Wisconsin knew something was wrong before anyone told him.

  He felt it the way a battleship felt pressure changes in the water—subtle at first, then unmistakable. There were patterns to Horizon’s approach corridor now. Routines. A sort of organized chaos that had become familiar in the short time he’d been attached to the atoll.

  When his fleet returned, the pattern was off.

  Dock crews moved faster, quieter. Their voices were more clipped. Eyes didn’t linger on Wisconsin’s hull the way they had on arrival, not with awe or curiosity, but with that tired, practiced focus people had when they were trying not to look at something painful.

  The harbor smelled the same—diesel, salt, rain, repair steam—but there was something else layered in.

  Antiseptic.

  Burnt metal.

  A faint tang of smoke that didn’t belong to normal construction.

  Wisconsin’s shipform slid into berth with disciplined ease, lines thrown and secured. Senko’s transfer crates were offloaded first—because Horizon lived or died on supplies—and Des Moines stood on the pier like a statue carved from threat while workers scurried around her without quite meeting her eyes.

  Shoukaku stepped down, calm as always, but her expression was tighter than usual. Wilkinson’s posture was stiff, professional, his gaze scanning the base as if he expected to see blood in the puddles.

  Senko moved immediately toward logistics, tail flicking anxiously, bowing to workers and thanking them too quickly, her voice soft and earnest. She looked relieved to be home—until she noticed the mood and her ears lowered.

  Wisconsin’s boots hit the pier with heavy, deliberate finality.

  He looked up.

  He saw the sortie board runner—one of the junior staff—moving fast across the wet concrete with a clipboard hugged to their chest like a shield.

  Wisconsin didn’t wait for the runner to reach him.

  “What happened,” he said.

  It wasn’t a question.

  The runner slowed, swallowed, and looked up at the armored Iowa like they were about to deliver news to a god.

  “…Salem’s fleet,” the runner said.

  Wisconsin’s eyes narrowed.

  “What about it.”

  “They left full power,” the runner continued. “Interception. Refugee escort. They came back… with casualties.”

  A cold weight settled in Wisconsin’s stomach.

  He didn’t move.

  “…Who.”

  The runner’s voice went smaller.

  “Fletcher-class boy. Gato-class girl. Both recovered.”

  Wisconsin’s hands clenched slowly at his sides, gauntlets creaking faintly.

  “And Fairplay,” the runner added, voice tightening. “She’s alive, but… she’s in medical. Vestal called it catastrophic.”

  Wisconsin’s jaw flexed.

  His eyes—icy blue—went flat.

  Not fury at a person.

  Fury at the sea.

  At the war.

  At the fact that something had dared to hurt Horizon’s people while he had been out doing “routine” escort work like the ocean would politely wait its turn.

  He exhaled slowly, forcing himself not to crush the clipboard out of the runner’s hands by sheer proximity.

  “Where’s Salem,” he asked, voice lower.

  “In Mission Ops,” the runner said quickly. “Debriefing. Commander’s office—” They hesitated. “Commander’s… been resting. Vestal made him.”

  Wisconsin didn’t comment on that.

  He filed it away like ammunition.

  He looked toward the medical block, then toward the repair berths, then toward the command building.

  His mind tried to pick a direction.

  Medical, to see Fairplay.

  Ops, to see Salem.

  Command, to speak to Kade.

  All valid.

  All urgent.

  But the anger in him didn’t want to be soothed by information.

  It wanted to be used.

  Because guilt, to Wisconsin, was not a thing you sat with.

  Guilt was a thing you converted into action before it ate you alive.

  He turned away from the runner.

  “Tell Des Moines to handle post-sortie equipment checks,” he said. “Tell Shoukaku to stand down her air group but keep readiness. Tell Wilkinson to run a perimeter sweep. Senko stays with logistics.”

  The runner blinked, startled by how quickly Wisconsin had assumed command presence.

  Then nodded hurriedly and ran.

  Des Moines watched the runner go, then looked at Wisconsin with a faint edge of curiosity.

  “You’re taking this personal,” Des Moines said.

  Wisconsin’s gaze flicked to her.

  “It is personal,” he replied.

  Des Moines’s mouth twitched like she approved of that answer.

  Shoukaku approached, calm but attentive.

  “Wisconsin-san,” she said gently, “are you going to medical.”

  Wisconsin’s jaw tightened.

  “In a minute,” he said.

  Shoukaku studied him, then nodded once, understanding the tone of a battleship trying not to fracture.

  Wilkinson stepped closer, voice quiet.

  “You can’t take hits for everyone,” he said.

  Wisconsin’s eyes sharpened.

  “I know,” Wisconsin said.

  His voice was flat.

  Then, slightly softer, like admitting it hurt:

  “I still hate it.”

  Wilkinson didn’t argue.

  He simply nodded and moved to his assigned task, leaving Wisconsin alone with his anger.

  Wisconsin looked toward the base interior again.

  Then he did something that surprised even Des Moines.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  He walked toward the cargo yard.

  Not medical.

  Not Ops.

  Not command.

  Cargo.

  Because cargo was weight.

  Cargo was something you could lift.

  Something you could carry.

  Something that didn’t bleed or die while you were holding it.

  And Wisconsin needed, desperately, to carry something.

  The cargo yard was a mess in the way Horizon’s cargo yard always was.

  Organized chaos.

  Crates stacked in half-sorted piles, tarps pulled over sensitive gear, forklifts moving through puddles, Marines in rain gear shouting at each other to keep a path clear.

  A heavy crate was being positioned near one of the repair berth intake lanes—industrial steel, strapped tight, labeled with stenciled codes.

  Two workers and a marine were struggling with it, trying to shift it onto a dolly.

  Wisconsin approached without a word.

  The marine looked up, startled.

  “Uh—sir—”

  Wisconsin didn’t bother with rank.

  He bent, put his hands under the crate’s edge, and lifted.

  The crate came up like it weighed nothing.

  The workers froze.

  The marine’s mouth opened slightly.

  Wisconsin carried it across the wet concrete and set it down exactly where it needed to go, gentle enough that the impact didn’t even thud hard.

  Then he turned back and grabbed another.

  And another.

  And another.

  He didn’t speak.

  He didn’t ask for instructions.

  He simply made himself useful in the most literal way possible: moving weight so others could move faster.

  A worker—older, tired eyes—watched him for a moment, then said carefully:

  “…You don’t have to do that.”

  Wisconsin didn’t look up.

  “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

  The worker hesitated, then gestured toward one of the repair berths.

  “Those are for the rebuild,” he offered, almost as if explaining might help.

  Wisconsin’s hands paused mid-lift.

  “…Rebuild,” he repeated.

  The worker nodded.

  “Atlanta-class hull came back mangled,” he said quietly. “Vestal and River signed off. Commander too. They’re giving her a Worcester frame.”

  Wisconsin felt something twist in his chest.

  Not surprise—Horizon did things like that now.

  But… something else.

  A kind of grim pride.

  A Worcester.

  A new body.

  A future.

  Not scrapping.

  Not tossing her aside.

  Keeping her alive by carrying her forward.

  Wisconsin set the crate down slowly, as if the weight had changed.

  “Worcester,” he murmured.

  The worker nodded again.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Fairplay’s getting a new ship.”

  Wisconsin stared toward the repair berth intake lanes.

  He could see the skeletal framework being staged under tarps. Welding rigs. Crane arms. Workers moving with that intense focus that came when you knew you were building something that mattered.

  A warship.

  Not for the Admiralty.

  For a girl who had been shattered trying to save refugees.

  Wisconsin’s fists clenched.

  His voice came out rough.

  “…Good.”

  The worker blinked, then nodded.

  Wisconsin turned back to the crates and lifted again.

  He carried until his arms didn’t ache anymore because his armor took most of the physical strain.

  He carried until his anger dulled into something usable.

  He carried until his guilt stopped screaming and became a quiet promise:

  Horizon won’t lose people because we didn’t have enough hands.

  And in that moment, Wisconsin understood something about Kade’s base.

  It wasn’t that they never got hurt.

  It was that they refused to let hurt become abandonment.

  Amagi’s dorm prefab was warm.

  Not luxurious.

  Not fancy.

  But warm.

  It didn’t leak.

  It didn’t smell like mildew.

  It had insulation that actually worked.

  It had a small table, a shelf, a kettle, a blanket folded neatly, and a window with a curtain Amagi had chosen herself.

  It was, in the context of Horizon, almost decadent.

  Amagi sat near the window with a cup of tea in her hands, posture relaxed but careful. Her hair was brushed, her expression calm.

  The base had given her time.

  Time to stabilize.

  Time to exist without being treated like a problem to solve.

  And yet, even in comfort, Amagi’s mind didn’t fully rest.

  She stared out at the rain-softened base and thought about everything that had happened.

  The Blitz.

  The Princess.

  The Coalition Attack.

  The rebuilding.

  Kade’s arrival like a storm that didn’t destroy, but rearranged.

  The way Horizon had changed in such a short time that it almost felt like a dream.

  Amagi knew better than to trust dreams.

  How long would it last?

  That was the question that haunted the edges of her calm.

  The sea did not allow long peace.

  Humans did not allow long kindness when it conflicted with power.

  And Horizon—Horizon was now a name that people whispered.

  Names attracted attention.

  Attention attracted trouble.

  Amagi sipped her tea slowly and let the warmth sit in her chest.

  She was tired of being afraid.

  But she had learned, over and over, that fear was sometimes just accurate prediction.

  A knock sounded at her door.

  Amagi blinked, surprised.

  She hadn’t been expecting visitors.

  Tōkaidō sometimes came, yes, but Tōkaidō knocked differently—soft, hesitant, like she didn’t want to intrude.

  This knock was firmer.

  Military.

  Amagi set her cup down carefully.

  “Come in,” she called gently.

  The door opened.

  A marine stepped inside.

  He was in standard fatigues, rain dampening his shoulders. His posture was respectful, cautious in the way Marines were cautious around KANSEN who carried heavy hull spirits.

  Amagi recognized him.

  Gunnery Sergeant Hensley’s crew.

  One of the established faces that had become part of Horizon’s ecosystem.

  The man looked like he didn’t know what to do with a “carrier in an unfinished state” being given a private room like this.

  He held a small tray.

  Food.

  Carefully arranged.

  Amagi’s eyes softened.

  “A delivery?” she asked gently.

  The Marine cleared his throat.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “From… IJN Tōkaidō.”

  Amagi’s smile warmed.

  “Tōkaidō,” she murmured, as if the name itself was comfort.

  The Marine stepped forward and placed the tray on the table with careful precision, as if he feared dropping it would be a diplomatic incident.

  Amagi leaned slightly, examining it.

  Rice. Warm protein. A small bowl of soup. Something sweet tucked neatly to the side.

  And… extra.

  More than Amagi ate in a sitting.

  She looked up at the Marine.

  “You’ve already eaten?” she asked.

  The Marine blinked, surprised by the question.

  “Uh… yes, ma’am,” he said. “Mess hall.”

  Amagi nodded once.

  Then, gently:

  “Sit with me,” she offered. “Please.”

  The Marine froze.

  His eyes widened slightly.

  “Ma’am— I—”

  “It is not an order,” Amagi said softly. “It is… an invitation.”

  The Marine looked like he was trying to process the concept of a KANSEN offering him food like he was a guest rather than a subordinate.

  His gaze flicked down, then back up.

  “I… shouldn’t,” he said reflexively, like discipline had been carved into his bones.

  Amagi’s voice remained calm.

  “You are wet,” she said. “You brought this through the rain. And there is extra.”

  The Marine hesitated, then slowly sat—stiff-backed, like he didn’t trust the chair not to explode.

  Amagi poured tea into a second cup without asking permission.

  She slid it toward him.

  The Marine stared at it like it was a live grenade.

  Amagi’s eyes softened.

  “It is only tea,” she said gently. “I promise it will not bite.”

  That got the faintest twitch of amusement out of him—more in his eyes than his mouth.

  He picked up the cup carefully and took a sip.

  His shoulders loosened slightly.

  Amagi began eating slowly, proper and quiet.

  The Marine watched her for a moment, then finally took some of the extra food, movements careful as if he feared being judged.

  Amagi didn’t judge.

  She simply ate with him in silence for a few moments, letting the quiet settle.

  Then she asked, softly:

  “How have you been.”

  The Marine blinked again.

  It was such a simple question.

  So human.

  So… wrong, in the way the world usually treated KANSEN and Marines.

  He swallowed.

  “I’m fine,” he said automatically.

  Amagi’s gaze remained gentle.

  “That sentence,” she said softly, “is often spoken by people who are not.”

  The Marine’s jaw tightened.

  He looked away toward the window, rain streaking down.

  “…We lost two today,” he said quietly.

  Amagi’s throat tightened.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  The Marine’s voice roughened.

  “And Fairplay…”

  He didn’t finish.

  He didn’t have to.

  Amagi set her chopsticks down gently.

  She looked at him.

  “How is Gunnery Sergeant Hensley,” she asked softly.

  The Marine’s hands clenched around his cup.

  “…Not good,” he admitted. “He’s… holding it together because he has to. But he’s mad. Not at anyone. Just…”

  He exhaled sharply through his nose.

  “…Just mad.”

  Amagi nodded slowly.

  “I understand,” she said.

  The Marine looked at her, surprised.

  “You do?”

  Amagi’s smile was faint, sad.

  “I have been abandoned,” she said softly. “I have watched others be abandoned. I have watched people pretend it is… practical.”

  The Marine’s eyes hardened slightly.

  “That’s bullshit,” he muttered before he could stop himself.

  Amagi blinked—then her smile warmed, not offended.

  “No,” she agreed gently. “It is.”

  The Marine stared at her, then looked down at his tea like he didn’t know what to do with being agreed with.

  Amagi’s voice remained calm.

  “You care about them,” she said softly.

  The Marine’s throat tightened.

  “…Yeah,” he admitted. “Yeah, I do.”

  Amagi nodded once.

  “That is not weakness,” she said. “That is… proof you are still human.”

  The Marine swallowed hard.

  His eyes flicked away again, blinking too quickly.

  “…You’re… nice,” he said quietly, as if the word surprised him.

  Amagi tilted her head slightly.

  “I am simply… myself,” she said.

  The Marine hesitated, then asked, voice low:

  “Why’s she doing this.”

  Amagi blinked.

  “Tōkaidō?” she asked gently.

  The Marine nodded, gesturing vaguely toward the tray.

  “She didn’t have to send this,” he said. “She’s busy. Everyone’s busy.”

  Amagi’s smile softened.

  “Tōkaidō,” she said quietly, “does not know how to stop caring once she has begun.”

  The Marine stared, then looked down at the food again.

  “…Guess that’s why she fits here,” he muttered.

  Amagi’s eyes softened further.

  “Yes,” she said.

  They ate in quiet for a while longer.

  Not because there was nothing to say.

  Because sometimes, sharing food was the only way to hold grief without letting it spill everywhere.

  Eventually, the Marine set his cup down carefully.

  “…Thank you,” he said, awkward but sincere.

  Amagi nodded gently.

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  The Marine blinked, surprised again.

  “For what,” he asked.

  Amagi’s smile was faint.

  “For sitting,” she said softly. “For being here. For remembering that people are not… disposable.”

  The Marine’s jaw tightened.

  He nodded once, sharply, like accepting an order.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  Amagi’s voice softened.

  “And please,” she added gently, “tell Gunnery Sergeant Hensley…”

  She paused.

  Because she didn’t know what words could reach a man like Hensley when his world felt like it was bleeding again.

  So she chose simple truth.

  “Tell him,” Amagi said quietly, “that Fairplay is not gone. And that Horizon will bring her back.”

  The Marine’s eyes sharpened with something like fierce agreement.

  “Yes,” he said, voice rough. “I’ll tell him.”

  He stood, posture respectful again, but less stiff than when he entered.

  He paused at the door, then looked back at Amagi.

  “…You’re… not what I expected,” he admitted.

  Amagi’s smile was gentle.

  “Neither is Horizon,” she replied.

  The Marine nodded once.

  Then left, door closing softly behind him.

  Amagi sat in her warm prefab room, rain tapping the window, tea still warm in her cup.

  Outside, Horizon kept moving.

  Crates carried.

  Ships rebuilt.

  Names spoken with care.

  And somewhere on the base, Wisconsin lifted another heavy load, trying to turn guilt into something that could keep people alive.