Chapter 9: “Damage, Drama, and Dorms”

  Scene 1: Ship Damage

  —-: Hana Morikawa

  The sun bled orange across the academy rooftops, and the Silver Dart bled steam from its fractured stabilizer line.

  Hana crouched beside the left strut, hands stained in blackened coolant and polished brass dust. The stabilizer’s outer casing was bent just enough to throw off the glide balance — maybe only by a millimeter, but in airship terms, that was like trying to dance with one leg shorter than the other.

  She held her breath, peeled back the panel, and saw it.

  A fracture.

  Thin. Spidery. Right along the joint she’d adjusted two nights ago.

  Her stomach twisted.

  This is my fault.

  She didn’t say it out loud. She didn’t have to. The whine in the pressure line said it for her.

  Behind her, Ren was talking with a small group of students a few hangars down — some congratulating him, others tossing backhanded compliments about “clever tricks.” She could barely hear him over the hiss of a nearby condenser.

  She didn’t look up when someone’s shadow stretched across the workbench.

  Boots clicked against the grated floor. Measured, deliberate.

  Hana didn’t turn until she heard the voice — crisp, quiet, and unwilling to leave.

  “That ring wasn’t on the map.”

  Rin.

  She stood arms crossed, eyes unreadable. Still in her flight jacket, her braid wind-frayed, one sleeve half-unzipped like she’d stormed out of the celebration but hadn’t quite decided where to go next.

  “We followed the signals,” Hana said evenly.

  “It registered. It counted.”

  “And nearly cost you the stabilizer. Which, in case no one’s told you, doesn’t grow back.”

  Hana stood. Not defensive. Just tired.

  “I know. I adjusted it wrong.”

  Rin stared.

  “You don’t usually get things wrong.”

  “I guess I did.”

  For a long, strained moment, neither girl moved.

  Rin finally stepped forward, tugged a rag from her belt, and dropped to one knee beside the panel. Wordlessly, she reached for a socket wrench.

  Hana blinked. “You’re… helping?”

  “Don’t make it weird.”

  Hana opened her mouth. Closed it. Then crouched beside her and passed her the locking pin.

  They worked in silence.

  Tools clicked. Steam rose. The light dimmed further as the sun crawled behind the distant mountains.

  Just before Rin tightened the final bolt, she paused.

  “I didn’t say thanks.”

  Hana looked over. Rin’s eyes were on the ship, not her.

  “For the stabilizer?”

  “For not trying to take over. For knowing what you’re doing.”

  She exhaled. “He’s not just flying your build. He’s trusting it. That means something.”

  “I’m not trying to replace you.”

  Rin finally turned.

  “You’re not. You’re building something different.”

  And that… was that.

  They didn’t hug.

  They didn’t smile.

  But when Hana handed her the final weld sealant, their hands didn’t quite let go right away.

  Scene 2: Homeroom Detention

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  The classroom was quiet in that dangerous, pre-detonation kind of way.

  Sunlight filtered in through slatted glass, casting angled bars across the chalkboard. The scent of oil, ink, and freshly boiled uniforms (a tradition Ren would never understand) filled the air. Fans ticked quietly in the corners. Gears purred behind the wall somewhere — Hinode Academy's version of a clock.

  Ms. Shiraishi stood at the front, her posture ramrod straight, sleeves crisp, tea mug ominously steaming in one hand.

  Her glasses glinted with the light of a thousand unspoken disappointments.

  “As the result of yesterday’s tactical… interpretations,” she said, with a deadpan calmness that made Ren feel his spine evaporate, “and the post-race near-brawl witnessed by roughly eighty percent of the school body—”

  Jiro coughed into his sleeve from behind Ren.

  “It was more like a heated hug with yelling…”

  “—there will be appropriate consequences.”

  Please not suspension, Ren prayed. Please not cleaning the baths again. Please not—

  “Group repair duty. All three of you. After classes. Today.”

  Ren blinked.

  “Wait, three?”

  “Mr. Kisaragi,” she said, without looking up from her clipboard, “for reckless flying, unauthorized bonus ring activation, and—this is a direct quote—‘grinning like a feral gremlin mid-dive.’”

  Somebody in the back choked on their tea.

  “Ms. Rin Tachibana,” she continued, “for excessive midair maneuvering against better judgment and abandoning your final precision pass for what the head judge referred to as ‘a personal vendetta lap.’”

  Rin said nothing. Her eyes stayed forward. Her fingers twitched once, almost imperceptibly.

  “And Mr. Kazuki Tanabe.”

  A hand shot up lazily from the row across the aisle.

  Kazuki, captain of Wild Tempo, was lounging sideways in his chair, goggles still on his forehead, boots up on his desk like the rules of gravity didn’t apply to his feet.

  “Heeeere.”

  “For... everything you did.”

  “Be more specific?”

  Shiraishi’s brow twitched once.

  “You spun through three rings in reverse.”

  “Yeah. That’s what the crowd wanted.”

  “This is not a concert, Mr. Tanabe.”

  “Could’ve fooled me. I signed a girl’s corset after the race.”

  “Detention. All of you. Hangar four. After fifth bell.”

  She clapped the clipboard shut.

  The classroom exploded into whispered conversations.

  “Are they going to kill each other?”

  “Or kiss?”

  “I heard Rin almost lost control on purpose.”

  “Kazuki signed what?”

  Jiro leaned over to Ren, eyes wide.

  “Congrats, man. You’ve been assigned the dream team of rival chaos. You’re gonna come out of this either married or maimed.”

  Ren dropped his forehead onto his desk.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I just wanted to race a ship and survive high school.”

  “Too late. You’re main character energy now.”

  Scene 3: Repair Arguments

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  The scent of old metal and scorched insulation filled the hangar like bad tension waiting to ignite.

  Ren stood on the upper catwalk, arms crossed, watching Kazuki and Rin circle a disassembled thruster housing like two alley cats with wrenches. The back half of Wild Tempo’s training ship sat open like a surgery patient mid-op, exposed combustion valves still faintly warm from the afternoon drills.

  “You’re torqueing it against the grain,” Rin snapped.

  “That’s the point,” Kazuki replied with a casual grin. “If you don’t stress the material, how do you know it’s strong enough to fly?”

  “If you stress the material, it cracks.”

  “And if you baby it, it stalls in a headwind.”

  “Oh, so now we should just launch it into a volcano to see if it screams loud enough?”

  “That’s a great test, actually. Write that down.”

  Ren pinched the bridge of his nose.

  This was hour two of detention. Ms. Shiraishi had left them unsupervised with a checklist, a deadline, and what he now realized was a cursed team assignment.

  “Guys…” Ren started.

  “Stay out of it, ‘Bonus Ring.’”

  Kazuki didn’t even look up as he loosened another bolt with an audible clang.

  “He should stay out of it,” Rin added, still glaring. “He flies like someone dared him to crash on purpose.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Kazuki said, standing. “Who nearly face-planted on her own stabilizer yesterday?”

  That was it.

  Ren threw down his rag. It made a very unimpressive flup sound against the deck.

  “You’re both right! That’s the problem!”

  Silence.

  Even the old steam line in the corner seemed to hold its hiss.

  Ren looked at them — really looked.

  Kazuki’s jacket was still smudged from race day. Rin’s braid had a streak of oil where she’d wiped her forehead. They both stood like they were ready to duel or combust.

  “You’re both amazing pilots,” Ren said. “You know that. But you’re also so caught up proving you’re the best that you forget it’s not a zero-sum game.”

  He pointed to the engine core on the table.

  “That thing doesn’t care about pride. It cares about heat ratios, torque balance, and timing chains.”

  They stared at him.

  “You two arguing is like trying to align a gearbox using a hammer and a hairdryer.”

  Kazuki blinked.

  “Okay, now that’s a metaphor.”

  Rin exhaled. Crossed her arms.

  “You really think we’re both right?”

  “Yeah. Just at different times. Maybe that’s the lesson.”

  Silence hung a beat longer.

  Then Kazuki turned to Rin.

  “Truce?”

  Rin stared.

  Then… nodded. Barely.

  “For the engine’s sake.”

  “And maybe his blood pressure.”

  For the next twenty minutes, the three of them worked without yelling.

  Mostly.

  Scene 4: Dorm Tensions

  —-: Saki Nishimoto

  The clack of Saki’s typewriter echoed across the dorm common room like the impatient tick of a clock.

  Each keystroke was deliberate. Sharp. Spicy.

  A teacup rattled beside her, long forgotten as steam curled from the rim and dissipated into the warm, lavender-scented air of Sakura Hall, the girls’ dorm that—despite being “modernized”—still had ornate rugs, hanging gaslights, and a faint smell of old books and mischief.

  Clack clack… DING.

  She yanked the paper free, held it up to the light like a painter admiring her latest sin.

  “DART DISQUALIFIED? OR SCHOOL’S BEST HOPE?”

  Byline: Saki Nishimoto, Founder, Editor, and Chaos Enthusiast

  Subhead: Controversial pilot Ren Kisaragi scores high despite fourth-place finish. Legal genius? Tactical fluke? Love-fueled miracle?

  In the margin, she doodled tiny chibi versions of Rin scowling and Hana mid-sputter.

  “You know you’re going to start a war, right?” Mei said from the couch, curled up with a teacup and a copy of Aether Theory Digest.

  “Oh, honey,” Saki said with a grin. “That was the war. I’m just writing the battle hymns.”

  Across the common room, a group of second-years huddled around a steaming bulletin board as the first printouts were tacked up.

  “Did you read the part where she compared Ren’s maneuver to a romantic sacrifice?”

  “He literally risked crashing to save Rin!”

  “Or to show off.”

  “Or because he has no idea what he’s doing and just got lucky.”

  “Still hot.”

  Saki sipped her tea, satisfied.

  That would do it.

  That would send the dorms humming for at least two days, maybe three. Enough time for Ren to either rise as a humble hero or combust in an awkward explosion of social anxiety.

  Perfect either way.

  Down the hall, in the boys’ wing — recently renovated and grudgingly allowed access to one of the five dorm buildings — Ren sat on his bed, staring at a printout someone had slid under his door.

  The headline stared back at him.

  “Dart Disqualified? Or School’s Best Hope?”

  He groaned into his pillow.

  “Why is my life a tabloid…?”

  From the bunk above, Jiro’s voice floated down.

  “Because, my tragically famous friend, you decided to flirt with death and two girls at once.

  Classic mistake.”

  Scene 5: Late Night Fixing

  —-: Hana Morikawa

  The hangar groaned in its sleep.

  Not literally, of course — but Hana always thought the old copper joints and wind-battered braces made the place sound like a giant turning over in bed. Wind curled under the rafters. A single arc lamp buzzed, flickering like it was trying to decide whether to stay awake.

  She padded across the grating in her dorm slippers, tool belt slung diagonally over her pajamas, goggles perched on her head like a half-forgotten dream.

  The others were asleep. Lights out had passed.

  But something… tugged.

  The Dart was calling again.

  She rounded the corner of the catwalk, expecting stillness.

  Instead, a low light flickered from beneath the stabilizer struts — and a familiar muttering echoed softly beneath it.

  “No, that joint’s misaligned again. Ugh, give me five seconds alone with a torque spreader and a miracle…”

  Rin knelt under the Dart’s wing, sleeves rolled, grease on her cheekbone like a battle scar. Her braid had come undone on one side, trailing like a comet tail down her back. She didn’t look up.

  Hana froze, one foot half-raised.

  I should go. I should not be here. I should pretend this never happened.

  Instead, she whispered, “Need a third hand?”

  Rin paused mid-bolt.

  Then… slid over a socket wrench without looking.

  “Only if that third hand doesn’t mess up the spacing again.”

  “I double-checked the ratios. I was tired before. That’s all.”

  “Mm.”

  Hana knelt beside her. The silence wasn’t awkward. Not exactly. More like… lived-in. Warmer than the brass panels they were crouched under.

  They worked.

  One bolt. Then two. Then Rin handed her a ring gauge without comment.

  Finally, Hana said it.

  “I’m not trying to take your place.”

  The wrench stopped turning.

  Just for a breath.

  Rin didn’t look over, but her voice was softer this time.

  “You’re not. You’re building something different.”

  Another breath passed. Hana tightened the last bolt and leaned back, resting her shoulders against the curved underside of the Dart.

  “Different better or different worse?”

  “Different necessary.”

  And somehow, that was the kindest thing Rin had ever said.

  They finished in silence.

  The kind that didn’t ask for more.

  The kind that said we’re not enemies, not anymore.

  Scene 6: Moment of Softness

  —-: Rin Tachibana

  The tools were quiet now. The kind of quiet that clung to metal and midnight.

  Rin stayed crouched even after Hana left — not because there was more to do, but because she didn’t want to move yet.

  The air under the Dart was warm, held in by layers of insulated cloth and tightly riveted panels. The repairs were clean. The weld lines were smooth. Hana’s adjustments had been subtle but efficient. A precision she didn’t expect from someone so… hesitant.

  Not hesitant, she corrected herself.

  Careful.

  Rin ran her fingers along the stabilizer’s internal guide track. Not out of habit. Out of memory. The movement reminded her of late nights before nationals last year — alone in this very spot, triple-checking every joint because no one else could do it to her standard.

  Because no one else tried.

  Now someone did.

  And she didn’t hate it.

  Above her, the ship creaked faintly as the air cooled, hull contracting. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a folded photograph — edges worn, corners rounded.

  It was a team photo. From years ago. Crimson Gale, first-gen. Before things fell apart. Before pride swallowed partnership. Her brother stood at the center of it, arm slung around a younger Rin with oil-smudged cheeks and a spark in her eyes.

  That spark had turned into flame.

  And flame… didn’t play well with others.

  But maybe, she thought, fingers brushing over the photo, maybe the Dart doesn’t need fire. Maybe it needs fuel.

  A breeze passed under the hangar door, rustling the papers on the bench. She tucked the photo away and rose, her knees popping in protest.

  Before she left, she turned back and looked up at the Dart — patched, still asymmetrical in places, the paint scuffed where wind had bitten too hard.

  And yet, even now, it seemed alive.

  Almost waiting.

  “Don’t make me regret this,” she murmured.

  To herself.

  To Hana.

  To the ship.

  To all of it.

  Then she flicked off the work lamp, and the hangar fell into silence.

  Scene 7: Cutaway – Shadows of the Past

  —-: Headmistress Aoi

  The gears in the ceiling rotated with a hushed, rhythmic pulse — part of the old air exchange system that had been part of Hinode Academy since before even Aoi had been a student.

  She stood by the high arched window of her tower office, the stained glass catching moonlight in soft flickers of amber and violet, casting colored patterns across the file-strewn desk.

  In her hands, she held a photograph.

  Old. Sepia-toned. The edges curled, a faint crack slicing across one corner like an old wound.

  In it: Genzō Tachibana, younger and smug, stood proudly beside a prototype airship with a cockpit perched low and a single wide stabilizer arcing from the stern. Its nameplate read: Silver Dart – Model I.

  Behind him, half in shadow, stood another boy. Taller, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a streak of engine grease on his face, smirking just slightly at the camera.

  Ren’s grandfather, she thought.

  I knew I’d seen those eyes before.

  She sat down at the edge of the wide mahogany desk, resting the photo beside a newer one — a printout clipped from the recent scrimmage bulletin.

  The Silver Dart again. But this time… reborn.

  Underneath it, she’d scribbled two names in pencil:

  R. Kisaragi

  R. Tachibana

  She tapped the edge of the photo once, then again.

  “And so the cycle begins again…”

  From the corner of the room, the tea kettle let out a tiny sigh of steam — as if it agreed, reluctantly.

  She opened a drawer and slid the photo in beside a sealed file marked Project Featherstream.

  Then closed it. Locked it.

  For now.

  Scene 8: The Dart at Midnight

  —-: Omniscient (brief atmospheric closer)

  The Silver Dart slept beneath the moonlight.

  The hangar was silent now, save for the soft tick... hiss... of cooling pipes contracting in the rafters. Every brass joint, every tension cable, every hand-tightened bolt shimmered faintly under the skylight’s pale glow — not polished, not perfect, but alive in a way only machines born from desperation and dreams could be.

  A thin ribbon of steam still curled from the pressure exhaust at the rear — a remnant of midnight work, of hands that didn’t give up even when the ship should have been scrap.

  The stabilizer now bore a fresh weld line, sloped smooth like a seam in armor.

  A fingerprint smudge lingered on the starboard throttle cap.

  Someone had left a rag tucked behind the rudder chain — forgotten in their hurry, or maybe left on purpose.

  A soft click echoed from inside the Dart’s core housing — the last heat valve locking into place as the inner pressure chamber reached equilibrium. The ship exhaled.

  And if anyone had been watching — really watching — they might’ve sworn they saw the faintest pulse along the crystal gauge, like a heartbeat syncing with the night.

  Outside, the wind shifted.

  The next race hadn’t been announced.

  The next challenge hadn’t been revealed.

  But the Dart was ready.

  Waiting.