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"You still haven't found a First?"
Isagi groans at Bachira's green-toned, pixelated holograph face, dropping his whole head with a thunk onto the thin metal table beside the comm. It makes a sad metallic wobbling sound that Isagi deeply resonates with in this moment— the clock is nearing two in the morning on Xiphos, the little dwarf planet at the edge of the Ares system that his striker outpost sprawls over. "No."
"But you worked so well with all of us in the Academy," Bachira pouts. "You were a great Helm for me."
"I know," Isagi sighs, lifting his forehead from the table. "But I just. I don't know. They want me to be a First so badly, but I know I'll do better as a Helm. Noa let me sit as his First for one run, but I fucked it up, and I think he's grounding me on purpose now. It's not like there's really anyone else unpaired at this outpost either, so it's just a waiting game for the next Academy graduates, I guess. Kaiser and Ness have been working as First and Helm since before I got here, not that I'd want to be paired with either of them, but. God. I'd take Kaiser if it just meant I could be starbound again."
Bachira hums. "And... Kunigami is...?"
"Still down for the count, yeah," Isagi confirms. Both their shoulders slump at the thought. "Shame that Hiori transferred out. I think he's much happier bullying Rin than he'd be striking with me, though."
That, at least, gets Bachira to laugh.
For as long as he can remember, and longer still according to his parents' accounts of his childhood, Isagi Yoichi has had an instinct for the stars: head always tilted upward, tracing constellations and spouting the specs of the latest ships, intuitively piloting his sunboard without ever tumbling off. Isagi was born to jump through hyperspace, to watch the stars blur, to laugh in the face of gravity. He'd devoted his entire childhood to learning everything he could about piloting, content to dream about being the captain of a freighter or civilian transport so long as it meant he'd be living between planets. Starbound. His parents had mildly encouraged an interest in the public transport sector, probably more at the thought of having family discounts for their annual vacation hop to the warm innermost planet of the Tsuzumi system, but they made sure to never let him forget the dangers of space travel: how any little thing going wrong could kill him and anyone else on a ship in a split second.
They'd been less than thrilled when he'd gotten his acceptance letter to the Academy, all 'you don't really need to go if you're doing local piloting!' and 'oh, Yochan, that's so far away...', but his parents were never truly going to stand between him and his future. They loved him too much.
And then, finally at the Academy, he'd thrived.
Isagi had never considered being a striker jet pilot before. Tsuzumi wasn't a system that produced many, only one particularly notable Helm in the past decade or two, if not longer (and Itoshi Sae had rather infamously dropped out and disappeared from the galaxy's awareness within a few years). All of Isagi's dreams had been either solitary or included a full crew. Yet at the Academy, there was a professor pushing to get more Tsuzumians into the program, so Bachira had, with bright wild eyes and a promise of something truly life changing, gleefully taken Isagi by the wrist and dragged him into the world of Helms and their Firsts, commander and executioner, the careful balance of striker duos.
And this— this was what Isagi had always wanted even when he didn't have the words for it. That pull in his navel as his ship accelerated to near lightspeed in the space of two breaths; the lurch of tumbling out of hyperspeed and barrel-rolling into a formation; the connection, the strategizing, the way he could just think 'there' and his First would deliver exactly what he needed.
Of course, in school, none of them truly had proper partners. Classmates cycled through each other; the upper admin wanted to explore all partnerships and combinations of each year to find hidden potential to tap into and drill out like oil. Bachira, Chigiri, Nagi, Kunigami, Rin, Hiori; Isagi found each one had their challenges and quirks, but he'd adapted. He always adapted. It's why, once he'd graduated and been sent to Noa's outpost, Noa had tested him as a First instead of a Helm.
Isagi hated being a First. He'd been Rin's in particular for a while, and in the beginning Isagi had thrived under that control, being told without words what to do and executing it flawlessly, having expectations placed upon him and blowing past those bars. The problem became that he started... Well. He started realizing that maybe, sometimes, he knew better than his Helms. After all, his test rate as Helm was nearly flawless; Bachira, Chigiri, Nagi, they'd all been perfect Firsts who'd perhaps strained a bit at times under his demands but had kept up just fine.
But that adaptability; that's what made him a First instead of a Helm. Learning to trust his instincts the way Bachira and Hiori could.
Unfortunately, his instincts often went against whatever strategy his Helms wanted. Hence: fucking up his first mission with Noa, the one where he was supposed to prove that he'd deserved that valedictorian-ship from the Academy, the one where he was supposed to cement his place as someone useful on this outpost, a real striker instead of just some hotshot Academy kid. The one where all he did was prove himself to be exactly that: a hotshot Academy kid with a 'following authority' problem.
"Don't let them ground you out of your dreams forever, Yoichi," Bachira tells him.
Isagi aches from how deeply he misses his best friend. "Thanks, Bachira."
The call ends. Isagi stares listlessly at his comm for several moments after, feeling all the empty space of the galaxy echoing in his sternum.
Most of the striker outposts in their galaxy are meant to discourage pirate vessels from attacking merchant ships traveling between systems; it's why they are often situated on the dwarf outer planets in each solar system or seen running relays between sectors of the galaxy.
There are some striker outposts, however, that do other things. This is something Kurona Ranze knows well.
The command center of Xiphos is on a skeleton crew right now. With its heavy flow of traffic from both mercantile vessels and its large inner-planet tourism industry, the Ares system is a well-oiled machine operating on travel statistics and predictions of activity based on spreadsheets, equations, and raw numerical data. Noel Noa is not a striker that likes surprises or inconsistencies. It's why he's so efficient at snuffing out any disruptors to his system.
This is also something Kurona Ranze knows well.
But stealing data from Xiphos is not Kurona's job for this particular mission.
He shuffles through the halls quietly, just the squeaky wheel of his mop bucket and the swish of his large overalls. When he'd applied for this outpost, his name had raised an eyebrow; how could it not, when even as one of the younger students of his cohort, he'd consistently ranked within the top five potential striker pilots of his class in the solitary year he'd spent at the Academy? Fourth, when he'd dropped out.
There was no changing a system from inside it. Well, not in the way he'd wanted to in those days. Not when there was a better way inside the system.
No one looks up as he meanders through the desks. One of the three people in the command room even gets up to go grab coffee from the break room; when he stands, Raichi and Kurona briefly make eye contact. Raichi gives him no other acknowledgement. That's fine by Kurona. Better, even.
With all his pilots out, Noa's station is calm and unconcerned, confident in their striker teams' surveillance of their solar system.
He takes a glance at the camera feed of the jet garages. Sure enough, it seems all of them are empty, like every single striker is out on duty.
Good— that means Kiyora got the feed-loop to work properly. Half a second lag of the copied feed from one of the other identical garages, the timing offset so that their glitches don't line up perfectly.
No one but eagle-eyed Noel Noa himself would notice something wrong.
After all, there is one garage that still has its jet sitting pretty, ripe for the taking.
Sleepless, Isagi paces the outpost halls. How can he rest when every other Xiphos striker is out on patrol? How can he rest when he's gravity-snared? The stars just outside his window taunt him, like they know his real dream is not found in sleep but is something to chase with eyes wide open.
His restlessness takes him to his garage, the jet held on reserve for when he eventually gets off the ground again. He runs his hands over her sleek black surface, the red stripes that signal her as an Ares system protector, the golden sword logo of Xiphos that points from the cockpit window to the jet's nose. Sometimes, Isagi imagines that he can feel her vibrating under his palm, restless and overeager, longing for takeoff just the way he is.
"I know," he whispers to her, self-consciously glancing up at the camera afterward. Not that the skeleton crew are ones to judge; hell, despite being the outpost's lead striker, Noa is probably the most insane of all of them, if not the most insane man in the galaxy.
(Actually, Isagi would like to amend that statement. Professor Ego is definitely the most insane man in the galaxy. Noel Noa is a close second, though.)
If only Isagi was good enough to solo pilot the way Noa does. But even Rin had been shot down after pridefully suggesting he could strike-pilot on his own; he'd been particularly brutal as a Helm that week after, pushing Isagi to his limits as a First. It's a ridiculous daydream anyway; the way the jets work, singularly operating them is too hard on the human body.
Noa is an exception to a well-documented scientific rule. Kunigami's months in med-bay are a testament to that.
Climbing up into the Helm seat, Isagi lets himself drown in the daydream for a moment: settles in his seat, runs his fingers over the Helm controls, allows the wrist braces to lock around his forearms. His heart feels like a star going supernova, this indescribable want that burns through him, and he closes his eyes against the feeling as it washes over him.
The daydream is like this: he's here, bonding with his jet, when the alarm sounds. Maybe it's pirates, maybe it's terrorists, it doesn't matter; Noa needs another striker. Kaiser's left wing has been blown off entirely and he's sitting uselessly. Maybe, as Isagi is scrambling to power up the jet, mentally preparing himself for operating as a solo striker, knowing he might never recover from it, Kunigami bursts through the door, halfway in his flight suit and halfway out of his med-bay robes, calling for Isagi to wait, because Kunigami is okay enough to First, he can do it— or, maybe, Kunigami wouldn't come, and Isagi would make the leap on his own, not even noticing the way his nose would start bleeding or his bones would ache in protest, not until after he'd swooped in and made a narrow direct shot at the enemy's—
The cockpit hatch opens. Isagi opens his eyes in turn, startled and a bit embarrassed, only to find himself staring at an equally startled-and-embarrassed face. Pink eyes, slitted pupils, the jagged edges of his teeth just visible with the way his mouth gapes slightly open in surprise at finding Isagi in the jet already. Fluffy hair. Small hands.
They say nothing to each other for a few awkwardly long seconds before Isagi clears his throat, dismissing the jet's wrist braces and discarding the unnecessary thought of 'ah, cute,' and says, "Um, hi. Can I help you?"
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Kurona stares at the pilot in the cockpit. His brain spins a million miles per hour. This guy must've come in after Kiyora set the camera feed loop. And now here he is, in his sanitation overalls, caught opening up the jet with intent to steal it.
Well. Not caught on that very last detail, at least.
The pilot seems to register all this at the same speed, or maybe even a step faster, because he's already saying, "Oh, I didn't even think about the garages being on the custodial roster, I'm so sorry, do you need me to get out of your way, or—?"
Yes, that would be perfect, and Kurona starts to open his mouth to say as much before the pilot's eyes narrow.
"Wait, why would you need to be getting into the jet just for garage cleaning?"
"I— I—" Kurona mentally flails for an excuse before he snags from thin air, "Just curiosity, curiosity" low and mumbled, embarrassed. It's easy to sell; he is embarrassed, because this whole exchange has been the worst possible outcome for the plan.
The pilot tilts his head, then holds out a hand. "I'm Isagi Yoichi, Tsuzumi system."
Of course Kurona knows who Isagi is. Star striker pilot from the most recent graduating class of the Academy, the shocking upset of their last exam after he managed to pull a single point lead against Itoshi Rin (televised, of course, because the galaxy's residents find gunning down debris and racing tight weaves through asteroid belts— knowing some day these teenagers will be defending them against the big bad evils of the universe— the greatest form of entertainment out there, and the Academy loves nothing more than lining its pockets). The striker personally scouted by Noel Noa afterward. And, most importantly to Kurona in particular, the striker who fucked up Noa's mission that would've stopped Kurona and Kiyora's crew from putting their outpost monitoring tech on the dwarf planet.
Isagi Yoichi is the reason that Kurona is even here. The only reason Kurona didn't immediately register his identity is because he could've sworn Isagi was out with the other strikers on patrol. What the fuck is this guy doing grounded? And why why why did their team decide going no-contact as much as possible to avoid being too connected was a good idea?! How is he going to tell Kiyora—
Shit. Whatever. Now is not the time to freak out.
Kurona takes his hand, hopefully without hesitating too much, and answers, "You can call me Ranze."
"Have we met before?" Isagi asks, head cocked with curiosity. Strangely, Kurona feels like he's being observed under a microscope. Or, perhaps more aptly, a worm dangling off a hook in front of a fish. He needs to remind himself that he's the dangerous one here, not Isagi. And still… Those eyes are dark but blue in their blackness, and Kurona is reminded of a lophii, the monsters of his home planet's deepest oceans with their bioluminescent lures and black invisible teeth, each jagged point the height of a child and over a hundred per snapping jaw. Like if he follows the light behind those eyes, he'll get eaten whole.
"I mean, I work here, so maybe," Kurona laughs awkwardly. "Small base, small base."
Isagi nods, but Kurona can't get a read on what's going on in his head. He's particularly not expecting Isagi to say, "Well, do you wanna get in, or…?"
"Huh?"
"You said you were curious, right?" Isagi grins, gesturing to the empty seat where a First would sit. "Have you been in one of these before?"
Kurona decides it'll be better to just go with the tale he's spun. He'll figure out some way to signal to Kiyora that the plan isn't working as soon as he gets the chance; right now, it's more important to not let this pilot figure out that he's put himself in the middle of... an operation, Kurona will call it.
"Ah... Yes, yes. But only just to sit in." He tugs on his braid for good measure. He leaves it at that, though. Lying too much will only get him in tangles later, so the less he says the better.
He sits in the First chair. It's situated in front and below the Helm's, with twin joycons to control the jet's guns. The Helm seat has all the navigation. Commander and executioner. Only the hyperspace leap requires action from both of them, really.
Isagi leans over him then, chin practically resting atop the crown of Kurona's head as he babbles through explaining the secondary array, the ship's status systems, all the things Kurona had drilled into him during his own stint at the Academy, things he could do in his sleep but has to pretend to be clueless about.
He doesn't realize the lophii's jaws have closed around him until the wrist braces clamp down. No, not even then; that makes his heart jump, yes, suddenly worried about Isagi trapping him and going running for the command station, but feasibly he can get out of the jet on his own. Even if Isagi locks him in the garage, there are vents.
No, what really sets the chill in Kurona's bones is when Isagi leans back in the Helm, and that over-kind smile turns sharp, and he says, "Hey, wanna take it for a spin?"
The cockpit locks before he has finished asking.
The array lights up.
The engines thrum.
"The neural link is a little weird at first," Isagi says too pleasantly. Of course. The monster just snapped up a meal. "Just don't fight it. Don't worry, I won't be in your memories or anything, it's just a simple thought exchange to make communication easier."
"Wait—!"
The garage opens.
Here we go!
And the stars smear as Kurona obeys Isagi's nudging, like following this Helm's lead is second nature.
No alarms sound on Xiphos, because Kiyora did his part of the job.
Isagi doesn't take them too far, just into some nice empty space a few lightyears from Xiphos and the belt of dwarf planets that mark the edge of the Ares system.
'I knew it,' he thinks rather triumphantly. 'You were a year or two behind me at the Academy, weren't you?'
He gets an odd mess of feelings in response: cold spike of fear, simmering coals of anger, a helium-dizzy breath of surprise. He doesn't know what's directed at him particularly and what's a result of Academy memories, but then Kurona responds, 'Yes, yes.'
'Why are you here?'
Kurona resists the question, Isagi can feel him doing it, but that doesn't stop the knee-jerk thought from slipping through their connection anyway: a stolen jet. Justice. Isagi doesn't get what for, but the anger flares from coals to blaze for a microsecond. He has to admire Kurona's control, and lets his new First know that. Kurona just grumbles in response, but he's pleased by the praise regardless.
'You're not taking me straight to Noa?' Kurona asks.
Isagi looks out of the windshield and feels his bones settle at simply seeing the stars in the distance. Tsuzumi's is small and bright, far away but Isagi knows its location from anywhere in the galaxy. All he says is, 'I haven't gotten to fly in almost a year.'
Kurona's mind goes still— not empty, just more like a quiet pond than a choppy sea.
'Over there is my home system,' Isagi nudges, not having to point because Kurona already knows exactly where Isagi wants him to look.
'You can't see mine from here,' Kurona answers, subdued. 'No one lives there anymore, anyway.'
Isagi prods at him, sees the root of anger there and wants to tug at it until it unspools, even if he gets burned by stray sparks along the way. Kurona starts to let him: First the deep oceans. More ocean than land, even, and a civilization built to accommodate that. Isagi has never seen anything like it; 'Thalassic system.' The name doesn't even ring a bell.
More details filter through.
Trash islands.
Oceanic cargo ships stamped with company logos, names that Isagi recognizes from the Ares travel logs in Xiphos command, names that Isagi recognizes from Academy donor lists, names Isagi recognizes because they're splayed over products the world over, all piled high with discarded plastics and dead electronics rather than sellable products.
Dead fish— so many dead fish.
A moon spitting up oil, corporate spacefaring ships zapping in from hyperspace with probes and drills, none of the system's six planets safe.
A monster washed up on shore, each tooth the size of the boy remembering it.
A classroom curriculum dozens of lightyears away that doesn't even mention the place that boy calls home, despite being so dependent on its fuel.
"Yoichi," a voice sings through the Helm comm. "What's your little jet doing all the way out there?"
Isagi grinds his teeth at the sudden intrusion. His mental connection with Kurona goes nearly blank, like Kurona is a startled animal gone to hide in the shadows.
It's really down to him, isn't it? Turn tail and limp home, his First resisting his guidance the whole way but his own future secure, even if they never let him out of a garage again, or...
Or?
Just like that, Kurona thrums back to life.
All the stars in the universe stretch out ahead of them. Isagi sees himself, sees the sea monster washed up on the beach, sees Bachira telling him 'don't let them ground you,' sees everything, every sector of the galaxy a puzzle piece made up of stars and planets only seen in charts and maps, or not at all.
'Do you trust me?' they ask each other. They'd be faster. They'd be cleverer. They wouldn't get caught, not with Isagi Helming and Kurona his First.
"Just sight-seeing," Isagi tells Kaiser and Ness pleasantly.
The comms cut as he and Kurona dive into hyperspace, so Isagi supposes he'll never really know how they responded to that one.
There was only really one choice all along.
Isagi Yoichi is starbound, after all.