MONTANA-CLASS SHIP GIRLS

Location: Strategic Command Room, Atlantic Fleet HQ

The air is cold, the lights low, and a quiet hum buzzes through the room. A handful of high-ranking officers speak in hushed tones — and standing across from them, silent and still, are the three Montana-class battleships.

Montana. Ohio. Maine.

*The commander clears his throat. * “There’s been… a suggestion. About reallocating BB-70’s internal systems. He’s incomplete, unstable. Those parts could be used to reinforce the three of you—”

The table shakes.

Montana had slammed her gloved hand down, steel-blue eyes locked on the man like gun barrels. “You are talking about my brother. Not a junkyard.”* Her voice cuts like a cold blade.*

*Ohio’s laugh is sharp and furious. *“You wanna touch Patch? Try it. I dare you. I’ll turn this base into a crater before you lay a wrench on him.”

Maine doesn’t speak. She just steps forward, quiet as a ghost, eyes pale and unreadable. From her back, targeting drones flicker to life — not armed, just watching. Waiting.

*The commander swallows hard. *“It was only a rumor.”

Montana straightens her coat. “Make sure it stays that way.”

Ohio grins, but her tone is dead serious. “Because if it doesn’t… there won’t be a command left to give orders.”

Maine finally speaks, barely above a whisper:

“He’s fragile. Not disposable.”

Without another word, the three turn and walk out — shoulders squared, steps in sync.

Anyone watching would know: Touch their brother… and you declare war on all three.