Scene 1: Saki’s Damage Control
—-: Ren
There were exactly three things Ren Ichiro did not want to see when he opened the common room door.
- A spotlight.
- A microphone.
- Saki leaning against a velvet-covered chair like she was the queen of Hinode and today was her coronation.
Unfortunately, he saw all three.
“Ren!” she chirped, voice too chipper, too prepared. “Glad you made it. You’re only fifteen minutes late to the most important media event of your adolescent life.”
He stopped mid-step, backpedaled instinctively toward the hallway.
Too slow. Taiga caught him by the collar. “Nope. You're in this with us.”
“Please,” Ren whispered. “Let me fake my own death. I’ll dig a tunnel. I’ll build a glider out of spoons—”
Saki waved a clipboard. “Silver Dart: Inside the Cockpit of Love!”
Ren died inside.
“You’re leaking steam out of your ears,” Jiro whispered from behind a fern. “Should I get the mop?”
Mei stood against the back wall, unreadable as ever. Rin was perched on the arm of a chair, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, foot bouncing like a high-pressure piston. Hana… Hana wasn’t even looking at him. She was fiddling with a broken clasp on her tool belt like it was a security blanket.
This was not an interview.
This was an execution.
“Okay!” Saki clapped once. “Let’s start with a group question. Ren—describe your relationship with both girls in exactly seven words each. Go!”
“What?”
“Clock’s ticking!”
He panicked. “Uh—Rin is—smart. Fast. Has sharp elbows?”
Rin glared.
“And Hana—fixes things. Yells. Smells like…metal.”
The silence was immediate.
Jiro facepalmed audibly.
“Metal?” Hana asked flatly.
“You know! Like, in a good way! Like solder, or copper wiring, or… forge fire?” He was sweating. “Like… dependable?”
“Smooth,” Mei said softly from the wall.
Rin rolled her eyes so hard it was audible. “I can’t believe I skipped breakfast for this.”
“Wait, wait, let’s not lose momentum!” Saki said, desperate now, scribbling something and nodding like this was all perfectly under control. “Hana—how do you feel about being referred to as ‘the screwdriver?’”
Hana raised a brow. “Depends where you’re planning to insert it.”
Ren choked.
“Moving on!” Saki squeaked. “Rin—true or false: you once threatened to shove a wrench down Ren’s intake valve.”
“Technically I threatened to install it.”
“Quote!” Saki pointed. “Excellent quote!”
Rin was already standing. “I’m done.”
“Wait!” Ren stood too, voice cracking. “You’re both taking this out of context—”
Rin glanced back over her shoulder, expression unreadable, lips parted like she was about to say something real.
But then she just said, “You still owe me a rematch.”
And walked out.
Hana stayed. Sitting quietly. Still picking at the clasp.
Ren sat down too. Carefully.
Saki blinked. “So… anyone wanna cry on camera?”
Taiga raised a hand. “Do tears of joy count?”
Saki buried her face in her clipboard.
Ren didn’t look at Hana.
Hana didn’t look at Ren.
But something between them hung there, fragile and hot, like a wire just shy of snapping.
Scene 2: Rin’s Confession (Half)
—-: Ren
The courtyard was quiet now, the way only iron and steam could be.
Ren leaned against a support strut near the edge of the hangar’s catwalk, where the warm metal vibrated faintly beneath his spine. A crystal relay hummed above, flickering blue every few seconds as energy pulsed down into the guts of the workshop below.
He breathed in the scent of turbine oil and the last blush of afternoon sun baked into copper. Better than applause. Better than questions.
Better than that interview.
Footsteps behind him. Soft. Precise.
He didn’t turn.
“I thought you were going to disappear again,” he said.
Rin came into view beside him, hands in her pockets, eyes set somewhere far beyond the horizon.
“I tried,” she said. “Didn’t work.”
They stood like that for a while. Neither looking at the other. Just breathing. Just existing.
Ren shifted. “I didn’t mean what I said earlier. About… you having sharp elbows.”
“I know.”
“It was supposed to be funny.”
“It wasn’t.”
“…Yeah.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, wincing.
The wind kicked up a little, pushing her bangs across her cheek. She didn’t move to fix them.
“I hated watching that flight,” Rin said finally.
Ren blinked. “The Kyokuto match?”
“I mean watching. From the sidelines. Grounded. Useless.”
“You’re not—”
“I was.” Her voice was tight. Controlled. “While you were in the sky, I was stuck with a simulation and a cheering squad. I don’t want to watch you fly. I want to be up there with you.”
Ren turned to face her, unsure whether to speak or not.
She stepped forward. Closer. Close enough that he could smell the citrus soap she used—something sharp and clean that didn’t match the grease under her fingernails.
“You’re reckless. You improvise like a lunatic. You hit things too hard and brake too late.”
He frowned. “Gee, thanks.”
“But…” Her voice softened. “I respect you. More than I let on.”
Something shifted in the air.
Ren’s heart thumped. Not fast. Just loud. Like it wanted out.
Rin stared at the horizon again, then turned to him, eyes darker now, serious in a way he hadn’t seen since they were kids sneaking onto the glide ramps after curfew.
“I said something else. Just now.”
“What?”
She looked right at him.
Then said something—too quiet to hear.
The turbine above them whined at just the wrong moment. A gust of wind rattled the catwalk railing.
“What?” he asked, stepping closer.
But she was already moving. Backing away. Mask slipping back into place.
“Never mind,” she muttered. “I’ve got drills.”
And just like that, she was gone. A shadow down the stairs, vanishing between two steam pillars.
Ren stood there, alone with the echo of something he couldn’t quite catch.
But it clung to his skin like the heat of engine fire. Impossible to ignore.
Scene 3: Taiga’s Grand Plan
—-: Jiro
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
There were at least five better places Jiro could’ve been.
Under a waterfall. Inside a storm pipe. Lost in the boiler shaft with only a moldy ration bar and a wrench for company.
But no. He was in the dorm common room, sitting across from Taiga Fujiwara—who had just pulled a six-foot-long roll of parchment from his backpack like it was a declaration of war.
“I present to you,” Taiga announced, standing proudly on the coffee table, “The Official Romantic Viability Matrix of Team Silver Dart.?”
Jiro blinked. “...What.”
Taiga threw glitter.
Actual glitter.
From a pouch labeled Emergency Sparkle Ammo.
“It’s simple!” he declared, slapping the chart down. “We’re clearly in a romantic logjam, so I’ve applied the power of mathematics, thermodynamic compatibility, and pilot chemistry algorithms to create a ranking system.”
The parchment unrolled onto the floor, across the table, over the couch, and knocked over someone’s half-drunk can of grape cider.
“Why,” Jiro said, “does this exist.”
“Because I crave clarity!” Taiga shouted. “We are a team of sky-bound adolescents trapped in a soup of emotional tension and unresolved feelings. It’s like flying with a jammed rudder. Unacceptable.”
Jiro pinched the bridge of his nose. “You made a spreadsheet.”
“Matrix,” Taiga corrected, pointing at a quadrant labeled ‘emotional resonance potential vs. compatibility under fire.’
There were bar graphs. Pie charts. Arrows. At least one doodle of Ren with hearts coming out of his head.
“Look, see here—based on observed chemistry, risk-reward scenarios, and height differential preferences, Hana and Ren rank at 87% compatibility. Meanwhile, Rin’s wildcard score skews the margin, but if you calculate for old-history bias—”
“Wait. Did you assign a chaos coefficient to Rin?”
“Obviously,” Taiga said. “She’s an X-factor wrapped in a lightning bolt wrapped in unresolved trauma.”
Jiro squinted. “And where are you on this chart?”
Taiga grinned, flipping to a second scroll labeled “Fan Club Cross-Romantic Interest Heatmap.”
“Turns out I’m a universal constant.”
Jiro gagged. “I’m leaving.”
“Wait!” Taiga jumped off the table and slid in front of the door, arms wide. “We need an outside party to weigh in. As the team’s moral compass and chaos balancer—”
“I’m not the chaos balancer, you are the chaos.”
“—you must help finalize the matrix!”
Jiro stared at the paper. Then at Taiga.
Then at the couch where Mei sat silently, sipping tea and absolutely ignoring them.
“I’ll do it,” Jiro said solemnly, “if you explain to me what this part is.” He pointed.
“Ah, yes,” Taiga said, clearing his throat. “That’s the ‘kiss radius overlap prediction arc.’ Very scientific.”
Jiro turned and walked straight into the wall.
Behind him, Taiga called, “Don’t worry! I already submitted it to Saki as an op-ed!”
Jiro groaned into the drywall. “This is why people think we’re unstable.”
From the couch, Mei sipped again and muttered, “They’re right.”
Scene 4: Mei Opens Up
—-: Hana
The rooftop was still warm beneath Hana’s palms.
She leaned back on the flat panel of the exhaust cap, legs dangling off the edge, staring at the horizon where the last fingers of sunlight were dissolving into steam. The scent of copper coils and scorched turbine dust lingered in the air like smoke after a show.
She liked this time of day. The sky went quiet. The academy exhaled. And no one expected anything from her.
Except Mei.
Hana didn’t look over when she heard her approach—soft shoes, a faint rustle of long sleeves. No clanking. No dramatic entrance. Just Mei, calm and silent as always.
She sat beside her without a word. Pulled her legs in, back straight, hair gently lifted by the breeze. Dusk haloed the edges of her white-gold strands.
For a while, they said nothing.
And in that silence, Hana realized she didn’t mind Mei’s presence. It didn’t press on her. It didn’t ask for a performance. It just… existed beside her.
She exhaled. “If you’re here to tell me I’m important, don’t. I’ve already been told.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
A pause.
“…But you are,” Mei added, gaze fixed on the sky.
Hana groaned. “You’re impossible.”
“Statistically accurate,” Mei said, not a trace of irony.
Hana turned toward her, halfway through an eye-roll—but something caught her. Mei wasn’t smiling. But she wasn’t cold either. There was… warmth. Subtle. Like the last coil in a crystal forge—still glowing, even if you thought it had gone out.
“You’ve been quiet lately,” Hana said.
“You’ve been loud,” Mei replied.
“Touché.”
Another pause. The wind shifted. Distant propellers hummed on the far side of campus—training ships gliding in toward the storage docks, flanked by trailing steam and fading sunlight.
Hana stared at the light dancing on Mei’s sleeve.
“Do you ever feel like… you’re just background?” she asked. “Like other people are meant to shine, and you’re just the one who keeps the lights on?”
Mei didn’t answer right away. Her eyes tracked the orange glint of a ship passing between clouds. Her hand rested on her knee—still. Intentional.
Finally, she said:
“You don’t have to be the brightest. Just the one who stays lit.”
Hana blinked. Her throat went tight.
Mei went on, voice softer now. “Stars burn out. Explode. Fade. But lanterns? Lanterns stay.”
Hana swallowed. “You think I’m a lantern?”
“I think you’re the reason half our team doesn’t crash and die.”
That startled a laugh out of her. Short. Real.
“And you?” Hana asked, nudging her shoulder.
“I’m the mirror,” Mei said. “I reflect what I need to.”
Hana looked at her. Really looked. And saw someone not hollow, but careful. Not cold—measured.
“Thanks,” she said, unsure what else to say.
“You’re welcome.”
They watched the ships disappear into twilight, each leaving a trail of crystal shimmer in its wake. The sky grew darker, deeper. The stars hadn’t come out yet, but the night was warming up.
Hana leaned back again, letting her head tip against the metal.
For once, she didn’t feel like a spare part.
Just… part.
Scene 5: Workshop Shenanigans
—-: Rin
Rin slammed the wrench onto the bench hard enough to rattle the floor vents.
“Alright,” she muttered, “if nobody’s going to say it, I will: our current stabilizer system sucks.”
“You already said that twice,” Jiro offered from behind his safety goggles.
“Not loud enough, apparently.”
She stood over the worktable like a general before battle—blueprints unfurled, parts scattered like wounded soldiers, and one very suspiciously blinking coil array pulsing a soft, threatening pink.
Hana raised an eyebrow. “That’s the same array you fried last month trying to make the ‘anti-nausea engine.’”
Rin gestured at it like she was presenting a masterpiece. “That was research. This is science.”
“I’m already afraid,” Ren muttered.
But Rin was on a mission. And nothing could stop a mind full of equations, caffeine, and unresolved emotional feedback loops.
“The plan is simple,” she said, scribbling a diagram onto the chalkboard with barely-controlled fury. “We sync a vibration-dampening ring with the tertiary crystal line so it offsets harmonic feedback during low-altitude banking.”
“That’s not simple,” Taiga whispered to Jiro. “That’s a spell.”
“We’ll anchor the base plate with flux bolts, reroute the overdrive backflow through the compressor’s magnetic cage, and channel the resonance bleed through a layered ripple mesh.” She paused, eyes gleaming. “Thoughts?”
“…Are we sure we want the floor to pulse like a nightclub?” Jiro asked cautiously.
“Science doesn’t wait for permission.”
And with that, Rin flipped the main power lever.
There was a thump.
Then a hum.
Then the floor beneath them began to vibrate—gently at first, like someone had left the bass too high on a phonograph. Then stronger. Then dangerously rhythmic.
Taiga started bouncing in place. “Okay, not gonna lie… kinda into it.”
The overhead lights flickered. The crystal array blinked once. Twice. Then exploded into a synchronized wub-wub-wub beat.
The floor pulsed like a heartbeat. Worktables began to shimmy. A can of rivets danced across the bench. Jiro’s glasses fell off his face. Mei’s teacup rattled in place like it was about to confess something.
“RIN!” Ren shouted over the growing thud-thud-thud.
“I’M FIXING IT!” she shouted back—mid-spin, wrench in hand, dancing between valves like a mech ballet.
“You’re tuning it! There’s a difference!”
Hana was laughing now, leaning against a support beam that was doing its own off-beat shimmy. “This is what happens when we let your feelings near tools!”
“They’re not feelings, they’re force calculations!”
The lights turned blue. Blue!
“WHY IS THERE A STROBE?!” Taiga screamed, now attempting to crowd-surf across two workbenches with a scarf tied around his head like a battle flag.
Mei calmly stood at the edge, sipping her tea and blinking in sync with the pulse.
“I like it,” she said softly. “Feels honest.”
Then—
BOOM!
The system overloaded, sparks rained down, and the entire pulse-grid collapsed into silence so sudden it rang louder than the noise had.
Everyone froze.
Smoke curled from the overloaded mesh.
A single bolt rolled across the floor, clicked twice, and stopped at Rin’s foot.
“…Okay,” she panted, hands on her hips, sweat in her bangs. “Maybe that needs… a little tuning.”
Ren was wide-eyed. “You just turned a stabilizer into a club.”
“Correction,” she said. “I invented emotional resonance tech.”
Hana wiped soot off her cheek. “You invented a dance floor.”
Jiro coughed. “I think my teeth are still vibrating.”
Taiga raised a hand. “Do it again.”
Rin let out a laugh—loud, full, real.
The kind she didn’t let herself have often.
Scene 6: Night Flight
—-: Ren
The sky opened like a wound.
Dark, wide, stitched with stars. The kind of quiet that only came after combustion—after flame, after fall. Ren adjusted the throttle, felt the hum of the crystal stabilizers below his seat, and stole a glance sideways.
Hana was at the secondary controls, goggles perched on her forehead, hair tied back in a messy wrap that somehow looked cooler than anything he could ever pull off.
The upgraded stabilizer array purred beneath them. No pulse. No glowstick floor. Just a low, velvet hum—warm and confident.
“It’s holding,” she said, scanning the gauges with practiced ease. “Vibe levels below threshold. Resistance bleed is even. We’re not crashing.”
Ren grinned. “A thrilling endorsement.”
She smirked. “Hey, not crashing’s underrated.”
They banked slowly over the academy rooftops, the hangars below glowing soft and orange with lamplight. The cooling towers released lazy ribbons of steam, curling into the night like sleepwalking dragons.
Ren let the silence stretch.
Something about flying with Hana felt… anchored. Like no matter how high they went, she’d remind the sky it had rules. That flight meant function. That he wasn’t alone in the cockpit.
He swallowed. “So… about earlier. The interview.”
She didn’t answer right away. Just adjusted a dial. Carefully. Like if she twisted it just a little wrong, something inside her might come loose too.
“You were a dork,” she finally said.
“I’m always a dork.”
She snorted. “Yeah. But sometimes it matters more.”
Ren felt heat rise in his chest. Embarrassment. Hope. Something worse.
She kept going—soft now, but sure. “I didn’t mind being the screwdriver. I just wanted to know you saw what I was holding together.”
He turned to her, met her eyes. “I did. I do.”
And then, just like that—
WhrrrRRRRMMMMMM—
A roar cut through the night air. Sleek. Sharp. Too close.
A single-rider training craft blazed past them from below, rising in a sudden arc and leveling out directly above their altitude.
A flash of silver. White trim. Blue tail fins. Twin crystals—high-tuned, modified.
Rin.
Ren’s mouth fell open. “What—she—she’s not cleared for solo night flights!”
“She is now,” Hana muttered. “Look at that wing stabilization. That’s not student-level anymore.”
The training ship banked again, diving just slightly, toying with them. A flick of ailerons. A flash of navigation lights. A pilot completely, unmistakably in control.
And Rin, inside that cockpit—eyes narrow, face set—looked back. Just for a second.
Then she pushed the throttle, tilted into a sharp left climb, and overtook them again—this time from above, looping around like a comet showing off for gravity.
Ren gripped the yoke tighter. He couldn’t look away.
“She’s good,” he whispered.
“She’s brilliant,” Hana replied.
He glanced at her.
She wasn’t looking at Rin.
She was staring out the side window, eyes half-shadowed by the glass, lips parted like she wanted to say something more.
She didn’t.
Neither did he.
The sky between them felt suddenly bigger.
Scene 7: The Look Between
—-: Hana
The stars didn’t blink.
Hana sat still in the co-pilot seat, fingers resting lightly on the console, gaze fixed out the side window. The glass curved around her like a bubble. A barrier. A lens. It showed everything—and kept everything just far enough away.
Below them, the academy glowed like a map of golden circuits. Steam trailed from the towers like silk threads, twisting into the upper wind.
But Hana wasn't looking down.
She was looking at the contrail Rin had left behind.
It was faint now—just a ghost of vapor and ego—but she could still trace its curve across the dark sky. A perfect loop. A flex of precision. A dare.
And Rin hadn’t even looked back when she vanished.
Ren hadn’t moved.
He was still at the helm, hands on the controls but not flying anymore. Just there. Staring into the distance.
Hana didn’t speak.
The cockpit hummed quietly. The new stabilizer array pulsed with steady rhythm, like a heartbeat trying to pretend it wasn’t racing.
She wanted to say something. Maybe about the flight. Maybe about how Rin had flown like she meant every single wingbeat. Maybe about how that loop felt like a sentence Hana hadn’t figured out how to finish.
Or maybe she just wanted to ask: Did you see me too? Or only her?
But she didn’t ask.
She just watched.
Watched the sky where Rin had vanished. Watched Ren looking in that same direction. Watched the space between them like it might start glowing from the heat.
Ren glanced at her then.
Just a flick of his eyes.
She didn’t return it.
She didn’t need to.
The look said everything: he’d seen. He had seen. Both of them.
And he still didn’t know what to do.
The cockpit stayed quiet. The engine murmured beneath them. Outside, the wind carried nothing but sky.
Hana turned her face back to the window, and the silence pressed in like the glass—close, curved, and unbreakable.