Chapter 39: “The Fame Problem”

  Scene 1: Sponsor Meeting – “This Is Just the Beginning”

  —-: Ren

  The carpet was too soft.

  Ren’s boots sank into it like it was trying to swallow him, all plush velvet and golden embroidery underfoot. The sponsor building gleamed—brass-and-glass panels catching the sunlight just enough to make him squint. He tried not to look nervous, which only made him blink harder.

  The corporate rep smiled like a man who’d rehearsed it in front of mirrors.

  “Ren Lawson. Pilot of the Silver Dart. A pleasure.”

  The handshake lasted half a second too long. Ren wiped his palm on his pants as soon as the man turned.

  Beside the rep, a woman in a tailored vest tapped a series of glossy projections to life—hovering above the polished table like they were precious artifacts.

  There were diagrams. Stats. Photo stills.

  And posters.

  Ren stared at them a second too long.

  His face.

  Rin’s silhouette just behind him, goggles up, windswept.

  A blur of wings and shine.

  No Hana.

  No Mei.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Um—sorry, where’s the rest of the team?”

  The rep barely looked over.

  “Oh, the engineer and the strategist? We’re focusing on visual cohesion. You and Rin tested highest in public engagement metrics.”

  “Right,” Ren said. “Right, of course.”

  His stomach twisted.

  The woman with the datapad gestured again, flipping to a projected contract. “You’ll receive a full scholarship offer if you accept exclusive sponsor branding through Nationals. Upgraded suits. A travel allowance. And, of course, public interviews.”

  Ren stared at the page.

  There were clauses about image use. About event appearances. About partner obligations. There were… a lot of words. Too many.

  “Is Hana okay with this?” he asked.

  That finally made the room pause.

  The rep smiled again. “There’s no need to complicate things with too many cooks. We want to elevate the stars.”

  Ren’s throat went tight.

  But he didn’t say anything.

  Not yet.

  He just nodded.

  Signed a fake name on the demo pad to stall for time.

  Smiled like they wanted him to.

  Then asked to use the restroom—and ducked out the side hallway like the walls were closing in.

  He should’ve said something sooner.

  But all he could think about was Hana’s hands, stained with oil, building the stabilizer that saved them last race.

  And now?

  They hadn’t even said her name.

  Scene 2: Publicity Posters – “Who’s Missing?”

  —-: Hana

  She wasn’t supposed to see it.

  The poster was folded up, stacked in a bin behind the administration kiosk, half-crushed under a coil of copper tubing. Hana had only ducked in for a replacement filament. That’s all. In and out.

  But the glossy surface caught the light.

  And her eyes caught the image.

  Ren—centered, smiling in his uniform, windblown and golden like someone had filtered him through sunlight.

  Rin—beside him, goggles resting on her forehead, expression cool and confident.

  And below them?

  Silver Dart: Rising Stars of Hinode.

  Hana blinked.

  She looked again.

  No one else.

  Not her.

  Not Mei.

  Not even the ship’s schematics in the background—just blur and shine.

  She reached out without meaning to, fingertips brushing the corner of the paper.

  “Hana! Don’t—uh—wait, I can fix that—!”

  Saki skidded into the hallway like her boots had no brakes, clutching a fistful of alternate designs. Her hair was frizzed out from humidity and panic, and she looked like someone who had just tried to sprint uphill through bureaucracy.

  “They told me it was temporary artwork! I swear! I submitted the full team version—there were wrenches and everything—”

  Hana didn’t answer.

  She didn’t move.

  Her fingers curled around the corner of the poster.

  Saki kept talking.

  “There’s a version with you adjusting the flaps, and Mei’s got her glasses glowing, and I added ring vector graphics in the back—like those cool anime layouts where everyone’s turning midair? It’s really good. I can show you—”

  Still nothing.

  Hana just folded the poster once—clean, neat—and slid it back into the bin like it wasn’t breaking something soft inside her chest.

  “It’s fine,” she said.

  But her voice wasn’t.

  Saki deflated. “Hana…”

  “No, really.” She gave a smile that didn’t fit her face. “It’s not like I was the one flying. Right?”

  Saki opened her mouth—then shut it.

  For once, even she didn’t know how to spin it.

  Hana walked past her.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Back straight.

  Footsteps steady.

  Filament still in hand.

  But inside?

  She felt like a background layer.

  Like something cropped out.

  Scene 3: Taiga’s Ridiculous Plan – “Meet, Greet, Retreat”

  —-: Rin

  Rin stood at the edge of the main courtyard, arms crossed, eye twitching.

  “Tell me again,” she said flatly, “why we’re standing in front of a handmade banner that says ‘DART PARTY BLAST’ in glitter paint.”

  Taiga beamed with the unshakable confidence of a man who had never once felt shame.

  “Because fandom builds loyalty! Loyalty builds brand equity! Also, Saki said I could have her leftover candy coupons if I did this.”

  The banner swayed overhead.

  The table beneath it was creaking under the weight of knockoff keychains, tiny Ren plushies (with weirdly sharp jawlines), and—

  “Is that a bobblehead of me?” Rin asked, squinting. “Why do I have cat ears?”

  Taiga shrugged. “Aesthetic choice. Jiro printed them.”

  Jiro, from behind the table, gave a weak wave. “They vibrate when shaken. It’s kind of cursed.”

  Ren, somehow already panicking, adjusted his collar for the twelfth time. “I thought this was just a meet-and-greet. Why are there... cameras? And confetti cannons?”

  Taiga raised both fists like a hype god. “Because this—this—is how you harness momentum!”

  Cue: the crowd.

  They didn’t trickle in.

  They swarmed.

  Students. Locals. Two skyport engineers. Three kids in homemade goggles chanting “Flyboy! Flyboy!” and what looked like an actual reporter floating a crystal lens drone overhead.

  Rin barely had time to sidestep before someone tried to hug her.

  Ren was mobbed.

  “Sign my nav gear!”

  “Are you single?”

  “What’s your torque ratio when Rin banks left—wait, ARE YOU TWO DATING?”

  “Can I touch the goggles??”

  Ren stammered so hard he sounded like a broken steam valve. “I—n-no—I mean, we—we’re not—this isn’t—”

  Meanwhile, someone shoved a paper hat onto Rin’s head.

  She crushed it with one hand.

  Saki filmed the whole thing from a second-story window, cackling.

  “THIS IS GOLD,” she shouted. “REN IS DYING AND RIN HAS ACHIEVED HER FINAL FORM. I’M CALLING THIS EPISODE ‘DARTS AND DISASTER.’”

  And Hana?

  Gone.

  One blink, one flash of the crowd, and Rin noticed it—

  The workshop girl, the one who always stayed until the bolts were tight and the crystals purred—

  Had disappeared.

  She scanned the edge of the square.

  Nothing.

  Just fan signs, screams, and glitter confetti exploding into her face like a cruel prank from the gods.

  Rin scowled.

  “Taiga.”

  “Yup?”

  “This was a terrible idea.”

  Taiga gave a weak thumbs-up, confetti stuck to his eyelashes.

  “Worth it.”

  Scene 4: Back Alley Talk – “They Only See Your Face”

  —-: Hana

  The metal behind the dorms was cool against her back. Not cold. Not sharp. Just cool—like someone had poured silence into the wall and let it set.

  Hana sat on the low steps, knees pulled close, fingers tangled in her own sleeves.

  The clamor of the crowd still echoed faintly from the courtyard—cheers and questions and that high, overexposed voice someone called “streamer energy.”

  She didn’t know where she was supposed to be.

  The posters had said enough.

  The pitch meeting—didn’t need her.

  And the fan event? She hadn’t even been asked.

  So she sat here.

  With the ache in her chest.

  And the pressure behind her eyes.

  And the whisper that maybe they only cared when she was invisible.

  The worst part was—

  She didn’t want to be in front. She just didn’t want to be forgotten.

  Footsteps approached—soft, deliberate, without announcement.

  Only one person walked like that.

  “You build in rhythm,” Mei said.

  Hana didn’t look up. “I what?”

  Mei stepped around the corner and sat beside her—no questions, no drama. Just a quiet presence that somehow didn’t press.

  “When you’re working,” Mei continued, “you always flick the torque tool twice after a bolt. You hum under your breath when calibrating. You don’t know it, but your builds have a tempo.”

  Hana stayed silent.

  Mei reached into her coat and pulled something out—a small coil drive. Modified. Sleek. Its casing was painted in soft violet.

  “I made this from your rhythm. It pulses to the way you move.”

  She handed it over.

  Hana stared.

  Mei added, voice barely audible:

  “They only see your face when it’s on a poster. But they fly on your work every time they leave the ground.”

  The pressure behind Hana’s eyes broke.

  Tears spilled, fast and sharp.

  She curled her arms over her knees and cried—not loud. Just deep. Just aching.

  Mei didn’t say anything else.

  She didn’t need to.

  She just stayed there, watching the sky above the back wall, letting Hana break and rebuild at her own pace.

  And when the tears slowed, and Hana finally looked up—

  Her voice cracked, but her hands were already twitching with an idea.

  “I think I know how to stabilize the new pressure intake.”

  Mei smiled.

  “Then let’s build.”

  Scene 5: Ren Shuts It Down – “This Is Their Sky Too”

  —-: Ren

  The conference room looked the same.

  Too many reflections. Too few windows.

  Smelled like polished brass and old ambition.

  Ren stood at the center table, staring at the contract pad glowing soft white. The signatures were still blank. But the weight of the ink already felt like it was pressing on his chest.

  The sponsors sat across from him, polite and expectant.

  “Is there something unclear in the terms?” the rep asked, folding his hands with the confidence of someone who assumed the answer would always be “no.”

  Ren’s hands curled at his sides.

  “There’s something missing,” he said.

  They tilted their heads—curious, not concerned.

  Ren took a breath. Not deep. Just enough.

  “You want me and Rin for the face. Fine. We fly the front.”

  “But this ship doesn’t exist without Hana.”

  The room shifted. The woman with the datapad blinked.

  “And Mei,” he added. “We don’t win without her math. We don’t move without her mind. So if you want the Dart—if you want me—then they get full recognition. Full support. Their names on everything.”

  The silence that followed wasn’t angry.

  It was worse.

  It was dismissive.

  The rep leaned back, too casual. “That’s not how standard branding packages—”

  “I don’t care,” Ren said, sharper this time. “They’re not background. They’re not optional.”

  He pointed at the gleaming image of the Silver Dart floating in the center of the display.

  “That ship only flies because Hana rebuilt the stabilizers from scratch. Because Mei guided us through a storm with no visuals. You can polish our faces all you want—but if you leave them out?”

  He paused.

  Then drew the line:

  “We walk.”

  The room didn’t breathe.

  The rep stared. “You’re willing to give up full sponsorship—just like that?”

  Ren’s voice didn’t shake.

  “This is their sky too.”

  The datapad dimmed.

  The silence cracked.

  And one beat later?

  The sponsor rep folded the contract shut.

  “We’ll… revisit the terms.”

  Ren nodded once.

  Then turned and walked out—not fast. Not dramatic. Just sure.

  And for the first time that day, his shoulders felt lighter.

  Like maybe—finally—he was flying his own course.

  Scene 6: Rin’s Respect – “Use What You Need”

  —-: Hana

  The workshop always smelled like something halfway between smoke and promise.

  Hana stood at her bench, goggles pushed up in her hair, fingers deep in an exploded intake valve. Brass rings, worn crystal channels, and a half-chewed pencil clung to the edge of her blueprints. Her braid was frizzing again. She didn’t care.

  She was calibrating the new vent array to handle sharper torque stress.

  Because they would need it.

  Because no one else would think about the vent until it failed.

  She didn’t hear the footsteps.

  Not at first.

  Just a quiet shuffle, then a thunk.

  Something landed beside her notes.

  She looked up.

  Rin.

  Standing there.

  Arms crossed.

  Expression unreadable.

  Hana blinked. “...Need something?”

  Rin didn’t speak. She just nodded toward the bench.

  Hana glanced down.

  A precision toolset.

  Gleaming. High-tier. Engraved with the Silver Dart crest, freshly polished and untouched. The kind of gear only a pilot could requisition. The kind Hana had asked about weeks ago—and been told was “on back order.”

  Rin didn’t explain.

  She didn’t need to.

  Instead, she muttered, barely audible:

  “Use what you need.”

  Hana stared at her.

  Rin looked at the parts. Then the schematics. Then back at Hana.

  She shifted on her feet.

  “You were right. About the stabilizer mod. It flies cleaner now. Like…” Her voice dropped. “Like it wants to.”

  Hana swallowed. “Thanks.”

  Rin turned to go.

  Paused.

  Without turning around, she added—

  “You’re not background. You’re the spine.”

  Then she walked out.

  The workshop buzzed. The lights flickered overhead.

  Hana’s hands trembled—not from anger. Not from hurt.

  From something else.

  She reached out, picked up the new torque calibrator, and felt the balance of it in her grip.

  It was perfect.

  Scene 7: Closing Moment – “Three at Dusk”

  —-: Ren

  The sun was setting like it didn’t care about posters or contracts or crowd control.

  Like it just wanted to pour molten light across the hangar windows and call it a day.

  Ren sat on the edge of the maintenance ramp, legs dangling above the access trench, jacket slung loose over his shoulders. The air still held the faint warmth of a recently cooled engine, mixed with grease and something sweet—like crystallized ozone left behind after a race.

  He didn’t say anything.

  Didn’t need to.

  Beside him, Hana leaned over a folded schematic, hands stained with copper ink. Her braid was tucked through a harness strap, keeping it out of her eyes. She was scribbling notes with one hand and rolling a gear fragment between her fingers with the other—like she couldn’t sit still unless something was moving.

  And on the other side, Rin sat sideways on a crate, one foot on the ground, one elbow braced against her knee, goggles pushed up into her hair. She wasn’t talking. Wasn’t glaring either. Just... watching the Dart.

  The ship loomed above them—quiet, finally.

  Like it was listening.

  Not patched. Not perfect.

  But whole.

  For now.

  The silence between them wasn’t empty.

  It was full—

  Of things unsaid.

  Of choices made.

  Of respect earned.

  The trio sat there while the sky changed color.

  Red to gold.

  Gold to violet.

  Violet to that strange blue that only came just before the stars.

  No one moved.

  No one needed to.

  And above them, the Silver Dart shimmered faintly in the light—its hull catching the sky like it remembered what it meant to be carried.