Chapter 19: “When the Wind Changes”

  Scene 1: Monday Homeroom Bombshell

  —-: Ren

  The wind had changed. Ren could feel it before anyone said a word.

  Not in the air outside — the breeze that pushed through the cracked windows of Homeroom 2-A still smelled like rusted copper gutters and spring dust — but in the air between people.

  Seats scraped. The morning bell rang half a chime too long, like it was unsure if it should bother. Rin sat two desks away from him, pretending to look out the window, her fingers tapping a silent rhythm on her textbook. Hana hadn’t looked up since walking in. And Jiro was hiding behind a suspiciously thick notebook labeled “History of Steam Riveting, Vol. 3” — which Ren was 90% sure didn’t exist.

  He leaned back in his chair just as Ms. Shiraishi walked in, a sheaf of black-bound folders under one arm, her expression unreadable in that I-drink-coffee-black-and-stare-down-airships-for-fun kind of way.

  She reached the front of the room, set down the folders with a thunk, and said three words that turned Ren’s stomach to metal.

  “Qualifier. Two weeks.”

  Silence.

  Even Taiga stopped mid-gum-pop, a feat no one thought physically possible.

  Shiraishi pulled down the map scroll beside the chalkboard, tugging it with a practiced snap that rolled out a regional racing chart marked with bright crystal-inlaid pins. She tapped the red one at the northern tip of the map.

  “Kyokuto Academy. Our first official interschool opponent.”

  Ren’s heart gave a little skip that was not cute or romantic, but more like the time he ate week-old curry dumplings.

  Rin shifted in her seat, her usual aloofness gone glassy. Hana gripped her pen so tightly it cracked. Saki’s mouth opened in silent horror as she scribbled furiously on a new headline draft.

  Ren blinked. Wait, Kyokuto… that name sounded familiar.

  Shiraishi seemed to read the room’s collective dread. “For those unfamiliar, Kyokuto has held a perfect record in the eastern bracket for the last three years. Zero disqualifications. Zero crashes. Three regional trophies. And a reputation for being… let’s say, ‘disciplined.’”

  “Their current lead pilot is Kaoru Minami. You’ll remember him from last year’s final. If you don’t—”

  She flipped on the overhead projector.

  A grainy but high-frame clip played. A dark-painted ship with split-tail rudders tore through a triple ring gate, skimmed an airborne sand drift, and flipped into a side-skid landing, steam bursting like wings behind it.

  “He flies with a kill-switch in one hand and the throttle in the other,” Shiraishi added dryly. “And yes, that’s literal. Kyokuto runs dual control failsafes on all their ships. Nothing fancy. Just… flawless execution.”

  The projector clicked off.

  Ren tried to keep his face neutral, but he could feel the sweat collecting behind his ears.

  Rin said nothing. Hana didn’t blink.

  Then Shiraishi laid down the real punch.

  “This time, Hinode will field only two teams in the bracket. Crimson Gale has withdrawn.”

  Wait. What?

  A whisper ripple tore through the classroom. Rin’s spine straightened slowly.

  Shiraishi turned a folder around. Inside, a short, clipped letter sat stamped in official red.

  “Crimson Gale’s captain cited injury and performance pressure. They’ve bowed out.”

  A beat.

  “Effective immediately, Silver Dart and Iron Blossom are Hinode’s official entries.”

  And just like that, it wasn’t a story anymore. It was Ren’s reality.

  No backup. No buffer. Just them.

  Two weeks.

  He glanced sideways, saw Rin finally looking at him. For once, her expression wasn’t guarded or annoyed.

  It was afraid.

  Which, somehow, was worse.

  Scene 2: Crimson Gale’s Captain Quits

  —-: Rin

  The hangar was too quiet.

  Not the good kind of quiet — not the satisfying end-of-the-day hum, where tools clicked into drawers and tired laughter echoed off the steam-warmed walls.

  This was an empty kind of quiet. The kind that settled under your collar and whispered: Something’s wrong.

  Rin stood alone outside Crimson Gale’s section of the main hangar, staring at the heavy, double-bolted doors. The team banner — crimson silk with white aether-feathers stitched along the edges — hung limp in the still air. It looked more like a memorial than a declaration of victory now.

  She hadn’t seen her former captain in three days.

  And this morning… she’d heard the same news as everyone else, but with a gut-punch that hit harder than she let show.

  “Withdrawn due to performance pressure.”

  That wasn’t the truth.

  The truth was written in the creased corner of the note left on Rin’s desk, unsigned.

  I’m not built for this kind of failure. But you are.

  Take the sky back. For both of us.

  Rin crushed the paper tighter in her hand until it crinkled like dry leaves. She turned away from the door.

  Her boots clacked against the tile in a rhythm that was too slow for how fast her thoughts spun. Crimson Gale was the legacy team. Built by generations of top-tier pilots. Perfect grades. Perfect form. Perfect finish lines.

  Until she cracked it.

  Until he cracked it.

  The thought twisted something hot and sour in her stomach. Not Ren. Not exactly. It wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t asked to become a symbol — hadn’t asked to be the school’s chaos-fueled mascot of potential. He just kept showing up. With sweat. With engine grease under his nails. With questions she couldn’t answer and a grin that didn’t know when to quit.

  The worst part?

  She’d flown better with him than she had with anyone else.

  And now… now her old captain was gone.

  Rin looked out the side window of the hangar and saw the silhouette of the Silver Dart — scaffolded, patched, a mismatched mess of hullwork and stubbornness.

  But it flew. And it had made the school believe again.

  The wind that blew across the yard smelled faintly of melted copper and old jasmine. She tucked the note into her pocket and turned away from Crimson Gale for the last time.

  She didn’t flinch when she passed the banner.

  She didn’t look back.

  But her hand clenched tighter around the wrench she hadn’t even realized she was carrying.

  Scene 3: New Team Orders

  —-: Ren

  Ren couldn’t sit still.

  Which was a problem, since the entire team had been called into the upstairs strategy room — which was really just an oversized classroom with peeling chalkboards and the faint, suspicious scent of leftover pipe smoke — for what Ms. Shiraishi called “a mandatory alignment meeting.”

  Alignment? That was a word pilots used when their rudders were off by a millimeter and it made the whole ship fly sideways.

  He got the feeling this was going to be like that.

  The rest of the Dart crew was scattered around the room. Hana sat stiffly at the far end of the table, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap he thought he heard her gloves creak. Jiro was half-asleep, or pretending to be, using a gear schematic as a pillow. Mei stood by the window, as still as a statue, watching the air currents outside like they were whispering secrets.

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  And Rin… wasn’t in her seat.

  She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Not annoyed. Not smug. Just… waiting.

  Ms. Shiraishi stood at the head of the table. She wore her usual steampunk-chic uniform — long jacket, cogwheel pins, monocle hanging from a chain — and her tone was as dry as the cracked chalk she tapped against the board.

  “Effective immediately,” she said, “Hinode Academy will formally enter the regional interschool bracket with two teams.”

  A pause. She let the silence land like a hammer.

  “Iron Blossom, led by Saito Kazue. And the Silver Dart — captained by Rin Okabe.”

  Ren blinked.

  Jiro sat bolt upright.

  Hana’s jaw dropped.

  Even Mei turned her head.

  “Wait,” Ren said, slowly raising a hand. “You mean—like, officially? As in… real races? Against other schools?”

  “No,” Ms. Shiraishi deadpanned. “Unofficial races, flown from imagination. Yes, real races. Regional qualifiers. With scouts, sponsorship potential, and academic merit points tied to placement.”

  “But Rin’s not even—” he started, then shut his mouth as Rin pushed off the wall and walked forward.

  “I’ll take the position,” she said, with no hesitation. “If they’ll fly with me.”

  Her eyes locked on Hana. That pause felt like a wire stretched taut between them.

  Hana nodded once. Not gracious. Not smiling. Just… agreeing.

  Ren tried to process the sudden whirlwind of authority being dropped like a boilerplate.

  “So… what does that make me?” he asked weakly.

  “Co-pilot,” said Rin.

  “Lead engineer,” said Hana.

  “Target practice,” said Mei, not looking up from the window.

  “Cute mascot,” offered Jiro, grinning.

  Ren sighed. “Fantastic.”

  Ms. Shiraishi cleared her throat.

  “There will be a school-wide announcement in two days. Prepare for new time slots, class exemptions, and public scrutiny. This is no longer workshop playtime. This is league level.”

  She clicked her boots together and left without another word.

  For a moment, no one said anything.

  Then Rin turned toward him, one brow raised. “Still want to be in the cockpit?”

  He hesitated just long enough for Jiro to whisper: “Say yes, you absolute boltbrain.”

  Ren nodded. “Yeah. Still want it.”

  The team didn’t cheer. They didn’t high-five. They just nodded. Like people who had work to do and knew the sky wasn’t going to wait.

  Scene 4: Rin Confronts Hana

  —-: Hana

  The hangar was almost too quiet.

  The kind of quiet where every breath echoed, where metal cooled in slow ticking rhythms, where steam hissed from half-tight valves like ghosts exhaling stories no one wanted to hear.

  Hana sat on the edge of the Dart’s access ramp, knees pulled to her chest, goggles loose around her neck, sleeves rolled up and grease smudged beneath her left eye like a smirk she didn’t feel. Her wrench lay untouched beside her, glinting with forgotten purpose.

  The repairs were done. The upgrades logged. The Dart was race-ready.

  She wasn’t sure she was.

  “Nice work.”

  Hana tensed.

  Rin’s voice wasn’t sharp like usual. It was too even. Too casual.

  Too dangerous.

  The pilot stepped into view, arms folded, her uniform jacket draped over one shoulder. Her hair was still damp from a recent wash, strands clinging to her neck. She looked like she’d just come from the sky and brought the pressure with her.

  Hana didn’t look up. “Thanks.”

  Silence.

  Then the footsteps came closer.

  “I saw the data from the last run,” Rin said. “That new stabilizer coupling? It kept us ten percent tighter through the vertical spin.”

  Hana finally met her gaze. “I designed it for Ren. Not you.”

  Rin nodded. “I know.”

  More silence. But now it buzzed. Tight and charged, like a capacitor waiting to arc.

  “You still want to be in the cockpit?” Rin asked.

  No warning. Just that.

  Hana blinked. Her hands clenched.

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “The kind I didn’t ask earlier because I thought I didn’t have to.” Rin’s voice was calm, but there was heat under it. “You’re brilliant. But you don’t look at him like a mechanic looks at a machine.”

  Hana stood. Slowly. “And how do you look at him?”

  “Like someone I trust,” Rin said. “And sometimes like someone I want to push out the hatch mid-flight.”

  Hana barked a laugh. It surprised them both.

  Rin smiled, faintly.

  Then Hana shook her head. “I don’t want to take your place. I want to find my own.”

  Rin nodded. “Good. Because I’m not giving mine up.”

  They stared at each other. Neither blinked.

  It wasn’t war. It wasn’t peace.

  It was air between two wings — just enough to fly.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Hana said.

  “Good,” Rin said again. “He needs people who aren’t.”

  They passed each other in the hangar light. No apologies. No promises.

  Just mutual recognition.

  The kind that makes or breaks a sky.

  Scene 5: Jiro & Taiga’s Comedy Bit

  —-: Jiro

  It was supposed to be a scouting mission.

  A clean, precise, high-altitude observation run — stealthy, strategic, and perfectly respectable.

  Instead, it was a disaster with wings.

  Jiro adjusted the tiny brass-framed goggles over his forehead, standing with one foot on a stack of fuel crates and the other on a suspiciously wobbly stepladder. The makeshift launch platform was barely holding together, steam leaking from four joints and the “ON” switch taped down with two layers of copper wire and desperate hope.

  “I’m telling you, Taiga,” he muttered, “if we pull this off, we’ll have live visuals of Kyokuto’s hangar loadouts before lunch.”

  Taiga, crouched beside the launch mechanism with a grin too wide to be legal, tapped a gauge and nodded. “And if we mess up, we’ll have a perfect view of the clouds while plummeting from three stories.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Jiro grumbled.

  Their drone — more flying teapot than aerodynamic marvel — was an over-engineered marvel named ShushBird. It was powered by a triple-geared feather-prop system and programmed to hover, record, and stream back footage through the school’s main communication frequency.

  At least, it was supposed to be.

  Jiro flicked a switch. Steam hissed. The drone wobbled.

  “Ready in three… two… go!”

  With a sudden pop, the drone jolted off its stand, hovered for two glorious seconds, then banked left — straight toward the dormitory chimney — before spinning like a top and vanishing into the air.

  Taiga cupped a hand to his ear. “Do you hear static? That’s a good sign, right?”

  Then a loud crackle erupted from the school’s speaker system.

  The entire campus paused.

  A burst of feedback — then unmistakable audio filled the air:

  “You can’t just dump conditioner on engine coolant, Rin!”

  “It was labeled MINT FUSION, you glorified toolbox!”

  “Stop yelling in the bathhouse—wait, is that steam pressure rising?! REN, CLOSE THE VENT—”

  Then screaming. Splashing. A loud FOOMP.

  Silence.

  Jiro stared in horror. “That wasn’t our drone… was it?”

  Taiga was already backing away. “I was never here.”

  A second later, a metallic clank echoed above them — followed by the unmistakable whir of the Headmistress’s office intercom blinking red.

  The voice came calmly, terrifyingly clear:

  “Would Jiro Watanabe and Taiga Nakamura please report to Maintenance Office B-4 with a mop… and an explanation?”

  Taiga grabbed Jiro’s collar. “Plan B?”

  “Run like the wind,” Jiro groaned.

  They bolted, chased by their own steam trail and the laughter of half the student body.

  Scene 6: Grandpa’s New Rule: No More Solo Flights

  —-: Ren

  There was a smell in the hangar Ren had come to recognize.

  Not the acrid bite of crystal discharge or the scorched-sugar scent of burnt coolant — but the peculiar tang of Grandpa’s soap. It smelled like old pine, machine oil, and secrets.

  Ren barely had time to slide the access panel closed on the Dart’s starboard stabilizer when that scent drifted around the corner. He didn’t even look up.

  “I didn’t crash anything,” he said automatically.

  Grandpa Genzō didn’t answer at first. Just the soft scuff of his boots against the metal decking and the steady squeak of his rolling stool.

  Then, in a voice far too casual, Grandpa said, “So, who’s flying tomorrow’s test run?”

  Ren blinked. “Me?”

  “You?” Grandpa echoed with mock surprise. “Wow! Solo again, huh? That’s funny. What a coincidence. What a completely foolish, irresponsible, sky-biting decision.”

  Ren looked up, wiping his hands. “Grandpa, I’ve been flying solo since week one.”

  “And it was cute when your biggest threat was wind knots and cocky girls,” Grandpa said, dragging a crate over and plopping down like a mechanic king on a cardboard throne. “But now? The pressure hull’s been upgraded. Crystal channels are tuned tight. You’re testing borderline instability with a ship whose belly’s still held together with prayer and your last lunchbox screw.”

  Ren scratched the back of his neck. “It didn’t feel unstable.”

  “Ah yes, let’s trust the feelings of a fifteen-year-old boy in the sky at 80 klicks an hour,” Grandpa snorted. “Tell you what — next time, when the left rudder fails mid-spin, you can tell the ground you felt fine about it.”

  Ren opened his mouth. Closed it again.

  Grandpa pointed a greasy wrench like a prophet. “From now on, no more solo test flights. I want two in that cockpit every time the Dart leaves the floor.”

  Ren blinked. “Why?”

  “Because one of you flies. And the other one panics correctly.”

  Ren stared. “...That’s not a real safety protocol.”

  “It is now. I just made it up.”

  A silence hung between them, punctuated only by a steam hiss in the wall vents and the soft clink of metal cooling.

  Then Grandpa stood, brushed off his coat, and gave Ren a look that wasn’t teasing.

  “You’re building something that matters, kiddo. And that kind of thing doesn’t get done alone. Not in the sky. Not down here.”

  He turned toward the exit ramp. “Besides… I heard Rin and Hana both volunteered for test duty.”

  Ren blinked. “They what?”

  “Fight for it. Or flip a coin. Or fly three-wide and pray.” Grandpa shrugged. “Whatever keeps you from exploding.”

  As his footsteps echoed away, Ren leaned against the Dart’s hull, the ghost of a grin playing on his face.

  “Two in the cockpit, huh?”

  The steam valve to his left tssssshed open in response.

  Scene 7: Mei’s Secret Memory

  —-: Mei

  The hangar was never silent. Even after curfew, when the forges were banked and the classrooms dark, there was always a low, metallic breath to the place — crystal tubes ticking as they cooled, suspended chain pulleys swaying ever so slightly with unseen air currents, the creak of age and pressure in the ribs of the dome.

  Mei stood barefoot on the cool metal of the maintenance platform, her slippers tucked neatly behind her. Her gaze wasn’t on the Silver Dart — though its silhouette, caught in half-shadow, looked more alive than asleep. No, her eyes were on something far smaller, more fragile.

  A folded piece of canvas. Thumb-worn. Edges frayed.

  She opened it slowly, fingers trembling only slightly.

  Inside: a photograph. The colors had faded from exposure and time — steamburn yellow where there had once been blue, grays eating away the corners. But the two figures were still clear.

  A younger Mei. Flight suit zipped to her throat. Goggles pushed up into unruly bangs. A smile — rare, lopsided, genuinely happy.

  And beside her, a boy.

  About her age. Slightly taller. Dark hair. Arms crossed like he was trying to look serious but couldn’t quite hide the pride behind his eyes.

  His face was scratched out. Not from age. From purpose.

  She stared at the space where his face had been. Like the shape of a name she wouldn’t say.

  In the background of the photo was an old ship — not unlike the Dart in design, but rougher. Less elegant. She could still smell the flux glue, remember the hiss of pressure lines not quite sealing during their first ignition. Remember the shout that came after when they almost blew a side panel off.

  Mei’s hands trembled again.

  She hadn’t shown this to anyone. Not even Hana. Not even Rin, years ago, when the rumors first started. Because once you said something aloud, it became real again.

  The photo whispered memories she didn’t want to hear. Of training days. Of half-raced circuits. Of a sky that once felt like home.

  A tiny clink made her look down — a bolt had slipped from her other hand, landing near the edge of the railing.

  Mei exhaled. Not a sigh. Not quite. Just the slow release of something she wasn’t ready to name.

  She refolded the canvas, tucked the photo back into the inside pocket of her flight pouch, and turned toward the Silver Dart.

  It wasn’t the same kind of ship.

  But it was starting to feel like the right kind of sky.