Record of Lorelei: Chapter 8

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Throughout the sortie of Rui’s squadron, Mikami found his mind adrift—as if floating aimlessly in the sky like a cloud without destination.

After the planes took off, he and the others returned to the maintenance area, leaving a few personnel to keep watch. They busied themselves with other aircraft repairs, but Mikami’s focus was nowhere to be found. His eyes repeatedly wandered from his hands to the sky, and then to his watch. As the estimated return time drew closer, he found himself heading toward the runway before anyone called for him.

The maximum flight time of a Zero was about eight hours—three and a half hours one way, fifteen minutes of combat, and the same back again. Today’s mission was air defense for a remote island two hours away. The island itself was insignificant, but recent intelligence suggested U.S. forces were conducting some kind of activity there.

The squadron had flown out alongside fifteen bombers, escorted by seventy-nine Zeros. Rui was among them.

The reconnaissance planes, the Suisei, had sent word that the bombers had completed their payload drops. Normally, such updates wouldn’t make their way to the mechanics, but Kido used the youngest member of the communications team to relay information whenever Rui was involved. The squadron was worn thin from repeated large-scale dogfights. With the battles growing fiercer by the day, damages and casualties mounted with every sortie. The number of enemy planes was steadily increasing, and the pilots were visibly exhausted.

Two hours after takeoff, a single Zero returned. Its windshield was slick and black with oil, forcing the plane to abort the mission and turn back. The mechanics moved to the airfield in anticipation of more arrivals.

After four hours, a dive bomber limped back, its tail and vertical stabilizer riddled with bullet holes. It managed a safe landing.

“Get the crew out and begin inspections!” the chief mechanic barked.

Everyone sprang into action, swarming the bomber. Ground crews, mechanics, and squad members worked together to handle the post-landing procedures. The pilots were carefully helped out of the cockpit and handed over to squad members while mechanics checked the controls. A truck was roped to the plane for towing into the cover of the brush. When one plane returned, more inevitably followed, so there was no time to waste. It was all about precision. Three minutes per plane—a routine honed through grueling practice.

Even as they worked, another Zero appeared in the distance.

“Hey! Its landing gear isn’t down! What’s wrong with the radio?”

The team scrambled to assess whether the plane would attempt a landing as-is or climb for another approach to deploy the gear. If communication was lost, they would have to evacuate immediately.

“It’s coming back for another pass!” a young soldier from the communications team shouted.

Meanwhile, more silhouettes appeared on the horizon.

“They’re bunching up! Ground team, spread them out!”

When three or more planes returned together, they had to be guided to land at safe distances. Ground crew used tarpaulins, flags, and lights to direct each plane to its designated spot.

“Landing gear confirmed! Prepare for towing!”

“Leave the canopy open and remove it in the back!”

Mikami threw himself into the frenzy of inspecting planes as they touched down, ensuring the safety of both pilots and equipment. After stopping the engines and confirming there was no risk of an explosion, the planes were quickly hidden away among the trees.

“Next one’s incoming!” came a shout amidst the engine roars. Mikami glanced upward—it was a Zero. Rui’s plane.

He dashed toward the plane as it approached the seaside runway. There were no flames or smoke, and while the airframe was intact, one of the windshields was clouded with a white film.

The moment the plane came to a halt, wheel chocks were jammed into place. Mikami grabbed his tools and clambered onto the plane. The canopy was partially open. He quickly slid it back and peered inside.

Rui was slumped over, eyes closed.

“First Class Petty Officer Asamura! Asamura!”

Mikami’s voice rang out as he reached inside, patting Rui’s cheek to wake him. There were no visible injuries, but he was unconscious.

“Rui!”

He lightly tapped Rui’s cheek again, calling his name. Slowly, those water-like, vibrant eyes fluttered open, hazy but unmistakably alive.

"...Ka...mi..."

“Yes.”

Relief surged through Mikami as Rui’s lips managed to form his name. Gently, he slid his hands under Rui’s arms, helping him. Compared to the other pilots, Rui was far too worn out. It wasn’t a matter of physical resilience—it was the inevitable result of flying that plane.

Rui had been pushing himself harder than ever lately, and Mikami knew why. The Zero Squadron was primarily composed of older Type 21 and Type 22 planes, alongside the latest Type 52 models. Rui was still flying a Type 21 from his days with carrier-based planes, and the newer Type 52s were slow to reach him. Based on his performance, Rui should have been assigned one of the recently delivered Type 52s. But he wasn’t. His reputation for converting planes into personal crafts made it politically sensitive—and painfully unfair. Mikami understood why their superiors made the decision, but it still stung. Rui, too, seemed hesitant to demand the plane outright, knowing full well the arguments against him. Instead, he strained to keep pace with the newer Type 52s by recklessly overtaxing his outdated aircraft.

Mikami helped Rui stand unsteadily in the cockpit, guiding him down. He handed Rui off to medics waiting below. Two of them supported Rui as they led him to the shade of a tree. Mikami caught a glimpse of soldiers running over with canteens while the doctor hovered nearby. That’s under control. Mikami turned back to the Zero and climbed aboard again.

The plane showed no signs of overheating, nor was there any unusual odor. There were bullet grazes along the tail and fuselage, but that could wait. The windshield was shattered by a machine-gun round, the bullet having passed cleanly through and out the top. Despite the damage, the aircraft didn’t seem to have transmitted any injuries to its pilot. The machine Mikami had so meticulously maintained had brought Rui home once again.

“You’re not some instrument of vengeance, are you?” Mikami murmured, recalling what Akizawa had told him. No matter Rui’s desires or ideals—or even if this plane was a tool for killing—it was also a vehicle for Rui’s survival. For Japan’s future.

At least it made it back in one piece this time. Mikami resolved to devise a safer balance within the extreme adjustments Rui demanded. His thoughts were interrupted by a faint, short cry.

He straightened and turned toward the sound, glancing behind him from atop the wing. Rui was gone. The squad member assigned to watch him stood in the same spot, looking uneasy.

Has he gone back to the barracks already? Mikami wondered, but an uneasiness stirred in his chest. He tried convincing himself that the squad member could handle things, but the bad feeling refused to dissipate.

After delegating his tasks to a fellow mechanic, Mikami climbed down and jogged toward the squad member. The man looked sheepishly at him.

“Where is First Class Petty Officer Asamura?”

“I’m sorry, I... I couldn’t stop him.”

“What do you mean? Where did he go?”

“Three other pilots came by and said they needed to speak with him,” the man stammered, casting a worried glance toward the brush.

Mikami’s stomach sank. Without another word, he sprinted into the dense foliage.

How could I have been so careless? he chastised himself. He’d felt reassured by the squad member’s presence, forgetting that they wouldn’t dare stand up to the pilots. I should’ve told them to call me at the first sign of trouble.

He pushed through the undergrowth, branches scraping his body, fueled by a grim certainty—someone intended to harm Rui. In the chaos of sorties and landings, they saw an opportunity to strike. And in all this commotion, Mikami was likely the only one who would rush to Rui’s defense.

Not far into the brush, voices erupted, sharp and angry.

“Enough of your games! Do you think this is a joke, you goddamn American?”

“You’re a spy for the U.S.! Admit it, you bastard!”

Through the leaves, Mikami spotted three men restraining Rui, holding him in a vicious grip. Without hesitation, Mikami surged forward, branches whipping against his skin, running at full speed toward the commotion.

“—!”

Without saying a word, Mikami hurled himself into the scuffle.

“Ugh!”

The man gripping Rui’s collar went flying. Another, who had been holding Rui in a restraining grip, loosened his arms in surprise, giving Mikami the chance to shove him away, using Rui’s shoulder as leverage.

“What do you think you’re doing to First Class Petty Officer Asamura?!”

Positioning himself protectively in front of Rui, Mikami shouted at the pilots.

“And who the hell are you, a mere mechanic, to interfere in a pilot’s business?! Do you have any idea what happens when you piss off a pilot? State your unit!”

The words grated on him. Mikami understood the difference in their roles. He respected the pilots who faced the frontlines, risking everything. But war wasn’t a solo effort. The pilots were at the tip of the spear, but he was part of the same weapon.

“Maintenance Division, Toyoda Unit. Tetsuo Mikami,” he declared, breathing hard.

“I’m the one who services your planes.”

He recognized these pilots—men who never lingered by their aircraft, unlike others like Kotohira of the Gekkou, who was constantly by his machine. These were the type who saw mechanics as invisible and their work as a given.

“I don’t care what you do to me in retaliation, but remember, draining the fuel from your aircraft is child’s play for someone like me.”

“You bastard! Do you even realize what would happen if a mechanic like you pulled something like that? You’d be court-martialed!”

One of the pilots grabbed Mikami by the collar, but he didn’t flinch, locking eyes with him.

“Do you know the phrase, ‘a cornered rat will bite the cat’?”

Sure, the rat might die moments later, shredded by the cat’s claws. But that one bite could still inflict a fatal blow.

“This is the front line. Court-martial or no court-martial, I could die tomorrow. If that’s the case, maybe I’d throw everything away just to strike back.”

The pilots faltered, thrown off by Mikami’s unrelenting glare. He pressed on.

“I know your names. How would you like it if I circulated them on the mechanics’ lists?”

There was an unspoken bond among the maintenance crew—a mutual understanding forged by their shared dedication to keeping planes and pilots alive. But if a mechanic’s honor was trampled upon, if their dedication was disrespected or mocked, retribution could come in forms only mechanics were capable of delivering. The pilots might forget, but their lives depended on the aircraft they flew. And the condition of those aircraft was in the hands of the mechanics.

What if, just hypothetically, someone sabotaged an aircraft? What if water was poured into the fuel tank, or the targeting system was subtly misaligned, or crucial wiring was left disconnected?

The pilot gripping Mikami’s collar shoved him away in frustration.

“Damn it, just remember this! And you, Asamura—go get yourself shot down, you bastard!”

They stormed off into the thicket, spitting out curses as they went.

Mikami exhaled heavily, glancing up at the sky for a moment before turning to look behind him.

Rui was slumped on the ground, his expression tense and rigid. Mikami understood why. With a faint, wry smile, he crouched down in front of Rui. Rui flinched at the movement.

“It was a lie. I wouldn’t actually do something like that,” Mikami said softly. “No matter how angry I get, anger and human lives are entirely separate matters.”

No amount of frustration could make Mikami compromise an aircraft. To use a machine for revenge would mean abandoning his identity as a mechanic.

“The list…” Rui murmured.

“That was a lie too,” Mikami admitted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sometimes, though, you’ve got to bluff a little to keep unruly pilots in check—”

Then it hit him.

“Oh… I should’ve said we really had one.”

The most stubborn and willful pilot he had to deal with was right in front of him. If he’d claimed the list was real, maybe it could have been a tool to keep Rui in line.

But that could wait.

“Are you all right? No injuries?”

From what Mikami could see, Rui seemed unharmed. He must have arrived just in time to prevent a serious blow.

Rui let out a heavy sigh and simply answered, "I figured this was coming sooner or later."

"A lynching? Of course. They’re in the wrong, but about a third of the blame is on you, you know?"

Mikami couldn’t condone the mob-like attack, but he understood their frustration. Rui’s flying still showed no respect for protocol. Cutting off superior officers to shoot down enemy planes, breaking formation to pursue targets on his own whim—his behavior was reckless, selfish, and infuriating. In a military that valued collective effort, Rui’s individualism stood out like a sore thumb. The navy, especially, despised personal glory. A ship didn’t sail because of one person; it moved as a unit. Its victories were the crew’s achievements, not the captain’s. Rui’s lone-wolf antics clashed with this ethos, making him an easy target for resentment.

Mikami stood and offered his hand to Rui, pulling him to his feet.

"Let’s get you back to the barracks. At least with people around, this kind of thing won’t happen."

But even as he said it, Mikami felt a pang of doubt when he looked into Rui’s eyes. Was he really safe even in plain view? When Rui was abducted earlier, the squad members who had been assigned to watch him didn’t even raise an alarm. Were they afraid of becoming targets themselves just for defending him? Rui’s unusual eyes seemed to strip away the basic decency people usually extended to others. And his inability to speak—his muteness—only made it easier for others to deny him even the most fundamental safety.

Rui shook his head, clearly irritated, but Mikami didn’t relent.

"Then I’ll take you to Kido’s place."

If Rui was under Kido’s protection, no one would dare lay a finger on him. Kido would fiercely shield Rui, and anyone foolish enough to try harming him in Kido’s presence would face a punishment severe enough to deter any further attempts.

As Rui muttered complaints under his breath, words too soft for Mikami to hear, he stood unsteadily. Something fell from his pocket, landing on the dry grass with a dull thud. It was a silver pocket watch, dangling from its cord. Mikami picked it up.

When he moved to return it, he noticed a rough texture against his palm. Frowning, Mikami inspected the watch. A rusted hole marred its back. Concerned, he flipped it over to check the face. The hands pointed to an absurdly wrong time.

"How long has it been like this? It’s broken," he said, his brow furrowed. "I’ll ask one of the squad members to get you a new one."

It was a fine watch, but if it didn’t work, it was no more than junk. Mikami knew that new standard-issue watches had recently arrived and could easily secure one for Rui.

"Give it back. It’s fine as it is," Rui said curtly.

"But—"

"The one I use is in my gear bag. That one…" Rui hesitated, his expression complicated as he glanced at the watch in Mikami’s hand.

"…It’s a charm."

Mikami raised an eyebrow. A charm? That didn’t suit Rui at all. Many pilots carried tokens of luck, but Rui, who flew as if courting death with every mission, calling something a "charm"?

Mikami carefully examined the watch again.

"It’s not navy-issued. But it’s a nice piece."

Its design resembled the standard navy aviation timepieces, but this was no military watch. The chain loop was delicate, the dial and hands lacked the radium coating that made standard watches glow in the dark. It seemed foreign-made. The ivory dial and the slightly smaller size gave it an elegant, refined look.

It wasn’t especially old, yet the rust around the hole puzzled him. As he examined it more closely, Mikami noticed faint Roman letters engraved on the back.

"Asamura," he murmured aloud. "Your name?"

He glanced at Rui, but the pilot’s expression remained unreadable.

“It belonged to my father,” Rui said, his voice quiet, his expression somber. It was clear this watch held immense value to him. Given its battered condition and the fact he still carried it everywhere, Mikami could understand why.

He examined the corroded parts closely. The metal had become brittle, its edges tinged with blue-green oxidation that appeared to be spreading inward.

“I think I can patch this hole,” Mikami offered after a moment. “If I hammer out the base of an empty shell casing, the color should match pretty well. Do you want me to repair the mechanism inside too?”

“…Can you?” Rui’s voice carried a note of surprise.

Mikami nodded confidently. “As long as I can get the parts. Even if I can’t, I can at least patch this hole. If we leave it as is, the corrosion will keep spreading. And with all the salt in the air here, things rust quickly.”

The internal mechanism was likely in worse shape than the exterior. Mikami, like most maintenance crew, was used to fabricating parts when needed, but the intricacy of a watch posed a unique challenge. The gears were too small to handle with standard tools, and welding delicate components might prove impossible without specialized equipment. Still, he was optimistic. If necessary, he could scavenge parts or arrange for replacements.

“Mind if I hold onto this for now?” he asked. Then, with a grin, he added, “I’ll go to the communications office and call Kido for you. After that, I’ve got your Zero to take care of, so please—just stay put, alright?”

“The watch,” Rui said, his voice soft but insistent.

“I’ll keep it safe. I’ll bring it back to you tonight.”

Mikami smiled reassuringly as he rose. He could sense Rui’s reluctance to let it go, but there wasn’t much reason for distrust. They were on an island—Mikami couldn’t exactly vanish into the sea with it. Besides, a broken watch held little monetary value. Its importance lay solely in what it meant to Rui, something deeply personal. If only he would trust me…

Rui didn’t follow. He remained standing among the trees, his gaze fixed on Mikami’s retreating figure. When Mikami glanced back, he caught sight of those striking eyes, watching him with unwavering intensity through the gaps in the foliage.

＊ ＊ ＊

"We’re not at the point where we need you mechanics just yet."

With a confident smile, the ground crew returned to the runway, even though it was already after dinner.

They were going to fill in the craters left by the bombing—hauling dirt, pounding it flat, and evening it out. Sometimes, they even laid down steel plates. If the holes were filled too loosely, an aircraft’s tires could sink in, causing catastrophic accidents. Local workers were hired to help, and under the beams of searchlights and starlight, the repairs often continued through the night. Despite the heavy bombing, the crew claimed today’s damage wasn’t that bad.

Mikami and the others worked until the very last light of sunset, inspecting and repairing aircraft. Thanks to quick decisions to evacuate, they had managed to get the operable planes to safety in time. None of the planes that went out suffered fatal damage, though three fighters had been shot down. All were piloted by new recruits.

Why are they sending rookies to the front lines? It was a topic of frequent discussion. Repeated air battles had claimed many experienced pilots, and the shortage of capable crew was becoming critical. Meanwhile, there were rumors of seasoned pilots being recalled to mainland Japan, supposedly to prepare for homeland defense. Homeland defense? But the front lines are way out here in the south, some said, scratching their heads. But Mikami remembered the journey here. A bomber could reach the mainland in half a day. If the defensive lines in places like Rabaul were breached, the consequences would be dire.

No, that can’t happen. Shaking the thought from his mind, Mikami opened his pack and pulled out a wooden case no bigger than a pencil box.

Inside were ultra-fine tools. These were either custom-made or expensive enough that keeping them in a communal toolbox risked them going missing. Dedicated mechanics often bought their own tools and kept them private. Mikami’s set had been painstakingly gathered while stationed back in the mainland, commissioned from a specialty blacksmith. The kit included fine screwdrivers, precision wrenches, razor-sharp wire cutters, and tweezers delicate enough to pluck a single strand of hair.

Once the day’s maintenance was done, Mikami headed to the workshop. He had given up his place in the dinner queue to the ground crew, so there was still time before he could eat.

The workshop was a simple structure of paneling. To avoid becoming a target during air raids, the lighting was kept low, with lanterns hung close to the ground. Inside, three pairs of desks were arranged back-to-back. Two were already occupied by mechanics working on their own projects. The room smelled of mosquito-repellent ropes, which released a distinctive odor as they smoldered in thin, curling wisps of smoke.

Mikami chose the middle desk and lit a small lantern at hand. A soft, egg-yolk glow spread over his workspace. He placed a sheet of white paper down and carefully inserted a slim metal spatula into the seam of the pocket watch’s back cover. Gently prying it open, he heard a scraping sound. Sand and rust particles trickled down onto the paper. This was going to be a challenge.

Placing the watch on the desk, Mikami carefully removed the internal components one by one with tweezers. Aircraft parts were never this intricate, and it had been years since Mikami had dealt with something so tiny—back when he had moonlighted as a repairman for mechanical clocks.

He inserted a monocle loupe into his left eye socket and peered inside. The central mechanism was corroded, the mainspring stretched out in loose, wavy coils. It would need to be straightened and rewound. Mikami removed the loupe and turned his attention to the back cover, which lay face down on the desk.

What a strange hole.

The watch couldn’t have been more than a decade old, and the rest of its silver case retained a beautiful sheen. But the damaged section wasn’t worn or dented—it had simply corroded into weakness, the metal crumbling around the hole. Artificial corrosion. There was one large hole and several other discolored areas where the metal had thinned and was likely to break through in time.

──Hydrochloric acid.

Rui’s terse explanation resurfaced in Mikami’s mind. If this damage had been caused by hydrochloric acid, it made perfect sense. Had this pocket watch been exposed to acid while Rui was still wearing it? The thought made him shudder.

He recalled the keloid scars running from Rui’s neck to his chest. The acid must have trickled down his skin. It was logical to assume the acid had soaked into the watch strap, eating into the metal casing as it dripped. The image was as horrifying as it was vivid.

Carefully laying each component on the paper one by one, Mikami dismantled the pocket watch to a safe extent. Its condition was far worse than he had expected. Several gears were rusted to the point that attempting to polish them might cause their teeth to chip. Dust had mixed with the lubricant, oxidizing into a thick black crust. A watch is a delicate mechanism, already vulnerable to dust and sea air. With a hole left open, the interior had deteriorated rapidly.

Examining the parts, Mikami found that only about a third of them were salvageable. He decided not to touch the heart of the mechanism for now. It would be safer to first prepare fine brushes and straws to clean out the dust before opening it further. In any case, it was clear the watch wouldn’t be repairable within a day or two.

Mikami brushed off the loose debris, reassembled the watch, and closed the back. An overhaul was essential. Every component would need to be cleaned with benzine, and the unusable parts would have to be replaced—likely ordered from the mainland through someone he could trust. The back cover would either need to be replaced entirely or have the corroded sections excised and patched with another metal plate. If these measures were taken, the watch could still be preserved. It was a remarkable silver piece, and while silver of this quality was rare now, careful polishing could make the repairs nearly invisible, especially since the patch would be on the back.

While examining the watch, the time for dinner arrived. Mechanics ate in shifts by their assigned teams. That evening, being in the later group, Mikami ate under the dim lights of the barracks. The simple barley rice tasted far more satisfying compared to subsisting solely on canned rations. Eating under the stars had its own charm.

The pilots, including Rui, had likely finished their meals earlier, while it was still light. Although Mikami had been tasked with looking out for Rui, he didn’t share meals with the pilots.

“I could ask if they’d let you eat with them”, Kido had said lightly, but Mikami had declined in a hurry. It wasn’t about whether it was allowed or not; inserting himself into the pilots’ mealtime just to act as Rui’s interpreter would have felt unbearably presumptuous.

Nearby, the team leaders were chatting over their canned rations and barley rice.

“Lately, the parts we’re getting are so rough, it’s impossible to work with them.”

“There were twenty-two defective pieces today. Are they letting amateurs run the factories back in the mainland or what?”

The quality of parts had been declining. Aircraft are precision machines, and ill-fitting components could lead to oil leaks or gear damage. Unlike a car, an aircraft suffering critical failure doesn’t just stop—it crashes, often killing its pilot. While defective parts had always slipped through occasionally, recently, even parts that didn’t fit from the start were showing up more often. They were poorly cast, riddled with flash or burrs, and seemed half-finished—barely functional and not something you’d trust for practical use. Worse, even these shoddy parts were becoming scarce. Mechanics had to rework and repurpose parts they would have discarded before to keep up with the demand.

“What the hell’s going on in the mainland? They’re dumping all the hard work on us at the front.”

Listening to the complaints of his colleagues, Mikami finished his meal. Though he nodded absently in agreement, his mind was entirely occupied with the disassembled pocket watch.

Every pilot carried a pocket watch. They used them to measure flight time, estimating distances, locations, and remaining fuel. Many of these watches were brought to mechanics for repairs. If the damage was minor, the mechanics fixed them on-site. If not, the broken watches were swapped for new ones and sent back to the mainland for servicing. Rui’s watch, however, was beyond saving—practically a write-off. But it wasn’t an ordinary watch; it carried a significance that made discarding it unthinkable. Mikami wanted to make it work again. I want to see Rui happy. The thought brought a small smile to his lips as his hand unconsciously brushed the pocket holding the watch. It felt like he’d gained another machine to look after.

After dinner, Mikami separated from the other mechanics and made his way to the pilots' barracks. The modest shelter was dimly lit with nighttime lamps. He wanted to update Rui on the watch’s condition, but Rui wasn’t at his usual spot.

Mikami waited for a while, but when Rui didn’t return, he decided to look for him outside. Rui usually kept to himself. Aside from flying, he rarely demanded anything and wasn’t one to indulge in drinking or gambling, especially given his voice, which discouraged others from inviting him. On rare occasions after a mission, Rui would go out for solitary walks.

Mikami headed toward the hill, passing a few people along the way, none of whom were Rui. He continued walking along the path, and as he reached the highest point, he paused and looked up at the sky.

It might be the first time since arriving in the South that he’d truly taken in the stars. The sight was overwhelming. The night sky here was nothing like the one back home. Each star stood out vividly, pulsating as if it were alive, its silvery points radiating sharp brilliance. The larger stars burned as if magnesium had been ignited. Waves of glittering stardust formed intricate, swirling patterns across the canopy of night, competing with one another in their dazzling splendor. It was beauty that felt almost out of place in a war zone. Or perhaps it was a gift from the heavens, a landscape created to comfort the souls of the fallen.

Mikami found himself enchanted by the southern night sky. It wasn’t just its beauty that captivated him—it was the absence of familiar constellations. The sky was free, unrestricted by names or forms. It simply existed, breathtaking in its raw, unadorned magnificence. It didn’t matter that this same sky had witnessed countless deaths today. It didn’t matter where he was or what time it was. The southern night sky didn’t deny his appreciation of its beauty.

After gazing at the stars for a while, Mikami began descending the hill toward the harbor.

I want to find Rui, he thought, and look at the stars together. I want to know what he thinks of them.

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