She had dealt with the ladders the entire trip, dragging them to the deck. The sun dipped toward the horizon, casting golden light on the Yamato''s damaged hull. Frieda stood at the railing, ladder in hand, eyeing the beach below—about twenty meters down. Manageable.


    Now she finally had a way down. Carefully, she arranged the ladder, inspecting each rung and testing the rope’s strength. She slowly lowered it until the tip touched the ground, then gave it a final tug to ensure its stability. Satisfied, she secured it tightly to a metal stanchion on the deck.


    She placed her foot on the ladder and descended slowly, gripping the ropes tightly. Her knuckles went white as the salt-covered fibers dug into her palms, but the pain barely registered. After years of training and months at sea, physical discomfort had become second nature. Her mind kept replaying fractured memories of the fight—the explosions, the screams, that moment she thought would be her last.


    How did I survive when no one else did? Did they escape without me? Or did they...? No. I refuse to believe they''d abandon their captain. My crew wouldn''t leave me behind. Something else must have happened. But what?


    And beneath these practical questions lay something more personal, more painful. She didn''t want to lose people she cared for. Again.


    When her toes reached the last rung, she released her grip and dropped the final short distance to the beach. The soft give of the sand beneath her boots felt strange after months at sea, where every surface was hard and unyielding. It was almost dizzying, like the ground itself was alive beneath her feet.


    "At last. Land!" Her voice was rough with emotion, a complex mixture of relief and triumph.


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    She looked around, taking in the beach from this new perspective. The sand was pale gold, almost white in places, stretching in a gentle curve for what looked like several kilometers in either direction. The forest line began about fifty meters back from the water''s edge, a dense wall of green that promised both resources and potential dangers.


    "Who knows how long it''s been since I''ve touched anything but a metal surface..."


    Not caring about uniform or pride for once, Frieda twirled slowly, arms outstretched, and allowed herself to fall backwards onto the warm sand. It was a childlike gesture of surrender and relief, something the disciplined Captain Flusser would never have permitted herself.


    The grains embraced her, curving to conform to her shape, warm from the day''s sun. She stretched out her arms, feeling the texture of each particle on her palms as she sank her fingers into the beach. The sensation was exquisite, so different from the cold, unyielding metal that had surrounded her for so long. The sand shifted and yielded beneath her weight, a living thing compared to the dead materials of the ship.


    She slowly opened her eyes to look up at the endless blue sky. Her pitch-black eyes, normally cutting with command and calculation, now appeared to draw in the sun''s rays like twin abysses. Her gaze softened. She felt free, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders.


    Ahh, for the first time in years, no one is watching me. No crew depending on my next command, no enemy tracking our movements, no Wilhelm judging my every decision. I''m completely free. I can just be Frieda for now, not Captain Flusser.


    An unexplainable smile shaped her face, not one of relief or joy, but one of greater sophistication.


    After years of training for war, preparing for death, she found herself utterly unprepared for survival in these circumstances. Wilhelm had taught her how to kill, how to command, how to strategize, but had spent precious little time on what to do if she found herself alone, stranded, without the military might at her disposal.


    "What do you want me to do, Wilhelm?" she said quietly to the sky, half expecting the gruff voice of her "father" to respond with some tactical assessment of her situation. But there was only the soft sound of waves lapping at the shore and the distant calls of unknown birds.


    Would you be proud of me, Wilhelm? Or disappointed?