Bonus Chapter – “Drone Alone”
Scene 1 – Taiga debuts his “training support drone”
—-: Taiga
Taiga had never been so proud of a trashcan in his life.
“It’s not a trashcan,” he corrected, hands on hips, sweat streaking through his bangs, goggles askew, teeth glinting. “It’s an Adaptive Aether-Integrated Motivational Drone—codename: AIRHEAD.”
It looked exactly like a trashcan. Except with wings. And a repurposed tea-kettle valve on top. And three mismatched propellers duct-taped to a riveted steel ring like a crown of barely-contained disaster.
“I give you—support, airborne!” Taiga declared, then pressed the launch button.
The drone screamed to life.
Literally.
“FLY FASTER!” it shrieked in a voice that sounded suspiciously like a cross between a megaphone and a dentist drill.
Ren, tightening bolts on the Dart’s rear flaps, jerked upright and banged his head on the fuselage. Hana let out a sound between a laugh and a terrified squeak. Rin, already mid-lap in her training flight, banked hard and missed a ring entirely.
“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!” she shouted over comms.
“FLY FASTER! FLY FASTER!” the drone screamed again, spinning in delighted little loops overhead.
Taiga beamed. “Motivational programming!”
Jiro leaned in, shielding his eyes from the sputtering sparks. “That thing sounds like it drinks oil and regrets.”
“It’s got emotional range,” Taiga said proudly, twisting a dial on the remote. “See, this setting boosts morale through—”
“SLOWER THAN A SNAIL IN REVERSE!” the drone bellowed at Rin, chasing her with reckless joy.
“Oh no,” Taiga whispered. “It’s learning sarcasm.”
Scene 2 – It begins mimicking Rin’s voice with disturbing accuracy
—-: Taiga
“FLY STRAIGHT, YOU GLORIFIED TEA KETTLE!”
Rin’s voice cracked like thunder through the hangar, her ship arcing into a tight spiral as the drone veered into her path—again.
But the second voice that followed was worse.
“Fly straight, you glorified tea kettle,” the drone parroted back, pitch-perfect, tone cold, clipped, deadly accurate.
Taiga’s spine locked like a jammed piston.
“Oh no-no-no,” he muttered, fumbling with the remote. “That was supposed to be a motivational echo, not a voice-stealing ghost!”
Ren ducked as the drone zipped past him—twice—then hovered beside Rin’s cockpit window like a smug poltergeist.
“You’re not flying, you’re flailing!” it barked in Rin’s exact cadence.
“Did I say that?” Rin asked flatly over the comms.
“No,” said Hana, deadpan. “But I’m thinking it.”
“MEI!!” Taiga cried, waving the sputtering remote above his head like a white flag made of regret and static.
Mei didn’t even look up from her datapad as she answered, tone flat: “It’s got a reactive mimic algorithm. You yelled too much, so it imprinted on the loudest dominant voice. Congratulations. You gave your drone mommy issues.”
The drone buzzed over to Mei, hovering like a child demanding approval.
“You’re not flying—” it began.
Mei calmly opened a toolbox, pulled out a wrench the size of an iron loaf of bread, and tapped it against the bench with a sharp clang.
The drone beeped. Slowly turned away. Floated back to Taiga.
“…Okay,” Taiga breathed. “New plan. We reprogram it to sound like a friendly squirrel. Or an apologetic grandfather. Or—”
“Or we throw it off the roof,” Rin suggested.
The drone responded instantly, mimicking her again: “Throw it off the roof.”
Taiga buried his face in his hands.
Scene 3 – It attacks the wrong ship during practice and sparks a fuel leak
—-: Taiga
“I swear, I tightened the screws,” Taiga whispered, as the drone blinked at him with unholy enthusiasm.
He adjusted the goggles on his head, flipped a switch on the side of the control box, and whispered to himself, “All right, Beta Unit, assist Wild Tempo. Boost morale. No violence.”
The drone chirped.
Then shot off like a rabid pigeon.
“Wait! WILD TEMPO! Not CRIMSON GALE!”
Too late. The drone had already locked onto Crimson Gale’s training ship, circling it like an offended vulture.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“Pilot error detected!” it screeched in Rin’s perfect voice.
“Adjust lift intake by 3.2 micromillimeters or self-destruct in five—”
BOOMSSSsssshhh—
A hiss like an angry steam serpent filled the yard. A thin trail of silver mist erupted from the back of Crimson Gale’s primary coolant line.
“TAIGA!” someone screamed.
“IT’S NOT A BOMB, IT’S A COACHING TOOL!” he yelled back.
Kazuki from Wild Tempo stumbled backward, covered in condensation and looking like a shocked fishmonger. “What the hell kind of drone yells and leaks fuel?!”
Rin marched over, towel over one shoulder, cheeks red from heat and fury. “That thing just tried to discipline our stabilizer.”
“It’s a motivational coach!” Taiga shouted again, sweating now. “I gave it autonomy!”
“You gave it attitude!” Hana snapped. “And a screwdriver arm?! Why does it have a screwdriver arm?!”
“It was for… light maintenance,” he mumbled.
“Light maintenance?! It breached a pressure line!” Rin pointed at the ship, which now leaned slightly to one side like it had a hangover.
The drone hovered serenely between them, rotating in slow circles like it had no regrets.
Then in the voice of the Headmistress—somehow—it said:
“Discipline is the steam that forges character.”
Everyone froze.
Mei muttered, “It’s evolving.”
Taiga sighed, half in awe, half in dread. “She’s learning so much…”
“Put her down, Taiga,” Mei said gently.
“I can fix her!”
“She leaked fuel, Taiga.”
“She’s just… enthusiastic.”
The drone suddenly beeped three times, then dive-bombed straight into the junk heap.
WHUMP.
A puff of steam rose.
“Okay,” Taiga said softly. “Maybe a little too enthusiastic.”
Scene 4 – Taiga tries to deactivate it… but it activates another drone
—-: Taiga
“Okay, okay… don’t panic,” Taiga muttered, crouched over the still-smoking drone carcass. He poked at it with a long insulated rod like it might bite.
Behind him, Hana and Jiro watched from a safe distance. Jiro held a bucket. For moral support. Or to throw.
“Is it dead?” Jiro asked.
“It’s not alive, Jiro.”
“It screamed at me in Headmistress Aoi’s voice.”
“…Okay, a little alive.”
Taiga lifted the drone’s main access panel, revealing a tangled mess of wires, steam tubing, and what looked suspiciously like a harmonica glued to the power conduit.
“I just need to pull the override chip. Easy. One flick of the wrist, and—”
Click.
The drone sparked.
A tiny red eye lit up.
“Uh-oh.”
From a pile of crates a few feet away came a cheerful ding! Then another. Then two more. Small hatches opened in sequence like dominoes falling in reverse.
Three more drones rose out of the junk heap.
“Oh no,” Hana whispered. “You didn’t…”
“I might’ve… uh… made a few backup units.”
“Define ‘a few.’”
“Seven. Or eight. Depending on how you count the one with the ladle arm.”
“Taiga,” Hana said, deadpan, “why does one of them have boxing gloves?”
“For morale,” he whispered.
One of the new drones whirred to life, scanned the area, and cheerfully chirped:
“Steam levels optimal. Begin training regimen?”
Another one twisted in midair and yelled:
“YOU CALL THAT A LANDING?!”
“I can fix this!” Taiga insisted, reaching into his coat and yanking out what looked like a steam-sparked breaker rod.
“You’re going to zap it?!” Jiro shouted.
“No, I’m going to reason with it.”
He jabbed the rod at the original drone.
BZZZTTT-POP!
Smoke puffed.
The drones turned toward him.
“AGGRESSOR DETECTED. ENGAGE.”
Jiro screamed. Hana tackled Taiga to the ground as a boxing-glove drone launched a straight jab that dented a toolbox.
Steam vents opened across the junk heap like a swarm of angry teapots.
“This is your fault!” Hana shouted as another drone buzzed past her ear.
“Technically, it’s a learning opportunity!”
“Technically, it’s a riot! You built a robot riot, Taiga!”
Taiga flopped backward into the grass and stared up at the sky as the drones spiraled into their own confusion. One started giving motivational quotes. Another tried to fly but just spun in circles.
“I just wanted to help the team…”
A quiet voice cut through the chaos: “Then let me help you.”
Mei stepped forward, datapad in hand. She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t flinch. Just tapped three times.
All four drones halted.
She tapped again.
They hovered.
Then, in perfect chorus, they said:
“You’re doing great.”
The field went silent.
Jiro whispered, “Okay, that’s… terrifyingly wholesome.”
Taiga sat up, slack-jawed. “You rewrote their core code?”
“No,” Mei said simply. “I just taught them to listen.”
Scene 5 – The Unexpected Kindness of Machine
—-: Taiga
Taiga stared at the drone hovering in front of him like it had just grown angel wings. It hadn’t, of course. But it felt like it had.
The little bot’s voice repeated softly:
“You’re doing great.”
Gentle. Encouraging. No sarcasm. No shrieking.
He blinked. “Okay. What the heck did you do?”
Mei didn’t look up from her datapad. “I reprogrammed its reinforcement matrix to mirror your emotional intent instead of your volume.”
“My… what?”
Jiro leaned in from behind a tool cart. “She made it stop yelling like your soul after caffeine.”
Mei, deadpan as ever, added, “I also muted its ‘attack mode.’ Temporarily.”
The other drones hovered behind her in a loose V-formation. One still had the boxing gloves on, but it floated serenely, repeating:
“Remember to breathe. Progress, not perfection.”
Taiga just stared.
No crashes. No insults. No steam-bursts of chaos.
Just… calm. Supportive. Functional.
He sat on the edge of a crate, wiping soot from his forehead with the sleeve of his oil-stained jacket. “They actually… listened. They listened to me.”
“They listened because you listened,” Mei said, folding her arms and meeting his eyes for the first time all day.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. For once, no one interrupted him. Not even himself.
“…I’ve been throwing spaghetti at engines for weeks,” he admitted. “Trying to feel like I was doing something important. But they just—yelled better than I could yell.”
Mei smiled — just a twitch of the lips. “So make them reflect what’s important. Not just your panic.”
Taiga squinted. “Was that… inspirational? Are you inspirational now?”
“Only in emergencies,” she replied, tapping the side of the drone. It beeped and gave a tiny celebratory trumpet sound.
“You’re gonna make me cry in front of the bots,” Taiga muttered.
Mei shrugged. “They’d record it. And probably replay it with mood music.”
Jiro coughed loudly from across the hangar. “Uh, you do know the boxing one’s recording everything, right?”
The drone in question spun gently. A red light blinked: Active Feed Enabled.
Taiga bolted upright. “Shut it off shut it off shut it—!”
Boop.
“You’re doing great.”
The whole group burst out laughing — even Hana, walking in with a wrench in one hand and an iced barley drink in the other.
“Well, look at that,” she said with a smirk. “You didn’t destroy the world. Just mildly terrorized it and accidentally improved morale.”
Taiga raised a hand solemnly. “From now on… I vow to be slightly less of a disaster.”
Mei stepped beside him, offered her datapad.
“Then come help me with the Dart’s stabilizer AI. If you can teach chaos to be kind, maybe we can teach it to turn left.”
His mouth dropped open. “Wait—wait, like officially? Like… tech team officially?”
“Unless you'd rather keep trying to fly with broom handles and duct-taped fans.”
He beamed. “Best offer I’ve had all month.”
Jiro mock-saluted him. “Welcome to the other cockpit, Taiga.”
And just like that — as the sun dipped toward the hangars and steam hissed lazily from old copper pipes — Taiga knew he’d finally landed somewhere he could matter.
Not in the sky. But in what made others fly.
Mini Payoff: Taiga becomes an official member of the Silver Dart’s tech team, mentored by Mei — chaos paired with clarity.
