Chapter 12: “Feathers and Fractures”

  Scene 1: Morning Announcement

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  The classroom still smelled faintly like engine oil and steamed sweet buns.

  Ren sank into his seat with a half-stifled groan, shoulders aching from too many hours hunched inside the Dart’s venting chamber. His fingers still tingled with the ghost memory of crystal heat, and his boots left a faint trail of soot across the polished wood floors.

  Ms. Shiraishi didn’t even blink. She was too busy writing a date on the chalkboard in careful, elegant strokes:

  “APRIL 28 — 120th Hinode Founding Festival”

  The second she put down the chalk, the murmuring started like steam hissing out of a pressure line.

  “Public race, right?”

  “Yeah! In front of actual civilians this time!”

  “My hair’s going to frizz like a moss rat in front of donors!”

  “Isn’t that the one with the air ballet?”

  “They still do that?!”

  Ren leaned sideways until his forehead thunked lightly against the desk.

  “Why is every week suddenly a life-or-death proving ground?” he mumbled.

  Jiro, seated to his left, gave a solemn nod.

  “Because this is Hinode. And at Hinode… tradition is war.”

  At the front, Ms. Shiraishi tapped the board once with a long silver pointer — carved from the handle of a broken rudder shaft, naturally.

  “Attention.”

  The class simmered.

  “As you know, this year marks the 120th anniversary of Hinode Academy. The founders built this school with their bare hands, elbow grease, and a reckless disregard for safety codes.”

  That earned a few snorts.

  “To honor them, we’ll be holding a Founding Festival at the end of this month. Each team will conduct a public demonstration race. This is not a competition. However—” she paused as several students groaned, “—scores will still be recorded. Rankings will still be affected. And the press will be in attendance.”

  Ren’s eyes opened fully now.

  The press? Like… newspapers? Flyers? Saki with a louder megaphone?

  ...My parents might see that.

  He sat up straighter.

  Ms. Shiraishi glanced around the room with the cool judgment of someone who knew exactly who was slacking in mechanics lab.

  “You have two weeks. Use them wisely. Dismissed.”

  The class exploded into sound. Paper rustled. Sprockets clattered to the floor. Steam pens hissed as they were jammed into half-closed bags.

  Jiro leaned across the aisle, his whisper conspiratorial.

  “I’m gonna make fireworks shoot out the back of the Dart during the finale. Thoughts?”

  “Only if they’re not aimed at the judges.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  Scene 2: Jiro & Mei Bonding

  —-: Jiro Takeda

  Jiro was starting to suspect that Mei was part ghost.

  Not a scary kind. More like the type that shows up behind you, quietly corrects your math, and vanishes through a wall before you can say thank you.

  He had followed her — casually — into the off-limits crystal lab behind the workshop annex. Not stalking. Observing. Like a journalist. Or a raccoon with dignity.

  Mei knelt at a cluttered bench surrounded by diagrams, crystal shards, and about nine pairs of goggles. She wore three at once — one on her forehead, one over her eyes, and a tiny magnifier headset that made her look like a tiny, terrifying welder-priest.

  She didn’t look up.

  “You’re breathing loudly.”

  Jiro froze mid-step, one boot hovering above a discarded steam clamp.

  “...I have asthma,” he lied.

  “No you don’t.”

  “Okay, but I could.”

  She finally glanced over. “What do you want?”

  Jiro rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks warm.

  “I heard you’re good with crystals.”

  “I’m precise,” she replied, adjusting a clamp with the grace of a clockmaker.

  He drifted closer.

  The bench was covered in tuning forks, filament-threading rigs, and a glowing baseplate where a palm-sized crystal core shimmered between states — from solid to liquid to faint vapor. It rotated gently, emitting soft chimes like wind moving through a cathedral.

  “That’s… that’s incredible.”

  Mei turned one dial. The crystal flared briefly blue, then pulsed in perfect thirds — triple rhythm. 3-6-9.

  “It’s unstable,” she said flatly. “Like your piloting.”

  Jiro gave a theatrical gasp. “Ma’am, I am wounded.”

  “You scored a three-point ring while inverted.”

  “Exactly! That takes precision.”

  “It was luck. You clipped the edge. Your exhaust pattern said so.”

  He stared.

  She reached over, tapped a thin sheet of thermal film on the wall — it showed every team’s last flight run, color-coded with heat trails and stabilizer pressure.

  Jiro blinked. “You… track everyone’s heat patterns?”

  “Of course,” she said, adjusting another coil. “How else would I know who to worry about?”

  There was a pause.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Jiro said nothing.

  Mei turned back to her bench — and after a beat, spoke more softly.

  “I used to fly, too. Before.”

  He nodded. Not pushing. Just… standing beside her now.

  Then, she slid a tiny crystal tuning comb across the bench toward him.

  “Use this next time you adjust Ren’s exhaust valves. They’re humming in a B-flat minor.”

  “...That’s a thing?”

  “Everything has pitch. Even engines.”

  Jiro grinned. “You’re like a ghost, a violin, and a flamethrower rolled into one.”

  She blinked at him. Slowly. “...Thank you?”

  Scene 3: Team Tensions Peak

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  The wrench clanged off the hull louder than it had any right to.

  Ren flinched.

  Rin had thrown it — not at him, but at the Dart’s nose, where the bolt hadn’t quite aligned. It bounced off and spun onto the tarp like an accusation.

  “Forget it,” she snapped. “If you’re going to do it all yourself, then just do it.”

  The silence afterward was the kind you could pour into a boiler.

  Across the yard, Hana stiffened mid-solder. Jiro dropped a box of washers with a cringe. Mei didn’t even look up — she just quietly stepped back, like someone recognizing the signs of a ship about to detonate.

  Ren held up his hands, voice careful. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Yes, you did.” Rin’s eyes burned, her cheeks flushed with a heat that had nothing to do with steam.

  She ripped off her gloves and turned.

  “Rin, wait!”

  She stopped halfway to the hangar gate. Not facing him.

  Ren jogged after her, catching up under the shade of the old stairwell tower. It smelled faintly of rust and old rain. Rin leaned against the cold pipework, arms crossed like armor.

  “Why are you so mad?” he asked.

  She turned to him slowly.

  “Because you’re not the captain.”

  The words landed harder than they should’ve.

  Ren’s mouth opened, but no comeback came out.

  “You keep making decisions. Changing parts. Taking over flight paths. You say it’s for the team — but you never asked.”

  Her voice wasn’t shouting anymore. It was lower. Tighter. Like a valve slowly twisting toward rupture.

  “Do you know what it’s like to lose your team, Ren?”

  He swallowed. “No.”

  “I do.”

  The wind shifted. The training yard beyond was quiet now, just the distant chug of an engine test and the crackle of someone welding in another bay.

  “You’re good,” she said finally. “Better than anyone expected. Maybe better than me. But that doesn’t give you the right to treat this like your story and we’re just your backup.”

  She stepped past him, brushing his shoulder.

  “Fly the Dart. Fix it. Win your races.”

  “Just don’t forget we’re all in the air with you.”

  She left him there — halfway between apology and realization.

  Scene 4: Taiga & Saki Talk Love

  —-: Saki Moriyama

  The best part of the school day wasn’t the lectures, or the labs, or even the races.

  It was the gossip.

  Saki lounged back against the low wall lining the rooftop garden, legs crossed, notebook balanced on her thigh. Her pen — crystal-tipped, steam-fed, imported from Vellora — hovered like a poised dagger above a fresh page titled:

  “Airship Hearts: Love in the Time of Lift Equations”

  Taiga paced in front of her like a caged squirrel with caffeine poisoning.

  “I’m telling you,” he said, “she looked at him differently today.”

  Saki raised an eyebrow without looking up. “Define ‘differently.’”

  “Like… like she wanted to throttle him and maybe kiss him.”

  “You just described 80% of teenage romance.”

  Taiga groaned. “Okay, but Rin never talks like that to anyone. And the way she yelled today? That wasn’t strategy tension — that was emotional combustion.”

  Saki clicked her pen. “We’re mixing metaphors now. I like it.”

  He spun toward her. “You think I’m wrong?”

  Saki flipped back two pages to her “Rin-Ren Emotional Trajectory Chart,” complete with rising and falling arrows, a probability curve, and three alternate endings labeled “kiss,” “kill,” and “combo.”

  “You’re not wrong,” she admitted. “But I don’t think Rin knows what she’s feeling. Which makes it… even better.”

  Taiga slumped onto the bench beside her. “I feel bad for the guy. Ren’s just trying to fix ships and survive girls.”

  “Oh no,” Saki said, grinning, “he’s main character material now. He’s contractually obligated to suffer.”

  She dotted a heart next to the day’s headline:

  “Silver Dart Sparks More Than Just Steam.”

  Taiga peeked over her shoulder. “...You’re gonna publish that?”

  “Only if they hold hands before the 28th.”

  “You have a quota or something?”

  Saki leaned back with a smug smile. “Just taste. And chaos.”

  The sun dipped lower over the campus rooftops, casting long amber shadows over gears, towers, and tangled hearts.

  Scene 5: Ren Fixes the Dart — Alone

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  The hangar smelled like ozone and burnt thread-sealant again.

  Ren liked it better that way.

  The world was quieter inside the ribs of the Dart. Just the rhythmic clink of tools and the soft wheeze of air shifting through cooling pipes. A few overhead tubes still hissed faintly, like old ghosts whispering to one another in metal.

  He’d stayed behind after everyone left. After Hana had asked — again — if he needed help and he’d just nodded… without answering.

  And she’d left.

  Now, he tightened the last bolt on the gear housing for the stabilizer crossbeam. The modified one. The one Mei had warned him about.

  The torque wrench clicked into place.

  Two-point-five kilograms per square. No more. No less.

  He wiped his forehead with a sleeve, then leaned back on the metal panel like it might carry the weight of everything else in his chest.

  Rin’s words still echoed somewhere behind his ears.

  “You’re not the captain.”

  She wasn’t wrong. And that’s what made it worse.

  Ren had spent so much time building the Dart — re-building it, repairing it, obsessing over the gears and the balance — that he forgot the people around it weren’t just parts in the machine.

  They were… something else. Something harder to fix.

  He reached out and adjusted the fuel regulator. Tightened a pressure nut. Checked the gear link again.

  Click.

  The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full.

  Full of unsaid apologies. Misunderstood intentions. The weight of being new, and needing to prove yourself more than anyone else.

  “This ship’s going to fly,” he whispered to no one.

  No spark. No audience.

  Just his own voice bouncing back from the hull.

  Scene 6: Headmistress Scene – “Let Them Fight”

  —-: Ms. Shiraishi

  The headmistress’s tower sat atop the main academic hall like the crown of a rusted queen.

  Ms. Shiraishi climbed the narrow spiral stairs in silence, the only sound her boots against aged iron and the soft ticking of the pocket watch pinned to her belt. The higher she went, the clearer the night air became — crisp, electric with distant steam pressure and low-altitude cloud breezes.

  Inside, the office was dim. One amber-glow lantern hung from a triple-hook bracket, casting halos across charts, blueprints, and rows of dusty framed photos.

  Headmistress Aoi was already seated. Her silver tea set hissed faintly as she poured two cups with the elegance of someone born with calluses and class in equal measure.

  “Chamomile. It calms the gears,” she said without looking up.

  Ms. Shiraishi accepted the cup, her shoulders finally relaxing.

  “They’re fighting,” she said after a long sip.

  “Of course they are,” Aoi replied. “They’re children.”

  “They’re exceptional children.”

  Aoi looked out the tall, arched window. Below, the hangars shimmered faintly, the pipes exhaling sighs into the moonlight.

  “And exceptional children break louder than the rest.”

  Shiraishi folded her arms. “Rin is reaching her edge. Hana’s trying to hold everyone together. The boy—Ren—is… doing his best to outrun his own heartbeat.”

  Aoi smiled thinly.

  “Sounds like a race worth watching.”

  Shiraishi hesitated, then pulled a worn folder from her satchel. “There’s something else.”

  She set it down.

  Inside were photos—black and white, some sepia—of an airship with sleek fins and dual undercarriage intakes. A younger Genzō, goggles lopsided and grinning, stood next to another boy who looked far too much like Ren to be a coincidence.

  Aoi tapped one photo gently. “Featherstream,” she murmured. “The ship that almost changed everything.”

  Shiraishi raised an eyebrow. “You knew?”

  “Of course. I told Genzō to hide it after the accident. I didn’t expect he’d raise a successor.”

  A long silence followed. The kind that filled the gears of thought rather than clogged them.

  “Should I interfere?” Shiraishi asked finally.

  Aoi’s eyes never left the window. “No.”

  “Let them fight.”

  “Fire forges better steel.”

  Scene 7: Final Beat – The Crest

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  The junkyard at the edge of campus was a mechanical graveyard.

  Half-swallowed by creeping moss, gears taller than students leaned like headstones. Ancient wingplates rusted in elegant curls. Cracked navigation fins peeked out from beneath collapsed scaffolds. Every step crunched over bolts, shards of piping, and forgotten ambition.

  Ren was supposed to be asleep. He wasn't even supposed to be here. But something in him—call it instinct, call it heatstroke—had pulled him out of the hangar and into the dark, barefoot in boots and half-dreaming.

  He had no flashlight. Just the soft glow of a pocket crystal. It buzzed in time with his pulse.

  Then he saw it.

  Wedged between the collapsed husk of a cargo skiff and a rusted airfoil was a sliver of polished brass. Half-covered in grime. He crouched and brushed it off.

  A feather.

  Or rather, the impression of one — elegant curves, etched striations, fanned with precision. The old crest of Project Featherstream.

  He held it up, turning it in the moonlight. The edges were scuffed, but the emblem still caught light like it remembered what it meant to fly.

  Ren stood there for a while. Not thinking. Just breathing. The weight of the metal felt warm in his hand, like it had waited all this time for someone to remember it.

  Later that night — hours before dawn — the others would return to find it bolted just below the Dart’s front vent nacelle. Cleaned. Centered. Gleaming.

  No speech. No explanation.

  Just a crest.

  A promise, maybe.

  A declaration.