Scene 1: Morning Briefing — Grandpa’s Unlicensed Physics Class
—-: Ren Kisaragi
Ren squinted at the makeshift chalkboard.
It was the back of an old tool crate, flipped on its side, propped up with a bent crowbar and coated in smudgy black resin. The “chalk” was actually a sharpened length of copper pipe, and the diagrams being scribbled with alarming enthusiasm came courtesy of one very excited, very unlicensed airship mechanic-slash-grandfather.
“Class is now in session,” Grandpa declared, “because the regular curriculum is too boring and not enough of it explodes.”
The entire Dart Team stood awkwardly in a semicircle: Hana, arms crossed and already mouthing oh no; Jiro, chewing on something that might’ve once been breakfast; Mei, expression unreadable; and Ren, trying to figure out whether he was more terrified of the lesson or the fact that he was kind of… excited.
Grandpa slapped a battered steam kettle on the bench.
“Now. Let’s talk about lift dynamics versus style points.”
He grabbed a sprocket, balanced it on the kettle’s lid, and poured hot water directly into the chamber. Steam hissed. The sprocket spun. Badly.
“Lift is not just a number,” Grandpa barked. “It’s a dance partner. You treat it like a lever, it’ll tip you over. You treat it like a rhythm, it’ll carry you through.”
Ren blinked. “So… lift is jazz?”
“Yes!” Grandpa slapped the crate. “Now we’re boiling!”
Hana raised a hand. “You haven’t actually explained how this relates to race scoring.”
Grandpa grinned. “Because racing isn’t just speed — it’s style. Think of it like this:”
He drew three shapes:
- A triangle: “Corner rings. 3 points. Hard, high, high reward.”
- A zigzag line: “Chain rings. 2 points each, but easier to combo.”
- A straight line: “Speed run. Less points, but fast and safe.”
He jabbed at them with his pipe. “You pick a flight path, you commit. Style gets you points, control keeps you alive.”
Mei nodded. “The air circuit's just a floating math problem with wind.”
Grandpa beamed. “Exactly! Math with gravity and teenage drama!”
Ren raised a hand. “Can we go back to the part where you compared the lift to jazz?”
“No time!” Grandpa tossed the kettle into a bucket, where it promptly exploded. “Sim test in thirty! Don’t die!”
Hana sighed. “This… counts as a physics credit, right?”
“Only if no one reports him,” Jiro muttered.
Scene 2: Silver Dart Simulation
—-: Ren Kisaragi
The Silver Dart hovered in its test berth like a cat trying to decide whether to jump off the roof or nap in the sun.
Steam hissed softly from the vent lines. The liftbag above them was fully inflated, cables taut, the lightest shimmer of crystal mist curling in the sunlight as the Dart’s pressure stabilized.
Ren sat in the pilot seat, trying not to sweat through his uniform.
His hands flexed over the throttle levers. The new throttle-assist system—Hana’s invention—was supposed to smooth out the pressure load between mid- and high-thrust ranges. In theory, it would give them faster response on tight turns without the jerk-lag that had been rattling the control yoke out of his hands.
In theory.
He looked to his left. Hana stood just outside the hangar, clipboard in hand, biting her lip. Watching like a hawk. Or an engineer who knew this might explode.
“All systems green,” she called. “Just… go gentle on that first push.”
Ren nodded. Cracked his knuckles. Flipped the core ignition.
WHUMP—whirrrrrrr—CHIME.
The crystal thrummed beneath him. Not singing. Not screaming. Just humming with possibility.
He pushed forward.
The Dart lifted cleanly, weightless, elegant. The crowd of students watching from the gantry started murmuring, some even clapping.
He brought her into a steady climb.
Ten meters. Twenty. Thirty. The air felt smooth. Stable.
“Okay…” he whispered. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He nudged the new assist throttle.
The Dart lurched.
Not forward. Not back. Just—violently sideways.
Ren slammed both hands on the yoke to stabilize. The ship twisted, overcorrected, dipped, and dropped ten meters in a blink before the liftbag hissed and righted itself.
“WOOOAAH—!”
Screams from the crowd. Someone shouted, “HE’S SPINNING!”
Ren grit his teeth and hauled the throttle back. The Dart jerked again—this time forward. A steam line rattled loose and clanged against the inner frame.
The entire airship bounced, steadied… and settled.
Hovering.
Shaky. But not wrecked.
Silence from the gantry.
Then, faintly—one girl clapped.
Someone else snorted.
Someone else: “At least he didn’t die.”
Ren groaned and slumped against the seat.
“What the hell was that?” Hana’s voice barked through the comm tube.
He grabbed it. “Good news: the new system works. Bad news: it has feelings.”
From the gantry, Kazuki from Team Wild Tempo leaned over the railing, grinning.
“That was cute, Kisaragi! Need me to show you how it’s really done?”
Oh no.
Not him.
Scene 3: Wild Tempo Shows Off
—-: Ren Kisaragi
The Silver Dart hissed softly as Ren brought it down into hover-lock, the steam regulators wheezing like an exhausted dog after a sprint. Ren unclipped the flight harness and stepped out onto the gantry, heat still clinging to the back of his neck from embarrassment more than engine runoff.
The crowd had thinned — some losing interest after the Dart’s “graceful panic-dance,” as Jiro called it — but a few lingered.
One of them was already stepping up onto the platform like he owned the sky.
Kazuki Tenjou. Second-year. Captain of Team Wild Tempo. Hair styled like a rooster caught in a lightning storm, goggles perpetually around his neck like they were for fashion, not function.
His ship — The Crimson Comet — hovered nearby, idling in a sleek, smug diagonal with a bronze-and-black liftbag and glistening brass piping. The custom tail fins curved like devil horns. It shouldn’t have been aerodynamic.
It flew like sin.
“Let me give the new kid a lesson in flair,” Kazuki called out, cracking his neck theatrically.
He jumped into the cockpit with a practiced spin and slammed the ignition.
WAAARRMMM—CHAKAKAKAK!
The Comet snarled to life.
Without waiting for clearance, Kazuki yanked the throttle. The Comet shot upward in a sharp vertical spiral, spun mid-air into a barrel roll, then dropped backward into a snap-dive and pulled up inches above the deck before easing into a lazy hover, facing the crowd.
Steam huffed in synchronized jets from four different vents.
The crowd cheered. Loudly.
Girls swooned. Even some of the faculty clapped.
“THAT,” Kazuki announced, stepping out and flipping his goggles down, “is how a real pilot greets the morning.”
Ren gritted his teeth. “That guy flies like a stage magician.”
Jiro grinned beside him. “Yeah. A magician who’s already won regionals twice.”
Kazuki turned and sauntered up to them, every step a practiced smirk.
“Don’t worry, Kisaragi. Not everyone gets to be spectacular. Some people just… fill the roster.”
Ren gave him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “And some people confuse smoke with skill.”
Kazuki’s brow twitched. “You wanna back that up?”
“I’ve got ten days,” Ren said. “I’ll get there.”
Kazuki tilted his head, mock-sympathetic. “Hope your backup team brought a first-aid kit.”
Then he turned and walked off with the applause still echoing.
Ren let out a long, slow breath.
“I’m gonna punch that guy with my ship,” he muttered.
Hana, now by his side, nodded. “Just make sure it’s metaphorical.”
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
Mei: “Or not. He’s very punchable.”
Scene 4: Practice Match Setup
—-: Ren Kisaragi
Ren was still stewing in silent, jet-black ego soup when the megaphone crackled.
“All racing students, please report to the flight field for practice match announcement.”
Ms. Shiraishi’s voice, even over a grainy speaker, carried the dry menace of someone who would grade you with a red pen dipped in blood.
Ren turned to Hana.
“Wait. We have practice matches?”
“I was wondering when she’d spring it,” Hana muttered. “She always waits for someone to humiliate themselves first.”
“Perfect.”
Five minutes later, Ren stood at the edge of the Hinode Academy racing field, a tiered platform lined with pipes, cables, and banners fluttering in the wind. Three airships hovered behind their designated starting pylons: Crimson Gale, Wild Tempo, and Azure Bloom. Each one gleamed with tuning pride, polished brass hulls and crystal vent rings flickering with pre-race charge.
The Silver Dart hovered off to the side, still cooling off with a soft pfft pfft of steam bursts, like it had a head cold.
The other team captains gathered with Ms. Shiraishi near a chalk-outlined command post. Ayane Mitsurugi of Crimson Gale stood with arms crossed, looking every bit like a war general who hadn’t yet decided whether Ren was cannon fodder or background noise. Kazuki was reclining against a support pipe, whistling the school anthem off-key. The girl from Azure Bloom — Yuna, Ren thought — gave him a polite nod.
Then Ms. Shiraishi stepped forward and pinned up the flight bracket board.
“Starting next week,” she said, “we begin our official team rotations. But before that, I want to see how you all handle a mixed-course scrimmage.”*
She tapped the board.
- Match A: Crimson Gale vs Wild Tempo
- Match B: Azure Bloom vs Silver Dart
“Winners face off Friday for a friendly final. Non-winners—” She didn’t say losers, Ren noted. “—will assist with logistics.”
Kazuki leaned toward Ren. “Logistics, huh? I hear you make a great flag waver.”
Ren tried not to rise to the bait. “I’ll wave when I pass you.”
Ms. Shiraishi cut back in.
“Each team will be scored using the three-point ring system. One lap. Nine ring clusters. Final 6km speed stretch. Standard point curve: 3 for a colored ring, 2 for neutral, 1 for bypass. Style bonuses at judges’ discretion.”
She turned her gaze — sharp and unblinking — directly at Ren.
“You’ll be flying solo with support crew only. That is… unless your engineer intends to ride shotgun.”
All eyes turned to Hana.
She blinked. “Wh—Me?”
Ren raised his hand. “She built the throttle. I trust her.”
Ms. Shiraishi nodded. “Then she qualifies.”
Kazuki made a dramatic gasp motion. “Ooooh. The soulmates take flight!”
Hana turned red. “WE ARE NOT—!”
Ren sighed. “Let’s just win.”
Scene 5: Steam Strategy Meeting
—-: Hana Minase
The upper floor of the disused hangar felt like a cathedral of rust and rattling valves — and tonight, it was a war room.
Hana stood beside a roll-out blueprint table covered in scribbled flight paths, scattered notebooks, and several still-warm mugs of steam-milk tea (courtesy of Mei, who hadn’t said a word but had brewed to precision).
Ren paced near the far wall, occasionally tossing a wrench up and catching it. Jiro leaned on a crate, upside-down, rereading Kazuki’s stunt from earlier in exasperated disbelief. Rin hadn’t arrived yet — which, to Hana, was both suspicious and frustrating.
The racing bracket hung from the rafters now, projected via crystal lamp and reflecting faint blue across the scattered tools.
Hana cleared her throat and tapped a diagram.
“There are three viable scoring routes. Assuming normal wind resistance, average response time, and a flight speed under 80 knots to avoid overburn, here are your options.”
She slid three different maps across the table:
- The Serpent Chain – Seven back-to-back 2-point rings. Medium risk. Requires surgical turning.
- The Triple Fang Path – Three 3-point corner rings at top, middle, and bottom elevation. Hard. High reward.
- The Sky Strider – Clean speed route. Few points. All about the final 6km stretch.
Ren leaned in. “And the Dart’s strengths?”
Hana pointed to the propulsion flow chart.
“Right now? We’re solid at short bursts and vertical climbing. Not great on mid-flight stability due to the wild throttle response. So… you’re not Kazuki-flashy, but you can pivot better than most.”
Jiro chimed in, mouth half full of breadstick. “So either be the sneaky snake or the sky ninja. No middle road?”
Mei nodded from the corner. “Middle road gets average points. Average doesn’t win.”
Ren glanced at Hana. “You’ve done the math.”
“I am the math.”
A creak echoed from the stairs. Rin appeared, arms crossed, still in her training coat. She didn’t sit.
“All this theory,” she muttered, “and no sky under your feet.”
Hana’s jaw clenched. “It’s not just theory. It’s called having a plan.”
“I have a plan,” Rin shot back. “It’s called instincts. Charts don’t fly.”
Ren quickly raised his hands. “Okay, okay, this is a team strategy meeting.”
Rin eyed him. “Is it? Because it sounds like we’re planning to lose carefully.”
“Better than crashing dramatically.”
“Debatable.”
Mei, sitting in the shadows, quietly slid a biscuit between her teeth and mumbled, “It begins…”
Hana’s heart thudded in her chest. She didn’t like arguing — but she liked being dismissed even less.
And Rin… Rin had that effect on people.
“You know what? Fine,” Hana snapped. “Fly by ‘feel.’ But don’t expect the rest of us to cover your engine if it burns out mid-ring.”
Rin blinked at that.
Ren rubbed his temples. “This is going great.”
Scene 6: Unsent Letter
—-: Ren Kisaragi
The hiss of a leaky radiator whispered through Ren’s dorm room, blending with the faint rattle of a loose window latch and the occasional owl call from the pine trees beyond the east wall.
He sat at his desk in the dim amber glow of a crystal lantern, its pulse casting shadows that danced like restless ghosts on his blueprints and tools.
His hand hovered above the page. Ink smudged slightly under his wrist.
“Dear Mom and Dad,”
“I think I did something amazing today... or maybe stupid.”
He paused.
The pen lingered.
Outside, the wind pressed against the window like it wanted in.
He tapped the pen against his chin. Thought about the throttle misfire. The embarrassing lurch. The way the crowd had winced. The way Kazuki had made it all look so effortless. The argument between Hana and Rin still rang in his ears.
And beneath it all, a thought had been squirming since the moment the simulation stuttered:
What if you’re just a fluke, Kisaragi?
What if this whole thing — the Silver Dart, the team, the spark — is just luck with extra noise?
He sighed and looked back down at the letter.
Crossed out the first line.
Started again.
“I think I’m in way over my head.”
That one stayed a second longer.
Then he crumpled the page into a tight little ball and tossed it toward the waste bin.
It bounced off the rim.
“Perfect.”
He pulled a new sheet from the drawer. Wrote quickly, sloppier this time, no poetry or doubt.
“Hey. School’s fine. Food’s okay. Grandpa’s still weird.”
“Made a few friends. Almost crashed. Nothing exploded. Yet.”
“Hope you’re doing okay out there.”
He signed it without thinking. Folded it. Slid it into the envelope marked “April, Week Two.”
Then leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling, where a faint draft made the shadows of ceiling pipes swirl.
Steam-powered futures. Racing teams. Secret crushes. Engines that jerked like sneezes. Girls who yelled. Girls who didn’t talk at all. And a ship that might just fly — or might eat him alive.
Ren exhaled.
“Tomorrow,” he muttered to the dark, “I figure out which it is.”
Scene 7: Rin Rejects Strategy
—-: Rin Ayazawa
The air just before sunrise had a bite to it — not cold enough to frost the vents, but crisp enough to sting Rin’s nose as she stood in the shadow of the hangar, arms crossed, watching the liftbags pulse.
The Silver Dart shimmered faintly in the ambient glow of pre-flight ignition checks, its brass spine warmed by fresh pressure. Down below, Hana and Ren knelt side by side, adjusting the tension cables along the tail fin like it was a sacred ritual.
Rin didn’t interrupt. She waited.
She watched.
And when Ren finally spotted her at the top of the catwalk, he offered a wave that was just a little too hopeful.
She didn’t wave back.
Instead, she turned on her heel and headed for the side bay where the other strategy meeting was supposed to be happening — the one she’d skipped, again.
Because here’s the thing: Rin didn’t need maps.
She didn’t need simulations, or scoring charts, or five-point pivot plans with equations drawn in red ink across the walls. She flew by the sound of the engine, the tension in the left rudder line, the heat in the steam coils.
That was how she won.
Not because of math.
Not because of harmony.
Because she never second-guessed herself.
And yet—
And yet the moment she’d seen Ren’s test flight — chaotic, reckless, alive — it had scratched something raw in her. Something she hadn’t admitted in two years.
“He flies like I used to,” she whispered to no one.
“Before I started trying to win the ‘right’ way.”
She found Ms. Shiraishi in the supply room, logging fuel cells.
“I’m not using the plan,” Rin said flatly.
The teacher didn’t look up. “Which plan?”
“The one Hana made.”
“She spent a week on that plan.”
“I won’t crash,” Rin replied.
Now Shiraishi looked up, one brow raised. “You won’t win either, flying solo.”
Rin shrugged. “We’ll see.”
A pause.
Then Ms. Shiraishi offered her a thin, unreadable smile. “Fly how you like. But don’t forget you’re not the only one with a ship on the line anymore.”
That landed harder than Rin expected.
Scene 8: Post-Sim Conflict
—-: Ren Kisaragi
Ren wasn’t sure what was hotter — the steam leaking from the Dart’s primary exhaust line or the argument happening four feet away from it.
“You don’t even know what you’re ignoring!” Hana snapped, arms flailing with a wrench still in one hand.
“You’re flying blind out there!”
Rin stood like a brick wall, arms crossed, jaw tight, her flight jacket still zipped to the chin.
“And you’re building blind. You plan for every possible failure — so you forget to fly like someone who wants to win.”
“Winning doesn’t mean guessing!”
“Flying isn’t memorizing diagrams!”
Ren sat on an upside-down toolbox with a towel around his neck, watching them volley jabs like a tennis match made entirely of sharpened gears.
“Maybe if you weren’t too busy stomping on every calibration I suggest—”
“Maybe if you weren’t too busy color-coding your flight maps like it was a fashion contest—”
“Excuse me,” Ren cut in. “Can we all just… not yell near the crystal core? It hates drama.”
They both turned on him instantly.
“STAY OUT OF THIS, KISARAGI!”
He threw his hands up, towel still on his head like a flag of surrender. “Yup. My mistake.”
Rin stepped closer, still bristling. “I’m not going to crash. I don’t need your panic-planning spreadsheet brain.”
“And I’m not going to apologize for caring whether or not you snap your wings off like a boiled shrimp,” Hana snapped back.
Ren blinked. “...shrimp?”
“You know what I meant!”
Mei, from somewhere behind a pipe stack: “She’s not wrong though.”
Hana turned, flustered. Rin huffed and started unzipping her jacket. Ren stood, awkwardly running his hand through his hair.
“Look, I get it,” he said. “You both care. You just show it by screaming at each other in front of a steam engine.”
Hana turned away, muttering under her breath. Rin said nothing, brushing past Ren on her way out.
He exhaled and slumped back against the Dart.
“I thought building the ship was hard,” he muttered. “Turns out flying it while refereeing a war is way worse.”
Mei slid a wrench into his hand.
“You get used to it.”
Ren blinked. “To the screaming?”
“No. To knowing when not to pick a side.”
Scene 9: Taiga’s Advice
—-: Ren Kisaragi
The Hinode dorm rooftops had exactly three things going for them:
- They were just high enough to feel rebellious.
- They had a clear line of sight to the hangars and the stars.
- They were technically off-limits, which made them 80% more therapeutic.
Ren lay on the warm copper tiles, arms behind his head, still in his grease-stained shirt. The sky overhead was streaked with clouds lit gold from the last gaslights below, and the air smelled faintly of sea salt and machine oil.
Next to him, Jiro Taiga balanced a takeout box of sweet rice balls on his stomach like it was sacred treasure.
“You ever think,” Jiro said between bites, “that girls are just… a higher class of engine?”
Ren squinted at him. “Like, metaphorically?”
“Yeah. Complex. Volatile. Beautifully tuned. But if you touch one wire wrong, boom, you’re kissing the bulkhead.”
Ren groaned. “Thanks. That clears everything up.”
Jiro held up a rice ball like it was a sacred relic. “Look, man. You’ve got Hana, who’s smarter than three of us combined and already knows your combustion curve better than you do. And then there’s Rin, who could outfly a storm blindfolded and only gets mad when she cares.”
Ren raised an eyebrow. “Is this supposed to be helpful?”
Jiro grinned. “You’re stuck between a guidance system and a warhead. Pick carefully.”
“Not helping.”
“Okay, okay,” Jiro said, stretching. “Then here’s the honest advice. Don’t date either of them.”
Ren blinked. “...What?”
“Survive them first. Then decide.”
Ren sat up, brushing soot off his sleeves. “You make it sound like they’re going to kill me.”
“Not intentionally.”
Ren opened his mouth. Closed it. Considered that.
“Okay, maybe slightly intentionally,” Jiro admitted. “But that just means they like you.”
Ren slumped back down with a groan. “I’m doomed.”
Jiro passed him a rice ball. “Welcome to the team, Romeo.”
Scene 10: Mei’s Diagram
—-: Ren Kisaragi
The hallway outside the tool storage annex was half-lit, bathed in the flickering pulse of an overworked wall sconce. Ren had just finished sneaking back from the rooftop when he heard a quiet knock behind him.
He turned, half expecting a teacher.
Instead, it was Mei.
Still in her oil-stained workshop overcoat. Still wearing mismatched socks. Still utterly silent.
She looked up at him without a word, then extended a folded piece of yellowing parchment — delicate, smudged, edges curled with age.
Ren blinked. “Uh… hi?”
She didn’t speak. Just pressed the paper into his hand.
He unfolded it slowly.
Inside was a hand-drawn engineering sketch — finely inked lines, notes in tight kanji script, and a title scrawled at the top:
“Alternative Propeller Sync Path – Experimental”
His eyes scanned the diagram.
It was beautiful.
Dual-prop layout, gear-assisted torque split, reverse-vent cooling. And at the bottom corner, a crystal-based clutch valve system he’d only heard of in theory. It wasn’t just clever — it was ahead of its time.
“Where did you get this?”
Mei looked down at her boots. Then back up.
“It was part of a prototype I worked on last year. Before I… stopped racing.”
Ren studied her. “Why are you giving this to me?”
A pause. Then she shrugged.
“Because I want to see it fly.”
She turned to go. Then stopped, just before the shadows swallowed her again.
“And because… I think you’re the only one reckless enough to try it.”
Ren stood there a long moment after she disappeared. Listening to the hush of pipes behind the walls. The hum of distant turbines. The soft heartbeat of the Dart, sleeping in the dark.
Then he looked down at the diagram again.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Let’s make something impossible.”