The next moment, I opened my eyes to a ceiling that, just a few hours earlier, I mused to be in heaven. That familiar-looking white tiled ceiling. But it wasn’t. It’s more of a faint hint of green, and it’s not tiled either. If this isn’t heaven then… would this be purgatory?
The bedding underneath me isn’t uncomfortable either. It’s not like the comfy mattress in the medical bay. This is a lot rougher, honestly, calling it a mattress would be an insult to actual mattresses everywhere, so I think that warrants a formal apology in the future.
The room isn’t a huge area with dozens of patient beds, either. This is certainly a small room—and even that is generous—that’s probably less than the size of my cabin room restroom. The door —or lack thereof— is a set of bars—
Oh. I’m in the brig. Making my way to the cell door, I grasp the opening in the bars and tug at it. Yup, that’s metallic alright. There’s a bunch of other sailors in other cells that whistle out to me calling me insulting names and stuff. Rude. And gross. That whistle, I mean.
So it wasn’t a fever dream, huh. I look up and down the corridor to take in reality. And boy, does harsh reality hit hard. That wasn’t a lucid dream—I guess I did step out of line, literally, and slap the CO.
“Haha… hahaha—HAHAHAHAHAHHA…” Some of the other detainees scream at me to shut up, but I don’t pay them any mind. “…I just caused my father a whopping heap of trouble… didn’t I?” I muse as my grip on the bars tighten. What was I thinking? What now?
“That you did, ensign.” I almost nod in agreement but jump back to my senses. Several men approach my cell, one them with an MP armband. And the other two are…
“Commander Buttermilch and Lieutenant Pluto?” I ask disparagingly, and Prince winces at my subconscious flubbing of his surname. The MP moves in front of the two and proceeds to unlock my cell amid jealous hollers from the other detainees. Prince shoots them glares and the whines subside thereafter. The MP heaves the sliding door open and gestures for me to leave the cell. “…Is it really okay for me to leave?” I ask both the MP and Buttermilch—who has a large red palm mark on the right side of his cheek. Yeah… I guess I was really angry. Buttermilch nods his head, and gestures for Prince and the MP to leave, when they do so. With the two of us alone amid curious detainee eyes, I can’t help but break the odd silence between us. “…Commander, um…about earlier…”
“I should apologize,” the two of us say simultaneously, and I look at Buttermilch in surprise. “Er… if I’m free from the cell, then, uh… I think we should head out to someone more, er… private?”
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We ended up heading for Buttermilch’s office. On our way there we were—or ratherI was— given odd glances from the people we passed. But not once did I ever encounter Friederika along the way. She must have shriveled up and moped around somewhere since they were probably not allowing guests in the brig. The thought of Friederika getting whistled at by sailors is both amusing and disgusting, though. So I’m glad she didn’t stop by—Friederika would probably do a lot of things for me, but I think bearing through that for me would be sad, but it is a very Friederika-y thing to do.
“Please, take a seat, ensign.” Buttermilch motions for me to sit at his desk, which I don’t refuse, unlike before. Back then… I was going off about how strong I had to look in front of my superiors, or something nonsensical like that. I mean, it’s only been like, a little over half a day ago at this point, but it still feels like an eternity. I can’t help but scoff at my immaturity. And speaking of self-reflection—even now after all this time I still think the aesthetics of his cherry-red room clashes a bit too much with our blue uniforms. I wouldn’t say it to his face, of course, but I reckon Buttermilch grew up with a poor sense of fashion. “Ensign?” The commander calls me from that one tray of alcohol from before.
“S-sir?” Instinctively I stand up from the chair at attention, but Buttermilch raises his shoulders in a shrug and pours himself a glass.
“You can be at ease, ensign…”
“Sir… I—I’m sorry about my insubordination earlier, I don’t—” Buttermilch lifts a hand as he takes a sip from his glass with the other. “With all due respect—sir, you should—” But my words continue to fall on deaf ears.
“You know, after that happened, the MP jumped on you and Mazzareli was fuming. It was an odd scene. Usually, I would be the mad one—I was mentally preparing myself for something like that happening…” He expected it? Oh… “Mazzareli gave Lieutenant Prince quite the earful about the ordeal. And when he tried to reprimand Friederika for it… the poor thing couldn’t handle the pressure. I told them she had nothing to do with it, and she got emotional and ran off.” I felt my heart actually ache there. Friederika! I’m so sorry! I can only afford to grieve in silence as Buttermilch washes down the rest of the glass and proceeds to pour himself another.
“And yet, you weren’t…”
“Mad? No, not at all. Well, yes—I was mad at myself.” Huh? “…I was powerless to veto the decision to split the fleet. I couldn’t do anything at all. I regretted my decision not to invite more of our staff to Commodore Chal’s ship. It is my fault alone that the die was tossed against our favor. A lot of Chal’s men were idiotic enough to believe that, despite outstretching the supply lines and exposing ourselves dangerously, their logic was… if we could capture Lübeck in time, we can negotiate the rest of the pirate force—if there remains one—to stand down. That way, we get our fame and glory… the fame and glory that only exists in delusions.
“In Chal’s words… democracy has spoken… and history has been made…”Buttermilch slams down his empty glass on the tray and sighs heavily. “The majority of idiots truly believe they have done the right thing, and for what, Happ?” He turns to face me with outstretched arms and an expression that bores defeat. “—If I had just taken more of my staff… if I had more like-minded individuals who saw the fruits of your simulation—if I had YOU on board Chal’s ship…” Buttermilch grits his teeth in anger. “Things can go down differently—as it stands now I—we have no idea who is even staying and who is going. If our section goes…” He makes his way to his desk and slumps down into his chair, then buries his face into his hands.
Honestly, I’m speechless. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this side of the commander before. If our section goes… what would happen? “Do you think… there’s still the chance of a counterattack by the Year 217 Mafia? By… the Madame Scarface?” I ask after a moment of silence, and Buttermilch lifts his head. His face has gotten a little red around the eyes—probably from the alcohol, no less.
“Ah… yes, the Madame… the very scourge of the Federation, or so they say. A brilliant tactician that single handedly captured a prized Federation battleship; the MSN Jaguar… I wasn’t there myself—at the fateful skirmish it was captured in… but I knew some comrades who were stationed in it. I remember… when news came back of its capture, I was disturbed. Everyone I knew was either dead or taken prisoner. And the worst part is—command at the time was stubborn about sending any more reinforcements… the same exact problem we had then is an issue now!” He angrily jabs at the oak desk with his index finger. “The same problem of fools refusing to do what’s right. And it cost us a battleship and thousands of sailors and marines as a result of poor decision-making. It disgusts me—and just like then… I was powerless, unable to do anything. I figured…” Buttermilch abruptly gets up to pour himself another drink from the alcohol tray. “I figured… if I could get enough promotions, I could be the change that the Navy needed… I could… prevent any more maniacs from dictating orders that could save lives… that I could prevent another MSN Jaguar from ever happening.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“…But perhaps I was naive—I am naive. I spent the last good four or five years slaving away to get promoted… and with the rank of commander, I believed… I was fully capable of accomplishing what I wanted to do. And yet…
“And yet… I failed all the same. Democracy has spoken… for fame and glory… my ass!” Buttermilch finishes with such a raised voice that it makes me flinch. “Ah… my apologies, Happ. If only your father could see me now —If Vincent was here…” He shakes his head and slumps again into his chair, head resting on one arm, “…if Vincent was here, he would’ve raised hell at the meeting, I’d reckon…” Buttermilch scoffs. “—history tends to do interesting stuff when a certain actor is on stage or not. It must be painful for Vincent—your father, to be languishing away in Sydney, wondering daily if he’ll ever see his daughter again—in the flesh, or as an empty casket being lowered into the soil…
“Ensign Happ-Schwarzenberger.” I didn’t even realize it, but I was actually standing up this entire time, still, despite Buttermilch’s order to be at ease—I stiffened up, regardless.
“Y-Yes, sir!”
“I appreciate you listening to my rambling—not that you had a say in the matter. Originally… I just wanted to let you know that the slap was just karma… I actually punched one of the shit-faces that argued against keeping the fleet as one—I told him if you were present, you’d do a lot more damage… karma works in strange ways, I suppose,” Frankly I’m not even sure what to say or think of that, flattery? Embarrassment? Buttermilch can’t help but crack me a weak smile. “Now if you excuse me, ensign, I need to get writing a report on the operation so far. I suggest you remain on standby or look for your sub-lieutenant friend… she could probably need some comforting right now I’d imagine.” Buttermilch remarks as he absentmindedly looks down to open one of his drawers.
And with that, I give one last salute and depart the room.
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I didn’t even bother to scour the Yilan for Friederika as I did with Buttermilch. There’s only one place she’s likely to be at, and that’s her room. I stand before her front door and give it a few taps, but I get no answer.
“Kiki… it’s me. Are you in there?” I ask and get no reply. I knock again, and again. The same question but no answer. I take a step back from her door in ponder. Did the MP apprehend her after all? If they did… Friederika would only hate me more. But before I can even think about leaving…
Click, creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek…
I turn around to face the door again—and there’s an opening big enough to catch a glimpse of a teary-eyed, bedroom-haired Friederika peeking through at me. “What do you want, Vicky?” She utters after a moment of silence, it’s more like a sad croak. Poor thing.
“Hey, hey now… is that how you talk to your one and only friend?” I ask with a cracked voice. “I heard from Buttermilch what happened after, uh… I got dog-piled by the MP… Kiki… I didn’t…I didn’t mean for my actions to…” Friederika slams the door in my face before I get the chance to even finish, “—get you involved…” I trail off with a lump in my throat.
Yeah, I think she’s kinda upset. Come to think of it I don’t think either of us has actually gotten mad at each other before, I wonder if this is a first for us? I couldn’t imagine what she went through in that ordeal to make her behave like this, but if Buttermilch said it was true it must’ve been really emotional for her. I swear I’ll give the MP a piece of my mind…!
Before I can even think about leaving, though. I hear the metallic moan of the doo—
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! VICKY!!!!!!!!!!!” —THUMP
—I’m nearly tackled to the floor and practically pinned in the process… was Friederika always this fat? The only words that manage to escape my lips are oofbecause of the wind getting knocked straight out of me. I can hardly even wiggle under this pressed weight. Did she literally crash on-top of me? “Oi, get off me, you fat oaf!” I say after a few gasps of air, “no more tofu for you!”
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” Friederika isn’t even listening to me. She’s hugging me with a hydraulic grip. At this rate, I probably will arrive back home in a coffin. I manage to wrestle my arms free from underneath Friederika and pinch her cheeks as hard as I can.
“Kiki, you bloody lard! Get off me already!” I cry out again as I protest by stretching her cheeks. Finally, she does heave herself off me and positions herself in a sitting position. “Kiki… I’m—”
“It’s okay, Vicky! Don’t think about it too much,” Friederika says nonchalantly, she rubs her eyes with the heel of her palm, “a lot just went on at the time and… I just got overwhelmed, that’s all! I’m fine!” She shoots me a weak smile, “there’s no way I could get mad at you—why would I get mad at you?”
“Sorry… I just got worried sick about you is all,” And Friederika just bursts out laughing. “W-what’s so funny, huh?” I ask, trying to hide sudden irritation.
“It’s nothing… I’m just trying to laugh so I don’t break down in tears again. It’s not like you to care for me at all, you know… usually, it’s the other way around… I’m just not used to being on the defensive.” She gives me that wonderful Friederika smile that I love her for. “That just means you love me a whole lot, doesn’t it?”
“Wuh—! Who’d want to love a dumb broad like you?” I retort while trying to stifle a grin. “Even if I was the last guy in the galaxy I wouldn’t marry the likes of you!”
“If the two of you are done being lovebirds, I’d like it if you two could stop dilly dallying and get back to your posts.” The familiar voice of a certain older Plotte snaps us out of our little banter-infused reunion.
Friederika and I turn to face the lieutenant, who towers over us with an unamused squint and crossed arms. “Oh, hello Prince, you just love to stop by and parade on other people’s fun, don’t you?” Toying with Prince is worth the fun.
A vein nearly pops above Prince’s eyes. “EnSIGN Happ-SCHWARZENBERGER,” yeah, he’s mad alright, “I need to knock some sense into your inappropriate addressing one of these days. Perhaps the two of you want to spend some intimate time together in the brig?” Friederika and I exchange funny looks and quickly shake our heads when we look back at Prince, “right… if you have free time out of your ever-busy schedule, then make yourself useful and head to the bridge for further orders.
“Lieutenant Commander Mazzareli has received the order to prepare the Yilan and her section to advance to Lübeck ahead of the main fleet. Until then, make yourselves useful—and try not to cause me any more trouble than you already have.” Prince gives me a salute before he leaves—but not before shooting us one last annoyed glare as he disappears around the corner.
“…So the time has finally come, huh?” I say breaking the tense air. It’s been far too tense lately I’ve noticed.
“Buttermilch said everyone believes there will be no counterattack, right? I mean… there’s probably nothing to worry about, right? So much time has passed… and not so much a single ship from Loo-beck or whatever it’s called.” She pats me on the shoulder; a gentle pat this time, not like the ‘bruise-up-Victoria’ kind. A smile of meager reassurance. “I’m sure Chal’s fleet will pull through either way. You saw what our barrages are capable of, right? So don’t stress about it too much, okay? It’s out of our control now—I don’t want you to start turning into a worrywart on me just yet. That would be too much for me to handle.” Friederika gets up before I do and extends a hand out to me. “Come on, let’s get going.”
Friederika is right. What’s done is done, and no amount of moping can change that. Maybe I was worrying all this time for nothing? If there’s no counterattack, and if thatMadame Scarface is indeed still at Velksland… then Lübeck is ripe for the taking. And if we take the Cluster colonies at Lübeck off guard, then maybe they can’t signal for help from any pirate force in Rouen—and once the Baltit falls, then we don’t have to worry too much about this headache in the first place.
Maybe it wasn’t all for nothing—the simulations, I mean. Chal was impressed by it and did want to maintain his formation because of it. Maybe Buttermilch is wrong? Maybe not every person holding in the upper echelon are bumbling idiots—there’s still hope for our future. Buttermilch doesn’t want another MSN Jaguar, and I don’t want this to go down in history as Unlucky Alphonse. We’ve done all that we can.
With that in mind, I grab Friederika’s offered hand and pull myself up to an optimistic future.