Chapter 31: “Red Carpet, Rusted Wings”
Scene 1: Morning Homeroom — National Racing Journal Announcement
—-: Ren
The homeroom bell screeched to life like a steam-whistle in a losing argument with itself.
Ren winced. Not because it was loud—he was used to loud. But because it was early. And he hadn’t slept much. Again.
He slid into his usual seat near the window, sunlight painting the edges of the desk in gold. Outside, the flight towers shimmered with crystal haze. Inside, the air smelled like oil, old textbooks, and someone’s very illegal egg bun.
Then Shiraishi walked in.
No fanfare. No clipboard. Just a thin, black crystal tablet under one arm and a steely glint in her eyes.
“Sit down,” she said, though everyone already had.
She placed the tablet on the lectern like it was a weapon.
“We’ve been contacted by Skyline Pulse,” she announced, crisp and dry. “They’re doing a national feature on emerging academy racers. Hinode has been selected. Silver Dart will be the centerpiece.”
For a second, silence.
Then—
Jiro: “Wait—THE Skyline Pulse? With the foldout posters and the collector gloss editions?”
Taiga: “I’m gonna need hair gel. And fireproof confetti.”
Rin, from the back: “I thought they only covered top-two academies.”
“They expanded their criteria,” Shiraishi said. “After Kyokuto. Apparently, surviving that mess qualifies as ‘heroic.’”
Hana was quiet.
Ren swallowed, unsure what to feel. The room buzzed around him—half excitement, half calculation.
“They’ll be on campus by Thursday,” Shiraishi continued. “You will cooperate. You will smile. You will not say anything that gets us pulled from the bracket.”
Her gaze locked briefly on Ren.
He sat up straighter, the way you do when your name’s not said but still screamed.
“Each core pilot will receive a profile page. Photos. Personal quotes. Shot of you beside your ship. Try to look like professionals, not wild alchemists with a caffeine problem.”
She paused. Added: “I know that’s difficult for some of you.”
Everyone looked at Jiro.
“Rude,” he said. “But accurate.”
Ren’s hands tapped restlessly on the desk.
People were looking at him more. Already. Whispers curling around his name like smoke.
He thought about the first time he climbed into Silver Dart.
How quiet it had been. How his it had felt.
No flashbulbs. No headlines.
Just sky.
Now it felt like the sky was watching back.
Scene 2: Photo Day Fiasco
—-: Hana
The airship hangar had been scrubbed until the metal deck shone like spit-polished boots.
Steam curled artfully from floor vents—probably a photographer’s idea of “atmosphere.” A pair of crystal reflectors whined as they adjusted to light levels, sweeping dramatic shadows across the rig scaffolding.
Hana stood off to the side, clutching her toolkit with both hands and trying not to sweat through her undershirt.
Ren was on the platform.
In a uniform.
Not his usual flight jacket. Not even academy casual.
No—this was a stiff-collared, gold-piped, regulation-issue PR nightmare of a ceremonial yukata with air fleet tailoring and shoulders that made him look like he was hiding two secret paragliders.
He looked like he wanted to vanish into the steam.
“Stand straighter,” the photographer barked. “Chin up. Less… broody, more victorious.”
Ren tried. He failed.
“Ugh. Never mind. Silver Dart—on his left. The whole ship if you can squeeze it.”
Jiro leaned over to Hana. “You think I’d get arrested if I sabotaged the light rig?”
“Please do.”
Then came Rin’s turn.
Sort of.
She stepped onto the platform, let them snap five shots, then turned on her heel and walked off.
“Excuse me? We need—”
“Use the ones you got,” she called over her shoulder. “Or Photoshop me next to a hawk or something.”
The team snickered. The photographer swore under his breath.
Then it was Hana’s turn.
Not to be photographed, mind you.
To be handed a wrench and told: “Just… hold that. Maybe crouch near the wheel brace. Give us that ‘tech girl’ look.”
She blinked.
“Tech girl?” she echoed.
“You know, background vibe. Gritty. Useful.”
Useful.
Like furniture.
She crouched slowly, blood draining from her face, gripping the wrench like it might explode.
Ren caught her eye from the other platform.
She looked away.
Jiro knelt beside her a minute later, quietly offering a donut-shaped clamp like it was a comfort snack.
Taiga muttered, “If you’re background, I’m a propeller.”
But Hana didn’t answer.
Because the whole time the camera flashed, all she could think was:
They don’t see me.
Not really.
And that hurt worse than anything else that day.
Scene 3: Classroom – Materials Engineering with Guest from Iron Blossom
—-: Rin
The workshop lecture hall smelled like hot brass, ink, and stress.
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Someone had over-pressurized the chalk steamboard again—so every time the guest engineer made a new diagram, it hissed like a startled snake and nearly gave half the class heart attacks.
Rin sat in the third row, arms crossed, jaw tight.
The kind of posture you take when you’re trying to look engaged but mostly trying not to explode.
The engineer—Ms. Kaede Jinzu from Iron Blossom Industries—was the definition of intimidating brilliance: slick oil-gloves, a bun sharp enough to puncture hulls, and a voice like she’d never once asked permission for anything in her life.
She tapped the board.
“Frame integrity isn’t about rigidity,” she said, drawing a pressure curve across a reinforced arch schematic. “It’s about flex tolerance. If it’s too stiff, it cracks under stress. If it’s too soft, it collapses under momentum.”
She glanced up.
“A little wobble? Saves a ship.”
Rin’s pencil snapped in her hand.
Ms. Jinzu went on, “That’s why composite alloys use steam-sintered copper and crystal-tempered frames. You want the sides to give a little. Not everything has to be bulletproof. You’re not building a coffin.”
A laugh from the front row.
Jiro: “Good, I was gonna say—I hate flying in coffins.”
Taiga: “Speak for yourself. My last landing was a full funeral.”
Ms. Jinzu ignored them.
Behind her, the diagram updated: DUCTILITY RATIO > BRUTE RESILIENCE.
Then she dropped a bolt on the table.
“This,” she said, “is why Hinode stopped using standard tempered bolts last year. Heat-tension testing showed a 42% failure rate in hard banks.”
She tossed it.
It bounced once across the floor and landed with a clink near Rin’s boot.
She picked it up.
Held it in her palm.
Something inside her—something wound too tight for too long—gave.
“This,” she said flatly, rising from her seat, “is what nearly killed Sora Hoshizaki two seasons ago.”
Silence rippled.
Ms. Jinzu tilted her head.
“Student pilot?”
“My old partner,” Rin snapped. “We used that exact bolt. It was certified. Until it cracked mid-loop.”
She turned to the class—voice rising.
“And you know what they told me when the report came out? ‘It was within spec.’ Like ‘within spec’ means safe. Like numbers protect people.”
She threw the bolt.
It struck the chalkboard and bounced, spinning once before landing near the bottom rail.
Ms. Jinzu studied her calmly.
Then—without judgment—she said:
“Then maybe it’s time pilots stop acting like they’re made of alloy too.”
The words hit harder than the bolt had.
Rin sat down slowly.
No one laughed.
No one cheered.
But something shifted in the room.
And for once…
Rin let it.
Scene 4: Crimson Gale Submits a Grievance
—-: Mei
Mei was the one who noticed it first.
The mail courier crystal—usually reserved for inter-academy updates or mechanical requisitions—glowed red.
Red meant “formal.”
Red meant filed.
Red meant trouble.
Shiraishi slid it from the intake slot with her usual calm, thumbed the seal, and scanned the contents in silence.
Her eyes didn’t change.
Her mouth didn’t twitch.
But Mei saw it—the half-second pause at line four. The subtle way her left hand curled against the edge of her desk.
A beat later, she turned to the class.
“Crimson Gale has filed a grievance,” she said flatly.
Everyone froze.
“They are formally accusing the administration of providing undue support to Silver Dart—namely, resource favoritism, mechanical access, and non-neutral upgrades distributed through our senior workshop.”
Taiga: “They think we’re cheating?”
“They’re alleging favoritism,” Shiraishi corrected. “Which is harder to disprove and easier to weaponize.”
Jiro: “What’d we get that they didn’t?”
Hana whispered, “Ren.”
Ren stared at the floor.
Mei stayed silent. Watching. Measuring.
Rin?
Rin hadn’t said a word.
She sat near the back of the room, arms folded, legs still. But her jaw—her jaw was set like a gear under too much torque. The kind that hums before it snaps.
Mei thought about what Rin hadn’t done the past week: She hadn’t smiled. She hadn’t shared flight data. She hadn’t looked at her old teammates—not once—when they passed in the hallway.
Shiraishi continued, “Headmistress Aoi has already reviewed the claim and issued a rejection. Officially, this changes nothing.”
“But unofficially?” Mei asked, voice soft.
Shiraishi looked at her.
“Unofficially,” she said, “this changes everything.”
Scene 5: Ren’s Overload
—-: Ren
The interview was supposed to last fifteen minutes.
It stretched past forty-two.
Ren sat stiff-backed in the academy’s media room, tie crooked, collar itching, smile hanging on his face like a prop he couldn’t put down.
The Skyline Pulse reporter adjusted her crystal lens again.
“Can you repeat that? But with more confidence. You said the Silver Dart was ‘reliable,’ but can we maybe say it ‘redefines the future of academy air combat’?”
“I—uh—maybe?”
“Great. Let’s try that line again. Ready?”
He wasn’t.
But he nodded anyway.
Camera on. Smile up.
“The Silver Dart is…”
A pause.
“…uh, reliable. I mean—it redefines—”
He stumbled. Words twisted around each other.
“—Redefines the feeling of flight—uh, sorry, future—of flight…”
The reporter blinked. “Do you want to take a breath?”
Yes.
Very much.
But he didn’t say it.
He just nodded, swallowed, and kept going.
The next day, there were three more interview requests.
Two were from local airfields. One was from a radio journal.
He skipped lunch and stayed in the hangar instead.
But the fan mail found him anyway—stuffed into his locker like love notes and battlefield dispatches. One note had hearts around his name. Another said “You’re the pride of Hinode.”
He held that one for a long time.
Didn’t open the rest.
That night, Hana found him in the simulator booth, still strapped in with his goggles on, even though the engine wasn’t running.
“Ren?”
He blinked at the canopy above. His voice came out dry.
“Did you know... I haven’t actually flown outside the sim in four days?”
Hana didn’t answer right away.
He turned his head. “Feels like everyone’s watching. Like I can’t twitch the yoke without wondering if it’ll be in someone’s column tomorrow.”
“You okay?”
He let out a breath.
“I’m not sure.”
Scene 6: Mei’s Observation
—-: Mei
The courtyard below buzzed with after-class chaos.
Wheels squeaked as students rolled down tool kits. Someone was yelling about lost flight gloves. A crystal calibration chart flapped loose in the wind, smacking Taiga in the face as he ran by with a wrench between his teeth.
Mei stood on the upper terrace, one hand resting lightly on the banister, tea cooling in her other.
She wasn’t watching the courtyard.
She was watching Ren.
He sat on the edge of the garden wall, one boot tapping against the stone, unread fan letters scattered beside him like paper leaves. He wasn’t reading them.
He wasn’t doing anything.
Just… staring at the sky.
His shoulders were drawn tight. Not from stress exactly—but from something worse. Containment. Like he was afraid to relax, afraid it might show. That if he let out even a single breath, someone might catch it, quote it, twist it.
The Ren she knew—the Ren who flew like wind through glass, cutting and effortless—was missing something.
And Mei knew what it was.
She said it aloud, softly, to no one.
“He’s flying with everyone watching.”
Her fingers curled tighter around the cup.
“If he keeps listening to voices... he’ll forget the wind.”
Scene 7: Saki’s Bombshell Column
—-: Hana
The Hinode Herald hit the wall-mounted bulletin crystal at 07:03 sharp.
By 07:15, half the school had seen it.
By 07:20, they were already talking.
And by 07:30, Hana was standing in the workshop hallway, staring at the headline blazing across the projection scroll in five-inch silver serif font:
“Silver Cracks in the Silver Dart?”
By Saki Tenjouin, Special Columnist
Underneath, a shimmering still of Ren mid-flight. Below that, subheadings like knives:
- “Ren’s Rising Spotlight: Pressure or Performance?”
- “Rin’s Strained Silence: Tactical Genius or Tactical Ghost?”
- “Hana Takara: The Screwdriver in the Shadows?”
Her fingers went cold at that one.
She kept reading anyway.
"While the Silver Dart remains Hinode’s top-seeded vessel, insiders have noted subtle fractures in the core team's cohesion. With rising media attention, the burden of public identity may be grinding against private ambition—especially when one ship carries three hearts, four hands, and no clear captain."
Hana exhaled.
No clear captain.
No clear credit.
Just tension dressed up as analysis.
Just doubt made beautiful with words.
Around her, students whispered. Some laughed. Some nodded. No one looked surprised.
Ren hadn’t shown up yet. Neither had Rin.
And Mei?
Mei had probably read it ten minutes ago and already started recalculating flight pairings.
Jiro’s voice broke through the noise. “It’s a metaphor, right? Metaphor column. She said that last time.”
“Sure,” Taiga said. “And a brick through a window is just architectural feedback.”
Hana swallowed. Her throat felt dry.
Because deep down?
She wasn’t mad that Saki said it.
She was scared it might be true.
Scene 8: Rin in the Hangar — Her Mother’s Photo
—-: Rin
The hangar was dark.
Not silent—never silent—but hushed. Like even the machines had the sense to hold their breath.
Rin stood alone beneath the viewing gallery arch, arms tucked inside her sleeves, the smell of copper and polish thick in the air. The ceiling vents ticked with residual heat. A chain somewhere overhead swayed just slightly, clicking against its pulley.
And before her, lit by a single low lantern, hung the photo.
Captain Naoko Fujita.
Her mother.
The official school portrait—ceremonial jacket, collar crisp, one hand on the fuselage of the first-gen Crimson Gale prototype. Her hair slicked back, jaw sharp. Eyes dead-center.
Every line of her body screamed composure. Control. Greatness, prepackaged and framed.
The same pose they’d made Ren take.
The same stiffness.
The same spotlight.
Rin stared at it.
She didn’t breathe for a full thirty seconds.
Because once, as a child, she used to press her hand to this glass like it might pass through. Like she could touch the legacy. Inherit it.
Now?
Now it felt like a warning.
Ren didn’t even know he’d been posed like her.
Didn’t know the trap in that stance, in the way the camera cuts the human out of the hero.
He was already starting to fracture beneath it.
And the school would smile and tighten the frame.
Rin’s voice came low. Tight.
“I won’t let them turn you into her.”
Not a ghost.
Not a statue.
Not a monument to perfection no one could live up to.
She turned.
Walked back toward the Silver Dart’s cradle—pausing only once to brush her fingertips across the old bolt she’d thrown earlier that week, still resting beside the supply cabinet.
She picked it up. Pocketed it.
Then stepped into the dark.