Ceremonial Dais – Avalon Harbor
They came from opposite ends of the dock, flanked by silence.
The wind had stilled. The storm had passed. Even the sea itself seemed to hush.
Rowan walked with the hesitant grace of someone still half-convinced he'd dreamt the whole thing. Each step thudded in his ears. Every breath reminded him: She's actually doing it. She's coming.
Bismarck marched like she was being led to her own execution. Each heel-click sharp enough to slice steel. Her long coat snapped behind her like a banner of defeat. Her eyes burned.
The ceremonial dais waited between them.
They stepped up together.
No music. No fanfare.
Just two Captains. One victor. One vanquished.
Rowan opened his mouth—maybe to thank her, maybe to apologize—but she beat him to it.
"I acknowledge my defeat," Bismarck said.
Flat. Formal. Not a breath wavered in her voice.
She reached into her coat and pulled out a small black smartphone. Held it out, screen-down, between them like an offering. Or a blade.
"So," she said icily, "take it."
Rowan blinked. "Wait—what?"
"The stake," she clarified. "Once-weekly dates. Change of relationship status. Social media visibility. All of it. You won. I honor my word. Take the phone, input your number, and the deal is sealed."
Every cadet within earshot leaned forward slightly, like a synchronized prayer.
Out on the water, half-faded into her ghostly shimmer, Lightning whistled low. "Holy crap…"
But Rowan just… stared.
Because she wasn't bluffing.
Her expression was furious, proud—vulnerable in a way that twisted something deep in his chest. She looked like she was holding back tears with spite and discipline alone. Not because she hated him. But because she respected him enough to follow through.
And suddenly?
He didn't want it.
Not like this.
He raised both hands. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet. Gentle.
"Hey… Bismarck. Don't."
She narrowed her eyes. "Don't what?"
"Don't go through with it. I release you."
The silence hit like a torpedo.
"…Excuse me?"
"I only said it because you were trying to take Lightning from me. I panicked. It was the dumbest possible counter-demand I could think of. I never thought you'd accept. I thought you'd laugh. Or start another fight and Ark Royal would save me." His hand came up, palm out. Peace offering. "So really… you don't owe me anything."
Bismarck stared at him. Then, slowly, she lowered the phone. Looked at it like it had turned into something she no longer wanted to hold.
"…You're such an idiot," she whispered.
Rowan smiled, sheepish. "Yeah. That's becoming a theme."
And something in her cracked.
Not the cold façade. Not the pride. Just a tiny chip of the loneliness that lived beneath it.
She turned away fast, before anyone could see her eyes. "Fine," she muttered. "I accept your release. Not because I can't honor my word. But because I don't want pity."
"It wasn't pity," Rowan said softly. "It was grace."
She froze.
Then turned, just for a moment, fire sparking in her gaze.
"…You're going to regret this," she warned.
"Probably," he agreed. "But not today."
She exhaled sharply.
And—for the first time since her surrender—she smiled.
Tiny. Bitter. Beautiful.
She turned to go. One boot already off the dais.
Then stopped.
Fists clenched. Shoulders squared.
"No."
She whipped back around, eyes blazing. "No. I won't have it. I will not have people thinking I weaseled out of a deal. That I couldn't handle my own terms."
Rowan blinked. "Wait—what are you—"
Without warning, she rattled off a string of numbers, in German. "Lightning!" She tilted her glare skyward, dead at nothing. "I know you're listening, ghost girl. Record it. And if he loses it, you tell me. Immediately."
Lightning's flickering blue form half-phased into view behind Rowan's shoulder, smug as ever. "Already memorized. Printing backups. Engraving it into his toothbrush."
Bismarck ignored her. She pointed a white-gloved finger into Rowan's chest.
"Friday. After class. Meet me at the pier. There's a gelato stand there. We'll… discuss what comes next."
Her whole face was red now—even the tips of her ears. Her lip twitched like she couldn't decide whether to snarl or faint.
"Understood?"
Rowan, stunned, nodded. "Aye… Captain."
Bismarck humphed. She pivoted like a parade-ground drill, her coat snapping behind her like a war banner.
And she marched off the dock.
Fuming.
Flushed.
Furious.
Falling.
Stupid kind, idiot boy.
----
From her elevated perch overlooking the ceremonial dock, Catherine Wren, Third Duchess of Jersey, Captain of the HMS Hood, watched history stagger on trembling legs.
The sea below shimmered with post-storm clarity, the world caught in one of those rare, crystalline moments where even time seemed to hold its breath. Below, two figures approached the dais—opposite ends, opposite energies. And Hood could already tell how this would play out.
Rowan Takeda. The first male Captain in more than a decade. The only one ever Chosen by a Frame as new and powerful as Lightning. And Bismarck—the Iron Valkyrie, latest heir of a fearsome name, pride incarnate in naval flesh.
They met in silence.
They left in myth.
Hood's fingers tightened against the wrought-iron balcony rail. She had expected pride. Fury. Cold steel and colder eyes. What she had not expected was... that.
A public surrender.
An admission of defeat, laced with fire and humiliation and something dangerously close to feeling. She had given him her number. Stood on a stage and offered it like a challenge. No tact. No distancing protocol. Just a battlecruiser bleeding ego and declaring open war on anyone who dared contest her claim.
Catherine Wren was many things. Petty was not usually one of them. But she felt her molars grind anyway.
"Damn her," she muttered, voice clipped with accent and acid. "Damn her and her melodrama."
She turned sharply, pacing across the polished balcony tiles like a naval officer mid-briefing. Her coat flared at the edges—red-lined and immaculate—and the tricorne atop her head stayed perfectly balanced despite her mounting agitation.
She had not anticipated this development.
Not just a public surrender—but a surrender that solidified intent. Bismarck wasn't out of the race. She'd taken a pit stop and left her flag on the finish line. And the boy—her boy, her Rowan—had shown grace. Had offered her an out. And she'd refused it. Publicly! It elevated the whole stupid bloody affair to something nearly... Noble! And Hood hated it.
Hood spun back to the railing, eyes narrowing as the Iron German descended the dock in a storm of flustered pride and residual fury.
Fine. If this was how the game would be played, so be it.
She opened her longcoat's inner pocket and withdrew a neatly folded slip of paper. Rowan's class schedule—nicked from the registrar's unattended stack with the lightest of touches and the deepest of justifications. She unfolded it, brows lifting in dry horror.
"Class 1-C… of course. Of course."
Taught by USS Gerald R. Ford. Naturally. And of course it was that class—the one with Bismarck, Wisconsin, and Yamato. A political minefield. A lineup of landmines. A powder keg set to military cadence.
She folded the schedule back up with surgical precision.
"If villainess I must be," she muttered, "then villainess I shall become." He had called her that in challenge. She accepted it as title. The villainess was often attractive and well prepared after all.
She stepped inside, into the polished interior of her quarters, and paused before the full-length mirror.
The reflection that greeted her was perfection: a portrait of regal defiance. Long blue braid twisted just so. Crimson eyes gleaming with purpose. Uniform impeccable. Tricorne adjusted to rakish angle.
She turned. Lifted the edge of her coat. Assessed the silhouette of her "rear deck."
"An arse that defies all maritime convention," she muttered with satisfaction.
Hood smiled. Not like a girl. Not like a rival.
Like a duelist.
She didn't need brashness. She didn't need scheming shadows or noise.
She just needed precision.
And a payload worthy of him. Not fireworks. Not flash.
Art.
Something simple. Something... human.
Because if she came at him with cannons, she'd run aground like the rest.
But if she found a course only he could follow?
Then perhaps the Captain of the HMS Hood might yet avenge her namesake…
By claiming her heart's prize before the fleet even knew they'd set sail.
-----
Dormitory Commons – West Barracks
"I knew it!"
The thundercrack of a fist slamming into an open palm echoed off the walls of the commons as Wisconsin all but danced in place—shadowboxing with a grin stretched wide across her face.
"Oh hell yeah, bitches. Fights. On."
She jabbed at the air. Threw a lazy uppercut. Bounced on the balls of her feet like she was warming up for round one of a championship brawl.
"Did you see that maneuver? Did you see that? He pulled a for-real Crazy Ivan! Just yanked the anchor on a forty-foot swell and dared her to sink him!"
Across the room, Yamato sat very still on the edge of the couch, hands folded in her lap like she was holding in her breath. Her cheeks were faintly pink. Her tea, untouched.
"I… I suppose it was well-executed," she offered meekly. "Technically."
Wisconsin wheeled on her with the wide eyes of a sports commentator mid-breakdown.
"Oh my God, Yama, no. No! Don't do that! Don't analyze it like it was a maneuver textbook!"
She dropped down beside her and threw an arm around her shoulders, rocking her side to side like a big, enthusiastic retriever who had just found her favorite plushie.
"That was not well-executed. That was bonkers. That was nutsy-fagan, shoot-first-and-pray-to-MacArthur insane! It was stupid! And it was brave! And that, girlie, is how we win hearts and wars."
Yamato made a small sound that might have been a whimper or a hiccup.
"I just—he could've fallen in," she mumbled.
"Yeah! And that would've made it legend," Wisconsin whooped, throwing another punch at the air.
She dropped her voice into a dramatic news anchor cadence. "Tragedy today at Avalon Harbor, where a 5'9" artistic gremlin proved that testosterone and chivalry do not mix well with hydrodynamics."
Yamato giggled helplessly into her sleeve.
But Wisconsin wasn't done.
Her tone dropped, suddenly sharp, her fist dropping to her knee.
"And that German bitch—" she didn't say it with hatred, but with battlefield clarity, "—she just declared war on the entire damn class with that stunt."
Yamato's smile faded, eyes widening. "You mean when she…"
"Yeah." Wisconsin nodded grimly. "That little refusal of mercy? That wasn't some teenage mood swing, hon. That was a flag plant. She just told every Captain here she's claiming a prize and dares the rest of us to come try."
Yamato blinked. "But… isn't that sort of…"
"Romantic?" Wisconsin offered, then snorted. "Sure. If you're into toxic World War girlfriends."
Yamato's blush flared hot. "That's not what I meant!"
Wisconsin grinned. "Doesn't matter. What does matter is that the game's live now. Stakes are real. And that boy?" She turned to face the window, looking out across campus like she could see the echoes of what had just unfolded. "He's got steel in him. And crazy. I like crazy."
She glanced back, sly.
"What about you, Yama? You like crazy?"
Yamato shrank slightly into her sleeves, cheeks nearly glowing.
"I… I think I just like his eyes. They are so green and he seems very friendly." Yamato squeaked and buried her face in her hands blushing up to her roots.
Wisconsin stared at her.
Then barked a laugh loud enough to make the walls shudder.
"Oh my God, you're lethal when you're honest! You're gonna kill me, Yama. Absolutely gonna kill me."
----
Avalon Academy – Male Dormitory Block, East Wing
The hallway looked… sad.
Not decrepit. Not filthy. Just forgotten.
Quiet, dimly lit, and painted in a shade of bureaucratic beige that made Rowan feel like he'd just walked into a government filing cabinet. The carpets were clean but threadbare, the lights hummed faintly, and the whole corridor radiated the vibe of a space built for someone nobody expected to exist.
"Cozy," Lightning chirped, flickering at his side in her semi-holographic shimmer. "They probably only turned the power on this morning."
Rowan glanced down the hallway again.
"I'm fully expecting this to be a cupboard with a mattress."
"Aw, come on, Captain!" she teased, nudging him digitally in the ribs. "You survived Bismarck's Tsundere Naval Theater! You can handle a little rustic charm!"
He rolled his eyes and swiped his keycard.
The door slid open.
And Rowan just… stopped.
Lightning, mid-rant, didn't notice at first. "Besides, she insisted on dating you, like, in front of everyone. That's basically a marriage proposal in ship-girl speak. Honestly, if I were corporeal, I might be a tiny bit—"
She finally turned.
"…jealous."
The room wasn't a room.
It was a luxurious, two-bedroom presidential suite masquerading as a dorm.
Rowan stepped in, mouth slightly open.
Two four-poster beds—massive, carved from dark wood, draped in soft cream linens. Between them, a broad aisle with velvet runner rugs and polished floors. The far wall boasted actual windows. With curtains. That opened onto a balcony.
Lightning blinked, physically. Then squealed.
"There's a fireplace! A fireplace! And oh my God, is that a full kitchen?! That is not a kitchenette! That is a six-burner stovetop, double oven, marble counters—Rowan, this place is nicer than my last engineering bay!"
Still dazed, Rowan wandered in, shoes squeaking faintly on the polished floor.
"…Why does this exist?"
"Because you're special," Lightning sing-songed, twirling around mid-air. "And also because nobody thought there'd ever be a male Captain again, so the architects just gave up and made it swanky. I heard a rumor once that Tirpitz designed it on a dare."
He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't have the mental RAM to process this right now. My brain is pudding. I am currently full of adrenaline, suppressed trauma, and very confusing opinions about very strong women."
Lightning had already zipped into the next room.
Her shriek was almost operatic.
"OH. MY. BIDET."
Rowan stumbled after her, tripped on the doorway—
And beheld the bathroom of kings.
Not a shower stall.
Not a tub.
A cathedral of tile and steam.
A bathtub large enough to fit eight people comfortably without touching knees, and a walk-in rain shower with chroma-lit nozzles and a built-in bench. One wall held a full vanity setup. The other, a bidet he could only describe as technologically smug.
"I'm gonna cry," Lightning whispered reverently. "Rowan. Captain. Darling. You're gonna get so many girls."
Rowan leaned against the doorframe like a man on the edge. "Please stop talking. Just for like… twenty seconds. I need to sit. Maybe scream into a towel. Possibly die." He stared into the bathroom then asked, "You wanna bathe first or you want me to?"
Lightning's logic circuits did a little loop. He always did stuff like that. He always forgot that she was basically an imaginary friend who could sometimes manifest herself as nanite swarms he carried below the lightning circuit seals she had burned into his skin. She adored that. "Rowan, babe, Captain. I am a nanite mesh hologram visible only to the occular region in your brain. I don't need to bathe. But..." Her cheeks shimmered a slightly light shade of blue. "Thank you for offering. You always treat me like a person."
He took off his shoe and threw it through her shimmering form. "Ahhh, shaddup ya digital dunce. We've discussed this." He gave her a weary, guileless smile. "You are a person. Just a weird kind of one." He started undressing. "Since you can't bathe I'm going to. That safety harness did not do my back any favors."
Lightning snapped a picture of him standing there bruised and shirtless, staring into the middle distance, pained and weary. She was going to get her Captain laid. There was no way she wasn't. She cackled to herself and linked to the schools Wi-Fi. Operation Harem Hunter was a go.