Chapter Text
As their fleet closed in, the men’s murmurs grew more apparent. A small selection of associates with binoculars and starched suits stood in the large windows of the pier nearest them, a few shading their eyes from the evening sun. Despite the prickling presence of five Royals, the presence of an Iron Blood escort satisfied the men, who went back to work.
Down at the docks, stevedores sat drinking soup or eating chocolate bars supplied by the Deutsche Marine. They watched as the lieutenant commander of the Royal Navy, vice admiral and assistant chief to the second sea lord, current head of the “invincible” battlecruiser squadron, her glorious light of the court Lady Hood approached their stations and waved.
Fortune composed herself. While Chaser leapt onto the dock and Suffolk began unloading their collective baggage, Leander put her shoulders back, chin down, and ushered Hood carefully up the steps. Together, they stepped onto the pier to greet the delegation.
A ways off, a lone weapon of war stood, unmoved. She was the delegation.
“Good evening, Graf Zeppelin,” the glory of the royal navy greeted her after a pause.
A tall thirtysomething woman of pale skin and nobility, dressed head to toe in stormy black save for furry white hair to her ankles, stared them down. “A worthless name, but fine,” she said in a middling smoker’s voice, arms crossed. “Armageddon has not been brought on your council, so I assume the end of the world has not yet come. Ahh, I eagerly await that despairing day when the black horn sounds… the final day. But quell your unease. All’s prepared.”
“Thank you for promptly receiving us,” Hood extended an arm.
Graf Zeppelin eyed the union jack with contempt, but finally shook hands. She cracked her neck and checked the escort with careful eyes. Navy men nodded politely as she walked by, domineering with her dignified presence. Javelin observed as she stalked away and wondered where she earned such respect. The Iron Blood was a military government, with meritocracy following at a close second. Perhaps it was inevitable that those with bigger bombs won out.
“Yes, I served in the Royal New Zealand Navy,” Leander smiled nervously as Z1 pestered her with questions. “It’s a warm place. More people fished there than here. Snacks? Oh, my sister loved the buttered potatoes they served at the mess hall. Ate them with everything. Once, our commander expressed some surprise at it, and she gave him a piece of her mind.”
Z2 looked bored. Z23 studied Leander’s rig raptly as Leander rambled. “I didn’t do much. Just a few trips here and there. I haven’t used these guns of mine in… since the Great War? A lance… I used one to smite the Sirens, yes. I lost a turret for anti-air instead. But mostly I escorted troopships and… hm, but I did defend Auckland.”
“We’re here,” Graf announced abruptly.
Hood smiled. “Thank you for your time, Miss Zeppelin. Pray I see you tomorrow?”
Nobility met nobility’s gaze in quiet contest. Graf Zeppelin did not break. Her hat cast a shadow that split her face and highlighted sharp angles, small scars.
“I despise all,” Graf said coldly. “Your struggles are none but fodder for the End. The gods are so because they are merciless - prayer has no effect on merciless gods. Nein, no prayers.” She cut across the floor, and the Z-sisters followed.
On the first day, Fortune skipped the ball.
"I hate parties,” she confessed.
Suffolk pursed her lips, clipboard tucked to her chest, the long skirt of her dress resting above her ankles, elegantly inclined by a pair of black heels. She adjusted her headdress and replied. “I see. That’s alright! I don’t really know why we had to organize such a show, but with our approval ratings, we can't afford alienating those that worked to make this alliance a reality.” Pause. “I… prepared a statement ahead of time. It reads: regretfully, the head of the Twelfth Destroyer Flotilla was unable to attend the much-anticipated opening ceremony due to discomfort prior to arrival. She will give her speech tomorrow.”
Fortune mustered a weak smile. The tinnitus grew louder. “Thank you.”
The party was already an object of great ridicule. Talk swirled that only those who thought they ran the country would come to the dumpster fire, not those who actually ruled. It looked bad for Bismarck and for the Royal Navy, the only faction to attend.
Though she hadn't eaten, Fortune felt sick to her stomach. All she wanted was to roll over and sleep.
On the second day, to much relief, Graf Zeppelin gave no contingency speech.
The beacon of the Iron Blood walked alone across the road and upstairs into the room as she had on too many formal occasions and celebrations to count, all of which received her with celebratory cheer. She gave her rousing speech. The rich clapped politely, the dockworkers more vigorously, and the soldiers most sincerely.
Fortune smiled until her head hurt, smiled harder with a few flutes of champagne, smiled harder and harder at the woman on the crimson throne. The fleet leader of the Iron Blood was pleasant, but she was… withering. She could no longer wield a sword with one hand and was only good for paperwork. Nonetheless she was a decorated superior, and she was Lady Hood’s equal in political standing and physical stature. This banquet held nothing new for her here.
The Bismarck slipped away from the festivities and before the balcony, into a side room pleasantly empty save for a grand piano. Its ivory keys glistened like new. She sat, played a simple scale and found the instrument in tune. Someone had been taking care of it, for the keys gave smoothly under her fingers, and sound ran up her wrists through her gut.
She played complex trills of her own design.
“You play with wonderful posture.”
Hood’s voice, clear-cut ice in a highball glass, made Bismarck jump. Words sprung from her lips: “My sincerest apologies for the delay.” They were pawns on the board, powers dressed in blue trim. The Bismarck found the Royal Navy’s most glorious tool smiling at her.
Soft, jazzy pop drummed lightly through the air, bringing with it the smell of starchy clothes, dancing and drinks. Sharp laughter bounced off the tall ceiling, gently pulsing between the two women watching each other warily across the room, one against an archway and the other at a piano. White against black. The players faced each other across the board, the timer ticking.
“May I join you?” The diplomat ventured.
“By all means,” Bismarck gestured.
The dame took a graceful seat, leaving a comfortable space between them, fair fingers brushing across the ridges of glossy piano keys with a steady hand. Her dress glowed under the yellow chandelier, a single glimmering ivory sheet, tulle hat catching the light like a creamy rose, blue embroidery tying her slim shadow back to earth.
Sensing Bismarck’s discomfort, Hood smiled. “I assume you know the Moonlight Sonata?”
“Of course,” Bismarck said, “though I must admit I believe it overplayed.”
The first movement began, its notes dimming the candlelit chamber.
Fortune watched from a distance, plate in hand. The looks passing between the two women consisted of something blacker than enmity, deep and instinctual. They were the looks of something strangely familiar, like seeing two characters sitting side by side in movies and books and pictures drawn against each other, over and over again. The voices in her head began overlapping at a tender spot in the middle of her forehead, a dim, glassy pain blooming across the bridge of her nose. A hot thumbtack slowly inched its way into the back of her left eye. The plate carefully made its way to a table as she crossed the room, shouldering past Z23, accelerating past the slew of faceless people who were blocking her way out.
She had to leave. There was something here. Its malevolence grasped onto her. It was watching her with too many eyes.
The door gave harshly under her push, slamming repeatedly against the wall. Cool marble dug into the undersides of her palms. The soothing sound of clattering objects, groaning hinges, and running water cut through mental fog, pulling her out of a realm filled with broken wheels and into the tidy bathroom.
A peculiar picture peered back at her from the silver faucet. Its eyes were hauntingly blank, the pallor a sickly waxen white, expression mortified and, at the same time, unreadable. Recoiling from shock, she shrieked. The mirror broke with a sudden bang.
Her fingers dragged hard against the cracked mirror, bloody streaks blotting out that awful face glaring back at her.
There was no banquet hall. There was no Foxhound, or piano, or champagne.
Where was she?
The door, strangely enough, wouldn’t budge. The girl collapsed against it like a wall.
Who was she?