It was the sort of laughable rumor that sounded like pure fantasy.
But once verified, America moved instantly to seize the chance—this golden opportunity to win over the world's strongest shipgirl.
The question was: how?
Alaska leaned back in her chair, frowning hard enough to crease her forehead.
She was a drifter, a shipgirl without a port. She had lived in this country for years, but in truth, she served America.
Perhaps it was because she was a patriot.
She had no Commander, but as a US shipgirl, Alaska still recognized the America of three thousand years later as her homeland. Just the thought of serving her country sent a shiver of excitement through her body. To devote herself to such a great cause—it was a faith in itself.
As said before, drifter shipgirls persisted in the world because of obsession. Alaska's obsession was her sense of national identity.
Yet after all these years posted in China, never once activated, she was utterly in the dark on something as top-secret as "where is Hikaru?"
She hadn't even developed any proper "contacts." Despite being a mole, her focus had always been the Abyssals—the Eastern seas, not espionage against humans.
"What now?"
Alaska bit at her fingernail, troubled.
Then—boom, boom, boom. Someone rapped on the three-foot-thick solid steel door, heavy as a vault gate.
Blücher, that idiot? Only that reckless fool would dare be so rude.
No, wait. Alaska tilted her head. The music upstairs had changed—it was now that song Hikaru once sang.
And the crowd was utterly silent.
She had been so lost in thought she hadn't noticed something had happened above.
Then a timid voice carried through the massive door, faint but clear.
"Alaska, someone's here to see you…"
Deutschland's voice.
Alaska's expression hardened. She flipped a hidden switch on the wall, sealing the communicator away in a concealed compartment.
With a wave, her rigging materialized.
Two floating speaker drones hovered obediently at her desk, while Alaska held a dazzling rainbow-metal guitar, poised over a blank notebook as though she were in the middle of writing lyrics.
That was the excuse she always gave Göta Lejon and the others—that this basement was simply her studio.
Once the stage was set, Alaska gave the speakers a meaningful look. They bounced over, undid the locks, and dragged open the massive door.
Standing there in the doorway was a round-faced blonde little girl in white stockings, black shoes, and a black-and-white maid's uniform.
She held a mop in her hands, looking flustered and a little excited.
"Alaska, someone came looking for you!"
Alaska put on a mask of irritation. "Plenty of people come looking for me. If you can't tell me why you're disturbing my work, I'll shrink you down to a real pocket model!"
"No—please don't! I'm already tiny enough!"
Housemaid Deutschland stepped back in alarm.
She was a pocket battleship shipgirl—though technically a battlecruiser, she looked like nothing more than a middle-schooler.
Historically, the three Deutschland-class ships—Deutschland, Admiral Scheer, and Admiral Graf Spee—were built to dodge the Versailles Treaty's restrictions. They were officially classified as "armored ships."
For comparison: Deutschland was 186 meters long, displacing 12,000 tons. Blücher, a heavy cruiser launched only a few years later, was 203 meters long, 16,000 tons displacement.
She couldn't even match the Admiral Hipper-class heavy cruisers, let alone the mighty Bismarck-class at 250 meters and over 50,000 tons.
By tonnage, Deutschland was only slightly larger than a heavy cruiser, her armor barely better. But thanks to her nickname, the "pocket battleship," she at least secured a battlecruiser classification—a large-ship label she clung to desperately.
That was why she hated the word "pocket." To her, it was a wound to her pride.
So when Alaska threatened to shrink her down even more, how could the girl not be terrified?
[End of Chapter]
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