My trembling hand hovers over the steel door. A sense of dread as I find myself unable to bring about knocking on it. This hesitation materializes itself as a lump in the back of my throat. In frustration, I let my arm fall freely to my side. Now that I’m here, everything about this—the meeting with Buttermilch—is making me feel sick. Maybe breakfast is finally going for a full-blown mutiny in my stomach. Then, should I head to the sickbay and ask a nurse to tell commander Buttermilch I’m not feeling too well?

In response to my answer, I shake my head.

No, I was summoned by a superior officer and I am obliged to come, lest it becomes insubordination. If I don’t, then Friederika and Pluto will land in trouble too, and I would hate to cause any more trouble for Friederika. Somehow, I’m getting bad memories of heading to the headmistress’s office one time too many times in primary school. In those days, I wasn’t the trouble maker—I was Friederika’s scapegoat since she was always such a rebellious student. Aren’t I just a good friend?

As a wake-up call, I slap myself on the cheeks. Focus, Victoria, focus! With a deep inhale and exhale, I clench my fist and give the metallic door a few good taps.

Then I wait.

Wait, is this the point where I’m supposed to follow it up with an ‘ensign Happ-Schwarzenberger, please excuse the intrusion!’ Or do I wait for Buttermilch to acknowledge me? Ah… I feel kinda embarrassed standing outside here. If there were others around, they would think I’m way too awkward. I clear my throat a couple of times and close my eyes, in search of some courage.

“U…Um!…. En-ensign Schapp-Shortsburger…!” It is all I can muster. My mouth goes numb, and when the senses come back my tingling nerves remind me that I bit my tongue somewhere in there. Jeez, if Friederika was here I would never hear the end of it from her. I need her right now.

On the other side of the door, I thought I could hear a head scratch and a confused murmur, but it must’ve been my imagination. “Ah, yes… ensign Happ-Schwarzenberger, was it? Please, come in.” The voice is a bit muffled as a result of the thick door. But I can still recognize that masculine voice as none other than the CO, commander Buttermilch.

Without even thinking I immediately bolt to a salute, “yes, sir!”

---

The inside of Buttermilch’s office is surprisingly huge. I have never actually been here before. If I have to guess, it’s probably slightly smaller than your average civilian living room. Compared to the hallway, it’s a luxurious cabin. The cherry-red carpet and gorgeous wood paneling make this cabin look like I had stepped through a portal into another world. Though, one thing for sure, I have to hand it to Buttermilch for having good taste in matching decorations as well. However, I don’t know why but it clashes with our blue uniforms too much.

Seriously! I feel out of place with all of this red. Now, if we had brown or red uniforms then it—

“…Happ?”

I snapped back to attention, “yes sir!” I state, rather timidly. Buttermilch carries with him a glass of some alcohol, I would assume, though I never took him for being the drinking type given how much of a hardass he is. He gestures towards the chair in front of his desk.

“Please, have a seat,” Buttermilch says, a little too friendly than what I’m used to.

“Thank you, sir, but…” I have a sense of hesitation to decline. My legs feel like they are starting to give out from keeping them straight for the whole morning. As much as I want to desperately just sit down and relax, I have to contain myself. It’s necessary to give off the impression that I’m a strong and disciplined person. I mean, I am a strong and disciplined person, if you can look past the fact that my bedrooms historically tend to be completely and utterly chaotic.

Buttermilch only shrugs, “it’s your choice, Ensign. Now, back to the matter at hand…” Buttermilch runs a finger along the rim of his glass, “what was your intent for not only breaching security protocols regarding the intelligence documents but also an unauthorized use of the planning center on such short notice before general quarters? Do you have any idea how much trouble we could be in if we were attacked?”

Eh?

The gerbils in my head churned trying to think of an answer, and without thinking, I reply with the first thing that comes to mind. “It was a necessity,” I blurt out.

“A necessity?” Buttermilch echoes the words. He gets up from the chair and paces around the desk. “A necessity that risks being thrown into the brig, and a risk that entails a court-martial and dishonorable discharge?” Those words have weight to them for sure. But I give my answer in the form of a nod.

“I believe these… consequences…” I struggle to get the words out, “relies on the success of the operation. Rather, uh… i-if we all make it out alive, rather.”

The Commander stops. He turns to face me with a raised brow “what do you mean by that, Ensign?”

“I believe Operation Alphonse is doomed to fail, and I…” I’m trembling too much. Well, more than trembling, I trail off because I can’t find the words to finish the sentence. Buttermilch’s brow furrows, and he takes a shot from his glass before he paces around the table again.

“And… what?” Buttermilch inquires, “ensign Happ? Please continue.” Buttermilch’s pacing made me increasingly nervous, but I bite my lower lip to hide my insecurity. I take a deep breath and scramble to organize my thoughts into words.

“I believe commodore Hugo should not initiate this operation,” I say, taking a deep breath, “I…uh, concluded that the mafia flotilla at the Valspon system is not preparing for an offensive.

“Rather, as I have told my friend Friederika, I believe it is rather the opposite. They are simply there to deter an invasion. Or…” I have to pause. I’m beginning to feel a little lightheaded from talking without a break. “Or… it could be a trap.” Buttermilch washes down the rest of his glass. He stops pacing and gently sets down the empty glass before he turns to face me.

“…A trap, you said?” Buttermilch asks, clearly intrigued. A brow raised.

“Y-yes, I believe it could be a trap,” I say, with a bit of hesitance.

“Could you give me your reasonings, sub-lieutenant Happ?” This is starting to feel more and more like I’m being interrogated. I suppose I kind of am though, huh?

“I believe…” a clear of my throat, “I believe it makes no sense that the Don would only now muster a naval force this late. I mean, long after our expedition was already present in the area, and for a supposed offense. And if the intelligence officers based in the Bordeaux region are confident in their findings, then the mafia strength is truly smaller than the one at Brenaco. Smaller than ours.

“They wouldn’t do so without some reconnaissance of their own, right?”

Wait…

“Hold on a second,” I say after the brief pause.

“What is it, Ensign?” Buttermilch asks. I stroke the surface of the red oak desk.

“I wasn’t able to give the documents a thorough read. But did you?” I give Buttermilch a curious look. Buttermilch looks on with his usual frown, deep in thought.

“I believe I did. Yes, what are you getting at?”

“Did the liaison officers make any mentions of Mafia scout activity?”

“Hmmm,” Buttermilch strokes his chin, “I do not recall anything that would indicate they have commenced any.” I snap my fingers.

“Thus,” I begin “there’s the possibility they are baiting us to attack so they can catch us off guard with their reserve force.”

“How can you be so sure?” Buttermilch muses.

“Frankly I am not,” I couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle. But Buttermilch doesn’t seem to read the atmosphere and continues to pierce me with a serious gaze. “B-but it’s entirely possible they aren’t preparing for one. This could just be a simple measure and they are committing the bulk of their fleet in the Rouen corridor.” Buttermilch stops pacing in front of his chair. He sinks, slowly, into its leather cushion. I notice the tightness around his eyes as he bites his lower lip.

“The real threat, from the perspective of the Don, is from the Rouen corridor?” Buttermilch surmises, “then you believe admiral DeRyck has already relieved Ruthenia and Merica of pirate havens?”

“…It’s very well possible,” I remark “but because of the lack of coordination with admiral DeRyck, it’s difficult to say. But because of these recent developments, DeRyck may be about to strike at the Don from the Rouen corridor.”

“So then, would it not make sense for commodore Hugo to seize the initiative by attacking the least concentrated front and force the 217 Mafia to crumble?” Buttermilch asks a good question, or point, or whatever you want to call it. At a glance, Operation Lucky Alphonse does seem like an operation that could be hugely successful. But it has several underlying factors, such as…

“…It all comes back to admiral DeRyck” I utter without a second thought. Buttermilch, who leans back slightly in his chair, leans forward with his staple furrowed brow.

“Pardon?”

“Oh! Er, uh…“ I slip my cap off and run my hand through silky hair, “our whole… uh, the opportunity for anything relies on DeRyck’s current situation. I believe it is necessary to convince commodore Chal to reconsider this preemptive strike until we can establish communications with DeRyck.

“That does mean… that the preemptive strike would no longer be preemptive. And in that time-frame—”
Buttermilch interrupts my train of thoughts “you believe the Don will make his move into Bordeaux, and potentially even seek an alliance with the Brenaco pirate haven?”

I give the most frustrating audible exhale I could produce. “I believe that is another possibility. If commodore Hugo doesn’t postpone the operation, there is another option on the table.”

Buttermilch crosses his arms and swivels the chair back and forth. “I suppose you are getting at a defensive deterrence of our own?” I begin feeling a little excited that Buttermilch is on the same page as me.

“Yes! Imagine it as sort of a…” I trail off, tilting my head. In the olden days, they referred to it as some sort of standoff named after an ancient ethnic group. It’s not a term you particularly hear nowadays but I hear it’s quite hip with the older generations. “S-sort of like a… M-Mexican standoff?” I utter with an excitedly confusing question.

Buttermilch gave an affirmative grunt. “I see… I see.”

“But..”

“But?” Buttermilch stops swiveling his chair to hear what I have to say.

“Rather than do it from the get-go,” I stroke my cap as I continue, “I believe the most reasonable way to avoid a total disaster is to maintain the defensive stance at Valspon, itself.”

Buttermilch looks at his empty oak table with perplex, “do you believe we should execute the first phase of Lucky Alphonse but not march towards Lübeck?”

“Yes, I believe we would put ourselves at too much risk to pursue the operation after Valspon falls. If it falls in a timely manner.”

“Before they can get additional reinforcements?” Buttermilch taps the desk, “and I suppose you believe splitting up our force will have only negative consequences.”

“That is exactly right!” I almost shout it in excitement, and I have to grip my chest to contain myself. Buttermilch did not seem to pay any attention to my youthfulness. I tidy my necktie and clear my throat. “I believe one way or another DeRyck will confront the 217 Mafia in the Rouen corridor—which may or may not be happening as we speak. Commodore Hugo may not get his… what did he call it?”

“Fame and glory,” Buttermilch replies in a rather dry tone.

“Right, he will not get his ‘fame and glory’ that way, but…

“It will save lives, without a doubt. And as you have seen from the last campaign I did with sub-lieutenant Kiki—er, Trachenberg, it is essential to keep our flotilla as one force. No matter the course of action commodore Hugo may take, I earnestly believe that is the most thing to keep in mind,” after I finish, I suddenly have an idea regarding the simulated war games, “ah, if I may add one more thing, sir.”

Buttermilch gets up from his seat and makes his way over to a trolley nearby to pour himself another drink. He turns to gesture me a go-ahead, so I do. “Regarding the last wargame sub-lieutenant Trachenberg and I have done. If you show it to Commodore Hugo, I am positive the results will leave an impression on him to avoid commencing any… unfavorable maneuvers that may… uh, result in the destruction of our flotilla, or something else of that nature..”

Buttermilch pours a conservative amount of liquid into his glass and gives it the gentlest of shakes. As the ice in it shakes and splashes against each other, he turns to me once more.

“And you have full confidence that when he learns two junior officers were the ones behind it, he would take it to heart when deliberating on the operation?” Those words punch me in the gut. It is true, but it also stings a bit. It’s not something I thought about. I’m only an ensign after all—would it make sense for the highest-ranking officer to even consider the advice of the lowest ranking staff officer for the benefit of the entire flotilla?

Ideally… no, it wouldn’t. If I was an aide to Hugo, it would make more sense, but I’m not. I’m not even an assistant to Mazzareli. Before I knew it, I subconsciously sink into the chair that Buttermilch had offered to me before. I deliberate for it for what feels like forever. I can see Buttermilch just out of eyesight adding some spices to his drink and promptly downing it in one shot. “Ensign Happ, is something the matter?”

“No, I’m…” I sit up straight. I grip my leggings as tightly as I can. There’s no need to falter now. I came this far, didn’t I? Is it all for nothing then? I have to be confident. “Er… I believe he will. I-if… I managed to impress you and lieutenant commander Mazzareli, then I think it will… work for a third charm.” For a moment, Buttermilch slips me a smirk before returning to his cold stare, or are my eyes deceiving me? Buttermilch lets the words sink in and gives me a warm nod.

“If that is what you believe, then I will do my best to persuade commodore Hugo,” when he finishes, I stand up and salute him.

“Thank you, sir, that means a lot to me,” I announced in the most steadfast tone I can muster. The commander raised his empty glass to me.

“I appreciate your efforts, but…” Buttermilch clears his throat, he opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out at first. He pinches his nose ridge and clicks his tongue. With a grievous sigh, Buttermilch continues, “it does pain me to say this, but once this operation is finished and we return to Sydney, I will still have to adhere to regulations and give you a court-martial for your actions regarding the breach of security. Lieutenant Plotte will also have to stand trial as well, and possibly even sub-lieutenant Trachenberg.

“But for now, please return to your cabin and rest until general quarters begin. And don’t give me that look, Ensign. I’ll spare you the comfort of the cold and lonely brig. You should be relieved I am letting it slide,” Buttermilch says it with such a pained expression that I am led to believe it’s not something he wants to actually go through with. But I say nothing, and I give a feeble salute and excuse myself from the room.

---

Outside in the dull and metallic hallway, I feel dizzy.

It gets to the point that I need to drag myself along the railing to my room. Luckily, there is no one around to see me in such a sorry state. But I didn’t head to my cabin compartment. Rather, I headed for Friederika’s. Thankfully, hers isn’t too far off.

When I reach her door, I lean against it with a thud, raising one fist to give a gentle knock. As I tap the door, I realize I made a fatal mistake. The tap ended up being more than just a knock. I must have been unaware of my strength because I do not hear a plop. I hear the loudest of metallic BANGS.

“Eh? Who’s out there? I’m kind of busy right now—” I feel like I’m on autopilot at this point or something like a dream state. Without hesitation, I open her door and fumble in.

I hear only a shriek that rings my eardrum. The last thing I see is a half-naked dark-haired lady chucking a boot in my direction.

Immense pain reverberates through my body, then nothing.