054 Airship - Part 1 - Mirai's POV

  If someone told me detention would come with an airship and high-profile stakes, I might’ve actually tried to get in trouble sooner.

  Except I wasn’t ready. Not emotionally, mentally, or fashionably.

  I stood in front of my magically transported luggage, arms crossed and already annoyed.

  "I should’ve packed for war," I muttered. "Or at least packed something other than five sets of indoor sweats and one tragic tracksuit that's still wet in the laundry."

  Scratch that… all my clothes were practical. Easy to move in. Designed for surprise attacks, sudden sprints, or crying in the library. But none of them screamed “yes, I’m ready to confront life-threatening danger on a mission tonight, thanks for asking.”

  I rummaged through the suitcase like a raccoon with standards. Eventually, I found a loose crop hoodie and cargo shorts combo that passed the ultimate test: breathable, moveable, and—dare I say—cute.

  It wasn’t fashion-forward, but at least I wouldn’t pass out from heat stroke or rip a seam mid-roll.

  I sighed, pulled on the hoodie, tightened the straps on my boots, and stepped out of the surprisingly luxurious dorm room assigned to us on the airship. The hallway smelled like new velvet and antique books. Too fancy. Made me nervous.

  Elena stood just outside her door, already dressed in her crisp Academy uniform like she was about to go grade someone’s soul. Her shadow twitched at her feet like it had opinions.

  She turned and looked me up and down like I had personally offended the ghost of her fashion sense.

  “…What are you wearing?” she asked flatly.

  “Clothes,” I answered. “Comfortable ones. It’s night, you know. I plan to sleep again after this mission-briefing-slash-anxiety-festival is over.”

  Elena arched an eyebrow. “You’re wearing that on a mission?”

  “We’re not fighting dragons, we’re doing a bodyguard mission!” I protested, throwing my arms up. “Besides, my tracksuit’s in the laundry! I didn’t exactly have time to prep my luggage when they were dragging us onboard like criminals.”

  Her lip curled just slightly. “You do realize there’s a difference between practicality and looking like a mall gremlin, yes?”

  Okay, rude.

  “I swear,” I said, “if we weren’t on a mission right now, I’d clock you in the face with one of your own fashion magazines.”

  Elena didn’t even flinch. “Try it, and I’ll staple your hoodie strings together while you sleep.”

  “Psychopath.”

  “Peasant.”

  We glared at each other. Her shadow flared. My hand twitched toward a hair tie in my pocket like I might need to throw my hair up real quick for a girl fight.

  But the door at the far end of the hallway opened, spilling warm light and male voices into the corridor.

  “Okay,” I sighed, rolling my eyes and adjusting my sleeves. “We’re being professional. I’m being professional.”

  Elena gave me a slow, condescending clap. “Mirai, darling, you are many things. Professional is not one of them.”

  I flipped her off over my shoulder as I walked ahead. She followed without comment.

  If someone had told me this airship came with a top deck view straight out of a painting and the worst case of vertigo I’ve ever had, I might’ve packed nausea pills too.

  I stepped onto the deck and immediately regretted every decision that led me here. Wind slapped me in the face like a rude aunt, and the sky stretched endlessly above us, stars scattered like confetti thrown by a cosmic toddler.

  And beneath us? Clouds. Actual clouds. Not metaphorical ones like depression or social anxiety, but fluffy, floating ones that looked deceptively soft and also like they were a thousand miles away from the ground.

  “Yay,” I muttered. “We’re one strong breeze away from falling to our doom. What a fun Friday.”

  Elena stepped up beside me, hands behind her back in that obnoxiously elegant posture like she’d been born on a runway. Her long blonde hair didn’t even frizz in the wind. Rude.

  “This is beautiful,” she said, as if we weren’t dangling over the sky on a piece of magic and hubris.

  I squinted at her. “You think falling to your death is aesthetic?”

  “I think perspective is important,” she replied, voice annoyingly serene. “Also, there are guardrails.”

  I looked at said guardrails. They were fancy. They were gold-trimmed. They were thin. And I did not trust them.

  Before I could argue the physics of air safety, a low whistle caught our attention. Mark leaned against one of the mast supports like he was trying to model for a fantasy magazine. His uniform jacket was undone, his hair tousled just enough to look deliberate, and he wore that trademark smug smirk that made people want to kiss him or punch him. Sometimes both.

  “You two done flirting?” he called out.

  Elena didn’t dignify that with a response, but her glare promised war. I just rolled my eyes.

  “Yes, Mark,” I said. “We paused our deadly girl fight to admire the stars and bond. Very romantic.”

  He pushed off the mast and strolled toward us. “Good. Was starting to worry you’d kill each other before the mission started. That’d be a shame. I already made popcorn.”

  “You’re impossible,” Elena muttered.

  “And yet you’re both still here.” He gestured grandly around us. “Welcome to the top deck of the Rising Dawn. Please keep all limbs inside the ship and try not to throw up over the edge… our pilots take it personally.”

  I snorted despite myself. “Wow. Safety and sarcasm. You’re really bringing your A-game tonight.”

  He winked. “Only for the cute ones.”

  “Ugh,” Elena said, already walking toward the lit-up circle near the helm where the rest of the team was gathering.

  I watched Elena stalk off with her usual swan-like grace and sighed. Then I glanced back at Mark, who was still lounging like this was a fashion shoot and not, you know, a soon-to-be bodyguard mission floating a mile above sea level.

  “I have to ask,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “Did you just try flirting with Elena?”

  He blinked. “What? No. No, I’m flirting with you, cutie.”

  I stared. “...Excuse me?”

  He gave me that crooked grin again, the one that usually came with a side of unhelpful commentary and smug banter. “Didn’t know you had a twin,” he added with a teasing shrug. “You look just like her when you’re mad.”

  “What the—?”

  Okay, no. Absolutely not. Mark didn’t flirt. He brooded. He glared dramatically from corners and passed judgment with his eyebrows. He didn’t say cutie like he meant it. He didn’t flirt like it was fun. Mark was the kind of guy who made people question their life choices with a single stare, not leave them blushing mid-mission.

  I stepped closer, squinting at him. “Are you... okay?”

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  He gave me a lazy blink, like he didn’t have a care in the world. But as I leaned in, I caught the scent.

  “…You’ve been drinking,” I accused.

  “What? Nooo,” he said, drawing the word out like it had extra syllables. “Just a little… courage.”

  “You smell like a bar crawl at a tavern,” I muttered, pulling back in disbelief. “What kind of mission prep is this?”

  Mark just grinned and shot finger guns at no one in particular. “Confidence is key, Mirai.”

  I turned, exasperated, and looked toward the helm. Greg and Karl were hunched over something near the ship’s wheel, both holding what looked suspiciously like glasses of amber liquid. The glint of bottles didn’t lie.

  Karl took a casual sip and leaned closer to Greg, murmuring, “Do you think we could commandeer this ship?”

  Greg gave him a thoughtful nod, like he was actually considering it. “Maybe. If we bribe the crew and knock out the captain…”

  Before I could shout at them to maybe not mutiny the ship that was supposed to bring us to our mission location, a sharp voice cut through the air like a dagger.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  We all looked up.

  With a thud, someone dropped straight from the crow’s nest.

  I stumbled back, instincts screaming. The figure crouched where they landed, a swirl of cloak and gray hair catching the lamplight. Slowly, they stood, brushing imaginary dust from their shoulders.

  The man looked ancient. Not in a weak way, more like in a seasoned veteran who could snap your spine with one finger kind of way. His eyes gleamed with sharp intelligence, and the air around him seemed to hum with latent psychic power.

  “…Who the hell?” I whispered.

  Greg almost dropped his drink. Karl did.

  The old man cracked his neck, then pointed a gnarled but steady finger at the helm. “If any of you try to hijack this ship, I will personally turn your kneecaps into decorative spoons. Are we clear?”

  “…Crystal,” Karl croaked.

  Mark, slightly swaying beside me, whispered, “I love him.”

  “Of course you do,” I muttered.

  The old man strode toward the helm like he owned the place. Honestly, maybe he did. No one dared argue. Not even Elena, who stood ramrod straight now, brows furrowed as she watched him with the kind of respectful suspicion usually reserved for feral dragons and Academy deans.

  Mark leaned toward me again, voice lower now, “Seriously though. Who’s the real Mirai? That fire? That snark? That hoodie? I’m swooning.”

  I shoved him—gently. Ish. “You’re drunk.”

  “I’m charmed,” he corrected. “Big difference.”

  I sighed and crossed my arms, staring at the man now barking orders at Greg and Karl. "This night's getting weirder by the second."

  "And it's only just begun," Mark said brightly. “Mwa~!”

  Unfortunately… he was probably right.

  Elena grimaced like the deck personally offended her. Her eye twitched as she took in Mark’s swaying form, Greg and Karl’s drunken pirate cosplay, and the enigmatic silver-haired captain now yelling about nautical discipline.

  “I’m going back to my room,” she announced, already turning on her heel. “Wake me when you’ve all remembered we’re not on a cruise.”

  Her shadow trailed after her like it was muttering curses under its breath. I half-considered following, but then the old man’s sharp gaze snapped to me like a hawk spotting a rabbit.

  “You,” he barked, pointing straight at me.

  I froze. “Me?”

  “Yes, you. The one with the sass mouth and the suspicious hoodie. You’re in charge of keeping an eye on the drunken fool,” he gestured at Mark, “and the moss head.”

  “Moss head?” I echoed.

  I turned to Greg. He was suddenly very interested in the sky, tugging at the neck of his too-tight turtleneck like it might grant him invisibility.

  I squinted. “Wait. Don’t tell me you’re the reason Mark is drunk right now.”

  “I… it’s Karl’s idea,” Greg mumbled, not meeting my eyes. “Definitely not my fault.”

  “You said it was apple juice, so I drank… Mark drank…” Karl said with deadpan eyes.

  Mark hiccupped dramatically behind me. “Daddy,” he slurred with reverence, lunging forward and throwing both arms around the old man in a hug that should’ve been impossible, given the man’s aura of do not touch me or die.

  Greg choked. Karl blinked. I wheezed.

  “You are not my child!” the captain thundered, flailing one arm as if it might detach Mark with sheer willpower. “Get him off me before I throw him off the deck!”

  Greg tried to keep a straight face. He failed. His lips twitched. A strangled laugh slipped out.

  Karl looked between Mark and the captain, sighed with the weight of the universe, and stepped forward like a man walking toward his doom.

  “I’ll get him,” Karl muttered, and reached for Mark’s shoulders.

  It didn’t help.

  Mark latched on tighter, somehow becoming less graspable. Like trying to separate a soaked blanket from a dryer mid-spin cycle. “Nooooo,” Mark wailed dramatically. “You’re so cool, don’t reject me—”

  “He’s slippery,” Karl grunted, now locked in a desperate tug-of-war with Mark’s left arm. “What is on him?!”

  “I think he bathed in hair oil and bad decisions,” I said, snorting.

  Greg finally lost it and doubled over, wheezing. “This is a disaster.”

  “This is your fault, moss head,” I shot back, crossing my arms.

  “Why me?!”

  “You’re the smart one! You’re supposed to have common sense!”

  Karl gave one last heroic tug, succeeded in peeling Mark off an inch, and then got elbowed in the stomach for his trouble. Mark immediately reattached like an octopus.

  “Get off me, you sopping toddler!” the captain roared, one eye twitching violently. “This is a mission, not a daycare for emotionally unstable teenagers!”

  Mark only clung tighter. “I feel safe in your aura of power…”

  “I will throw you into the sea!”

  “Daaaaad—!”

  “STOP CALLING ME THAT!”

  I sank to my knees, laughing too hard to stand. Greg had slid down to the floor beside me, wiping tears from his eyes.

  Karl looked seconds from giving up and letting Mark live there, permanently affixed to the captain like some kind of psychic barnacle.

  Eventually, the old man bellowed, “Help me off him… What is your problem, kid?”

  I hesitated for a solid three seconds, watching Karl flail like a sad lifeguard trying to rescue a drowning cat, before I sighed and shoved myself to my feet.

  Unlike Greg, I had a conscience. Unfortunately.

  “Okay, fine, move,” I said, brushing Karl aside with the weary resolve of someone about to stick their hand into a blender.

  Mark had somehow wedged his arm around the captain’s back, his legs around one thigh, and his head against the man’s shoulder like an oversized, overly affectionate koala on a spiritual journey. It was worse up close. He smelled like mint mouthwash and regret.

  “Mark,” I hissed, prying at his elbow. “Get off. Now. This isn’t a game of ‘adopt your own emotionally unavailable father figure.’”

  “Noooo,” he whined, squirming up higher like a determined baby sloth. “His power aura’s so warm. It’s like snuggling a nuclear warhead…”

  “You’re going to be a nuclear casualty in two seconds,” I muttered. “How many did you even drink?”

  “Just one,” piped Greg from the back. “Mark’s an idiot who can’t hold his drink!”

  I tugged harder. So did Karl.

  And then… it happened.

  With one final, dramatic wriggle, Mark scrambled upward, legs locking around the captain’s arm, his hand scrambling for grip.

  His hand landed on the captain’s face.

  And then pulled.

  There was a weird, horrible squelch-pop sound, like someone opening Tupperware full of lies, and something peeled.

  Mark fell backward, landing flat on his butt with a stunned “oof.” In his hands… was a face.

  A mask.

  A hyper-realistic, slightly sweaty, full-head, hair-attached face mask.

  “…Oh shit,” Greg said quietly, wide-eyed.

  Karl blinked. “Professor Merrick?”

  My brain flatlined for a second, trying to reboot.

  I stared at the face in Mark’s hands. The detached hair still ruffled in the breeze. The interior was lined with subtle enchantment threads, real craftsmanship. Definitely not store-bought.

  And beneath it, staring at us with the deadpan expression of a man who has a self-professed love for numbers… was Professor Merrick.

  Emotionless. Sleep-deprived. Dark bags like shadow bruises under both eyes. His actual face somehow looked less expressive than the mask.

  He blinked slowly, expression utterly flat, and said in a deadpan voice, “Ah. I got found out in the end.”

  I gawked. “You were the captain?”

  Mark, still seated on the floor, apparently decided logic had exited the building and climbed up again… this time perching on Merrick’s shoulder. Like a very drunk parrot.

  He rested his cheek on the man’s messy and curly hair, his jaw sagging over the crown like his soul had left his body. “...Why are you my daddy…?”

  “I’m not your daddy,” Merrick replied tonelessly. “And you are violating my personal space.”

  Mark groaned. “It’s betrayal. You let me bond with a lie.”

  “I let you cling to a professional disguise while drunk,” Merrick corrected coldly. “There was no bonding. Only suffering.”

  Greg sat there slack-jawed, the mask now dangling from Mark’s other hand like a ghost at a costume party. “Wait. So… did the Guidance Counselor send you?”

  “Obviously not,” Merrick said, not moving to shrug Mark off, probably because he was weighing the benefits of psychic disintegration versus paperwork. “But this ship is part of Academy operations. Someone had to supervise your hopeless team.”

  Karl scratched the back of his neck. “But… why the mask? Why not just, you know, be yourself?”

  Merrick sighed the sigh of a man who had spent too long among fools. “Because if I showed up as myself, you’d assume this was an evaluation. A test. And behave accordingly. The mask let me watch you in your natural environment. Like tagging wild animals.”

  I frowned. “So you went full airship zookeeper on us. Great.”

  Greg finally stood, brushing off his coat. “Wait. So the dramatic entrance from the crow’s nest? The kneecap threats? The ship-swooping speeches?”

  “All theatrics,” Merrick confirmed. “To filter your responses under stress.”

  “You called me a sassmouth,” I said, hands on my hips.

  “You are a sassmouth,” he said flatly.

  Mark made a dramatic noise of betrayal again and slumped further onto the man’s shoulder, arms dangling limply. “My feelings are in shambles… And your head is pointy…”

  Merrick’s eye twitched.

  “I’m going to count to five,” he said, “and if this child is not off my shoulder by then, I will personally telekinetically launch him into a passing cloud.”

  Mark just sighed, utterly boneless. “Make sure it’s a fluffy one…”

  Karl and I exchanged a look.

  “Three,” Merrick said.

  Greg cleared his throat, grabbing Mark’s hoodie.

  “Two.”

  Karl got the legs.

  “One—”

  Together, we yanked. Mark slid off with a defeated groan, face first into the deck, where he remained like a tragic mop.

  Merrick straightened his coat and adjusted the collar like none of this had happened.

  “I expect the rest of you to be assembled at the helm in ten minutes. Briefing begins then. If anyone is still drunk by that point, I will be forced to purify you with psychic backlash and shame.”

  And with that, he turned on his heel and stalked away, mask forgotten in Mark’s slack grip.

  I watched him go, then glanced down at Mark.

  “Still think he’s ‘daddy’?” I asked dryly.

  Mark groaned into the floorboards. “You can’t choose your parents, Mirai…”

  Greg knelt beside him. “You might want to choose a new coping mechanism. One that doesn’t involve unmasking our mission commander.”

  Karl nudged the discarded mask with the toe of his boot. “At least we know who’s in charge now…”

  “Yeah,” I muttered, crossing my arms. “And I still don’t trust the guardrails.”