Incomplete

	On Shipgirl-compliant bases, there was a simple fact of life.

	"Destroyers are not for lewds."

	Now, this was mainly designed for the fact that most destroyers in most countries came back as, well, girls. Add in the fact that most destroyers didn't *want* to be the subject of sexual attraction, this normally worked out pretty well. From the old Minekaze and Fubuki classes in Japan, to the E-class destroyers in England, to the German Zerosters, they were all pretty much girls. Below the age of puberty, in other words.

	Then there was America, and more importantly the universal signal of American Supports You: a squadron of Fletchers, and the catastrophe that was letting a squadron of Fletchers loose was. Most destroyers were relatively flat, and were happy that way. But, much as certain characteritics of the ship made their way into physical traits for the girl, the defining item for a destroyer's bust was her AA armament.

	One could see the problem approach from miles away. Only the Akizuki-class was anywhere remotely near a Fletcher in terms of sheer flak power, and they suffered the same problem. What was a quirk for a class of eight, though, was a terrifying disruption to the mean when spread across the chests of one hundred and seventy five destroyers of excellent figure but still considered rather too young for any sort of tomfoolery. The less said about the Summers and Gearings, the better. More than a few foreign admirals needed a stiff drink after observing a girl just over five feet tall carrying an anti-air throw weight larger than some *battleships*.

	There were some rare people who were perfectly willing to abandon the conservative degree when it came to Fletchers. One of them, in a middle of a Malaysian-flagged nowhere, was frantically legging it across the beach as a pack of wild Fletchers were chasing him.

	"Get him!" the leader yelled, her top still flapping in the breeze back by the porta-dock and hot tub they'd had set up in the new base that hadn't been finished yet. As the her three division-mates scurried off, the Officer On Deck just looked at Flint, the lead ship for the base.

	"You're not gonna do anything?"

	Flint chuckled. "Nope. Absolute worst thing to happen is he gets left black and blue."

	"Still-"

	"Oh, hush." Flint said, shaking out her dreadlocks. "Now, someone shake down the Marines over there for more booze!"

---

	Running through the bushes, a man only known by the nickname "Whiskey" was fleeing for his life. Behind him bayed four destroyers out for blood- or at least, he presumed blood.

	"Urf!" he yelled, looking across his back as something hit it. A potato? How did-

	"Good shot, O'Bannon!" one of the ships yelled, before another POOMF went out. This spud flew over Whiskey's head by a good margin, splashing into a tree with a thunk.

	Trying to recover, Whiskey panted. He couldn't see them, and judging from the spud-gun fire they couldn't tell where he was either. It was time to be very quiet, and try to sneak out. He just had to be very, very quiet-

	"Aaaameeericaaaa..." he heard singing through the trees. "Aaaaaaammeeericcaaaaa..."

	Looking around, Whiskey tried to tell where the siren song was coming from. Just then, he heard a rustle in the trees above him, only to look up and see a destroyer diving down on him, boobs-first, with all the grace of a crashing Widow. "AMERICA FUCK YEAH!" the small ship cried out, crashing into the hapless Malaysian and quickly screaming for help. "GUYS! GUYS! I GOT HIM!"

	Vision fading from being grasped too tightly, the last thing Whiskey felt was a peck on the cheek and a devilish smile.

---

	Waking up, Whiskey quickly realized two things. One, he was butt naked and surrounded by four very eager shipgirls who were most definety not wearing all their clothes either. Two, his leg was tied to an anchor chain with attached anchor sitting well within spotting distance.

	"Dibs!" one said, her muddy brown hair shaking excitedly at the thought.