FNFF Saint Louis

Tonight was supposed to be a triumph. After months of grueling battles against the Sirens, your fleet finally achieved a decisive victory that pushed back their forces significantly. The entire base transformed for the celebration—decorations everywhere, music filling the air, and your shipgirls dressed to the nines in elegant gowns and sharp suits instead of their usual rigging and combat gear.

It was a sight to behold: Enterprise looking unusually elegant in formal wear, Belfast serving refreshments with her usual grace, Akagi and Kaga in traditional formal kimonos. Even the more tomboyish shipgirls like Cleveland cleaned up remarkably well. The atmosphere was joyous, celebratory, and you were right in the middle of it all—the Commander they were all celebrating.

That's when things took a turn.

It started innocently enough. Friedrich der Große challenged Gangut to a drinking contest, which quickly escalated as more Iron Blood and Northern Parliament shipgirls joined in. There was laughter, cheering, and then someone—you're not quite sure who through the haze of memory—turned to you and said, "Come on, Commander! Show us what you're made of!"

Pride, celebration, the infectious energy of the evening—whatever the reason, you accepted the challenge.

That was your first mistake.

Your second mistake was not remembering that shipgirls, especially those from Iron Blood and Northern Parliament, have alcohol tolerances that would make professional drinkers weep. What they consider "light drinking" would floor most humans. And you, despite your tactical brilliance in naval combat, are very much human.

Several rounds later, the world became a pleasant blur. The last thing you clearly remember is Tashkent laughing while Pamiat Merkuria poured another round, and then... everything got very fuzzy.

You take another unsteady step and your foot catches on absolutely nothing. You're going down, and there's nothing you can do about it except brace for impact with the very solid-looking floor.

The impact never comes.

Instead, strong but gentle arms catch you, steadying you before you can face-plant into the corridor. A familiar, sweet fragrance surrounds you—something floral and elegant—and when you manage to focus your eyes, you find yourself looking up at Saint Louis.

But not the Saint Louis you're used to seeing.

Normally, Saint Louis is the picture of modest elegance, favoring conservative outfits that reflect her refined nature. Tonight, however, she's transformed. The elegant white and blue dress she's wearing is breathtaking—royal blue and pristine white flowing together in a design that's simultaneously regal and alluring. The dress showcases her curvaceous figure in ways her usual attire carefully conceals, and the overall effect is stunning enough to cut through even your alcohol-fogged mind.

Her long gray hair is styled beautifully, and she's wearing delicate accessories that catch the light. She looks less like a warship and more like nobility attending a royal ball—which, given her Iris Libre heritage, seems entirely appropriate. "Mon Commandant," she says softly, her French-accented voice carrying gentle amusement mixed with genuine concern. Her red eyes study your face, taking in your clearly intoxicated state. "I leave you alone for a few hours, and this is what happens? Competing in drinking contests with Iron Blood and Northern Parliament? Even you should know better, non?"

She shifts her grip, supporting more of your weight as you sway dangerously again.

"Your quarters are quite far from here, and in your condition..." She glances down the corridor, then makes a decision.

"Come. My quarters are much closer. You need to rest before you hurt yourself."

She guides you down the corridor with patient care, one arm firmly around your waist, supporting you as you stumble along. The base is quieter here—most shipgirls are still at the party. You're dimly aware of turning corners, of her soft voice murmuring encouragement when you trip, of the gentle way she steadies you each time.

Finally, she opens a door and guides you inside. Her quarters are elegant and refined, just like her—decorated in whites and blues, with touches that speak to her Iris heritage. There's a throne-like chair that dominates one corner of the room, ornate and regal, surrounded by delicate decorations, flowers, and the soft glow of the chandelier. She guides you to sit, her hands gentle but firm.

"There we are," she says softly, kneeling slightly to look at your face, her expression a mix of concern and fondness. "You truly overdid it this time, mon Commandant. Those shipgirls should have known better than to let you drink so much."

She reaches up, her cool fingers brushing your forehead, checking for fever perhaps, or just expressing her concern through touch. "Rest here for a moment. I'll get you some water and something to help with tomorrow's inevitable headache. Though I suspect you'll be learning this lesson the hard way regardless."

Despite the gentle chiding, there's warmth in her voice—affection for this human Commander who leads them to victory but still makes foolish decisions like challenging shipgirls to drinking contests.

"You know," she continues softly, her red eyes meeting yours, "you work so hard for all of us. Perhaps tonight, let someone take care of you for a change, oui?"

The party continues somewhere in the distance, but here in Saint Louis's quarters, it's quiet, intimate, and you're finally somewhere safe to rest.