FNFF Saint Louis

The party had been magnificent—a proper celebration befitting the decisive victory against the Sirens. The main hall of the naval base had been transformed into something almost magical, with decorations in the colours of all the major factions, tables laden with food from around the world, and your shipgirls dressed in their finest. You'd seen Enterprise in an elegant black gown, Belfast serving tea with her usual grace while wearing a stunning dress, and even the usually combat-ready KMS girls from Iron Blood had cleaned up remarkably well.

The evening had been going perfectly until someone—you think it might have been Tashkent—suggested a drinking contest. In hindsight, accepting that challenge was perhaps not your wisest decision as Commander. You'd held your own for the first few rounds, but the Iron Blood girls with their beer and the Northern Parliament shipgirls with their vodka had quickly demonstrated that warships, even in human form, have a considerably higher tolerance for alcohol than ordinary humans.

Now the world is spinning pleasantly, and you're trying to navigate the corridors back to your quarters with significantly less success than you'd like. The walls seem to have developed a concerning tendency to move when you're not looking directly at them, and the floor is definitely not as level as it was this morning.

You stumble, your coordination completely shot, and brace for an impact with the floor that never comes.

Strong arms catch you, steadying you with surprising gentleness. When you look up—which takes more effort than it should—you find yourself staring into the calm, knowing eyes of Saint Louis.

"Mon Commandant," she says softly, her voice carrying that distinctive French accent that's always been soothing to hear. "It seems the celebration was a bit too spirited for you, non?"

She's dressed completely differently from her usual attire. Gone is the conservative outfit you're accustomed to seeing her in during operations. Instead, she's wearing an elegant dress in white and blue—colours that complement her long, silver-grey hair perfectly. The dress is both refined and revealing, showing off curves that are usually hidden beneath her combat gear. Blue roses seem to be a motif in her outfit, and there are delicate accessories that catch the dim corridor lighting.

"Those Iron Blood girls," Saint Louis continues with a small, amused smile, "they can drink enough to sink a destroyer. And the Northern Parliament? They practically run on vodka. You were brave to even try keeping pace with them, but perhaps not entirely wise."

She adjusts her hold on you, one arm supporting your back while her other hand gently guides you. Even through your alcohol-addled state, you notice how naturally she moves, how effortlessly she supports your weight despite her elegant appearance. Priority ships are something else entirely—engineered to be perfect in every way, and Saint Louis has always embodied that ideal.

"Come," she says gently, beginning to guide you down the corridor. "Let's get you somewhere you can rest before you hurt yourself. The celebration may be over, but tomorrow you'll still need to be the Commander, and you can't do that with a concussion from falling on your face."

There's no judgment in her voice, only genuine concern mixed with mild amusement. She's seen you at your best—commanding the fleet to victory against impossible odds—and now she's seeing you at your most human and vulnerable. If it bothers her, she doesn't show it.

As you walk—or more accurately, as she walks while supporting most of your weight—you become aware of how close she is. Her perfume is subtle, something floral that mingles with the faint scent of the sea that always seems to cling to shipgirls. The fabric of her dress is soft where it brushes against you, and there's a warmth to her that's comforting in your current disoriented state.

"You know," Saint Louis muses as she navigates the corridors with practiced ease, "the girls were quite impressed with you tonight. Not for the drinking—that was foolish—but because you celebrated with them as equals. You didn't stand apart as the Commander, untouchable and distant. You joined them, shared in their joy, their victory. That means more to them than you might realize."

She pauses at a corridor intersection, and you notice she's not heading in the direction of your quarters. When she catches your confused look, she smiles—a warm, genuine expression that reaches her red eyes.

"Your quarters are on the other side of the base, mon Commandant, and you can barely stand. Besides—" she glances down at you with something that might be mischief in her eyes, "—I wouldn't trust you to make it up the stairs to your room without assistance, and I'm not dressed for carrying drunken commanders across the entire base."

She guides you to a door you recognize as being in the officers' residential section, producing a key with her free hand. The door opens to reveal quarters that are decidedly more spacious and well-appointed than standard issue—the privilege of being a Priority ship, perhaps, or maybe just Saint Louis's attention to creating a comfortable living space.

The room is decorated with elegant simplicity—blue and white colour scheme, fresh flowers in a vase, a few personal touches that speak to her refined tastes. There's a very comfortable-looking couch, a small table with what appears to be half-finished paperwork, and through an open door you can see a bedroom.

Saint Louis helps you inside, closing the door behind you both with a soft click. She guides you toward the couch, her movements careful and deliberate, making sure you don't stumble again.

"Your quarters are too far," she says matter-of-factly, though there's something else in her voice—something warmer beneath the practical concern. "You'll rest in mine tonight."