November 29
1643 Hours
Almost a week had passed since the operation to rescue Captain Mona Megistus. Wolfsbane Squadron was whole again, though the memory of that mission still lingered in their minds like a low hum beneath the roar of jet engines.
A replacement F-14A had been flown in from the Fontaine mainland — a retired airframe that had sat in storage for months, now refurbished, checked, and roaring back to life under Wolfsbane Squadron. Its polished fuselage glinted in the late afternoon sun, reflecting the tarmac in brilliant streaks of orange and gold.
Inside the crew lounge, the four pilots finally allowed themselves a moment of calm. Emilie lounged on the couch beside Mona, helmet resting loosely on the floor at her feet. Teppei and Ayaka leaned casually against the window frame, arms crossed, eyes tracing the horizon where heat shimmered above the desert.
Ayaka broke the silence first, her voice measured but carrying an undercurrent of curiosity.
"You heard the Vice President's going to make a speech at Marcotte?"
Teppei nodded, a grin tugging at his face. "Yeah. Stadium. Big crowd. People from Natlan and Teyvat. Big fucking deal."
Mona tilted her head, confirming with a small smirk. "Yep. And it's supposed to be packed. Security's tight, so they want us up there. Official flyby."
Ayaka's eyes flicked between Emilie and Mona. "Looks like you two are getting along now."
Emilie chuckled, nudging Mona lightly with her shoulder. "I told you, didn't I? I said all I needed was a friendly chat after the rescue. Nothing more, nothing less."
Teppei raised a finger, grinning mischievously. "Specifically, you said, 'rescue her sorry ass.'"
Mona's smirk widened. "You actually said that?"
Emilie shrugged, laughing, a flash of her usual sharp humor cutting through the lingering tension. "Yeah… emotions got the better of me."
The four laughed, the heavy, recent weeks lifting slightly with each chuckle. For a brief moment, the horrors of sandstorms, SAM sites, and near-death engagements faded behind the camaraderie of their squadron.
But the moment was shattered by the creak of the lounge door. An officer strode in, posture rigid, voice clipped.
"Wolfsbane! New op just came in. Briefing room — on the double!"
Emilie sprang to her feet, grabbing her helmet from the table with practiced speed. "Right. Let's move."
The others grabbed their gear, shoulders squared, boots clicking against the polished hallway as they followed her briskly. The air carried the faint tang of jet fuel and sweat, the scent of an airbase preparing for action.
They slid into their seats just as Commander Courbevoie stepped up to the podium. His expression was tight, voice carrying the weight of authority and expectation.
"Alright, listen up. I'll keep this short," he began, eyes sweeping across the squad. "The Vice President is giving a major speech at Marcotte City's stadium today — a rally to keep public morale strong. You four have been personally assigned to perform a ceremonial flyby over the stadium."
He paused, letting the weight of the assignment sink in. A few of the pilots shifted slightly in their seats, hands flexing over helmet straps.
"This is an honor," Courbevoie continued, voice sharpening. "Not just a mission. You are flying the hopes of this country. This is not a show for spectators — this is a display of airpower, discipline, and vigilance. If anything — and I mean anything — looks suspicious, you are authorized to engage."
He clicked the remote. A digital map of the city expanded on the main display, highlighting key sectors, crowd density, and potential approach corridors for the flyby.
"You will remain in the area after the flyby for a full air patrol," he said, emphasizing each word. "Maintain formation. Keep eyes sharp. You are fully armed — do not treat this like a parade. One mistake, one lapse, and there could be consequences."
A heavy silence hung in the room. Emilie tightened her jaw, gloved hands resting on her knees. Teppei's foot tapped lightly against the floor, a nervous rhythm in sync with his quickened heartbeat. Ayaka's calm gaze betrayed none of the tension she undoubtedly felt. Mona fiddled with her helmet strap, eyes focused forward, mentally running through her pre-flight checklist.
Courbevoie's tone hardened, finality in every word.
"You launch in twenty. Dismissed."
The squad rose in unison, helmets clasped under their arms. Without a word, they moved in precise, coordinated steps down the corridor, the weight of duty pressing on their shoulders.
Outside, the sun had begun its slow descent. The tarmac shimmered with heat, jets glinting like predatory birds waiting to take to the skies. Wolfsbane Squadron was ready.
They were going to fly for the Vice President, for the people of Teyvat and Natlan… and for themselves, proving that even after weeks of chaos and combat, they could still perform with precision under pressure.
The squad hit the flight line with boots thudding against concrete. Ground crews moved with crisp efficiency, fueling jets, performing final inspections, and running through last-second systems checks. The sound of hydraulic hisses, tool clatters, and jet engines idling filled the air like a mechanical symphony.
Emilie paused for a heartbeat, hand resting on the F-14's fuselage, feeling the familiar vibrations through her gloves. She drew in a deep breath of the hot desert air, the smell of jet fuel sharp in her nose, and then turned to her wingmen.
"Alright, Wolfsbane. Time to show the world what we can do."
Teppei and Ayaka snapped to attention, Mona following Emilie's lead with a determined glint in her eyes.
The squadron was ready. The sky awaited.
Teppei broke the tension first, chuckling as they walked toward the flight line.
"Hey, another easy one, right? Simple show of force?"
Emilie gave him a dry, sharp smile, her boots clicking against the tarmac.
"Simple, huh? Just remember—we're not done after the flyby, hero. Patrol duty comes next. Eyes open, weapons hot."
Teppei waved her off with a grin. "Yeah yeah, but c'mon… who'd attack Fontaine's mainland now?"
Mona smirked as she fell into step beside Emilie. "Oh, I don't know… maybe Natlan?"
Ayaka laughed softly, her voice carrying a rare lightness. "Hopefully not."
The four pilots approached their aircraft. Four F-14A Tomcats gleamed under the low sun, wings fully swept forward, intakes open like the jaws of predators waiting to devour the sky. Heat shimmered off the fuselage, sunlight dancing along polished panels, revealing every seam and rivet of these veteran fighters.
Each pilot peeled off toward their assigned machine, the sound of boots on concrete and faint hydraulic hiss filling the air.
Emilie climbed the ladder into her Tomcat, the cockpit swallowing her in its familiar embrace. She sank into the seat, hands immediately finding controls with practiced precision.
First, the instruments: altimeter switched from STBY to RESET. The display flickered to life. She aligned the standby attitude indicator, toggled VDI, HUD, and HSD/ECM panels. Each light, amber and green, glowed steadily — all systems nominal.
She flicked the air source lever to BOTH ENG. Oxygen hissed into her helmet, a subtle reminder of the thin desert air. She reached back and pushed the variable sweep wing lever fully forward. The F-14's wings extended, each slat and flap settling with mechanical authority, ready for the agility and speed to come.
She engaged the UHF radio, toggling GUARD and BOTH, TACAN to T/R. AFCS systems — pitch, roll, yaw — enabled. Helmet secured, harness tightened. Canopy sealed with a hiss and a satisfying mechanical click.
The twin TF30 engines were next. She flipped the right engine start switch. A rising whine, then a low whirring hum, RPM climbing steadily. At 25%, she eased the throttle out of cutoff. The FF and TIT surged. The engine roared to life with a deep, resonant growl.
Left engine — identical rhythm. Twin turbines alive, vibrating through the airframe, waiting to turn thrust into action.
She signaled the ground crew. Two techs sprinted in to disconnect air and ground power, hatches snapping shut behind them. Both gave crisp thumbs-up gestures. Emilie returned the signal and keyed the radio.
"Herring, Starseer, Soumetsu — radio check."
"Loud and clear, ma'am," Teppei's voice came back steady.
"Copy that, boss," Mona confirmed.
"Affirmative," Ayaka's calm tone followed.
Emilie gave a firm nod inside her helmet. "Alright. Wolfsbane, taxi out."
One by one, the four Tomcats rolled forward, engines growling low, gear rolling over the concrete. Each movement precise, controlled, like a predator stalking the prey of the sky.
At the runway threshold, they lined up side by side: Emilie leading left, Mona on her wingtip, Teppei and Ayaka in trail. The tower's voice crackled over the radio, confirming clearance.
Emilie pushed the throttles forward. Afterburners flared to life, twin pillars of fire erupting behind her Tomcat. The heat and light shimmered against the tarmac, and the airframe vibrated with unleashed fury.
Speed bled off quickly:
120 knots.
135.
145.
154…
168.
She eased back on the stick. The Tomcat surged upward, powerful and precise. Positive rate. Gear up. The nose lifted, slicing through the afternoon haze. The main landing gear retracted with a resounding thunk, panels locking cleanly.
Her wingmates followed flawlessly, formation tightening. Triangle to echelon, the squadron moved as one, engines roaring in synchrony, the sun catching glints off leading edges, canopies, and vertical stabilizers.
They banked northward, the earth rolling away beneath them, rivers glinting, fields streaked with gold. Marcotte City's towers glittered ahead, anticipation rising with every foot of altitude.
Emilie scanned the horizon. "Eyes open, Wolfsbane. Remember: ceremonial flyby, but weapons hot. Any indication of threat — we respond."
Mona, Teppei, and Ayaka mirrored her focus, the rhythm of formation and checklists ingrained into muscle memory. The ceremonial flight had begun, but every pilot knew — honor, precision, and vigilance were inseparable in the sky.
Above Marcotte, the sun burned low, shadows stretching across the city. Four F-14s glided through the air, a quartet of steel and fire, ready to perform their duty for the eyes of a nation.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky bathed the world in a soft, golden haze, streaked with wisps of amber and rose. The heat from the day lingered near the rooftops, and rising air currents wavered faintly above the tarmac, but the pilots were already high above the ground, focused and precise.
Four F-14A Tomcats sliced through the twilight, their diamond formation tight and disciplined at 1,000 feet AGL. The silhouettes of the aircraft cut sharp, angular figures against the glowing sky, wings gleaming faintly in the dying light.
Leading the formation was Emilie, her Tomcat steady, wings fully extended, her hands light but confident on the stick. Mona and Teppei held her flanks, slightly behind, while Ayaka maintained the tail position, surveying both her squadmates and the urban landscape below.
Ayaka's voice cut through the radio, calm and warm.
"I'm proud to be flying like this," she said, almost to herself, though the squad could hear the pride threading her tone.
Teppei snickered. "Hehe, gotta have your manners, kid!"
Emilie let out a brief, low laugh. "Take it easy, Herring. It's not like the Vice President's listening to our chatter. Alright, remember — stay on my lead. Don't drift. Eyes sharp."
Responses came crisp and punctual.
"Roger that!"
"Understood, ma'am!"
"Wilco, Raven!"
Emilie allowed herself a small grin. "Parfaite. Let's begin our ceremonial flight."
The voice of AWACS Thunderspike crackled over the radio, lively and precise.
"You heard the Captain. Commence your ceremonial flight!"
Emilie eased the stick back. Her F-14A's nose lifted into a clean 30-degree climb, engines screaming as afterburners flared lightly. Behind her, Mona, Teppei, and Ayaka mirrored the maneuver with perfect synchronization, each a shadow of the other in the fading sun.
They climbed steadily to 2,000 feet, then Emilie eased the stick forward, nose dropping to a shallow 30-degree descent. The formation rippled in response, precise, aerodynamic — a living demonstration of trust and training.
Descending further, they leveled off at 600 feet AGL before Emilie executed another smooth 30-degree climb. Teppei's voice carried over the net, breathless with exhilaration.
"We look good! We're lookin' great!"
Emilie chuckled lightly. "Focus now, Herring."
The formation leveled at 2,000 feet as the skyline of Marcotte City emerged, towers glinting through the haze. Emilie lowered her nose into a gentle 20-degree descent, the Tomcat's control surfaces humming under aerodynamic load. The other pilots followed without hesitation, wings slicing through the thinning air.
They dropped to 250 feet AGL, perfectly clearing rooftops as the stadium came into view. Emilie executed a crisp, 90-degree right bank, maintaining course and speed. Her wingmates mirrored her flawlessly. Then, without pause, a 90-degree left bank brought them back inline. Their wings cut through the fading light like blades of steel, the roar of their Pratt & Whitney TF30 engines resonating across the city.
The stadium erupted as the four aircraft skimmed 250 feet above it at 450 knots, turbulence ruffling banners and dust alike. A synchronized ballet of metal and fire, the Tomcats reflected the golden glow, each panel glinting with practiced precision.
Emilie keyed the mic, exhilaration edging her words.
"Fantastique! We're flying beautifully! Starseer, Herring — when I say 'GO,' break formation and cross paths. Understood?"
"Roger!"
"Understood!"
"Soumetsu, follow my lead."
"Yes, Captain," Ayaka responded immediately.
Emilie began her countdown.
"Five... Four... Three... Two... One... GO!"
She slammed the throttles into full afterburner, TF30s roaring as the Tomcat clawed upward. Mona banked left, Teppei right, cleanly breaking formation. Emilie and Ayaka remained tight, rolling inverted in a smooth climb before diving back toward the stadium, wings slicing the air with perfect symmetry.
Above them, Mona and Teppei crossed paths in a dramatic "X," executing a choreographed maneuver just above Emilie and Ayaka's flight path.
"Perfect, Herring! Perfect, Starseer!" Emilie called over the comms.
AWACS Thunderspike chimed in immediately.
"Nicely done, Wolfsbane! That concludes your ceremonial flight!"
Emilie allowed a small, satisfied smile. "Wolfsbane, form up. Let's start our patrol."
The four Tomcats pulled back into formation with practiced ease, banking gently as a cohesive unit, wings cutting arcs against the deepening twilight. Above Marcotte, the city shimmered in the evening light, and the squadron soared as one — sharp, disciplined, and ready for whatever might come next.
Down below, as the four F-14s arced low over Marcotte City, the Vice President of Teyvat commanded attention inside the stadium. His voice boomed over the loudspeakers, amplified across the city and broadcast live on national channels.
"Citizens of Teyvat! Please, lend us your ears! As your Vice President, I stand here before you on behalf of President Imena! Listen to your fellow countrymen cheering before me! They are filled with righteous anger against Natlan — and they swear they will not lower their weapons until Natlan has surrendered!"
He raised a hand dramatically.
"Now... I ask you... LISTEN TO THEIR CHEERS!"
Inside the cockpits, the pilots heard the broadcast via the radio feed. Teppei scowled, shading his eyes against the evening sun.
"Aw great... here comes the cheers. And the thundering applause..."
But what rose from the stadium was not the expected roar of celebration.
A low murmur began, soft at first, then swelling. Voices blended into a rising melody. The crowd was singing.
It was not a patriotic anthem. Not applause. A song.
An anti-war song, originating from Jarilo, a nation far removed from this conflict.
"The dawn, a brand new day
The sun, beating back the endless night
A ray, of warmth, around me
At last, I see, the light..."
The Vice President's voice stammered over the microphone.
"Uh... this... this song! Citizens! Please! Stop this!"
Teppei, glancing at the sea of faces below, joined in lightly, half in jest.
"To dance, with morning birds!
High trees swaying, sunlight shines so clear!"
Emilie shook her head, muttering through the radio.
"This isn't even rock and roll, Teppei."
"Who cares!?" Teppei shot back. "They just want to get along with Natlan too, right? This song's got soul!"
The moment broke abruptly as AWACS Thunderspike's voice cut in, crisp and urgent.
"Wolfsbane, alert! Two enemy squadrons inbound to your location — one escort, one stealth bomber squadron! Marcotte Air Force Base attempted a scramble, but one runway's down and the other's blocked by a crash-landed C-17 Globemaster! Charybdis Air Force Base is the nearest support — ETA, four minutes!"
Mona's voice was immediate and sharp.
"Roger that!"
Ayaka's calm veneer cracked slightly.
"So we're on our own for now?"
Emilie slammed the throttles forward, feeling the TF30 engines rumble through the airframe, tailpipes flaring bright orange.
"Yes! Engage! Protect the civilians at all costs!"
Teppei glanced down at the stadium, still filled with singing citizens, even as sirens wailed.
"The people are still singing..." he muttered, incredulous.
Then the radar screamed — IFF signals multiplying across their HUDs. Dozens of bogeys.
Eurofighter Typhoons, closing fast.
Mona's voice rose in awe and dread.
"Holy shit! That's way too many!"
Ahead, Emilie spotted two Typhoons vectoring for intercept. She toggled the weapons system to XLAA missiles, the HUD flashing lock tones.
"Fox Three, Fox Three!"
Three XLAA missiles detached smoothly, engines roaring as they arced upward in sharp smoke trails.
Emilie keyed the radio, commanding and sharp.
"All units, disperse! Attack all targets — engage now!"
She banked hard right, peeling off behind Teppei. Mona and Ayaka dove left and right, splitting into their intercept vectors.
Explosions lit up the dusky sky as her missiles struck true. Fire blossomed across the airspace, debris spiraling downward.
Enemy comms burst into panicked static.
"Shit! Three planes down!"
"Damn you, Emberhowl!"
Thunderspike's voice returned, urgent and controlled.
"The stadium evacuation has begun! Keep them off the civilians!"
The skies erupted into chaos — smoke trails, missile contrails, and the distant flashes of burning jets. Wolfsbane's F-14s weaved, climbed, and rolled, each maneuver deliberate, precision-trained, lethal.
Mona's voice hissed through static.
"This isn't a battle, it's a slaughter! Feels like we're being sacrificed in some sick ritual!"
Even as the enemy numbers dwindled into single digits, fresh waves of tactical fighter-bombers surged in.
Then — a voice, calm and mocking, cut across the comms.
"Attention all units inbound to Marcotte City... heh. Guess you got us moving too..."
Thunderspike snapped back.
"What the fuck? Who is this!? State your squadron immediately!"
The voice ignored him.
"Seemed like a good training drill... but it's all done now. All teams, return to base."
Sudden violent static burst across all channels.
Emilie slammed her palm against her helmet, teeth gritted.
"Argh! What the fuck is that!?"
Mona barked over the comms, furious.
"Kill this static! I can't hear a damn thing!"
Thunderspike roared across the disrupted network.
"ECCM! Restore communication links, NOW!!"
Ayaka's voice came through, strained and panicked.
"The reinforcements aren't coming! What the fuck is happening!?"
Finally, Thunderspike's voice returned, still tense.
"Armee de l'Air 405th Squadron and 208th Tactical Fighter Team are inbound! Hang in there, Wolfsbane!"
Then came the stealth interceptors — F-117A Nighthawks.
Emilie's HUD locked on a black triangle ahead. She banked, diving into attack position.
"Fox Two, Fox Two!"
Two AIM-9 Sidewinders ripped free, trailing smoke as they streaked toward the intruder. She rolled hard right, yanking into a 180-degree turn to acquire the next target.
The Sidewinders struck clean. The first F-117 disintegrated midair, black panels spiraling downward in a fiery blossom.
Thunderspike's voice cut back, tension tight.
"Evacuation's almost complete! Wolfsbane, hold fast! Keep them clear!"
Above Marcotte, the twilight sky was torn with smoke trails, scattered debris, and the steady hum of four relentless F-14A Tomcats. Wolfsbane Squadron wove through the airspace, bloodied but unbroken, defending their city with deadly efficiency.
Teppei's voice cut through the radio, sharp with panic:
"This damn Eurofighter's on my tail! I can't shake it!"
Emilie's head snapped toward his position on the tactical display. A bogey was trailing him like a shadow. She tightened her grip on the stick, eyes narrowing behind the visor.
The Eurofighter launched a missile. A bright flare streaked from its rail, a thin line of fire and smoke closing fast on Teppei's F-14A.
Teppei yanked the stick hard right, kicking in full rudder deflection and applying afterburner to pull a hard split-S, attempting to break the missile lock.
But the missile was fast. Too fast.
A violent detonation shook the Tomcat as the missile found its mark near the fuselage. Warning lights screamed across the cockpit: MASTER CAUTION, FIRE, HYDRAULICS FAIL. Smoke coiled through the instrument panels.
"Fuck, fuck! I—I'm hit!" Teppei gasped over the comms, voice cracking under the sudden stress.
Mona's reaction was instant, sharp:
"Herring! Are you okay!?"
Teppei's hands danced over the controls, throttles forward, ailerons and rudder frantically countering the asymmetric forces. Smoke blurred his HUD.
"Y-Yeah... nothing big. I'm not wounded. I can keep this thing in the air… for a little while."
He let out a dry, strained laugh.
"Heh… Besides, planes are expendable, right, Raven?"
Emilie's eyes hardened, scanning the sky as another black blip streaked across her radar. She keyed her mic without hesitation, voice icy:
"Of course they are."
Teppei coughed, smoke filling his mask, then managed a weak laugh.
"That's it, Raven… now that's how a captain talks."
Emilie toggled her radar, locking onto the incoming F-117A stealth bomber. Tone. Lock. Her thumb depressed the master arm, releasing two AIM-9 Sidewinders.
"Fox Two! Fox Two!"
The missiles streaked off the rails, smoke spiraling in long, tight trails. One hit dead center; the stealth bomber erupted in a brilliant fireball, wings tearing as debris rained down toward the city below.
"Target hit! Target hit!" Emilie called, scanning for the next threat.
Ayaka's voice cut in over the net, sharp, almost desperate:
"We can't defend the city with just four planes! We have to hold them back until the evacuation's complete!"
Emilie pushed the throttles forward, feeling the afterburners roar beneath her as her F-14 surged through the smoky twilight.
"I'm running low on missiles!" she warned, adjusting her sweep wings for a tighter turning radius as she lined up the next target.
Mona's voice came urgently.
"Herring! Can you bail out!?"
Teppei hesitated, calculation and adrenaline flooding his mind.
"I… uhhh… kinda hard at a time like this! Where the hell would I even ditch!?"
Emilie barked, no room for hesitation.
"The river, Teppei! Ditch it in the river!"
Teppei grunted, teeth clenched, determination masking fear.
"Sounds like a plan… but I'm still flying escort until the last second!"
Thunderspike's voice cut across the chaos, tense but precise.
"All units in Marcotte City, do not return to base! The city is still under attack!"
Another explosion rocked the skies overhead — Mona had just taken down the last F-117A, her wingtip rolling sharply to avoid falling debris as she scanned for stragglers.
Thunderspike updated rapidly.
"All stealth bombers destroyed! Allied fighters en route! ETA three minutes!"
Emilie exhaled sharply, tightening her grip on the stick as she lined up a few remaining Eurofighters attempting to exploit the chaos. Smoke, fire, and the roar of afterburners enveloped the squadron. Every movement, every decision, was critical — one mistake could send a Tomcat spiraling into the city below.
Teppei exhaled heavily, hands shaking on the stick.
"There goes my HUD… and there goes my radar…" he muttered through gritted teeth.
"Circuits are fried. Hydraulics are failing… Stick's barely responding…"
Static crackled over the radio, Mona's voice cutting through:
"Herring! Please! Forget about the plane! Bail out! Bail out!"
Emilie screamed, voice sharp and frantic:
"HERRING!! EJECT!! EJECT!!"
Teppei nodded, determination hardening his features.
"Okay… I'm ejecting now."
Thunderspike's voice, taut with tension, came back:
"Captain Teppei, report! Are you okay!?"
Teppei struggled against the failing Tomcat, throttles unresponsive, flight controls sluggish and deadened. Smoke curled through the cockpit.
"Not so good… Controlling this thing's a nightmare. Even the hand pump's dead. I'll try to steer it away from the city before I punch out…"
Mona's voice, almost desperate, cut in:
"Wilco. Just bail out, please!"
Teppei gritted his teeth, fighting the spiraling aircraft. The F-14 lurched violently under him. He reached for the ejection handle above his head.
Pulled.
Nothing.
"Damn it!!" he cursed, yanking again and again. The canopy refused to budge.
Warning lights blinked furiously. Fire alarms shrieked. Smoke stung his eyes.
Teppei's voice grew quieter, tinged with resignation.
"The electrical's shot… the canopy won't blow… and the ejection seat's probably dead too…"
Emilie's composure broke completely. She screamed through the comms, raw and ragged:
"DON'T GIVE UP, TEPPEI!
KEEP TRYING!!
TEPPEI!!!"
Teppei smiled faintly, an odd calm in the midst of chaos.
"Heh… I'm gonna miss that sweet voice…"
He closed his eyes, letting the F-14's violent bucking shake through him.
"Take care of yourself… Captain Emilie…"
The Tomcat spiraled downward, smoke trailing from its ruined fuselage. Controls were gone. Hope was gone.
And then—impact.
The F-14 slammed into the center of the stadium in a deafening explosion. Fire and smoke roared skyward, blotting out the fading sun. Debris and shrapnel sprayed across the stands and streets.
The blast reverberated through Marcotte City, shaking buildings and sending panicked screams into the streets below.
Emilie leaned forward in her cockpit, hands gripping the throttle, tears streaming down her face.
"Mona… Ayaka…" she gasped, her voice breaking.
In unison, over the comms:
"TEPPEI!!!"
Then—silence.
Only the distant wail of sirens, the crackle of burning wreckage, and the acrid smell of smoke filled the empty sky.
The remaining F-14s leveled out, formation intact but heavy with grief. Wolfsbane had lost one of their own.
Emilie bowed her head, tears spilling freely, her jaw clenched, fighting the sobs clawing at her throat. Her hands trembled on the controls. She had to keep flying. She had to keep fighting.
Thunderspike's voice cut through the comm, weary and strained.
"...Damn it… Look… I hate to say this now… but… we've got another wave of enemies inbound. All units… engage!"
Emilie raised her head slowly, eyes burning with fury and heartbreak. Every line of her face was taut with grief and unyielding resolve.
She had four missiles left. Special weapons.
She had run out of mercy.
Her voice, low, dark, and raw, came through the radio like molten steel:
"Emilie… engaging."
Without hesitation, she slammed the throttles forward, afterburners flaring into angry pillars of fire. The twin TF30 engines roared like enraged beasts as her Tomcat tore through the twilight sky.
On her left, Ayaka's fist slammed against her canopy, a cry of pure fury and defiance spilling over the comms.
"URGH!!!"
The skyline of Marcotte City stretched below like a smoldering wound — smoke rising from wreckage, civilians scattering in panic, sirens wailing as the next wave of enemy fighters closed in.
And above it all, Wolfsbane Squadron — battered, bloodied, heartbroken — prepared to meet the oncoming storm head‑on.
The enemy comms hissed back into Emilie's headset, full of cocky bravado:
"They're no demons! Let's take them out!"
Ahead of her, four Eurofighters spread into attack formation, their wings flashing in the twilight.
Emilie didn't hesitate. Her thumb flicked over the weapons selector — tone blared in her headset, four simultaneous locks screaming for release.
She squeezed the trigger.
Four XLAA missiles dropped from her rails, ignition plumes curling into long, white contrails that streaked across the sky.
Three detonations. Three Eurofighters disintegrated in fireballs, fragments tumbling through the dusk like dying meteors.
The last Eurofighter rolled hard left, afterburner blazing as it tried to escape. Emilie was already on him. She snapped the stick violently, the F‑14A shrieking under brutal G‑forces, wings flexing as the glove vanes bit into the slipstream. Her TF30s roared at full military power, surging as she forced the Tomcat to its edge.
The Eurofighter jinked and twisted, exploiting its tighter turn radius, but Emilie anticipated every move — rolling out early, throttling back to force an overshoot, then slamming forward again. Her Tomcat's nose tracked like a predator's.
On the enemy comms, panic spilled out:
"Wh‑What's going on!? Her maneuverability's insane! She's flying better than before!!"
Another voice barked back, disbelief leaking through the static:
"Is this the true power of the Emberhowl!?"
A third voice tried to rally the shaken pilots:
"Don't lose confidence! We can manage them!"
But even he faltered.
"Captain! More enemy squadrons inbound! We have to abort the mission!"
Silence. Then, clipped:
"Fine."
The Eurofighter broke north, peeling away.
Emilie showed no mercy.
She flicked to guns, squeezed the trigger.
Her M61 Vulcan cannon spat a stream of 20mm rounds, tracers stitching the sky. They tore into the Eurofighter's rear fuselage, fuel spilling and igniting in a violent burst. The pilot rolled hard to recover — too late.
Emilie squeezed again. This time the rounds punched through the canopy. The pilot slumped instantly, lifeless before he even realized he was hit.
The burning Eurofighter spiraled downward, trailing fire, and slammed into the river below with a plume of water and smoke.
"Enemy planes are retreating," Thunderspike's voice came over the radio, clipped but heavy with emotion. "The Armee de l'Air 405th Squadron and 208th Tactical Fighter Squadron have arrived."
Emilie steadied her Tomcat, flying just above the rooftops at low altitude. She banked southwest toward the stadium. Mona and Ayaka slid in on her wings, one on each side — battered but still airborne.
Thunderspike's voice softened as he continued:
"We've received an update from the ground."
He hesitated.
"Apart from some injuries during the evacuation… there are no civilian casualties."
Another pause. Then, quieter still:
"He… he was a role model for us all…"
The comms went silent except for the hum of engines and the faint crackle of static.
Emilie's hands shook. She tore her oxygen mask free, letting it dangle against her chest. Tears blurred her vision. A sob escaped, raw and broken, then another. She clenched the stick, fighting to stay airborne, fighting to hold herself together.
Thunderspike's voice came back one last time, softer than before:
"Join me… in saluting… Captain Teppei."
Slowly, Emilie raised her right hand to her helmet, trembling as she formed a salute. On either side, Mona and Ayaka mirrored her.
From the horizon, five F/A‑18s and two F‑35Cs from the 405th thundered in, diamond‑tight. As they passed over the stadium, the rightmost F‑35C peeled sharply skyward, climbing alone into the fading blue — a missing man formation.
A tribute.
A farewell.
Thunderspike exhaled, his voice barely a whisper over the radio:
"Wolfsbane… let's go home."
Minutes later, the three battered F-14A Tomcats glided on final approach to Petrichor Air Force Base.
The radios crackled faintly over the static:
"Wolfsbane, this is Tower. You are cleared to land. Welcome home."
No one answered.
Emilie guided her Tomcat down the glideslope with mechanical precision. The aircraft felt heavier than ever, each control input weighed down by the loss they'd just endured.
Her wheels kissed Runway 30 with a muted thud, the arresting hook ready but unneeded. Mona and Ayaka followed in tight sequence, their Tomcats touching down silently, almost reverently, as if honoring Teppei's memory.
They rolled down the runway, slowed under careful throttle management, and peeled off onto the taxiway. Wings swept forward automatically, the F-14s' variable geometry performing flawlessly, a stark contrast to the turmoil in their pilots' hearts.
Ground crews moved toward them with brisk efficiency, hooking up air power units and grounding lines, but even their practiced motions seemed slowed by the heavy atmosphere.
Inside the cockpit, Emilie froze. Her hands shook as she throttled the twin TF30 engines down to cutoff, the turbines winding down with soft whines and mechanical coughs.
She reached up, releasing the canopy. The glass hissed and slid back.
For a long moment, she did nothing. Then, hands trembling, she removed her helmet and set it on her lap. Her chest heaved. Tears streamed down her face, spilling onto her gloves.
"Oh..." Her voice was barely audible.
"T-Teppei..."
Unbuckling her harness with shaking fingers, she climbed down the side of the Tomcat. Her boots thudded softly on the tarmac, heavy with grief. She barely noticed the ground crew rushing to meet her.
Then a hand rested on her shoulder.
She turned. Mona and Ayaka stood beside her, helmets off, tears streaking their faces. Without a word, Emilie threw her arms around them. The three of them clung tightly, burying their heads together, as if by holding on they could keep Teppei alive in memory.
None spoke. There was nothing left to say.
They stayed like that on the tarmac for an eternity that was only minutes, finally breaking apart and starting the slow, quiet walk toward the main building, boots dragging against the concrete with each step.
Inside the corridor, they almost collided with Base Commander Maksim. He raised a hand in greeting.
"Hey! Great job out there!" he said, forcing a smile.
They walked past him without a word.
Maksim's brow furrowed in confusion.
"Hey, are you three okay?" he called after them.
Ayaka, trailing behind, glanced briefly over her shoulder. Slowly, she shook her head.
Maksim's face drained of color. His hand dropped to his side.
"Oh… no…" he breathed.
The three pilots parted ways, each heading toward their quarters, silent, exhausted, broken.
They had defended the city. They had completed the mission.
But in their hearts, the day was a failure.
Because they had lost someone irreplaceable.
Someone full of energy. Full of jokes. Full of life.
Their brother-in-arms.
Their motormouth Herring.
Teppei.