Hymn From the High Seas (Azur Lane x Commander Male Reader)

Heavy Is the Head that Bears the Crown

In the dead of night, I sit out on the island's airstrip with Enty, Zeppelin, Zeppy, and Little E under the wing of our one and only F-22 – modified to be a two-seater aircraft for training. The Essex-class should join us soon, too. After so much death, I'm up late toiling to make sure we're able to take more lives with greater effectiveness. I never thought about it much... Maybe that's for good reason.

Zeppelin clicks a gas stove on before setting a small pot onto it, pouring in some water to bring to a boil as Enty opens up MREs for us. In the crisp nighttime air, I smell one of the beef stew meals that she opens as TB and I inspect the twin engines. In my vision, she highlights each and every component as she internalizes its design and calculates its performance – a necessary step before we take it to the skies.

"Assessment complete," she notifies me, "Allow me to inspect the main ordinance bay."

"Got it," I reply, ducking under the wing and moving toward the belly of the aircraft.

Squatting under it, I open the doors and let TB run her scans when Enty asks, "Why don't we start with the... What was it called? Hornet?"

"The Super Hornet? We'll get to that," I say, staring at the airframe, "I've never flown a fighter jet before, so I need TB to take the stick. The F-18 isn't advanced enough for that."

"Scans complete," TB says.

I turn around with a sigh, walking over to my family, "We probably won't use the F-22 for long, anyway."

Zeppelin pours some water into her MRE bag, "Why not?"

"Once the Sirens get used to our jets and the F-35, specifically, dogfighting will come to an end," I take the MRE Enty offers me and hand it to Little E who draws on the ground with chalk together with Zeppy.

"Dog... fighting?" Zeppelin mumbles, handing a meal to her daughter.

"Dogfighting," I repeat in German.

"Ah, this is the word," she nods, "'Dogfighting.' Dogfighting..."

I smile at her, making her smile back at me. Her English is coming along well, no thanks to living in a mostly English-speaking port. Zeppy's taken up the language well because of Little E, too.

"The F-22's meant for air superiority, mainly," I continue, "and if we're engaging Siren planes beyond visual-range, we've got no use for them as our spearhead. Of course, we'll still keep them around. It's just that they're a pain to maintain – much more so than our current planes. As for our new drones, you don't have to worry about those. Piloting them will be up to TB since they're unmanned."

In the middle of my explanation, I notice Zeppy nodding off in her camp chair, her spoon still in her mouth. I reach over to the cooler we brought and pick out a container of chopped strawberries sprinkled with sugar.

"Zeppy," I hold it out to her, "Share with Little E."

The girl snaps to attention and takes the container with a hungry gaze, "D-Danke, Vater."

Little E's sleepiness is also expunged by the sugary snack, and they both eat it together after Little E climbs into Zeppy's chair. I yawn and rub my eyes, worn out by the office work from yesterday. It's nearly one in the morning, but the sooner I get everyone familiar with modern jets, the better. Getting my daughters to learn it at a young age will do well for them as well. Zeppelin's head perks up, and I look over my shoulder at the sound of footsteps.

"Essex-class on station," their namesake salutes me, her fleet of sister-ships behind her, "Your orders, Commander?"

I get up from my chair, grinning at their clear admiration for the aircraft beside me. Intrepid stands with her head leant back, staring at the Milky Way above us, and it takes a bump from Ticonderoga for her to notice the Raptor. Essex watches me eagerly.