Chapter 14: “The Sky Wasn’t Ready”

  Scene 1: History of Airship Racing Leagues

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  If boredom could be measured in steam pressure, the room would’ve exploded by now.

  Ren blinked, slowly, deliberately, trying to stay conscious as Vice Principal Kondo droned on at the front of the classroom. The man stood like a tower of gray starch and old rules, hands clasped behind his back, voice steady as a boiler with a clogged valve.

  “—and thus, in the Year of Steam Cycle Thirty-Eight, the first organized transport trials were codified into what we now recognize as the Hinode Airship Racing League.”

  Ren’s mechanical pencil slipped from his fingers and hit the desk with a clack. He didn’t bother picking it up.

  Kondo kept going, undeterred.

  “Initial races focused solely on speed. However, the point ring system was introduced in Cycle Forty-One to reward maneuverability and strategy over raw output. As you all surely recall—”

  No one recalled.

  Even Saki, who normally thrived in academic chaos, looked ready to nap into her collar.

  “—points are distributed as follows: Three for a correctly colored ring, two for a misaligned ring, and one for bypassed. Additional bonuses are granted based on final lap placement: Six for first, four for second, two for third, and one for all subsequent.”

  Jiro leaned over and whispered, “You think if I set off a steam popper under his chair, we’d get early lunch?”

  Ren didn’t answer. His gaze drifted toward the window. The sky outside was crystal-clear and golden. A perfect day to fly.

  “Of course,” Kondo added, “the strategy between point-maximization designs and speed-maximization models creates fascinating mechanical diversity.”

  Ren fought the urge to rest his chin on the desk.

  “Point-max ships favor smaller turn radii, better vertical control, and dynamic venting. Speed-max ships use long-burn crystal chambers and sacrifice lift adjustment for torque.”

  Saki raised her hand lazily.

  “Has anyone ever bribed the judges to fudge ring alignment?”

  A few students chuckled. Ren turned his head.

  Kondo didn’t.

  “That would be a violation of League Code Article Seventeen. Expulsion and engine confiscation.”

  “But… has anyone ever tried?” Saki repeated, eyes sparkling with mischief.

  Kondo was silent for a full five seconds.

  Then:

  “Next question.”

  The class collectively leaned back, murmurs growing.

  Ren snorted quietly.

  And yet, through all the dull droning, something clicked in his head. A spark of math. A sudden, perfect alignment of course trajectory and throttle compression.

  So if you clipped the 2-point ring, missed the outer spiral, but pulled into a drift bank before the final checkpoint…

  He sat up straighter.

  Maybe the lecture wasn’t so useless after all.

  Scene 2: Morning Flight

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  Ren tugged the goggled flight cap down tighter over his ears and adjusted the copper-trimmed straps under his chin. His breath misted in the cool spring air, not from nerves, not really—just... okay, definitely nerves.

  The Silver Dart hissed softly behind him, pressure rising from the freshly vented boiler chamber. Crystal regulators blinked pale blue beneath the cockpit console, their steady pulse a heartbeat he was starting to match.

  A second pair of boots clicked onto the rear gangplank.

  Rin didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

  He could feel her presence before he turned. Her steps were clean, precise—each movement tightened like a well-balanced gear. She climbed into the co-pilot seat behind him without a single wasted motion. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t glance at the panel.

  She just fit.

  “I’ll take control if you freeze,” she said, buckling in with a swift snap.

  Ren smirked.

  “Deal. Just don’t yank the throttle mid-turn again.”

  “You bounced the stabilizer off a navigation buoy.”

  “Minor detail.”

  The buzz of the signal tower flicked to green, and the overhead speakers let out a sharp ca-chunk followed by a hissing crrreeeehhk—meaning someone forgot to oil the mic again.

  “Silver Dart, clearance confirmed. Ring sequence 2–3–2–2–3 pattern. You’ve got eight minutes on the loop. Do not collide with the snack drone this time.”

  Ren gave a thumbs-up toward the tower. “One time! One time the banana buns flew everywhere!”

  Rin, unseen behind his back, let out a tiny, almost imperceptible snort. He took it as a win.

  The engine roared to life—crystal heat expanding in a silky rush through the drive pipe, the gear-teeth clacking into place like clockwork teeth chewing into a tighter rhythm.

  “Throttle one-quarter. Vents calibrated,” Rin called.

  “Lift bags steady. Let’s dance.”

  The Dart shot forward with a smooth jerk, the airbag overhead taut and gleaming in the sun. They hit the first turn into the ring course—vertical stack spirals, colored orange for their 2-point score level—and Rin leaned into the motion before he even banked.

  The ship pivoted left.

  He adjusted his angle, she adjusted the trim. It wasn’t rehearsed. It was instinct.

  They rolled under the second ring, skimmed the edge of a 3-pointer without clipping it, and soared upward through a slanted 2-ring set shaped like a crescent.

  “Climb to 80 meters,” Rin ordered.

  “Already there.”

  They dove through the next set. G-forces hit—hard.

  Ren gritted his teeth as his stomach tried to introduce itself to his ribs. But the Dart held. The pressure valves pulsed a silver-gold shimmer through the throttle gate.

  The sound of steam screaming into altitude matched his heart rate exactly.

  “You’re not freezing,” Rin said behind him.

  “You’re not yanking.”

  “...Maybe we’re doomed.”

  They banked into the tightest corkscrew of the whole circuit. Two rings only five meters apart, pitched diagonally—practically a death spiral. But Rin’s hand was already on the aileron trim. His elbow nudged hers.

  One nudge. Two hands. One breath.

  They spun through the spiral so smooth the crystal regulators didn’t even blink.

  He let out a whoop.

  And she—

  He could’ve sworn—

  She laughed.

  Just once. Just soft.

  But it was real.

  Scene 3: In the Air

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  They sliced through the last leg of the course like a seam-ripper through silk.

  Ren leaned into the final curve, and Rin instinctively braced the rear stabilizers with just the right tension. No words. No callouts. Just gears shifting, lift reacting, and two hearts beating in sync with a pulse of vapor and crystal-fired momentum.

  The Dart didn’t just fly—it flowed.

  Not the patched-together mess from two weeks ago. Not the twitchy, miscalibrated beast from their first solo runs. No. This was a machine reborn.

  The modified mid-throttle Hana had installed two nights ago fed the combustion intake with a smoother curve. Their vent cycles harmonized with the atmospheric pressure. Ren didn’t even need to glance at the gauges anymore—he could feel the lift in his spine.

  They banked toward a triple-tiered diagonal. Three 2-point rings hovering in tight, staggered formation like petals on a steel flower.

  “That’s a 60-degree drift,” Rin murmured.

  “Seventy if I cheat the vent valves.”

  “Don’t.”

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  “You’ll like it.”

  He cut throttle by just 4%, forced the lift bag to soften, and then popped the left-side airbrake for half a second.

  The Dart tilted—

  Not spiraled. Not stalled.

  Tilted into a lean so precise the tail fins brushed the outer edge of the bottom ring, while the nose sliced cleanly through the second.

  “Third ring,” Rin warned, voice tight.

  “Already on it.”

  A tap. A hiss. Right-side ballast adjust. The ship rolled flat just in time to slip through the third ring, which they shouldn’t have made, not by physics, not by logic—

  But they did.

  Behind them, a contrail of faint blue steam shimmered into a swooping heart-shape before the wind scattered it.

  Ren laughed. “Okay. That one was cool.”

  “You still owe me for the banana bun incident.”

  He grinned back. “I’ll pay in altitude.”

  The final checkpoint loomed. He felt the urge to floor it—go full throttle, dump the reserves, show off just once—but Rin’s hand was already bracing his shoulder from behind. Not holding him back. Grounding him.

  “Fly smart,” she said.

  “Always.”

  They hit the last marker, throttle humming steady, the Dart settling into a perfect gliding descent. No smoke. No rattle. Just grace.

  As they touched down on the central platform, the landing wheels kissed the ground with a low huff of steam, the entire airframe humming like it had just been handed a dream and asked to hold it gently.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke.

  Rin unbuckled first. Hopped down without waiting.

  Ren followed, heart still pounding.

  And as the cheers started from across the hangar—just a few voices at first, but building—he realized what had happened.

  Not just a test flight.

  Not just a win.

  But proof.

  They could fly together.

  Scene 4: On the Ground

  —-: Hana Kurobane

  The applause hit like cold rain. Soft. Scattered. Then sharper, louder. Echoing off copper panels and rolling across the hangar bay like a wave of steam.

  Hana stood on the upper observation rail, arms folded around the guardrail’s peeling brass edge. Below her, Ren and Rin disembarked the Silver Dart to a small crowd forming in the courtyard—students pointing, clapping, talking fast and loud about the last maneuver.

  "Did you see that drift?"

  "They clipped all three rings. All of them."

  "Are they officially a duo now? Like… racing partners?"

  Her chest felt too tight for how cool the air was.

  She pressed a hand against her sternum. The pressure didn’t help.

  Rin didn’t even look winded. She hopped down from the gangplank like she’d done it a thousand times, which she probably had. All calm precision and perfectly unshaken hair, like she'd just walked out of a catalogue for wind-sculpted perfection.

  Ren stumbled a little getting down.

  At least he still does that, Hana thought, a tiny smile twitching.

  But then—he looked back.

  Not up to Hana. Not around at the students.

  Back at Rin.

  And Rin... smiled.

  A real one.

  Not smirking. Not sardonic. Not her usual “I’ll destroy you later” grin. It was small, quiet, and genuine.

  Hana exhaled slowly through her nose.

  I helped build that throttle mod. I calibrated the vents. I even patched the left stabilizer after Rin slammed it into the practice tower last week—

  “Hey.”

  Mei’s voice, soft as a soldering iron hiss, came from just beside her.

  Hana jumped. “You—! Don’t sneak up on people like that!”

  Mei didn’t apologize. She rarely did.

  She just stood there, arms folded, watching the pair below. Rin and Ren were now surrounded by classmates asking for autographs on notebook covers and even one girl’s hand fan.

  Mei’s expression barely shifted, but her voice was warm.

  “You did good work.”

  Hana looked down. “Did I?”

  “The Dart didn’t stall. It sang.”

  They stood in silence for a few beats.

  Then Mei did something unusual.

  She reached out, rested a hand lightly on Hana’s shoulder.

  Just a second. Just enough.

  No platitudes. No awkward cheer-up talk.

  Just—You’re not alone.

  And it helped.

  Scene 5: Dorm Life: Lights Out

  —-: Saki Tachibana

  The last steam lantern flickered out with a click and a wheeze, plunging the dorm room into a soft darkness punctuated only by the occasional squeak of the old water pipes.

  Saki lay on her side, hugging her pillow like it was a gossip scroll waiting to be cracked open.

  “Okay, so—real question,” she whispered into the room like a secret incantation. “Who do you think’s gonna crash first?”

  No answer.

  Then—

  “Ren,” came one voice from the other bunk.

  “Rin,” said another.

  “Saki,” added a third voice flatly.

  “Hey!” Saki sat up, the bun at the top of her head flopping sideways in indignation. “I’m not even on a ship! I’d never—okay, well, maybe if there were free snacks.”

  Giggles.

  Even Hana, sitting cross-legged on her bunk surrounded by a sprawl of half-dissected gear schematics, let out a quiet chuckle.

  Saki pointed at her triumphantly in the moonlight.

  “There. She laughed. That counts as progress.”

  Hana didn’t deny it, but she didn’t smile either.

  “He’s not going to crash.”

  It was said simply. Quiet. With full conviction.

  The room went still.

  Saki blinked. “...Okaaay, someone’s getting defensive.”

  Hana’s fingers paused on her pencil. She kept her head down.

  From her corner bunk, Mei’s voice sliced the tension clean.

  “You all think this is a game.”

  Silence dropped like a wrench on a marble floor.

  “It’s not,” Mei finished. “You crash wrong, you don’t get a second try.”

  Saki swallowed.

  In the dim, shifting shadows, she could barely make out Mei rolling over to face the wall.

  No one spoke after that.

  No punchline. No comeback.

  Just the low hum of the dorm’s radiator breathing out warmth, and the soft rustle of bedding as each girl curled into the night with thoughts heavier than crystal fuel.

  Scene 6: Post-Flight Buzz

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  Ren stepped out of the Dart's cockpit with sore shoulders, a mild case of throttle-blister on his thumb, and roughly eighty-six percent certainty that he’d never forget the way that flight felt.

  Not the climb. Not the precision turns. And definitely not the way Rin had… what, trusted him?

  He wasn’t used to that. Not from her.

  He ducked under the gangway rail—and instantly walked into a crowd.

  “Kisaragi-kun, what was that move at Ring Seven?”

  “Is it true you and Rin designed that engine sync yourselves?”

  “Can you sign my notebook?”

  “My fan?”

  “My skirt pocket flap?!”

  He blinked.

  The crowd of students—mostly first-years, but a few upperclass mechanics too—swelled around the Dart like bees to a crystal bloom.

  He raised his hands. “Uh, I’m not… really famous. Or anything. Just trying not to explode mid-air.”

  “Too late,” said Taiga, leaning over from a crate with his hands tucked behind his head, casual as ever. “You and Rin just became Hinode’s golden pair.”

  “Steam’s hottest duo,” someone else quipped.

  Rin approached from the far side of the platform, her usual scowl in place—except now it looked more like she was fighting not to smirk.

  Saki appeared—no surprise—already scribbling in her journal with a self-inking gearpen. She didn’t even look up.

  “Title: Silver Wings Soar: Can Coed Fly Higher? Subhead: Rising star Ren Kisaragi and Hinode’s Ice Queen steam up the sky. Thoughts?”

  Ren nearly swallowed his tongue. “C-Can we not say 'steam up the sky'? That sounds like a weather report written by a romantic novelist.”

  Taiga laughed so hard he fell off the crate. “Too late! It’s canon now.”

  Rin simply rolled her eyes and brushed past. “You’re more useful with a wrench than with words.”

  “I’ve been told that,” Ren muttered.

  Still, he couldn’t help but glance back.

  The crowd was buzzing. The Dart looked sleek. Even the sun seemed to hit it differently now, casting sharp gleams off the fresh stabilizer plates and the newly polished crest he’d mounted beneath the cabin.

  This wasn’t just his ship anymore.

  This was a statement.

  And, apparently… a partnership.

  Scene 7: Saki Writes Again

  —-: Saki Tachibana

  Click.

  Clack.

  Whirr.

  Ding.

  The little brass-plated typewriter sputtered steam as Saki punched out each word like a battlefield drummer calling cadence.

  Her sleeves were rolled, her collar was ink-stained, and three half-drunk bottles of fizzy cactus soda sat like fallen soldiers on the desk beside her. The window was open a crack, letting in the cool breath of evening and the distant clatter of gears from the hangars.

  She leaned in, eyes gleaming with the fire of truth—and maybe a little gossip.

  “...While the seasoned veterans of Hinode’s elite teams rested on tradition, two mismatched pilots dared to rewrite the rules.”

  Clack. Clack. Clack.

  “One, a transfer student with the flight record of a potato cannon. The other, a pilot so cold she once told the Vice Principal to ‘land himself’ during orientation.”

  She smirked.

  Saki adjusted her goggles atop her head for dramatic effect, even though no one was watching. Then added:

  “Together, they pulled off the impossible: syncing mid-air with no verbal cues, carving a heart-shaped spiral across the sky so precise that three mechanics cried.”

  A pause.

  Then she leaned back and sighed. “Okay, maybe only one mechanic. And he mostly cried because he’d spilled hot coolant down his pants, but still.”

  She reached for her cactus soda, missed, and grabbed the empty bottle instead. After a beat, she muttered:

  “Figures.”

  Back to the keys.

  “In the wake of their flight, the question on everyone’s lips remains: Is this the dawn of a new era in co-ed racing—or just a fluke carried on a lucky gust of steam?”

  She hit enter with flourish.

  Saki Tachibana, reporting live from the edge of scandal.

  She stopped.

  Stared at the last line.

  Then smirked and added in pen, across the top of the article:

  "Silver Wings Soar: Can Coed Fly Higher?"

  “Print it,” she whispered to herself.

  Then louder, to the pneumatic pipe system that sent papers up to the editorial office: “PRINT IIIIIT!”

  The pipe whooshed, and her article was gone.

  She stretched her arms and kicked her legs onto the desk, grinning at the ceiling fan as it whirled overhead like the propeller of fate itself.

  “Tomorrow’s going to be fun.”

  Scene 8: Grandpa Fixes Nothing

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  Ren ducked under a low pipe and followed the familiar trail of scorch marks, spilled grease, and suspiciously half-eaten rice balls that marked the path to Grandpa Genzō's corner of the hangar yard.

  A small fire was already sputtering in the brazier.

  Tools clanked rhythmically inside a cart that looked like it had once been a kitchen stove, two wheelbarrows, and a carriage lantern—all soldered together with love and bad judgment.

  Genzō was sitting on an overturned engine cowling, pipe in one hand, wrench in the other, wearing a towel like a scarf and humming an off-key victory march.

  Ren cleared his throat.

  Genzō didn’t look up.

  “Ah,” he said, puffing a small cloud of peppermint-scented steam, “if it isn’t Mr. Hotshot Skyboy.”

  Ren groaned and flopped onto a stack of shipping crates beside him. “Please don’t call me that.”

  “Too late. Already made a plaque.”

  He pulled something out of his coat.

  It was a piece of rusted sheet metal, poorly engraved in looping script with the words: ‘Hotshot Skyboy – First to Break the Wind and the Rules’.

  Ren squinted. “That’s not even a compliment. That’s just… flatulence with branding.”

  Genzō wheezed a laugh and slapped his knee. “That’s the spirit!”

  They sat in companionable silence for a moment. The breeze carried the sound of early drills from other teams. Somewhere nearby, a wrench dropped and someone swore in three languages.

  Ren ran a hand through his hair, suddenly unsure of everything again.

  “Did we really do something that mattered?” he asked.

  Genzō tapped his pipe against the edge of the brazier, ash scattering like sparks.

  “Kid, I’ve been at this school longer than most buildings. I’ve seen racers break bones, propellers, and occasionally, the laws of thermodynamics.”

  He turned and gave Ren a rare, direct look.

  “But I ain’t ever seen two pilots sync like you and Ice Queen did yesterday. That wasn’t flying. That was alchemy.”

  Ren stared at him.

  “…Are you gonna get sappy on me?”

  “Absolutely not,” Genzō said, standing. “Now shut up and help me fix this blasted radiator. I think it’s trying to whistle the school anthem again.”

  Ren smiled. Just a little.

  He reached for the spanner.

  Behind them, the sun broke over the edge of the school’s copper-capped towers. The air shimmered with heat and potential. Steam curled in lazy arcs, rising like the breath of a sleeping beast just beginning to stir.

  Scene 9: “Don’t Get Cocky. I’m Still Faster.”

  —-: Ren Kisaragi

  The sky had turned the color of burnished brass, clouds streaked thin like steam-trails from an overheated valve. The sun dipped low, casting long amber shafts between the iron struts and dangling banners of Hinode Academy’s upper terrace.

  Ren leaned against the observation rail, arms folded, hair still damp from the post-flight rinse. Below, the hangars buzzed with drills, drills buzzed with students, and students buzzed with stories.

  The Silver Dart was finally quiet. Resting.

  He exhaled, letting his weight sink into the moment. Into the altitude of it all.

  Behind him, a familiar voice broke the quiet.

  “You’re going to get soft if you keep standing around like that.”

  Ren turned. Rin stood there, school jacket slung half-on, half-off one shoulder, sleeves pushed up like she’d just been fixing something—probably had. A faint sheen of grease smudged one cheek.

  Ren smirked. “Didn’t realize there was a fitness exam for leaning.”

  “There is now.” She walked past him to the rail, resting her elbows on it. “Good view.”

  He joined her. “Yeah. Kind of makes everything below feel… small.”

  A beat of silence.

  The kind that stretched out just long enough to feel dangerous.

  “That flight,” she said finally, “wasn’t awful.”

  Ren tilted his head. “High praise.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  Another pause.

  The wind toyed with a loose strand of her hair. She didn’t brush it back. Didn’t look at him, either.

  “You trusted me,” she said, voice low. “Most people don’t. Not when I fly.”

  “I didn’t trust you,” Ren said.

  She stiffened.

  “I trusted us.”

  That earned a glance.

  A long, unreadable one.

  And then, almost imperceptibly—like a gear slipping into place—Rin’s lips curled. Just a little.

  A real smile. Slightly crooked. Entirely rare.

  “Don’t get cocky,” she said, voice laced with the faintest laugh. “I’m still faster.”

  Ren chuckled. “Wasn’t trying to win. Just trying not to crash.”

  “Same thing,” she said. Then pushed off the rail and walked past. “See you at drills, Skyboy.”

  He turned to watch her go, then looked back at the horizon.

  Yeah.

  The sky felt different now.