Record of Lorelei: Chapter 4

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Another scorching day that felt as though the entire island might be roasted alive.

First Class Petty Officer Rui Asamura wasn’t on the flight schedule for the day, so Mikami decided to dedicate himself to a full inspection of the aircraft he was now responsible for. After finishing morning lineup, he ran to the maintenance area.

Aircraft number 312-017. There was no mistake—it was the same plane. What a cruel irony. It turned out that inspecting the aircraft himself would be faster than sending a telegram. What could cause such a sound to echo from the meticulously aerodynamic body of a Zero fighter? Part of him was worried, but as a mechanic, he was also genuinely intrigued.

The Zero Model 21. A carrier-based variant with foldable wingtips to match the width of its elevators. The Zero had many derivatives, thanks to its robust core design. As long as its foundational structure remained intact, it could endure nearly any modification. Simple, efficient, and elegant. Mikami loved the Zero. It didn’t demand flashy or superficial techniques but instead required a commitment to the fundamentals and repeated attention to detail. If a mechanic tried to cut corners or do things their own way, the aircraft would “protest” with poor performance. The saying that the Zero was a mirror of its mechanic rang true—it was a straightforward machine, built with only the bare essentials, leaving no room for deception. A Zero’s performance was an honest reflection of the mechanic’s dedication.

With thousands of Zeros stationed at Rabaul, Mikami wanted to bring out the best in each one. That was his conviction.

This particular Zero belonged to First Class Petty Officer Rui Asamura, a 19-year-old pilot. He had made a name for himself at Yokosuka Air Base before serving aboard the aircraft carrier Zuikaku. He’d bounced between carrier assignments and base postings, but a formal transfer a few days ago had brought him to Rabaul’s Zero squadron. The arresting hook still attached to the fuselage showed his recent carrier history.

Mikami reviewed Asamura’s individual record. No wonder they let him get away with so much. Despite being young, his kill count was already rivaling that of seasoned veterans. Every sortie saw at least one confirmed downed enemy plane. Zeroes were rare in his logs—he had a relentless streak, refusing to return until he’d taken at least one enemy down.

That’s probably why this Zero is exclusively his, Mikami thought. Normally, pilots flew whichever aircraft was available. Having a dedicated plane was a rare privilege, granted only to the truly exceptional. Asamura’s unmatched skill clearly earned him this allowance.

Mikami’s mind flashed back to seeing this same Zero wreak havoc, ripping antennae from enemy ships during a mission over Guam. He had felt a cold chill witnessing such raw ferocity in action. Yet, for someone so ruthless in battle, Asamura carried himself with surprising refinement.

Well, enough thinking about that, Mikami resolved, gripping his toolbox tightly. He was determined to find the source of the sound. If it’s a dangerous quirk of this Zero, it’s almost poetic that I get to fix it myself. It’s exactly the kind of challenge I’ve always wanted.

Rolling up his sleeves, he approached the Zero. It didn’t take long for something strange to catch his eye.

“What… is this?”

Near the nose of the plane, an unfamiliar U-shaped metal component was attached. Circling around to the back of the wings, Mikami climbed onto the aircraft using the footstep bar and peered toward the nose from the cockpit entrance.

The component was slightly to the right of center, about 20 centimeters long. Welded onto the otherwise smooth fuselage, it protruded like a foreign growth.

“Excuse me, but what is this?” Mikami called down to a passing mechanic.

If this component was causing turbulence, it would explain the noise. But what was it doing here? In all the hundreds of Zeroes Mikami had worked on in Japan, he had never seen anything like it.

The mechanic glanced up at Mikami and answered in an even, matter-of-fact tone.

"It's Lorelei's secret. It makes a sound."

Mikami stared, confused. Upon closer inspection, the U-shaped part seemed to be made from a thin sheet of bent metal. It didn’t make a sound during level flight, but once the aircraft angled, the component produced a distinct noise. He understood how it worked, but not why. What purpose could a noise-making part serve on a fighter plane?

As Mikami stood perplexed, the mechanic nearby spoke up.

“Get in the cockpit and lower the sight.”

Following the suggestion, Mikami climbed into the cockpit, settled into the seat, and lowered the gun sight. While final adjustments to the sight were the pilot’s responsibility, the basic setup was the mechanic’s job.

It was a standard OPL gun sight, with a circular reticle and a crosshair etched on the glass in front. The objective was simple: line up the enemy plane in the center of the reticle and pull the trigger. A straightforward mechanism for ensuring accuracy.

But through the sight’s circle, slightly down and to the right, Mikami saw that strange U-shaped component. From this angle, it appeared as a sleek, vertically oriented "U." Yet its purpose remained a mystery. Could it be for intimidation? That would be absurd. A component that made noise when the plane turned—what use could it possibly have?

Thinking it over, Mikami suddenly froze as realization struck.

Machine gun rounds didn’t fly straight. Gravity caused them to arc downward, following the parabolic trajectory dictated by physics. There was also a time delay between firing and the rounds hitting their target. The Zero’s 20mm cannons, notorious for their steep drop, were even nicknamed “pee rounds.” Additionally, the bullets would veer in the opposite direction of the plane’s roll, making accurate aim even more challenging. In a sense, the gun sight was practically a formality.

So how did pilots hit their targets? They anticipated where the enemy would be by the time the bullets arrived, firing with a calculated guess called “deflection angle.” Pilots relied on experience and intuition to determine this angle. But what if, Mikami thought, the correct angle could always be determined—if, for example, tilting the aircraft to align the enemy within the U-shape allowed a guaranteed hit?

Though he had never fired a machine gun in flight, Mikami felt a shiver of realization as he gazed through the U. It works. He could feel it in his bones. The principle was the same as that of a sniper rifle: the longer the line of sight, the greater the accuracy.

“I get it. I understand, but still…!”

Mikami leaned out of the cockpit, unable to contain himself. This can’t be real, he thought. A mechanic carrying ammunition nearby shot him a disinterested glance.

“It has to stay,” the mechanic said flatly. “If you try to remove it, he’ll throw a massive fit.”

“But if that noise is audible, he’ll die out there!” Mikami protested.

The U-shaped part wasn’t just noise—it was a targeting aid. Ingenious, but the sound it produced would instantly give away the plane’s position, making the pilot an easy target.

“Take it up with Lorelei,” the mechanic replied curtly, then walked away, as if his duty to explain had ended.

Mikami sat in the cockpit, stunned, staring at the U-shaped component. There has to be a way to fix this, he thought, but there’s no way to silence that sound without changing the shape. And leaving it as-is? Impossible.

The noise came back to him—the piercing, resonant whine of the small metal part as it echoed through the vast sky. I’ve heard it with my own ears. I know how deafening it is.

Understanding dawned on him with a mix of awe and exasperation. The pilot tilts the plane to align the enemy in the U-shaped reticle. When the plane tilts, the component makes its sound. By the time the enemy hears the noise, they’re already in the reticle. A moment later, they’re shot down, completing Lorelei’s melody—a death goddess singing in the heavens.

It was clever, but reckless—too dangerous to be practical. Air combat relied on stealth: sneaking up behind the enemy for a decisive, fatal strike. Using a device that traded accuracy for revealing one’s position was borderline suicidal.

Why hasn’t anyone stopped this? Mikami wondered. Was it because Asamura was the pilot, and no one dared challenge him? Or was it because he was protected by the higher-ups, from headquarters to the squadron commander? As the reasons piled up in Mikami’s mind, a shadow appeared near the rear of the plane.

It was Asamura.

Rui Asamura walked alone toward Mikami, stepping through the weeds between the scrub. He was likely here to check on the maintenance progress. Perfect timing.

Mikami hurriedly exited the cockpit. As he descended using the footstep bar, Asamura reached the side of the aircraft. For the first time, Mikami faced Asamura up close—and immediately caught his breath.

His eyes are blue.

No—not quite blue. Not black, not brown. A deep, grayish-blue hue like caramelized amber, tinged faintly with azure. It was a color Mikami had never seen before, something visible only when viewed head-on.

All the complaints Mikami had prepared were wiped from his mind in an instant, replaced by the mesmerizing shade of Asamura’s eyes. He stood dumbfounded for several seconds before regaining his composure, though confusion still lingered. Should he comment on them? Was that inappropriate? And how would he even phrase such a question? Feeling awkward, Mikami considered averting his gaze but stopped himself. No, he thought, focus on the issue. The strange U-shaped part on the plane—he couldn’t forget to address it. That had to come first.

Shifting his focus away from Asamura’s eyes, Mikami took in the rest of the man’s appearance and felt himself steadying. He’s well-built, Mikami noted. Asamura was on the smaller side, slender, with sharply angled features. His large, upward-slanting eyes and straight brows made him look fierce. His lips were firmly set, and his short, soft curls, though blackish, were faint enough to catch the sunlight and appear almost translucent at the ends.

Asamura’s well-formed face twisted into a displeased scowl.

“So, you’re Mikami?” he rasped.

The coarse voice jolted Mikami back to reality, and he quickly saluted. “Apologies, sir. I’m Mikami, the new maintenance chief assigned to this aircraft.”

Now it was Asamura’s turn to look surprised. His expression suggested disbelief that Mikami could understand him so easily. It’s clear enough, Mikami thought. I can see his lips move, and his voice is far easier to make out than my grandfather’s.

“Thank you for protecting us the other day,” Mikami continued. “I was aboard the Type-1 land-based bomber you escorted.”

When Mikami bowed, Asamura shot him a sharp glare. Still angry, Mikami guessed.

“And I apologize for the telegram,” Mikami added, bowing again. He wasn’t sorry for warning about the noise issue; he stood by that decision. But calling Asamura “Lorelei” in the process had clearly crossed a line.

Unaccustomed to Asamura’s piercing blue-gray eyes, Mikami didn’t know where to focus his gaze and ended up looking vaguely at the man’s cheek.

“By the way, First Class Petty Officer Asamura,” Mikami ventured, “about that part on the nose of your aircraft—”

“Don’t touch it,” Asamura growled.

“But it’s dangerous for you,” Mikami protested.

Dealing with pilots’ whims was a routine part of a mechanic’s job. While they did their best to accommodate requests, it was also their role to draw the line when safety was at stake. Only the mechanics had the authority—and the responsibility—to do so.

“With that part, you could become a hero, First Class Petty Officer,” Mikami said bluntly. “But you’ll be shot down before that ever happens.”

No amount of fame or victory could bring a dead man back. Overconfidence born of success could lead to complacency, and in war, the abyss was always one misstep away. Unlike ships, planes didn’t float. If you fell into the sea, that was the end.

Asamura’s cold gaze didn’t waver. Instead, he smiled faintly—a chilling, humorless expression.

“That’s the point,” he said. “Don’t interfere.”

“…What?” Mikami’s voice cracked, startled by the reply.

Asamura’s coarse voice rumbled again, faint and nearly unintelligible.

"Just stay quiet and focus on maintenance. Don’t meddle in my flying," Asamura growled.

Does he intend to die a hero? Mikami wondered. That’s not how this works. Was it a delusion born from the inherent hubris of pilots? Or had the immense expectations placed on him by the nation pushed him into this warped way of thinking? The ultimate and most fundamental hope of every soldier was to survive, defeat the enemy, and return home. While accepting the possibility of death was part of a soldier’s duty, no one sought it willingly. Surviving and earning recognition afterward was what made all the struggle worthwhile. That’s what everyone believed as they fought in this desolate southern outpost. A gravestone inscribed with “hero” was meaningless if you weren’t alive to appreciate it.

Regardless of what Asamura thought, Mikami had his own convictions as a mechanic that he couldn’t compromise.

“I can’t allow it. If something on the aircraft puts the pilot at risk, it’s the mechanic’s duty to remove it.”

“You dare defy a pilot?”

Asamura’s hoarse voice thundered, and suddenly his fist connected with Mikami’s cheek. This time, Mikami had anticipated it. A blow from the smaller Asamura was easy enough to endure, leaving Mikami merely staggering.

Tasting blood in his mouth, Mikami turned his gaze back to Asamura.

“…And?”

Yesterday’s unexpected hit had left him momentarily dazed, but Mikami’s body was as sturdy as any mechanic’s—likely even tougher than most pilots’.

Asamura stared at him, clearly taken aback. Mikami wasn’t about to wait for a reply.

“I’m removing it,” he said firmly.

“Don’t. If you take it off, I’ll put it back on myself.”

“It’ll be misaligned,” Mikami said coolly, lowering his voice. “It’s welded on, so you’ll need tools.”

The part, clearly added by another mechanic, had been skillfully affixed. There was no way a pilot could have attached such a precise component on their own. The angle of the U-shaped bracket was finely calculated; once removed, it wouldn’t be easily reattached.

Asamura glared, his lips moving silently before forcing out a raspy, audible response. “I can’t trust you to maintain my plane. Get out of my way!”

“I won’t. I’m the maintenance chief for this aircraft. I won’t clear it for flight—it’s unfit for duty.”

“You bastard…!”

As Asamura lunged, reaching for Mikami’s collar, the gathered mechanics sprang into action, stepping between them.

“Please, First Class Petty Officer, stop!”

“Mikami just got here—cut him some slack!”

Though they acted as if breaking up the fight, the mechanics were clearly siding with Mikami. Whatever the dynamics outside the maintenance area, here it was the mechanics’ domain.

“You damn droopy-eyed idiot!” Asamura spat, resorting to a childish insult. Realizing his demands wouldn’t be met, he furiously shoved away the surrounding mechanics, shot Mikami a burning glare, then turned on his heel. Stomping off, he disappeared into the scrub beyond the maintenance grounds.

“Well, that was almost endearing,” Mikami muttered, catching his breath. So much for bracing myself. He’d expected a wild hothead but found Asamura to be far more manageable than anticipated.

The other mechanics, energized by the exchange, slapped Mikami on the back.

“Did you see that? First Class Petty Officer Asamura lost a shouting match! Never thought I’d live to witness it.”

That’s not quite right, Mikami thought. Asamura wasn’t unreasonable—he just didn’t know how to navigate disputes because others were too hesitant to challenge him.

“Mikami, you’re the squad’s secret weapon against Asamura!” one of them joked, prompting laughter. Acknowledging their comments with a slight bow, Mikami stepped away from the group.

“I’m grabbing tools,” he announced.

His personal kit didn’t include a hacksaw strong enough for that part. If a hacksaw wouldn’t do, he’d have to use a gas torch to cut through it. Whoever attached the piece had recklessly welded it onto the Zero’s delicate 0.6-millimeter duralumin skin. If I can’t restore the surface smoothly, I’ll have to replace the entire panel.

With a sigh, Mikami headed off to gather what he needed.

Mikami observed the neatly organized tools in the squad’s supply area and felt satisfied. This is a good team, he thought. Everything was sorted into dedicated boxes by type, with not a single rusty tool or misplaced nail in sight. Labels were accurate, and there wasn’t even a stray bent nail or scrap of iron lying around. A well-organized toolset was always a hallmark of a good maintenance team.

Using a well-oiled hacksaw, Mikami cut off the U-shaped component. The surface of an aircraft was so delicate and smooth that even a flat-headed nail could cause damage if mishandled. He carefully removed the part, then applied a burner to the jagged weld marks, smoothing the metalwork. After applying an anti-rust treatment and repainting the area, no trace of the component remained.

Afterward, a suspicion nagged at him, prompting a closer inspection of the plane’s interior. Even a small component protruding into the airflow would require adjustments elsewhere to maintain balance. He was sure something had been added to compensate.

Aircraft, like paper planes, were designed to glide straight when released. Considering the need for balance, the likely location for a counterweight was limited. Searching the interior, Mikami found exactly what he expected: a fist-sized chunk of iron lodged in the left side of the fuselage. Removing it resolved the issue entirely.

So much for the legendary “monster” everyone talked about, Mikami thought. The truth was always simpler than the rumors made it seem.

The rest of the day passed in a flurry of activity with his new squad. Mikami worked on the Zero’s paneling, met the leads of various teams, discussed upcoming flight schedules, and completed other tasks that required trips to and from headquarters. The first day ended without incident.

After dinner in the tent, Mikami was about to head back to his barracks when an unfamiliar man approached. Judging by his uniform, he was a squad member.

“The flight officer, Ensign Towada, requests your presence at the pilot’s barracks,” the man said.

“…Understood.”

The pilot’s barracks…

Looks like I need to brace myself, Mikami thought as he made his way there. Earlier that day, he had openly defied Asamura. That alone was enough to invite retaliation for disrespecting a pilot.

Will they beat me senseless? he wondered as he arrived. Waiting for him was none other than Towada, the squad leader who had punched him days earlier. A different issue, then, Mikami thought, feeling a pang of despair.

Towada didn’t bother to apologize for hitting him. Instead, he immediately issued an order.

“From today, you’re moving into the pilot’s barracks.”

“…What?”

The abruptness of it left Mikami at a loss for words. He could sleep anywhere if ordered to, but the mechanics’ barracks—a simple structure with rows of bunk beds—was far different from this arrangement.

Towada glared at him with his rugged features. “You’re in charge of taking care of Asamura.”

“I’m just—” Mikami started, attempting to explain that he was only a mechanic, but a younger pilot standing nearby nudged him with an elbow.

“It means you’re being assigned to interpret for Asamura again. I hear you got the better of him earlier,” the pilot whispered.

Rumors traveled like wildfire in the South. Without flames, they still managed to spread across the base in no time. This is ridiculous, Mikami thought, though he couldn’t argue. That night, he was assigned a bed in the Western-style pilot’s barracks. The furnishings were more luxurious than his room back home. Since there wasn’t yet space in Asamura’s room, Mikami spent the night in the duty officer’s quarters, carefully avoiding even a snore. Before he knew it, morning had come without him getting any sleep.

Morning lineup and breakfast were spent with his original maintenance squad. When asked how it was, Mikami replied, “Nothing much so far.” Neither the previous night nor that morning had seen any summons from Asamura. He had simply lain in the pilot’s barracks until it was time to leave.

What’s next? Mikami wondered. After breakfast, as he headed back to the pilot’s barracks, another squad member came to fetch him—this time from the communications division. A sense of foreboding settled over him. No way this mess hasn’t reached that man’s ears.

Before Mikami could ask to hear the message quickly, Kido himself arrived, apparently too impatient to wait. What an incredibly childish man, Mikami thought.

Whatever special privileges the communications division had, Kido seemed to have unrestricted access to every space, even the pilot’s barracks. With his high rank, no one dared to question him. Without hesitation, Kido led Mikami to the terrace of the barracks, pulled over a wooden chair with a backrest, and sat down in front of him.

“So, I hear you put Rui in his place?”

“I didn’t do anything of the sort.”

All Mikami had done was remove a dangerous part—scrap metal that wasn’t in the original Zero blueprint. And yet, the whole thing had turned into a ridiculous spectacle. It was clear enough that Kido had been one of the people suggesting Mikami act as Asamura’s caretaker. Why a communications officer like Kido felt the need to meddle in a pilot’s affairs—or Mikami’s, for that matter—was utterly baffling.

“Is the communications division always this idle?” Mikami asked pointedly, his words dripping with sarcasm.

Kido raised an eyebrow and chuckled lightly. At least the barb had landed.

“Interesting, very interesting. You’re a new kind of person around here,” Kido said, pulling a small block of yokan from his pocket and placing it in front of Mikami.

“We’ve had plenty of squad members try to deal with Rui before, but no one’s been able to understand him. And, well, Rui never listens to anything they say.”

“Doesn’t listen?”

“That’s right. He has nothing to lose by ignoring them. No consequences whatsoever.”

The imbalance was glaring. A pilot could treat squad members terribly, but someone like Asamura would never face repercussions for it. If Rui’s whims weren’t indulged, it was the squad member who got reprimanded. Unlike Mikami, who could directly influence Rui by working on his aircraft, the squad members had no leverage at all. They were doomed to lose before the battle even began.

“Tell him off properly next time,” Kido said with a grin. “Show him who’s boss, Mr. mechanic.”

“That’s absurd. What am I supposed to do to a pilot?” Mikami retorted.

The earlier incident had only gone in Mikami’s favor because the mechanics’ perspective happened to prevail that time. The hierarchy was absolute, and Mikami couldn’t predict what kind of retaliation might come next. He hoped Asamura had understood the danger posed by that part, but pushing further would definitely cross a line.

Kido, of course, didn’t seem the least bit concerned.

“If you lose your job, I’ll take you into the communications division. Can you operate a radio?”

“…Only well enough to send a distress signal,” Mikami replied dryly.

He wasn’t sure if Kido was serious, but in the military, failure often led to reassignment to the harshest battlefields. If getting thrown out of his current squad meant being sent somewhere far worse, sticking around in Rabaul—even in some minor role—seemed like a safer bet.

Kido laughed as though he found Mikami’s predicament amusing, but then his tone shifted. He lit a cigarette from his pocket, taking a sharp drag before exhaling a long, thin stream of smoke.

“But remember this,” Kido said, fixing Mikami with a rare serious look.

“If Rui dies, it’s not your fault. Not even a little.”

Was that supposed to be comforting? Mikami didn’t know how to respond.

Pilots and mechanics. They were part of the same air corps, but when sorties went wrong, it was always the pilots who paid with their lives. Whether shot down by the enemy or lost due to navigational errors, the reasons varied. Still, Mikami was certain that in some cases, mechanical failure was the cause.

Planes carried lives. Mechanics had to check every part meticulously—were they secure, properly aligned, free of defects, and not weakened by wear? The inspections were repeated over and over with extreme caution, but no mechanic could claim with absolute certainty that their work was flawless. Yet burdening themselves with that weight would make it impossible to do the job.

They devoted everything they had to their work, obsessively rechecking even the smallest details. Once the plane took off, they could only look to the sky and pray for its safe return. If it didn’t, they tried not to wallow in guilt, but the haunting “what-ifs” still churned in their hearts, threatening to crush them.

Mikami knew there was no point in trying to explain this to Kido. He wouldn’t understand.

Mikami gave a noncommittal response, and Kido, apparently satisfied, stood up from his chair with a purposeful air.

“You, come to the communications division. I’m going to introduce you to my subordinates.”

“Introduce me as what?”

Kido suddenly grabbed Mikami by the arm and pulled him forward. Mikami stumbled after him, taken by surprise. Kido was always abrupt. Mikami hadn’t even had time to grab anything after returning from a meal. As Kido strode confidently across the terrace, saluting those they passed, he laughed heartily.

“As the author of the famous telegram love letter!”

Mikami returned from the communications division, gathered his tools, and headed out from the barracks. Above the horizon, thick, glossy clouds were massing heavily. The Southern sky, Mikami thought, seemed almost as if the volcanic fumes from Mount Tavurvur were the very breath forming those clouds. Rabaul’s weather was clear once again. Against the metallic blue of the sky, puffy cumulus clouds drifted like resilient cotton.

As he walked toward the maintenance hangar, Mikami firmed his resolve. From today onward, he would follow Asamura’s wishes—whatever they might be. What Mikami couldn’t abide was sending someone up in a plane he knew to be unsafe. As long as the aircraft was within normal operational parameters, the rest could be tailored to the pilot’s preferences.

Bring on Asamura’s requests, he thought, his mind set as he entered the maintenance area. But as soon as he arrived, he felt the gazes of the other mechanics on him. No one spoke; they simply watched, waiting for his reaction. It didn’t take long to understand why.

The U-shaped component he had removed yesterday was back. It was impossible that Asamura had reattached it himself. Which meant…

“Who put this back? Why did they reattach it?” Mikami demanded, his voice loud and direct, addressing everyone and no one in particular. It had to be one of them.

A mechanic standing nearby answered, “Apparently, First Class Petty Officer Asamura refused to board without it and went directly to command to appeal.”

It didn’t matter who reattached the part. The truth was undeniable: someone had caved to Asamura’s demands.

I should have seen this coming, Mikami thought bitterly. Asamura had fought battles with that part installed all along. One mechanic’s stubborn pride couldn’t compete with the pilot’s influence. If a pilot demanded it, the mechanic had no choice but to comply. But if that’s the case, what’s the point of our integrity as mechanics?

They had been trained to be faithful to their machines, drilled in the ethos of putting the aircraft first. Yet here they were, bowing to the whims of a single pilot. What kind of maintenance is that? It’s servitude.

“Why do you keep indulging him?!” Mikami shouted, his anger bursting out before he could contain it. “No… wait…” His frustration crystallized into a sudden, chilling realization.

“Does command not care if he dies?!”

The answer was clear in his mind: They don’t.

The war’s victory mattered more than the life of any one pilot. A fearless soldier who destroyed enemy aircraft with reckless courage was an asset. Command would favor such a pilot’s zeal and daring. If he died, he would be celebrated as a martyr, a hero whose loyalty and bravery would be honored. His name would adorn flags, and his deeds would inspire others to follow his path. Pilots were replaceable—this island alone had more than enough to fill his position.

Mikami growled in frustration. “I’m going to get my tools again.”

He couldn’t let it stand. He couldn’t allow someone so reckless to take to the skies.

“You know someone will just put it back,” one of the mechanics called after him.

“Then I’ll remove it again!” Mikami shouted over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around.

There’s no way I’m letting someone fly when it’s as if they’re asking to be killed.

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