Chapter 4: “Steam, Screws, and Secret Missions”

  Scene 1: Late Night Workshop

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  Ren’s hands were slick with oil again. His third shirt in three days was half-soaked from vent coolant, his bangs were plastered to his forehead with sweat, and there was a wrench tucked behind his ear that he didn’t remember putting there.

  He didn’t care.

  The Silver Dart was no longer a skeleton — it had bones now. Copper-sinewed, panel-reinforced, framework-aligned bones. The rear intake was fitted. The conduit spirals were half-looped. And the new tension rig had passed a dry run without setting anything on fire.

  That alone felt like a miracle.

  He reached for a pressure clamp—

  —and it was already there.

  “Thanks,” he said instinctively.

  “You’re welcome,” Hana murmured, crouched beside him, sleeves rolled to the shoulder, her cheeks streaked with grease and maybe a smudge of engine soot across her nose.

  They worked in a rhythm now.

  Her precision. His intuition.

  Her silence. His muttered sarcasm.

  It shouldn’t have worked. But somehow, it did.

  Overhead, soft yellow light pooled from the overhead brass cage lanterns. The sounds of clinking metal, sighing valves, and their occasional frustrated grunts filled the air. And, from the back corner, faint crunching.

  Ren turned slightly. “Jiro, are you eating my backup gasket seals?”

  A pause.

  Jiro looked up from his perch on the tail boom, holding a half-unwrapped rice cracker in one hand and a clearly pilfered O-ring in the other.

  “They were in the snack box.”

  “There is no snack box.”

  “There is now,” Jiro said cheerfully, tossing the gasket back. “Also, I replaced the rotary pins on the left rudder. Probably with parts that weren’t legally meant for that.”

  Ren blinked. “Wait—you actually fixed something?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m an engineer second-year, remember? I just prefer sabotage.”

  The three of them lapsed back into work—until the clunk of a boot on metal echoed from above.

  Ren turned his head toward the upper scaffolding that ringed the hangar’s edge. A figure stood there, arms folded, watching silently through the grid of railing and shadow.

  Rin.

  Her flight jacket hung open, her hair slightly mussed from practice. She didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

  Ren couldn’t tell if she was assessing… or judging.

  Maybe both.

  He offered a casual salute with the wrench. “Evening. Here to sabotage or supervise?”

  No answer. Just a long stare.

  Then, so soft it barely registered, she muttered something—maybe to herself:

  “He’s still doing it wrong… but it’s not bad.”

  She turned and walked away.

  Scene 2: Saki Attacks

  —-: Hana Minase

  The wrench slipped from Hana’s hand and hit the floor with a loud clang.

  It bounced once, skittered under the crate of exhaust tubing, and rolled out of reach. She swore under her breath — very scientifically — and ducked after it, trying not to bump her head on the control rod sticking out of the open console panel.

  She'd been re-aligning the Dart’s secondary steam buffer array for over an hour, and her arms were starting to feel like overcooked noodles. But the angle had to be just right — the new condensers Ren had sourced wouldn’t regulate properly unless they were pressurized through—

  “Ohhhh, Minase~,” came the sing-song voice behind her, “working late with your crush?”

  Hana froze, her wrench hand sticking halfway out from under the panel like a guilty salamander. She sighed, pulled herself upright, and turned around slowly.

  Saki Ichihara stood in the hangar doorway, one hand on her hip, clipboard tucked under her arm, and a look on her face that could best be described as dangerously amused.

  “I—what—no!” Hana said quickly. “I’m just helping him not die! I mean—helping is the verb. Helping him live. Functionally.”

  Saki stepped closer, heels clicking dramatically against the metal floor.

  Hana backed up. “Stop doing that face.”

  “What face?” Saki said, blinking innocently.

  “The one where you know something I don’t, and you’re about to turn it into the lead article on the hallway bulletin board.”

  Saki grinned. “Relax. I’m not publishing anything yet. But the rumor mill has ears, and lately those ears are pointed at you and our sparkly new transfer boy.”

  Hana turned bright red. “Sparkly? He’s—he’s not sparkly! He’s… scruffy. He trips over things.”

  “So do you when he’s around,” Saki said sweetly.

  “I DO NOT!”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Hana crossed her arms. “This isn’t about crushes. It’s about… engineering. And safety. He’s been doing open testing with only partial containment seals, and if we don’t reinforce the liftplate couplers, he’ll crash the first time he turns left.”

  Saki tapped her chin. “So you’re saying you’re… invested.”

  “In the project!”

  Saki leaned in. “Just be careful, Hana. Girls get a little weird around first crushes.”

  Hana looked like she wanted to crawl into the exhaust duct and never come out. “I’m going back to work now.”

  “Uh-huh,” Saki sang, spinning on her heel. “Just remember — if you blush any harder in front of him, we’re going to need a heat-diffusion panel just to keep the crystal stable.”

  Hana made a strangled noise, grabbed her wrench, and fled back under the Dart.

  Scene 3: Mei Appears

  —-: Hana Minase

  The wrench finally clicked into place.

  Hana exhaled slowly, wiping a bead of sweat from her chin with the sleeve of her coveralls. The tension line on the Dart’s rear condenser mount had been misaligned by exactly 3.2 millimeters — not enough to look wrong to the naked eye, but enough to destabilize thrust integrity under stress.

  She could feel the whole ship breathing easier now. Not literally, of course — that would be ridiculous — but… there was a weight to the air when the math worked.

  A clinking noise caught her attention.

  Not tools. Not Ren or Jiro’s usual stomping. Something softer. Measured.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Hana slid out from under the side panel and blinked.

  Someone was sitting cross-legged on the hangar floor, just to the left of the auxiliary bench — in absolute silence — sorting bolts.

  Big bolts. Tiny bolts. Crystal clamps. Brass washers. Everything the team had left scattered over the course of the last three days had been placed into neat, orderly rows.

  She was slight, slight enough to almost disappear against the shadows, with her long black hair tied back in a low ribbon and sleeves too long for her hands. Her glasses glinted under the lantern light. Her expression was unreadable.

  Hana stared. “Uh… hi?”

  No answer.

  “You’re… not lost, are you?”

  Still nothing. Just bolt-sorting.

  Hana stood up and walked slowly over, trying not to startle her. “This is a restricted workspace. I mean, not officially, but… it’s a mess and probably not safe and also, who are you?”

  The girl didn’t look up. She placed the last bolt in its row, then finally said, in a voice so soft it barely reached:

  “Mei.”

  Pause.

  “Mei?” Hana repeated. “You’re… in our year?”

  Mei nodded once.

  Hana waited for elaboration.

  None came.

  “Okay, cool, and you’re just—what—sorting our stuff now?”

  “I used to race,” Mei said.

  Hana blinked.

  “Oh?”

  Mei didn’t elaborate. Just stood slowly, brushed her skirt, and turned as if she’d just finished her entire purpose for the evening.

  Before she walked out, she stopped by the engine housing and placed one hand — carefully — on the exposed crystal conduit.

  “It’s scared,” she said quietly. “But curious.”

  Hana stared. “What’s scared?”

  But Mei was already walking away, disappearing into the hangar shadows like a ghost with perfect bolt alignment.

  Ren emerged from behind the rudder assembly, covered in crystal grease and looking like he’d just lost a fight with a pressure valve.

  “Did… something weird just happen?” he asked.

  Hana stared at the perfect rows of bolts.

  “Define weird,” she whispered.

  Scene 4: Grandpa’s Gauntlet

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  The smell of soy broth and danger wafted in before the man himself.

  Ren was crouched in the intake bay, elbow-deep in the fuel routing line with one foot bracing the strut open, when he heard the squelch of slippered feet dragging across the floor and the unmistakable clatter of chopsticks against lacquered wood.

  Grandpa Goro strolled into Hangar 7 like he owned the place—which, technically, he kind of did.

  He had a steaming takeout bowl of tanuki udon in one hand, a towel over his shoulder, and the usual expression of mild amusement he wore whenever something important was about to explode.

  “Morning, hotshots,” he said, slurping loudly. “Still haven’t burned it down. Good sign.”

  Ren wiped his hands on his pants—pointlessly, because his pants were also filthy—and stood up.

  “We’ve got the steam line feeding evenly,” he said. “Hana’s recalibrating the buffer coupler, and Jiro just pretended to fix something again.”

  “Hey,” Jiro called from behind a tool shelf. “That pressure plate needed a sticker.”

  Grandpa wandered over to the side of the ship, examining the Silver Dart with the casual eye of someone who once designed combustion engines with slide rules and guts alone. He tapped the hull with his knuckles. A hollow, confident thunk.

  “Not bad,” he said. “Almost sounds like it doesn’t hate you anymore.”

  Hana appeared from under the lift chamber, holding a wrench the size of her forearm. “We’re 72% functional. Maybe 80 if Ren doesn’t touch the thermal governor again.”

  Ren raised a hand. “One time.”

  “You bypassed the regulator and nearly flash-boiled the coolant.”

  “One time.”

  Grandpa slurped more noodles, then set the bowl on a crate and wiped his mouth with the towel.

  Then he got that look.

  The one that always meant he was about to ruin your weekend with a grin on his face.

  “You kids better pick up the pace,” he said.

  Ren froze. “Why?”

  “Because,” Grandpa said, like it was the weather, “your test flight’s on Saturday. That’s two days from now.”

  Silence.

  “…I’m sorry,” Ren said. “What?”

  “School Board wants to see what the new blood can do. They’re hosting a showcase race prep. Not full competition, but big eyes watching.”

  Ren stared at him. “You didn’t mention this before.”

  “You didn’t ask.” Grandpa shrugged. “Besides, where’s the fun in warning people?”

  Hana looked up sharply. “Is this sanctioned?”

  “Sort of. Headmistress Aoi signed off. And the hot spring committee’s sponsoring snacks.”

  Ren opened and closed his mouth. “Why… would the hot spring committee care?”

  “Civic pride. And they just like airships.”

  Jiro whistled. “That means the entire school’ll be watching. Even the third-years.”

  “And their parents,” Grandpa added, too cheerfully.

  Ren sat down on the crate with the force of a controlled crash. “We’re going to die.”

  “Maybe,” Grandpa said, already picking his noodles back up. “But if it flies before it dies, you’ll be ahead of the curve.”

  Scene 5: Crystal Core Bonding

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  There was a weight in the hangar now.

  Not just the physical heft of gears, plating, and pressure tanks — but something unspoken. Like air pressed down a little harder. Like the world was holding its breath with them.

  Ren stood in front of the Silver Dart’s exposed engine cradle, the newly mounted crystal core housing humming gently with dormant expectation. The conduit lattice wrapped around it like a steel ribcage, cold and coiled, waiting for a spark.

  The crystal shard sat in his palm — faintly glowing, pulsing ever so slightly with a rhythm that felt almost alive. It wasn’t hot. It wasn’t cold. It just was, as if it existed in a state of watching.

  Hana hovered beside him, tablet in hand, triple-checking pressure readings. “Thermal containment’s pre-heated. Backflow safeties are green. System’s stable.”

  Jiro lounged ten feet back behind a pile of padded shields, holding a fire extinguisher with the pin already pulled.

  “You sure about this, man?” he asked. “You know what happened last time someone plugged one of those in without proper vibration dampeners?”

  Ren swallowed. “I don’t.”

  “Exactly.”

  Grandpa watched from the hammock, sipping from a teacup with exaggerated disinterest.

  Ren rolled his shoulders. His heart thudded in his chest — fast, loud, anxious — but his hands were steady. Carefully, reverently, he raised the shard and lined it up with the open core socket.

  The hum grew deeper.

  The moment the crystal came within an inch of the core, it pulsed.

  Soft blue light spilled out of the core housing, wrapping around the metal like breath on a winter window. The conduits along the spine of the ship lit up — first one, then another, then all at once like veins awakening.

  The core clicked as the shard slid into place.

  Then—

  A rush of steam hissed out through the emergency vents.

  The Dart shuddered — not violently, but like something enormous had just exhaled for the first time in decades.

  For one impossibly long second, everything held still.

  Then came the sound:

  thrummmmmmmmmmm…

  A long, resonant vibration, deep and alive, radiating out from the heart of the ship. It passed through the deck. Through Ren’s boots. Through his ribs. His teeth.

  Like it wasn’t just energy.

  It was a memory.

  Ren’s eyes widened. “It’s… responding.”

  Hana whispered, “It’s syncing.”

  Even Grandpa sat up slightly. “Huh.”

  Then — POP-SSSCCCCCCCH — a steam release valve burst open overhead, and one of the lanterns flickered madly before shorting out.

  The core dimmed to a low pulse.

  The hum faded.

  The Dart was still.

  But for a moment — just long enough — it had lived.

  Ren lowered his hands slowly, staring at the faint glow still running through the conduit lines.

  “She’s waking up,” he said softly. “I think she remembers how to fly.”

  Scene 6: Saki’s Rumor Mill

  —-: Saki Ichihara

  It started like all good rumors do — with a whisper, a dramatic gasp, and an audience that wanted to believe.

  By second period the next day, Saki had already intercepted no fewer than three versions of the story. In one, Ren’s ship had exploded, flinging him heroically into a pile of pillows. In another, he had tamed an ancient war vessel and made it kneel. In the third — her favorite — he had singlehandedly fused with the crystal core and now communicated with the ship through his dreams.

  All nonsense, of course.

  But as Saki strolled the main corridor, perfectly uniformed and notebook tucked against her hip like a blade, the real version filtered to her through a breathless second-year girl from the chemistry club.

  “It glowed,” the girl whispered, eyes shining. “I swear. My cousin saw it. The whole ship—lit up. Like it was alive again.”

  “And the boy?” Saki prompted.

  “He’s flying it this weekend.”

  Boom.

  Just like that, the hallways ignited.

  By lunch, the bulletin board was updated:

  FLIGHT SHOWCASE: Silver Dart to Fly.

  Pilot: Ren Kisaragi.

  Open to all students. Judged by the hot spring committee.

  By dinner, the dorm message boards were flooded.

  “Is he trying to take Rin’s spot?” “Did she accept the duel?” “She did. It’s official.” “Wait, who is he?” “Mechanical student from overseas. Grandpa’s the school gremlin.” “Kinda cute tho.” “Dead cute.” “Do we… cheer for him?”

  Saki took it all in from her usual perch in the east stairwell lounge, sipping iced barley tea with one finger curled under her chin. Mei sat next to her, silent as always, sketching propeller mods in the margins of a notebook. She hadn’t said a word in twenty minutes, which was honestly impressive even for Mei.

  “Poor Rin,” Saki said, not unkindly. “Must be strange having someone breathe on your throne after all this time.”

  Mei paused in her drawing.

  “He’s not breathing,” she murmured.

  “Oh?”

  “He’s climbing.” She turned a page. “And he’s not looking back.”

  Saki blinked.

  Then grinned.

  “Oh, I like you.”

  Scene 7: Scene End

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  It was after sunset when they tried it.

  The hangar was bathed in warm orange from the sodium lamps strung across the rafters — hazy and flickering, casting long shadows across the floor. The scent of hot metal and mineral oil hung thick in the air. Every tool had been used. Every panel had been opened. Every bolt checked twice, then once more because Hana didn’t trust Ren’s torque settings.

  Jiro stood at the emergency cutoff switch. Hana had her eyes locked on the pressure gauge. Grandpa lounged by the door with a rice cracker between his teeth and a mug of miso broth in his hand.

  Ren stood in the Dart’s cockpit.

  The seat was stiff, the panel lights flickering, and his palms were sweating through his gloves.

  “Crystal core is stable,” Hana called up. “Pressure lines are green.”

  Jiro gave a thumbs-up. “Cutoff’s clear. May Kami have mercy.”

  “Here goes nothing,” Ren muttered.

  He turned the ignition key.

  The Dart’s engine coughed, then caught.

  VRRMMMMMMMMM—

  Steam shrieked from the side vents. The conduits flashed blue. The propeller whirled once—twice—spun into a blur—

  SCREEEEEEEECH—POP—FZZZZZZZ!

  A belt slipped. A compression valve blew. The whole ship shuddered like it was sneezing out a lungful of old history, then immediately dropped into silence.

  The echo hung for a second.

  Then—

  Cheers.

  Wild, echoing, ridiculous cheers.

  Jiro whooped like someone had scored the winning goal in a soccer match. Hana actually fist-pumped the air. Grandpa raised his mug.

  Ren sat there, stunned, heart hammering in his ears.

  “It worked,” he whispered.

  Sort of.

  Mostly.

  Barely.

  But enough.

  Outside the hangar, a pair of students from the newspaper club scribbled notes. Someone had taken a photo.

  The Dart had moved.

  The school would know by morning.

  And Rin…

  Well.

  She’d definitely know by morning.