Which, in his language, meant:
-
Reviewing the ball invite packet for hidden traps.
-
Cross-checking Shoals’ security protocols so he wouldn’t accidentally offend some Admiral by standing in the wrong place.
-
Reading Wisconsin’s transfer request template so he could support it without stepping on a landmine made of regulations.
-
Staring at the ceiling and thinking about nothing until his brain stopped trying to do violence to him from the inside.
The problem was that none of those plans accounted for Tōkaidō.
Or rather—none of those plans accounted for the fact that Tōkaidō had learned how to steer him.
Not forcefully.
Not with direct orders.
Not with argument.
But with phrasing.
With carefully chosen words that slipped past his reflexive resistance the way a gentle current could move a ship without ever looking like it was pushing.
It started in the late morning.
Kade had returned from Senko’s breakfast operation and immediately tried to retreat into his “I am a stone” persona—coffee, paperwork, silence, the sort of posture that made people assume he was busy enough that they shouldn’t ask anything from him.
Tōkaidō watched him for a while from the edge of the wardroom, coat folded over her arm, ears relaxed but eyes sharp.
Then she said, softly and politely, “Commander.”
Kade didn’t look up.
“What.”
Tōkaidō did not flinch.
“There is… a matter,” she said.
Kade’s pen paused.
“A matter,” he repeated flatly.
“Yes.”
He looked up then, suspicious.
“What kind.”
Tōkaidō took a breath as if preparing a report.
“The ball,” she said, “requires formal attire.”
Kade’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m aware.”
Tōkaidō nodded, accepting the statement like it wasn’t resistance.
“Shoals formal attire is… different,” she continued. “Their standards are strict. Their… social norms are strict.”
Kade stared at her.
“Spit it out.”
Tōkaidō’s cheeks warmed faintly.
“If you wear incorrect uniform,” she said carefully, “certain people may… use it as a reason to dismiss you.”
Kade’s jaw tightened.
Ah.
There it was.
Not you should get something nice.
Not you deserve it.
Not it would be fun.
Just… tactical necessity.
Kade leaned back slightly, coffee cup in hand, expression unreadable.
“You’re suggesting I go shopping,” he said.
Tōkaidō’s ears twitched.
“Yes,” she admitted.
Kade stared at her like she’d proposed he wrestle an Abyssal with no guns.
“I have a dress uniform.”
Tōkaidō nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “But you have Horizon dress uniform.”
Kade blinked.
She held his gaze, calm and soft-spoken and somehow terrifyingly persuasive in her gentleness.
“Shoals officers will notice,” she continued. “If it is old. If it is worn. If it is… not maintained to their expectations. They will not say it to your face. They will…” She hesitated, searching for the English phrase. “…they will make small knives.”
Kade’s mouth twitched.
“That’s poetic.”
Tōkaidō dipped her head slightly.
“It is accurate.”
Kade exhaled through his nose.
He could feel the trap closing.
If he refused, it would not be framed as “Kade being stubborn.”
It would be framed as “Kade letting Shoals find a weakness.”
And he didn’t want that.
Not tonight.
Not before the ball.
Not when the whole point of attending was to map the snakes in the grass.
He stared at her for a few seconds, then said, “Fine.”
Tōkaidō’s ears perked.
Kade lifted one finger.
“But if anyone tries to sell me a hat, I’m leaving.”
Tōkaidō blinked.
“…A hat?”
Kade’s eyes narrowed.
“I don’t know what Shoals people do,” he said. “I don’t trust them.”
Tōkaidō’s lips twitched in a tiny, barely-contained smile.
“Yes, Commander.”
Kade stood.
And, to his annoyance, Tōkaidō looked pleased—not because she’d won, but because she’d succeeded in getting him to do something that would protect him.
That expression did something strange to Kade’s brain.
He ignored it.
Shoals’ civilian district was not “civilian” in the way old Earth cities had been civilian.
It still had patrols.
Still had security checkpoints.
Still had KANSEN skating in assigned lanes near the sea walls.
But it had shops.
Actual shops.
Bright signage.
Neon.
Music leaking out of open doors.
Smells of frying food, baked sweets, perfume, and engine oil all mixing together because the whole city was built on a dockyard spine.
Horizon’s “market” had been a shelf of ration packs and whatever someone had scavenged off wreckage.
Shoals’ market was a reminder that humanity had once lived normally—at least enough to pretend.
Kade walked through it with his hands in his coat pockets, posture alert, eyes scanning the crowd like he expected an ambush to pop out from behind a bakery.
Tōkaidō walked beside him with quiet dignity, gaze soft but observant. People turned their heads as they passed—not dramatically, but enough.
A human commander with a Yamato-class KANSEN escort.
A pair that carried rumor weight.
Kade noticed the looks.
Tōkaidō noticed him noticing.
Neither commented.
They moved into a uniform shop marked with Admiralty-approved signage—because Shoals did not allow random clothiers to outfit officers. There were standards. Regulations. Approved vendors.
The interior smelled like pressed fabric and polish.
A clerk approached, expression smooth.
“Commander,” she said, recognizing Kade’s insignia and clearance band. Her gaze flicked to Tōkaidō, then back. “Are you seeking formal uniform update.”
Kade’s mouth twitched.
“Yes,” he said. “One set.”
The clerk smiled faintly.
“Ball standard is listed here.”
She produced a slate.
Displayed options.
Showed pricing.
Kade scanned it.
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Then frowned slightly.
There was, indeed, a discount.
“Command Attire Pairing Discount: 35% off male dress uniform if purchased alongside subordinate formal attire set.”
Kade stared.
Then slowly looked up.
“That’s… generous,” he said, tone dry.
The clerk smiled as if she were proud of Shoals’ benevolence.
“It promotes morale,” she said. “Command cohesion.”
Kade’s eyes narrowed.
“It promotes spending.”
The clerk pretended not to hear that.
Tōkaidō leaned slightly closer, reading the slate.
Her ears flicked once, small and curious.
Kade watched her.
Then looked back at the clerk.
“Define ‘subordinate,’” he said.
The clerk didn’t even blink.
“Any personnel under your operational command,” she replied smoothly. “Including attached KANSEN units, if listed on your convoy roster.”
Kade’s pen paused in his mind.
Operational command.
On paper, Tōkaidō was flagship, but she was also attached to his convoy.
She was under his command for this mission.
The phrasing was loose enough to drive a battleship through.
Kade glanced at Tōkaidō.
She stood very still, eyes on the slate, expression unreadable.
If he asked her directly, she’d refuse.
Or try to.
She’d call it inappropriate.
She’d insist she didn’t need it.
So Kade did what Kade did.
He made it practical.
He turned to the clerk.
“One additional set,” he said.
The clerk’s smile brightened.
“Excellent. For which subordinate.”
Kade didn’t look at Tōkaidō as he answered.
“Her,” he said.
Tōkaidō blinked hard.
The clerk’s eyes shifted to her, assessing.
“We have multiple cultural variants,” the clerk said. “Sakura Empire formal standards are—”
Kade cut in, calm.
“Kyoto,” he said.
The clerk paused.
“…Kyoto.”
“Yes,” Kade repeated. “Something that fits her cadence.”
Tōkaidō went still.
Her cheeks colored faintly.
The clerk, to her credit, did not seem confused. Shoals had enough international presence that “Kyoto-themed formal wear” was not a novelty. It was a recognized subset—traditional-inspired modern formal kimono variants, elegant, restrained, with patterns that carried old Japan’s quiet pride.
The clerk gestured.
“This way.”
They moved deeper into the shop.
Kade tried on his updated dress uniform with minimal fuss. It fit better than his Horizon one—cleaner cut, sharper lines, fabric that didn’t look like it had survived three crises and a raid.
He stared at himself in the mirror.
He looked… official.
He hated that a little.
Official meant visible.
Visible meant targeted.
But official also meant harder to dismiss.
He could live with that.
While Kade was measured and adjusted, the clerk guided Tōkaidō toward the Kyoto section.
Tōkaidō stood among hanging formal wear like she wasn’t sure she belonged in the space.
Kade watched from the side, pretending he wasn’t watching.
The clerk held up options.
Muted creams.
Deep reds.
Elegant blacks with gold trim.
Patterns of maple leaves, cranes, river flow motifs.
Tōkaidō’s fingers hovered over one piece—subtle, refined, with a pattern that felt like quiet autumn.
Then she pulled her hand back, as if touching it was too presumptuous.
Kade’s jaw tightened slightly.
He stepped forward.
“That one,” he said.
Tōkaidō’s head snapped up.
“Commander—”
Kade held up one hand.
“It’s appropriate,” he said, using her language back at her.
Tōkaidō’s mouth opened.
Kade added, tone dry, “And it’s cheaper.”
That made her freeze mid-protest.
Because she knew he was using practicality as cover.
But she also knew—he wasn’t wrong.
The clerk nodded and began sizing.
Tōkaidō stood very still as the measurements were taken.
Kade caught, in the corner of his vision, the way her fingers curled lightly into the fabric when the clerk draped it against her to check length.
A small tell.
She liked it.
She just didn’t know how to accept it.
Kade pretended not to notice.
Because if he acknowledged it, she might retreat behind politeness again.
The clerk finalized the purchase.
The slate beeped.
The discount applied.
Kade stared at the final price with mild disbelief.
“Morale,” he muttered.
The clerk smiled brighter.
“Yes, Commander.”
Kade took the packaged formal wear sets.
Turned toward the door.
And nearly walked into Salmon.
Or rather—
nearly walked into Salmon wearing a hat that she absolutely, definitively, did not arrive with.
It was a wide-brimmed civilian sun hat with a ridiculous ribbon, the sort of thing a tourist would wear to pretend they were not going to get sunburned while wandering a harbor city. It made her look like a mischievous aunt on vacation.
Salmon stood in the doorway like she’d been waiting for the exact moment to be seen.
She tilted her head.
“Nice suit,” she said.
Kade stared at her.
Then at the hat.
Then back at her.
“Where did you get that,” he asked.
Salmon’s smile widened.
“I procured morale,” she said.
Kade’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s theft.”
Salmon lifted one finger.
“Actually,” she said, “it’s acquisition.”
Kade exhaled slowly, the sound of a man trying not to become a public incident in a shop.
“Put it back.”
Salmon blinked innocently.
“I can’t.”
Kade stared.
“Why.”
Salmon’s grin sharpened.
“Because now it’s part of my identity.”
Kade’s gaze flicked to the clerk, who was watching with professional neutrality and the faint resignation of someone who had absolutely dealt with KANSEN nonsense before.
Kade leaned slightly closer to Salmon.
“If you stole that,” he said quietly, “Shoals will use it as proof Horizon is feral.”
Salmon’s expression softened just slightly.
Not guilt.
Something like consideration.
She tapped the brim.
“I didn’t steal it from Shoals,” she said.
Kade’s eyes narrowed.
“…From who.”
Salmon smiled sweetly.
“A civilian,” she said. “A mean civilian. Who said ‘submarines don’t deserve hats because they’re sneaky.’”
Kade stared at her.
Salmon continued, dead serious.
“So I liberated his hat from oppression.”
Tōkaidō’s ears twitched violently, like she was trying not to laugh.
Kade’s face went flat.
“…Give me the hat.”
Salmon blinked.
“No.”
Kade held out his hand.
Salmon stared at it.
Kade’s voice stayed calm.
“Salmon,” he said, “I am going to be at a ball tonight surrounded by admirals and politics. Do you really want me to also be dealing with ‘submarine hat incident.’”
Salmon’s mouth twitched.
“…Fine.”
She lifted the hat off her head and handed it over with the solemnity of surrendering a weapon.
Kade took it.
Turned to the clerk.
“How much,” he asked.
The clerk blinked.
“That hat is not from our inventory.”
Kade’s stare hardened.
“I know,” he said. “How much would it cost to buy an equivalent hat so I can replace the one she ‘liberated.’”
Salmon’s eyes widened.
“Commander,” she whispered, almost touched. “You’re covering for me.”
Kade did not look at her.
“I’m preventing paperwork,” he said.
Salmon smiled like she’d just been given a gift.
Tōkaidō’s cheeks warmed again, this time from sheer secondhand embarrassment and amusement.
The clerk, after a moment, gave a price.
Kade paid it.
Handed the packaged replacement to Salmon.
Salmon stared.
“You want me to return it,” she said.
Kade’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes.”
Salmon nodded solemnly.
“I will perform reparations.”
Kade’s mouth twitched.
“Go.”
Salmon turned to leave, then paused and put the hat back on her head with utter confidence.
Kade stared.
Salmon grinned.
“What,” she said. “This one’s mine.”
Kade’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s the new hat.”
Salmon’s grin widened.
“Exactly.”
Then she vanished into the crowd like a gremlin with legal coverage.
Kade pinched the bridge of his nose.
“God help me,” he muttered.
Tōkaidō, finally losing the battle, made a small sound that was absolutely laughter.
Kade looked at her.
She immediately went polite again.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
Kade sighed.
“It’s fine,” he said. “If Salmon starts an international incident over a hat, I’ll simply drown.”
Tōkaidō’s smile lingered a fraction longer than usual.
Then she glanced down at the package in Kade’s hands—the Kyoto-themed formal wear.
Her voice softened.
“…Thank you,” she said quietly.
Kade didn’t look at her.
He just shrugged, tone dry.
“Cheaper,” he said.
Tōkaidō held the package closer.
“Yes,” she replied.
But her ears were relaxed now.
And Kade, dense dumbass that he was, didn’t fully recognize the shape of what he’d done.
Not just “buy a subordinate a formal outfit.”
He had chosen something that fit her.
Seen her.
Decided she deserved to walk into Shoals’ ball not as an asset in borrowed clothing, but as herself.
That mattered.
Even if he refused to say it.
Across Shoals, Hensley’s smattering of morons had discovered an arcade.
Which would have been harmless if it wasn’t staffed by civilians with no concept of marine discipline and filled with flashing lights designed to trigger competitive instincts.
They stood at the entrance like a recon team staring at hostile territory.
Fairplay stood beside them, hood down, southern accent thick with delight.
“Well,” she said, “look at this.”
Hensley’s eyes narrowed.
“This is where morale goes to die.”
Morales pointed at a prize shelf.
“Sir,” he said softly, reverent, “is that a game console.”
It was.
A real one.
Not brand-new, because nothing was brand-new in this world. But refurbished, clean, boxed, and displayed like treasure.
A console that could run games.
A console that could anchor a future recreational area on Horizon.
A console that could make off-duty hours feel like something other than waiting to die.
Finch’s eyes gleamed.
“We could win that,” he whispered.
Hensley stared at the machines.
“These are rigged,” he said.
Fairplay’s smile widened.
“Everything’s rigged,” she said. “That’s why it’s fun.”
They moved inside.
The arcade smelled like sugar and electronics and sweaty excitement.
There were games that required reflexes.
Games that required timing.
Games that required patience.
And then there was the claw machine.
Hensley stared at it like it had insulted his lineage.
Morales cracked his knuckles.
Finch whispered, “We can do this.”
Fairplay leaned against the side of the machine, eyes half-lidded.
“You boys ever seen a yandere in her natural habitat,” she murmured.
Hensley didn’t look away.
“You ain’t a yandere.”
Fairplay’s smile was sweet as poison.
“I’m whatever the prize requires.”
Hensley exhaled through his nose.
“Lord.”
They fed coins in.
They failed.
They fed more coins in.
They failed worse.
Fairplay watched for a while, then stepped forward.
“Move,” she said.
Morales hesitated.
“This is marine business—”
Fairplay’s gaze snapped to him.
“Do you want the console or not.”
Morales moved.
Fairplay took the controls.
Her fingers moved with unsettling precision.
The claw descended.
Grabbed.
Lifted.
For one moment, it looked like it might actually work.
Then the claw loosened at the top, dropping the prize with cruel indifference.
Fairplay stared at the machine.
The machine stared back.
Fairplay leaned in close to the glass and whispered something that made the civilian attendant behind the counter flinch.
Hensley grabbed her shoulder gently.
“No arson,” he said.
Fairplay’s voice was soft.
“But it deserves it.”
Hensley’s tone stayed calm.
“If you burn the arcade, I’ll have to explain it.”
Fairplay sighed dramatically and stepped back.
“Fine,” she said. “We do this the old-fashioned way.”
Morales blinked.
“The old-fashioned way?”
Fairplay smiled.
“Persistence,” she said. “And psychological warfare.”
Finch whispered, “That’s… not old-fashioned, that’s just Fairplay.”
They kept trying.
They kept losing.
But the mood shifted.
They started laughing.
Real laughter.
The kind that didn’t sound like coping.
The kind that sounded like being alive.
They would not admit it later.
But for an hour, the arcade gave them something Horizon hadn’t given them in a long time:
a place where the enemy was a machine and the stakes were a toy.
That was, in its own way, a relief.
Meanwhile, Wilkinson and Reeves took the quiet path.
They didn’t head for neon or prizes.
They walked through Shoals’ civilian lanes at a steady pace, staying near the convoy’s designated boundaries.
Reeves stared at everything like it might vanish if she blinked.
There were clothing stalls.
Little bakeries.
A stall selling carved wooden charms.
A small booth where someone repaired old radios for civilians who still needed music and news.
Reeves stopped at one stall that sold inexpensive hair ties and practical accessories.
She picked one up.
Put it down.
Picked it up again.
Wilkinson watched quietly.
“You want it,” he said.
Reeves startled.
“I—no, I just—”
Wilkinson’s voice stayed even.
“You keep touching it,” he said. “That usually means want.”
Reeves’ cheeks warmed.
“It’s… silly,” she said.
Wilkinson’s gaze shifted back to the stall.
“It’s small,” he corrected. “Not silly.”
Reeves hesitated, then bought it with careful coins like she was committing a crime.
She tucked it into her pocket as if hiding evidence.
They kept walking.
Reeves’ posture slowly eased, just a little, as if the act of buying something for herself had loosened a knot she hadn’t realized she was carrying.
Wilkinson noticed.
Didn’t comment.
Because Wilkinson’s kindness was the quiet kind—present, steady, not demanding recognition.
By the time the convoy regrouped in the afternoon, they carried bags.
Some practical.
Some ridiculous.
Morale-enhancing items.
Kade returned to Tōkaidō’s shipform with his new uniform and Tōkaidō’s Kyoto formal wear packed carefully. Tōkaidō held her package as if it were fragile, eyes soft.
He did not say, You’ll look good.
He did not say, You deserve this.
He said, instead, “Don’t wrinkle it.”
Tōkaidō nodded.
“Yes, Commander.”
And her ears flicked in a way that looked suspiciously like happiness.
Salmon returned eventually, wearing her hat like a war trophy.
No one knew whether she had returned the “replacement” properly.
Kade didn’t ask.
Hensley’s group returned with the haunted look of men who had fought a machine and lost.
They did not have the console.
Yet.
Fairplay returned with a small plush prize she absolutely refused to explain.
Wilkinson and Reeves returned quietly, Reeves touching her pocket like the hair tie was proof she existed.
Shoals’ afternoon light shifted toward gold.
The ball was still hours away.
Time to prepare.
Time to breathe.
Time, Kade realized, for the most terrifying part of the day:
being presentable in a room full of people who smiled like knives.
And worse—
being seen.