Chương 342: 147.Preparations 1

After coming back from Hedwig's quarters, I finally started to understand something properly. Some kinds of insanity sound like pranks when you're just talking about them around a table. But the moment someone starts showing up with a wrench, a nav chart, an ID chain, and an electronic warfare script to bolt real parts onto it, it stops being a prank. It becomes— Work. And work has always been the thing the Federal military is best at using to grind a soul flat.

For the next twenty-odd hours, the Yukikaze might as well have been stripped down into a single assembly line. Everyone stayed at their station, grinding away at an idea absurd enough to set the Academy's conduct code on fire, welding it into something that could actually fly, actually land, and ideally not scare the entire Capital Ring system into slapping the air-defense alarm first.

I used to think montage-style prep sequences only existed in overheated military documentaries — blaring soundtrack, gritted teeth, sweat, eyes burning with we will prevail energy, perfect material for a recruitment poster. When it was actually the Yukikaze's turn, the footage looked more like this: Someone swearing. Someone rewiring circuits. Someone rewriting scripts. Someone drinking coffee that had gone cold hours ago. Someone writing risk assessments that read suspiciously like a will.

And someone — namely me — being ordered to stand in an empty compartment, rehearsing over and over what exactly I was supposed to say as my first line after stepping off the shuttle, like some tragic mascot forced into PR training. The Federal military really is a deeply unromantic organization. Part One: Harvey and the Equipment That Looked Ready to Expire The first thing to nearly start smoking was the electronic warfare section. That's not a metaphor. It genuinely almost smoked.

When Harvey took custody of that pile of systems — worn out by wandering, forced return, multiple point-to-point FTL jumps, and forward engagement, looking like it had pulled three straight months of all-nighters — his expression was pure Engineering Department. Simply put: I don't feel like swearing right now, because I still have to fix it after.

I leaned in the doorway, watching Harvey and a few hands borrowed from the engine room pry off casings, untangle wire bundles, and pull modules out one by one for inspection. It looked like an emergency resuscitation for a veteran who should've been retired years ago, but got dragged back to the front instead.

"Is this stuff actually still usable?" I asked. Harvey didn't look up, a penlight clamped between his teeth.

"Theoretically, yes."

"And practically?"

"Practically," Harvey finally took the light out of his mouth, his expression sincere in a deeply unsettling way, "if it starts broadcasting children's programming on its own later, I wouldn't be too surprised."

"... That is not comforting at all." Harvey shrugged.

"I wasn't trying to comfort you." I stared at the spread of exposed wiring and modules, and a very bad feeling crept in.

"Wait. Isn't Evelyn supposed to use this gear to fool Skyshield?"

"Yes."

"So you're telling me we're going to trick the Capital Ring system's strongest defense net with a pile of equipment that might start playing kids' shows at any moment?"

"Not exactly," Harvey said. I let out a breath of relief. He added the second half:"We're going to trick it with a pile of gear that, once fixed, theoretically won't play children's programming." Thanks. That absolutely does not make it sound any less terrifying. But Harvey's hands were genuinely steady. Most days, Harvey just reads as a guy with a decent temper who talks well to engines and probably not so well to people. But the second he crouches into a pile of equipment, his whole field changes.

Fast hands, sharp eyes — which wire to keep, which module to bypass, which part only looks half-dead but can actually hold for two more watches. One glance, and Harvey's got the whole map in his head. Sometimes I think people like him are the real bones of the Yukikaze. We're up front making the mess. Harvey's type is what keeps the ship from falling apart the second we do. Very important. Also very unnerving.

Part Two: Evelyn and the Script That Would Make Skyshield Think It Was Being Reasonable On the other side of the EW bay, Evelyn had turned a chair meant for resting patients into a makeshift command seat. Cane leaning beside her. Terminal floating in front of her. Three windows open at once — Skyshield's ID logic on the left, the Yukikaze's current signal signature on the right, and in the middle, a wall of EW script that made me question whether I actually had a brain after three seconds of looking at it.

Honestly, when Evelyn first said I'll handle it, I assumed part of that was Upper House Chief pride talking. Ten minutes standing beside her later, I had exactly one conclusion— No. She genuinely could handle it. And she was handling it in a deeply unwell way.

"What are you doing?" I asked. Evelyn didn't look up.

"Making Skyshield believe we're an anomaly it should let pass, but shouldn't flag for a high-profile intercept just yet."

"... That sounds like you're teaching me how to pretend I'm not breaking the rules."

"Essentially, yes."

"So what does this script count as?" Her fingers tapped rapidly across the light-keys, tone calm to the point of cruelty.

"A very polite set of forged credentials for the Yukikaze." I was quiet for two seconds.

"Senpai, that description has a very strong criminal aftertaste."

"Then don't phrase it that way outside this room."

"... What exactly do they teach you people in the Upper House?" You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. She finally looked up, her gaze level.

"How to make the impossible negotiable — and the negotiable, executable." I had a comeback loaded. It caught in my throat, and turned into something else instead.... That was actually kind of cool. Dammit. Upper House people have an unreasonable gift for making you resent how right they sound. Evelyn dropped her eyes back to the script, and a few seconds later added, mildly:"Also, if Skyshield really does shoot you down, I won't be the first to die."

"Hey."

"So you'd better hope I succeed." Right. That part wasn't cool at all. Part Three: Lan and Every Speaker in the Capital Ring system Lan's section looked quieter. I later realized that's only because comms and ID work is the kind of field that looks calm on the surface and can generate thirty different disasters a second underneath. Lan had three headsets on at once. Genuinely, three. The first time I saw it, I almost thought she was prepping for some strange music festival. She wasn't.

Left ear: the military ID chain. Center: the Capital Ring system's public broadcast nodes. Right: the ceremonial dedicated line and the local news pool's backup feed. She looked like a graveyard-shift DJ preparing to pull off the greatest sleight of hand in Federal history.

"How's it looking?" I leaned over and asked. Lan's eyes stayed on the screen, voice light.

"What I need to do right now is make sure everyone sees us first, before they have time to be afraid."

"That sentence is terrifying."

"This is the gentler version." I blinked.

"What's the less gentle version?" Lan adjusted an earpiece, expression unchanged.

"Make everyone cheer first, before they realize they haven't actually understood what's happening."... I take back what I said. Comms officers are sometimes worse than tactical. Lan quickly showed me the nodes she'd already sliced into. Primary venue feed. Military official ID crawl. Public-band synchronized subtitles. She'd even quietly tapped backup signals for a few local stations I never would have thought to include.

"Seven seconds before the Yukikaze enters, I'll push the ship's name through," Lan said.

"Not the full data package. Just enough to make the on-site host lose their professional composure and read the name out loud."

"The host will lose their composure?" Lan stayed perfectly calm.

"If a ship that's been memorialized for a year suddenly flies in over Dunan, and the host still manages to finish reading their script to the end, I'll be genuinely impressed." That's entirely reasonable. Reasonable enough that I was starting to feel sorry for whichever unlucky emcee was about to go blank on live Federal broadcast.

Part Four: Roy and the Pride of One Approach Vector If Evelyn was fooling Skyshield, and Lan was fooling the media and the public's attention, then what Roy was doing was closer to— Picking a path for the Yukikaze worth dying on, if it came to that. Naturally, the second I said it out loud, Roy glared at me.

"We're not dying," he said.

"I'm complimenting the aesthetics of your route design."

"I don't need that kind of compliment."

"But you're clearly picking angles." Roy didn't answer.... Good. Not answering means I was right. The approach line on the main screen kept getting pulled and reworked by Roy, again and again, like a silver wire being honed stroke by stroke. Cutting in from the Capital Ring system's outer edge, not charging Skyshield head-on, not touching the core defense corridor — pressing in along the boundary of the memorial's ceremonial airspace instead.

Letting the Yukikaze's profile be seen first, then the ship's name lighting up, and finally, the main camera tilting up— The whole Federation looking up with it. Vicious. And sharp.

"You're absolutely staging this," I said. Roy finally spoke.

"If we have to do it, we can at least not do it ugly." I threw both hands up in surrender on the spot. Fair. Very Roy. And I liked it. Part Five: Maki, the Lists, the Shuttles, and the Art of Managing Hell By comparison, Maki's side of the board was very... Maki. Everyone else was building the spectacle. Maki was making sure the spectacle didn't blow the ship's internal order apart first. Who knew the full plan. Who only knew which corridor they were guarding. Who was running the Princess's transfer line.

Who was slotted into the first wave of shuttles landing at the venue. Who stayed aboard. Who shouldn't know too much even if they asked, in case nerves put it right on their face. All of it came down from Ash in a handful of sentences, and all of it eventually flowed into Maki's hands. The most frightening thing about Maki is that she actually pulls it off. I passed the XO's station once and glanced at her datapad.

Three dense tiers of names, with contingency plans on the side, psychological-tolerance assessments, and a column for something like this person, briefed on the full picture too early, will get excited enough to blow the operation — never explicitly written out, but I'd bet money Maki was running that calculation in her head regardless.

"Are you secretly filing us under hazardous materials?" I asked. Maki didn't look up.

"Not secretly."

"..."

"Officially." I shut up. This woman has zero sense of humor. Or rather, she has one — she just usually points it at other people. The part of Maki's shuttle roster that offended me most personally was that she really did put me in the first wave. And in the very first position off the ramp.

"Why does it have to be me?" I protested.

"Because your face has high recognition value."

"That's not a reason."

"And the second you open your mouth, the whole Federation will know very fast that you're real," Maki said.

"That sounds a lot like an insult."

"I'm not insulting you," Maki said, level as ever.

"I'm making efficient use of an asset." Hear that? That's my career designation on the Yukikaze. Not a pilot. Not combat strength. A high-recognition asset whose voice makes it very hard to mistake for a ghost. Thanks so much. Part Six: Me, and That Damned First Line Which brings us to one of the most humiliating training sessions of my life. Practicing my first line after stepping off the shuttle. Genuinely. Because Ash had made himself very clear: We weren't there to cause a scene.

We were there to reclaim the Yukikaze's identity and the right to define what happened to her. So the first line mattered. Too tragic — wrong. Too arrogant — wrong. Too slick — wrong. Too much like a prepared statement — also wrong. So I was forced to stand in an empty compartment, rehearsing in front of a row of makeshift judges with absolutely no sympathy for me, testing versions. First attempt:"Sorry to have kept everyone waiting." Jess collapsed laughing on the spot.

"Are you hosting a late-night talk show?" For the second attempt, swallowing the urge to commit a crime, I tried:"Federal destroyer Yukikaze, returning to duty." Maki frowned.

"Too short." Roy slid the knife in:"And it sounds like you memorized it out of a manual." By the third attempt, my temper was flaring.

"Excuse me — could we pause the memorial for a moment? The deceased have arrived in person." This time even Lan looked up at me. Jess slammed the console.

"I love that one!"

"Denied," Maki said, instantly.

"Why?!"

"Because this isn't a comedy set," Maki said.

"But it's so effective!"

"Which is exactly why it's off-limits."... The Executive Officer really has zero respect for the creative process. By the fourth attempt, my patience had been ground down to metal shavings. Aida happened to pass by, stopped, listened for about thirty seconds, and said mildly:"You don't need it to sound good." I blinked.

"Then what do I say?" Aida looked at me, tone flat.

"Say it in a way that makes everyone there know instantly the person standing in front of them is alive. Not a PR script." Then she walked off. Leaving me alone with a specific kind of irritation. Because she was right. Dammit. It's always the most annoying when they're right. Afterward, I deleted every version. Only one line remained, pressed down quietly in my chest, unspoken. Because I figured that when the moment actually came, I'd probably just know.

Or, to be more honest — If I still didn't know by then, I probably didn't deserve to be the first one off the ramp. Part Seven: The Princess's Line, Quiet as a Sheathed Blade Of course, the Yukikaze wasn't only running the loud, publicly unhinged track. Hedwig's low-profile transfer was advancing in parallel. The quiet on that side was a completely different breed of quiet from the bridge. The bridge's quiet came from everyone being too busy to look up.

Hedwig's side felt more like a surgery whose danger had already been scheduled in advance, so it had no need to be loud about it. Corridor watch rotations tightened. Entry and exit logs now required dual confirmation from both Maki and Aida. Hedwig and Miss Maid's brief movements were all slotted into the least noticeable hours aboard. I ran into them occasionally, from a distance. Hedwig still looked exactly the same — quiet, clean, cold as a blade whose politeness had been polished past the point of reasonable.

Miss Maid still looked like some piece of security hardware too high-grade to be stationed anywhere near an actual human residential zone. They didn't make noise. Didn't cause trouble. Didn't add complications. Which only made you more aware of how much weight their presence alone was carrying. Like explosives packed so neatly you're less inclined to go near them, not more.

Part Eight: By the End, the Whole Ship Smelled Like It Was About to Do Something Serious In the final hours of prep, the Yukikaze's atmosphere went off. Not literally — though a faint whiff of heated circuitry and freshly stripped casings did drift over from Harvey's corner now and then. That's not what I mean. It was a mood. Like right before a storm. Or right before an exam.

A little like the first time I sat in a live Zero — everyone acting like nothing was wrong, while every single one of them knew the next hit wasn't a joke. People still talked. Still laughed. Jess still laughed in all the wrong places, like a born accomplice. Maki still called my name with pinpoint accuracy exactly when I most wanted to play dead. Aida still made plain speech sound co-authored by the Foreign Ministry and a surgical theater. Ash still stayed flat enough that you'd think he never dreamed.

But the whole ship knew. We were doing something deeply un-Yukikaze, and simultaneously, completely Yukikaze. We were going home. But we couldn't go home like late paperwork. Couldn't go home like an incident. Couldn't go home like a closed file shoved in a cabinet, waiting for someone senior to find the time to open it. We had to go home like— The Yukikaze herself, personally tearing her own death notice in half.

Standing at the observation window, watching the Capital Ring system's traffic lights thicken outside, I found myself laughing once, without quite meaning to. I really have gotten dragged into too many things lately. First we went missing. Then the Sea Wolf. Then an Imperial Princess. Now I'm about to personally attend my own memorial service. At this rate, I'm honestly starting to wonder if the Federation is going to open up a dedicated personal risk category with my name on it. But whatever. We've come this far.

I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets, looked at the face in the glass — a face that's been looking less and less like a normal first-year's lately — and said, low:"... Don't screw this up, Yukikaze." The person in the glass didn't answer. But I knew every single person on this ship was already answering, each in their own way.