The rain came down in sheets.

  Not drizzle.

  Not mist.

  Sheets—flat, heavy curtains of water that turned the world into a blurred watercolor of grey and steel and moving silhouettes. Horizon’s concrete pathways shone slick under the dull light. Every puddle became a mirror for a sky that refused to brighten. Every gust of wind threw cold spray off the seawalls like the ocean was trying to intrude on land again, reminding everyone who owned most of this world.

  Even so, the bodies had to be buried.

  Not later.

  Not “when the weather improves.”

  Not “when the next sortie is finished.”

  The bodies had to be buried because leaving them waiting—leaving them in cold storage as if they were supplies—felt like agreeing with the world that called them hardware.

  And Horizon had decided, again and again, that it would not agree.

  By late afternoon, the rain still hadn’t let up.

  That didn’t stop the Marines.

  Hensley and his men—his usual gaggle of misfits, the same ones who’d trailed Kade through Resolute Shoals like watchdogs wearing humor as armor—moved with a kind of grim discipline that made the weather irrelevant.

  They didn’t do this because it was in the manual.

  They did it because they’d learned, at Horizon, that you didn’t get to pick what you honored.

  You just did it.

  The burial site was modest.

  Not a cemetery, not yet—Horizon didn’t have the luxury of old, established graves. But there was a patch of higher ground behind one of the newer residential structures, shielded from direct sea spray by a repaired windbreak wall and a line of concrete supports. Someone had planted hardy greenery there—small shrubs and stubborn flowers that clung to life even in salty air.

  Two graves.

  Side by side.

  One for a Fletcher-class destroyer boy.

  One for a Gato-class submarine girl.

  They were mass-produced, yes.

  They didn’t have famous names that made admirals speak reverently.

  They didn’t have the “prestige hull” aura that drew photographers and historians.

  But they had fought.

  They had died pulling civilians out of the mouth of the Abyss.

  That mattered more than anything printed on a file.

  A tarp canopy had been erected above the graves, held up by poles and sheer determination. The rain hammered it like a drumline. Water streamed down its edges in steady lines, making a curtain that separated the small ceremony from the rest of the base’s moving machinery.

  Hensley stood at the front.

  No grand speech.

  No theatrics.

  Just a Marine in damp gear, jaw clenched, eyes hard with something that wasn’t anger so much as refusal.

  His men formed up behind him in a neat line, rifles held carefully, muzzles angled down until the time came.

  Kade was there.

  He hadn’t been in his office. He hadn’t been buried in paperwork. He hadn’t let the base swallow his presence.

  He stood in the rain anyway, uniform damp at the shoulders, coat collar turned up, hair darker with water. His face was composed—commander composed—but there was a tightness around his eyes that betrayed how much sleep didn’t fix.

  Tōkaidō stood beside him, quiet and steady, her posture proper as if this were a shrine ritual rather than a grave. She held a folded umbrella above neither of them. She’d insisted on standing in the rain like everyone else.

  Because this was the point.

  The base didn’t hide from grief.

  It faced it.

  Wisconsin was there too.

  He arrived without ceremony, armor darkened by rain, boots heavy on wet ground. He stood slightly behind Kade’s right shoulder at first, like he didn’t want to intrude, like he didn’t deserve to be in the front. His gaze stayed on the two graves, and for a moment he looked almost like he was bracing for impact.

  Maybe he was.

  Because he still carried that ugly thought—the one that always stalked protective people:

  If I had been there, maybe I could have taken it.

  Kade noticed him arrive.

  He didn’t say anything.

  He didn’t have to.

  Their shared silence was enough.

  Salem stood off to the side.

  She wasn’t hiding, but she wasn’t in the line either. Her posture was still, shoulders tense. Her eyes were lowered, hands folded, as if she were trying to make herself small enough to disappear.

  It wasn’t shame.

  It was grief that had no safe place to go.

  She had brought their bodies home.

  She had obeyed Kade’s policy.

  She had done what a flagship was supposed to do.

  But the cost sat on her like a lead blanket.

  Fairplay’s absence—her mangled state—hovered over the ceremony like a third grave that hadn’t been dug yet.

  Hensley cleared his throat.

  The sound was swallowed by rain, but the line of Marines snapped a fraction tighter.

  Hensley’s voice came out low and blunt.

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  “These two,” he said, “did their job.”

  No poetic phrasing.

  No softening.

  Just fact.

  “They didn’t run,” he continued. “They didn’t freeze. They didn’t leave civilians behind. They held the line long enough for the ship to get out.”

  His jaw flexed.

  “And they came home.”

  A pause.

  Hensley looked at the graves, then at the gathered crowd—KANSEN and KANSAI lingering beyond the Marines, workers pausing at a respectful distance, even a few officers standing quietly with hats in hand.

  “They weren’t famous,” Hensley said.

  His tone sharpened slightly, like he dared anyone to disagree with what came next.

  “But they mattered.”

  Rain ran down his face like tears he refused to own.

  He turned his head slightly.

  “Salute.”

  The rifles came up.

  Clean, practiced motion.

  The Marines aimed upward at a safe angle, barrels lifted toward the grey sky.

  The world held its breath.

  The first shot cracked.

  Sharp.

  Bright.

  The sound punched through the rain like thunder.

  Then the second.

  Then the third.

  A full volley.

  A proper gun salute.

  The smell of cordite bloomed briefly beneath the wet air, a hot metallic scent that didn’t belong in a place like this but always did, because war always left its fingerprints.

  Kade didn’t flinch.

  His gaze stayed fixed forward, steel-blue eyes steady.

  Tōkaidō’s ears flicked once at the sound, then stilled again. Her mouth was a neutral line, but her hands were clenched lightly at her sides as if she were holding something inside herself.

  Wisconsin’s fists tightened.

  A reflex.

  Not rage.

  A silent vow he couldn’t speak yet.

  After the volley, there was a long, heavy silence.

  Not awkward.

  Sacred.

  The rain filled it. The distant hum of cranes filled it. The ocean’s constant breath filled it.

  Kade stepped forward.

  Not dramatically.

  Just one step.

  He looked at the graves.

  Then, in a voice that carried without needing to be loud, he said:

  “Your names will be kept.”

  A pause.

  “We will not leave you behind,” he added. “Not in the sea. Not in paperwork. Not in memory.”

  His jaw tightened slightly.

  “And if the ocean tries to send you back wrong… it won’t get the chance.”

  That last sentence wasn’t a promise.

  It was a threat.

  To the Abyss.

  To fate.

  To any system that tried to turn the dead into tools.

  Hensley nodded once, sharply, like he accepted it as doctrine.

  The Marines lowered their rifles.

  The ceremony ended without flourish.

  Because it didn’t need it.

  The dead were honored.

  That was enough.

  But grief didn’t vanish just because the salute was finished.

  As people began to disperse—quiet footsteps in wet mud, hushed murmurs, a few hands placed gently on shoulders—Wisconsin lingered.

  He watched Kade for a moment.

  Kade didn’t move right away either.

  He stood with Tōkaidō beside him, eyes still on the graves as if imprinting the location into memory the way you’d imprint a tactical coordinate.

  Eventually, Wisconsin stepped closer.

  Not aggressively.

  Carefully.

  Like a man approaching a commander who might bite if startled.

  “Commander,” Wisconsin said.

  Kade turned his head slightly.

  “What.”

  Not rude.

  Just… Kade.

  Wisconsin’s gaze flicked toward the graves, then back to Kade.

  His voice was controlled, but there was something raw beneath it.

  “You got any missions no one’s taken,” he asked, “because they’re too dangerous.”

  Tōkaidō’s ears lifted slightly.

  Kade’s eyes narrowed—not suspicious, but assessing.

  Wisconsin’s tone didn’t carry bravado.

  It carried something worse.

  Guilt.

  Protectiveness.

  That deep battleship instinct: let me stand in front.

  Kade studied him for a long moment.

  Then exhaled slowly.

  “Yes,” Kade said.

  Wisconsin’s posture tightened immediately, like he’d been waiting for the word yes as permission to become a shield.

  Kade raised a hand slightly—not a stop sign, but a caution.

  “Before you volunteer yourself into the ocean like a martyr,” he said dryly, “listen.”

  Wisconsin didn’t interrupt.

  That alone said something about how much he respected Kade—even if Wisconsin didn’t know how to show respect without turning it into action.

  Kade continued, voice calm.

  “There’s a route we don’t run unless we have to,” he said. “A corridor that keeps getting… weird.”

  Wisconsin’s eyes sharpened.

  “Weird how.”

  Kade’s gaze drifted toward the sea beyond the seawall.

  “Too many missing pings,” he said. “Not just ships. Supply drones. Buoy arrays. Communications relays. Things vanish without leaving wreckage. That usually means one of two things: either the Abyss is setting traps, or something deeper is moving.”

  Wisconsin’s jaw clenched.

  “And you want it checked.”

  Kade nodded once.

  “But,” Kade added, “there’s a catch.”

  Wisconsin waited, expression flat.

  Kade’s tone remained practical.

  “One of the missions requires an anchor,” he said. “Not just firepower. Not just armor. A… symbol. Someone whose presence changes how other ships behave. Friendly and enemy.”

  Wisconsin’s brows furrowed.

  Kade’s eyes flicked briefly toward the command building, then back.

  “It requires Arizona,” Kade said.

  Tōkaidō inhaled softly.

  Wisconsin’s expression shifted.

  Not fear.

  Recognition.

  Arizona wasn’t just any Pennsylvania-class battleship.

  Arizona carried weight—political, symbolic, emotional. A prestige hull in a wheelchair, yes, but still a name that echoed across fleet history. A ship-soul that humans and KANSEN alike knew without needing introduction.

  Wisconsin’s voice came out lower.

  “She can sail?”

  Kade’s gaze was steady.

  “She can,” he said. “Not like she used to. But she can. And if she’s in the formation, certain Coalition units hesitate. Certain civilian captains obey. Certain KANSEN—especially the mass-produced—stop thinking they’re disposable for five minutes.”

  Wisconsin’s jaw tightened.

  “And that matters for the mission.”

  “It does,” Kade said. “Because this one isn’t just about shooting. It’s about making sure whatever we find doesn’t get turned into a rumor that hurts us later.”

  Wisconsin exhaled slowly, rain sliding off his armor.

  “…Understood,” he said.

  Kade’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  “And there’s another thing,” Kade added.

  Wisconsin looked at him.

  Kade’s voice was flat, almost annoyed that the world contained this kind of complication.

  “If Arizona sails,” he said, “the Admiralty starts paying attention. Which means… so does her family.”

  Wisconsin’s posture stiffened slightly.

  He didn’t ask who.

  He already knew.

  Even if Pennsylvania hadn’t appeared at Horizon yet, the name existed in every fleet ledger like a ghost: Arizona’s brother.

  A prestige Pennsylvania with too many titles and too much history attached to his hull spirit.

  Kade didn’t say the name aloud yet.

  He didn’t need to.

  The rain did, in a way—hissing against steel like the ocean whispering old stories.

  Wisconsin’s voice came out careful.

  “So if we take Arizona, we might… pull him into orbit.”

  Kade’s mouth twitched faintly, humorless.

  “Something like that,” he said.

  Tōkaidō’s gaze lowered briefly, thoughtful.

  Wisconsin didn’t look away.

  He simply nodded once, firm.

  “Then let me take it,” he said. “If it needs a shield, I’m it.”

  Kade stared at him.

  For a long moment, Kade didn’t speak.

  Then he said, very quietly:

  “I know why you’re asking.”

  Wisconsin’s jaw flexed.

  Kade’s voice sharpened slightly—not cruel, but blunt.

  “You’re not mad at Salem,” Kade said. “You’re not mad at Fairplay. You’re not mad at the Fletcher kid or the Gato girl for dying.”

  Wisconsin didn’t respond.

  He didn’t have to.

  Kade continued.

  “You’re mad,” Kade said, “because you weren’t there to take the hit.”

  Wisconsin’s eyes flickered once.

  A tell.

  Kade’s gaze held him.

  “That instinct,” Kade said, “is noble. And it will get you killed if you don’t learn when to turn it off.”

  Wisconsin’s voice came out rough.

  “I can take it.”

  Kade’s tone turned colder.

  “So could they,” he said quietly. “Until they couldn’t.”

  Rain hammered the tarp canopy still standing over the graves.

  Wisconsin’s fists clenched again, armor creaking softly.

  Kade exhaled.

  Then his voice softened—not gentle, but real.

  “We’re going to lose people,” Kade said. “Even if we do everything right. That’s war. What we don’t do is waste lives because someone feels like proving they can bleed more than everyone else.”

  Wisconsin’s throat tightened.

  He looked away toward the graves.

  Then back.

  “…Then give me the jobs where bleeding is unavoidable,” he said.

  Kade stared at him a moment longer.

  Then nodded once.

  “Fine,” Kade said. “But you do it my way.”

  Wisconsin didn’t hesitate.

  “Yes, Commander.”

  Kade’s mouth twitched faintly, like he didn’t enjoy hearing obedience but accepted it.

  He turned slightly, rain dripping from his coat hem.

  “I’ll brief you tonight,” Kade said. “And I’ll talk to Arizona.”

  Wisconsin nodded once more.

  Then, before stepping away, he added in a quieter voice—almost awkward, like he didn’t practice vulnerability often:

  “…I’m sorry.”

  Kade’s eyes flicked back.

  “For what,” Kade asked.

  Wisconsin’s gaze lowered.

  “For not being here,” he said. “For letting them take the hits when I wasn’t around.”

  Kade held him in silence for a beat.

  Then, very quietly:

  “That’s not how it works,” Kade said. “But I get it.”

  Wisconsin nodded, jaw tight.

  Then he stepped back into the rain, moving with heavy purpose toward the base interior—back to carrying weight, back to doing something, back to turning anger into action.

  Kade watched him go.

  Tōkaidō remained beside Kade, quiet as always.

  After a moment, she asked softly:

  “Arizona… will she want to sail.”

  Kade’s gaze drifted toward the command building again.

  “She’ll want to matter,” he said quietly. “That’s the same thing.”

  Tōkaidō’s ears flicked.

  She understood.

  Kade turned away from the graves at last.

  The ceremony was over.

  The rain kept falling.

  The war kept moving.

  And Horizon—still refusing to forget—began preparing for the next mission that would demand more than guns.

  It would demand symbols.

  Names.

  And the kind of old prestige that could make the world hesitate.

  The kind of prestige that came with Pennsylvania-class shadows—one in a wheelchair, one with too many titles, and both carrying history sharp enough to cut.

  And somewhere beneath all of it, Kade already knew:

  Whatever came next, it wouldn’t be gentle.