Emergency Protocol

[TRING-TRING]

[TRING-TRING]

Two alarms. No comic in the cockpit. Checklist item four: done before my feet hit the floor.

I dress like someone late yesterday who refuses to be late twice. Torn bag. Pocket card with Leo's initials worn soft already. Ms. Carter has the make-up sheet now. The ugly luck sticker lives on my notebook corner instead.

Kitchen. Pancakes. I eat standing.

Mom eyes the double-alarm echo still dying in my room. "Emergency protocol?"

"Something like that."

Dad's newspaper dips. "Fly the path, Captain."

"Copy," I say, and mean the checklist more than the joke.

***

[HISS]

Bus. Leo's already saving the seat with his bag.

I sit. Answer first? item one? before he asks.

"I almost left you flying solo yesterday," I say. "I'm sorry. Not the fake kind."

Leo blinks, then the grin comes back slower than old times, but real. "Engineering accepts your apology. Don't make it a recurring system error."

"Working on it."

We bump shoes once. Docking complete.

The bus window rattles. I almost tell him about the dream-asteroid again, then don't?because today is for burns that happen awake. He talks about a thruster upgrade he wants to unlock later, voice light on purpose, giving me an easy channel to stay in. I stay. That counts as practice too.

School hallway. Designer backpacks. Cologne. Somewhere Ryan laughs at something that may or may not be me.

I keep walking.

***

Courtyard fountain before first bell. The fair clipboard is still on the pillar, fatter with names, sun doodle faded.

Item three: look without turning into vapor.

I look.

Then I do more than look.

Pen in actual hand this time. Name: Dave. No nickname in parentheses. Handwriting smaller than the loud names, still there.

The math girl? I've learned her name is Amber from a taped roster?glances over mid-sip of something too sugary.

"Ticket booth?" she asks, casual as weather.

My throat tries to abort.

I stay on channel. "Yeah. I can do tickets."

She nods like that settles a small planet. "Cool. Shift list goes up after lunch."

Cool.

I walk away before I can erase my own name with my eyes.

Behind me someone laughs?not at me, just near me?and for once I don't translate proximity into targeting.

Leo sees the pen still in my fingers and salutes with two fingers. No speech. He doesn't need to say item three complete.

For the next two minutes I expect the panic to rip my name off the board telepathically. It doesn't. The ink dries. Ordinary miracles are annoying that way?they refuse drama and still change the map.

Morning classes are ordinary in the brutal way: notes, pencils, no spotlight. I answer Leo when he whispers a question about homework pages. I don't doodle asteroids through a whole period?only one tiny thruster in a margin, then I stop on purpose.

Between classes the pocket card comes out once. Not to rewrite. Just to confirm the burns.

1. Answer Leo ? lit.

2. One more sentence if a door opens ? pending.

3. Clipboard ? lit, somehow.

4. Two alarms ? lit.

***

[RING]

World History again. Not a full presentation day?follow-up questions. Ms. Carter asks the room why ideas traveled with traders.

Silence puddles.

Door open.

I feel the freeze wanting me.

I stand half a centimeter in my seat and say, rough but audible, "Because people carried them on purpose?not just cargo."

A few heads turn. Ryan's mouth quirks. Not kind. Not fatal.

Ms. Carter: "Yes. Intent matters."

I sit.

Hands shaking again. Still airborne.

Item two: ugly, small, real.

Morning hallway after the second sentence, I pass the dented locker and don't hide inside it for a countdown. Five used to be my vanish number. Today I go with three and leave. Progress measured in seconds looks stupid written down. It feels less stupid in my ribs.

Amber's cool keeps echoing too?small word, big hatch.

After class Maya actually says, "Nice add," while stacking poster board. Ryan pretends not to hear. Bro says "bro" at me in a way that might be friendly. I file it under unknown signal and keep moving before I can overfit the data.

***

Lunch. End-of-row. My sandwich tastes like food instead of cardboard for the first time in days.

Leo slides a crumpled shift draft toward me. "Ticket booth with Amber's block. You signed. Now you show up Friday."

"I will."

He watches my face for the abort flicker. "Say it like thrusters, not like fog."

"I will show up Friday."

"Copy."

Across the room Ryan notices the clipboard rumor somehow?schools are faster than light. He calls, not loud enough for teachers, loud enough for me: "Invisible Seat joined the fair? Plot twist."

Old me would fold.

Today I take a bite, chew, and don't answer him. Not every enemy frigate deserves cannons. Sometimes you just hold formation.

Leo's shoulders ease a fraction.

We talk about ticket-booth logistics like it's a docking procedure?stamps, lines, what to do if someone cuts. Amber waves from two tables over. I wave back without dying. Tiny burn. Logged.

***

After last bell we don't run a long sim. We run a short one on purpose?twenty minutes?then stop while winning is still possible.

[BOOM]

One frigate down. We quit at the menu like adults pretending to be kids who learned limits.

"Homework?" Leo asks.

"Already mostly done."

"Friendship maintenance?" he tries, joking to hide the leftover hurt.

"Also in progress," I say. "I answered you on the bus. That was item one."

He snorts. "You're going to turn into a person who uses bullet points in real life."

"Worse things have happened."

On the walk to the gate, the dog isn't there yet?wrong house rhythm?but the squeak still waits in my memory. Leo stops me with a look. "If tomorrow's map redo is a trap, we still show up prepared. Prepared is different from obedient."

"Copy," I say, and this time the word feels like mine.

Walk home alone after. Rain holds off. Sun on puddles like Ch4's clearer day. Torn bag still widening; I hitch the strap higher as if posture is engineering. Sidewalk cracks try their usual ambush. I hop one and call it a micro-dodge, private and dumb and mine.

Home gate.

***

[SQUEAK]

Mom's in the kitchen. "Fair helper list has your name. A parent chat told me before you did."

Sensors. Always sensors.

"I signed up," I say. Plain.

She wipes her hands, smiles with her eyes first. "Good. Showing up is the part most people skip."

Dad lowers the newspaper. "Tactical genius status?"

"Checklist green," I say, and only feel a little ridiculous.

He nods once, proud in the quiet way. "Then expect the next mission to appear. That's how life works."

I help dry one plate without being asked. Mom notices and doesn't make a ceremony out of it. Sometimes the war against laziness looks like dishes. I hate that sentence and keep it anyway.

***

Night. Two alarms set early. Comic on the shelf, not the bed. Pocket card on the nightstand under the scrap that still says Don't leave Leo flying solo.

I almost sleep clean.

Then the larger ask arrives the way Dad promised?not as a villain monologue, as a ping.

My phone lights: group chat from Maya.

ryan wants a redo talk tomorrow for extra credit. needs dave on map explainer for real this time. u in?

Ryan reacts with a shrug emoji that somehow feels like a trap and a door.

Leo texts a second later, private: You don't owe him. But if you want the open channel, this is one.

I stare at the ceiling posters.

In my head the Vanguard's board lights a new objective?bigger than tickets, bigger than one sentence.

In the real world I type slowly, delete once, then send:

I'll do the map. For real.

Send.

No fireworks.

Just a thruster burn that smells like fear and competence in equal parts.

I put the phone face down.

amber lights.

Still flying.

Tomorrow won't be a montage.

It'll be work.

I'm starting to understand those might be the same thing.

In bed I run the day like a mission debrief?no fantasy embellishment allowed.

Bus apology: success.

Clipboard: success with residual fear.

Second sentence: success with shaking hands.

Ryan bait: ignored?success adjacent.

Sim limit: success.

Map redo accept: success that might bite tomorrow.

Failures still on the board: torn bag not fixed, nickname still in orbit, courage still rented by the minute.

I can live with a board that isn't all green.

I used to need all green before I would start.

That was how the asteroid always got bigger.

Friday ticket booth is still ahead. Map redo is tomorrow. Neither one will make me famous. Both might make me real.

I turn off the phone screen light and practice breathing like a thruster warmup?slow, deliberate, not frozen. amber to green, one click at a time, until sleep finally docks.

Before the dark wins, I touch the pocket card once more?Leo's initials like a seal on a hatch that opens instead of closes?and let the double alarm be the last system I arm.