Another week, another paycheck. Well, meal ticket anyway. Her betters were plotting but they certainly weren’t going to consult her on their plans. Taylor wasn’t fat anymore, but Big Bertha was still just a freighter. That refrain was really starting to grate, even if she found being underestimated useful. So she kept her head down and attended to her own business. The three Ra-Class repair ships were keeping track of every ship and item. But after watching them for days on end she noticing holes in the surveillance.

She had a front seat to observe their rivalry and backstabbing, plenty of examples to watch live. Vulnerability the first: They didn’t actually track every item all the time. They tracked every ship and every crane. Including what was being loaded and unloaded and where. But stuff was vulnerable in transit.

Vulnerability the second, and this was one she really was happy to exploit: They couldn’t keep track of the swarm. They kept track of individual ships, but the swarms of carry-crabs, tugboat-serpents and PT Imps? There was too much, too much for Taylor to track and too much for the Ra’s. The Princess might have been able to track them all, but she got distracted often, watching over the games her subordinates played. For after almost two weeks at this job, Taylor had noted a third layer to the crime, sabotage and backstabbing games. The little fish.

Monster pets were used by all three Ra’s to conduct their plots, but some of them had other masters. If was hard for Taylor to spot anything amiss and all she did all day was watch. The actual unloading was boring and barely took any of her attention, even as it was excellent practice for her crane crews. Every one of her little nightmares had done shifts on the cranes until she found the least incompetent. Well, no, that needed a disclaimer. Until she found the least incompetent that weren’t also suicidal.

She didn’t care that the kelp-thing couldn’t bleed. It wasn’t allowed to jump from the deck down to the top of the container. “It went splat every time, that’s why! Being reborn was no excuse to keep committing suicide!” Really, corralling her merry madmen took more attention than the rote effort of “move this box over there.”

Taylor had figured out how they were doing it. Replacing one tug boat or PT with another, with conflicting orders. Switching carry-crabs mid-route. They were playing classic shell games. But only minor disruptions were allowed. The pretense of nothing happening was carefully preserved, or the Princess got snacks. Taylor had absolutely no desire to regrow fingers or show her hand. In this, Bruce, Judy and Bentley were priceless.

Because she wasn’t stupid enough to abandon them now that she wasn’t starving anymore, or had some regard from above. She kept digging scraps from the beaches, even if she wasn’t getting any from her own Division anymore. The other Divisions mocked her and tried mocking First Pacific East. But those were poor shells to lob their way when they knew she wasn’t eating them. Her pets still wanted treats. Though frankly if she could, Taylor would have kept eating them if it wasn’t likely to come back and bite her at the worst possible moment.

Even better, at her urging Bently had turned another PT who was already a part of the docks. So her pets got to make a few practice runs and some instructions for a few days from a professional. Or as close to it as Imp’s got, before they slipped into the Harbor under its guidance. Taylor had no desire to stir the pot among the big fish. Not only was it too high profile, but she’d be risking the ruler’s gaze. No, her goal were the smugglers. The PT’s had a vibrant smuggling economy going. Multiple someone’s had organized their own rings, so her crew slid into the churned up waters without a wave.

What kind of luxury goods did Abyssal prize? Her first careful forays into the game were scoping out the field. She found magazines and books. Movies and toys. Food and games, few electronic. Spices and clothing was especially prized. With how easy it was to tear, she understood. Her dressmaking had many early casualties.

Though she shouldn’t have been surprised how wide the Abyssal palate was. At least there was no long pork. Their grand leader’s cannibalistic tendencies were her own brand of madness, not a general Abyss thing. That would have been a nightmare. Well, another one for her pile of fucked up facts about Taylor’s new life.

Now to stir some pots.

***

The Tsu-Class light cruiser had a bad day. This wasn’t unusual. Akemi wasn’t the boss of her. She might belong to the Aircraft Carrier Demon’s First Pacific West Division, but she was damned if she was to fawn and grovel at the feet of her Second for scraps. Just having the cover of her token was enough for the Tsu. She had her own side deal. The boats and Imps were too small, far beneath their might for the bosses to deign to notice them.

She could have been someone out in Oceania, at least a formation lead, if not part of a Council. Or partaken of the three-way in the Indies and Indonesia. But in Midway? She was small time. So the Tsu-Class ran a racket at the docks. She was a commerce raider. She had little interest in the wall of battle. She liked shooting at targets that couldn’t shoot back. Unfortunately she was stuck playing fly-swatter for the Carriers. At least business was booming. The volume of goods passing through Midway was massive and reliable, which meant there were plenty of opportunities to slip stuff under the radar.

She’d gotten really good at that. Training the PT’s and tug boat to slip in and out, and she had a number of carry-crabs among her minions. But someone was messing with her. Sure, things got misplaced sometime. Happened to everyone. But her minions were not this sloppy. A few magazines, some spices, sure.

But a silver necklace meant for one of her distinguished clients? Favors didn’t come cheap and she wasn’t that sloppy. She needed fresh eyes on the harbor. She’d been getting arrogant and as a light, she couldn’t carry that much ego and not sink. She knew just the sub to send after this thief. A loner who’d jump at the opportunity on the cheap and not well liked. Someone who hadn’t blabbed about her little side job and had done a few requests for her already. The desperate were easy to manage. Shame about new girl, the Cruiser would have loved to sink her teeth into her. Oh well.

***

Somebody, somewhere in management had fucked up. Two convoys had come in less than 24h apart and Taylor’s grueling 12h shift mutated. She realized shifts weren’t really a thing with Midway. She worked, until the work was done. Most days it took 10 to 13 hours, but now? With the logistical train-wreck someone slammed into their docks? She worked five days with no breaks. It was nice to know that her ship-self let her do that. But the experience itself was miserable.

After 12h she felt like she was shutting down and her efficiency dropped like a stone. She got docked food, was beaten and in the end lost four fingers before the Princess would accept that she was unable, not unwilling. The less said about that the better. She had a new highlight real for her nightmares and they all featured teeth. It was like a haze had descended, clouding everything behind a thick fog. She was still awake, functional, but not running on all cylinders.

Figuring out how to arrange proper rotations for her band of monsters while deeply sleep deprived went nowhere. She’d paid for being used to a fixed sleeping schedule. If the lesson was harsh, at least she learned it while still in anchorage. Once she recovered she drew up crew rotations for any time when they didn’t have easy access to R&R. After she stopped cursing herself for not foreseeing the problem. What did she think, that they’d stop at sea to sleep in the middle of the ocean?

Her maiden voyage was coming up much too quick for her tastes if she was still making rookie mistakes like that. She was in the middle of feeding her pets in the furthest reaches of the lagoon after abandoning them to her duties for days, trying to relax and recover. Then a damn submarine started slipping through her shoals. Taylor was in no mood for games. Her hands slipped below the waterline and she would have ripped her right out of the surf. Yet when she touched the sub, the girl went completely limp, settling on the bottom.

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A trick she’d been practicing with her sonar had her listening in carefully while pretending she’d just reached down to dig out a clam. This close, even on passives, she could almost feel the girl give her a hopeful smile as she said: “You are not like the others. You are nice. You care. You’re also a thief.” she finished playfully.

That is how Taylor met Shun, the Yo-Class submarine. She was not at all happy to learn that someone had been following and watching her from beneath the waves. Observing others unaware was her shtick, thank you very much. Yet Shun didn’t care. She’d spent over a year stationed at Midway, ever since her last Hime sold her for a favor and she wanted out. She knew things, people and players in the world.

Midway was a busy place, one where a careful sub could pick up on all kind of things. All she demanded in return was that Taylor take her with her when she left. Shun didn’t have the legs to make it on her own. She needed a tender for the long voyage to the mainland. Or she could turn her in to the warship she was robbing. After all, Midway wasn’t that big. Everyone was in radar and radio range.

***

Taylor had a love/hate relationship with her rigging. As it was coming in, slowly healing over the days, it had been tender and easy to damage. It growing stronger should have been encouraging if it had not nearly terrified her out of her mind. Because her rigging? It was conceived by some mad part of the Abyss, a demented, devious, brilliant mind that was trying to turn her into an object of ridicule, torture her and covertly help her as much as it could all at the same time.

Some days Taylor really wondered what she’d done to piss off and impress the Abyss. This whole… event; it violently reminded her of butterflies. She despised butterflies. No reason, she just did. It had something to do with an enclosed glade, she wasn’t clear on the details. But at least she wasn’t walking around naked anymore, right? Let’s never do that again, please.

Oh Abyss, she didn’t want to look in the mirror again but she was expected to observe a duel in formal wear, IE her full rigging. Why Shinigami was fighting in a duel two days before her departure date was beyond her, but she’d been told to practice which is how this whole mess started.

Right, the rigging. Where to even begin with that monstrosity? Victorian. That was the word. Violently Victorian. That was the first thing that came to mind, like something out of a period drama. “Right, just face it Taylor it is not going away.” She looked at herself again. Damn it. She may have been quietly panicking.

Her dress was striking at least. The top was dropped, leaving her shoulders bare. The corset at least covered more than a one-piece swimsuit, resting below her neckline, but still well above her breasts. The v-shaped décolleté was shallow, almost an inch. It was mostly modest and hinted and shaped the corset to accent her assets, making it seem like she wasn’t quite flat. The corset was thick and stiff. It looked tight but just felt comfortably snug, though the first time she summoned her rigging she was in no mood to test out its limits.

The last thing she’d wanted was to tear something and have to pay for it. Which was a major source of her horror. Cut off sleeves connected to the corset on her biceps, which wasn’t fun. Short gloves adorned her hands. There were pockets on her sides, snug ones to rest her hands in. She needed them. For as the masterstroke, a shawl was draped around and over her arms. It connected to the ends of her gloves, winding around her pale flesh, shimmering like silver or distant starlight, before leaving her arm at just above the elbow and connecting to the other piece behind her back.

All of it was in various shades of pale white and silver, with ruffles and lace galore. Like some five year old had gone mad with a doll and just kept adding frills. What mattered to Taylor was that she felt like she was wearing a straightjacket. She had T-rex arms, entirely useless for work, limited to crossing them before herself, holding them in her lap or stashing them in her hip pockets. Between the corset and the shawl, she had to stay straight and if she even thought about rushing somewhere or god forbid, fighting, she felt like she’d tear half her getup on the first swing.

The skirts were little better. Sure she had running shorts underneath it all, but seriously! She had five voluminous layers of petty-coats that reached to her ankles and as a finishing touch, a rigid bell skirt that ballooned around her legs and made her look like a massive pear. They were humiliating, impractical and a deep, almost black blue.

The small heeled red sandals that flashed beneath the ankle-length skirts while she walked were the final nail in the coffin.

It was horrible, not least because it made her look like a little girl that had dressed up like a lady from some old fantasy story. The image it presented was helpless, demure, helpless, servile, helpless, or just useless. Someone who wasn’t to do anything, but was there to be a decoration. She hated it with a passion. The two cranes springing from her shoulders were the total freedom assigned to her.

Then they started test loading her and it got worse. With each piece of cargo, her petty-coats slowly inflated, filling the space claimed by the skirt’s bell skeleton and the already heavy dress only grew more onerous. By the time they’d finished Taylor felt like her own rigging had betrayed her. Like she’d been bound and trussed up and thrown in Davy Jones locker. Had the door slammed shut, before being tossed into the sea.

Taylor took her first step with about the same expectations as a man condemned pulling a lever. That the cargo was poorly balanced and she was about to capsize. That her rigging and deck was about to tear as she pulled muscles and bones. That she’d stumble and crush all the valuable cargo loaded on her.

None of that happened.

After her first step, more than anything, she felt absolutely confused. It was easy, natural. Taylor had done her best to suppress her terror, so she kept trying to hide the confusion that was now swallowing it. She took another step. And another. Each one was careful and slow. Her sisters were around her, ready to catch her and expecting her to stumble and fall. She didn’t. Slowly Taylor walked and felt, examining the rigging in more detail. She began to understand.

The thick, stiff looking corset? Wasn’t. When she moved the outer layer stayed stiff but the under layer slid freely over it. She wasn’t about to test the full range of mobility here, but the subtle movements she could make faced no resistance. From the little bits and bobs she felt sliding around, Taylor thought that if she bent far enough the sliding under layer may just move or pull out, or do something to the stiff outer layer to make it mobile.

There were rods and bits keeping it rigid like plate, but under her fingers it felt like that its true nature was more like chainmail. Her motions were hidden by the layers sliding. She could be half way into a turn or a punch before her hips showed any signs of moving. When she walked it was like she was gliding across the terrain. The skirts and petticoats? They had strategic cuts front and back that let her walk freely, barely ruffling them. Her pale legs flashed when she ran, supported by entire painted constellations hidden in the petticoats. Shimmering, both drawing and confusing the eye. Hells she was pretty sure she could jog with no issue while keeping her feet inside the final skirt.

With the cargo piled up, the skirts felt solid, like ablative armor. Sure each hit would cost quite a bit, but she’d survive it. The sandals had strategic supports built in and they connected to her see-trough stockings with subtle anchors. An item that she’d ignored but one that together with the sandals made her feel like she was wearing comfortable knee high running boots.

Not heeled boots, but with the extra support it felt more like they were tiny platforms. She barely felt it. These comfy platform boots were the kind of footwear she’d want for running in the snow. And the platforms… no the whole sandals, they were her double bottom. An extra layer of protection if she ran aground or hit a mine.

The whole thing was ridiculous in scope and design. Only a pissed off mad god would even consider…

Someone, somewhere was laughing at her. And her name was Taylor Hebert. Why her legend was laughing at her she did not know and had no desire to find out. If she’d been warned and told one thing about it, it was not to think about it. Spooky Abyssal Bullshit could and would drive even Elites mad if they tried to force it. It was best just to ignore them for now, at least until she achieved at a minimum a basic competence expected of regulars. And she was far from it.

Frankly Taylor could do without the platforms, but still. Never in her life had she worn anything that made her look so helpless and yet. She needed to experiment away from prying eyes. Because if she was right…

***

A few hours later, after removing her test load and finding a more private setting, Taylor was proven right. The shawl did have a trick, it was double layered behind her back and could either extend to grant her an additional range of motion, or separate and attach to her cut-off sleeves giving her full freedom. The sleeves themselves didn’t constrain her either. Any move that would have torn them instead caused them to hop up, turning into shoulder straps. How that worked she had no idea. More, it felt like her rigging was more than cloth, more than steel. Harder, tougher, it made her feel safe. Like a warm hug that could shrug off shells.

One thing remained true. Fully loaded, her inertia was considerable, even on land. Best yet she found several places where the bell could shift. When fully collapsed the rigid skeleton folded in on itself and collected all the skirts into one, forming a single thick belt of cloth that reached just below her knees. Right about where she expected the waterline to be. It was the equivalent of tying down all her cargo and stowing it in preparation for setting sail. She couldn’t access it but it was safe from the waves.

With this monstrosity on, whatever interest had formed around her when she took her place was ruined. No one would take her seriously. Her own Division was treating her like a baby and the rest were calling her Dollface and inviting her to play patty-cake. It would be infuriating if it wasn’t serving her plans so well.

So even the appearance she despised was helping her by making everyone dismiss her. It wouldn’t last, but with how her plans were going, the moment her dress manifested she was on a clock. Taylor was just happy the Princess was away ripping someone a new one over the logistical snarl and not there to see it. That would have ended poorly.

She had her full range of motion while appearing entirely helpless. Her skirts were so voluminous it was easy to lose or hide things in them. She could do a handstand and the rigid frame made it ignore gravity. Taylor loved and hated it. And as soon as she had safe harbor and wasn’t surrounded by enemies, she was going to refit the shit out of it. When she found the asshole who designed this thing she’d shake her hand and punch her teeth in. Bitch.

There was a final bit. A balm for the terror that had dominated this whole thing. Running her hands over the ruffles and fine embroidery while recovering, surrounded by her pets, brought up flashes of a short porcelain doll. Whispers of a Sabbath. Except that wasn’t quite right. There were teddy bears and felt lions. Soft and cuddly dolls and a hidden strength. Trust, when it was sorely lacking.

Something in her chest ached. Beneath the metal skin and a bit to the side. A loft and a lost childhood. A skull and a smug smile. A broken step. For here, with two days before her maiden voyage and no one watching, she could morn freely. And if someone saw? Well she was dressed for it at least.

***

Her sleep was deep and dreamless. When she woke it was to find herself buried. Buried in pets and her hand held in the warm sea. That? That gave her hope for the Abyss.