US Naval Base, Guam, Pacific
December 13, 1941 - 1200 Hours

The midday sun bore down mercilessly on the bustling harbor. The searing heat shimmered over the water and the metallic surfaces of the docked warships. Sailors and dock workers moved briskly, sweat soaking through their uniforms as they labored to reload ammunition, unload cargo, and conduct the countless other tasks required to maintain the fleet's readiness. The air was thick with the salty tang of the Pacific, mingling with the acrid scent of fuel and grease from the nearby hangars.

Seated on the bow of the USS Zumwalt, under the partial shade of a wide umbrella, the Kan-Sen Zumwalt herself observed the activity with a calm, composed demeanor. Her elegant figure radiated authority, yet her presence felt approachable. Despite her status as a cutting-edge destroyer given human form, she had quickly bonded with her new escorts. Beside her, sprawled comfortably on the deck, were Francisco, Sandy, Javelin, and Laffey—all enjoying sandwiches Zumwalt had painstakingly prepared that morning.

Francisco, a spirited cruiser with a knack for asking direct questions, spoke up between bites. "Miss Zummy, when are we going to move to attack Japan?"

Zumwalt chuckled softly at her eagerness. "As soon as possible," she replied, glancing over her shoulder toward the busy harbor. "We're waiting for reconnaissance reports. George is out conducting both long-range and close-to-medium-range patrols. Hornet and Enterprise are backing her up with their planes."

"Isn't Miss George tired?" Javelin asked, her voice tinged with concern. "She had the night watch and was in combat just hours ago."

Zumwalt's expression softened, her gaze momentarily distant as she thought of the hardworking battleship. "George is resting now, don't worry. Her planes are flying autonomously under pre-programmed commands. Enterprise taught her how to manage that." She chuckled at the memory of that morning’s encounter, when George had thrown herself at Enterprise's long legs, sobbing like a child in the arms of a caring elder sister.

"Ah, so she's sleeping while the planes do the work..." Javelin mused, her worried expression fading into a sheepish smile. "Looks like I worried for nothing."

"It's okay, J. I'm sure George would be touched that you care," Zumwalt said with a reassuring smile.

"Yeah, Georgie appreciates you, J. That’s just how she is," Sandy chimed in, patting Javelin on the head. The smaller girl flushed at the attention, mumbling something under her breath.

Meanwhile, Laffey, the quietest of the group, fought valiantly to keep her eyes open. Her head bobbed, and she swayed slightly as if on the verge of collapsing into sleep. Zumwalt, noticing her struggle, reached over to gently stroke her hair. Laffey relaxed under her touch, offering a barely audible hum of contentment.

The scene filled Zumwalt with a warmth she found difficult to describe. It had only been a week since she had been "born" into her human form, and moments like this—so ordinary, yet profoundly comforting—were new to her. She sighed softly, letting her gaze wander back toward the harbor. Her sharp eyes caught sight of Cleveland, standing rigidly behind General Maxwell, dressed in an Army officer's jacket.

"Is that part of the new loan program to the Army?" Zumwalt asked aloud, her curiosity piqued.

Francisco nodded, recalling the program’s announcement. "It is. What do you think, Miss Zummy?"

Zumwalt tapped her chin thoughtfully. "I think it’s a good idea for younger shipgirls. It gives them a chance to gain diverse experiences and learn different doctrines. It’s better than being locked into one rigid path."

"Doesn’t the program only apply to Destroyers and Heavy Cruisers?" Javelin asked, tilting her head.

"I think so," Sandy chimed in. "Probably because of their mobility. Battleships would be too slow for the kind of rapid deployment the Army needs."

"Or maybe Naval Command just doesn’t want to risk its ‘precious assets,’" Laffey murmured sleepily, her voice tinged with sardonic humor.

Zumwalt laughed softly, stroking Laffey’s hair again. "Now, now, Laffey, let’s not think that way. It’s important to trust our leadership."

"Mhmm… okay," Laffey murmured, closing her eyes again, her breathing slowing as she drifted closer to sleep.

Javelin giggled. "I didn’t think Laffey would be the type to talk about conspiracies!"

"It’s rational," Sandy said with a shrug, as if such skepticism were perfectly reasonable.

Zumwalt clapped her hands, drawing the group’s attention. "Alright, everyone. Since we’ll likely be setting sail soon, I want you to spend some time exploring the base."

"Why? That sounds exhausting..." Laffey groaned, her eyes fluttering open reluctantly.

"Yeah, Miss Zummy! Why should we wander around in this heat?" Javelin added innocently.

Zumwalt smiled gently at their protests. "Because I want you to meet the people here. The harbor workers, the sailors, even the locals who’ve come to help us. Look at their faces. Watch how they smile despite the hardships. Those smiles are what we—no, you—are fighting to protect. Keep them in your hearts, and let them remind you of what’s at stake."

For a moment, silence fell over the group. They exchanged glances, processing Zumwalt’s words. Francisco was the first to speak, her tone resolute. "If that’s what Miss Zummy wants, then we’ll do it!"

"Right!" Sandy exclaimed, striking a theatrical pose. "Bringing happiness is an Idol’s duty!"

Zumwalt laughed, the sound carrying over the noise of the bustling harbor. For now, this moment of camaraderie was enough. But as the distant horizon shimmered under the blazing sun, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the battles ahead would test their bonds—and their resolve—in ways they couldn’t yet imagine.

1230 Hours

The meeting room was stifling despite the whirring fans struggling to cool the humid air. The walls were lined with maps, tactical charts, and pinned notes hastily scribbled by strategists. Seated around a large oak table were key figures of the United States Armed Forces stationed in Guam, including General Maxwell, Lieutenant General Johnny, and Admiral Halsey, representing the combined Azur Lane fleet.

At the back of the room, Cleveland stood silently, notebook in hand, tasked with recording the key points of the meeting. She was clad in an Army officer’s jacket—borrowed for the occasion—which felt unfamiliar and stifling against her usual naval garb. Though outwardly calm, her fingers tapped the pen nervously against the paper. This was her first time attending a meeting of this magnitude, and the weight of responsibility pressed down on her.

The discussions began predictably: logistics reports, troop movements, and supply shortages dominated the first half hour. Cleveland’s pen moved mechanically, her mind struggling to stay focused. But as the topic shifted to the island’s defenses and the upcoming offensive in Malaya, her interest rekindled.

Lieutenant General Johnny leaned forward, his weathered face etched with concern. "So you see, General Maxwell, Guam is critical. If the Japanese gain a foothold here, they’ll use it as a launch point for further attacks across the Pacific. We cannot afford to lose this base. I strongly recommend reinforcing our defenses immediately." His voice was steady but urgent, reflecting the gravity of the situation.

Maxwell, however, seemed unimpressed. He rubbed his temples and sighed. "I understand your concerns, Johnny, but we can’t afford to divert resources right now. ABDACOM is relying on us for the offensive in Malaya and the Dutch East Indies. That supply chain disruption they’ve pulled off against the Japanese is our best chance to strike hard and fast. We’re needed there, and I can’t stretch our forces any thinner."

Johnny's face flushed with frustration, but he held his composure. "General, if Guam falls, it will be a disaster for our Pacific strategy. The Japanese know how important this base is, and I guarantee they’ll throw everything they have at us."

As the two high-ranking officers debated, Cleveland felt sweat bead on her brow. She wasn’t used to this level of tension or importance. Her role in this room felt out of place, and she doubted whether her presence mattered at all. Still, she dutifully jotted down notes, even as her hand trembled slightly.

Then, unexpectedly, Maxwell turned his sharp gaze toward her. "Cleveland, you’ve been quiet. Do you have any input?"

Caught off guard, Cleveland froze. Her pen hovered over her notebook as she processed his words. "Uh… me, Sir?"

"Yes, you," Maxwell replied, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. "You’re here for a reason, so let’s hear it."

Cleveland swallowed hard and straightened her posture. "If I may, General," she began cautiously, choosing her words carefully, "I agree that waiting for the Marine Corps reinforcements makes sense. But Lieutenant General Johnny is right—Guam is too important to leave vulnerable. The Japanese will almost certainly target us before the reinforcements arrive."

She stepped forward and gestured to the large map sprawled across the table, marked with red and blue indicators. "Instead of remaining entirely on the defensive, I suggest we launch a preemptive strike on the Japanese fleet operating near Guam. If we can eliminate or at least disrupt their naval forces here"—she pointed to several red ship icons encircling the island—"we’ll buy ourselves the time we need to bolster the defenses and bring in reinforcements."

There was a moment of silence as the room absorbed her words. Then Admiral Halsey, who had been observing quietly until now, leaned back in his chair and nodded approvingly. "She’s got a point. If we hit them hard enough, it’ll throw them off balance. We can’t let them control the pace of this war—keep them on their heels at every opportunity."

Lieutenant General Johnny sighed, his earlier tension easing slightly. "That… makes sense. If we can cripple their fleet, it might discourage them from attacking outright until the Marines arrive."

Cleveland, emboldened by their responses, continued. "Yes, sir. With our fleet's superior firepower and coordination, we can launch a swift and decisive attack. Even if we don’t destroy them completely, we’ll stall their plans and reduce their operational capacity around Guam."

Maxwell stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Good analysis, Cleveland. That’s the kind of initiative I like to see." He turned to Johnny, his tone firm but less confrontational than before. "What do you say, Lieutenant General? Can we make this work?"

Johnny hesitated for a moment before nodding. "I’ll defer to your judgment, sir. Let’s proceed with the plan."

"Good. And remember, Johnny, we’re all in this together," Maxwell added, his tone softening. "I know you’re under pressure, but you need to trust your comrades—even if they come from a different branch."

"Understood, sir. Thank you," Johnny replied, looking somewhat sheepish.

With the tension defused, the discussion shifted to hammering out the details of the operation. Cleveland retreated to the sidelines once more, her heart still pounding. She couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride at having contributed to the strategy.

As the officers debated tactics and resource allocation, Admiral Halsey glanced her way with a faint smile. "Good work, Cleveland. Keep that sharp mind of yours ready—we’ll need it in the days to come."

Cleveland gave a small, awkward salute, trying to mask her growing confidence. Despite the pressure and her inexperience, she had proven herself today. She vowed silently to continue learning and improving, for the sake of the mission and her comrades.

Bangka Belitung Waters, Dutch East Indies
December 13, 1941 – 1400 Hours

The waters around Bangka Belitung shimmered under the afternoon sun, but beneath the surface, war raged unseen. The Allied ground forces were locked in fierce combat with the Imperial Japanese Army, inching forward to reclaim the archipelago. Yet, the naval battle below was no less pivotal. Submarines like Orzel and John Warner prowled the depths, disrupting Japanese supply lines with ruthless precision.

The ocean reeked of oil and death. Countless Japanese cargo ships, their hulls torn asunder by torpedoes, spilled their black lifeblood into the waves. Ammunition crates floated aimlessly, many catching fire before sinking into the abyss. Survivors clung to debris, their cries lost to the roar of Allied aircraft overhead.

Inside her submarine, Orzel leaned back in her chair, a faint smile on her lips as she softly hummed Bajka Iskierki, a Polish lullaby that once brought comfort to children during dark times. Her voice was steady, an anchor of calm amidst the chaos.

A crackle came over the radio, followed by the familiar voice of her partner, John Warner. "Beautiful voice as always, Orzy. Ever thought about becoming a singer?"

Orzel laughed, her melodic tones filling the small confines of the control room. "Oh, I've thought about it, Warney. But for now, I think there are slightly more pressing matters—like this ridiculous war and our little dance with the Sirens."

"Ah, yeah. Hard to build a career when the world’s on fire, huh?" Warner replied, her tone light but tinged with melancholy. "Ever think about going home?"

Orzel paused, her fingers running over the smooth metal surface of her console. "Warney... you and I both know we can’t go back. We’re ghosts in our old world. You died with your crew, and I was sunk by the Directorate. They’ve already declare us as heroes. Can you imagine the chaos if we suddenly reappeared? Alive, human, and... well, like this?" She gestured to herself, though no one could see it.

The line went quiet for a moment. Then Warner spoke, her voice subdued. "I just miss them, Orzy. My captain, my crew... They died because of me. I failed them."

Orzel’s expression hardened. "You didn’t fail them. The Directorate is to blame. They attacked first, unprovoked. They’ve always been the aggressors—using their damned 'Ramen' to dominate global markets and fuel their war machine. Don’t carry their guilt, Warney. It’s not yours to bear."

Silence hung between them, heavy as the ocean above. Orzel’s words, though comforting, couldn’t erase the burden Warner carried.

Suddenly, Warner’s voice snapped back to life, urgent and sharp. "Orzy, I’ve got something on sonar. It’s a Japanese convoy... but something’s off."

"What do you mean, Warney?" Orzel sat upright, her fingers poised over the controls.

There was a pause as Warner analyzed the sonar pings, her advanced systems far more sensitive than hers. "They're not using regular cargo ships. These vessels... they’re Siren-designed."

Orzel’s eyes narrowed. "Siren ships? Those bastards are using alien tech to replace the transports we’ve been sinking?!"

"Looks like it." Warner confirmed grimly. "Probably trying to outmaneuver us with their speed and stealth capabilities."

A spark of determination lit in Orzel’s eyes. She tightened her grip on the periscope handles, swiveling it to scan the distant horizon. "Well, we’re not letting them through. If they succeed, the progress our allies have made will be undone. Warney, ready your torpedoes—we’re taking them down."

"Got it, Orzy. Let’s make this count," Warner replied, her tone steely.

Orzel moved swiftly, barking orders to nonexistent crew. The submarine’s engines hummed as they adjusted their position, lining up for an intercept course. Her heart pounded in rhythm with the faint sonar pings, each one drawing the enemy closer.

As they approached, the distinct shapes of the Siren-enhanced convoy came into view. The vessels were sleek and unnaturally angular, their hulls glinting with an otherworldly sheen. Unlike the standard Japanese cargo ships, these moved with eerie precision, their movements almost... alive.

"Targets locked." Warner’s voice came through. "I count four main ships, each heavily armored. Torpedo systems are active."

"Good. Aim for their engines first. Let’s cripple their mobility before we finish them off." Orzel instructed.

The first salvo of torpedoes launched, streaking silently through the depths. Moments later, a thunderous explosion ripped through the water as one of the Siren vessels was struck. The ship shuddered violently before splitting in two, its advanced machinery hissing and sparking as it sank.

The remaining ships veered sharply, their alien design allowing for swift evasive maneuvers. But Orzel and Warner were relentless, their submarines darting through the depths like predators hunting wounded prey.

"Second target down!" Warner called out as another vessel erupted in flames, its twisted metal carcass swallowed by the sea.

Orzel focused on the lead ship, the largest of the convoy. "This one’s mine." She muttered, adjusting her periscope for a perfect shot. With a press of a button, her torpedoes shot forward, striking the enemy vessel dead center. The ship buckled under the force, its hull glowing briefly before imploding.

The remaining Siren-enhanced ships attempted to flee, but their efforts were futile. By the time the battle ended, the convoy was little more than debris floating on the polluted surface.

Warner’s voice crackled over the radio once more. "That’s all of them. Nice work, Orzy."

"Likewise, Warney. Let’s head back to resupply. The war’s not over yet." Orzel replied, though a faint smile tugged at her lips.

As her submarine began its ascent, Orzel resumed her humming, the melody of Bajka Iskierki filling the silent control room once more.

TBC.

Picture of Zumwalt and George on their free times. Zumwalt the blonde while George is the red hair one.