Night had settled in, and after making my final checks on the ports, and setting up the nighttime search patrols, I finally headed home. It had been a long day, and all I could think about was cooking up something simple for me and North Carolina. Problem is, I had no idea what she actually liked to eat. Maybe I should’ve asked earlier, but it felt weird to go up to her and say, "Hey, what do ship girls eat for dinner?" So, instead, I decided to swing by their room and see if she is still around.

When I got to the house, there she is, standing by the front door, staring off into the distance. It's like she is watching something that isn't really there. I paused for a moment, unsure of what she is thinking. Maybe it is one of those military code they got in—standing guard, zoning out... who knows.

“Good evening, North Carolina,” I greeted her as I walked up.

She snapped out of her trance, her expression serious, almost too serious for the calm night. “Good evening, Beatrice. Kansas, Tennessee, Massachusetts, and Washington woke up earlier.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Wait, what? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I assumed you are occupied with other matters,” she said, her tone as stiff as ever. “So, I remained at my post.”

I sighed, scratching the back of my neck. “I appreciate that, but you don’t have to keep stuff like that from me. Just come to me if something happens, okay?”

She gave a firm nod, like a soldier following orders. “Understood.”

“Well, moving on,” I said, trying to lighten the mood, “what do you feel like eating tonight?”

“Anything, Beatrice,” North Carolina responded, deadpan as ever. “As long as it fulfills our daily intake of calories to keep us operational.”

I had to suppress an eye roll. Okay, this military-speak is starting to get out of hand. I get it, she’s built for war and all that, but come on—can’t she just talk like a normal person?

“Right, well, I want something you would actually enjoy,” I said, trying to sound more relaxed and keep things light. “So think about it.”

She just stared at me for a second, as if calculating the most efficient answer. Then, with a completely straight face, she said, “Barbecue.”

That almost got me. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. I mean, seriously—barbecue? Out of nowhere?

After a deep breath, I composed myself. “Uhh, I don’t think we have the stuff for a barbecue,” I said, glancing at the window. “Plus, it’s night, so... probably not ideal. Anything else?”

North Carolina didn’t hesitate. “A hamburger, then.”

A hamburger. Well, I'm not exactly thrilled about frying up something greasy this late, but it is the first time she’d actually requested something, and I didn’t want to shoot her down again. She might take it the wrong way—or worse, feel like I didn’t value her input.

“All right, a hamburger it is,” I said, giving in.

*

As we stepped into the kitchen and started cooking, I couldn’t help but watch North Carolina move with that same disciplined manner she used in, well, everything. It's like she is on a mission to make the world’s most perfect hamburger.

“Wow, you’re fast,” I remarked, raising an eyebrow. “Do you, uh... do this often?” Watching her cook burgers in the pan with the kind of professionalism that left me standing there like, “Am I even needed here?”

She didn’t even look up from her task. “I apply the same focus to every operation, no matter the objective,” she said in that calm, almost robotic tone of hers, flipping a patty which is strangely mesmerizing.

“Right,” I muttered under my breath. “Because hamburgers are clearly life-or-death situations.”

She didn’t respond to my little joke, which isn't surprising. Humor seemed to just slide off her deck. I leaned against the counter, watching her handle the burgers like it's some kind of military showcase. Flipping those patties with the precision of, well, a warship, I guess. And, let’s be honest, probably the strength of one too.

Before I knew it, she had fried up 25 perfectly round, perfectly cooked patties. I didn’t even realize how many we’d made until I looked at the growing stack on the plate.

“Uh, we might’ve overdone it a little,” I said, eyeing the mountain of meat. “Didn’t really plan on feeding the entire fleet tonight.”

North Carolina turned to me, still as serious as ever. “Twenty-five patties are within standard procedure for ensuring adequate sustenance for a small unit.”

“Sure, sure,” I said. “But where’s the buns for this operation?”

She blinked, then glanced around, as if realizing for the first time that we are missing a key element of the whole hamburger experience. “There are no buns,” she said plainly, like it's just another fact of life to accept and move on from.

I let out a sigh. “Well, that’s a bit of a problem, don’t you think?”

She didn’t respond, just stood there waiting for the next order, and I couldn’t help but giggle. “Okay, no worries. We’ll improvise,” I said, already digging through the cabinets. “Let’s make it special—how about we whip up some ketchup sauce and call it a gourmet hamburger experience?”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

North Carolina gave a slight nod, and I could’ve sworn she took that as a formal command. I grabbed the ketchup, some mustard, a bit of mayo, and a few spices. I started mixing them together in a bowl, trying to keep things casual, while she stood at attention next to me.

“So,” I said, breaking the silence, “Did you enjoy cooking these? Or is it just another mission for you?”

“I find it... satisfactory,” she said, not missing a beat. “There is satisfaction in completing a task with precision and ensuring the objective is met.”

I couldn’t help but smile at her answer. Classic weapon made for war goes to civilian life—everything boiled down to military speak. “Well, sometimes cooking is more than just about the objective. It’s supposed to be fun; you know?”

She nod her head slightly, her expression unchanged. “Fun is not a necessary component for mission success.”

I laughed. “Okay, maybe not. But it kind of helps keep things from getting too boring.”

She seemed to consider that for a moment, but then returned her focus to the patties, lining them up neatly on a plate ln. I

When the ketchup sauce is ready, I handed her a spoon and gestured toward the patties. “Go on, give it a try.”

She hesitated, looking at the spoon like it is some unfamiliar tool. “Taste is not a primary concern for me.”

“Yeah, but you’ve gotta try it at least once,” I insisted, nudging the spoon toward her.

She took it, almost mechanically, and dabbed a tiny bit of the sauce on one of the patties. After a moment of stop, she took a bite. I watched her face closely, trying to spot any reaction, but of course, she just chewed slowly and nodded once.

“It’s... satisfactory,” she said.

I giggled. “I’ll take that as a win.”

*

After we finished cooking, I decided to teach North Carolina what a high-five is. I figured if we are going to share a victory moment over burgers, she should at least know how to celebrate properly. At first, she just stared at my raised hand like I am speaking in code, but after a quick explanation, she gave me the most rigid high-five ever—like slapping a wall. Still, it worked.

With the food ready, we made our way to their room. As soon as we entered, I spotted the rest of the girls—Kansas, Tennessee, Massachusetts, and Washington—put around the room with that same eerie, serious demeanor North Carolina had earlier. It is... unsettling, to say the least. I mean, they looked like they are guarding the place rather than just hanging out. Creepy, honestly. I had to remind myself that they’d snap out of it soon. At least, I hoped they would.

North Carolina, ever the efficient one, placed the plates and forks down on the table with precision, and I called everyone over to eat.

“Hey, dinner’s ready!” I said, trying to inject some warmth into the cold atmosphere.

One by one, they gathered around the table, still silent, their expressions as unreadable as always. I served the hamburgers, each with a generous helping of the ketchup sauce I’d whipped up, but the silence is... heavy. They are all sitting there, perfectly still, perfectly straight, eating like they are following some unspoken protocol. Not a word. Just the quiet clink of forks against plates.

I tried to ignore it, but after a few minutes, the dead air started to get to me. This is dinner, not a briefing. It's way too formal, and I'm not having it.

“Okay, so,” I said, breaking the silence, “what do you all think of the hamburgers? Not too bad, right?”

Massachusetts gave a slow, deliberate nod, still chewing. “They fulfill the necessary caloric intake,” she said flatly, and the others echoed the sentiment in their own robotic way.

I sighed, trying not to facepalm. “You know,” I continued, pushing on, “it’s okay to relax a little. We’re not on the battlefield right now. It’s just dinner. You can... talk? Laugh? Enjoy the food?”

Tennessee glanced at me with her stoic expression.

“You heard that right,” I said with a smile. “You don’t have to follow any military rules here. Just... be yourselves.”

They exchanged glances, as if they aren't sure how to process that information. It's kind of cute, in a strange way. I could almost see the gears turning in their heads, trying to figure out what ‘being themselves’ even meant in this situation.

I decided to take the lead. “Alright, let’s do this,” I said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Favorite food. What’s everyone’s favorite food?”

Kansas is the first to respond, her voice measured and calm. “Roast beef.”

“Classic,” I said with a nod. “How about you, Tennessee?”

“Cornbread,” she replied without hesitation.

“Nice,” I said, looking around the table. “Massachusetts?”

She thought for a moment. “Clam chowder.”

“Figures,” I said with a chuckle. “Washington?”

“Steak,” she answered, still as stoic as ever.

I grinned. “And North Carolina, I already know yours—hamburgers and barbecue, huh?”

She gave a single nod, and I could’ve sworn there is the faintest glimmer of pride in her eyes.

The conversation didn’t exactly take off, but at least I managed to crack through some of that rigid exterior.

Slowly but surely, the atmosphere around the table started to thaw. They are still formal, still serious, but I could see them relaxing, even if just a little bit.

The dinner table is gradually coming to life, which is a relief. As we continued talking, I noticed that their stiff, robotic responses are going out of the room. It's not much, but every little smile, every tiny spark of curiosity, felt like a win. I kept talking, throwing out any topic I could think of—my old life, random funny stories, even some of the crazier things I’d experienced back then.

What surprised me the most is how engaged they became. The more I talked, the more they slowed down their eating, and soon enough, we are all just sitting there, talking more than actually eating. Their attention is on me, and I could tell they are listening, really listening. It's a strange feeling, but a nice one.

Kansas is the first to laugh, a low, quiet chuckle that caught me off guard. I'm not even sure what I’d said that is so funny, but seeing her crack a smile—it felt like breaking through a wall. Slowly, the others followed. Tennessee, usually so stoic, smirked at one of my stories, and even Massachusetts, who seemed almost mechanical earlier, let out a soft laugh.

The entire conversation flowed effortlessly after that, never falling into silence. We talked about everything and everything—my life back then before getting myself here in this world, the places I’d been, the things I missed. It is nostalgic in a way I hadn’t expected. I realized, as the words tumbled out of me, that I hadn’t really talked to anyone like this in what felt like forever. Not just orders or commands or plans, but real conversation. The kind that makes you feel grounded, like you’re still... you.

As the food on our plates slowly disappeared, the chatter continued. At one point, Kansas got up to grab some water, but even then, the conversation didn’t stop. They asked me questions—simple ones, like what my favorite place is or what I missed the most. It's... normal, almost like being back with friends. It made me realize how much I’d missed these kinds of moments.

By the time the plates are empty, I felt lighter somehow. The dead, military atmosphere had lifted, replaced with something warmer, something more real. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I'm back in my old life—talking, laughing, connecting. It\s a small thing, maybe, but in that moment, it meant everything.

As we sat there, plates cleared and conversation still rolling, I thought to myself that maybe this situation isn't so bad after all. Maybe, just maybe, I could make something of this strange new life.