September 24
A new day.
A new mission.
Emilie pulled the zipper of her green Nomex flight suit all the way up, the metal teeth rasping before it sealed against her neck. She let out a breath, the fabric snug against her shoulders and chest, already carrying the faint chemical scent of JP-8 clinging to everything on base. She pressed her palms down her sides, smoothing it out by habit more than necessity, then faced the full-length mirror bolted to the wall of her quarters.
Her reflection looked back at her: sharp eyes, a touch of tension in her jaw, posture locked somewhere between pride and fatigue. She rested a hand on her hip, tilting her head slightly.
"Great," she muttered to herself. "I just hope Captain Candace isn't still pissed about yesterday."
She gave a short, derisive scoff. "Yeah, no chance."
The woman in the mirror wasn't going to argue with her, so Emilie turned away, snatched her flight helmet from where it rested on the desk chair, and strode for the door. The hard soles of her boots rang in the narrow corridor, each step echoing off polished floors and painted bulkheads. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant mixed with jet fuel that somehow permeated every building on base.
By the time she pushed open the double doors to the briefing room, most of Wolfsbane was already in place. The squadron sat in neat rows, the low chatter dying the moment she entered. Only two seats near the front remained free—one for her, one for the Base Commander. Emilie slid into her usual place beside Mona, setting her helmet down against the chair leg and crossing her legs with a soft rustle of fabric.
"Looks like all we're waiting for is the Commander," she murmured.
Mona, already straight-backed and focused, gave a small nod. "That's right."
The heavy oak doors opened with a sharp clack, cutting off any further whisper. Commander Courbevoie strode in, posture ramrod straight, his decorated uniform immaculate under the harsh fluorescents. Behind him came Captain Candace, helmet under her arm, face unreadable as stone.
The entire room rose as one. Salutes cracked into the air like rifle shots. Emilie's own arm came up instinctively.
Courbevoie returned the gesture briskly. "At ease. Take your seats."
The moment they sat, the room dimmed automatically. A tactical display snapped to life at the front, the map painting a glowing lattice of grid lines across Fontaine's western airspace. The coastline of Petrichor Province glowed in pale blue, while a red vector line cut sharply across the border.
"Listen up," Courbevoie began, his voice steady, clipped, every syllable carrying authority. "At zero-six-hundred this morning, an unidentified aircraft entered Fontaine's sovereign airspace. Refused every warning. Continued deeper."
He tapped the remote. A silhouette appeared. Long fuselage. Twin engine nacelles. Knife-like wings. Every pilot in the room tensed slightly.
"We've confirmed it: an SR-71 Blackbird."
A ripple moved through the squadron—quiet whistles, exchanged looks. Emilie's brows furrowed, her eyes narrowing at the projection. A Blackbird? That wasn't a reckless smuggler in a stolen twin-prop. That was bleeding-edge reconnaissance hardware, a machine that cruised higher and faster than most missiles could dream of touching. If someone was flying one this deep into Fontaine skies, it was deliberate, and it sure as hell wasn't friendly.
"Despite multiple hails," Courbevoie continued, "the intruder ignored us. Our coastal SAM units engaged. At least one missile struck, but the target remained airborne."
He switched to a grainy infrared frame, showing the dart-like aircraft streaking across black sky. The heat signature bled white-hot from its engines, one plume fainter than the other. Damage, maybe—but still flying.
"Your mission is simple," Courbevoie said, though his eyes betrayed the weight behind the words. "Intercept. Establish contact. Force it to identify itself. Escort it to a controlled landing."
He paused, scanning the room before he added, voice ironclad: "You are not authorized to fire unless expressly ordered. Do I make myself clear?"
A unanimous, sharp "Yes, sir!" rolled through the rows.
The screen flickered dark. Silence followed for a beat, heavy as a loaded gun. Then Captain Candace stepped forward, the faintest clink of her sidearm against her flight harness breaking the quiet.
"For this one, I'll be on point," she said. Her voice was cool, firm, all business. "Emilie, Mona, Teppei—you're with me."
Emilie shot Mona a quick glance. Her wingwoman gave her the barest nod, lips pressed tight.
Candace's eyes scanned each of them in turn. "Wolfsbane Squadron, suit up. We're wheels up in fifteen."
Chairs scraped back. The room surged into motion, helmets grabbed, harnesses checked, boots pounding against the deck as the pilots filed toward the exit. Emilie followed, heart already quickening in her chest.
The second she pushed open the outer doors, the world hit her—open air carrying the bite of salt from the Petrichor coast, the distant thunder of turbines spooling up on the flight line. Heat shimmered above the concrete, mingling with the acrid tang of jet exhaust.
Her Tomcat waited somewhere out there under the morning sun, crouched like a predator on the tarmac. Emilie tightened her grip on her helmet.
This was going to be interesting.
The morning sun glared against polished steel as Emilie stepped onto the apron. Heat shimmered off the concrete, mixing with the oily tang of hydraulic fluid and the burnt-sweet stench of jet fuel.
Four aircraft waited at the line, their canopies propped open, ground crews swarming around them like ants in bright orange vests.
At the far left stood Captain Candace's mount: a squat, rugged F-4 Phantom II, its weathered paint and broad intakes marking it as a brute of an interceptor from another era. The Phantom was no beauty queen, but it was all muscle and iron, a machine with a reputation as unforgiving as its power.
To the right, the three sleeker F-5E Tiger IIs of Wolfsbane Squadron sat lined up nose to tail. Nimble, sharp-edged, their twin tails cutting a predatory silhouette despite their age.
Tail numbers stood crisp against the gray paint:
016 — Emilie's Tiger.
108 — Mona's.
204 — Teppei's.
Emilie climbed the ladder bolted against her own jet, boots clanging against the rungs. Sliding into the cockpit, she settled into the ejection seat, the worn cushions firm against her back. Her hands moved automatically—seat harness over the shoulders, click, lap belts cinched, oxygen hose locked into the receptacle on her chest plate. She gave each strap a sharp tug until she was snug.
Helmet on, chin strap fastened, she took a slow exhale, her breath fogging the visor before she flipped the canopy switch. The canopy came down with a hiss of hydraulics, sealing her into the tiny glass bubble. The outside world became muted—just the dull thud of tools, the muffled shouts of ground crew, and her own heartbeat in her ears.
Her gloved hand moved to the engine panel. With a flick of the master switches, the twin General Electric J85 turbojets spooled alive. First a faint electric whine, then the heavy growl of compressors biting air, then the sharp howl as the turbines stabilized at idle. The cockpit trembled with restrained power. Emilie rolled her shoulders, settling deeper into her seat.
She muttered under her breath, voice low. "For an auxiliary squadron, we really ought to have better birds than these…"
As if in reply, her headset crackled.
"Wolfsbane Squadron, follow me to the runway."
Candace's voice.
One by one the flight responded.
"Wilco," Mona.
"Roger," Teppei.
Emilie pressed her mic. "Roger."
Ahead, Candace's F-4 began to taxi, twin smoke-belching engines dragging the Phantom across the apron. Mona's F-5E rolled after her, Teppei slotting in line. Emilie released the parking brake and eased her throttles forward, her Tiger II creeping into formation behind them.
They reached the runway threshold in a neat column, nose wheels aligning on the centerline.
Takeoff sequence was textbook. Candace thundered first, her Phantom bellowing down the strip, wings flexing as it clawed into the sky. Mona followed in a smooth roll, gear tucking cleanly beneath her fuselage. Teppei blasted off third, his Tiger climbing with impatient vigor.
Then it was Emilie's turn.
She drew a slow breath, tightened her grip on the stick, and shoved both throttles forward to military power. The J85s shrieked, the Tiger surging ahead, concrete rushing beneath her nose wheel. Airspeed climbed fast—120 knots, 140, 160. She eased back on the stick.
The nose lifted. The wheels left earth.
The sudden lightness in her chest, the quick thump as the gear locked away with a clunk—and she was airborne.
The four jets reformed into a tight diamond over the coastline, sunlight flashing across their wings. Below, the ocean stretched endless, white-capped waves throwing shards of light back at the morning sun. Their shadows flickered across the water like hunting birds.
Candace's voice came crisp over the squadron net.
"This is Wolfsbane One of Wolfsbane Squadron. Approaching the target."
Another voice joined them, calm and detached, the kind that carried no emotion—just control.
"This is AWACS, callsign Thunderspike. Roger. Bring the bogey to the ground. Do not fire unless authorized."
"Wilco," Candace replied, then switched to the squadron channel.
"You got that, nuggets?"
"Wolfsbane Two, roger," Mona's voice replied smoothly.
"Wolfsbane Three, roger!" Teppei's tone carried too much excitement.
Emilie stayed quiet, watching the horizon.
Candace didn't let it slide. "Wolfsbane Four. Raven? You understand the message?"
Emilie sighed through her mask, keyed her mic. "Wolfsbane Four. Understood."
"Okay," Candace answered, dry as dust. "Sounds like you're confident… at least."
Teppei's enthusiasm burst through again. "I'm glad I get to see some action again!"
Candace let out a sharp sigh. "Second Lieutenant Teppei, cut the chatter. Do you need a callsign, too?"
"Oh, I've already got one," Teppei replied brightly. "I prefer to be called Herring, ma'am! Sadly, I may not respond to any other moniker!"
Candace's exhale was audible even through the radio. "Well… at least that name suits you well." A pause. "Though I've got a better one in mind. Best I keep it to myself…"
"Aw, come on, Captain! Cut me some slack!" Teppei groaned.
The banter ended the moment their IFF screens updated. A new contact appeared, tagged in hostile amber. High speed. Descending.
SR-71 Blackbird. Low altitude.
Candace's voice hardened, all levity gone.
"Tally-ho, nuggets. We've got our target."
The cockpits fell silent except for the hiss of radios and the roar of engines.
Candace's Phantom rolled right, banking hard at nearly fifty degrees. The gray hulk groaned through the maneuver, vapor wisping from its wingtips as she carved toward the intruder.
The Tigers mirrored her instantly—Emilie, Mona, and Teppei tipping into the same bank, holding their spacing with surgical precision. Sunlight caught their canopies, three darts of steel swinging into formation on their leader's wing.
Candace's voice snapped across the net, sharp and uncompromising.
"Remember—this is not a combat mission. You are forbidden to attack. Understood, Raven?"
Emilie groaned audibly through her oxygen mask. "No, I don't understand…"
There was a pause—an audible exhale through Candace's nose.
"Second Lieutenant Emilie, did you not listen? I said do not engage!"
A faint smirk tugged at Emilie's lips. "I heard you the first time, Captain. Ever heard of sarcasm?"
Mona suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Teppei just stifled a laugh.
The formation leveled out, noses pointed straight at the target. Ahead, the Blackbird shimmered against the horizon, a sleek, needle-shaped silhouette gliding across the pale blue sky. Its black fuselage almost swallowed the sunlight, contrails slicing behind it in twin silver lines. Even wounded, the SR-71 radiated menace—a predator designed to outrun everything.
Candace's eyes flicked to her mirrors, then to her radar scope. One return wasn't where it should've been. Her brow furrowed.
"Motormouth Herring, where the hell are you?" she barked.
Teppei's voice cracked over the radio, half annoyed, half flustered. "Wh—what!? That's your nickname for me!?"
Candace shook her head in the cockpit, lips pressed into a thin line. "You've got a knack for comic dialogue, Teppei. Mind sending our friends in the Blackbird a surrender form?"
Teppei chuckled despite himself. "Sure thing, Captain."
He flipped his selector to COM3, voice suddenly all business.
"Unidentified aircraft, this is Wolfsbane Three of the Fontaine Air Force. Set your course to the Petrichor VOR immediately."
There was no response but static. Teppei cleared his throat, forcing his tone steady.
"Follow the VOR radial. We will escort you to Petrichor Air Force Base. Lower your landing gear if you acknowledge this transmission."
For a tense moment, nothing happened. The four fighters closed in, the Blackbird looming larger, its scarred fuselage visible even through the haze.
Then, as if in slow motion, the SR-71 rolled to the right—a crisp, banking turn, ninety degrees, nose settling directly onto the radial pointing toward Petrichor.
Emilie keyed her mic, voice dry. "Looks like they're complying."
Candace's eyes narrowed, but she gave a slight nod. "Good. Keep tight. Don't let it slip."
The Blackbird leveled, wings steady, its pace throttled down but still fast enough that the F-5s strained to keep formation. Emilie's Tiger rattled in the turbulent wash, her hands tight on the stick.
For a moment, it almost seemed simple. Escort a crippled spy jet home. No shots fired. No mess.
Then AWACS Thunderspike's voice cut in—urgent, clipped, and loud enough to spike in everyone's headset.
"Alert! Wolfsbane Squadron, multiple high-speed bogeys inbound! Bearing two-eight-zero, angels four!"
The cockpit fell colder, radios hissing with static.
"Hold fire until further orders!"
Candace's hand tightened on her stick, her Phantom jolting slightly as she twitched. "Hold our fire?" She scoffed into her mask, disbelief bleeding into anger. "Tch. I'm not losing any nuggets today."
Her radar scope lit up—four returns, fast, closing head-on.
"Four bandits. Range closing. Heading straight for us," she muttered to herself, though the squadron could hear the ice in her voice.
AWACS snapped back, iron in its tone: "Obey orders, Captain Candace."
She stared at the scope, watching the contacts streak closer, her jaw clenched so tight it ached.
"…Wait for further orders," she echoed grimly, forcing the words out, though every instinct screamed otherwise.
The sky ahead shimmered. Dots against the sun grew larger by the second.
The squadron widened their formation, spacing out to cover more sky and reduce the chance of a mass ambush. Their contrails stretched thin across the afternoon haze. For a brief, fleeting moment, the air felt quiet. Too quiet.
Then—
A shrill, high-pitched BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP exploded inside their cockpits. The missile warning receiver screamed like a dying alarm clock from hell.
Missile inbound.
Candace's pulse spiked. Her breathing quickened inside her oxygen mask as adrenaline shot through her veins.
"EVERYONE BREAK FORMATION! BREAK, BREAK, BREAK!"
She hauled the stick back, forcing her Tiger II into a steep climb. The G-forces slammed into her body, pinning her spine into the seat as the horizon fell away.
Emilie snapped into a high-G pull of her own, banking hard. Mona broke right, the horizon tilting violently. Teppei rolled left, nearly over-correcting as his voice cut through the squadron net, ragged and panicked:
"They're firing at us!! Real fucking missiles!!"
Overhead, AWACS Thunderspike's voice stayed maddeningly calm.
"Wolfsbane Squadron, weapons safe. Repeat, hold fire until further orders."
Emilie's teeth ground together. Her eye twitched as she glanced at her HUD—missile warning still flaring, the strobing red diamond tracking her.
"You've gotta be shitting me! They're firing the real deal and you want us to just sit here?!"
Candace's tone hardened, commander's edge taking over.
"All planes, FIRE BACK! That's an order!"
"Finally," Emilie hissed, exhaling sharply as her grip tightened around the stick. She rammed the throttles forward. The J85 turbojets screamed, afterburners spiking her acceleration.
"Raven, engaging!"
Thunderspike's voice snapped back, almost panicked now:
"Captain Candace, you are violating direct command authority!"
But Emilie was done listening. She rolled hard, diving left into the fight, nose hunting for the nearest target. Her HUD pinged—the silhouettes resolved: Mirage 2000s.
She lined up behind one, crosshairs steady, tone solid in her headset. The shrill growl of a seeker head turning into a steady monotone.
"Fox Two!"
Twin AIM-9 Sidewinders peeled off her rails, their smokey trails curving toward the Mirage. Emilie broke hard left the instant they left, not waiting to see the result.
A second later, a blinding fireball lit the sky. The Mirage disintegrated into shards of flaming aluminum.
"Raven, splash one!"
Candace rolled into the fight herself, sidewinders screaming off her pylons. One enemy jet blew apart in a blossom of flame and debris. She keyed her mic, voice cutting like a blade.
"Shove it, Thunderspike! I'm not losing any more nuggets today!"
Mona was next.
"Starseer, engaging!"
Then Teppei, voice steadier now that the fight was underway:
"Herring, engaging!"
The quiet sky erupted into pure chaos.
Contrails crisscrossed like scar tissue across the heavens. Bright flares spat from the Mirages as they twisted violently, defensive spirals against the incoming Sidewinders. Radar lock warnings and missile tones screamed in every cockpit.
Emilie hunted another Mirage, chasing it through a rolling scissors. The bastard weaved left and right, dumping speed, forcing her to match every aggressive move. Sweat beaded on her forehead inside her helmet.
Suddenly, the Mirage yanked vertical, rocketing into the sky. Emilie reacted instantly, hauling her stick back, throttles slamming forward. Her Tiger II clawed for altitude, engines howling, the frame rattling as airflow buffeted the wings.
Her HUD symbology chirped. Crosshair. Tone. Steady lock.
"Fox Two!"
Another pair of Sidewinders streaked free, white smoke lancing upward. Emilie chopped the throttles to idle, flipped nose-over into a negative-G pushover, then shoved them back to full as she rolled level.
Behind her, another mid-air fireball bloomed.
"Splash!"
Thunderspike was losing patience now, voice sharp over comms.
"Captain Candace, disengage immediately! Hold your fire!"
Candace wasn't having it. She dove through a hostile's six and let an AIM-9 rip. Another Mirage disintegrated.
"Not bad, Raven!" she called, before spitting back at AWACS, "Shut your damn mouth, Thunderspike! You're not the one with missiles being shot at your canopy!"
Teppei's kill tone screamed in his ears as his own Sidewinder hammered into a bandit's tailpipe.
"Splash one!"
Candace's voice crackled with a rare chuckle. "Not bad, Herring. Maybe you'll live long enough to buy me a drink after this."
Teppei groaned. "My only regret is flying with a captain who's allergic to optimism!"
But the fight wasn't over.
New call: "Four more inbound! Bearing two-one-zero, closing fast on the recon plane!"
Mona cursed, jerking her jet around to meet the threat. The new bogeys streaked into visual—MiG-21s. Old, but deadly in numbers.
She dove in from above, rolled into a hard banking reversal, keeping her pipper glued on the lead MiG. It juked left, juked right, desperate to shake her. No good. Her tone was solid.
"Fox Two!"
Twin snakes of white smoke shot ahead. The MiG tried to split-S, but it was too late. The missile speared straight into its fuselage—detonation shredding it into a falling fireball.
"Starseer has a splash!"
Meanwhile Emilie locked horns in a head-on duel with another MiG. Both jets screaming straight at each other, no room for error. Her breathing slowed, her heartbeat syncing with the steady missile tone in her headset.
"Come on… come on…"
Lock. Tone.
"Fox Two!"
She fired. The missiles streaked straight down the nose, colliding with the MiG in a thunderous mid-air explosion. Emilie burst through the debris cloud, banking left hard, scanning for her next target.
Candace's voice cut through the chaos.
"Don't get sloppy. Watch your six. Fly the basics and don't get cocky."
Teppei's strained voice suddenly blared, grunting as G-forces crushed his body.
"GGAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH—fuck—ARGHHHHHHHH!"
Candace chuckled mid-dogfight. "Wolfsbane Squadron, everyone's planes still flying? Or do I need to start writing eulogies?"
"Hell no!" Emilie barked, sweat dripping inside her helmet. "We need better planes! These analog buckets are antiques!"
"Yeah!" Teppei chimed in between labored breaths. "Can we get something with actual tech sometime this century?!"
Candace sighed. "Cry about it later. Right now, keep them off our asses."
Emilie rolled into another hard right turn, Sidewinders growling. The moment the tone steadied—
"Fox Two!"
Another jet exploded in her wake.
Seconds later, Mona's voice chimed in.
"Target down. Bandit splashed."
Silence followed.
Finally, AWACS Thunderspike's sterile voice broke through.
"All unknown aircraft destroyed."
Emilie eased her Tiger II level, lungs finally catching up with the chaos. Her chest rose and fell under the G-suit's tight grip.
Candace's voice came back over squadron net, calm again.
"All planes, sound off. Can you hear me?"
"Raven, roger." Emilie's voice steady now.
"Herring, loud and clear."
"Starseer, affirm, ma'am."
Candace let herself exhale. Relief, hidden under that hard edge.
"Good. Looks like we all lived through that clusterfuck." She smirked. "To commemorate the miracle, Emilie—you're keeping 'Raven.' You earned it."
For once, Emilie didn't argue. She just nodded inside her cockpit, silent, eyes scanning the sky.
The four battered Tiger IIs wheeled back into formation, silhouettes returning to tight diamond. Exhaust plumes glowing orange as they banked for home.
Their contrails pointed back toward Petrichor Air Force Base.
Mission complete. For now.
Hours later, the squadron touched down at Petrichor Air Force Base under the dying glow of dusk. The adrenaline that had carried them through the chaos bled away the moment their wheels hit concrete. The engines spooled down with a dying whine, replaced by the metallic groans of airframes cooling in the evening breeze.
The pilots walked back across the ramp in silence, flight helmets dangling from one hand, fatigue pressing down like lead. No one cracked a joke. No one spoke about the fight. The squadron's mood was a mirror of the blood-red horizon—ominous, unsettled.
Inside the debriefing room, the fluorescent lights hummed faintly, the smell of stale coffee and jet fuel still clinging to their flight suits. Emilie slipped back in after a quick trip to the bathroom, drying her hands against her sleeves. She glanced at the others. Mona sat with arms crossed, eyes narrowed in thought. Teppei leaned against the wall, chewing his lip, restless.
Emilie frowned. Something was wrong.
Her gaze swept the room.
"Where's Captain Candace?"
The base commander—Colonel Duret, a tall man with sharp, hawk-like eyes and a permanent shadow of fatigue etched into his face—looked up from the folder in his hands. His expression gave nothing away, but his pause said enough.
"I was just about to address that," he said finally. His voice carried the weight of stone. He closed the folder with deliberate care, setting it aside. "Captain Candace has been ordered to report to Base Headquarters in Marcotte. Central Command wants her there immediately."
Emilie's brow furrowed. "For what?"
"That," Duret said flatly, "is above your clearance."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"What happened out there today," he continued, eyes locking onto each pilot in turn, "is now classified at the highest level. Central Command has issued a gag order. No discussion outside these walls. No speculation. No written reports. Nothing leaves this room. Am I clear?"
The weight of his words pressed against them heavier than any G-force. Even Teppei—who never shut up—remained silent. Emilie's jaw tightened, but she gave the slightest nod. Mona did the same.
The colonel exhaled through his nose, the faintest sign of his own unease.
"You're all dismissed. Await further orders."
Chairs scraped against the tile as the three lieutenants rose and filed out. Their boots echoed down the sterile hallways, fading one by one as they split off toward their quarters.
Emilie entered her room and shut the door behind her with a soft click. For the first time since the fight, she allowed herself to breathe. She unclipped her helmet, setting it down on the desk beside her flight gloves, the glassy visor reflecting the dim light.
Pulling her glasses free, she rubbed at her eyes. Her body was exhausted, but her mind refused to rest.
She stepped to the window, leaning a hand against the sill. Outside, Petrichor's night air swept in—cool, salty, tinged faintly with the fuel that lingered over the flight line. The sea stretched endlessly before her, black waves rolling into the horizon, featureless and indifferent.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"…What the hell is going on?"
The images replayed in her mind, unshakable: the silhouettes of the enemy aircraft, the telltale delta wings of Mirage 2000s, the knife-like fuselages of MiG-21s. Not Teyvat Air Force inventory. Certainly not Fontaine's.
So why had they been in Fontaine's skies?
Her eyes traced the endless ocean beyond Petrichor's coast, her thoughts reaching across the waters.
"Across that ocean…"
Her gaze hardened.
"…is Natlan."
The thought hit her like a body blow. Her breath caught in her throat.
"Were those… Natlan aircraft?"
She had no proof. No intel. No confirmation. Just instinct. But in combat, instinct kept you alive. And hers screamed that something was very, very wrong.
Because beyond those waters lay Natlan's maritime frontier. Beyond that frontier, an airbase. A stronghold. A staging ground.
The cold settled deeper in her gut.
This wasn't a mistake. It wasn't a rogue unit.
It felt like a warning.
Her fingers curled into fists against the window frame as she stared into the black horizon.
"Is this… the first sign of war?"
The waves kept rolling, silent, endless, and merciless.