Pax Propter Vim [Azur Lane Fanfic]

Chapter 28

Random Noodles Shop, Saigon, Indochina.

The savory aroma of pho and grilled meat filled the dimly lit room, mingling with the sharp tang of cigarette smoke and the faint, lingering scent of gunpowder. A small noodle shop on the outskirts of Saigon had become one of the busiest resistance bases for the Azur Lane Resistance. Wooden crates marked with faded Royal Navy insignias were stacked neatly against the walls, and hidden radio transmitters crackled with coded chatter in the back rooms.

At the center of it all sat HMS Prince of Wales, legs kicked up on a scarred wooden table, one hand loosely holding a glass of gin, the other cradling a lit cigarette. The Vietnamese chef she had hired was fussing over the bubbling pots behind her, muttering curses as he flipped noodles with practiced precision. Wales grinned, inhaling the smoky air. Not Buckingham Palace, but it'll do.

The static crackle of the radio cut through her musings. A young radio operator poked his head from behind a curtain of tangled wires, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "Ma'am, Commander Mitchell of the Australian Expeditionary Force wants to speak with you. Sounds... urgent."

Wales groaned, tossing back the rest of her gin in one smooth gulp before stubbing out her cigarette. "Bloody hell, what does that kangaroo molester want now?" She muttered under her breath. She gestured for the operator to patch it through, rolling her shoulders like a prizefighter warming up.

The radio clicked, and a familiar, gratingly thick Australian accent came through. "Oi! Is that you, Wales? Or are ya too busy prancin' around like some posh tea-sippin' princess again?"

Wales leaned back in her chair, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "Mitchell, you uncivilized convict wrangler. Still herding sheep in the middle of the jungle, are you? Tell me, did they finally teach you how to use a fork, or are you still eating with your hands?"

A burst of laughter came through the radio, followed by a coughing fit. "Forks? Nah, mate, we’re too busy actually fightin’ wars instead of hosting bloody tea parties. Last I checked, I didn't need a silver spoon to put a bullet in a Enemy's head."

Wales snorted, lighting another cigarette. "You really should try it sometime. Better than whatever swill you call breakfast over there. What is it, Vegemite and regret?"

There was a pause before Mitchell shot back, "Better than that crap you call cuisine. What was it last time? Something boiled to death and served with a side of disappointment?"

Wales chuckled darkly, smoke curling from her lips. "Not my fault your lot can’t handle food that doesn’t come from a tin can or isn’t burnt to a crisp. And honestly, who the hell barbecues everything? You Aussies would grill a bloody shoe if you found it lying around."

"Better than eatin' beans on toast like a miserable sod! I reckon even the rats in Saigon are eatin' better than your sorry arse."

"Rats? Oh, I didn't know you finally started serving your family recipes to the troops. Tell me, is kangaroo stew still a delicacy, or did you upgrade to wallaby tartare?"

Laughter erupted from the Royal Marines stationed nearby, some trying to stifle their chuckles as Wales gestured wildly, cigarette dangling from her fingertips. Even the Vietnamese chef gave a snort of amusement before returning to his pots.

There was a pause, then Mitchell's voice came through, lower this time, with just a hint of grudging respect. "Alright, alright. Enough bollocks. I didn’t call to trade insults, Wales. We got movement up north. Japanese forces are pullin’ back—big-time. Looks like Kaga’s managed to convince half their bloody army to turn coats. I think it’s time we start planning for somethin’ big."