Chapter 7: Inspection Protocol
The door clicked shut, and the world outside ceased to exist. Tashigi remained on her knees, the cold of the metal deck seeping through the thin fabric of her hakama. The position was a familiar one from her training, a posture of respect and focus. Now, it was a cage. Her own will had been supplanted, leaving behind only the hollow echo of his command: You are a piece of furniture.
She didn’t know how long she knelt there. Time became the slow, rhythmic throb of the ship’s engines, the occasional distant shout of a crewman, the ache in her knees deepening into a sharp, persistent burn. She was an object. A vase. A statue. She focused on the grain of the deck plating, on a tiny, rust-colored speck near her left hand. Anything to keep the screaming part of her mind from shattering completely.
The door opened again. She didn’t flinch. She couldn’t.
D’s boots came into her narrow field of view. He stopped directly in front of her. She could smell the salt air on his clothes.
“Still here,” he said, a note of genuine approval in his voice. It was the tone one might use with a well-behaved dog. “You learn quickly when properly motivated.”
He set Shigure down on the bunk with a soft clatter. Then he produced a small, sharp pocket knife from his trousers. The blade snicked open. The sound was tiny, final.
“This outfit is a start,” he mused, circling her. The point of the knife lightly traced the line of her shoulder through the dark blue kimono. “But it’s still too… complete. It implies a wholeness you no longer possess.”
He moved behind her. She felt a tug at the back of the kimono, just below her neck. Then the sound of tearing fabric. A sharp, ripping noise that made her jaw clench. The blade was incredibly sharp. It slit the fabric down her spine in one smooth, uninterrupted motion, from her shoulders to the small of her back. The two halves of the garment fell away, held together only by the obi sash around her waist. The cool air hit the bare skin of her back, raising goosebumps.
He wasn't done. He knelt behind her, and she felt the cold press of the blade against her thigh. Another rip. A long gash opened in the left leg of her hakama, from hip to knee, exposing the pale skin of her leg. Then the right leg. The fabric hung from her in tattered, dark blue strips. She was covered, but only just. The kimono threatened to slide from her shoulders with every shallow breath she took; the hakama was now little more than a scandalous skirt of ribbons, offering glimpses of her thighs and hips.
“There,” D said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “An improvement. It suits your new, more… accessible role.”
He walked over to the pile of her discarded belongings and picked up her standard-issue Marine blouse. He shook it out, the crisp white fabric a stark contrast to the torn, traditional clothes she now wore.
“You’ve been very good,” he said, his voice softening into that manipulative, charming cadence that was somehow worse than his commands. “So you get a reward. A piece of yourself back.”
He held the blouse open. “Arms.”
The compulsion shifted, guiding her. She raised her arms, stiff and aching from being held still for so long. He helped her slide them into the sleeves. The familiar, stiff cotton felt like a betrayal against her skin. He buttoned it for her, starting from the bottom, his fingers deft and impersonal. He fastened every button, all the way to the collar, pulling it snug around her throat. It was the most clothed she had been in hours, and the feeling was agonizingly normal. It was the uniform of a Marine officer.
But he left her lower body completely exposed. The torn hakama provided a flimsy, indecent curtain, but from the waist down, she was naked save for her plain white panties. The contrast was dizzying. The professional, buttoned-up blouse above, the state of humiliating undress below.
He leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear. “You can wear this. You can walk out of this room looking like a proper lieutenant. I’ll even let you carry Shigure.” He paused, letting the offer hang in the air like a poisoned gift. “I’ll take care of what people see, if you are a good pet.”
The meaning was clear, a psychological trap more cunning than any physical restraint. Her dignity, her ability to move through her own world without being seen as a freak or a slut, was now a currency. He would grant her the illusion of normalcy, but only in exchange for her complete submission. Her compliance would be the price of his discretion.
He straightened up. “You can stand.”
The command released her muscles. She swayed as she got to her feet, her legs screaming in protest, the torn hakama whispering around her thighs. She kept her eyes down, unable to look at him.
“Look at me, Tashigi.”
She forced her gaze up. His eyes were calm, possessive.
“We’re going to go for a walk now,” he said, his tone conversational, as if suggesting a stroll on the deck. “You’re going to lead me to the galley. I’m hungry. You will walk just like you always do. You will hold your head high. You are a Marine officer. And I…” he smiled, a thin, dangerous curve of his lips, “…am your guest. Remember our agreement.”
He picked up Shigure and placed the sheathed sword in her hands. The weight of it was a comfort and a curse. It was the symbol of everything she had been, now reduced to a prop in this grotesque performance.
He opened the cabin door. The bright, noisy corridor outside seemed to stretch for miles. She took a deep, shuddering breath, the stiff collar of her blouse tight around her throat. Then she took the first step, the tattered ends of her hakama brushing against her bare legs, the eyes of every passing Marine a potential judgment he had promised to hold at bay—if she was good.
The corridor stretched, a gauntlet of polished steel and familiar faces. Each footstep echoed her humiliation, the torn hakama whispering secrets against her thighs with every stride. She held Shigure tight, her knuckles white, using the solid weight of the scabbard as an anchor against the dizzying unreality of it all. A young ensign passed, snapping a crisp salute she automatically returned, his eyes sliding over her bizarre state of undress without a flicker of surprise.
D walked a half-step behind her, a silent spectator to his own handiwork. His gaze was a physical weight, tracing the lines of her body encased in the starched, proper blouse and the scandalously tattered remains below. His eyes lingered on the way the plain white cotton of her panties stretched taut across her rear with each step, a stark, intimate contrast to the dark, ripped fabric of the hakama. The shape was firm and defined, molded by years of sword drills and combat training, now presented for his appraisal like a cut of meat.
He closed the small distance between them in the empty stretch before the galley. His hand, warm and possessive, settled on the curve of her left buttock, his palm covering the cotton completely. He gave it a slow, deliberate rub, his fingers pressing into the muscle beneath. "You're being such a good girl for me, Tashigi," he murmured, his voice low and intimate in the bustling corridor.
A jolt, hot and entirely unwelcome, shot through her. It wasn't just shame this time. It was a sharp, electric spark of sensation that radiated from his touch, a deep, visceral response that made her breath catch and her stomach clench. Her step faltered for a fraction of a second. What was that? The heat of it pooled low in her belly, a traitorous reaction that had no place alongside her revulsion. She hated his hand, hated the contact, but her body seemed to have a different, horrifying opinion.
"Eyes forward, Lieutenant," D said softly, his hand still resting on her as if he owned the very flesh beneath the fabric. "You have a image to maintain."
She forced her spine straight, her face a mask of strained professionalism, while inside she was reeling. The memory of the burning strikes from Shigure's flat was a dull ache beneath this new, confusing heat. He removed his hand, and the spot felt strangely cold, the ghost of his touch and that shocking jolt lingering like a brand. They turned a corner, and the galley doors came into view, but standing before them was Captain Ibsen, a data pad in his hand and a stern look on his face.
"Tashigi. Just the person I needed to see," the Captain said, his eyes briefly flicking over D before settling on her with an expression of mundane bureaucratic concern. "We need to go over the inventory discrepancies for the last supply run. Now is as good a time as any."
D gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod from behind her. The trap was sprung. She was to stand here, in this state, and conduct official Marine business.
“Of course, Captain,” Tashigi heard her own voice say, steady and professional, a complete lie spoken through a throat tight with panic. She shifted her weight, the movement making the torn hakama flutter, a cold draft brushing the backs of her thighs. She clutched Shigure like a lifeline, the solid scabbard a stark contrast to the fragile pretense of her composure.
Captain Ibsen scanned his data pad, oblivious. “The numbers for the cannon fuse primers are off by a full case. Your signature is here from the last audit.” He held the pad out for her to see. D stood slightly behind her, a silent spectator radiating quiet amusement. She could feel his gaze on the exposed skin of her legs, a physical weight.
She focused on the screen, the numbers blurring. Her entire world had narrowed to the feel of the air on her bare skin and the terrifying possibility of the torn fabric shifting too far. “I… I recall the count, sir. The ledger must have been updated after I signed.” Her voice sounded distant, someone else’s.
“Hmm. We’ll need a re-count after the watch change, then. I’ll have Petty Officer Riggs assist you.” The Captain tapped the screen, finalizing a note. He finally looked up from the pad, his eyes scanning her from head to toe. Tashigi’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone.
His gaze held no shock, no confusion. It held approval. “Incidentally, Tashigi, your uniform is exceptionally sharp today. That’s the kind of attention to protocol I like to see.”
The praise was a knife twisting in her gut. He saw a perfectly presented Marine officer. He didn't see the tattered shame clinging to her legs or the plain white panties she was standing in front of her commanding officer in. This was D’s power, warping reality itself, making a mockery of her and everything she represented.
Just then, a young, flustered-looking Marine—the same Ensign Ryley from earlier—rounded the corner, his own jacket unbuttoned and his tie askew. Captain Ibsen’s eyes narrowed. “Ensign! Halt right there.”
Ryley froze, his face paling. “Sir!”
“Look at this disgrace,” the Captain grumbled, then gestured broadly to Tashigi. “Now look at Lieutenant Tashigi. This is how a Marine presents themselves. Impeccable. Every button fastened, every line crisp. This is the standard, Ensign. Is that understood?”
Tashigi stood rigid, a perfect, humiliating mannequin. Her inner monologue screamed. He’s holding me up as an example. He’s praising me while I’m standing here in my underwear. The stiff, proper blouse felt like a cruel joke, buttoned all the way to her throat while her lower half was exposed to the cool, circulating air of the ship. Every fiber of her being was aware of the thin cotton of her panties, the only barrier between her skin and the world. This is so embarrassing. I’m in my panties. My commanding officer is telling another Marine to be more like me, and I’m standing here in my plain white panties and torn clothes like some… some pet.
“Y-yes, Captain! Sorry, Captain!” Ryley stammered, fumbling desperately with his buttons, his eyes wide with admiration and fear as he looked at Tashigi. He saw a paragon of virtue. He had no idea he was looking at a broken woman being displayed in her underwear.
“See that it doesn’t happen again. Dismissed.” The Captain watched the ensign scurry away, then turned back to Tashigi. “Carry on, Lieutenant. And thank you for setting the example.”
He walked away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. The moment he was out of sight, the compulsion holding her perfectly still eased, but the deeper shame remained, a stain on her soul. D stepped close, his presence enveloping her.
“See?” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. “I keep my promises. You were a very good pet, and no one saw a thing they weren’t supposed to.” His hand came to rest on the small of her back, his fingers splaying possessively over the blouse fabric. “Now, let’s get that food. I’ve worked up an appetite.”
His hand remained on the small of her back, a brand of ownership as she led him into the galley. The room was a cacophony of clattering trays and boisterous chatter, the air thick with the greasy scent of fried fish and boiled potatoes. Every Marine in the room was a potential witness to her walk of shame, yet their eyes slid over her torn hakama and exposed legs with the same bland indifference the Captain had shown. D’s power was a veil, and she was trapped beneath it.
He guided her toward an empty table in the corner, his touch firm and directing. "Sit."
She obeyed, the motion making the torn fabric of her hakama gape wider, the edge of the table pressing cold against her thighs. She kept Shigure clamped vertically between her knees, the scabbard a feeble shield. D settled opposite her, leaning back as if he owned the entire ship. His eyes scanned the room, not with worry, but with a collector’s appraisal.
"Looks like stew night," he remarked, his tone conversational. He nodded toward a server behind the counter. "Go on. Be a good host and get us two bowls. And some of that hard bread on the side."
The command was a shove in her mind. She stood automatically, the movement jerky. The sensation of the torn cloth whispering against her bare skin was a constant, horrifying reminder. She felt every eye in the room, real or imagined, as she walked to the serving line. The server, a burly man with a ladle, slopped stew into two bowls without looking at her face.
"Two," she managed to say, her voice thin.
He grunted, shoving the bowls across the counter. She picked them up, the heat from the ceramic seeping into her palms. The walk back to the table felt infinitely longer than the walk there. She was balancing the hot bowls, clutching Shigure, and desperately trying to control the fluttering, revealing movements of her ruined clothes.
She set a bowl in front of him, then placed her own across the table. She went to sit.
"Not there," D said, his voice quiet but absolute. He tapped the bench right next to him. "Here. I don't want to shout over the noise."
It was a transparent lie. The galley was already beginning to empty. She looked at the space beside him, then at his face. His expression was neutral, but his eyes held a dark promise. The memory of the Captain’s oblivious praise echoed in her head, the price of his discretion. She moved. The wooden bench was hard and unyielding as she sat, her body angled toward him, her knee almost brushing his leg.
"Better." He picked up his spoon and began to eat, seemingly oblivious to her tension. "It's not bad. For ship food."
She stared at her own bowl, the greasy surface congealing. The smell, once comforting, now turned her stomach. She made no move to touch her spoon.
D took a loud bite of the hard bread. "You should eat. You'll need your strength." He didn't look at her, but the compulsion wrapped around her, a gentle but insistent pressure. Her hand trembled as she picked up the spoon. She dipped it into the stew, the motion feeling alien and forced. She brought it to her lips. The taste was ash.
He ate with a deliberate slowness, drawing out the torment. Each clink of his spoon against the bowl was a marker of time spent in this unbearable proximity. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the faint, clean scent of him beneath the galley's grease. It was an intimacy more violating than any touch so far.
"You know," he said between bites, his voice dropping so only she could hear. "I was thinking about your training. Positive reinforcement is important." He nudged her bowl with his elbow. "Finish that, and I'll let you button your trousers later. The ones in your locker."
The offer was so specific, so demeaning. The reward for compliance was the mere chance to cover herself with her own, previously discarded clothes. She looked down at the stew, the chunks of potato and carrot swimming in murky broth. Her stomach churned. She took another spoonful. And another. She forced the food down, each swallow a small death of her pride.
She was halfway through the bowl when the galley doors swung open again. Ensign Ryley walked in, his uniform now perfectly in order, a determined look on his young face. He scanned the room, his eyes lighting up when they found her. He strode over, coming to a halt before their table and snapping a sharp, earnest salute directly at Tashigi.
"Lieutenant! I just wanted to thank you, ma'am!" he announced, his voice loud with sincerity. "Your example was the kick in the pants I needed. I'll maintain proper standards from now on, I swear it!"
Tashigi froze, the spoon halfway to her mouth. She was hyper-aware of D sitting beside her, of the torn hakama, of the fact that this young man was idolizing her while she was essentially sitting in her underwear next to her captor. D made a soft, amused sound into his stew.
She lowered the spoon slowly, her face a mask of strained professionalism. "That's... good to hear, Ensign. Carry on."
Ryley beamed, gave another crisp salute, and marched off, filled with renewed purpose. The moment he was gone, the fragile act crumbled. The spoon clattered from her numb fingers into the bowl, splattering brown droplets onto the table. She stared at the mess, her breath hitching. The humiliation was a live wire, frayed and sparking inside her chest. She couldn't do this. She couldn't sit here and be praised while being systematically unmade.
D pushed his empty bowl away. "See? You're an inspiration." He stood up, the bench groaning as his weight left it. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. "We're done here. Back to your quarters. Now."
The command was a release and a sentence. She stood on trembling legs, clutching Shigure. She didn't look at him. She didn't look at anyone. She just turned and walked, leading the way out of the galley, the echo of Ryley's gratitude a ghost haunting her every step. The walk back was a blur of metallic walls and averted eyes. She focused only on putting one foot in front of the other, on the feel of the scabbard in her grip, on the shreds of fabric that were all that remained of her dignity.
He followed close behind, a silent predator herding his prey. They reached her cabin door. She opened it, stepping into the familiar space that now felt like a prison. The scattered contents of her footlocker still lay on the floor where he had tossed them. The air still carried the faint, metallic scent of her fear.
D closed the door behind them, the click of the lock definitive. He didn't say a word. He simply pointed to the empty space in the center of the room, where she had knelt before. The meaning was clear. It was time to resume her position.
She walked to the spot. The cold of the deck seeped through the thin, torn hakama as she lowered herself. She arranged Shigure carefully beside her, the polished wood aligning with her knee. She straightened her back, settled her weight, and fixed her gaze on the same rust-colored speck on the floor. She became still. She became an object. She obeyed silently.