She had the vaguest impression that there was something wrong.

Not the kind of wrong where you’ve misplaced your house keys, or forgotten to grab a carton of milk from the grocer’s. No, this was a deeper kind of wrong; a heavy feeling that came from the gut.

Then came the pain.

Such exquisite pain she wanted to cry out.

Where had this come from?

She had attended a brief with the others. They were going into the North Sea-a nasty stretch of it, if she recalled. What was its name?

Ah yes.

Dogger Bank.

Gradually, the memories returned to her. They were pushing for Germany, perhaps to make the same sort of headway in Europe that they had in Japan. Contact with an initially small Abyssal fleet was made and then…

/Renown…/

Oh good lord, how on earth could she have been so blind to what had come? She should have anticipated it; she /knew/ what Renown was like-how far her hatred extended! She should have said something. /Anything!/

Then maybe…

Something had gone wrong. The shock of Task Force R’s betrayal as well as trying to keep up with one of those damnably persistent Re-classes had incensed Graf to such a degree that she had almost fainted on the spot.

It must have done something to her, too. Because when she tried to cover Paz, something broke. She hadn’t realised it at first, of course, too focused on the rush of combat to take notice of anything besides a sudden, sharp pain in her gut.

In hindsight, that should have been her first warning.

The sudden rain of fire from a Ne-class had cratered her rig and staggered her. She had been unable to do anything but watch as Paz-sweet, innocent Paz, who had never so much as raised her voice in anger-had borne the brunt of the Ne-class’s attentions. She had been lucky, scarpering just out of the way of the screaming shellfire in the nick of time.

Dorsetshire didn’t know what she might have done if a single one of those shots had connected.

In the end, however, it didn’t matter. A maternal rage had overtaken her at the sight of the carrier so threatened. A small part of her had wondered if that was how Ontario felt each time she had watched the Flower girls sortie out. In the end, however, whatever damage she had inflicted on herself, as well as the barrage she had received earlier, took its toll.

She had suddenly felt something bubbling up her gullet, like she was about to throw up. Then a wave of oil streaked with blood had gushed from her mouth, spattering her uniform and spilling into the roiling waves. She had been dimly aware of a scream that sounded eerily like what she imagined Paz might sound like if she screamed in such a way. But that couldn’t be.

Weakness had come moments later, and all Dorsetshire had been able to do was paw uselessly in disbelief at the flow that dribbled from her lips before she had collapsed, floating on the surface of the North Sea, incapacitated and vulnerable.

She had sensed someone taking her into their arms not long after. She had a fuzzy image of Paz leaning over her, weeping as she called out to her over and over, as if saying her name enough times might dispel her malaise. The sight broke her heart.

/Don’t cry,/ she wanted to say to the apparition; wanted to reach up a hand and wipe the tears away. /Yours isn’t a face made for crying, child./

Then she had been torn away, hoisted up by a similarly-young blonde carrying a baseball bat. She looked rather like Hoel, come to think of it. How Paz had screamed then, reaching for her even as she was whisked away to safer shores, her cries reaching a feverish pitch. She had felt a disconnected sense of calm then. At least she’d be safe, unless all of this was in her head and she was dead. Perhaps even now she was sinking into the deepest, darkest depths of the North Sea to join so many other good men and women.

She wondered if that meant she would see Ian again. Or her old friends…

The thought comforted her, and she found herself welcoming the coming darkness even as she felt herself being lifted up by a pair of slender, yet firm arms.