The table was covered in paperwork.

  Again.

  Kade stared at it with the exact expression of a man who had fought Princesses, managed a half-broken island, survived being emotionally compromised by a Yamato-class fox, and still considered this pile of forms to be one of the most dangerous things currently in his life.

  “I hate transfer paperwork,” he said flatly.

  “You hate all paperwork,” Wisconsin replied.

  “That is slander. I tolerate useful paperwork.”

  Mogador, seated with one leg crossed over the other and looking entirely too pleased to be here, smiled behind two fingers. “No, commandant. He is correct. You glare at reports as if they insulted your bloodline.”

  Tōkaidō sat beside Kade with her usual quiet poise, white hair falling neatly over one shoulder, pale fox ears angled with faint amusement. “It is true.”

  Ensign Calloway, back from whatever signal and operations work had stolen him for the last stretch of chaos, had the deeply unfortunate job of holding the character roster packet.

  He looked down at the stack, then up at everyone else.

  “So,” he said, doing his best to sound official, “the purpose of this is simple. We explain what everyone on Horizon looks like before this base gets any harder for normal people to picture.”

  Wisconsin leaned back in his chair with the air of a man who had accepted this nonsense because resisting it was more work.

  Mogador looked delighted.

  Kade looked doomed.

  Tōkaidō folded her hands in her lap and nodded once. “We may begin.”

  Calloway cleared his throat and looked at the first file.

  “Kade Bher.”

  Kade made a quiet sound of suffering. “Of course I’m first.”

  “You are the Commander,” Tōkaidō said softly.

  “Exactly. Tragic.”

  Mogador’s smile widened. “Go on, then. Tell the world what your little warlord looks like.”

  Kade pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not little.”

  Wisconsin looked at him. “You are five foot three.”

  Kade glared at him. “I will have you reassigned to latrine morale.”

  Calloway, trying not to laugh, read from the sheet. “Height: five foot three.”

  “Traitor,” Kade muttered.

  Tōkaidō, because she was merciless in the gentlest possible way, took over.

  “He is shorter than many people expect,” Tōkaidō said, “but no one who has met him for more than five minutes mistakes that for weakness. Kade is compact and wiry rather than broad, built like someone who survives by being faster and meaner than the situation expected. His hair is brown and usually windswept in a way that suggests he has either been outside in sea wind or fighting a maintenance problem with his whole body. His eyes are steel blue—sharp, watchful, and often tired. He wears his uniform like it is something functional first and symbolic second, which means it is usually in respectable condition until he forgets that climbing infrastructure is not, in fact, proper command behavior. He carries himself with a restless sort of readiness, and even when standing still he looks like he is about to either solve a problem or become one.”

  Mogador tilted her head. “You forgot the coat.”

  Tōkaidō’s ears flicked once. “I did not.”

  Kade sighed.

  Tōkaidō continued, with no mercy at all. “He favors a long dark coat over his uniform when he is trying to look more composed than he feels. It works… well enough.”

  “That was not a compliment,” Kade said.

  “No,” Tōkaidō agreed.

  Calloway, flipping the page, looked visibly relieved to move on.

  Wisconsin took this one.

  “Nagato looks exactly like the kind of woman people expect to be obeyed,” he said. “She’s not especially loud, not flashy, not built around theatrics. She’s on the shorter side compared to the really big battlewagons, but she carries herself with enough old authority that it stops mattering immediately. Long dark hair, very pale skin, red eyes that always seem calmer than the room deserves, and the kind of posture that makes even wrecked Marines stand a little straighter when she looks at them. There’s a shrine-maiden elegance to her presentation—controlled, traditional, severe without cruelty. She looks like history if history learned how to command a fleet.”

  Mogador hummed approvingly. “Reasonable.”

  Calloway flipped the page. Mogador took this one, clearly amused.

  “Guam,” she said, “looks like enthusiasm was given cruiser armor and told to go bother the world. She is tall, athletic, and bright in every sense of the word. Strong shoulders, long limbs, the healthy confidence of someone who knows she can hit very hard and close distance even faster. Her hair and features have that distinctly lively, modern Eagle Union energy—sunlit, open, impossible to ignore. She smiles like she means it, laughs loudly, and carries herself with all the force of an affectionate charging beast. She is pretty in a very dangerous way—the sort of woman who could help you move a crate, win a fistfight, and embarrass you in front of your friends in the same ten minutes.”

  Wisconsin grunted. “That tracks.”

  Tōkaidō’s expression softened before she spoke.

  “Arizona is beautiful in the quiet way some people only become after surviving too much. She has soft features, gentle eyes, and the sort of calm that makes others lower their voice without realizing it. Her hair is usually kept neatly, and she presents herself with a dignity that feels maternal without trying to perform it. Her skin is fair, her expression kind, and she has a softness to her face that can make people forget she is still a Pennsylvania-class battleship until she opens fire. When she dismisses her rigging and uses her wheelchair, she seems almost like a civilian woman at first glance—graceful, warm, approachable. Then she speaks with authority or turns those eyes on someone who needs correction, and people remember exactly who she is.”

  Kade nodded once. “That’s accurate.”

  Calloway looked down at the reference and then wisely handed this one to Kade.

  He stared at the image a second too long, got caught doing it, and ignored Mogador’s very visible amusement.

  “Tōkaidō is…” He paused. “Tall. By my standards, which admittedly isn’t a high bar. Around five foot nine or so. She has long white hair, very pale skin, and light eyes that read silver-green depending on the light. Her fox ears and tail are white as well, with that same cold-weather coloration through the fur. She carries herself with a very quiet kind of elegance—traditional without being fragile, refined without being distant. Even when she’s off duty she tends to look neat, composed, and like she somehow belongs in better lighting than most of this base offers. But there’s steel under it. You can see it in how she stands and how she looks at a battlefield. She’s… soft-looking, until she isn’t.”

  Tōkaidō’s cheeks colored faintly.

  Mogador’s smile turned predatory. “How restrained.”

  Kade ignored her. “She also has a Kyoto cadence and the kind of presence that makes people calm down or behave better around her, which is frankly suspicious.”

  “It is called being civilized,” Tōkaidō said.

  Wisconsin took this one.

  “Amagi looks like someone designed grace and then forgot to make it less intimidating. Tall, elegant, and unmistakably older-sister in the best and worst ways. Long dark hair, pale skin, composed golden-brown eyes, and the kind of face that can do warm fondness and quiet judgment with almost no visible transition. Even unfinished, even ill, even recovering, she carries herself like a woman meant to sit at the center of a room and make everyone else feel slightly less certain of their own plans. She tends to look refined in a traditional sense—flowing lines, dignified posture, calm hands. Then she says something clever and you remember she is also dangerous.”

  Tōkaidō spoke again, and for once even Mogador listened without interruption.

  “Shinano is taller than most, beautiful in a dreamlike way, and carries the unmistakable weight of an original Yamato. She has very long pale hair, soft fair skin, and eyes that always seem just on the edge of sleep or insight. Her fox ears and tails are fuller and more obviously divine-looking than Kotta’s, and there is a softness to her shape and movement that makes people underestimate just how much force she can direct. She looks like a moonlit shrine and a carrier strike at the same time—gentle until the sky begins to answer her.”

  Calloway smiled faintly. “I can do this one.”

  He tapped the page.

  “Atlanta is small, fast-looking, and built like kinetic irritation. Not frail—just compact, athletic, and all sharp reaction. Her face is expressive, her eyes are quick, and she carries herself like she’s one interruption away from either laughing or biting. Her hair tends to frame her face in a lively, practical way rather than anything especially grand. She has a little-sister energy until the guns start firing, and then she becomes what she actually is: an anti-air nightmare with a mouth.”

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  Kade nodded. “That’s the cleanest summary she’s ever gotten.”

  Mogador claimed this one with obvious interest.

  “Fairplay looks like bad ideas survived and learned style. Slender, dangerous, and theatrical in all the ways people regret underestimating. Before and after the rebuild, she carried herself with a witchy little edge—sharp eyes, sharper humor, the kind of expression that always suggests she has already judged both your tactical value and your outfit. Her frame is not imposing in the battleship sense, but there is nothing weak about her. Her hair and presentation lean elegant in a way that borders on troublesome, and the more she is irritated, the more put-together she somehow looks. She is beautiful the way knives are beautiful.”

  “Of course you’d say that,” Wisconsin muttered.

  Tōkaidō answered gently.

  “Salem is pale and striking in a way that makes some people uneasy before they understand why. She has a quieter beauty—cool skin, watchful eyes, and a presence that feels a little removed from the room even when she is standing directly in it. Her hair is usually dark or cool-toned depending on the light, and she tends to move as if she is listening to things no one else can hear. She is not outwardly imposing, but when she looks at someone with focus there is a strange pressure in it, as though she sees too much. In stillness she can look delicate. In battle she does not.”

  Wisconsin did not even need the paper.

  “Tall. Strong. Blonde. Blue-eyed in the way old steel looks blue when light hits it right. Bismarck looks like command made flesh and then dressed for war. Broad-shouldered, straight-backed, severe without being cold, and entirely too capable of looking at a room and making everyone reconsider their life choices. She doesn’t posture because she doesn’t have to. Even at rest she carries that old capital-ship gravity. The kind of woman who could wear a parade coat or an oil-stained field jacket and still look like the center of the line.”

  Mogador nodded once. “Yes.”

  Calloway grinned helplessly. “Iowa’s easy.”

  Kade groaned. “That’s never a good sign.”

  Calloway ignored him.

  “Iowa is tall, athletic, and has the kind of wolf-girl energy that makes her impossible to miss. Her hair is lighter-toned, usually worn in a way that still looks like she might’ve just come out of a storm or a fight, and her eyes are bright with either mischief or violence depending on the hour. Her wolf ears and tail are expressive enough to be their own tactical warning system. She’s beautiful in a loud way—confident, grinning, dangerous, and entirely aware of the effect she has on a room. She looks like the type to start a fistfight, win it, and then buy everyone drinks.”

  Kade looked at him. “You say that like it hasn’t happened.”

  “It has.”

  Wisconsin answered with long-suffering sibling fondness.

  “Minnesota looks like an Iowa-class built by someone who thought ‘more cheerful giant’ was a valid design philosophy. She’s big, strong, broad in the healthy, battlewagon way, and physically imposing enough that people expect seriousness before she starts talking. Her features are warmer than Iowa’s, her energy brighter, and her expressions easier to read. She still has that family resemblance in the build and eyes, but where Iowa feels like a wolf grin, Minnesota feels like a friendly avalanche.”

  Tōkaidō took this one.

  “Wisconsin River looks tired in the way competent people often do. Not weak—never that—but permanently busy, permanently carrying one more task than the day properly allows. She is practical in dress and bearing, with the sort of face that becomes beautiful precisely because it is so alive with intelligence, irritation, and stubborn care. Her hair is kept out of the way when possible, her posture efficient, and her whole presence says that if something on the base is still functioning, she probably had a hand in making sure it stayed that way.”

  Kade leaned back slightly. “Wilkinson looks like the sort of man who reads the manual twice and still assumes everyone else has not.”

  Calloway choked back a laugh.

  Kade continued, “Lean build. Practical posture. The kind of face that doesn’t waste expressions unless the situation earns one. He looks military in the straightforward sense—not flashy, not theatrical, just put together and competent. His hair is usually kept manageable, his gaze direct, and there’s a constant escort-screen awareness to him even when he’s standing still. Like part of him is always running sonar in the background.”

  Wisconsin nodded. “That’s him.”

  Tōkaidō answered carefully.

  “Akagi is elegant in a way that can become severe without warning. She has long dark hair, fair skin, and sharp eyes that carry both intelligence and a certain cutting amusement. There is nothing soft or animal-like about her appearance—she looks every bit the disciplined, dangerous carrier she is. Her beauty is classic rather than playful, and when she is calm she seems almost composed enough to be gentle. Then she speaks with that dry edge of hers and one remembers she can be very difficult on purpose.”

  Calloway took her.

  “Shōkaku looks refined in a cleaner, brighter way than Akagi. Silvery snow white hair, but her expression tends toward composed warmth instead of edge. She has a graceful, balanced kind of beauty, very carrier-officer mixed with shrine maiden in the sense that she looks like she belongs on a flight deck and in a shrine both. There’s a steadiness to her—she looks dependable before she says a word, and that ends up being true.”

  Mogador smiled. “Ah. The ice wall thats also a fox.”

  Kade made a face. “That’s actually fair.”

  Mogador continued, “Kaga is tall, pale, and severe in a way that feels sharpened rather than brittle. Short white hair, cool eyes, and the sort of expression that suggests she has already found most nonsense lacking. Her posture is immaculate. Her bearing is old, proud, and difficult to move once set. She is beautiful the way winter coastlines are beautiful—clear, dangerous, and not remotely interested in accommodating your comfort.”

  Tōkaidō’s ears flicked warmly. “Asashio is smaller and more compact than the older capital ships, but she carries herself with serious destroyer discipline. Dark hair, focused eyes, and the sort of quiet posture that tells you she is listening to everything. She has the look of someone younger than the burden she carries, which is true for many destroyers. There is a sincerity to her face that becomes fiercer the moment duty is involved.”

  Calloway smiled at once.

  “Senko looks like kindness put on an apron and then given a ship. Soft features, warm eyes, fox ears and tail, and a kind of domestic grace that somehow survived this war intact. She has the sort of face people instinctively trust when they’re hurt or tired. Her build is not imposing, her beauty is gentle rather than dramatic, and her whole presence says food, warmth, and being told to sit down before you fall over. Then you remember she’s still a ship and can organize a supply line like a battle.”

  Wisconsin answered with visible respect.

  “Fuchs looks like a practical problem someone made German on purpose. She’s slight compared to the big ships, but not fragile. Blonde or light-haired, sharp-faced, pale, and perpetually carrying the expression of someone who has already identified every unsafe thing in a ten-mile radius and is disappointed that everyone else required her to say it aloud. She moves with precise economy. No wasted effort. No wasted words. She’s not flashy, but she has that dangerous minesweeper quality—quiet until you realize she’s the one who knows exactly where the death is hidden.”

  Mogador took this one and sounded entertained.

  “Duke of Kent looks like a proper little aristocrat from the wrong century who somehow learned to survive modern naval war anyway. Small-framed, neatly kept, long blonde hair, fair skin, and bright eyes that are much sharper than the rest of her delicate presentation first suggests. She has ribbons, old-world tailoring, and the kind of composed carriage that makes her look almost dainty right up until she starts behaving like a lawful broadside in human shape. She is adorable in the way old gunboats and ancient grudges can be adorable.”

  Tōkaidō spoke with the kind of respect one reserved for someone unsettling but reliable.

  “Tarantula stands around five foot four. She has short dark brown hair, sandy-toned skin, and heterochromic eyes—one grey, one gold. In ordinary dress and bearing, she looks almost domestic, like a quiet service woman from an older era. Neat dark clothing, apron-front styling, controlled posture, and a face that seems more suited to tea than gunfire. Then her rigging unfolds, and the impression changes completely. Her spider-like support limbs and thread systems make her presence uncanny very quickly. She is gentle until the web moves.”

  Mogador’s smile sharpened. “An excellent summary.”

  Wisconsin answered.

  “Des Moines looks like a cruiser built to enforce standards and break teeth if necessary. Taller than average, strong without the sheer mass of a battleship, and carrying herself like she expects competence from the people around her. Her features are striking rather than soft, her gaze direct, and there’s always a sense that she has already measured the room for threats and inefficiencies. Not cold exactly—just not inclined toward frivolous display.”

  Calloway visibly fought a grin.

  “Salmon looks like trouble before she says anything. Smaller than the capital ships, lively in movement, with the kind of face that always seems on the verge of either a joke or a bad idea. She’s pretty in a quick, slippery sort of way—nothing static about her. You look at her and immediately understand two things: she does not like staying where she’s told, and if something strange is happening underwater, she probably had something to do with it.”

  Kade nodded. “Correct.”

  Mogador looked over at him, then answered with entirely too much enjoyment.

  “Wisconsin is very obviously an Iowa-class. Tall, broad-shouldered, heavily built, and impossible to confuse for anything less than a capital warship in human form. Darker hair than some of his sisters’ line, strong features, controlled expression, and eyes that go very flat when he’s angry. He carries himself like a shield first and a gun second, even when he pretends otherwise. Very handsome, if you enjoy men who look like they’d rather be hauling ammunition than being complimented.”

  Wisconsin stared at her. “I regret being in this room.”

  That one quieted the table slightly.

  Arizona was not here, and everyone felt that absence for a second.

  Kade answered anyway.

  “Pennsylvania looks like Arizona’s brother because, well, he is. Bigger in the heavier, more brutal way old Standard and Super Dreadnought lines sometimes had. Strong frame. Hard features. The kind of face that was probably handsome before the war made it meaner. Dark hair, the sort of eyes that look like they’d seen too much even before he was lost. In the state he’s in now, there’s damage and Abyssal corruption over all of that, but the silhouette is still unmistakable. He looks like a battleship that kept surviving long after surviving stopped being a clean thing.”

  No one joked after that.

  Calloway looked up from the file and immediately decided not to freestyle it.

  “Mogador stands out,” he said carefully. “Tall for a destroyer, long violet hair, fair skin, and eyes that always look half-lidded and amused like she already knows how a fight will end. She’s beautiful in a dangerous, predatory way and dresses like a late-war French destroyer got redesigned by someone who thought executioners ought to have better tailoring. Sleek black accents, sharp lines, and the kind of posture that says she likes being a little too close. Her close-quarters weapon—a polearm that feels like an axe and spear had an argument and decided to become murder together—fits her exactly.”

  Mogador looked pleased. “Good. You may live.”

  Tōkaidō smiled very slightly.

  “Kotta is smaller and visibly younger in energy than many of the others. She has pale coloring, soft fair skin, fox ears and tails, and an expressive face that tends to show every thought before she means it to. Her hair is light, her eyes bright and nervous, and she has the look of someone who could become either a shrine attendant or a panic event depending on the hour. There is something soft and warm about her appearance, but it sits atop a carrier’s capacity for surprising force.”

  Wisconsin exhaled once, then answered with the respect of someone who had seen her work under fire.

  “Vestal looks like competence running on too little sleep and still somehow saving everyone anyway. Fair features, practical presence, hair kept in ways that won’t get in her face while she’s elbow-deep in repairs or medicine, and eyes that can go from exhausted to terrifying in a second if you do something stupid around a patient. She isn’t trying to look imposing, but she does anyway because every part of her says she knows what she’s doing and expects you not to make that harder.”

  Calloway shuffled the now-thinner stack of pages and looked up.

  “That should be everyone.”

  Kade stared at the emptying table.

  “Only took an entire military campaign worth of paperwork.”

  “You are exaggerating,” Tōkaidō said.

  Wisconsin shook his head. “No, he isn’t.”

  Mogador leaned back in her chair and smiled at the group as if she had personally enjoyed this far more than anyone else. “Well. That was intimate.”

  Kade stood up like a man trying to flee his own administration. “If anyone brings me another transfer packet today, I am declaring mutiny legal.”

  Calloway carefully gathered the pages before they could blow away or be set on fire out of principle.

  Tōkaidō rose more gracefully and adjusted the stack into something tidy.

  “You say that every time.”

  “And one day I’ll mean it.”

  “You already do,” Wisconsin said.

  Mogador laughed.

  From somewhere outside the room, faint through the hall, Vermont’s voice drifted by in bright confusion:

  “Why does Uncle Iowa have different handwriting than Aunt Iowa?”

  Kade closed his eyes.

  Tōkaidō’s ears flicked.

  Calloway failed completely not to laugh.

  And the whole miserable, beloved, impossible base of Horizon felt exactly like itself again.