Chapter Text
Screams and cries echoed around her as Taylor stood on the Boardwalk staring up to the sky, bloody oil streaming from her empty eye socket; her gauze wrapped uniform soaked with her own blood. Squealer lay beaten and bound on the ground beside her, the tinkers “boat” sat burning in the bay. It was a hard fought battle, Squealer had put up a vicious fight; were she any other boat she’d be scrap iron at the bottom of the bay.
But she wasn’t just any old boat, she was a ship .
Moreso she was a Fletcher , and she’d be damned if she let a druggie sink her.
She was battered, burned, and broken, but she was far, far from beaten. Fires raged throughout her, smoke and flames rising high into the skies above her, Squealer got lucky and cooked some of her torps in their tubes. Though the outcome was known well before she even sortied, there was very little in Brockton that could kill her.
She’s been at this for a couple weeks now, and honestly; she’s tired of it all.
Waves crashed on her bow as she prowled the open Atlantic, one of her cranes draggin a fishing net through the deep. Tuna was on the menu tonight, and her crew was more than happy for some fresh meat.
Her radar pinged weakly as she bobbed and crashed through a midnight storm. She was tracking a lone freighter, intent on sinking its terrible cargo to the infinite abyss below. She first heard about the ship back in Europe, bound for New York filled to the brim with weapons and explosives.
Hours passed as she slunk along the waves, she finally had the boat in sight. Swinging her turrets around she fired a pair of five-inch shells at the freighter, punching holes clear through its unarmoured hull. Growling in frustration she ordered lighter shells loaded as she raked the vessel with her forty-mils, hoping to start fires as she tore apart containers and superstructure alike.
Soon enough her guns were loaded once more and three of her rifles barked, sending a mix of high explosive and variably timed shells across the gap between them. Though even her HE shells proved more than capable of punching holes through the gun runners boat. Then again, it wasn’t like she had a shortage of shells, she could sit here pumping holes in it all night if she had to; or maybe not.
A massive explosion erupted through the deck, sending flames and debris hundreds of feet into the air.
One of her shells had managed to ignite the cargo, explosions rippled throughout the ship blowing entire shipping containers thousands of feet away. With one final, earth-shaking, explosion the freighter simply ceased to exist, thirty foot waves washed over her as shards of burning steel shot through the air.
Choking back a scream, as shrapnel hammered her hull, Taylor clutched her face, and the two-foot chunk of steel plating embedded through her eye.
Minutes turned to hours as the sea settled, and she sailed on; her damage control teams had managed to cut away a lot of the debris in her face, though she did still have a slab of steel in her head, it at least wasn’t sticking out like a horn.
It was going to be a long, long journey.
It took a long time, longer than it should’ve, but eventually she made New York; eyeless she may be, but she made it. Escorted by harbour police she made landfall in a ferry terminal, and was met with the New York Wards; and about half the NYPD, guess even now the Protectorate don’t care enough to deal with her.
Stomping ashore she simply marched forth, uncaring of those surrounding her. Until one of them stepped in front of her, annoyed Taylor turned her eyeless gaze upon the boy.
To his credit, Jouster barely flinched as he saw her face up close. She didn’t give the trembling teen a chance to speak though, pushing past him she approached the line of cop cars behind him, ignoring the fearful looks she was getting from behind them. Ripping a trunk off she tore into a first aid kit, wrapping miles of gauze around her head to cover her missing eyes and the… new plating… in her skull.
“USS Taylor, DD-468.” Her weary voice spoke. Slick with blood and oil, yet drier than the salt flats themselves. “One hostile sunk at sea, multiple enemy craft made landfall three days ago. Cargo unknown, probable WMDs present. Crew confirmed hostile, terrorists the lot of them. In pursuit.” With that said she stepped forward, uncaring as stray bullets ping off her armour from panicked cops, she had a mission to complete.
She could hear the sirens from here, hear the devastation; the fearful cries, the dying wails of a city damned. They only served to make her faster. Faster, faster. She was flying past lone boats fleeing the storm; wind tugging at her gauze blindfold, long since stained black with blood and oil.
Faster, faster. Her boilers whistled and glowed as her shafts audibly whirled and rattled.
Faster, faster. She needed more steam, she needed more air. She needed more speed.
Faster, fas- “AAughh!” Taylor screeched to the heavens as one of her boilers, weakened by years of overuse, exploded, engineering fell quiet as steam flash- boiled everything near it.
For what felt like hours she languished before her damage control arrived, firefighters and engineers working with her surviving snipes to get her engine room under control. Pressure built again and she crossed back over twenty-five knots, her crew working hard within her hull; uncaring that they were working amongst their friends, their brothers remains, they had a mission to finish. Everyone knew what it was, and everyone knew;
They weren’t coming home.
The gun crews were up to their knees in shells, ready to set the record for fire-rates. Men lined the remains of her bridge, rifles at the ready to defend their ship. Snipes and DamCon were working their damndest to give her every knot they can, uncaring of the burns they get; or the burnt and bloody corpses they stand in. Every spare man was running through her halls, carrying one thing or another. None were concerned for their safety, none cared for the injuries they were receiving. This was a one way trip;
Their lives for the ship.
It was hell in Brockton, Leviathan had crashed through the blocked canal and was laying waste to the city. Her spotters reported seeing Alexandria in the skies above, and dozens of others visible on the ground.
Storming out of the canal and into the bay proper, she banked hard, exposing as many guns as possible, and fired. Hundreds of pounds of pure “Fuck-you” screamed through the air, explosions erupting across his massive body. To little effect, but she had his attention now.
Her whistle screeched as her guns kept barking, managing to pump out over twenty-five rounds a minute as she skated through his tidal waves. Leviathan roared, and she screamed in response; every weapon she had was firing, even her depth charge launchers were getting in on it.
She fired so many damn shells, she actually started floating higher. It was time, she spoke, broadcasting on every frequency she could find; her voice gravely and garbled, and drowned by her own blood, but rang true to all who could hear it.
“USS Taylor, drawing enemy fire, take this bastard down!”
Within seconds a voice she recognised as Dragon’s spoke over her radio. “USS Taylor, fall back now. We can handle this fight, you are ordered to retreat.”
At that an oil stained grin, literally, split her face, even after all this time they still think themselves the cock ‘o the block. And she knew that order came from one of them, Dragon’s not the type to throw away help like that.
Gritting her teeth as a lance of water sheared off her rear five inch mounts, and most of her right arm with them, she decided to reply. It was only polite to do so, after all; they finally decided to get off their asses and do something about her. “With all due respect, Dragon. We’re not going anywhere, even if we could, we have a mission to complete.” A pause as she dumped a spread of fish in the water; waves were so bad you could see the torpedoes as they jumped between swells. “And it ain’t one we’ll be coming back from.” Another pause as a salvo of depth charges were thrown back at her, detonating across her deck. “We are reporting mortal damages and severe crew loss, we know the price and we’re not coming home.
"Make it count. USS Taylor, DD-468 out.” With that she cut her radios, not like they’re saying anything useful, and focused fully on the big fucker in front of her.
“Let’s dance.” And then she exploded.