Chapter 21
KAZ
The sim rig’s cockpit seals around me like a coffin with a god complex.
It hisses and locks, dim lighting flickering overhead as the flight deck vanishes and the stars bloom above me—false stars, sure, stitched together from data feeds and projection overlays. But I feel them in my blood all the same.
Low-orbit stealth run. Final trial.
We’re not told what the full parameters are. Just that it’s fast, dirty, and under fire. No margin for error. One shot to prove you’re First Ray material.
My fingers flex over the controls. My heart’s already beating too fast.
Nova’s voice isn’t in my ear this time. No comms. No guidance. Just silence and the hum of the simulator trying to be a battlefield.
For a second, I wish she was here. Just one glance. One nod. One word. But I shake it off before the thought fully lands.
This is mine.
The countdown blinks red: 3… 2… 1…
Go.
The thrusters surge beneath me. I launch into the black with a force that makes my breath hitch.
Enemy signatures light up immediately—drones mimicking Coalition fighters. Smart AI. Relentless. Fast.
I cut low, banking hard through the atmosphere drag. Hull rattles. The ship moans like it knows it’s being pushed to hell and back.
Radar pings. Two bogies at nine o’clock.
I dive.
Roll under the lock, fire chaff mid-twist. They bite the bait.
“Come on,” I whisper, not sure if I’m talking to them or myself.
Another missile locks.
I flip. Slide back on reverse thrust. A second of negative G—my vision grays at the edges. But I recover just in time to thread between two debris markers like threading a needle blind.
The sim shudders, throwing turbulence that isn't real but sure as hell feels like it.
My heart’s in my throat. My mouth’s dry.
But I’m flying.
Not just surviving. Owning the sky.
Everything else—the doubts, the silence, the tension with Nova—it all falls away in the wake of motion and muscle memory. I am the ship. Every flick of my wrist, every breath I take, the machine responds like it’s wired to my veins.
I loop behind the last drone, lock-on tone flaring in my headset.
“One for luck,” I mutter, then fire.
Boom.
Target neutralized. Run completed. Timer stops.
The display blinks gold.
Best time. Best precision. Best run.
I exhale, chest heaving.
The hatch hisses open and the light slams into me like a spotlight on a stage. The hangar smells like grease, coolant, and ozone—home.
Swan’s waiting near the debrief station, arms crossed, half-grinning. He looks calm. Unbothered.
Too calm.
I pull off my gloves and walk over, heart still thudding like I haven’t landed.
“Well?” I ask.
“You flew like a lunatic,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“Also like a legend.”
I laugh, but it doesn’t last.
There’s something in his eyes—quiet. Still. Like water just before it freezes.
“You okay?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“Only if you make a habit of not listening to what you think.”
I frown. “You’re being weird.”
He looks down. “It’s just… I know what this is. What it means. First Ray’s not just a promotion. It’s a death sentence dressed in a commendation. And I didn’t think I’d get this far.”
I want to say something. Make a joke. Deflect.
But he keeps going.
“I’m proud of you,” he says. “And I mean that. I just hope you know what you’re flying into.”
I try to smile, but it sticks in my throat.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “Me too.”
Later, we drink in near silence.
Just two metal cups and a bottle of contraband whiskey Swan swiped months ago “for emergencies.”
Guess this counts.
We sit on the floor of my quarters, backs against the wall. The air smells like engine oil and burnt coffee, but I don’t mind. It’s real.
“Think it’ll change anything?” I ask.
Swan raises an eyebrow. “Winning?”
“Yeah.”
He takes a sip. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Cool. Thanks for the pep talk.”
He smirks. “Here’s the truth: you were born to fly, Kaz. But the rest of us—we were born to follow someone who doesn’t flinch when the sky falls.”
I glance over. “That supposed to be you being deep?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just the whiskey.”
I look down into my cup. The burn is familiar now. Almost comforting.
I don’t say what I’m thinking.
That I’m not afraid of the mission.
I’m afraid of who I have to leave behind to do it.
The message comes through close to midnight.
Not official. Just a system ping.
UNCONFIRMED: CANDIDATE RANKING – 1ST PLACE: KAZIMIR D.
No banner. No fanfare. Just a line of text that feels like a punch and a kiss all at once.
I won.
It’s mine.
I should feel something—excitement, pride, something.
But I just feel… hollow.
Like the moment I saw it, part of me drifted off into that place beyond the edge of the mission map. Past the point of no return.
I change into my boots and I walk.
No destination.
Just instinct.
And before I know it, I’m at her door.
Nova’s quarters.
The light’s on.
But I don’t knock.
I just stand there, staring at the spot where I left that note all those weeks ago.
No regrets. Just truth.
Right.
So here’s the truth:
I’m not ready.
But I’ll go anyway.
Because someone has to.
And maybe that’s what First Ray really means.
Not the fastest or the smartest.
Just the one who flies anyway.