Scene 1: Letter from Ren’s Parents (Opening)
—-: Ren
The envelope was thin. Cream-colored. Edges smudged with soot from the academy’s crystal sorter.
Ren found it tucked between maintenance reports in his locker—half-hidden like a secret someone hadn’t meant to leave behind.
His name was written in curved ink, looping and uneven. His father’s handwriting.
He stared at it for a second too long. Then peeled the flap open.
Inside, a single folded page and the faintest smell of cedar ink.
Dear Ichiro,
We saw the article.
Steam & Sky Monthly, front page—your ship, your name, your eyes staring down a camera like the world was too loud and too big but still yours to face.
You looked older.
Grown up.
You also looked tired.
But you looked like yourself.
We know you’ve been busy. We hear things—an instructor here, a family friend there. Rumors travel on the wind, and your name’s riding high right now.
That’s good. It means you’ve built something real.
But don’t forget to write about the quiet things, too.
What the steam smelled like before takeoff. What it felt like to be in the cockpit before anyone else showed up.
How you laughed the first time you fell into that stormcloud and came out with your hair standing straight up.
(Yes. We still have the photo.)
Wins matter. But they don’t last the way those small things do.
Write us back when you can. About the sky. Or the ship. Or the people you’re flying beside.
Not just the victories.
—Love,
Mom and Dad
P.S. We made dumplings last week. Your dad tried to season the filling with coffee grounds.
It did not end well.
Ren folded the letter slowly. Pressed it once against his chest. Not tight. Just... close.
And for the first time in weeks, he let himself sit in silence and remember the things no one clapped for.
Scene 2: Ren’s Reply
—-: Ren
He wrote it on his bunk, legs curled up, the hum of the dorm’s crystal heating panel filling the space with soft warmth.
Outside the window, lanterns from the far walkway flickered in a late breeze. Inside, his room was quiet—just the scratch of pen on paper and the occasional clunk from Jiro dropping tools two doors down.
Ren didn’t mind.
He liked the noise. It kept him from overthinking what he was about to say.
He took a breath.
Then began.
Dear Mom. Dear Dad.
I don’t know where to start, so I’ll just start here:
I still smell the steam before takeoff.
That part hasn’t changed.
It hits different up close. Like copper and citrus and something else—burnt sky, maybe. Something you can’t bottle. I breathe it in every time like it’ll remind me why I’m doing this.
And most of the time, it does.
We’ve been busy. Not just drills and matches—but everything between. Festival chaos. New rankings. People flying differently, acting differently. Sometimes it feels like we’re all trying to catch the same gust of wind and hoping we don’t crash into each other mid-air.
The Dart’s flying smoother than ever. Hana made this new exhaust loop that holds during turns, and it’s brilliant. Scary brilliant. Like she knows exactly where the ship wants to go before the sky even shifts.
Mei’s… changing too. She asked to be a full-time tactician. First time I’ve seen her ask for anything.
Taiga made a “harem chart.” Don’t ask. You wouldn’t want to see it. I’m still recovering.
And Rin—
...Rin’s flying like the world owes her something.
Or like she owes it something back.
I’m not sure which yet.
She looks at the sky like it’s a mirror that won’t speak.
I keep looking at both of them—Hana and Rin—and thinking:
I’m falling.
Not just from the sky.
But into something I don’t have words for yet.
Something sharp and warm and just a little terrifying.
I’m trying not to mess it up.
Trying to fly toward something instead of away from everything.
Thank you for reminding me to write the quiet things down.
They’re the only ones that feel real right now.
Love,
Ren
He didn’t send it.
Not yet.
But he folded it carefully. Placed it beside the letter they’d sent him. Side by side, like two wings of the same bird.
Then turned out the light and let the night settle over his thoughts.
Scene 3: Rin Finds the Feather Pin
—-: Rin
The storage room smelled like metal shavings, old crystal grease, and warm dust.
Rin crouched between the lower supply shelves, fingers brushing past mismatched stabilizer screws and half-empty polish tins, searching for a backup flight lock. The kind the newer gliders used—not the kind she preferred, but the kind she needed today.
It was dim. One bulb overhead buzzed like it couldn’t decide whether to live or die.
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She reached behind a crate of wing brackets, fingers catching on the corner of a worn canvas pouch.
Not what she was looking for.
But familiar.
She hesitated. Unzipped it.
Inside: a scattering of old pilot pins. Some tarnished. Some chipped. The kind students donated back when they graduated. No sentimental value anymore. Just bits of past sky.
And there, caught in the corner—tangled in a frayed badge loop—was the feather pin.
Not just any feather.
The one Ren gave her.
It wasn’t fancy. Just brushed brass shaped like a kestrel’s plume, with a small etched line down the center. Still a little bent at the tip. She’d worn it for two weeks straight, once.
Then tucked it away when things got complicated.
She held it between her fingers now, thumb brushing the edge.
Didn’t smile. Not really.
But her eyes softened—just a little.
She pulled her old Crimson Gale pilot badge from her pocket. It wasn’t part of her uniform anymore, but she still carried it.
Habit.
She pinned the feather to it.
It sat crooked. Familiar.
Her fingers hovered there, just for a second longer than they needed to.
Then she unpinned it.
Folded the badge shut.
Tucked the whole thing into the inner lining of her jacket, behind the emergency stitching kit and the spare comm chip no one knew she still carried.
She stood up.
Took the flight lock.
Left the pouch where it was.
And walked out of the room without looking back.
Scene 4: Taiga’s “Harem Chart” Goes Public
—-: Hana
Hana was halfway through aligning a torque gauge on Silver Dart’s wing when she heard the scream echo across the courtyard.
“TAIGA!!!”
She froze.
Then carefully, slowly, like a mechanic defusing an unstable boiler, turned toward the bulletin board on the hangar wall.
A small crowd had gathered.
A nervous heat bloomed in her stomach.
“Please don’t be what I think it is,” she muttered.
It was exactly what she thought it was.
Taped—boldly, centered, and in full color—was a poster labeled:
TAIGA FUJIWARA’S ACADEMICALLY CALCULATED ROMANTIC PROBABILITY MATRIX?
(Version 3.2 – Cross-checked with lunch seating patterns and festival proximity radius.)
Beneath it: A pie chart. A literal, actual pie chart.
Top 5 “Likely Romance Arcs” According to Pilot Taiga:
- Rin – 35% (“Enemies to rivals to fireworks”)
- Mei – 24% (“The quiet ones always crush hard”)
- Hana – 21% (“Technical synergy. High spark potential.”)
- Saki – 11% (“I fear her, therefore: chemistry.”)
- Ren – 6% (“Yes. I considered the drama.”)
Hana choked on air.
A moment later, Rin arrived.
Rin, who had probably just finished a solo training drill.
Rin, who had just managed to patch together a fragile emotional shield that took two weeks to build.
Rin, who now stood absolutely still before the chart, fists clenched so tight her gloves creaked.
“What,” Rin said, voice dangerously calm, “is this.”
“Freedom of information?” Taiga offered weakly from the back of the crowd, holding a dumpling like it might shield him from divine wrath.
“You gave me fireworks?”
“It’s a compliment!”
Hana wanted to dissolve into the floor.
“I got ‘technical synergy?’” she muttered to herself, turning beet red. “What does that even mean?!”
“It means we’d be great in a fusion-powered team dynamic—not like that!” Taiga blurted as Rin whirled.
Saki, sipping milk tea like this was her personal sitcom, said, “You missed the best part.”
Mei arrived behind her, looked once at the chart, then at Saki.
“Why am I ranked second?”
“You don’t talk much. Mysterious equals magnetic,” Saki said with a shrug.
Mei blinked. “You believe this?”
“No. But I enjoy chaos.”
Rin tore the chart down in a single motion.
Taiga yelped. “That was my final draft!”
“It’s about to be your last rites!”
Saki cackled. Hana hid her face behind her torque wrench. Mei patted her on the shoulder and said, “At least you outranked Ren.”
That didn’t help.
Not even a little.
Scene 5: Mei’s Decision
—-: Mei
The tactical archive room always smelled like ozone and old chalk.
It was quiet. Too quiet, sometimes.
Which suited Mei.
Most people didn’t know this room existed. Tucked beneath the west wing’s main tower, its glass panels were half-fogged with flight dust and its floor lined with blueprints, elevation maps, and simulation scrolls. It was a place made for people who liked to think more than talk.
Ms. Shiraishi sat behind the data lectern, sleeves rolled up, ink-stained fingers scrolling through loop simulations on a projection sheet.
She didn’t look up.
“I assume you’re not here to discuss Taiga’s romantic calculus.”
“No,” Mei said, voice even. “Though I am disappointed I ranked second.”
Shiraishi smirked slightly—barely a twitch of the lips. “Go on.”
Mei stepped forward, arms behind her back.
“I want to officially apply for a permanent tactical role.
Not just student liaison. Not just assistant.
A full designation.”
Shiraishi looked up now.
Her gaze was sharp, as always, but not unkind.
“That’s not a casual ask.”
“I’m not making it casually.”
Mei stood straighter, shoulders square.
“I’ve been watching long enough.
I know every pilot in the top ten. I know how Rin folds under pressure, how Hana over-engineers, how Ren thinks five moves ahead but forgets move six if someone smiles at him mid-flight.”
Shiraishi tilted her head. “And you?”
“I know when to speak.
And more importantly—when not to.”
Silence. Just the soft hum of the table’s crystal reader.
Then—
“Do you think tactics are about control?” Shiraishi asked.
“No,” Mei said without hesitation. “They’re about trust.”
Shiraishi’s eyes sharpened.
“Explain.”
Mei stepped beside the table, tapped a simulation open—an old match, over a year ago. She pointed to a loop turn Hana made while tailing Rin.
“This wasn’t clean. But it worked. Not because it was logical—because Hana trusted Rin to leave the space open. And Rin trusted Hana not to take it too early.”
She let the clip play again.
Then looked up.
“Good strategy isn’t telling people what to do.
It’s understanding what they’ll do before they decide.
And setting the sky around them.”
For a long moment, Shiraishi said nothing.
Then she reached into a drawer, pulled out a brass insignia—the advisor’s pin.
She slid it across the desk.
“It’s provisional,” she said. “But it’s yours to earn.”
Mei picked it up with two fingers. Light. Heavy.
“It will be,” she said.
Scene 6: Jiro’s New Motto
—-: Jiro
Something exploded.
Again.
Sparks rained from the side rig of the practice bay’s power wall, followed by a shriek of static and the unmistakable scent of “oh no, not again.”
Jiro poked his head out from behind the main flight sim housing, goggles pushed up, one glove missing, and several strands of hair standing completely vertical.
“I meant to do that,” he announced to absolutely no one.
“You’ve said that four times today,” Hana said from the scaffold above, one eyebrow raised and a bolt in her teeth.
“That means I’m four-for-four!”
Taiga, nursing a bandaged hand, muttered from across the bench, “I’m starting to think you are the explosion.”
“Incorrect,” Jiro said, dramatically tightening a crystal screw. “I am the solution to the explosion. Eventually.”
He slid down from the side panel, tools clanking at his hip like a one-man junk symphony.
“Besides,” he added, grabbing a paint marker and scribbling on the chalkboard just above the flight team’s duty log, “I’ve got a new philosophy.”
They all turned.
He stepped back with a grin.
Written in bold, slightly crooked letters:
“Fly, flirt, and fix things before they explode.” – Jiro
Mei, passing by with a data slate, paused. “That order’s important?”
“Vital,” Jiro said. “If you do it after the explosion, you’re just sweeping ash.”
Hana gave a reluctant chuckle. “And the flirting?”
He pointed to himself. “Essential team chemistry.”
Rin walked past, deadpan. “You’re ranked #7 on Taiga’s list.”
“That’s just because I’m too powerful.”
Taiga, from the toolbox, mumbled, “I had to recalibrate his charm-to-detonation ratio. It’s mathematically confusing.”
Jiro turned back to his console, unbothered, already elbow-deep in his next act of tinkering wizardry.
“Just remember the motto,” he said, as something clicked, hissed, and briefly caught fire behind him.
No one even flinched.
Scene 7: The Team Watches an Old Race Video
—-: Hana
The projector flickered to life with a wheeze and a hum, throwing shaky light onto the hangar wall.
“Don’t laugh,” Jiro warned, holding up the remote like a bomb detonator. “We were babies.”
“We still are babies,” Rin muttered.
“Speak for yourself,” Taiga said proudly, adjusting his goggles. “I have facial hair now.”
“That’s just engine soot,” Mei replied.
Hana sat cross-legged on the hangar floor, bowl of leftover festival noodles in her lap, arms pressed against her knees. She felt the warmth of bodies around her—Ren on her right, Jiro flopped backward like a starfish to her left.
Onscreen, the video started: grainy, slightly overexposed.
Hinode’s First-Year Exhibition Match.
Their first real flight.
The Silver Dart wasn’t even fully upgraded yet—just a skeleton of what it would become. The stabilizers stuttered. The turns were clunky. Someone (probably Jiro) forgot to mute the backup comm line, so the entire cockpit audio was filled with panicked yelps and curse words.
And yet—
There was Hana, gripping the instrument panel like it might run away.
There was Ren, too serious, too silent, until he nearly clipped a ring and shouted something completely unintelligible.
There was Rin, pulling a stunt so reckless it nearly spun them into the lake.
Taiga howled. “LOOK AT YOUR FACE, REN. You screamed like a kettle!”
“I did not.”
“You did,” Hana said, smiling into her chopsticks.
Onscreen, Mei’s tactical overlay glitched mid-transmission and overlaid "ERROR: WHOOPS" in red letters across the radar.
“I remember that,” Mei said calmly. “That was the day I learned what panic tastes like.”
They kept watching.
Minute after minute. Fumbles. Misfires. Clumsy teamwork.
But also—
That moment where Ren caught a tailspin and stabilized it with Hana’s last-minute boost.
Rin’s final turn—unscored, but beautiful.
Taiga yelling “I BELIEVE IN UNSTABLE AERODYNAMICS” just before falling out of formation.
Everyone holding on, barely, but together.
When it ended, the screen went dark.
No one spoke for a second.
Then Ren, softly:
“We’ve come a long way.”
Hana nodded, still looking at the wall. Her fingers rested gently over her heart, where the pulse of the Dart’s core used to echo through her seat.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “We have.”
Outside, wind rustled through the cracked window slats. Just a shift in pressure. A change in the clouds.
The sky, still waiting.