Playing the Hurdy Gurdy While Paris Burns

Former 74-gun third-rate ship of the French Navy, Royaux, now pirate vessel Paris Burning.

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Fireworks

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abyssal-shenanigans‌:

Tirpitz had endured a great deal in her life: arduous, self-imposed training regimens that pushed her endurance to its limit; grievous injuries on the field of battle; psychological and emotional turmoil - but none of it had left her quite as miserable as she was at that very moment, sitting on the aisle seat of an airplane. It was just as well that they were in first class - there was no telling how sour the battleship’s mood would be if they were crammed into coach.

“…I suppose this will be tolerable. At least I will have pleasant company for the journey. What precisely do people do to pass the time during these flights?”

Paris brightened, seeing her love gaining a bit of comfort settling in.

“Things to do? Oh, c’est facile!” She paused for a moment, tapped her lip, then blinked, brow furrowed.

“I don’t know. Sleeping, probably. But on a flight so long... Hmm, hmm.”

“We shall have to entertain ourselv-” The TV screens seated in the seats ahead of them lit up, beginning to roll the video for the safety brief.

“Maybe this is will have an answer for us?”

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Fireworks

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 abyssal-shenanigans‌:

Tirpitz watched the scene with a mixture of incredulity and exasperation. HEr only response to Volley’s request was an arched eyebrow and a broad gesture at the throng of people in front of them.

“Regrettably, I do not think the airline provides priority boarding for screaming Russian space destroyers. Well, no matter. I will deal with this.”

The battleship strode forward, interposing herself between Volley and the desperately panting security guards, whom were just now starting to stagger their way to the gate proper. The moment one of them opened their mouth to speak, Tirpitz opened fire… verbally, that is. Though judging how absolutely enraged she sounded, it was definitely a good thing she didn’t have her rigging.

Using the shell-shocked security personnel as verbal punching bags for all of her accumulated frustration, Tirpitz excoriated them mercilessly, furiously, and entirely in German, leaving them confused, terrified, and completely incapable of responding. It did not take long for them to wither, quickly deciding that pursuing such an ultimately minor matter as indoor speeding was not remotely worth being vocally eviscerated. Offering some desperate, swiftly babbled apologies the moment they could get a word in edgewise, they bid a hasty retreat, seemingly indifferent to their still-burning muscles in their desperate haste. 

Once her victims had retreated far enough away to satisfy her ire, Tirpitz turned her attention back to Volley and Paris, as everyone else in the terminal very quickly began pretending they had not been staring agape mere moments earlier.

“There. Problem solved. Now, let us see if we cannot get this wretched journey over with without any further complications.”

Paris was obviously unfazed, and though Volokolamsk had been intimidated earlier in the day, she knew the shouting was on her side.

“Si c’est tout, allons-y, oui? We’re holding up the line.” Boarding was a simple matter from that point, and the spaceship was indeed seated separately from her travel partners. Paris took up the window seat, as offered, thankful they hadn’t picked seats in the middle of the very, very large plane.

With only another half an hour before all passengers were loaded, they would be off, bound first for Abu Dhabi.

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Fireworks

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abyssal-shenanigans‌:

The battleship shrugged ─ while she did not dislike their compatriot from the far-flung future per se, she honestly would not care one way or another whether the not-quite-Russian actually made the flight or not. She had no carry-on, having checked her only bag, so she simply made her way towards where the first class passengers were starting to queue up, ticket in hand.

“Perhaps she had second thoughts about enduring 30 hours crammed in a confined space with total strangers. Or simply drank too much and lost track of time. Whatever the case, is she not some manner of space vessel? She can simply fly there on her own accord, can she not? Likely far faster than this plane will get us there, I imagine…”

Paris nodded her head side to side, not really contemplating the idea of a ship flying. 

“I’m sure she has her reasons, mon chère. I-” The pirate was cut off by a growing, concerning noise. Specifically...

“BLYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!”

Down the terminal came a recognizable diminutive figure in uniform, and the sound was growing much more rapidly than one might anticipate. Because she was, of course, barreling down the oversized walkway at a blistering twenty-six miles per hour. So fast, in fact, that the airport security was convinced that it was illegal, and were giving chase... much too slowly.

“Ah! There she is! Speak of the devil, non?” The destroyer wasn’t even sweating as she pulled up to her luggage, rolling over to her two fellow vessels while grumbling in Russian.

“Gavno blyat’, the clock in the bar was three minutes slow, and I only find this out when I check my phone for a text from Café. Now the urody in security are trying to catch me for ‘speeding in the terminal.’” Her eye roll showed what she thought of that.

“Debily, how is there a speed limit inside? Makes no sense. Davai, let’s go before they catch up.” Spoiler alert. Lines don’t move quickly.

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Fireworks

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abyssal-shenanigans‌:

Tirpitz bit back her retort, not wanting to spoil her lover’s wistful mood. As far as the battleship was concerned, the invention of flight was the most wretched technological achievement in the history of mankind. Despite her best efforts, her tone rather clearly demonstrated her lack of agreement with Paris’ opinion of flying.

“…Yes. I am certain it is a panoply of delight beyond compare. I will be sure to let you have the window seat. What a delightful trip this will be.”

From the looks of things, the German would rather be attending her own funeral than sitting in an aircraft for 30 hours. 

And so the time passed, Paris musing about one thing or another to her suitably displeased girlfriend, all while waiting for boarding to begin. Ten minutes later, the airport attendants started lining people up to board, and a message was made on the intercom in the terminal.

No sign of Volley.

“Alors, alors! Where is our diminutive Russian friend? She did remember she only had quinze minute, non? I hope she is not lost.”

“Ah, well. We should probably grab our bags and get in line, chérie. I believe first class is boarding.”

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Fireworks

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abyssal-shenanigans‌:

Tirpitz grave an annoyed grunt in response, too busy using her murderous glare to preemptively ward off anyone who got it into their heads to consider coming over for a photo op with the flamboyantly dressed corsair. After she felt that a sufficiently menacing atmosphere had been generated that she could afford to turn her attention away from the cowering masses, the battleship finally got around to giving a proper reply.

“Hmph. It always struck me as rather absurd, disarming a warship for security reasons. It would happen time to time when I traveled with the admiral in my capacity as flagship, which also meant I was his de facto bodyguard. Some secure meeting or another, all the officers and attendees would check in their sidearms and the lot, and I was no exception. Never mind the fact that I could have effortlessly killed everyone in the room with my bare hands.But I suppose bureaucracy never has meshed well with common sense…”

“As for the space zerstörer, while her jab at us specifically was mildly irksome, I cannot say I blame her in the least for wanting to be as drunk as possible before boarding that wretched thing. I can’t imagine how I am going to last thirty hours.”

“…Wait, thirty hours?! Surely she was exaggerating!”

“Of course she wasn’t exaggerating. It’s just over eight thousand five hundred kilometers to Moscow from here, and we’ll be stopping in Abu Dhabi along the way.That’s why I wanted to take a plane, we’ll arrive in Moscow on New Year’s Eve. Anything else would take two days or longer.”

“I’ve always wanted to try flying. To see the world so far beneath your feet... what a marvel it must be, non?” The question became not ‘why does paris want to fly so badly’ but instead ‘why have you not flown anywhere yet, with the amount of money everyone knows you’re sitting on?’ A mystery for the ages.

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Fireworks

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abyssal-shenanigans‌:

Tirpitz quietly seethed, eye twitching dangerously at every interruption caused by over-eager passersby. It was a testament to the progress her anger management skills had made over the past few years that she hadn’t torn someone’s arms off by now. That said, it was mostly because she knew that such a scene would destroy any chance the trio had of making it to their destination on time, not to mention the knowledge that a public incident involving civilian casualties in the middle of a crowded airport was not something that either Admiral Jones nor the German government would be able (or likely even willing) to smooth over and sweep under the rug, as had been the case with her more brutal outbursts against many of her former commanding officers. 

Not to mention that it definitely wasn’t improving her opinion of flying as a means of convenient transportation.

After what seemed like an eternity, the three ships made it past security (which was surprisingly hassle free, at least on the part of the security personnel themselves. Apparently, there had been a call ahead of time from the Admiral’s office (likely from Batavia) informing the airport administration of their impending arrival, and smoothing out the necessary bureaucratic red tape ahead of time. It meant that the three were practically waved through the metal detector and sent along their way with little fanfare, and at long last they reached their departure gate, with a scant 15 minutes before boarding began, thanks to the constant delays caused by the general public. Tirpitz’s mood was just about as foul as one would expect, all things considered, despite the lack of hassle at security.

“I now fully understand the meaning of the phrase ‘Hell is other people.’ How mein schwester deals with this vast sea of intolerable ingrates on a regular basis is beyond my comprehension. I hope you did not book us round trip tickets, Paris, because I am absolutely not going through this infuriating debacle a second time. I’d rather be strapped to a Russian rocket and *launched* back to the Philippines than deal with the so-called public again.”

“And we were merely waved through security! I could have kept my holdouts!” Volley shook her head, more irritated with the pouty pirate than with the nosy nobodies.

“Still illegal, Paris. And unlike the big battleship here, neither you nor I have diplomatic immunity. Alright, you two, now that we know where the gate is, I’m going to go get fed and happily drunk before I have to be trapped in a plane with the two of you for thirty hours.” Without even waiting to hear a complaint, off she went.

“What could she mean? We don’t even have adjacent seats to her. Ah, well. Hopefully she’ll have a cooler head when she gets back.”

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Fireworks

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abyssal-shenanigans‌:

Tirpitz grunted in sympathy as Volley navigated the horrors of the dreaded internet. Though their consternation came from opposite sources, it was doubtlessly equally intense.

“It is heartening to know that it will at least be improved some day. I do not trust these ‘web sites’. It is all so terrible chaotic and disorganized, with no way of knowing what information is reliable, what sources are reputable, save for those that are most frequently used. And even then, there are no guarantees, since I constantly hear tales of some manner of criminal gaining unwanted access to private information. I would rather have my information come from a book, with a well organized bibliography citing references and sources, and to do business in person whenever possible.”

“…Of course, the fact that haggling with someone in person gives me a slight advantage in regards to negotiating leverage does not hurt…”

As many vendors near the bases that Tirpitz was stationed at learned the hard way, prices are always negotiable as far as the battleship is concerned, and she always drove a bargain harder than her belt armor - most likely a result of her being constructed during a time when Germany’s financial ruination in the aftermath of the Great War was a vivid and painful national memory.

Volokolamsk shrugged,

“Bias and misinformation are a universal constant. As long as someone has had an opinion, and agenda, and a way to deliver it to others, there will be lies, blatant and sneaky both. Go on, look up articles about falsified scientific studies and reports. Idiotic, I swear.” The destroyer chose to ignore Tirpitz’ posturing about her intimidation skills, as for very obvious reasons they didn’t really work on her.

Some time later, the three of them were idling about the Puerto Princesa International Airport, all on the same flight. It was with some luck and dedication that Volley convinced Paris to leave her weapons behind, yes, even her holdout flintlocks, because they’d be confiscated at security otherwise. No, hiding them didn’t work. It was for this reason that there was a very grumpy pirate getting asked for pictures at every turn for her clothing, a tired space destroyer getting harassed by nerds at every turn for her uniform, and the intimidating battleship towering over them both who discouraged the less bold by her very presence.

“How many pictures does this make? Sacré, are you sure it’s illegal to punch people for irritating you?” For the fifth time, Volokolamsk nodded in assent to the question.

“Yes, I am sure. Last time I even brought up the local law regarding it, remember?”

“Merde.”

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Fireworks

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abyssal-shenanigans‌:

Tirpitz gave a defeated sigh. Though she was loathe to admit it, she could not deny that Paris was right. Which meant she had no choice but to come clean as to why she was so uncomfortable about the idea of flying to begin with. When she spoke, her voice was calm, but her expression forlorn.

“…During the war - the war for which I was first built - the allied forces launched over 22 separate operations attempting to sink me. Over the course of those operations, over a thousand aircraft were sent against me, each of them seeking to bring death to me and my crew. Until the day they succeeded, and I was sent to the bottom, dragging 1200 sailors along with me.”

Her expression hardened, and her tone carried a hint of resentment as she continued.

“I recently read a book, in which the author wrote of me that I ‘lived an invalid’s life, and died a cripple’s death’. It is an accurate assessment. It is certainly how I felt, stranded in a harbor, being slowly bled to death by wave after wave of opportunistic vultures screeching from the sky, unable to even meet my end in honorable combat as my sister did. An airplane is to me nothing more than a reminder of a wasted life an an ignoble death. I utterly despise them. That is why I do not wish to fly to Russia.”

The battleship let out a long, sigh, then shook her head, pulling Paris close and planting a kiss on her forehead, managing to smile as she did so.

“…But however strong my hatred for aircraft may be, it is as nothing compared to my love for you and our dear Akula. So I will swallow my distaste, and we will fly to her side. It is a minor sacrifice, for so great a reward, after all.”

Paris nodded solemnly, gently stroking Tirpitz’ cheek once more.

“I am glad that you’re willing to undergo this for the sake of making it on time, mon amour. I promise you I would not insist if it weren’t urgent. I already have a flight booked for the two of us; Madamoiselle Volo, will you be able to arrange your own ticket?” Way to spring that up on a girl.

“I can, da. Nu blyaaaaat, I was hoping to avoid dealing with this inferior ‘modern’ technology. Waiting for webpages, cookies that increase the cost of your tickets the longer you look, gavno blyat, there’s nothing good here. Just give me a few minutes and I should have something.”

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Fireworks

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abyssal-shenanigans‌:

Tirpitz’ eye twitched and an uncharacteristic look of trepidation flashed across the battleship’s features.

“…Ein flugzeug…”

Attempting to compose herself, Tirpitz cleared her throat.

“Ah. That is to say. Perhaps we could, ah… sail there? No, that would not be fast enough. Ah! We can sail to India, and then take the train from there! Very scenic, ja? I do not think people appreciate trains enough these days. Yes. Trains.”

Tirptiz seemed unusually insistent on an alternative mode of transportation…

Both of their eyebrows went up. Volley because, as someone who could technically fly under her own power at full strength, a ship being uncomfortable to the idea was very strange, and Paris because merely seeing Tirpitz this uncomfortable was rare outside of the bedroom.

“Mon amour, would flying be such an issue? It would be the fastest way, and I worry if we do not, we may not reach our beloved by the New Year. Time is of the essence here.” A gentle stroke met the battleship’s cheek, genuine concern for both her lover and the timeline crossing Paris’ mind.

Volokolamsk knew better than to say anything.

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Fireworks

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abyssal-shenanigans‌:

Looking over the smaller vessel with an appraising air, Tirpitz raised an eyebrow, an intrigued smile creeping over her lips when the destroyer introduced herself.

“Oh?  Volokolamsk? Now where have I heard that name before…”

“Ahhh, ja… now I recall. One of the space warriors. They say that even you, a destroyer, hold the power to tear apart an entire Abyssal fleet with your bare hands, as their shells clink against your armor as harmlessly as rain. Magnificent. I see my dear Russischer Bär has fine taste in friends.”

The battleship extended her gloved right hand to shake, effortless transferring Paris to be cradled in her left arm alone.

“It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Volokolamsk. As Paris has said, I am Bismarck-class Deutsches Schlachtschiff Tirpitz, formerly of the Kriegsmarine, now proudly of the Deutsche Marine and the United Nations. No affiliation to your future United Nations. Now then… tell me of this plan to visit our mutual comrade up north.”

Oh? Bismarck knew about that stint with the destroyer div on her way to Auckland, how- Ah. The selfie she sent Akula must have... circulated. The Slav shook hands comfortably, giving a concerned look to the grinning Frenchwoman who was so relaxed in one arm it looked natural.

“Pleasure’s mine, mate. I’m actually not combat personnel, actually. Not on the surface, anyway. Too valuable to lose, etcetera etcetera. I’d call it a hard lot, but I guess the battleship Tirpitz would know a bit more about being cooped up in port because of her value than most.” Before things got too negative, Paris piped up.

“Ah, mes chères, think not on the past, but look at the present, non? The plan, you see, is simple. We all take a... what was the term again?” The pirate’s brow furrowed for a moment as she contemplated the word. “Avion... avion avion...”

“Airplane! Oui, oui. We are to take a plane to Moscow, and go visit our dear Akula in the heart of the Russian nation for the New Year.”

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Fireworks

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abyssal-shenanigans‌:

Batavia sighed as they left, getting back to the paperwork crowding her desk, muttering quietly under her breath once she was quite sure both vessels were well out of earshot.

“…Really now… comparing my courtship with Meneer Zeeleeuw to her own… indiscretions… she really is incorrigible…”

Once the pair were outside, they would find a flurry of activity, as sailors and engineers rushed about the place, putting everything in order as if a surprise inspection had just been announced… and in a way, it had. After no longer than fifteen minutes had passed, there was a burst of shouts from the docks, and a cry soon made its way from one side of the base to another, shouted along as if it were an alarm: 

“Flagship sighted! Flagship inbound!”

Soon enough, however, an entirely new set of shouts echoed through the air, loud enough that no relaying was necessary for everyone to hear.

“Faulheit! Inkompetenz! Idiotie! I am gone for a month, and you shiftless kakerlaken have allowed my base to become a mülldeponie! I will see you all flogged until the skin is flayed from your spines, assuming you wretched imbeciles have spines to begin with, which I doubt! Ingenieure! You will have my rigging in pristine condition within thirty minutes, or I will have you nailed to it! The rest of you blundering oafs will have this facility spotless within the hour, or I will have you all strapped to buoys on the live fire range to be used as target practice! Zurück an die Arbeit! NOW!”

If an entire Abyssal battlefleet had just surfaced less than a mile away, the base would not have mobilized faster than they did in response to Tirpitz’s furious tirade. It was actually quite impressive, the speed and coordination that was now on display, almost so much so that one could forget that it was in response to death threats being bellowed by an angry German battleship. Despite the pandemonium that had been unleashed, however, Tirpitz had no issue making her way through the throng, every man and woman giving her as wide a berth as possible, parting the crowd like a shark swimming through a school of sardines.

Fortunately for everyone, the moment Tirpitz spotted Paris, her mood visibly brightened immediately. Striding over to the pirate at a brisk pace, the battleship ignored Volley entirely, scooping up the French corsair as if she weighed less than nothing, and spinning in place with her before lifting the venerable vessel into a bridal carry, nuzzling against her cheek as she did so. When the battleship finally spoke, her voice was quiet and tender; one would be hard pressed to believe that this was the same woman who had just threatened to murder an entire naval base.

“How fortunate for the men that you were not the first thing I saw when I arrived, meine Liebe. If that had been the case, your beauty would have blinded me to how shabby the place has become, and the layabouts would have never learned their lesson. How dearly I missed you…”

Paris knew her love had arrived when the base entered a panic, and held up a finger, interrupting their conversation. Volley had no idea in the least what all the fuss was about, but humored the pirate standing up to stand precisely four feet away from the door. She could hear the battleship impending, shouting the base back into operation with footfalls as loud, clattering, and fear-striking as those of a mighty giant.

Precisely three steps took Tirpitz to Paris, the ironclad laughing as she was spun around and carried by the much larger German.

“Ah, mon amour, do not give the men false hope. It would be foolish of them to believe that they could avert your wrath and discipline by hiding behind me. You know as well as I that you would simply discipline them with me upon your arm.” Paris very much enjoyed her tender intimacy with the come home battleship, and gave her a tender kiss on the cheek. Turning to face her new, confused companion, Paris winked before introduction.

“Madamoiselle Volo, this is the German battleship Tirpitz, one of the dearest loves of my life. Tirpitz, this is the space destroyer Volo - she can finish her name for you -, who is a friend of our dear Akula’s and wished to see her for the New Year.” The destroyer in question didn’t know what eggshells to walk on and which not to, finding a simple introduction optimal. To make matters worse, the battleship was truly massive; Paris certainly knew how to pick them.

“DD-602, Halberd-class destroyer UNSC Volokolamsk, N.Z.C., of the United Nations Space Command; no affiliation to your existent United Nations. Rad vstretit’ tebya.” Someone clearly had a thing for tall women.

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Fireworks

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abyssal-shenanigans‌:

Batavia gave a nod of acknowledgement towards Paris, then turned her dour attention back to Volokolamsk. 

“Goedemorgen, Paris. As I was about to explain to our… guest… the Russian Federation has been disinclined to relinquish command of one of their primary nuclear assets, given the current political climate. It seems unlikely that their position will be reversed any time soon, despite our efforts to the contrary.”

Before the East Indiaman could continue, however, one of the phones at her desk rang, eliciting a long-suffering sigh from the venerable vessel, who held up a single finger as she answered, wordlessly requesting the two other women present wait for a moment.

“Batavia speaking… Ja… Ja… Nee… Very well. I will inform him. Vaarwel, slagschip.”

Hanging up the phone, Batavia turned her attention back to the others, an unsettling grin playing across her features as she spoke.

“…Such impeccable timing, truly. Far be it from me to suggest a course of action that may cause my dear admiraal any… inconvenience… but it seems our dear flagship has at last returned to local waters. I believe the three of you have a common topic of interest, that perhaps you would do well to discuss together. Tirpitz will arrive within the hour; no doubt she will quite delighted to see you in particular, Paris. What you do is, of course, ultimately up to you… heh heh heh…”

Paris nodded sweetly.

“She informed me yesterday of her imminent arrival. How funny it is that you would accuse the actions of love of being inconvenient, given your own little tryst avec Monsieur Lion de Mer.” Volley’s eye twitched, but she remained silent.

“Madamoiselle Volo, it would appear we have an hour to kill before mon amour Tirpitz arrives. Shall we get breakfast and discuss our mutual interest in one Russian submarine?” The destroyer shrugged, nodding.

“I could go for a bite, sure. I met Akula in Russia, actually. She told me to meet her here for the New Year, but clearly the Russians have other plans.”

“Which is why we’re going to her! Allons-y!” And, with much ceremony and noise, Batavia was left alone once more; until Tirpitz arrived, of course.

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Fireworks

Dec 30th, 0600 hours; Ulugan Bay, Philippines.

@abyssal-shenanigans

Paris awoke to the sound of a foghorn, the alarm on her bedside table that Firedrake had so kindly given her for Christmas startling the lights out of her. After a moment to slam the alarm down, put her pistol away, and get her bearings, the pirate remembered the day! She set the alarm for a reason after all, and it was a hurry to get dressed and out the door, leather suitcase in hand. When she stepped out into the administration building, intending to cheerily greet Batavia, she instead found the gloomy East Indiaman already locked in conversation with a very short girl in a very strange uniform. Comfortingly familiar, however, was her language of expletives.

“Blyaaaad! What do you mean she isn’t back yet? It’s been 8 months! The Russians still haven’t let go of her?” There was only one her that could be drawing such a response about the Russian government; Akula.

“Bon matin, Batavia and... guest.” The destroyer turned to face the new arrival, trying her best not to be rude.

“Good morning. DD-602, UNSC Volokolamsk at your service. Before you try it, call me Volley or Volo, everyone else does.” The pirate grinned, offering a hand to shake that was quickly taken.

“Independent pirate Paris Burning at your service, Madamoiselle. Enchantée.” A questioning look to Batavia asked the obvious: is she here for Akula?

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Spooky Scary... Snakes?

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kantainofunallowed‌:

The snake woman’s smile widened. Any concerned thoughts quickly drowned under the pleasant sensations from Paris’s gentle touch. To say that she was touchy feely in this state would be an understatement. The coils of her tail instead gently pressed back into Paris’s hand to encourage her further. “You’re such a charmer, pun completely intended. Still, thank you. It gives me comfort to see someone so relaxed around me. Still though, I’ll have to figure out new clothes sooner or later, especially if I don’t return to my old form.”

She leaned in near Paris, putting herself closer. “Maybe I’ll try out a new look, since I feel like a new woman in this skin. Out with the stuffy old school styled clothing, in with something maybe more daring?“ On closer look at Paris, she realized that the other girl was quite beautiful in her own right. A messy but luxurious mane of hair, bright blue eyes, and soft, extremely kissable lips that was taking– wait, what was that? Probably nothing important.

Paris laughed at the pun, continuing her gentle strokes of the surprisingly smooth scales surrounding her; the pirate was always told snakes were either rough or slimy, and was beyond pleased to find neither was true. In fact, the snakeskin was very pleasant to the touch.

“Well, mon chère, there is nothing more daring than nothing at all, though it is my firm belief that you’d look lovely no matter what you wore. After all, one’s beauty is innate and merely enhanced by what they wear.” Paris’ grin never seemed to vanish, no matter how relaxed she became.

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The Return, Part II

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abyssal-shenanigans‌:

To his credit, Jones did not flinch at Paris’s threat, though that was likely more due to sleep deprivation preventing it from fully registering. Regardless, he opted to simply answer the privateer’s question regarding her two lovers, and their whereabouts.

“Ah, yes. Tirpitz, for her part, is currently back in Europe, helping with the repatriation of a German vessel. She was originally supposed to head up shortly before Auckland, but thanks to everything going FUBAR, it took until just a couple weeks ago for her to finally get cleared to make the journey. She’ll hopefully be back in a few more weeks, if all goes well.”

“Akula, on the other hand, is unfortunately a rather more complicated matter. She’s more or less been reclaimed by the Russian Navy on everything but paper at this point; she was home on leave when Auckland happened, and needless to say the Russians have wanted to keep their nuclear assets within arm’s reach ever since then. At least she’s managed to do some good while she’s been stuck there, so far as the relief effort is concerned. Hopefully with everything finally settling down again, the Kremlin will finally let her report back to duty, but there’s really know way of knowing if or when that might happen, I’m sorry to say.”

Tapping a finger on his desk, Jones seemed momentarily lost in thought.

“…Given the circumstances, I don’t think it would be unreasonable to grant Tirpitz some extended leave when she returns; the two of you could head to Russia and pay Akula a visit yourselves. All things considered, it’s the least I can do, given the circumstances.”

Paris sighed, nodding grimly. That would have to do.

“I suppose that is the best I can ask for. I’ll leave you to your siege. I’ll see you in Manila; I’m headed back to help Fort Drum with her preparations.” With that and a cape fwoosh, Paris strode out the office. If she wasn’t stopped, she would also stride right out of the Administration building and head right back out to sea.

[paris-burning]

The Return, Part II

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abyssal-shenanigans‌:

As quickly as Paris produced the eldritch objects, Batavia snatched them away, stowing them out of sight and out of mind, even as Jones continued to stare apprehensively. When at last the final, absurdly large idol was safely stowed away in Batavia’s hold (requiring a two handed grip on the East Indiaman’s part), the secretary ship gave a curtsy and excused herself without another word, no doubt to prepare her unpleasant new cargo for transportation, when the inevitable cadre of ominous, besuited agents appeared to haul it off to some secret government black site.

The images of various unspeakable cosmic horrors now no longer present to put a damper on the debriefing, Jones returned his full attention to Paris, his fatigued mien visibly perking at the mention of Fort Drum’s desire to return to the fold.

“Wait, are you serious?! That’s incredible news! Fantastic, even! This is a momentous occasion, Paris, absolutely momentous. I can count on one hand the number of ships that have ever returned from the Abyss, and none of them after being Abyssal for as long as Drum has been. I knew there had to be big piece of her still left in there, with how protective she was of Manila, but I never dared dream she’d actually crawl her way back out again!”

“Absolutely sensational work, Paris. I’ll see to it you get a damn medal for this, mark my words. I’ll send word to the Secretary of the Navy; lord knows she’s needed some good news these days. I’ll see to it that everything is in order; just let me know when Drum is ready to carry out the surrender, and I’ll make my way to Corregidor with an honor guard. Probably Houston; she’s due back in soon, and it’ll be proper to have an American ship present.”

“Ha!… I have to admit, Paris, when I saw you walk through that door… well, when I saw you walk through that door I thought I was hallucinating again, but after I was convinced you were real, I was certain my whole day was going to be ruined. I’ve never been happier to be proven so wrong!”

The pirate bowed triumphantly.

“Monsieur Admiral, if I ever hear another disparaging word after the hell you and the United States military put me through after Auckland and then the gift I just brought you, I will have Tirpitz rip your arms off and replace them with very long dildos. I am happy to be home, Monsieur, but I do not forget the reason I was disbarred from it for months.” Satisfied her point had been made clear, a second thought came to mind.

“Actually, speaking of, I notice that Tirpitz and Akula did not meet me on shore as they usually do when I arrive home. Are they out on sortie, or...”

[paris-burning]

The Return, Part II

[paris-burning]

abyssal-shenanigans‌:

Jones’ eye twitched as he stared at the statue, then twitched several more times. His eyes not leaving its twisted form, he reached over and depressed the button for the intercom that connected him to his secretary’s desk.

“Batavia? Please contact our associates in the… agency. Inform them we have hazardous cargo to dispose of. Actually, first come in here and secure the cargo, then contact them. Quickly, please. Thank you.”

No sooner had Jones removed his finger from then intercom that Batavia was standing next to Paris, snatching the ominous idol out of her hand. If one did not know better, it would almost seem as if the ancient vessel had literally teleported from one room to the next, although that would have surely been impossible. More likely, whatever eldritch pull the statuette exerted had distracted both Paris and Jones from the East Indiaman’s hasty arrival. 

Probably.

Regardless, Batavia was now carefully looking over the otherwordly fetish, appraising it with a somewhat vexed expression as she bit her thumb.

“Tsk. I thought I felt something… slecht, when you passed by my desk. I did not say anything, for fear that my gut was simply reverting to old habits in the presence of a piraa-… err… kaperschip. It seems something else entirely was responsible, however…”

A moment later, the graven image vanished, tucked away somewhere and somehow into Batavia’s voluminous hair. The Dutchman then held out her hand expectantly to Paris, a stern look in her eye, and an intangible aura about her that was somehow just as unsettling as the one exuded by the twisted statuette, albeit far less alien.

“The rest of them, Missen Paris, if you would be so kind. All of them. I will know if you have any remaining on your person, now that I know they are there. Rest assured, you will be compensated for their material value once they have been properly… dealt with. You have not passed any of these around to others, I should hope?“

When the vessel left her hand, Paris’ first instinct was to snarl, her hand flashing to the inside of her coat, where her holdout flintlock was stored. Able to stop herself, cool down, and shake her head, the pirate looked up into Batavia’s eyes, nodding.

“Merci beaucoup. They have been having an even worse effect on me than I surmised. I have all of them on me, as they’re in my smuggling hold. Here.” One by one, statues and statuettes of various sizes emerged from that pocket, including one that was nearly the size of the Admiral’s desk, and clearly should not have been held in one hand.

Once they were gone, Paris’ head was a lot clearer.

“I didn’t give a single one to anyone else, if only because I was hoarding them. What a load off. Merci encore, Madamoiselle Batavia.” Taking another swig, she grinned.

“So, as you may know, I’d been doing work for Manila-hime in the interest of preserving the city. I am proud to announce that, thanks in part to my constant presence, guidance, and influence, the Manila Princess is no more. Fort Drum wishes to surrender herself to an American officer, and I can think of no one better. Currently preparations are underway, though we should give it a few days at least. Both so you can prepare to accept her surrender on Corregidor Island and, euh, so she can recover from... last night. I wouldn’t burden her with walking at present.”