Chapter 32: “Weight Class”

  Scene 1: Training Upgrade

  —-: Hana

  The workshop smelled like scorched rubber, sweat, and lemon-oil polish—the kind Grandpa used when he wanted the tools to know he still respected them, even after swearing at them for three hours straight.

  Hana wiped her forehead with the back of her glove, crouched under Silver Dart’s belly, where the new weight-distribution tank gleamed like a brass organ.

  Everything was in place—almost. She’d need to calibrate the stabilizer valve once Mei finished the pressure curves.

  Above her, Grandpa hollered, “If that bolt’s not flush, the whole ship’ll shimmy like a politician at a bribery hearing!”

  “Already got it flush,” she muttered.

  “Did you hear the bolt say that, or are you just guessing with feelings again?”

  Hana grinned. “I heard it whisper, ‘Please stop yelling.’”

  He made a noise somewhere between a snort and a grumble and climbed down the ladder muttering about “emotional fasteners” and “crystal-blooded children.”

  Mei stood near the rear rudder, tapping numbers into her slate.

  “The torque ratio’s stable. I ran a simulated yaw burst at ninety-two percent throttle. The new stabilizers held.”

  “Yeah?” Hana said. She ducked out from under the Dart, tool satchel slung over one shoulder.

  Mei looked up. “It worked.”

  Just two words. But Mei didn’t say things she didn’t mean.

  Still, Hana’s chest ached a little.

  Because no one clapped. No one cheered. It wasn’t a medal or a ribbon. Just… another thing that had to work.

  She stepped closer to the port-side tank, trailing her hand across the new seam weld.

  They needed this. Especially for the Kyokuto rematch.

  But she couldn’t shake the question that kept slipping in like oil under gloves:

  Do they need me because I’m good?

  Or—

  Do they need me because someone has to do the boring parts?

  The Dart didn’t answer.

  But the ship hummed under her palm, steady and warm.

  And that… helped.

  A little.

  Scene 2: Simulator Test – Spiral Failure

  —-: Ren

  Ren’s hands were steady on the yoke.

  Until they weren’t.

  The sim cabin was lit in soft amber from the mock sun overhead, but the air inside felt thick—like breathing through velvet steam.

  “Ready?” Mei’s voice crackled over the side feed. “Execute spiral dive from Ring Delta, drop five meters per cycle. Let the stabilizers handle the drag shift.”

  He nodded. Swallowed.

  Execute spiral loop.

  Throttle eased. Nose tilted. Rudder aligned.

  The Dart’s virtual version responded cleanly—until Ring Delta came into view.

  Ren hesitated.

  Not much.

  Just enough.

  The nose dipped too fast.

  His fingers twitched.

  Instinct shouted—correct, correct—but training whispered—wait, let it flex.

  He didn’t wait.

  He yanked the trim lever early.

  And the Dart shuddered.

  The stabilizers overcompensated. The pressure-flux buffer glitched. The tail kicked sideways—

  And the Dart spun out like a kicked coin.

  Inside the sim, the world blurred white. The sound of failure: hollow sirens, synthetic wind shear, and the dull crunch of a score dropping.

  Then—

  Silence.

  Ren tore off the goggles. His hair clung to his forehead with sweat.

  Across the control deck, Rin’s voice sliced the air.

  “That was textbook panic correction.”

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  He looked at her.

  She stood with arms folded, foot tapping like a metronome on judgment.

  “You were supposed to trust the stabilizers. That’s why we installed them.”

  “I know that—”

  “Then why didn’t you fly like it?”

  His voice rose sharper than he meant.

  “Maybe because I can’t think straight with half the school watching me like I’m supposed to sprout wings and perform miracles on demand!”

  The room went quiet.

  Even Jiro stopped chewing on whatever unholy snack he’d smuggled in.

  Rin didn’t flinch.

  But her foot stopped tapping.

  “That’s not an excuse,” she said, voice low. “If you want to be the face of the team, you don’t get to flinch.”

  Ren stood. His chair scraped loud against the floor.

  “And what about you? You fly like it’s a punishment. Every turn’s a knife. No wonder no one wants to sit in your cockpit twice.”

  The words hung there.

  A silence so tight, you could hear Hana’s wrench fall from her hand across the room.

  Scene 3: Aftermath Argument

  —-: Hana

  The hangar echoed after a fight.

  Not with sound.

  With the lack of it.

  Students cleared out fast after a sim crash. No one liked watching their aces bleed under the skin.

  Hana stayed behind. She hadn't meant to. Just... drifted back behind the storage coils when the yelling started, then froze when the silence hit.

  She was still crouched near the Dart’s rear hatch, half-hidden, breath shallow.

  Ren’s voice cracked through the stillness.

  “You think being liked makes me weak, don’t you?”

  Rin’s reply came fast. Tired. Bitter.

  “I think you care more about what they think than what you’re doing in the sky.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry—should I scowl through every maneuver? Maybe scream ‘vengeance’ at the wind and burn through teammates like spare coolant?”

  Hana winced.

  Rin snapped, “At least I fly to win.”

  Ren laughed—short, sharp. “You fly to prove something. Not win. Not grow. Just prove.”

  Something hit metal—maybe Rin’s glove tossed to the floor. Maybe just the crack in the air between them.

  “And what,” she hissed, “do you fly for, Ren? Huh?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Not right away.

  Then:

  “I fly because I love it. And lately… I don’t. Not when you’re in the cockpit, poisoning it.”

  Silence.

  Hana’s hands shook.

  Her fingers slipped.

  A small bolt hit the floor and rolled into the open.

  Click.

  Ren turned.

  Rin turned.

  Hana didn’t move.

  For a heartbeat, no one said a word.

  Then she slowly stood. Palms open. Wrench forgotten.

  “I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” she said quietly.

  Neither spoke.

  She forced a smile. A cracked, careful thing.

  “I’ll… tighten the stabilizer later.”

  And she walked out—legs stiff, throat thick, leaving the bolt behind.

  It clinked once in the empty air and didn’t stop rolling for a long, long time.

  Scene 4: Taiga’s Therapy — “Anti-Gravity Soap” Disaster

  —-: Jiro

  It started with bubbles.

  That should’ve been the first clue.

  Jiro squinted as the dorm hallway filled with light, foamy mist. Something sparkled. Something popped. Something whistled past his ear and hit the ceiling like a soggy comet.

  “Taiga?” he called, cautiously.

  A very guilty silence replied.

  Then a crash.

  Then Taiga, slipping out of the side door wearing protective goggles, a grin too big to be legal, and suds trailing behind him like a comet's tail.

  “Okay,” he said, breathless. “So. Good news? Technically the soap works.”

  “What soap.”

  “My gravity-lightening soap bars. You know, for less foot fatigue in long shifts?”

  Jiro blinked. “Taiga. You mean you infused the bathhouse soap with repulsion crystals.”

  Taiga held up a soggy chunk of sparkling green goo.

  “They only hover a little! It’s ergonomic!”

  “Where did you even get enough crystals to—”

  The ceiling vent exploded.

  A wet shoe rocketed out and embedded itself in the plaster with a thunk.

  Down the hall, a faculty aide screamed, “THE FLOOR ISN’T FLOORING!”

  Jiro grabbed Taiga by the collar.

  “Explain.”

  “Okay, so. I might have tested it in the faculty lounge because they have better water pressure and I thought—”

  “You contaminated three entire staff bathhouses.”

  Taiga winced. “Correction: temporarily un-grounded.”

  By the time Mei arrived, the damage report was being written in ink that floated off the page.

  Rin said nothing.

  Ren looked mildly grateful for the distraction.

  Hana? She was actually smiling—smiling—watching one of the janitor’s mop buckets orbit a bench like it had its own weather pattern.

  Jiro sighed.

  “This is your therapy, isn’t it,” he said to Taiga.

  “Better than group crying.”

  “You’re an agent of chaos.”

  “Healing chaos.”

  The janitor floated by, muttering something about “retirement” and “revenge.”

  Scene 5: Mei Gets Recognition — Co-Leading Briefings

  —-: Mei

  The strategy room was almost too quiet.

  A single light crystal hummed above the brass-ringed table, casting long shadows across the latest course map—Kyokuto’s rematch pattern. Complex. Brutal. Spirals stacked atop thermal spikes. A maze with no kindness.

  Mei stood beside it, hands behind her back, eyes moving like clockwork through the data.

  Shiraishi entered without announcement. As always.

  She didn’t walk loudly. She didn’t need to.

  She placed two scrolls on the table, tapped once, then looked at Mei.

  “I want you to co-lead the tactical briefings from now on.”

  No preamble.

  Just the weight of the words, dropped like a pin that cracked glass.

  Mei blinked. “With you?”

  Shiraishi shook her head. “Instead of me.”

  Pause.

  Not out of pride. Out of calculation.

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re already listening to you,” Shiraishi said. “You just haven’t realized it.”

  She unrolled one of the scrolls: the latest flight sim telemetry from Rin and Ren’s separate runs. She pointed at three mid-turn corrections that aligned perfectly with Mei’s last recommendation. Unspoken, but followed.

  “Your math lives in their reflexes now,” Shiraishi said. “You don’t need to shout. You just need to keep speaking when it matters.”

  Mei stared at the scroll. At the neat arcs of movement. At the decisions that had begun with her.

  She didn’t smile.

  She didn’t need to.

  She nodded once.

  “I’ll speak,” she said.

  Then—just barely—let the second half slip through.

  “When it matters.”

  Shiraishi turned to leave.

  “It always does,” she said, without looking back.

  Scene 6: Evening Tension — Hana in the Shadows

  —-: Hana

  The workshop’s after-hours hum was different than its daytime roar.

  Softer. Sadder.

  Like machines breathing in their sleep.

  Hana crouched behind the open side panel of the Dart, tightening the new bracket bolt with slow, deliberate turns. One. Two. Pause. Check the thread. Again.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Rin’s voice echoed low across the far side of the hangar.

  “You keep looking at the scoreboard like it’ll tell you who you are.”

  Ren’s reply came slow. “And you keep flying like losing means disappearing.”

  They weren’t yelling anymore.

  That made it worse.

  Quiet anger was harder to ignore. Like steam building behind a sealed valve.

  “You don’t have to be perfect,” Ren said, voice frayed.

  Rin’s reply was almost too soft to hear. “Yes I do.”

  Hana gripped the wrench tighter.

  Ren tried again. “You don’t. No one asked you to carry the team.”

  “You didn’t have to ask,” Rin said. “You just expected it.”

  That silence again.

  Click.

  Hana’s fingers slipped.

  The bolt clattered out of her palm.

  Bounced off the undercarriage.

  Hit the floor with a sharp metallic ping.

  She froze.

  Across the hangar, silence fell like a dropped shroud.

  Rin turned first.

  Then Ren.

  Hana stayed crouched. Staring at the bolt. Still. Gleaming. Alone.

  Her fingers twitched.

  But she didn’t reach for it.

  She stood slowly, heart loud in her ears, wrench hanging limp in her grip.

  No words.

  No excuses.

  Just a breath, a nod, and a quiet exit.

  She left the bolt behind.

  Let it lie.