The alarm was low, moaning, and hideous.
But there was nobody to hear it.
The GFN klaxon was said to rouse the dead and bind the souls of the living crew.
Perhaps the grumpy sailors of the Federal Navy had been right; as the lights came on and the alarm wailed, the ship... shuddered.
Collapsing. Drifting. The surroundings blurred. Flesh was laid across a metal frame; forces challenged eachother above a small ship speeding past.
Eventually, it found where it was to go, and broke the surface, a spark igniting somewhere deeply.
Thus, DDG-144 Rampart came to be, where no Graznian ship should've ever been.
===
Fleet of Wrecks | Damage Control 1.0
===
'Fffffuuuuck. What happened? Julianne, did we hit a... reef...?'
What.
'Okay. Don't panic. You have hands now. It's just like when you got your Service Modernization Refit. Just weirder.'
Hands should be easy, just like a crane, right? Weird, multiple joint cranes. Yeah.
Open, close. Open, close! Easy! "Hah!"
'...wait, the hell is my... intercom...'
'Oh.' I look down, and something that absolutely shouldn't be looks back up at me.
On my back is... A compressed version of my superstructure and rear hull? With a thought I test fire my aft reflex LASER.
SPAK! The moist air vaporizes and traces a line into the water.
LASER looks good, what about missiles?
VLS cells look... Okay. Cells are a little bare, but...
And down at my side-
'...I think that's blood.' Uh. Damage control, assess?
...huh. Guess-
"AAAAUGH-"
===
So, not moving around too much is apparently key to not feeling like you're about to die. Ugh... 'Only took you about ten minutes.'
It's... not that bad. All of this feels surprisingly natural. After a minute or two, I sort of got used to it...?
...yeah I'm not convincing myself of that one. Whatever, bygones.
"FfffUCK that stings..." DC's given me a nice list of damage. Some of it is treatable, like this piece of shrapnel I'm yanking out of my side OW OW OW-
...I want to kiss the person who invented painkillers, so much. In... any case, there's also mostly irrepairable damage like the chunk of my side that's gone.
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It's shredded the VLS, decoy launchers, and 40mm autocannon block along my left side, seems to be the worst by far. A few waterline hits, mostly patched or controlled by compartments are the runners up...
Oh, so that's why I feel kinda woozy. One of the engines are out. Natch. Or maybe that's the bloodloss?
'Various... injuries? What?'
I glance to the actual, literal, ghost sitting on my shoulder. She shrugs.
Some assorted fragmentation damage, some electronics are inoperational, and the drone bay launch doors are temporarily jammed.
I thank the... ghost woman sailor? She jogs back into me oh god that feels weird, disappearing through my shoulder, and for a brief moment I feel the swarming, twisting movements of something.
'...What?'
I hold up my new hands again, and carefully examine them. Something isn't right here. Rolling up my sleeves, I clench and unclench my hands, tapping at either forearm with the other hand.
All of a sudden, I see it.
There is not the smooth bulge of muscle, but rather a dozen smaller coiling things, gently moving beneath my skin, contracting and flexing with every movement, almost unnoticeable unless you were looking for it.
What the hell...? 'Seer guide me...!'
I... I think there've been some experiments with synthetic muscle in the Army, but nothing like this!
Incredible...
Right, priorities. Damage assessment. 'C'mon Rampart, don't sink while you're busy staring at yourself.'
What would have caused this?
"...This couldn't have been a missile strike, and this definitely wouldn't have been a gun round... Maybe a railgun, but why aren't I at the bottom of the sea from having AShMs shoved up my ass if I was in railgun range?"
I pat myself down, wincing as additional damage reports stream in just from a small check. Sort of clinging onto the edge of life right now, aren't I?
Silent running, then. 'RADAR to passive, SONAR to passive, and SDM-122s on standby.'
...
Wait I just gave MYSELF orders. No, not orders... I can just... Do this?
Right, back to the task at hand. 'Come on Rampart, focus!'
Damage repairs, contact friendly- Okay, do not pass go, then.
No SATCOM?
No, no satellites!
Th-this is impossible! I can't find a single satellite that's broadcasting even a basic GFN code!
'Oh, this is what hyperventilating feels like...' I-I think I'm going to need a moment.
Fuck...
W-what do I do?! Julianne...
'No captain, no support, no satellites, not even GPS! What the hell do I do?!'
Okay. I...
What would my captain do?
...
I should try... I should try and salvage the situation. Right.
By the book. Friendly forces, just... pick a direction, and hope I don't get painted by a Sovereign class battlecruiser or something.
===
Wake Island is burning. One of the two carriers are at the bottom of the ocean.
The other, alongside all the men and women we could save from the burning remains of the base, is being towed away, crippled, the shattered remains of the Wake Island Garrison forming her escort.
The only survivors were the cruisers, a single battleship, a carrier with her spine almost shattered, and myself. Chicago's the only heavy cruiser left out of all of them, and really, only by luck.
Amidst all this, there is... one thing, that I somewhat fear above all else.
Iowa, head ship of her class, bubbly, enthusiastic, bombastic Iowa... She looks listless. Haunted. Every so often I find her quietly letting a few tears out, putting clean streaks in the soot peppering her face.
...
I suppose I should feel something. Anything. I'd... Like to...?
'...there isn't enough time, is there? I... I have a fleet to tend to. Yes. Duty... Duty calls.'
"Akashi? Hey, we're going to be alright, yeah?" Chicago gives me a rakish grin that looks more frightened than anything.
Poor girl. She'd come back only a few weeks ago in Wake Island's summoning bay. Wide eyed and always with a grin.
'She played with the destroyers a lot...'
Something hot hits my lip and only then do I realize I'm crying. Clamping down on it, I meet her gaze.
"Yeah. Yeah we're going to be alright, and more than that-" Iowa shushes me, as she perks up, glancing around.
"RADAR contact." Her eyes narrow and her secondaries flick up.
"Direction 171, range 16,245 meters. Unknown airborne track. No. Abyssal."
===
So, equipment remaining! 120mm ammunition appears to be the only thing left in good supply, with my front VLS racks only holding 9 in the strike length and completely empty on the defensive. The lefthand defensive has three shots left, the rear strike length has the most, at 55 shots.
My air complement seems more or less unharmed, so I have ISR at the very least, but not the early warning of an actual CVBG.
'I'd say it could be worse but I really don't wanna Murphy myself right now.'
I turn around to glance at the horizon and wince again. 'C'mon Rampart, count yourself lucky the missiles there didn't explode or somethin. Nnh...'
I hope whoever else out there is having a better first day than I am.
At the current state of affairs, I can just about manage 12 knots, assuming everything holds.
...12 knots. Out of my standard 40.
Okay. Maneuverability and speed of an iron tub.
Fine.
"It isn't like you can dodge a missile by just going fast anyways..."
Next order of business... Pick a direction.
"..." Maybe I'll just keep going on... Bearing 282.
Yeah. Gotta be someone out there.
===