The leading sailor’s big opaque glasses gently slides down the young man’s nose as he struggles to keep his head up. Each time he jolts straight up, his eyelids feel heavier by the minute. Just for a little bit, he thinks as he diligently pretends to keep a watchful eye on the dark green radar monitor, I’ll close my eyes for just a little bit, nothing could possibly happen anyway, right?

The commencement of operation Lucky Alphonse meant that their destroyer, along with the rest of the sections, transitioned from general quarters to battle stations. The initial skirmish leading to Side Malabo, along with the physical strain stemming from the warp jumps from the Frankish Domain meant that the opaque glasses leading sailor and his comrades were tired.

After some complaints openly done in earshot of superior officers, they were granted brief rotating shifts between bridge operators. Where the opaque-glasses leading sailor and his comrades were allowed to take timed naps in some of the sleep pods provided for them. There weren’t a lot of the pods, maybe about twenty or so total for a destroyer that had a crew of around sixty or less.

Ah, how the opaque-glasses sailor wishes he was stationed on a battlecruiser or even a battleship. Those ones, especially the newer models have luxurious sleep pods that knock you out real good, or so one of his friends on the Hualian said. The leading sailor is a bit jealous. His ship, the Bataan, was one of the hastily constructed ones from way back when the Metropolitan Navy made it’s ill-fated journey maiden expedition to the Zonal region in 214. Or at least that’s always what some of the veteran officers say.

For some reason or another, the Bataan was always in the thick of the fighting in subsequent campaigns. There was always a stigma for ships that participated in the Zonal campaign, and the Bataan was no exception. Even so, it always emerged unscratched and victorious—but it usually received no recognition for such. He always heard stories about how it received its one and only damage from a direct hit to the ammo compartment—and yet, amazingly, still survived. But the details of it are rather muddle—some say it shredded its way into the engine compartment, others say that the ordinance practically made a nestled home in the CO’s quarters. Whatever the details may be, the missile was a dud and did not obliterate the ship. Oddly, it is one of the few ships commissioned in the original composition of the destroyer squadron that still sees service to this day. Her sister destroyers have all been out of commission and spend the rest of their lives as sad civilian vessels or have been outright destroyed in combat.

The Bataan has gained the reputation of a cursed ship. It’s a cursed ship that to this day has never once suffered even a minor hit. It’s because of this odd curse that the Admiralty simply never bothered to find the time or effort to reward the officers and sailors of this ship with modernization despite all that she has done for the Federation. Even some of the veteran crew muse that this curse is a blessing in disguise, and the spectacled leading sailor And the leading sailor, as he groggily still struggles to keep his eyes trained on the green radar screen, is not one to disagree with them. He fades in and out of consciousness as he finds it a blessing that he will likely come home to a loving family in one piece. When this is all over, the sleepy leading sailor thinks as his head tilts forward one last time, his oversized glasses nearly falling off his face, I should take the Bataan’s curse for granted, and find a girl to spend my life with.

“Four-eyes! What do ‘ya think you’re doing?!” The near monotonous voice of a certain always-snappy woman with red-mane hair snaps him back to reality. Quickly pushing his glasses upward, he turns partway in his cushioned seat to face her; sure enough, it is the freckled angry warrant officer that always breathes down his neck. Officer Freckles crosses her arms and gives him a sharp squint that unnerves the speechless Four-eyes. “Well?” She leans in uncomfortably close to the young leading officer “it’s rude to stare and not respond to your superior, is it not?”

“Er, sorry ma’am, I’m still a bit sleepy from being pulled out of my sleep pod so soon, haha…” He replies a bit nervously. It was only an hour or two ago since his nap-turned-slumber was deactivated and he was pulled out by this red-maned warrant officer. Why is it always her? He can’t help but wonder. Four-eyes probably won’t ever admit it, of course, but he does have a bit of a crush on her. Well, perhaps that’s pushing it too far. She’s more akin to a mother away from his own. Maybe a concerned older sister? Well, she certainly is a few years older than him, most likely in her early thirties at the least. But Four-eyes knows better than to ask a woman her age.

She continues to give him a mean stare. “Perhaps I should throw you back into your sleeping pod and prime it for eternity?” She sneers, as she moves back from his face giving some breathing room. Maybe the term concerned older sister is pushing it. Maybe always slightly irritated aunt would be more appropriate. In any case, Four-eyes finds her cute despite her mean demeanor. It’s also possible she’s not engaged at all either, since he never saw a ring or anything.

“Haha— I think I will pass. I can manage until my next scheduled break starts. I’m sorry for troubling you, ma’am.” Four-eyes answers as he does an adjustment of his glasses. Officer Freckles only lets loose a sigh, relaxes her angry brow, and similarly readjusts her folded arms.

“If you fancy yourself some coffee, I would not mind bringing you a cup of coffee. Just don’t spill it on the console or I will prime ‘ya in a sleep pod for eternity.” She says, but Four-eyes only shakes his head.

“Sorry ma’am, but coffee isn’t exactly my thing. It leaves a more bitter taste in my mouth than your insults do.” He says without a second thought and realizing what he said bites his tongue at the last moment. Officer Freckles nods but gives him another razor-sharp glare.

“What was that last part you said?” She suddenly demands, leaning in a little closer to him.

Uh-oh.

“Er, it was nothing. Um… do you happen to have any caffeine pills on you? I can stomach those easier than your insul —the coffee.” Another bite of the tongue. Although the food inventory on the Bataan is generally decent— since the logistics crew procured them from the Frankish planetary settlements—the Bataan ran out of the good coffee… which is actually ersatz. And the Franks… well… let’s just say their food is good, but when it comes to beverages their coffee beans are remarkably worse than even Metropolitan coffee substitute. And Four-eyes doesn’t like creamer, either, which is equally bad in Metropolitan and Frankish supplies—the Frankish ones taste like they’re always gone bad, and it’s disgusting.

With a sigh, the warrant officer scratches the back of her head and looks behind her at the business of the bridge. “Unfortunately for you, I do not have some. Come to think of it, leaving ‘ya alone with a cup of coffee near electronics will probably give me an earful of the commander until the end of days. I can always bug some off some other guy, but…” Freckles leans in again and grabs a nice handful of the leading sailor’s cheek—which she proceeds to brutally pinch, “’ya will owe me one,” after the sailor cries for mercy she lets go and wipes off her hand. Ignoring the man’s silent whimper she continues, “hopefully that will keep ‘ya awake until your next break—but that aside… now that I’m here, has there been anything to report?” She asks about anything that might potentially come from Lübeck.

As per its ugly tradition, the Bataan is in the vanguard of the contingent destined for Lübeck. Meaning that the destroyers in Bataan’s squadron are, more or less, the early warning line for the rest of the unit. And the radar operators like Leading sailor Four-eyes are the first line of defense for the Bataan, who reports it to squadron capital ships, and so on.

Even before Four-eyes took his nap, there were worries about a pirate relief force coming from Lübeck, or even the Ides star zone. But it seems between the time that the Malabo occupation succeeded, and the time he was rudely thrown out of his sleep pod—there hasn’t been any new reinforcements from the Year 217 Mafia, let alone any response from the Madame Scarface. Many are relieved that it’s pure chance she happened not to be at the Valspon system in the first place. And yet there’s still grumbling that the pirates might send at least something, no matter how delayed their response may be. Some are worried about what the Madame Scarface or the Don are even planning—though it may simply be that they do not know. They could be waiting to lay an ambush in Lübeck in some way or another—they could even be pinned down along the Rouen corridor by other Federation forces.

But Four-eyes thinks there’s no possibility of a relief force materializing. Almost a full standard day has passed, and there has seemingly been no probing by the Year 217 Mafia. While quite a few get antsy over it, there are plenty of others among the Bataan’s veteran officers and even those aboard the Yilan battlecruiser that share the sentiment. It seems some blonde junior officer from that ship demonstrated what would happen in the worst-case scenario if you split your fleet—and there was a lot of grumbling that Chal made the wrong choices.

But even so…

“Erm…” Looking at the green radar screen again with tired eyes, there are only the familiar light green blips in staggered lines. There haven’t been any chances whatsoever in the positions. No sudden appearance of a light red blip—nothing. Why would anything happen now? Even if an enemy force foolishly warped in front of them—both the Bataan and the Federation detachment would make quick work of them. Even if that Madame Scarface warped in now, it wouldn’t change a thing. There is nothing to worry about. “No warrant officer, I have nothing new to report.” The freckled warrant officer gives a nod and tries to depart, “but ma’am…” she stops to look back at him questionably. “—Thanks for checking in on me. I appreciate that you would go out of your way to always give me a scolding.”

Warrant Officer Freckles turns a shade of red—almost as red as her auburn mane, but regains her composure. It seems she wanted to say something but the comment threw her off so much she only salutes and about-faces away.

Huh, so even the always-snappy warrant gets a little flustered at times. Maybe she’s just nervous that the other bridge crew might get the wrong idea about us, he ponders. The wrong idea about us…

Four-eyes leans back into his chair, eyes at the dull gray ceiling. His glasses gently slide up off his nose to his brow. The two of us, huh?…

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt for Four-eyes to ask her out. The worst she can probably do is get a commanding officer to throw him in the brig for harassment, or god forbid actually follow through on her threat to put him in deep hibernation. But that’s something to think about when this operation ends… when they can finally go home and put this all behind them.

As he continues to stare at the ceiling, Four-eyes hoped that the pinch he received would keep him awake, but the relaxed posture he was in—with his hands resting underneath his head—was making him increasingly tired again. There’s no need for him to be on alert, anyway. The Bataan can manage. There’s simply no chance that there could be a relief force now of all times. It’s simply illogical.

Even so, Four-eyes resists his stubborn eyelids from closing shut, but he can only hold out for so long. Eventually, his eyelids close for good. Just a little nap, Four-eyes thinks, it won’t hurt the Bataan…