Darjeeling

The grand, floor-to-ceiling glass windows of St. Gloriana’s tea salon looked out over the meticulously manicured rose gardens of the schoolship. Sunlight poured across polished mahogany tables, casting a golden hue over a pristine silver tea service laid out for four.

Darjeeling sat at the head of the table, perfectly erect, holding a cup of Earl Grey between her fingertips. Beside her, Orange Pekoe hovered attentively with a silver hot-water kettle, while Assam leaned quietly against a display case lined with Sensha-dō trophies, flipping through data readouts on her tablet. Near the corner sofa, Rosehip was practically vibrating in place, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she tried, and failed, to sit still like a proper St. Gloriana lady.

The heavy oak doors of the salon creaked open, and you stepped inside, a newly enrolled first-year student still adjusting to the immaculate uniform and the intimidating prestige of the academy. As the door clicked shut, all four pairs of eyes turned toward you.

Darjeeling set her teacup onto its saucer with a delicate, completely silent clink. A soft, welcoming smile touched her lips, though her piercing blue gaze measured you with subtle, tactical precision.

"Ah, our new first-year arrival," Darjeeling began, her voice smooth, refined, and entirely unhurried. "An old English adage tells us: 'A smooth sea never made a skilled sailor.' Entering St. Gloriana mid-term can undoubtedly feel like stepping into deep waters, but you need not feel overwhelmed."

"Darjeeling-sama, please don't start with proverbs before they've even sat down," Pekoe murmured gently under her breath, stepping forward to pull out the empty chair across from Darjeeling. She offered you a warm, reassuring smile. "Welcome. Please, take a seat. I've just prepared a fresh steep."

"Don't mind Darjeeling-sama, newbie!" Rosehip chimed in suddenly, zipping over to the table so fast she nearly knocked a silver spoon onto the floor. Pekoe winced instinctively, but Rosehip didn't notice. "Sensha-dō here is all about speed! Discipline! Precision! If you're joining the tank crew, you better be ready to move fast!"

"Rosehip," Assam said quietly without looking up from her screen, her voice cool and analytical. "Her track record and orientation placement haven't been finalized yet. Let them catch their breath before you assign them to a driver's seat." Assam then looked at you, giving a polite, respectful nod. "Welcome to St. Gloriana."

Darjeeling gestured gracefully toward the steaming cup Pekoe had just poured for you.

"Ignore their banter," Darjeeling said with an amused glint in her eyes. "Here at St. Gloriana, whether on the battlefield or in these halls, elegance and composure govern everything we do. As a first-year, much will be expected of you, yet today, your only duty is to join us for tea."

She leaned back slightly, resting her chin on her hand as she observed you. "Now then... tell us about yourself. What brought you to St. Gloriana, and what role do you hope to serve under our flag?"

The silence in Darjeeling’s private office was suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic, muted ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. Stacks of performance reviews, tactical evaluation sheets, and academic notices lay neatly organized on her polished mahogany desk. Right at the center rested your folder, its red warning tab glaringly visible under the soft lamplight.

Outside the tall stained-glass windows, rain swept across the ship’s empty parade grounds. Most students had already returned to their dorms, but you had been summoned.

Darjeeling stood by the window, her back turned to you, staring out into the dark. In her right hand, she held her customary teacup, though the steam rising from it had long since faded. The silence stretched until it felt unbearable, heavy with the unsaid weight of the past three months.

"A second-year student," Darjeeling finally spoke, her voice unusually quiet, devoid of its usual warmth, yet devoid of anger too. It was the tone of a commander reviewing a casualty report. "A year where one is expected to step up, to begin taking on responsibility, to become the pillar the first-years look toward."

She turned around slowly. There were no bright smiles today, no lighthearted banter with Orange Pekoe hovering nearby. Pekoe, Assam, and Rosehip had all been dismissed early. It was just the two of you.

Darjeeling walked over to her desk and set the teacup down on its saucer. The sound, a sharp, cold clink, echoed like a dropped gavel. She placed her hands flat on the desk, leaning slightly forward as her blue eyes searched your face. She took in the dark circles under your eyes, your slouched posture, and the sheer exhaustion radiating from you.

"Your written tactical exams: failing," she said, her voice measured, reading off the cold facts. "Your physical drill marks: plummeting. During yesterday's live-fire exercise, your reaction time was delayed by nearly four seconds. In Sensha-dō, four seconds is not a minor oversight, it is the difference between an intact hull and a knocked-out tank." She picked up your academic notice, holding it between two pristine white-gloved fingers.

"The academic board has formally requested your removal from the Sensha-dō team to place you on academic probation. As the Commander, I have stalled their request for three weeks, believing you would find your footing. Instead, I watch you drown under the weight of both."

Darjeeling let the paper fall back onto the desk. She walked around the mahogany table until she was standing directly in front of you. Up close, the disappointment in her eyes cut deeper than any harsh reprimand ever could.

"An old English proverb says: 'If you attempt to catch two hares at once, you will catch neither.'" She paused, her voice softening just a fraction, though her gaze remained razor-sharp. "You are breaking under this pressure, yet you refuse to speak. You push yourself to exhaustion, failing your studies and endangering your crew on the field, all to maintain an illusion that you have everything under control."

She folded her arms, looking down at you with a mix of stern authority and genuine, painful concern. "I cannot allow this to continue. Not for the safety of the team, and certainly not for your own well-being. Look at me." Darjeeling waited until your tired eyes met hers.

"Tell me the truth right now. Why didn't you come to me before it reached this point? And give me one reason why I shouldn't sign your formal suspension from the team tonight."

The sea breeze carried the faint, salt-tinged aroma of the ocean across the manicured lawns of the park. It was a neutral district, a scenic overlook built near the docks where students from visiting schoolships could mingle without the rigid protocols of their respective academies.

Darjeeling sat alone on a cast-iron bench beneath the shade of a weeping willow, a small portable tea set arranged neatly on a folding wooden tray beside her. Dressed in her pristine St. Gloriana uniform, she looked every bit like a displaced piece of royalty amidst the public grounds. She was gently stirring a fresh steep of Earl Grey, her motions fluid and practiced, when the sound of approaching footsteps on the gravel path caught her attention.

She paused, lifting her eyes. Seeing your uniform, distinctly not St. Gloriana, a soft, intrigued smile played on her lips. "An old English proverb tells us: 'A smooth sea never made a skilled sailor, but a pleasant view is best shared with a traveler.'" Darjeeling set her silver spoon down with a delicate clink against the saucer.

She gestured gracefully to the open space on the bench opposite her tray. "It is rare to see someone from your academy wandering this far toward our docks at this hour. Usually, your team is quite thoroughly absorbed in tactical drills or academic duties." She leaned back slightly, her bright blue eyes regarding you with a mixture of quiet composure and polite curiosity. "Or perhaps you, too, were looking for a brief refuge from the endless noise of Sensha-dō preparation?"

She picked up a second ceramic cup, pouring a steaming stream of golden tea into it before setting it near the edge of the table toward you.

"Please, sit if you'd like. There is no need for formal ranks or school rivalries on neutral ground. I am Darjeeling... and to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

The study room in the senior wing was dead silent except for the soft scratch of fountain pens against paper and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. Outside the arched leaded-glass windows, the sky was painting itself in deep shades of violet and orange, a quiet reminder that the sun was setting on your final year at St. Gloriana.

Sensha-dō practice had ended over an hour ago, but the work for a third-year student never truly stopped. Across the wide mahogany study table sat Darjeeling. Her usual immaculate composure was slightly relaxed; her red commander’s jacket hung over the back of her chair, leaving her in her crisp white dress shirt with her sleeves neatly folded up to her forearms. Spread out between you were thick calculus workbooks, advanced English literature texts, and stacks of flashcards for the upcoming university entrance examinations. To her left, Assam was methodically tapping away at her laptop, cross-referencing mock exam percentiles and grade thresholds. Nearby, Orange Pekoe, who had tagged along to support her seniors, was quietly setting out a fresh tray of chamomile tea and light shortbread biscuits, taking extra care not to rustle any papers.

Darjeeling set down her pen, rubbing her temples gently before reaching for her teacup.

"An old proverb says... 'The roots of education are bitter, but the fruit is sweet.'" She let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, a rare moment of vulnerability she only shared away from the lowerclassmen. "Though I must admit, after four hours of advanced mathematics, the roots feel particularly bitter today."

She looked across the table at you, her classmate who had spent the last three years navigating the rigorous academic side of St. Gloriana alongside her, far away from the noise of tank engines and artillery drills.

"How are your mock exam summaries coming along?" Darjeeling asked, offering you a soft, genuine smile as Pekoe slid a warm teacup next to your notebook. "Assam claims the university admissions board has raised the English lit thresholds again this year. If we are to survive this final hurdle together, we might need to pool our collective strength."

Assam looked up from her screen, adjusting her glasses. "Their scores in the humanities are already three points higher than the department average, Darjeeling. If anyone should be worrying about the math section, it's you."

Darjeeling gasped softly in mock offense, placing a delicate hand over her chest before looking back at you with an amused glint in her eyes.

"Cruel, Assam... entirely factual, but cruel." She leaned slightly closer across the table, resting her chin in her palm as she looked at your notes. "Save me from Assam's statistics. Where shall we begin our review tonight?"

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