By mid-morning, it was obvious that no one in the Horizon convoy knew how to handle free time without asking permission first.

  That alone said a lot about what Horizon had been.

  And what it had become.

  Kade stood in the small wardroom adjacent to Tōkaidō’s bridge, one hand braced on the table while he stared down at a blank authorization form. The Shoals escort liaison had handed it over with the same tone someone might use to offer a child a coloring sheet, complete with a polite reminder that shore leave requests for visiting personnel should be documented for harbor security accountability.

  It was a normal thing here.

  Which meant it was automatically suspicious to anyone from Horizon.

  Hensley hovered on the other side of the table like a man who’d once infiltrated enemy coastline and somehow found paperwork more intimidating.

  Behind him, his gaggle of misfits waited with the restrained anticipation of men trying very hard to be professional while thinking about fried food, souvenirs, and the kind of civilian shops that sold things that weren’t ration packs.

  Reeves stood a little off to the side, hands clasped behind her back, posture too straight. Wilkinson was nearby too, quiet as always, eyes scanning the corridor as if expecting some officer to jump out and accuse them all of treason for wanting to walk around a city.

  Shoukaku leaned against the wall with her arms folded, expression calm but watchful. Fairplay sat on the edge of a chair with her hood down, eyes half-lidded and predatory like the entire idea of “tourism” was a potential crime scene she wanted to investigate.

  Senko Maru was not in the room.

  Because Senko had woken up and immediately decided the correct response to “free morning” was feed everyone.

  Kade’s pen hovered over the line that read:

  Purpose of Leave:

  Hensley cleared his throat.

  “Sir,” he said quietly, “they want it written down. Like… officially.”

  Kade didn’t look up.

  “I gathered.”

  Morales shifted his weight.

  “With respect, sir, if we write ‘tourist nonsense,’ Shoals security is gonna look at us like we’re about to steal a battleship.”

  Finch muttered, “We are about to steal happiness.”

  Hensley shot him a look.

  Finch shut up—mostly.

  Kade exhaled slowly.

  He could already feel the edges of his patience fraying in that particular way it always did around bureaucracy. Paperwork didn’t just record reality. It shaped it. It decided what existed and what didn’t.

  He hated that.

  But he could play it.

  He’d survived worse games with worse stakes.

  He wrote.

  Carefully.

  Deliberately.

  With the exact tone of someone who had learned how to lie in official language without sounding like he was lying.

  Purpose of Leave:

  Procurement of morale-enhancing items and personal comfort supplies for Horizon Atoll staff and attached units; reconnaissance of local civilian facilities for future resupply coordination; cultural liaison and diplomatic visibility as representative elements of Horizon Atoll.

  Hensley leaned forward slightly to read it.

  His mouth twitched.

  “That’s… beautiful, sir.”

  Kade didn’t look up.

  “It’s disgusting.”

  Morales frowned.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “What’s ‘cultural liaison.’”

  “It means,” Fairplay said lazily, “we’re going to go buy snacks and commit emotional crimes.”

  Kade signed the bottom.

  Stamped it with the convoy command seal.

  Then slid it across the table like a weapon.

  “There,” he said. “You’re officially allowed to go act like tourists.”

  Hensley picked it up with both hands like it was sacred.

  “Sir,” he said, tone careful, “so… we can actually go?”

  Kade stared at him.

  “Gunnery Sergeant,” he said, “you have survived Abyssal bombardment, internal sabotage, and Iowa-class nonsense. If you cannot survive a gift shop, I will lose faith in the Marine Corps.”

  Hensley’s lips twitched.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Finch raised one hand.

  “Permission to procure morale-enhancing alcohol.”

  Kade didn’t miss a beat.

  “No.”

  Finch’s hand slowly lowered.

  Morales tried, “What about morale-enhancing coffee.”

  Kade nodded.

  “That’s acceptable.”

  Fairplay sighed dramatically.

  “The Commander is oppressive.”

  Kade pointed at her.

  “You shot wildlife.”

  “It stole my snack.”

  Kade’s stare went flat.

  “You are still not shooting Shoals’ seagulls.”

  Fairplay’s eyes narrowed.

  “They’re probably richer than Horizon’s seagulls.”

  “Still no.”

  Wilkinson, quiet as always, asked the most sensible question in the room:

  “Boundaries, Commander.”

  Kade nodded once, grateful for someone who remembered they were still in a fortress city full of politics and eyes.

  “Dock sector limits,” he said. “No restricted zones. No wandering into Admiralty admin towers. No starting fights. No taking bait if someone wants to provoke ‘Horizon behavior.’”

  Hensley straightened.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Reeves nodded too, a little too fast.

  Shoukaku inclined her head, calm and dutiful.

  Fairplay smiled with the slow menace of someone planning to obey rules in the most technically compliant way possible.

  Kade eyed her.

  “If you interpret ‘no starting fights’ as ‘finishing them is fine,’ I will know.”

  Fairplay’s smile widened.

  “You can’t prove intent.”

  Kade sighed.

  “I hate all of you.”

  Hensley’s squad looked oddly pleased by that statement, like being hated by command was proof they belonged.

  They started filing out—marines first, then the escort KANSEN, then Reeves with Wilkinson beside her like a quiet anchor.

  As they went, Hensley paused at the door.

  “Sir,” he said.

  Kade looked up.

  Hensley hesitated, then said, “You coming with us.”

  Kade stared.

  Then, slowly, “No.”

  Hensley nodded as if he’d expected that.

  “Right,” he said. “Because you don’t know how to have fun.”

  Kade’s mouth twitched.

  “Correct.”

  Hensley left.

  The wardroom quieted.

  Tōkaidō stepped in softly, having been in the corridor long enough to hear the last part of the exchange. She looked… rested, for once. Not fully, but enough that her eyes didn’t carry the same tired strain. She still had Kade’s coat folded over one arm like it had become part of her morning routine by accident.

  Kade noticed.

  Did not comment.

  Instead he said, “Senko’s cooking.”

  Tōkaidō nodded, ears flicking faintly.

  “Yes,” she said. “She started before the sun.”

  “That tracks.”

  Tōkaidō hesitated, then asked gently, “Are you going to eat.”

  Kade stared at her.

  Then, because she’d learned how to ask questions that were really orders disguised as concern, he sighed.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll eat.”

  Tōkaidō’s expression eased.

  “Good.”

  Kade eyed her.

  “That sounded like an order.”

  “It is advice,” she replied smoothly.

  Kade’s mouth twitched again.

  He was not going to win this particular war.

  Senko’s “breakfast” was an operation.

  Not a meal.

  An operation.

  She had requisitioned the ship’s galley facilities with the polite intensity of someone who would apologize while committing logistical conquest. She’d somehow acquired fresh eggs, rice, miso, grilled fish, sliced fruit, and enough tea to make the wardroom smell like warmth instead of war.

  She stood behind the serving counter in an apron that looked absurdly domestic against her rigging-adjacent status, hair neatly tied back, expression shy but glowing with purpose.

  When Kade entered, she froze like she wasn’t sure whether she was allowed to exist in the same room as a Commander without permission.

  Then she bowed so quickly her tail flicked.

  “C-Commander!” she said. “Good morning! I made—um—food. For everyone. Because… because we have time and I— I wanted to help.”

  Kade blinked at the spread.

  Then looked at Senko.

  Then, because he had learned the hard way not to reject kindness offered through labor, he nodded once.

  “Looks good,” he said simply.

  Senko’s ears—fox ears, soft and nervous—trembled.

  “R-Really?”

  “Yes,” Kade said. “And you’re allowed to eat too.”

  Senko’s face went bright red.

  “I—I was going to after everyone else—”

  Kade’s stare sharpened slightly.

  “That wasn’t a suggestion,” he said.

  Senko made a tiny squeak.

  “Yes, Commander.”

  Tōkaidō watched from behind him with the faintest trace of amusement in her eyes, like she’d just witnessed him accidentally become a functional leader again.

  Kade took a tray.

  Filled it with exactly what everyone else was eating.

  No special plate.

  No commander treatment.

  Coffee.

  Tea.

  Rice.

  Protein.

  Senko hovered like she wanted to offer more.

  Kade sat down before she could.

  And for a brief moment, in a wardroom filled with food and quiet chatter and the distant hum of Shoals beyond the hull, it felt almost normal.

  Almost.

  Salmon, of course, was somewhere.

  No one knew exactly where.

  Wilkinson suspected she was already scouting the “morale-enhancing items” zones for exploitable weaknesses.

  Hensley suspected she’d infiltrated a civilian snack vendor supply line.

  Fairplay claimed, with absolute confidence and zero evidence, that Salmon was “probably stealing a hat.”

  Shoukaku, when asked, simply said, “If Salmon wishes to be found, she will appear.”

  Kade, hearing that, muttered into his coffee:

  “God help Shoals.”

  Tōkaidō, seated beside him, quietly poured Senko more tea like she was protecting the auxiliary girl from the world by small domestic acts.

  Senko smiled shyly and ate.

  Outside, the convoy’s marines and KANSEN scattered into Resolute Shoals like tourists with legally weaponized paperwork—officially on morale procurement, unofficially trying to remember what it felt like to be people in a city that wasn’t falling apart.

  And somewhere in that fortress of steel and policy and eyes, a submarine gremlin roamed free.

  Which meant, inevitably, that someone’s day was about to become much more interesting.