, looked quite formidable. On the opposite side, surrounded by several smaller Siren ships, two small ships were at anchor—the C-class destroyers Crescent and Comet, which had accompanied her, Powerful, and Pamyat' during the recent visit to Ochakov.
Behind, already beyond the aircraft carriers, also surrounded by Siren destroyers and monitors—which, in case of an unexpected attack (though it was unlikely), wouldn't be such a great loss to lose—were the remaining hulls of those whom Terror had managed to bring here.
Two imposing silhouettes stood out significantly against the background of the smaller Siren ships, overshadowing both Powerful and Terror. They were similar to each other but also very different. They were roughly equal in length, with a pronounced forecastle. Both had two fairly wide funnels and massive, though not gigantic, superstructures. Both had five twin-gun turrets, though only one of them could train all of them on a single target.
Two battleships—Bellerophon and Neptune, participants in the dreadnought race and the Battle of Jutland. Terror had called them for support, knowing that Ochakov had Alexander III and Georgiy Pobedonosets under her command. But these precautionary measures by the META didn't end there. Slightly apart from them stood two Emerald-class light cruisers—Emerald herself and Enterprise—who had also been summoned by Terror to strengthen her own forces, as she trusted Kansen more than Sirens.
After briefly surveying her forces, Terror cast a glance into the distance, towards the city, on whose silhouette, lit by the setting sun, a barely visible, approaching figure was noticeable. A few minutes later, Pamyat' Merkuria returned to the location of their forces and stepped onto Terror's deck. The Brit moved forward, meeting Pamyat's gaze. A smile spread across her face, one that made many shiver, before she asked:
"Well, how did it go?"
***
The sun slowly set below the horizon, and a dark, cloudless night descended upon the small North African town. The last reflections of the reddish sunset sun continued to illuminate the silhouettes of the town's houses and ships, but with every second, it became smaller and dimmer, replaced by a mysterious black sky like the vault of a cave, studded with thousands upon thousands of diamonds.
Ochakov watched the last ray of sun, continuing to stand on the town's embankment, before, under the pale yellow light of the moon, trudging back to the mansion. Most windows were dark—their owners had already gone to bed, and where a light was burning, it was more like the glow of a dim kerosene lamp or a candle.
With a quiet, drawn-out creak, she opened the massive doors, slipped inside, and then, without attracting attention, made her way up the stairs to the upper floor where her room was. Entering it and closing the door behind her, having first checked that no one was following her, Ochakov reached a simple but very comfortable and beloved armchair, where she could finally relax.
"A-a-ah!.." she sighed dejectedly, covering her eyes with her hands and sliding down slightly in the chair. "God! Why is all this happening to me?" she asked herself.
"Why is all this happening to me at all?" she mentally asked herself, taking a deep breath. "Too much is happening! And I don't know what to do!"
Pictures of the past flashed before her eyes, as if coming to life. She remembered Sevastopol, remembered her days spent in the Black Sea with her sister, under the command flag first of Potemkin, then of Evstafiy, and later of the sisters Maria and Ekaterina. However, she had never prepared to lead a fleet herself, and yet, it was Ochakov who stepped up, seeing what was happening; it was she who led those who did not want to stay in a country torn by civil war.
She had left a lot behind there—her homeland, friends, acquaintances... her sister. She left for the sake of those who followed her. All this time, she tried to be the one they could rely on, like a lighthouse illuminating the path for everyone, even though she understood she wasn't suited for this role, convincing herself of this anew each time.
And now, once again, she stood at a crossroads. In her hands was the power to decide the fate of her fleet. But the resolve to use it was something Ochakov couldn't find right now.
"If... if I agree to the offer, then in the eyes of the others we will become traitors... traitors to the whole world," she sighed dejectedly, bowing her head.
Whatever anyone said, she understood what was at stake.
"And if I refuse... everyone will die: both the sisters and the residents of Bizerta... and what can I do? They have three aircraft carriers and who knows how many smaller ships, and I have... a battleship, an old pre-dreadnought, two cruisers, one of which is essentially an armed yacht, three gunboats, four submarines, a dozen destroyers, and two seaplane carriers that, if they're lucky, might get through to at least one enemy carrier..."
She leaned back in the chair, throwing her head back. Her sigh was more like a suppressed, desperate, and weary groan. She wanted to appeal to someone who came before her, but she simply couldn't—she didn't know a figure equal to, say, the Baltic's Slava, to whom, in the last years of the Imperial Russian Baltic Fleet's existence, they appealed for advice...
There were no such figures on the Black Sea. Potemkin, although an example for her to follow, had tarnished her honor with the 1905 mutiny and then disappeared; Evstafiy and Zlatoust were two peas in a pod. Good fighters, but they clearly weren't the icon one could ask for advice. And Imperatritsa Maria too...
"God, give me strength!" she said in a weary tone.
"Hehe," someone's quiet, unfamiliar voice came from outside, from behind the glazed door leading to a small balcony.
"Another one!.." Ochakov said irritably, sharply rising from her seat. All fatigue was swept away as if by a tidal wave. In an instant, her blade was in her hand, pointed directly at the source of the sound.
Only a moment separated her from summoning her rigging, but a quiet, slightly hoarse voice stopped her:
"No need for that," said the girl, showing herself. Opening the glass door, she slowly stepped forward.
"You... you were on the street today," Ochakov said in a slightly surprised voice, continuing to hold her blade aimed at the girl.
Only now could she get a proper look at her. The girl standing before her was slightly taller than Georgiy Pobedonosets, while being shorter than Alexander III; if she heard correctly, she would say this girl was about the same height as Slava or Andrey Pervozvanny.
She still wore boots, long, tight-fitting trousers of brown, leather color, and a long white shirt. Her face was hidden by a strange, massive hat with a steel, tall plume, from under which wheat-colored hair fell, braided into a thick braid.
"Correct," came from under the hat as the girl took another step forward, lifting her head and allowing Ochakov to look under her hat, "it was me."
The girl's face looked about thirty years old, was very beautiful, framed by short strands, with piercing light blue, clear eyes, but there was one 'but'. A large burn scar ran down the left side of her face, from the eyebrow down almost across the entire cheek. It was clear it was quite old and that it had once been much worse, but that only meant it wouldn't disappear. Ochakov briefly shuddered at this, then finally spoke:
"Who are you? And... what do you want here?" she asked, tightening her grip on her blade's hilt.
The girl stepped forward so that Ochakov's steel blade almost touched her chest.
"My name is Lutkovsky... Admiral Lutkovsky," she said, relaxing and closing her eyes, then continued in the same relaxed voice, "Pre-dreadnought of the 'A' series, Lutkovsky class."
"Pre... Pre-dreadnought?" Ochakov asked in a slightly surprised voice, relaxing her hand a little.
"Correct," the other nodded again, moving slightly aside as a small, barely noticeable smile appeared on her face.
Ochakov froze for a few seconds, immersed in her thoughts, remembering something:
"As far as I remember, our fleet didn't have ships called 'Pre-dreadnought'! The Austrians, French, and Macaques did that, but not us!.. I'll ask again: Who are you and where did you come from?" Ochakov said suspiciously, squeezing the hilt of her blade with such force that, had it not been for her gloves, one could have seen her knuckles turn white.
"That's true," Lutkovsky nodded, closing her eyes for a moment, "but not entirely," she said, then continued, "You know about the fleet that left in the twenties?"
As soon as she said this, Ochakov's breath hitched. She remembered perfectly how she heard that in November '21, when she had already taken everyone who wanted to go to Bizerta a year prior, many Imperial Kansen girls simply... disappeared.
Ochakov dryly wet her lips and hurriedly asked:
"What do you know about that?"
"I was there, where they went, like many others. We were born there, where the Empire's fleet went; we were those who greeted them. I met many," she said, slowly pacing the room with measured steps.
"Many? What about my sisters!" Ochakov suddenly exclaimed. "Did you see them?! What happened to them?!"
Lutkovsky's face darkened, she pursed her lips and lowered her eyes to the floor:
"I knew them... Bogatyr, Oleg, and Vityaz. They were... perhaps some of the brightest of those who were there with us," her lips curved into a warm but sad smile.
"What happened to them?!" Ochakov shouted, her blue eyes flashing with fire.
"They perished."