Scene 1 – “Morning Homeroom Buzz”
—-: Ren
The classroom felt like it had been cranked into overdrive. Steam hissed faintly from the pipe tucked near the ceiling vents, the copper casing rattling in rhythm with the nervous foot tapping echoing across the room. Banners of deep crimson and sun-gold draped the windows — Hinode’s anniversary colors — casting a regal tint on even the rusting pipes along the walls.
Ren leaned back in his seat, pencil spinning between his fingers, and stared at the wall-mounted school schedule. The words “Anniversary Exhibition Race – Sat 3PM” were inked in thick brushstroke kanji. Just looking at it made his stomach do a loop tighter than the new ring drill Hana had added.
“Alright, eyes front,” Ms. Shiraishi announced, voice sharper than the steam kettle whistle that doubled as the class bell. “Big day tomorrow, and even bigger eyes watching.”
She unfurled a scroll, tapping her glasses with one pink-gloved finger. “VIP confirmations. Pay attention.”
Jiro, sitting beside Ren, muttered, “Oh no. Is she going full court-drama again?”
“First,” she said, clearing her throat theatrically, “we welcome alumni from the Sky League Champions of 88 and 91. Captain Yosuke of the Wind Falcon team is returning as a guest judge.”
Hana sat up straighter across the aisle. Rin, two rows back, didn’t flinch — but Ren saw her fingertips tighten against her desk.
“Second,” Ms. Shiraishi continued, “a representative from the Arakawa noble house will be in attendance.”
Half the class gasped. The Arakawas were known for racing investments — and, more terrifyingly, tabloid gossip.
Taiga whispered, “Bet they’re scouting the next pilot for their private racing firm.”
Ren muttered, “Great. So no pressure.”
“Third,” the teacher said, barely suppressing a grin, “regional school scouts. Including two from Kyokuto Academy.” She let that name drop like a hammer.
The mood in the room shifted fast — laughter stopped, pencils froze, eyes flicked around. Kyokuto had crushed Hinode last year. Twice. Their team was known for precision, power, and, allegedly, bribing their own mechanics to leak blueprints.
“Make sure your uniforms are pressed,” Ms. Shiraishi added, folding the scroll with a snap. “Make sure your engines are tight. And for the love of all that floats — no more sabotage drills this week, Genzō-san.”
From the hallway window, Grandpa Genzō’s head slowly withdrew, wrench in hand.
Rin and Hana exchanged a long glance — not quite hostile, not quite cordial. Like two aces silently counting cards in a high-stakes game.
Ren exhaled, one shaky breath.
Tomorrow, they’d be in the sky.
And this time… there would be no room to fall.
Scene 2: “Dart in the Spotlight”
—-: Ren
They moved the Silver Dart at dawn.
Ren had barely finished brushing his teeth before Jiro showed up at his bunk door in full overalls, goggles on backward, shouting something about “diplomatic airship procedure.” Ren thought he was dreaming until Hana shoved a mug of lukewarm tea into his hands and said, “Smile today. The press cameras don’t like oil smears.”
By mid-morning, the Dart had been dragged out of the side hangar like a relic hauled from a tomb, her dented panels buffed just enough to gleam under the lantern-lit skylights of the central exhibition hangar. Brass rivets winked in the morning light, and her battered engine block had been polished until you could just barely read the stamped serial: MKIII-Featherstream Experimental.
Students filtered in, some craning necks, others scribbling sketches or snapping photos. Even a few upperclassmen gave low whistles.
Ren stood by the nose cone, doing his best to look like he belonged there and not like a very sweaty, very awkward hitchhiker who’d crash-landed into an honor exhibit.
“It still looks like it’s stitched together with leftover pipe dreams,” he muttered.
“It is,” Hana said, crossing her arms, “but you stitched it well.”
He blinked at her, momentarily caught off guard by the compliment. “Wait, was that support or sarcasm?”
“Depends who’s listening.”
She turned just in time for a tall, silver-haired mechanic to stride by — one of Rin’s former teammates. His jumpsuit was spotless. His smirk wasn’t.
“Didn’t realize Hinode was letting project ships into public display,” he said loudly, stopping just short of the Dart’s wing.
Ren opened his mouth, but Hana beat him to it.
“She flies. She finishes. That’s more than I can say about the Gale Mark Seven’s last three field tests.”
Oof.
The mechanic stiffened, scoffed, and walked off. Several nearby students murmured.
Ren scratched his neck, half embarrassed, half impressed. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Hana rolled her eyes. “I didn’t do it for you.”
But there was a hint of pink in her cheeks.
Just then, Rin stepped in through the side arch, arms folded, expression unreadable. She walked slowly around the Dart, trailing her fingers just an inch above the hull — not touching, just feeling.
“This isn’t just a patchwork crate anymore,” she said softly. “It’s got rhythm.”
Ren tilted his head. “Is that good?”
Rin’s mouth twitched. “Don’t crash it tomorrow and we’ll find out.”
Before he could say something stupid like you’re the rhythm, Taiga darted between them holding a printed flyer.
“Good news and bad news!” he declared.
Ren groaned. “Do I want to know?”
“Good news: The Dart made the program schedule.”
“And the bad?”
Taiga held up the flyer. In bold letters above a cartoon sketch of Ren and Rin — exaggerated steam clouds and sparkles and everything — was the caption:
“Hinode’s Hottest Duo to Fly Into the Spotlight!”
Ren stared. Rin stared. Hana, from behind them, hissed.
“Who. Drew. That.”
Taiga grinned. “Saki got the art club to help. She says you’re trending.”
Ren buried his face in his hands.
He could fix a cracked lift gear, fine-tune thrust delay to a tenth of a second, even jury-rig a crystal ignition with spare wire and hope.
But he could not, would not, ever fix this kind of attention.
And the crowd hadn’t even arrived yet.
Scene 3: “Hana’s Jealousy Shows”
—-: Hana
Hana knew she shouldn’t care.
She knew.
She told herself that at least fourteen times as she watched Rin lean one hand casually against the support strut of the Silver Dart, her other arm still crossed as she chatted with one of the mechanics from Crimson Gale. The mechanic — Takumi or Tamaki or something equally punchable — was grinning like a fool, nodding at everything Rin said like it was the solution to crystal overheat failure.
“She’s just talking,” Hana muttered under her breath. “Like normal people do. Talk. With their mouths. And smiles. And… too much hair.”
The worst part was: Rin hadn’t done anything wrong. She hadn’t said anything snide, hadn’t even looked at Hana all morning. She’d just… existed. Calm, composed, effortlessly admired.
And now someone from Crimson Gale was praising her control wiring in front of the entire exhibition crew.
“She’s not even the mechanic,” Hana muttered again, louder this time.
Jiro — nearby and very much minding his own business until this moment — glanced up from where he was adjusting a tension line. “Hmm?”
“Nothing.” She wiped her hands with an oily rag and promptly smeared soot across her forehead. “Just... just saying, steering’s only one part of the equation.”
Jiro tilted his head. “You mean like how spark isn’t power, or thrust isn’t lift?”
“Yes! Exactly!” Hana jabbed a wrench toward the Dart. “You can point a ship any direction you want — doesn’t matter if the engine seizes or the bags collapse or—”
“Or if someone thinks someone else looks good in front of a crowd?”
Hana froze.
Jiro didn’t even look up, just kept tightening a valve like he hadn’t just dropped a pressure bomb in the middle of her cranial combustion chamber.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Hana’s fingers clenched around the wrench so tightly she felt the edge dig into her glove.
She turned away from the Dart and headed toward her tool kit, only to kick the corner by mistake and curse under her breath. Saki, who had magically appeared behind a crate of spare clamps, raised an eyebrow and scribbled in her notebook.
“Don’t you dare,” Hana growled.
Saki grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it. ‘Engineer Girl’s Heart Valve Cracks Under Pressure’ isn’t quite spicy enough for print.”
Before Hana could throw something (like a wrench, or possibly Saki), a soft, familiar voice called out behind them:
“Hana. We need your calibration numbers for the throttle loop.”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Rin.
Of course.
“Coming,” Hana replied tightly.
She walked past Saki — who was still grinning — past the crowd, and back to the Dart, where Ren had just arrived holding a clipboard and looking sheepish.
“They said I should let the mechanic handle the talk with the gear reps,” he said, offering her the board. “I guess I look too much like a crash waiting to happen.”
Hana took the clipboard, her voice clipped but steady. “You are a crash waiting to happen.”
But… she didn’t hand the clipboard back.
And when she glanced at Rin — still standing tall, chin slightly lifted, eyes on the crowd — she didn’t feel anger anymore.
Just heat. Confused. Fizzing. Chemical. Somewhere between admiration and the overwhelming desire to win.
For herself.
Scene 4: “Taiga’s Scheme”
—-: Ren
Ren had exactly two things on his to-do list for the afternoon:
- Run final diagnostics on the Dart’s core ignition timing loop.
- Not get dragged into whatever ridiculous idea Taiga had come up with this time.
He succeeded at neither.
“You’re gonna owe me for this,” Taiga whispered, tugging Ren by the sleeve into the shadow of the vending alcove. His hair was sticking out like he’d been hit by a stray burst of static from a bad capacitor, which — knowing Taiga — might’ve actually happened.
Ren yanked his arm back. “What now?”
“Okay, okay, picture this.” Taiga’s grin was pure chaos. “Double date. Exhibition after-party. You and Rin. Me and—”
“Don’t say Saki.”
“Why not?! She’s fun! Sharp! Might poison me for a good laugh, but that’s part of the thrill.”
Ren pressed two fingers to his temple. “This is insane. No one’s dating anyone after a race where we might explode midair.”
“Which is exactly why we need to lock it in before the race! It’s called confidence psychology. You secure the victory and the post-victory ramen date in one stroke.”
“I’m not—she and I—we’re barely flying together without one of us threatening to eject the other,” Ren muttered.
“You looped the tightest three-ring spiral in the school’s history and made it look like a dance.”
“That was one time!”
“Exactly! Strike while the coal’s hot!”
Taiga whipped out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. A note. With actual handwriting. Ren felt dread crawl up his spine like a faulty servo ratchet.
“This is a proposal. For the date. I wrote it from your perspective. Sincere, heartfelt, slightly poetic—”
“Give me that!” Ren lunged.
Too late.
A blur of motion cut between them — dark ink hair, fluttering skirt, glint of mischief. Saki.
She held the note up like a royal decree.
“Oh my, what’s this?” she sang. “From Ren… to Rin…?”
“I didn’t write that!” Ren barked, already reaching for it.
But Saki danced backward like a steam ghost on roller bearings, all eyes and wicked grin.
“Oh, it’s going in the newsletter.”
Taiga looked both horrified and thrilled. “Wait, does that count as publication or performance art?”
Ren buried his face in his hands. “I hate you.”
“No, you love me,” Taiga whispered proudly. “You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
Somewhere down the hallway, Rin’s voice rang out:
“Ren, did you leave your notes in the hangar again?”
Saki held the letter aloft, tapped it thoughtfully, then tucked it behind her back.
“Timing is everything,” she said, and vanished into the dorm maze.
Ren groaned.
Taiga clapped him on the back. “You’re welcome.”
Scene 5: “Crystal Cooling Systems & Closed-Loop Lift Mechanics”
—-: Ren
The classroom smelled like singed copper and oversteamed rice. A faint hum echoed from the overhead ductwork where the last of the steam from an earlier demonstration still clung to the vents. Ren found a seat toward the middle — not so close to the front that Hana would notice if he zoned out, but not far enough back that Taiga could flick rubber bolts at his neck again.
Hana stood at the front with a crystal-sheathed stylus and a giant chalkboard that had been retrofitted into a hybrid projector display. The sunlight through the tall arched windows caught the gold-rimmed tubing of her portable cooling loop demo kit, which hissed gently at her side like a sleeping teapot with fangs.
She pushed her goggles up with one gloved finger, cleared her throat, and began in a tone that was both clinical and — somehow — nervous.
“When managing lift through crystal combustion, the real challenge isn’t just energy output,” she said, “but maintaining temperature equilibrium in the airbag’s inner chamber.”
She gestured with the stylus. A diagram flickered to life on the board: a half-transparent schematic of a standard 60CC crystal chamber with a secondary spring-start ignition loop and a cooling pipe running parallel to the lift tube.
“Excess heat buildup creates two dangers: one, uncontrolled lift spikes that can destabilize the airbag’s shape mid-flight, especially in tight turns.”
A few murmurs from the back row. Someone coughed “Wild Tempo,” and everyone laughed.
“And two,” she continued sharply, “rapid crystal phase-change back into liquid. If that happens mid-race... you fall.”
Ren winced, remembering the Dart’s first test run and the way the whole frame had shuddered when the vents clogged.
Hana adjusted a valve on her demo kit. A rush of steam curled upward, then looped back through a spiral of copper and condensed into droplets at the base.
“This is a closed-loop cooling mod,” she said. “Spring-loaded starter valve. Uses a backup pilot torch to maintain just enough heat in the gas line, while a secondary chamber condenses excess and cycles it back as vapor. This stabilizes lift without sacrificing thrust.”
A hand shot up. Jiro.
“Wait, what happens if someone adds water to the mix?” he asked, squinting skeptically. “Like... normal water?”
“Don’t.” Hana didn’t even look up. “If there are impurities, even trace oils, you’ll trigger a back-burn chain. It’ll flash-boil inside the chamber and you’ll get a vertical vent explosion.”
Jiro blinked. “So like... a fireball?”
“A boiling fireball. With your face in front of it.”
“Oh.” He paused. “Cool.”
“No.” Hana’s voice cracked slightly, and a smile ghosted across her lips. “Not cool. Just... boiled.”
Laughter rippled through the room, but Ren was only half-listening. His eyes were on the condensation valve. Her loop wasn’t just stabilizing lift — it was recovering pressure loss. That could mean tighter turns and longer acceleration burns.
She stepped back, voice softening. “It’s not just about flying longer. It’s about flying smarter. Your airbag doesn’t care how fast you want to go — it cares how hot its insides are. Control that, and you can outlast ships twice your size.”
There was a pause.
Taiga whispered, “Did she just imply emotional trauma to a balloon?”
Jiro nodded. “Yup. And it kinda worked.”
Ren leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes on Hana’s hands as she closed the demo with a flick of the release valve and a sigh of vented pressure.
She’d figured it out. Again.
And she didn’t even look proud of it — just relieved.
Scene 6: “Grandpa’s Sabotage Lite”
—-: Ren
The hangar still smelled faintly of coolant, oil, and half-fried pork buns — courtesy of Jiro’s latest attempt to use a thermal crystal as a sandwich press. Ren had opened the side hatches of the Dart for cooling, letting the late afternoon breeze spill through the copper-gridded floor and over the exposed frame.
The ship gleamed in the golden light, its patched-up silver plating catching the sun like armor worn a hundred times and reforged a hundred more. Ren was beneath the cockpit, tightening the steam regulators that Hana had recommended replacing after the latest test run.
Thunk.
The unmistakable sound of Grandpa’s boots against the deck grating echoed above him. Ren peered out from under the hull just in time to see the old man crouching next to the flight whistle port — a rarely used add-on mounted above the left ballast intake.
“...What are you doing?” Ren asked, immediately suspicious.
Grandpa Goro grinned without looking. “Enhancing your performance.”
Ren slid out, wiping his hands on a rag. “Enhancing it how, exactly?”
“Showmanship,” Grandpa said with a sage nod. “Flight’s not just about going fast or not exploding — though I do hope you continue with the not-exploding part. It’s about drama. Style. Personality.”
“You mean sabotage.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” Grandpa shoved something into the small intake port and twisted a crank. A faint click-hiss followed by a high-pitched toot! echoed across the hangar.
Ren froze. “Was that a steam whistle?”
“Yup.”
“You installed a whistle on my airship.”
“Correction: your whistle. Activated at high torque output, low-altitude bursts. Just enough pressure bleed-off to hit max pitch. Should sound like a tea kettle having a midlife crisis.”
Ren stared at him, jaw half-open. “Why.”
“Because you’re gonna have VIPs watching. Scouts. Nobles. Racers. You can’t just fly, kid. You gotta make them look.”
He patted the side of the Dart like it was a stubborn mule that had just agreed to sing opera. “And besides, maybe if they’re laughing, they’ll forget to check your math.”
Ren opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed his eyes.
“Is there at least a way to disable it?”
Grandpa shrugged. “Probably.”
“That’s not comforting!”
Goro began walking off toward his tool bench, whistling the same pitch the whistle had just shrieked. “Life’s not comforting, boy. It’s chaotic. Full of unexpected noises. Sometimes the loudest thing in the sky is what they remember.”
Ren turned back to the Dart. The port was now bolted shut with a reinforced ring around the whistle. He’d have to dismantle half the external intake rig to get to it.
He sighed.
The Silver Dart shimmered in the fading light — a little louder now, maybe. But maybe that wasn’t all bad.
Maybe flying loud was better than being forgotten.
Scene 7: “Mei’s Strange Behavior”
—-: Ren
The air above Hinode Academy had taken on a festival-like shimmer. Lanterns swung lazily from the ropes strung between towers, their glass sides etched with school crests and hand-painted dragons, koi, and spirals of clouds. A warm breeze rolled in from the west, lifting the smells of fried tofu and sweet barley candy from the vendors already setting up for the anniversary fair.
Ren leaned against the railing on the observatory deck, watching the hangars below as students bustled like ants preparing for a particularly stylish invasion.
But he wasn’t alone.
Mei stood at the far end of the platform — a lone silhouette in her regulation flight skirt and sleeveless mechanic’s vest. Her long hair was tied up in a functional bun, and she was still wearing her gloves, stained from the day’s calibration trials. She held a small spiral-bound notebook in one hand, flipping pages quickly with the other.
Her gaze darted back and forth between the sky and the worn paper, lips barely moving as she traced something in the air with her finger.
Ren took a slow step closer. “Mei?”
She didn’t jump. Didn’t even flinch. She just muttered, “You’re standing too far left. If you want to survive the heat shear, you need to align your rear rudder trim twenty degrees tighter during crosswind entry.”
Ren blinked. “That was… very specific.”
“I was watching your last run,” she said flatly, flipping a page. “You banked during a hot gust over the east vent. The aether didn’t carry right — it bounced. That’ll knock you sideways in full-speed conditions.”
He stepped closer now, peeking over her shoulder. The notebook was covered in numbers, rough altitude grids, and shorthand calculations with small hand-drawn directional glyphs — sky drafts, heat differentials, estimated thermal lift columns… and pressure vent notations matching their crystal bag's expansion rates.
It wasn’t a pilot’s log.
It was a meteorological prediction engine.
“You’ve been tracking wind patterns?” Ren asked.
“For a week,” Mei said. “The thermals are acting strange.”
“Strange how?”
She finally turned toward him, eyes narrowed beneath her fringe.
“They’re pulsing.”
“…Like, rhythmically?”
“Exactly. Every twenty-seven minutes, like clockwork. Artificial. Someone’s triggering steam bursts in the lower valley and it's affecting our race vectors.”
Ren stared at her, stunned. “Wait — why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“Would they listen?”
He hesitated.
Fair point.
Mei looked back at her charts, her voice low now. “I used to fly. I know what happens when pilots trust the sky more than the science.”
Ren leaned beside her, watching the lanterns sway.
“Is this why you’ve been distant lately?”
“I’m not distant,” she said. “I’m calculating.”
He chuckled. “Right. Big difference.”
She didn’t smile, but the corner of her mouth tilted. Slightly.
“I’m going to win you this race,” she said quietly. “Even if you don’t know it.”
Ren felt something tighten in his chest. Not fear. Not nerves. Something else — like altitude pressure from the inside out.
“…Thanks, Mei.”
She didn’t reply. Just nodded once and walked off, her charts fluttering slightly in the wind like wings that never got to fly.
Scene 8: “Closing Shot – Exhibition Eve”
—-: Omniscient Steeped in Ren’s Emotions
The sky over Hinode Academy simmered with anticipation.
The sun dipped below the horizon like it, too, wanted a front-row seat. Warm lavender spread across the clouds, bleeding into deep indigo above the rooftops. The whole school seemed to hum with nervous breath — pipes hissed softly, dorm windows glowed with lanternlight, and the wind curled like a cat around the edges of the hangars.
Below, the Silver Dart stood bathed in golden glow, parked at the center of the airship circle. Half-painted. Slightly scorched. Polished in odd places. And perfect in all the wrong ways. It looked nothing like the other ships docked nearby — all gleaming woodwork, streamlined brass, and trim handrails like fashion pieces in flight.
But the Dart pulsed. Hissed. Whispered, “I’m alive.”
Ren stood by it, one hand on the intake manifold, listening.
The exhibition race was tomorrow. The crowd would be massive. Scouts, old racers, nobles, engineers, news outlets. Even some people who’d once flown with Grandpa Genzō.
Somewhere, just beyond the trees, music drifted from the early festival booths. Laughter echoed through the stone paths. Steam curled from kettle carts. Somewhere, Saki was probably writing another headline with too many puns.
Somewhere, Rin was probably polishing her gloves until they cracked.
And somewhere, Hana was either tightening a bolt or debating throwing a wrench at a wall.
Ren closed his eyes, breathed in the crystal heat from the Dart’s still-warm belly. The moment held. Still. Suspended.
Above him, airships docked along the upper platforms swayed gently — like sharks sleeping in the sky. Their fins (propellers), streamlined, motionless. Their hulls etched with team insignias. A few already had celebratory banners tied to their frame lines: “HINODE STRONG,” “SOAR TO 1ST,” and one overly optimistic “DESTINY AWAITS.”
Ren looked up and whispered, “Well… let’s hope destiny likes underdogs.”
From his vantage, the school unfolded like a secret city — pipes weaving into towers, rails spiraling up walls, ivy wrapping through vents like vines reclaiming old machines. The moon caught on the copper trim of the bell tower, casting the Academy’s gear-shaped crest in perfect silhouette across the training field.
A quiet clang echoed from the hangar behind him.
He turned — expecting Grandpa with a wrench or Jiro with another half-baked plan.
But no one was there.
Only the breeze, the stars, and the hiss of slowly cooling engines.
Then, drifting up above it all, dozens of floating paper lanterns began to rise from the dormitory courtyards — some white, some red, some stenciled with hand-drawn characters.
They floated like memories. Like prayers. Like secrets launched into the air.
Ren reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and held it up to the wind.
It was a page from one of his letters — an old one. Half-crumpled. Half-true. A line still visible through the creases:
“I think I’ve found my sky.”
He let it go.
It lifted slowly, spun once in the breeze, and disappeared into the swarm of lanterns, carried upward into the clouds.