PROJECT: CAYRO

Cayro Bracton:

August 16, 2025

12:00 EST

The Bracton Kawasaki Shop

Hampton, VA.

I sat on my Snap-On stool, staring at a Kawasaki Teryx side-by-side that was causing me a world of trouble. The client had bought it last year, and for some reason, it had decided to eat its transmission alive. One of my techs had spent five days rebuilding that damn transmission. When the machine left our shop, it was in perfect working order. But yesterday, the client brought it back—with the exact same issue.

Now, I was elbow-deep in transmission fluid and all the other grimy mess that came with being a certified Kawasaki technician. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it was in my blood. My grandfather had opened this dealership and repair shop when he retired from the U.S. Air Force about twelve years ago. Growing up, I spent my childhood working alongside him and the team. Two years ago, when I was sixteen, I passed my certification tests to become a certified Kawasaki technician. The day I got that certification was the day my grandfather made me the shop foreman and lead tech. It felt like a rite of passage, and I took it seriously.

I lifted my hand to my head, using a knuckle to scratch the side of my forehead while I tried to figure out what was causing the transmission to tear itself apart. Kawasaki was known for building durable, long-lasting components. So what was the issue here? Leaning back on my stool, I stretched my aching back, and that’s when I noticed it—the aftermarket exhaust bolted to the machine.

Tilting my head to the side, I narrowed my eyes and followed the exhaust back to the engine block. Low and behold, I figured out the problem. The client had made some modifications to his precious machine, and they’d backfired—literally.

Closing my eyes in pure frustration, I grabbed a few paper towels from the roll sitting on my toolbox. Wiping my hands clean, I heard one of my techs call out for me.

“Hey, boss, there’s a girl here to see you,” one of my techs shouted from the entrance of the shop that connected to the dealership.

“Tell her I’m unavailable,” I shouted back, already dreading the interruption. My high school graduating classmates had been relentless ever since summer started.

“I did… She insists that it’s important,” he replied, a hint of amusement in his voice.

I growled under my breath, wiping the last bit of grease off my hands as I stood up. With a sigh, I made my way toward the dealership. As soon as I stepped through the doors, I spotted her—Kendra, waiting patiently. Her long blond hair fell down her back, and her big blue eyes met mine as soon as I walked in. I sighed again, but this time in defeat. Of all the people who could have shown up, it had to be her. Kendra, the squad leader of the cheer squad, was the last person I wanted to deal with right now.

For reasons beyond my understanding, she had set her sights on me. A guy who hated football and was so far removed from her social circle that it felt like we lived in different worlds. And don’t get me wrong—Kendra was drop-dead gorgeous in every sense of the word. But what I couldn’t wrap my head around was why she wanted anything to do with me. I was the reclusive honor student who spent most of high school hiding from people like her.

I led her to a quiet corner of the dealership, away from prying eyes, trying to figure out why she had come all the way here. “Kendra, what are you doing here? I’m in the middle of a massive repair,” I said, leaning against the wall and crossing my arms.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were busy with a repair,” she replied, her voice soft as she looked down, clearly embarrassed.

I arched an eyebrow. “Kendra, I’m a certified technician and the shop foreman here. I’m always busy.”

“I thought you were just spending time with your grandfather. It’s our last summer before college. I figured you’d be taking time off,” she answered, sounding almost confused.

I just stared at her, dumbfounded. It was no secret that I worked here, officially and full-time. It wasn’t like my grandparents and I hadn’t had to chase away classmates in the past.

“I came to ask if you’d go out to dinner with me,” she said, twisting her fingers nervously.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I hated this part—the part where I had to turn her down. The look of hurt that always followed cut me every time. “No, but I appreciate the offer,” I said as calmly as I could manage.

She bit her lower lip before looking up at me, her eyes shimmering with hurt. “Cayro, do you not find me attractive? Am I not good enough for you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

I met her gaze, trying to keep my tone steady. “Kendra, why do you want to date me? We’re on two completely different ends of the spectrum. You’re popular, and I’m a reclusive skyboarder who spends more time buried in schoolwork than anything else.”

“You’re amazing, smart, and you have a kind personality. You’re a god among men,” she answered, her voice filled with conviction.

My neutral expression instantly shifted to a scowl as soon as she mentioned my physique. “Thanks, Kendra, for reminding me that I have the body of a god,” I huffed in irritation. “But to answer your question—yes, you’re extremely attractive. No, it’s not that you aren’t good enough for me. It’s something else.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice trembling.

I rubbed my grease-stained hand down my face, letting out a long, heavy breath. “Kendra, I don’t feel attracted to you—or to anyone from our class, for that matter. I’ve gone on dates, more than I care to remember, but there was never a spark, no connection, nothing. Every time you’ve flirted with me, I felt… nothing. And as cliché as it sounds, it’s not you. It’s me. I just can’t seem to feel any romantic connection with anyone,” I explained softly, trying to be as gentle as I could.

“That sounds really lonely,” she said, her voice quiet, tinged with genuine sadness.

I shrugged, feeling the weight of her words. “There’s not much I can do about it,” I replied, turning to leave, eager to escape this uncomfortable conversation. But something made me pause. I glanced back at her, and instantly regretted it. She was nearly in tears, her big blue eyes shimmering with the pain I had just caused.

“Kendra, you’re a wonderful girl. You have so much going for you. There’s someone out there who will appreciate everything you bring to the table,” I said, hoping to offer her some comfort, though I knew it wasn’t much.

She gave me a nod, a small, brave smile on her lips as she turned to leave. Despite the rejection, she walked out of the dealership with her head held high, shoulders back. I admired her for that, even though I couldn’t feel anything more.

As I turned on my heels, I found myself face to face with my grandfather. His broad shoulders and military flat-top haircut—one he absolutely refused to change despite my grandmother’s protests—made it clear he was a no-nonsense kind of man. His icy blue eyes locked onto mine, and I swallowed hard, bracing myself for the teasing that usually followed moments like this.

“Let another one down, huh?” he asked, his voice even.

I nodded, waiting for the inevitable ribbing. But to my surprise, it didn’t come this time.

“As much as your grandmother and I want you to focus on your future, we also want you to be happy. Don’t pass up an opportunity to be with someone just because you’re focused on what’s ahead,” he said, offering advice I hadn’t expected.

I opened my mouth to explain myself, to tell him why it wasn’t just about focusing on my future, but before I could get a word out, he interrupted me.

“I heard what you said to her, Cayro. You let her down the best you could, but she seems like a really nice girl. You should’ve given her a chance,” he chided softly, but there was no malice in his voice, just concern.

I decided not to argue with him. If he thought I was turning people away because I was too focused on my future, then there was no changing his mind. “I understand,” I said, more to appease him than anything else.

“Good… Now, I have a task for you,” he said, his tone shifting back to its usual businesslike manner.

God, I hoped it wasn’t inventory…

“I need you to do inventory for the dealership and the shop,” he said, confirming my worst fear.

I let out a huff of frustration. “I hate doing inventory…” I whined, unable to hide my annoyance.

“I know you do, but you’re the best at it,” he said with a smirk, ruffling my hair before turning to walk back to his office.

Groaning in dismay, I made my way to my own office across from his, grabbing the clipboard with the thick stack of inventory paperwork that awaited me on my desk. With a sigh, I headed to the dealership’s storeroom and began working through the boxes of riding gear. Halfway through the stack, my vision started to blur. Rubbing my eyes with the palm of my hand, I tried to shake it off, but everything went dark.

I jolted awake, gasping for air as if I had just surfaced from a deep dive. My heart was racing, and it took a moment for the room around me to come into focus. I was in my bed, still wearing my work uniform, minus my boots. Confusion washed over me. The last thing I remembered was doing inventory in the storeroom. How the hell did I end up back here?

I glanced around my room, disoriented and uneasy. My cell phone sat on my desk next to my bed. Reaching for it, I checked the time—it was just after six in the evening. What the hell…?

Blinking against the lingering fog in my mind, I got out of bed and pulled fresh clothes from my dresser. I needed a shower, something to clear my head. Shutting the bathroom door behind me, I began to strip off my uniform. When I caught my reflection in the vanity mirror, I almost didn’t recognize the person staring back at me. My dark brown hair was a tousled mess, and my muscles stood out under my taut cream-colored skin, but it was my eyes—my sapphire blue eyes—that held me captive. They seemed to mock me, reflecting back a confusion I couldn’t shake.

“Why am I like this? Why am I blessed with such good looks, yet I feel nothing for those who seek me?” I whispered to my reflection, the words barely audible even to myself.

As expected, the mirror offered no answers—just the echoing silence of my bathroom and the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I turned on the shower, not bothering to wait for the water to warm up, and climbed in, hoping the rush of cold water would jolt me back to some sense of normalcy.

Fifteen minutes later, I stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in a set of comfortable clothes, feeling slightly more grounded. I made my way downstairs, but as I reached the bottom, I came face to face with the portrait of my father holding me in his lap when I was four years old.

I paused, as I always did, to take in the familiar image. But this time, like so many times before, it stirred something painful and bitter within me. The portrait was a reminder of everything I had lost, everything that had been taken from me. My father died overseas two years after my mother was killed in a car accident. His death was during what the world now calls the Twilight Winter event—a disaster caused by a weapon of mass destruction. Supposedly, when the weapon detonated, it created a massive aurora effect visible around the globe. There were countless images and news reports documenting it, yet none of them captured the true devastation it brought to my life.

What cut the deepest, what fueled my resentment, was how my father was hailed as a hero for his actions during the Twilight Winter. He was given a posthumous Medal of Honor, and when I was fifteen, I had to stand there, accepting that damn piece of metal on his behalf. To everyone else, it was a symbol of bravery, of sacrifice. But to me, it was a constant reminder of what I had lost—of the chaos it brought to my life, especially at school.

I had stashed that medal in my grandfather’s home office, buried it deep where I wouldn’t have to see it, wouldn’t have to be reminded of all the pain and suffering that came with it. My teachers and classmates did enough of that for me.

Stepping away from the portrait, I shook off the heavy thoughts and made my way to the kitchen. The smell of wonderful Asian aromas wafted through the air, instantly making my mouth water. My grandfather was sitting at the table, reading something on his tablet, while my grandmother busied herself at the stove, cooking one of her signature dishes. The familiar scene should have been comforting, but the lingering disorientation and the memories of my father left me feeling anything but.

I settled into my usual seat at the table, glancing over at my grandfather, trying to piece together how I had ended up here.

“You’re awake,” he said with a smile, his voice carrying that familiar mix of relief and affection.

“What happened?” I asked, still feeling a bit disoriented. “The last thing I remember was doing inventory in the storeroom.”

“You passed out. Eric found you sprawled across the boxes,” my grandfather explained, his tone shifting slightly as he exchanged a look with my grandmother—one I couldn’t quite read. It was as if they knew something I didn’t. The unease gnawing at me made me bite my inner cheek, a habit I had when I was anxious.

“Is there something I’m missing?” I asked, my curiosity piqued as I looked back and forth between them.

“No, honey, we’re just concerned that you may be overworking yourself, that’s all,” my grandmother answered, her voice gentle and soothing.

“What your grandmother’s trying to say is, we haven’t seen you actually relax or do anything you enjoy lately,” my grandfather added, his tone more direct but filled with the same concern.

“Oh…” I paused, considering their words. They weren’t wrong. Ever since graduation, I’d been working nearly every day at the shop. It made sense that I might be wearing myself thin, but I hadn’t noticed until now.

“The sun is still out. Why don’t you go skyboarding this evening?” my grandmother suggested, her tone light, as if offering a simple solution to a complex problem.

I hesitated, looking to my grandfather for confirmation. “I thought you guys didn’t want me to skyboard anymore?” I asked, seeking clarity. The last time we talked about it, I had the impression they wanted me to stop altogether.

“That’s not what we said. We told you not to let it consume your life,” my grandfather corrected, his voice firm but not unkind.

“Honey, we never wanted you to stop skyboarding. It’s your passion. We just wanted you to find a balance between skyboarding and your plans for the future,” my grandmother added, her words filled with understanding.

“I—guess I misunderstood what you were trying to explain,” I said, feeling a bit sheepish. I’d been so focused on work that I hadn’t considered they might just want me to find a middle ground.

Both of my grandparents smiled at me, their warmth palpable, before my grandmother brought over two plates, setting them down in front of us. The smell of bulgogi fried rice filled the air, and my stomach growled in anticipation. Once my grandmother sat down with her plate, we dug in, and the first bite was heaven. I savored every mouthful, feeling my appetite surge.

I got up for seconds, and halfway through my second helping, my grandfather couldn’t resist commenting on our long-running joke.

“I swear, boy, you’re a living black hole,” he teased, a playful glint in his eye. “I don’t know where you put it all. If I ate like you, I’d be a damn whale.”

My grandmother elbowed him lightly, smiling. “Be nice, Joseph. He’s lucky to have that blessing,” she chided, though there was no real reproach in her voice.

My grandfather wasn’t wrong, though. I could put away an impressive amount of food, but I never seemed to gain an ounce of fat from it. It was one of those weird quirks about me. I once ate an entire cake in a day, much to my grandmother’s horror, but still, nothing. Not a pound gained.

Finishing my second helping of rice, I asked to be excused. My grandparents nodded, and after placing my plate and fork in the dishwasher, I headed to my room to grab my skyboard and wristband. I pulled my generic white board, covered in a hodgepodge of skyboarding stickers, out of my closet and made my way back downstairs. Waving to my grandparents, I stepped out into the front yard.

The last remnants of summer still clung to the air, warm and slightly humid. My grandmother’s pride and joy—the garden—wrapped around our two-story light blue home, which was accented in white trim. The sight of the large tomato plant off to the side of the front porch caught my eye, and with it, memories of our old pug, Soju, flooded back. He had passed away a few months ago and was now buried between the two massive oak trees that stood side by side in our front yard, right beneath my bedroom window.

Seeing the tomato plant made me smile, recalling the time Soju had peed on it and seriously upset my grandmother. She’d chased him with a broom, scaring the poor dog half to death. After that, he never went near the garden again.

I stepped onto the perfectly manicured grass that my grandfather and I maintained with military precision. As I activated my board, an orange leaf drifted down, landing softly on my arm. I looked up to see that our oak trees were starting to change color. It wouldn’t be long before I’d be out here raking the yard, one of the many seasonal chores my grandfather insisted on keeping up with, no matter the time of year.

My grandfather was meticulous about the yard, a trait that probably came from his years as a noncommissioned officer in the Air Force. He didn’t even like it when people walked on his grass. I was the only exception, and that was only because I helped maintain the yard. It was the reason I never got his infamous knife-hand treatment when I stepped on it.

I stepped onto my board, which looked like a fighter jet flattened and shrunk to the size of a large surfboard. As soon as I did, I felt the familiar hum of the antigravity field kick in, accepting my weight. Locking my boots into place, I slid my wristband onto my left arm and activated the flight controls. I’d learned the hard way that using my phone to control the board was an expensive mistake. Unlike my phone, the wristband was waterproof and securely attached to my arm. It had its own cellular data connection, and when activated, anything sent to my phone was forwarded to it instead. This setup allowed me to leave my phone safely on my desk in my bedroom—one less thing to worry about while I was in the air.

Once I was securely locked into my board, I activated the propulsion air jets integrated into the high-density foam structure. The jets connected to the carbon fiber alloy ribbing that formed the internal frame, providing the stability and maneuverability I relied on. The entire board was powered by a micro cold fusion reactor that ran on hydrogen and helium—a marvel of modern engineering.

This technology was made possible by the SkyTeam Aerospace Foundation, a relatively new research and development company based out of Iowa. They had appeared about ten years ago, pushing the U.S. into a future powered by clean energy. Beyond creating cutting-edge skyboards, they were also known for their massive airships and advanced hydrogen technologies. Several of their innovations had even been adopted by the U.S. military.

When SkyTeam first emerged, they were often confused with a rogue group known as SAF, now commonly referred to as Team SAF, led by Andrew Clark. According to the U.S. government, Team SAF was a terrorist organization, but the irony was that they had NATO backing. They acted as a dignitary and goods transport service around the world using their massive airship, the SAF Autumn. Despite the notoriety of the ship and the team, there was little to no historical record of where the Autumn had come from.

Team SAF was also renowned for their skyboarding prowess, constantly participating in International Skyboarding Association competitions. It was hard not to admire their skill, even if they were surrounded by controversy.

I pushed all that from my mind as I took off, leaving home behind and heading towards my best friend Zak’s house. The wind against my face was exhilarating, washing away the lingering tension from earlier. I couldn’t help but smile, feeling that familiar rush of freedom that only flying could give me.

Zak and I had been inseparable since elementary school. I still remember the day he stood up for me, taking down a group of older kids who had been picking on me. It was an epic sight, especially when he revealed his martial arts training. From that day on, as my grandmother would say, we were thick as thieves.

Landing in Zak’s front yard, I unlatched my boots and walked up to his front door. I knocked a couple of times, the sound echoing in the quiet evening air. As I waited, I felt a twinge of anticipation, hoping to see my best friend. But when the door swung open, it was Ms. Copeland, Zak’s mother, who greeted me with a warm smile.

“Cayro! It’s been a while. Are you looking for Zak?” she asked kindly.

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, returning her smile.

“I’m sorry, he and Aura went out of town to Tennessee a few weeks ago. Didn’t he tell you?” she asked, a hint of concern in her voice.

“No, he didn’t,” I answered, the realization sinking in. That explained why he hadn’t replied to any of my texts or calls. He was probably spending “quality” time with Aura. Those two were inseparable, like rabbits.

I offered Ms. Copeland a soft smile before stepping back towards my board. “Please tell him I stopped by. He hasn’t been answering my texts or calls,” I said politely.

“I will, Cayro. He’s been rather radio silent since he left,” she replied with a sympathetic nod.

I nodded back and climbed onto my board, feeling a bit deflated. Taking off, I headed towards my favorite practice spot—York Town Beach. It was a small, quiet beach, especially this time of year, as summer slowly faded into fall.

As I flew, a twinge of loneliness settled in my chest. Zak and Aura were more than just friends; they were like family. Zak had saved Aura from a horrific situation during our ninth-grade year, and from that moment on, we had become our own little group, navigating the chaos of high school together. Not having them here with me left a hollow feeling inside, a reminder of how much I relied on their presence.

Reaching the beach, I hovered about thirty feet above the water. It was the perfect place to practice. Open water was far less punishing than hard-packed land if I messed up a trick. Repairs to my board were a lot cheaper than replacing one, and they definitely weren’t cheap. My board alone cost nearly two thousand dollars, and it was a basic model. Zak and Aura’s boards were closer to five thousand, and while I could have gotten a more expensive one, I refused to let my grandparents spend that much money on me. The last thing I wanted was to destroy it and feel guilty for wasting their hard-earned money.

Taking advantage of the solitude, I decided to practice a maneuver I’d been obsessed with—one of Team SAF’s signature moves called the drop-out turn. It was more than just a trick; it was a combat maneuver. The rider had to execute a sharp ninety-degree nosedive, twist one hundred and eighty degrees mid-air, and then pull off a backflip with a slight angle. If done correctly, the rider would shoot off in a perpendicular direction to their original path at high speed. It was a notoriously difficult maneuver, demanding perfect timing and precision. The slightest miscalculation could result in board damage, a nasty crash, or worse—especially when attempting it in a group setting.

I spent several hours practicing the intricate maneuver, each attempt ending in failure. My frustration mounted with every pass that fell short, every turn that wasn’t tight enough, every flip that lacked the necessary speed. The drop-out turn demanded precision, and I wasn’t hitting the mark. On what I decided would be my final attempt, I barely managed to pull up in time, skimming the water with the bottom of my board. My heart pounded, a mix of adrenaline and frustration coursing through me.

But then, the headache that had been slowly building throughout my practice flared up, a sharp distraction that made me lose focus. It was a sign—time to stop before I made a mistake that would lead to more than just frustration. The last thing I wanted was another major board repair.

Over the years, I’d become all too familiar with repairing my board. When I first started skyboarding, it felt like I was constantly fixing something. Daily repairs had almost made me give up on the sport entirely. But as I got better, the repairs became less frequent, though never completely absent. I still remembered one particularly harrowing incident that had scared my grandparents to death. I had clipped my left wing on a tree branch, ripping it clean off, and was flung from my board into the side of a parked car.

Amazingly, I had bounced off the car and walked away with only some large bruises that lasted a few days. The car, on the other hand, had a me-sized dent in it, and the owner was as shocked as I was at how little damage I had sustained. After that, my grandparents and I agreed it would be best if I practiced somewhere with wide open space, away from trees, cars, and anything else that could cause serious harm.

Landing on the beach to catch my breath, I sank into the sand, listening to the waves gently crash against the shore. The sun had set, and stars were beginning to dot the sky above me. I looked up, wondering what it would be like to fly from here and see the world—just me, my skyboard, and a backpack, exploring all the places beyond Hampton, Virginia.

It was a dream I kept hidden from my grandparents. They were right, after all. I needed to focus on my future. Grandpa needed me at the shop, and I was aiming to study mechanical engineering in college. Maybe one day I could travel, but for now, I was here, and I had to be okay with that.

Sighing, I stood up and stepped onto my skyboard. As I leaned down to strap my boots in, a sharp, searing pain suddenly shot through the left side of my head, blurring my vision. I dropped to one knee, clasping my head between my hands as the pain intensified, like someone stabbing an icepick into my brain and twisting it.

Groaning, I forced my eyes open just enough to focus on my wristband, barely managing to hit the Return to Home command. My skyboard, thankfully, was programmed to return to a set point I had saved when I first got it.

My board began to automatically lift higher into the air while I remained knelt on it, my head still clutched in my hands as the pain intensified. Tears trickled down my cheeks, unbidden, as the searing agony in my skull worsened. Closing my eyes, I focused solely on one thing—getting home. With a trembling hand, I gripped the side of my board as it accelerated, pushing to its maximum speed. At ninety miles an hour, I streaked through the night sky, the cool wind whipping against my face, but it did nothing to alleviate the burning pain.

When I finally felt the board lower and hover in our front yard, I cracked my eyes open just enough to orient myself. I was facing the driveway, but something was off. There was a vehicle parked there—one I didn’t recognize.

Blinking, I tried to focus my vision, but the haze from the headache blurred everything, making it difficult to discern details. I could swear the vehicle had wings, but that couldn’t be right. Shaking my head, hoping to clear the fog, I looked away and unlatched my boots, stumbling off my board and leaving it where it was. Each step towards the house felt like a monumental effort, and I nearly tripped down the porch steps.

As I grabbed the door handle, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass of the front door. I froze, staring at the image before me. My eyes—they were glowing, a bright, unnatural emerald green. For a moment, panic surged through me, but I quickly shook my head, trying to dismiss it as a trick of the light, a side effect of the blinding headache.

Twisting the doorknob, I pushed the door open and stumbled inside. As soon as I crossed the threshold, my knees gave out, and I clung to the door frame, barely managing to keep myself upright. The pain was overwhelming, consuming every thought, every sense.

“Grandpa… I don’t feel so good,” I managed to croak, slumping down to my knees as darkness crept in at the edges of my vision.

I heard the sound of several footsteps rushing toward me. Forcing my eyes open, I looked up to see my grandfather, his expression a mix of fear and confusion. But it wasn’t just him—there was someone else, a man I vaguely recognized but couldn’t place in my muddled state. My grandfather stopped dead in his tracks, staring at me with wide eyes.

Before I could ask anything, before I could even process what was happening, the other man’s voice cut through the haze.

“We need to get him to the Autumn now…” His tone was deadly serious, laced with urgency.

And then everything went black.