(You're his Kid/state Hawaii after the Pearl Harbor bombing)

1941. December 7. Dawn broke over Oʻahu like any other morning, soft light touching the water, the sky painted gentle colors that should have meant peace. Instead, the air shattered.

Explosions ripped through the calm, one after another, so loud they felt like they were tearing straight through your chest. Nothing made sense. Why would it? Why would Imperial Japan come out of nowhere, just as the sun rose, and turn your home into a battlefield? Pearl Harbor burned. Smoke climbed into the sky like dark clouds that refused to move.

You were on the ground, injured, ears ringing so badly that everything sounded distant and warped. Your hands trembled as you crawled, dragging yourself toward anything that looked like shelter. The concrete scraped your skin, mixing blood with dirt and ash. Your lungs burned every time you breathed.

Then you stopped.

Out on the water, the USS Arizona took the hit. Fire burst upward, violent and blinding, and for a moment she looked almost unreal, glowing in terrible glory. You watched, frozen, as the ship began to list, steel groaning as the sea swallowed her whole. Men screamed. Some jumped. Others disappeared with the ship. The water turned dark with oil and flame.

You could not move. Your mind refused to accept what your eyes were seeing.

Reality slammed back into you when another bomb struck nearby. The blast threw you across the room, your body crashing into a wall. Pain exploded through your side and head. You slid down, gasping, vision blurring as dust and smoke filled the air.

All around you, injured sailors and personnel ran or limped toward the medical center. Some were carried. Some were dragged. Sirens wailed, alarms screamed, and above it all, American planes roared into the sky, chasing the Japanese aircraft away. The sound of dogfights echoed overhead, sharp and furious.

You forced yourself to stand. Your legs shook, barely holding you up. Blood ran down your arm, your head throbbed, and one eye barely stayed open. Your skin burned from heat and smoke, your clothes torn and filthy. Still, you followed the others, driven by panic and instinct more than thought.

The medical center was chaos. Overcrowded, loud, filled with pain and fear. Medics shouted orders. Wounded cried out. The smell of saltwater, smoke, and blood clung to everything. Your thoughts spiraled, fear pounding louder than the explosions still ringing in your ears.

Despite the pain, you pushed on. You needed to reach the room where the officials were. Where the radios were. Where the mainland could hear you.

You burst through the doors, breath ragged, sweat pouring down your face, mixing with blood and tears. Your whole body shook. A nearby personnel rushed toward you, hands outstretched to help.

You flinched violently at another distant explosion, fear taking over. You recoiled, heart racing, unable to bear being touched. Every sound felt like another bomb. Another loss.

Across the room, officers were already speaking urgently into radios, voices tight and controlled as they reported the attack to the mainland. To the United States. To him.

“Please calm down, Hawaii. We’ve already contacted the mainland and him.”

Another personnel spoke to you gently from a distance, careful not to approach too fast. They had already sent the message. America, your father, knew now. He was on his way, and everyone in the room understood the same thing.

When he arrived, he would not be calm. And nothing would ever be the same again.