The Villainess Takes the Cockpit

Letaria's body, coming down from the simulator, was ruled by pleasant exhaustion and a considerably less pleasant layer of perspiration.

She swept the wave of praise from the corps members with a "But of course!" and a high laugh, then left the training facility at a brisk pace.

Several weeks on this station, and she had mastered, among other things, the use of the "shower"—a miraculous device that dispensed warm water from directly above. She was heading for one now.

She was making her way down the corridor at a confident stride when—

"Ah—found you—!!"

A voice bursting with energy came barreling toward her from down the hall.

Letaria looked up. A woman was approaching at a near-trot, short limbs working hard.

"What…?"

Letaria stopped and braced.

The woman was shorter than her, and looked to be in her mid-twenties—around Milea's age. But where Milea was all precision and containment, this woman was an entire spectrum. Wavy hair in sky blue with vivid pink woven through it. She wore a white coat, but what peeked out beneath it was pastel-colored and elaborate enough to suggest a tropical bird had been consulted at the design stage.

The holographic ID badge at her chest resolved matters.

(Syn-Fibra…same organization as Milea.)

"Um—a-are you Letaria-san? The actual Letaria Adeniam—?!"

The woman skidded to a stop directly in front of her, eyes blazing.

Letaria stepped back. Once. Twice.

"Y-yes, that is who I am. And you would be…? I'm in something of a hurry."

"Oh, sorry! I'm Sola—Sola Scaria! I'm a colleague of Milea's, and I work in the development bureau as a designer—I've just really wanted to meet you!"

The woman called Sola fidgeted with her own fingers, words tumbling out in a rush.

"Milea told me you were at the training room…Oh! And I was watching your simulator data live—you were incredible! Moving like that—as a raw material—I mean—as a pilot, you're simply the absolute best—!"

"Mi-lea…chan? And…'raw material'…?"

Letaria's brow furrowed.

In the old days, she would have snapped "Speak clearly or not at all!" and left. But fresh from a full round of simulator matches—and still carrying the high of finding a real rival in Ethan—she had, just slightly, some room.

"In that case, Sola-sama. What exactly do you want from me? As you can see, I would very much like to rid myself of this perspiration at the earliest opportunity."

"Oh, right! …Oh—actually, perfect timing! Could I take your measurements? Just as you are!"

"…………Pardon?"

Letaria questioned her own ears.

What had this woman just said.

"Your proportions—the distribution of your muscle—your joints' range of motion—I'd like to measure all of it properly!"

"Absolutely not!! I am perspiring! Having to stand here like this is already an affront to any lady's dignity—measurements are entirely out of the question—!!"

Face scarlet, Letaria stood her ground. No reasonable universe permitted this request.

Sola, entirely undaunted, stepped closer with expectations written across her face.

"It's fine! I genuinely don't mind at all!"

"I mind!! I mind very much—!!"

◆◆◆

In the end, Letaria was defeated by Sola's enthusiasm—by her cheerful, absolute refusal to take no for an answer—and found herself ushered into a laboratory separate from Milea's usual one, somewhat tidier in character.

Sola Scaria.

According to her account, Milea sat at the core of weapons development, and Sola assisted while primarily handling pilot support. Letaria had apparently been a topic of discussion within Syn-Fibra—though Milea had told people not to approach her.

"Now then, Letaria-san—please undress. …Though strictly speaking the scanner can work through clothing, undressing yields more accurate data. And, if I'm honest, it also increases my motivation somewhat…"

"…I have had a remarkably similar exchange before. Do researchers in this world simply lack any concept of propriety?"

Letaria pressed a hand to her forehead. The memory of Milea's examination surfaced unbidden.

"…If I am not visible, I will undress."

"Of course! Please use the partition over there.

And—I'm sorry. I know this feels awful. I heard that Milea immediately tried to make you undress the moment you arrived, and I was actually quite worried about you."

Sola pointed apologetically toward a corner of the room.

Some of the tension drained from Letaria's chest.

(…This Sola person does seem to operate on different sensibilities from Milea. A small mercy to find at least one person here who has some understanding.)

That relief did not survive the next several minutes.

Letaria emerged from behind the partition in the thin undershirt that had been provided. Sola made an odd, breathy sound.

"…No excess anywhere. Slender, but with real core stability. A living work of art…this is perfect…"

"…Could you perhaps look elsewhere?"

She lay down on the medical platform as directed.

Soft light descended from the ceiling and traced her body slowly. Milea's scanner had been cold and clinical. Sola's felt different—warmer somehow, almost like being gently touched.

The scan finished. "Please stand," Sola said.

Letaria sat up—

"Kyaaah—?! What are you doing—?!"

Sola's hands were on her. Shoulder. Side. Hip.

And not in any clinical way. There was a texture to it—fingers checking the give and resistance of muscle and skin.

"Oh, I'm sorry to startle you! But numbers only tell you so much—there's a 'quality' to the way fabric moves against muscle, the way it responds—you really can't get that without feeling it directly!"

"That makes absolutely no sense!! Where do you think you're—stop—that—that tickles—!!"

"Ahaha, Letaria-san is ticklish on the sides? Noted—"

"Stop noting things!! Stop! Let go—please—!!"

Letaria protested at full volume, face burning—but Sola pushed on with the single-minded intensity of a master craftsperson, turning her about, measuring her legs, locked in a state of professional devotion that seemed entirely immune to distress.

Humiliating.

Why must I, a daughter of a duke, be subjected to this—

Letaria held back tears and prayed for it to end.

"…That was more exhausting than the simulator…"

◆◆◆

One hour later.

Freed at last, Letaria had re-fitted her pilot suit—there had been an additional ordeal when Sola insisted on dressing her herself—and was slumped in a chair, hollowed out.

Her hair was worse than before. Her mental reserves were depleted in ways no combat had ever managed.

"Thank you so, so much, Letaria-san! This was incredibly useful!"

Sola was beaming at a holographic panel covered in numbers and hand-drawn sketches.

"You subjected me to that ordeal…and what exactly is the purpose of it? If you've simply been indulging yourself at my expense, I shall lodge a formal complaint."

Letaria fixed her with a baleful look.

Sola waved both hands in alarm.

"N-no! I promise this is absolutely something good for you! I can't say what yet—but you'll be happy, I promise!"

"In my experience, things people swear will be 'good for me' tend to be disasters."

"Ahaha… But please believe me. I've become a complete fan of yours, so I would never do anything to hurt you. I genuinely mean it."

She said it with a slightly embarrassed smile.

Rambling. A little all over the place. But the heat behind her eyes was the same thing Letaria had seen in Milea's.

"…Fine. Do as you like. I am going to have my shower now."

Letaria stood and left.

"Come again anytime—!" "I'll bring something next time—!"

Sola's cheerful voice chased her down the corridor.

Alone in the hallway, Letaria let out a long, quiet breath.

(…Strange woman. But then, this entire station is full of strange people. Milea. Grain. Stesia—though she is rather lovely, actually. And Merry. And Ethan…)

She moved through the faces.

Each one saw her not as a daughter of a duke but as Letaria. As Arden's pilot. It could be presumptuous—yet it was also, she was slowly beginning to understand, something else.

(…But Sola-sama. I don't think she's bad. My instincts say so.)

Letaria smoothed her hair and finally, finally, set off toward the shower.