Mei Ling
The engine room of the Angel’s Breath was Mei-Ling’s cathedral. It was a space of organized chaos, a symphony of hissing steam, humming power crystals, and the soft, almost subliminal whisper of wind that only she could truly hear. Sarka found her there, perched on a narrow catwalk overlooking the primary drive assembly, a datapad in hand. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, a smudge of grease on her cheek.
“Status report,” Sarka said, her voice crisp. She leaned against the railing, her captain’s persona firmly in place.
Mei-Ling looked up, a small, tired smile touching her lips. “The port-side stabilizer is still drawing too much power. I think the flow regulator is sticking again.” She sighed, running a hand through her short, dark hair. “It’s been a long day.”
Sarka grunted in acknowledgement. Her eyes scanned the complex array of pipes and conduits. “You’ve been at it since dawn. Take a break.”
“I will. As soon as I can figure out why the harmonic resonance is off by point-zero-two percent.” Mei-Ling tapped a few commands on the datapad, her frustration palpable.
“Let me see,” Sarka said, moving closer. She leaned over Mei-Ling’s shoulder to look at the screen, her arm brushing against Mei-Ling’s back.
It was a simple, accidental touch. But it was enough.
The air around them shifted. The gentle hum of the engines rose in pitch, and a sudden, sharp gust of wind, seemingly from nowhere, whipped through the engine room. It wasn’t the powerful, controlled gale of the ship’s systems; it was wild, agitated. Sarka’s hair flew into her face, and she stumbled back a step.
Mei-Ling gasped, her eyes wide with panic. She clutched the datapad to her chest, her knuckles white. “No, no, not now,” she whispered, her voice strained.
The wind died as quickly as it had risen, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. Sarka stared at her, her mind racing. That wasn’t a mechanical failure. That was something else. Something… elemental.
“What was that?” Sarka asked, her voice low and steady, betraying none of the shock she felt.
Mei-Ling’s face had gone pale. She looked trapped, her gaze darting toward the exit as if planning an escape. “It’s… nothing. A pressure valve must have blown.”
Sarka’s eyes narrowed. She was a pilot. She knew the sounds of her ship, the feel of its systems. That was not a valve. “Mei-Ling,” she said, her tone softening slightly. “Talk to me.”
The plea in Sarka’s voice seemed to break through Mei-Ling’s panic. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. She looked down at the datapad in her hands, then back at Sarka, her eyes filled with a deep, weary vulnerability.
“It’s not the ship, Sarka,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s me.”
She took a deep, shaky breath, as if bracing herself for a confession. “I’m bonded. To a Wind Sylph. It… it lives inside me. Sometimes, when I’m stressed or… or touched unexpectedly, it reacts.”
Sarka absorbed the information. A Wind Sylph. A living elemental spirit, bonded to her engineer. It was impossible. It was revolutionary. It was the answer to so many of the Angel’s Breath’s strange quirks, its almost supernatural agility. She felt a surge of something fierce and protective.
“Okay,” Sarka said simply. “A Sylph. That explains the… unconventional handling.”
Mei-Ling stared at her, bewildered. “That’s it? ‘Okay’? You’re not… scared? Disgusted?”
“Why would I be?” Sarka asked, genuinely confused. “You’re the best damn engineer in the sky-ports. If your secret weapon is a wind spirit, that just makes you more valuable. It certainly explains why this ship flies better than it has any right to.”
A flicker of hope appeared in Mei-Ling’s eyes, but it was quickly extinguished by a deeper shadow of fear. She took another step back, wrapping her arms around herself. “There’s… more.”
Sarka waited, giving her the space she needed.
“The bond… it happened after I had already… made some changes. To myself.” She struggled for the words, her gaze fixed on the metal grating of the floor. “My body. I’m not… I wasn’t born the way I am now. I’m a trans woman, Sarka.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Sarka stood perfectly still, her expression unreadable. Mei-Ling’s heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. The moment the fragile trust they’d built would shatter. She had seen it a dozen times before—the confusion, the revulsion, the quiet dismissal.
Sarka took a step forward. And then another. She closed the distance between them until she was standing right in front of the trembling engineer. She didn’t say anything. She simply reached out and gently took Mei-Ling’s hand.
Her grip was firm, warm, and steady.
Mei-Ling looked up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She saw no judgment in Sarka’s gaze. No pity. No revulsion. She saw only the same fierce, unwavering loyalty she’d always known.
“Mei-Ling,” Sarka said, her voice low and clear, cutting through the engineer’s fear like a blade. “You designed and built this ship. You keep us flying. You are the heart of the Angel’s Breath. I don’t care what you were born as. I care about who you are now.” She gave Mei-Ling’s hand a gentle squeeze. “You are my engineer. You are my crew. You are my friend. That’s all that matters.”
A single tear escaped, tracing a path through the grease on Mei-Ling’s cheek. The tension drained out of her body, leaving her feeling weak and relieved and utterly, overwhelmingly seen. The agitated whisper of the Sylph in her mind settled into a calm, contented hum, mirroring the peace she felt in Sarka’s presence.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
Sarka just nodded, her thumb stroking the back of Mei-Ling’s hand. “Now,” she said, her tone shifting back to its usual pragmatic cadence, though her touch remained gentle. “About that sticky flow regulator. Show me what’s wrong. Maybe my captain’s eyes can spot something your engineer’s eyes are too tired to see.”
And in the heart of the engine room, surrounded by the hum of the machines and the quiet whisper of the wind, a new kind of bond was forged—one not of magic, but of unwavering, unconditional acceptance.