Chapter 18: “Cheers, Tears, and Steam”

  Scene 1: “Crowd Rush”

  —-: Ren

  He wasn’t sure if his boots ever touched the ground again.

  One minute, they were landing the Dart to an explosion of applause, and the next—

  BOOM.

  Reporters.

  Cameras.

  Voices like crystal engines revving in all directions.

  “REN-SAN, OVER HERE!”

  “What’s the name of the maneuver?”

  “Is it true you and the Crimson Gale girl are dating?!”

  “Did you design that ring pattern on purpose or was it instinctual genius!?”

  Ren blinked through the blur, wiping grease off his cheek as flashbulbs turned the hangar into a lightning storm. One mic nearly stabbed him in the chin.

  Where was Rin?

  He turned—she was gone. No flight goggles. No boots. Not even a sarcastic exit quip. Just... vanished into the crowd like a puff of overworked boiler smoke.

  “Uh…” Ren raised his hands. “I—I’m not the best pilot here or anything…”

  A camera was shoved into his face.

  “Then who is the best, in your opinion?”

  He caught sight of Hana just off the left wing of the Dart, arms crossed, watching him like she was waiting for him to set something on fire — but also maybe hoping he wouldn’t.

  He breathed in.

  “I just fly with the best people,” he said, louder this time. “This ship flew today because of them.”

  The crowd sighed collectively. Half the girls melted. The other half took notes. One of the regional scouts actually clutched their chest like he’d just witnessed a confession scene.

  Behind the swarm, Taiga leaned against a metal beam, popping into at least three separate shots while throwing exaggerated finger guns at nothing in particular. Ren would see the photos later. He'd be in all of them.

  Across the courtyard, behind the announcer’s platform…

  Grandpa Genzō, pipe in teeth, grunted as he flipped a folding chair open and thumped down into it. He watched his grandson get mobbed like a market special on fire-sale day.

  “Told ya,” he muttered to no one. “Kid’s got cloud-charming lungs and coal-scuffed charm. Just needed the sky to notice.”

  He lit the pipe, it immediately went out, and he cursed under his breath.

  Meanwhile, Hana edged toward the Dart, half-expecting someone to brush her aside. They didn’t. But no one interviewed her, either.

  She tapped the engine cowl absently.

  “Just the wrench girl, huh?” she murmured.

  But her voice didn’t crack. Not yet.

  From the back of the crowd, Saki was practically vibrating with excitement as she filmed the entire scene while mouthing every headline she was going to write later. One had a pun about "Silver-Hearted Soarers." Another just said:

  Dart + Destiny = Drama.

  She couldn’t decide which she loved more — romance, rivalry… or the chaos in between.

  Scene 2: “Rin’s Breakdown”

  —-: Rin

  Rin didn’t run.

  Not really.

  She walked. Stiffly. Directly. Like her legs were springs wound too tight, threatening to snap at the knees.

  The garden behind the dorms was empty. It always was after races — students too busy celebrating or sulking elsewhere. Rin liked it that way. It was quiet. Mostly.

  The air still smelled of cut grass and jasmine tea from the morning prep tables. Festival lanterns swung gently overhead, casting soft pinks and greens across the hedgerows.

  She sank down behind a low bush. Her back hit the brick wall with a muted thud. Knees curled. Arms folded. Flight jacket still zipped to her throat.

  The moment she sat still—

  The tears came.

  Damn it.

  Not loud. Not choking. Just silent, stupid tears that betrayed every hard edge she’d sharpened around herself since she was twelve.

  That crowd.

  That dive.

  That spiral.

  She let someone else take the lead. She shared the controls. She felt…

  Alive.

  And then they called him the prodigy.

  Not her.

  Not the girl who’d won three back-to-back junior qualifiers before she could tie her hair in a bun without looking like a windswept broom.

  Ren.

  With his mismatched boots and duct-taped glove and that ridiculous grin like the sky owed him something personal.

  She buried her face in her arms. The fabric of her sleeve was rough. It scratched at her cheek. She didn’t care.

  Stupid sky. Always takes before it gives.

  A faint crunch of gravel.

  She stiffened. Wiped her face hastily with her wrist. Didn't look up.

  “You didn’t mess up,” came a quiet voice behind her. “That ship only flew because of you.”

  She didn’t have to turn to know it was Mei. That calm, glassy tone like someone speaking through fog — you could barely hear it unless you really listened.

  Rin sniffed, sharp and inelegant.

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

  A soft rustle as Mei knelt in the grass beside her.

  “Didn’t offer one,” she said. “I gave you credit.”

  That stopped Rin. She lifted her head, one eye peeking out from under a wayward strand of black hair.

  “You’re good,” Mei added, eyes locked on the petals of a wind-swept flower. “Not because they say so. Because you make ships fly better than anyone.”

  Rin stared.

  It wasn’t praise.

  It was a fact. Clean. Clinical. Like identifying a broken pipe. And for some reason, that made it hit harder.

  They sat in silence.

  A wind stirred through the hedge, tugging at the edges of Rin’s jacket. A paper lantern floated overhead, its candle flickering like a heartbeat before drifting onward toward the courtyard stage.

  Mei stood first.

  “He’s not trying to steal anything from you,” she said as she turned to go. “He’s trying to give it back.”

  Then she walked away.

  Rin didn’t follow.

  But this time, when she wiped her cheek… there weren’t any more tears left.

  Scene 3: “Hana’s Internal Struggle”

  —-: Hana

  The hangar was quieter than usual — the kind of quiet that made every little sound echo twice as loud.

  Hana yanked the torque wrench off the bench, the metal screeching against the bolts tray. She didn’t care. The echo that bounced off the aluminum ribs of the Dart’s engine bay matched the buzzing behind her eyes anyway.

  Just a wrench girl.

  That’s what they’d said.

  She didn’t even know who said it. Maybe one of the spectators. Maybe a student from Wild Tempo. Or maybe someone from Iron Blossom, looking at her grease-streaked hands like they were relics from a scrapyard.

  Just a wrench girl.

  Her fingers trembled as she fitted the new coupler joint. She knew she shouldn’t be this angry. It wasn’t like she wanted to be in the spotlight. She didn’t need the crowd or the reporters or the scouts scribbling her name.

  But still.

  The joint didn’t line up.

  She turned it the wrong way.

  Clink.

  Slip.

  Clatter.

  The bolt bounced off the fuselage and rolled into the pit under the Dart’s hover cradle.

  Hana hissed through her teeth and dropped to one knee, shoving aside a box of spare belts. Her braid slipped off her shoulder, smearing into a spot of leaked grease. She didn’t even flinch.

  She reached. Fumbled.

  Her glove tore on a sharp edge.

  “Ugh—!”

  She yanked her hand out and looked at the tiny rip. Then at her tools.

  Then, slowly, carefully, like a volcano that was tired of simmering…

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  She stood. Pulled both gloves off. And threw them.

  They hit the hangar wall with a soft thwap, then slumped to the floor like deflated balloons.

  “You built the power shunt from scrap, remember?” she muttered aloud to herself. “You rerouted the entire pressure intake loop during midflight repair. You installed a capacitor override system based on a thirty-year-old diagram!”

  Her voice cracked. It echoed anyway.

  The Dart didn’t answer.

  The engine was quiet now — resting between storms. But the faint smell of burned steam lines and oiled canvas clung to it like memory.

  Hana sat down on the nearest crate.

  “Just a wrench girl,” she repeated, quieter this time.

  She looked down at her hands. Callused, smudged, lined with tiny nicks and still trembling a little.

  Ren never treated her like she was just anything.

  But Rin…

  No. That wasn’t fair. Rin never said those words. Rin didn’t need to.

  She reached for her gloves again, but paused halfway. The light from the open hangar windows caught on a thin shimmer of crystal dust along her sleeve.

  Sky residue.

  The Dart had flown through pure turbulence and stilled it. She had tuned that core. She had helped Ren take flight.

  That wasn’t “just” anything.

  She stood slowly, pulling her gloves on with practiced jerks. The wrench clanked back into her hand.

  And the next bolt slid in on the first try.

  Scene 4: “Ren’s First Interview”

  —-: Ren

  Ren never liked crowds.

  He liked noise even less.

  Which meant this moment — standing in front of a dozen floating news drones, half the student body, a smattering of pro scouts, and at least three kids with very dangerous-looking boom mics — was his personal version of purgatory.

  He blinked under the glare of a dozen steam-lamp camera orbs. Somewhere behind him, Grandpa cheered, “Suck in your gut and look noble, boy!”

  Ren sucked in a breath. Not noble — more like “pre-crash face.” But the camera whirred.

  “—and here he is, folks!” Saki’s voice burst through the speaker cone like a firecracker. “Hinode Academy’s rising star! The one, the myth, the accidental ring-skipper of last semester — REN MINATO!”

  A cheer. Some confused clapping. One loud “Who?”

  Ren gave a sheepish wave. His glove was still smudged with engine grease.

  Saki shoved the mic toward him with her signature faux-sweet grin. “First race in front of a full crowd. You finished second in points but first in new fan hearts. Any words?”

  Ren’s mouth went dry.

  He saw Rin vanish into the background minutes ago. Hana was still behind the Dart, probably fixing something she didn’t trust him with. Jiro had already stolen two of the fancy pastries from the catering table.

  That left him. Alone. Center stage.

  He scratched behind his ear. “Uh… yeah.”

  Cameras leaned in.

  Ren glanced at the Dart, its patched hull gleaming with late-afternoon sunlight. Steam hissed softly from the vent pipes — like it was breathing, waiting.

  He looked at the crowd again. Then back at the mic.

  “I’m not the best pilot here.”

  Saki blinked.

  The crowd shifted. A few gasps. Someone coughed.

  Ren smiled faintly.

  “I just fly with the best people.”

  The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

  It was… warm. Surprised. Curious.

  Then a wave of applause hit, and Saki’s eyes actually widened like she didn’t expect that answer to work.

  “You heard him, folks!” she shouted, dramatically wiping away an invisible tear. “Modest. Humble. Grimy and slightly underqualified. But undeniably Hinode’s own!”

  A reporter from the Nishikawa Sky Tribune scribbled something feverishly. Another drone pivoted toward Hana’s side of the hangar. A scout from Kyokuto Academy murmured into a recorder: “Dart synergy candidate… modest leader archetype… potential wildcard.”

  The crowd kept clapping.

  Ren rubbed the back of his head. “Should I bow or something?”

  “Wave again,” Saki hissed between smiles.

  He did.

  And for the first time since arriving at Hinode Academy, Ren didn’t feel like an imposter…

  He felt like a pilot.

  Scene 5: “Grandpa Grins”

  —-: Grandpa Goro

  The crowd roared. The steam hissed. The sky, for once, didn’t seem to be trying to kill anyone.

  Goro folded his arms behind his back, leaning lazily against the old boiler stack by the edge of the hangar. He had one boot up on a wrench box, a copper teacup in one hand, and the satisfied grin of a man who knew his trap had finally sprung.

  He didn’t say it aloud — because then the whole school would know — but that grin?

  That was the look of a proud saboteur.

  A gentle saboteur, of course. He only nudged the Dart’s core throttle line during the test runs. Just enough to make Ren recalibrate it. To think differently. To feel differently. And it worked.

  He raised the cup, took a noisy slurp of over-steeped chrysanthemum tea, and nodded at no one in particular.

  “Told ya he’d charm the clouds,” he muttered.

  “Sir?” a voice said nervously beside him.

  Goro glanced sideways. One of the junior maintenance girls — first year, oil smudge on her forehead, arms full of brass coils and very confused paperwork.

  “Yes?”

  “Um… one of the scouts is asking about the ship’s original chassis specs. Should I… should I give them the old measurements?”

  Goro tilted his head, took another sip, and gave her a look that would’ve made a badger backpedal.

  “You ever tell a stranger your secret soup recipe?”

  The girl blinked. “Uh… no, sir?”

  “Good instincts. Now hand me that paper.”

  She passed it over.

  Goro neatly flipped it around, drew a fake schematic of the Dart’s main thrust array with three extra pipes it never had, then added a note that said “Stabilizer acts grumpy under full moon” before stamping it with the official maintenance seal.

  He handed it back.

  “Give them this.”

  “…Yes, sir.”

  As the girl scampered off, Goro returned to his perch. The Dart gleamed in the sun, a thin trail of silver vapor still curling upward from the tail rudder.

  “You’re getting there, boy,” he said aloud, to the ship more than the pilot.

  Then, under his breath, a little softer:

  “Just like your dad did.”

  The crowd kept roaring. Students chanted names. Saki’s voice rang over the loudspeakers. Hana and Jiro were already arguing about fan blade angles off to the side. Rin was nowhere in sight, which meant she was probably hiding from compliments.

  Goro finished the last sip of tea, tossed the leaves into a spinning valve vent (they caught fire immediately), and clapped his hands together once.

  “Right,” he muttered to himself. “Time to add a second whistle.”

  Scene 6: “Workshop Watchers”

  —-: Unknown Pilot (Iron Blossom – Takao)

  The buzz of the crowd hadn’t quite faded, but the hangars were already quieter. Most students had filed into the mess hall for post-race food and gossip, but two shadows lingered just outside the light spilling from the Silver Dart’s workshop.

  Takao pressed his back to the warm metal of a cargo vent, peeking around the corner of the tool rack with careful precision. The smell of crystal-burned oil still lingered in the air, like charred peppermint and ozone. His partner, Kana, crouched beside him, notebook open, pencil tapping against her lips like a fuse about to blow.

  Inside the hangar, Ren knelt beside the Dart with a wrench gripped between his knees and a socket driver clenched in his teeth.

  “This is borderline heresy,” Kana whispered, squinting at the exposed dual-chain mod strung along the Dart’s starboard lift shaft.

  Takao snorted. “No. This is genius wrapped in recycled pipe fittings.”

  They watched silently as Hana emerged from the storage closet, carrying a new turbine vent with both hands. Jiro was in the background, hammering something that clearly didn’t need hammering.

  “Look at the curve alignment,” Kana said, scribbling notes like a thief transcribing a treasure map. “He’s offsetting the torque drift by overlapping the gear rhythms. That’s a three-point chain with variable tension. Who taught him that?”

  Takao didn’t answer. He just kept watching. His jaw tightened.

  Ren said something — they couldn’t hear what — and Hana froze. Whatever it was, it made her blink, then turn and gently lower the turbine onto the nearby workbench with sudden care. Her face was unreadable. Half pride, half embarrassment.

  “He didn’t build that ship alone,” Kana murmured. “It’s not just his brain flying that thing.”

  “No,” Takao said. “But it’s his name in the papers.”

  They went quiet again.

  Inside, Ren spun a crankshaft tester, adjusted a throttle pin, and muttered something that made Jiro laugh so loud a pigeon fluttered out from the rafters.

  “I still don’t get it,” Kana whispered.

  “What?”

  “How someone with that many missing screws keeps flying like that.”

  Takao finally leaned back from the corner, arms crossed. His expression was calm — too calm.

  “He’s not an idiot,” he said, voice low. “That’s the problem.”

  Kana looked at him, curious. “So what do we do?”

  Takao pulled out a folded page — his own sketch of a split stabilizer module inspired by the Dart’s tail geometry. He tucked it into his jacket.

  “We stop treating him like a fluke.”

  Then they both disappeared into the shadows.

  Scene 7: “Back at Dorms”

  —-: Saki

  Saki didn't walk—she burst through the doors of Sakura Hall like she’d just flown the race herself, fists clenched around a steaming printout and cheeks flushed with adrenaline, drama, and possibly too much strawberry soda.

  “We’re trending! We’re in the top three trending race searches in the Eastern Prefectures!”

  Her shout echoed through the dorm’s tiled foyer like a cannon blast.

  Four girls dropped their hairbrushes mid-brush. One screeched. Two others bolted down from the second floor, socks slipping on the polished brass banister. Hana, who had been curled on the couch with a cup of tea and a wrench in her lap, jolted upright and almost scalded herself.

  Mei, as always, didn’t look up from her datapad.

  Saki twirled in place dramatically, ponytail whipping around like a flag in a storm.

  “‘Hinode Academy's Co-Ed Comet Team Dominates Anniversary Skies!’” she read, voice rising with every syllable. “Sub-headline: ‘Mystery Duo's Sky Art Stuns Regional Scouts!’”

  She waved the printout like it was a royal decree, accidentally smacking Hana in the forehead.

  Hana blinked. “Ow.”

  “Oh hush,” Saki said. “You’re basically famous now.”

  Hana flinched. “No I’m not. Ren flew the Dart. Rin co-piloted. I—I just help keep it from falling apart.”

  “You built it,” Saki corrected, jabbing a finger at her chest. “He just pressed the go-button.”

  Hana’s face flushed bright pink. “That’s not—! I mean—! You weren’t even at the hangar when the stabilizer—!”

  “Ohhhh, she’s blushing~” another girl teased from the stairs.

  “I am not!” Hana shouted, sinking further into the couch like it might swallow her whole.

  Saki flopped beside her, resting her head dramatically on Hana’s shoulder. “So what are you gonna wear when the alumni come sniffing around for autographs? Ooh, or when Rin challenges you to a duel over Ren’s attention?”

  Hana nearly choked on air. “What?!”

  Mei spoke quietly without looking up. “Rin wouldn’t challenge. She’d just win.”

  That actually shut everyone up for a second.

  Saki blinked. “Wait, was that... was that a joke? Mei?”

  Mei slowly tapped her screen. “You won’t know.”

  The room erupted with laughter. Even Hana giggled behind her hands.

  For a brief moment, the tension of the day melted into warm light, girlish chaos, and the scent of laundry soap and leftover mochi from the festival snack bins.

  Somewhere outside, the wind whistled against the windows, and the distant hum of the hangars buzzed like a heartbeat in the night.

  The Silver Dart wasn’t flying anymore—but it had already left a trail in the sky, and everyone at Sakura Hall knew it.

  Scene 8: “Night Ends – Steam Letters”

  —-: Rin

  Rin sat alone on the rooftop.

  The last lanterns of the exhibition festival had been extinguished hours ago, and the sky had returned to what it did best—staring down in silence. Clouds like torn silk drifted across the moon’s glow, and the dormitory roof tiles still radiated faint warmth from the sun’s long-faded touch.

  She tucked her knees up to her chest, chin resting atop them, arms wrapped loosely around. From here, she could see the distant spires of the hangars, the curved outlines of the school’s domed observatory, and—barely—a sliver of the flight yard, where The Silver Dart was now housed under a glowing crystal tarp.

  They’d flown well today. Too well, maybe.

  The cheers still rang in her ears, and she hated that part of her had liked it. Craved it.

  She clenched a fist. You’re not supposed to want this again.

  Not like before.

  That part of her—the one that had been burned before—warned her not to feel anything. But it was too late. Something had already shifted. Her breath had caught the moment Ren leaned into the final curve, like he knew she was there—like they didn’t need words to know the rhythm.

  The air around her stirred.

  Pfffffft—hiss—CLUNK.

  She jumped.

  A strange whirring sound sputtered from the edge of the rooftop. Something mechanical clattered onto the tiles behind her, wobbling in from a nearby pipe vent. It looked like a tiny drone—half-dented, roughly soldered—its fins still twitching. One of the wings was missing a rivet.

  Rin turned toward it warily, brow furrowed. “What now?”

  The drone beeped once, rotated mid-air, and released a thin stream of heated vapor into the sky. It swirled, glowed faintly—then twisted itself into steam-letters.

  Thanks for flying with me.

  The letters floated upward, wobbling and flickering, before dispersing completely in the breeze.

  Rin stared. Then rolled her eyes.

  “Idiot,” she muttered under her breath.

  She picked up a nearby wrench—probably Grandpa’s, left from some half-finished roof repair—stood, aimed, and hurled it at the drone. The wrench clanged against the metal shell with a satisfying thunk. The drone beeped frantically and tumbled off the ledge, wings flapping desperately as it vanished into the darkness.

  Rin smirked. But only slightly.

  She sat back down, pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders, and stared out at the sky again.

  It was clearer tonight. A better kind of quiet.

  And somewhere in that silence, the sound of steam still lingered.