Archive of Our Own ^beta

Riley is cold.

Riley is wet.

Riley is exhausted, weary, spent, and a dozen different sorts of tired. The promise of a warm bed is the only thing driving her onwards.

Outside, the fiercest storm of the decade keeps battering Pearl Harbor. She’s learned today that a lot of work goes into preparing a naval base for such an event. She’s also learned to absolutely loathe the sensation of wet socks, having had to wade through water and mud in a desperate race to prepare for the storm - windows and doors to reinforce, ships to tether down, lay down sandbags and stock up on fuel for backup generators to keep the pumps going through the storm…

In short, it’s been her busiest day to date. And it is now, at her most vulnerable and unguarded, that doubts enter her mind - small ones at first, but more soon follow.

This job is too much. She is running herself into the ground, trying to keep everything from boiling over. There’s always more paperwork, always another thing to do before she can call it a day. More often than not, she ends up working until midnight.

She’s feeling like a modern Sisyphus right about now.

More importantly, however, it’s her treatment of Taihou and Deutschland that’s lodged in the back of her mind, like a burr that cannot be removed. Granted, her anger at their transgressions was justified. Blowing her top at them the way she did? Less so. Totally un-tubular, as one of her cousins was fond of saying.

At least she’s not needed to do so again since then, but that’s more down to no other shipgirl screwing up as bad as they did. A few foul-ups here and there, but nothing that cannot be resolved with a firm reprimand, followed by an explanation on how to avoid such mistakes again.

She’s read the files on both Taihou and Deutschland since then, and now she’s wondering how they ever got cleared for duty in the first place. Hell, Deutschland apparently had broken down in tears after she’d told Bismarck she’d gotten herself fired. As a result, she’d been sent to Los Angeles for therapy. It’s costing a pretty penny, but it has to be done if she ever wants to so much as dip her toes in water again.

Taihou is doing well, according to a phone call from her therapist. The carrier’s stationed at Cape Verde, helping escort trans-Atlantic convoys. While despondent upon arrival, the letter Riley had written to explain the hows and whys of her transfer had apparently been of some help, the therapist had claimed. In fact, Taihou had requested that her stay in the Atlantic be extended, to continue the sessions. Riley has no reason to deny her request - she’d definitely be suspicious if the shipgirl had claimed that everything was alright, and was ready to return to the Pacific.

Despite everything, she does hope they get better.

= = = = =

Riley cannot suppress a groan of relief as she shuts the door behind her - she wastes no time stripping off, tossing her wet and muddied clothes in the laundry hamper. Her body’s practically moving on its own at this point, but she manages to rinse herself off in the shower and brush her teeth before slipping into a comfy set of PJs.

Of course, it is just as she slips under the covers that the doorbell rings. Please go away, she prays.

The doorbell sounds again.

“Can’t have shit on this fuckin’ island…” she growls, reaching for the remote on the nightstand. “Whaddayawant?”

“I-it’s Norfolk, Commander,” a trembling voice answers. “A-and Spence and Juneau.”

“And?”

“We wanted to ask if w-we could sleep here tonight,” Norfolk stutters hesitantly, “a-at least until the storm is over, please? We promise to behave.”

Unfortunately for her - and fortunately for them - Riley is too tired to argue over it. She sighs and unlocks the door. “First door on the right,” she mumbles before setting the remote down. Ten seconds later, the bedroom door quietly swings open - sure enough, the three girls are there, looking thoroughly spooked. Spence, in particular, is shaking like an autumn leaf.

They look like frightened children, Riley thinks, her irritation ebbing. “Alright, c’mon,” she mutters, patting the bed. The shipgirls hesitate at first, but are soon settled under the blanket.

“Thank you, Commander,” Juneau smiles gratefully. Norfolk and Spence both quickly nod in agreement.

Riley manages to sound not unlike a murloc getting caught in a trash compactor before she’s out like a light.

= = = = =

Riley has managed to get accustomed to living at Pearl Harbor ever since Azur Lane had snatched her up, waking and falling asleep to the distant rumble of maritime engines. Today, however, she wakes to the roar of hard rock.

I’M IN THE MOOD FOR TECHNOLOGICAL INNOVATION

THE LIKES OF WHICH HUMANITY HAS NEVER SEEN

“The fuck?” She mumbles fuzzily.

I’M IN THE MOOD FOR BIG TIME COSMIC REVELATION

THE LIKES OF WHICH WOULD MAKE

YOU THINK MORE HIGHLY OF ME

Yawning, she drags herself out of the bed, wincing as last night’s exertions remind her of their existence. It’s probably for the best that she's woken up now - the storm seems to have passed, which means they can quickly take stock of what needs repairing.

That being said, she’s still a little caught off-guard by the source of the noise - her guests are in the kitchen, busy with cooking something. Except for Spence, who’s frantically trying to put batteries into the remote for her music system.

Riley sighs. “Give it here, kid,” she takes the remote from the destroyer, neatly slotting the pair of batteries back into place before lowering the music to a more acceptable level.

Spence shrinks back, clearly expecting to be scolded.

“Well,” Riley says, before a yawn forces its way out, “I do declare that you are a lady of exquisite and refined taste if you’re listening to Clutch.” She smiles groggily at Spence, who seems to relax a little. “Not the way I thought I’d wake up, but it got the job done. The storm’s gone, best as I can tell. We got a busy day ahead of us.” She looks over to where Juneau and Norfolk are regarding her cautiously. “So, what’s cookin’?”

“Er, ah, uh, scrambled eggs! For your breakfast, Commander.” Juneau replies.

Normally, she’d be a little put out to find out that someone’s gone through her food. But she knows there’s not a single mean bone between the three girls before her, and she cannot help but appreciate their effort. “Well, feel free to make some for yourselves as well,” she says after a moment. “I gotta get dressed.”

It only takes her a few minutes to get fresh clothes on, but that apparently is all the time the girls need to set the table by the time she returns - there’s scrambled eggs, bacon, beans and toast; a classic as Eagle Union as apple pies and the Colt 1911. (Or the Single Action Army.)

“Y’all work fast,” she lets out an impressed whistle, taking a step towards the table before freezing mid-step. On the table is a mug - one that she’d last seen as a small pile of shards. Whole now, the cracks glittering with gold. “You fixed it?” She turns to look at Juneau.

“I-it’s called kintsugi,” Juneau says, practically radiating anxiety. “Miss Shoukaku told me about it, about how it treats something being broken as part of its history, instead of hiding the damage. It took me a while to get it right, but, well…” she trails off.

“That’s real kind of you, June,” Riley mumbles thickly after a moment. “Thank you.”

“I don’t blame you for what Taihou did, Commander,” Juneau continues. “You have been kind to me, and others. But, um, I’ve never really felt about you the way that Taihou did. I was never, ah, a rival to her.”

“Not that she ever had a snowflake’s chance in hell to begin with,” Riley sighs. “Officers don’t get romantically involved with their subordinates for a reason. Again, thanks,” she kneels down, patting the cruiser on the head. “You’re a good kid, June, y’know that?”

To say that Juneau’s smile is radiant is an understatement.

= = = = =

The idea came to her as she’d been doing the dishes after her guests had departed - and it’s been bouncing around in her head like a goddamn screensaver ever since.

It wouldn’t be the first time she’s called her father for advice, though the circumstances are very different. But her father is a Marine - an enlisted man that’d climbed the ranks to become a Major before retiring. He’s bound to know the ins and outs of good leadership.

The call goes through pretty quickly - not even ten seconds pass before a voice answers on the other end, a weight falling off her shoulders that she hadn’t been aware of before.

“ Riley! How you doin’, kid?” Marcus Harper greets her cheerfully.

“I’m alright, Pa, though it’s been a tough few weeks,” she leans back in her chair with a sigh.

“You ain’t hurt, are you?”

“Nah, not a scratch on me. Can’t tell much because of OPSEC, but a base got its shit rocked. Siren sneak attack, wiped out the entire command staff and did a number on the infrastructure. Now I’m here, temporarily in command over a bunch of people from all over, workin’ on getting the repairs done.” She detests being dishonest with her father, but Azur Lane would be peeved if she were to break the non-disclosure agreement.

“Go on.”

“And, well…” Riley scratches her head, “I went off on a pair of subordinates a while ago. They fucked up, they should’ve known better, ain’t no excuse for it… but it still keeps buggin’ me. Honestly, I could do with some advice.”

There’s a moment of silence before her father answers. “You got an XO?”

“Uh, no.”

“Do you know anyone that’d be good for the job?”

“I can think of a few, yeah,” Riley answers slowly - almost immediately, her mind jumps to Pennsylvania.

“That’s good. Can’t get nothin’ done without a good XO. At Ulithi, you were just one cog in a machine. But now, you’re in charge - damn proud of you, by the way - and you will need to learn to delegate. An executive officer is just one step of that, but a very important one - exercises, personnel organisation, morale, discipline; the XO sorts all that out so that the CO - which is you - can focus on the big picture.”

“Alright. What else?”

The conversation ends up lasting for over an hour, and Riley needs to get a hold of paper and pen to scribble down her father’s advice. More names come to her, shipgirls well-suited for the responsibilities he describes - Portland, Langley, Houshou, Northampton, Z23, Nevada, Souryuu, Admiral Hipper… the list keeps growing until she realises that some of them might need to share jobs.

Trust is important, kid, he also stresses to her. If your people don’t trust you, it’ll show. Gotta let ‘em come into their own, instead of hoverin’ over their shoulders and micromanaging everythin’. They’ll think you don’t trust ‘em to do their jobs right - before long, they’ll resent you for it, no matter your intentions. Oh, they’ll still obey you, all right. But they won’t give it their all.

Another important issue is that there isn’t all that much inter-faction cooperation - or, rather, that few shipgirls frequently socialise with those from other factions. (No, Enterprise and Belfast sneaking off in the dead of night to suck face doesn’t count. Curacoa trying to wrangle Albacore into wearing a shirt doesn’t count, either.) Tribalism is as old as humanity - when the sun shines, all is well. But when thunder and lightning rule the sky, they’ll huddle in caves, trusting only those that smell the same.

But when all is said and done, she has three and a half sheets covered in writing. Her wrist aches (har har), but it’s worth the effort.

“Anythin’ else I can help you with?”

“What was it like…” she gathers her courage before continuing, “fighting the Sirens?”

“Hell on Earth, kid,” her father’s solemn answer comes after a long moment. “Hell on fuckin’ Earth.” He lapses into brief silence again. “One final piece of advice for you, kid.”

“Alright.”

“Don’t cut corners when it comes to dealing with Sirens, Riley. Don’t take what seems the easy way to victory. Best case scenario? Only some of your people will die.”

It takes a moment for her to find her voice. “I won’t. I promise.”

“Good. That’s good. Goodbye, kid. Good luck to you.”

“Bye, Pa.”

The line goes dead - Riley is alone again, her mind whirring with thoughts.

Could she, if it came to that, order shipgirls into grave peril for the sake of securing an important victory? (The thought makes something in her gut twist uncomfortably.)

She does not know.

But she'll do everything in her power to prevent just such a thing from happening.