As per Hachiyo’s instructions, I wait patiently outside my room on the Stratoskimmer’s deck. I’m dressed in the robes Hachiyo gave me, which, on closer inspection, might be from Japanese culture. I’ve placed my arms to my chest as I lean against the exterior wall, feeling the breeze flow through the arm holes.

Sure enough, a smaller hovership about the size of a king-size bed lands in front of me, ruffling my hair as the ship’s exhaust blows across my cheeks. The ship’s pilot is a man in his early 30s wearing the Modders’ reflective vest. As I head over, he tugs at the few loose hairs on his chin and adjusts his cap. His unkempt hair is tied up in a ponytail where it’s being threaded through the hole at his cap’s rear.

“Morning,” He says, chewing on his cigar as I step on.

“Morning.”

The pilot takes off, and I take a seat on one of the benches welded onto the deck, strapping the seat belt around my waist.

“No need for that,” The pilot says when he hears the buckle click. “I’ll get you there in no time.” His voice has the gruffness of an avid chain smoker, the smell wafting from his clothes to the passenger seats.

The pilot watches me in the rearview mirror, as I glance at the Modders on the Stratoskimmers below. I don’t recognise anyone from the previous night. At least they know when to catch a break. I could learn a thing or two from them.

Just below a Stratoskimmer three times the size of the one I awoken on, the ship winds to a halt as the pilot pulls on the lever in his left hand. Then, he tugs another lever with his right. As the vehicle begins to descend onto a much smaller ship below it, the name spray-painted onto the behemoth narrows until it fits my vision—Natsukashii, it reads.

Hachiyo is already waiting for me by the time I step off. She’s dressed in the same garments as I am, her hair tied back in a single braided bun. She doesn’t bother to acknowledge the pilot as he speeds off, keeping her focus on me the whole time.

“Good to see you got on time.”

I step forward and laugh, pulling at the fabric of my uniform. “A bit much, isn’t it?”

“Hardly,” She doesn’t so much as laugh. Her watchful eyes are even more evident now that she’s removed her spectacles. “It’s of use, getting you in the right headspace.”

She approaches me with her arms wrapped behind her back and comjures two metallic hilts in her hands. 

“You didn’t use your Wristool,” I say. “How’d you do that?”

“When you master the interface, you won’t need screens in the simulation,” Suki passes a hilt to me in a reverse grip, and I have to flip it to make it right-side up. “Activate it,” She instructs.

The grooves on its hilt blend together, but my fingers find a knob with indentations somewhere on the back. When I flick it, flashes of white gather at the top of the hilt until it bursts twice and forms a blade of pure energy that sharpens at the top.

Hachiyo turns and paces away as I move the weapon in my hands. 

“When we first designed it, we thought the kinergy should wrap around a physical blade to keep it in place. We felt all of CyberWorld’s concepts should be wholly original,” She says. “We later realised that if it’s not broken, perhaps it shouldn’t be fixed.”

Hachiyo faces me and places her hands at her sides. She bends her upper body from her hip at a 15-degree angle, keeping her eyes on me the whole time. I follow suit, facing straight towards her. 

“This is a Kineblade,” Hachiyo says, lifting the weapon to her chest. “It constantly absorbs energy from the atmosphere, most of which is kinetic,” She activates her weapon and twirls it in her hand. “It is then converted into kinergy.”

Hachiyo paces towards me while our blades produce a low hum. I tread back, holding my Kineblade in one hand. I’m so focused on the uncertainty that lies ahead that I’m not sure which hand I’m using.

“Now,” Hachiyo stops in place and grabs the hilt with both hands, placing one foot behind the other on her hilt. “Hit me.”

I glance down at the blade, and back at Hachiyo. She nods.

When I think she’s least expecting it, I lunge at Hachiyo, thrusting my Kineblade forward to meet hers. I feel the strain on my right arm as Hachiyo pushes it away in a swift motion, nearly knocking the Kineblade out of my hands. My wound from the that Apostle hasn’t had time to heal yet.

“A one-handed grip is better for the experienced. For now, always keep both hands on the grip.”

I nod and do as she says. She doesn’t know this grip style is unknown territory for me. I doubt you’d find this in the tennis rulebook.

Hachiyo holds her hilt near her abdomen at 45 degrees, whilst I hold mine perpendicular to the ground. It’s tempting, but I don’t want to find out what happens when I’m struck in the face.

We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. I’m starting to believe Hachiyo’s turned into a statue, and her breathing’s still balanced. Her shoulders rise and fall like waves on the beach, only swaying ever so slightly to avoid tensing up.

She’s waiting. 

This kind of thing is far from the high-octane thrills of the tennis matches I have with Dad. There, the games barely last a minute, let alone two. Sure, we may not be following the rules to a tee, but they’re exhilarating, at least. 

Suki Hachiyo may be attractive, but I didn’t plan on staring at her face for this long, perfect shape aside.

Finally, I grow restless and strike. My Kineblade shoots from her legs to her wrist, headed straight for her hilt. She jerks it to the right as our blades clash in a criss-cross fashion, using the kinergy gathered from my attack’s momentum to knock me back, causing me to stumble on my boots.

Hachiyo hasn’t been bothering to attack. She’s been taking a defensive stance the whole time, integrating short strokes and the elegant footwork of a tap dancer, only turning to heavy bursts for the occasional output. I stare back at Hachiyo with my hands on my knees. I rise and copy Hachiyo’s stance from earlier, holding the blade at an angle. 

Maybe it isn’t a good idea to hold it against my face.

That glowing blue circle is still there at the bottom of my peripheral vision, beckoning for me to use it. 

Chronocease is as fluid as you make it. Tokoshima’s voice echoes in my head.

“You could try using it,” Hachiyo practically reads my mind. 

My eyes widen in surprise. “How’d you—

“You glanced down.”

Well. I guess there is more to Suki Hachiyo than big words and a cold exterior. My grip grows tighter as I shut my eyes to formulate a plan, sweat excretes from my palms against the cool metal hilt.

Alright. I’ll rush from the front, use Chronocease to get behind her and finish this.

Easy enough.

I pop my eyes open and gulp down the ball forming in my throat. Then, I dash towards Hachiyo, letting a battle cry that reverberates across the base interior.

Forward.

Time slows to a halt. Hachiyo’s swinging her blade to her bottom left. She thinks I’m going for an uppercut swing, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.

There. An opening, just below her neck.

Instead of going to my right like Hachiyo predicts, the trajectory of my blade changes to the left where she’s practically defenceless. Her lips part slightly in surprise, her expression being that of a figure skater in the midst of falling at the championships.

Get behind Hachiyo and—

Huh?

I’m already behind her. 

Way behind. 

I try to stop as I shoot past Hachiyo, but I stumble to the railings—left foot—right foot, until I fall flat on my back and slide to the edge. Losing grip of my Kineblade, the blade retracts as the hilt slides across the deck, spinning in place until it bumps into Hachiyo’s high-cut shoes. 

As my upper body passes through the bottom crack of the guardrails, I catch the lower segment with both hands, now halfway to a grisly end. I gasp from both the sudden expenditure of strength and the abrasion scorching my palms. There’s a sick urge for me to look down to see how high I am, but I resist it.

I glance upon Modders on a nearby Stratoskimmer talking with a few C.R.D soldiers. I yell bloody murder for someone to help, but the base is loud enough as it is. No one’s going to pay attention to a lone scream when everyone below’s shouting amongst themselves anyway.

Hachiyo’s footsteps tap above my head with the daintiness of a fairy. She’s already deactivated her Kineblade as she watches me with both arms behind her back.

“That’s a far drop,” Hachiyo notes.

I wheeze. “Are you kidding? Help me up!”

For a moment, I believe Hachiyo’s about to help from the way her eyes soften from steel to sand. At first, I think her hand is reaching for mine, but she merely clips her hilt to her holster. 

“Your next choice shall shape the rest of our paths.”

Then, she heads back to the ship’s bow. 

“Come on! Help—please!” I grit my teeth. “Hachiyo! Wait, dammit—Ms Hachiyo! Help! HELP!”

It’s no use. She’s already disappeared out of sight along with her footsteps.

I glance at the glowing circle—Chronocease is still glowing. It’s the only thing that can help me now.

Up. I think.

It all happens so fast. At first, I feel like I’m being tossed straight at the cone-shaped hole where the mountain ends, but it’s only half a second until my body stops midair. Still refusing to look down and accept my fate, I reach for the railing as I’m hurled down with both hands. 

When I’m about to pass the point of no return, my fingers tighten around the metal bar and knock my elbow against the side of the deck as my shoulder is nearly pulled out of its socket. 

Using my other hand, I stretch for the railing and seize the part of the bar next to my arm. I pull.

My waist reaches the top of the deck and I slide one leg in so the other is pulled flat against the side of the ship. Then I slide that in so half of my body is safe.

With my last bit of strength, I tug myself in.

I slide on the ship’s deck onto my back. My eyes squeeze shut while I yelp and grab my arm in pain, screaming louder than any of Tokoshima’s fans ever will. While I lay there writhing on the floor wondering how I just did that, Hachiyo pops into my inverted field of view.

“You adapt quickly. That’s more than I expected,” She says. “Keep this up, and you might make our first assault smoother for everyone else.”

She conjures something in her hand and offers me what appears to be a water canteen.

“Drink it slowly. It’s all we have left.”

All I can do is clench my teeth.

…

“Does she have to be here?” I groan.

“You’ll get to review her training later too,” Tokoshima says. “It evens out, in my opinion.”

In the Natsukashii’s control room, Yoona places a hand on Tokoshima’s shoulder. “Heh. I didn’t agree to that.”

Tokoshima glances down at Yoona’s hand and flashes her an awkward smile.

“Sorry, Ms Tokoshima.” She lets it drop to her side.

“It’s cool. Now, let’s see what you Cyber Gen kids’ve cooked up,” Tokoshima says, pulling up Hachiyo’s POV capture as a holodisplay. On her swivel chair, she rolls over to a wall and enlarges the screen with her fingertips, making it big enough for the four of us, including Hachiyo. 

We watch in silence as Hachiyo and I duke it out on-screen, but it’s quickly broken when Tokoshima attempts to commentate on the fight, something I find unwarranted.

“Monochrome aims for Hachi-san’s wrist and—and—uh,” She pauses and smiles back at Hachiyo. “Can’t do it like Janelle.”

Hachiyo grimaces. “Her vocal training paid off.”

Yoona’s ears perk up when she hears the real name of the singer JAN, but she focuses her attention back to the screen as I nearly trip backwards following Hachiyo’s burst of kinergy.

“Maybe someone else should’ve gotten the Skill,” Aiko sniggers. In I glare at her. 

“Sorry,” She says, covering her mouth. “It’s just—never mind.”

“Don’t compare them.”

Tokoshima looks up at Hachiyo as her stern voice fills the chamber. She bites her bottom lip and gives Hachiyo a bleak nod. “Sorry,” Tokoshima says to her.

Everything’s going well until the parts where I’m tossed over the edge and use Chronocease as a last resort. Yoona stops chewing on her fingernails, and Aiko’s smile is wiped clean. I watch myself flailing against the guardrails from Hachiyo’s POV as she strides over without a care in the world. 

“Hachiyo-san?” Tokoshima stiffles an awkward laugh, but she clearly as disturbed as I am.

My face spins to Hachiyo’s as I reach my boiling point. “Why didn’t you help me?” I demand.

“Michael, th—”

“I spent the last 37 days rotting away in a room, and now I gotta deal with this, too? That’s it, isn’t it? I’m nothing more than that stupid skill, just as expandable as those Modders down there. That’s the second time I’ve nearly died, in under two days. That’s not okay! I’m supposed to fight for you guys, but I don’t even know why I should believe in that.” 

A smile creeps along my face, not to gloat, but from the absurdity of the situation I’ve landed myself in. 

“You know what? Screw this place, screw this game,” I stomp to the exit. “I’m out of here.”

“Wait!” Aiko calls behind me. “I didn’t mean to—”

Her voice is cut off as the door slides shut, exposing me to the winds outside being stirred up by Stratoskimmers. The temperature is considerably lower than that on Stratoskimmer 16, but it’s likely because of the high altitude. 

While I wonder how to get back to my quarters, the door slides open, and a pair of footsteps sprint to me. They’re too heavy to be Suki’s, but too light to be Aiko’s.

“You didn’t do that bad,” Yoona says. “You should’ve seen my training today. I could barely hit my targets.” 

“She stood there and watched me hang there. Who does that?”

“Ms Hachiyo said something about emotion-actuated response. Maybe it was something to do with that?” Yoona says. “Look, she takes risks, but they’re controlled risks, alright? There’s no way she could’ve predicted that you’d fly off the edge.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “If you want to bring it up with her, do it after the assault, please.”

That’s when I snap. 

“I know you love both of them, but do you have to suck up to them all the time?”

Yoona frowns. “ I was trying to get you to emphasise with her.”

“No, you’re defending her. And for what, exactly? To become friends with your idols? They’re celebrities, Yoona. When this is all over, you’ll go back to being a nameless intern. They won’t care about you anymore.”

That last sentence is a bit harsh, but it's too late to take it back now. Yoona stares at the floor, utterly deflated. I’m taken aback at how miserable she looks. The last pieces of Yoona’s shopgirl persona have begun to crumble away, only leaving behind a desire to fight in this virtual life for the real one.

Guilt crashes over me like waves of a tsunami as Yoona clenches the sides of her pants with her head hung low. Her stance is one of a child who can never do anything right in their parents’ eyes, making the same mistakes over and over.

I mutter a pathetic excuse of an apology under my breath and rush back to my room.