October 4
09:45 Hours
Petrichor Air Force Base – Mess Hall
The mess hall vibrated with the organized chaos of a military breakfast—metal trays clattering against polished surfaces, silverware tapping rhythmically on ceramic, boots scraping across the floor as cadets shuffled between tables. The air smelled of burnt toast, coffee, and the faint tang of jet fuel carried in on uniforms. Voices rose and fell in waves, a mix of nervous laughter, chatter, and the low murmur of cadets exchanging stories from their first flights.
At a central table, surrounded by half-eaten plates of eggs and steaming mugs, sat Wolfsbane Squadron—veterans in a sea of fresh faces. Emilie stabbed at a piece of scrambled egg, eyes tracking the flow of energy around the hall while her mind ran on autopilot, scanning everyone like she scanned a flight deck.
Mona, perched across from her with a dark ceramic mug warming her hands, leaned forward, brow raised.
"Hey, Emilie," she began, voice low enough for only the table to hear. "I've been meaning to ask—how'd you end up with the callsign 'Raven'?"
Emilie looked up mid-bite, a short, amused laugh escaping her as she set her fork down and wiped her mouth with a napkin.
"Oh, that," she said, fingers flexing around the napkin before raising one index. "First reason—glasses."
Mona blinked.
"Seriously?"
Emilie smirked, raising a second finger. "Second—and the real reason? I've got a sharp eye. If something's off—anything, even the smallest detail—I catch it almost immediately."
Mona coughed into her sleeve, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "What?! That… that actually makes sense." She set the mug down, shaking her head. "I highly doubt the glasses have anything to do with it—but yeah, the 'sharp eye' part? I'll buy that."
Emilie leaned back, the chair creaking softly, and chuckled. "That's what Captain Candace said, too. She gave me the name after I spotted an ambush ten klicks out—before it even hit the radar. Knew the exact bearing, altitude, everything. She looked at me and said, 'Raven… that's it.' And it stuck."
Teppei, fork halfway to his mouth, grinned and jabbed a thumb toward Emilie. "Well, you definitely live up to it, Captain."
The laughter lingered, light and genuine, a rare moment of respite from the grind of operations and long sorties.
And then—the door at the far end of the mess hall banged open. Boots hit the floor in a heavy, urgent rhythm. Heads snapped toward the noise. The air shifted.
The relaxed calm evaporated in an instant.
The mess hall doors slammed open with a thunderous bang, silencing the room in an instant. Trays rattled on tables, conversation died mid-sentence, and cadets froze, wide-eyed.
A sergeant from base operations stormed in, boots hammering against the tile floor like a countdown. Sweat glistened along his brow as he barked over the sudden quiet.
"All personnel, alert! Multiple Natlan naval vessels and combat aircraft inbound—vectoring toward Petrichor Island! Immediate defensive posture required!"
The room erupted into murmurs, voices overlapping in panic and disbelief. Some cadets ducked instinctively under tables. Others fumbled with comm units, trying to contact squad leaders.
Commander Courbevoie entered behind the sergeant, calm and collected, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His gaze swept over the mess hall with the measured patience of a seasoned officer.
"If this escalates to a ground engagement," he declared, voice firm, cutting through the tension, "we will defend this base to the bitter end. All aircraft capable of anti-ship operations are to be launched—regardless of crew experience. That includes trainees. Launch procedures commence immediately."
The room rippled like a disturbed pond. Whispers of fear and disbelief spread among cadets. Plates sat abandoned on tables. Even seasoned personnel exchanged grim glances.
Emilie leapt to her feet, chair scraping loudly across the polished floor. She pointed a gloved hand at the commander, voice sharp.
"Sir! With all due respect, the rookies aren't ready for this! They've barely mastered air-to-air tactics, let alone precision strikes against surface combatants!"
Courbevoie's eyes narrowed into cold slits. He jabbed a finger toward her, tone clipped, surgical.
"Follow orders, Captain. I will not repeat myself."
Emilie's fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms. "You're insane! They're just kids!"
The commander didn't flinch. His expression remained rigid, unyielding. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Step out of line again, and I will cite you for insubordination."
He pivoted on his heel, boots clicking sharply against the tile, and exited with the same calm precision he'd entered with.
Emilie's glare followed him out the door, jaw tight, shoulders squared. Her voice was barely audible above the renewed chatter, low and venomous.
"What a fucking idiot…"
Teppei leaned forward across the table, voice grim but tense with adrenaline. "You think he actually expects us to throw these kids into a real naval fight?"
Mona shook her head, scanning the mess hall for anyone moving toward the flight line. "He doesn't expect—they obey. That's the point. If they falter, it's on us to cover them."
Ayaka exhaled slowly, hands resting lightly on the table, but her eyes were already distant, calculating. "Then we make sure they don't falter."
Emilie slammed a hand down on the table, the sound echoing across the room. "Fine. But we do this my way. No kid dies because some commander thinks orders outweigh common sense."
The four shared a tense, knowing look. Outside, the roar of jets warming up and the distant thrum of turbines served as a grim reminder: the countdown to chaos had already begun.
No more words. Just movement.
The four veterans bolted from the mess hall, the air around them charged with urgency. Outside, the flight line was already alive with controlled chaos—APUs whining, ground crews shouting over the roar of hydraulic systems, fuel trucks skidding across the tarmac, and jet engines spooling up like caged predators.
Rookies scrambled into their F-5E Tiger IIs, hands trembling slightly as they ran preflight checks, harnesses buckled with fumbling fingers, still green, still unsure. Emilie, Teppei, Mona, and Ayaka made for their F-14A Tomcats—sleek, angular, and loaded with twice the firepower.
Emilie glanced over the tarmac, shaking her head as she jogged toward her bird.
"That base commander is really starting to piss me off," she muttered under her breath. "Sending up kids who barely know how to dogfight… and now he wants them taking on surface combatants?"
Teppei jogged alongside her, raising a finger to his temple and spinning it. "Yeah… guy's got a screw loose. If we lose any of our nuggets today, I swear I'm gonna lose it."
Mona, tailing slightly behind, kept her eyes on the rookies and the runway. "We just have to support them the best we can. All four of us. Cover their backs, cover the fleet."
Emilie nodded, gripping her flight gloves tight. "Exactly. That's the plan."
The four split toward their jets. Emilie climbed the ladder to her Tomcat's cockpit, settling into the pilot's seat with practiced precision. She clicked the harness tight across her chest, secured her helmet, and slammed the canopy shut.
Switches flicked. Fuel pumps primed.
The twin TF30 engines thundered to life, spooling with that familiar, uneven roar unique to the early Tomcats. The deck beneath her shuddered as she disengaged the parking brake, nose swinging smoothly into alignment for taxi.
Behind her, Mona, Teppei, and Ayaka were already climbing into theirs, the four F-14s forming a staggered line as they rolled across the tarmac. Sunlight glinted off the black-and-grey fuselage, accentuating every rivet, panel seam, and wing contour.
The rookies, slower and more deliberate in their movements, struggled to maintain formation. A few F-5s veered slightly off course, forcing Teppei to radio corrections.
"North star check, Rook Three! Keep your nose on me, don't wander!"
"Roger, Herring!" came the hesitant reply.
By 10:00 hours, the four Tomcats lined up on Runway 02.
"Raven, ready for takeoff," Emilie called, her voice calm, steady—razor-sharp focus in every word.
Tower cleared them. Throttles forward. Afterburners lit with a thunderous roar, flames licking from the tailpipes as the jets rocketed down the runway.
The F-14s lifted smoothly, gear retracting, flaps cycling as the pilots climbed aggressively to intercept altitude. They banked southwest, the glint of sun reflecting off the Natlan fleet forming on the horizon.
Behind them, the rookies followed in staggered formations. Their numbers offered a crude defensive screen, though half of them were diverted to maintain position over Petrichor Island—an impromptu home guard shielding the base from flanking strikes.
The ocean stretched below, vast and indifferent, waves catching glints of the sun as the first silhouettes of enemy destroyers and frigates appeared on the horizon. Anti-air emplacements and launch-ready fighters loomed across the waterline, but the fleet's defenses were thin.
Emilie tightened her grip on the stick, scanning for radar contacts, missile vectors, and the relative positions of her squadmates. She keyed her comms.
"All four, maintain visual. Prioritize threat assessment. Rookies, keep your distance and watch the veterans—don't get ahead of yourselves. Let's turn this into a controlled fight, not a massacre."
Teppei's voice cut in, a mix of humor and tension. "Copy that, Raven. Time to remind Natlan why Petrichor isn't an easy target."
Mona's tone was calm, precise. "Weapons hot. Stay sharp."
Ayaka added softly, almost to herself, but broadcast on comms. "They won't get the jump on us."
The first missiles began to streak toward the fleet—distant blips on the radar—but Emilie's eyes were already scanning the horizon.
The air war was about to begin.
Over Waters, 600 Feet AGL
The four Tomcats held formation, wingtip to wingtip, scanning the waters like predators.
Radios crackled.
"This is AWACS Thunderspike. All units, listen closely."
Teppei grinned under his oxygen mask. "Oh man, I missed that sweet, sweet voice."
He keyed the mic. "Say, Thunderspike, did you get that radio voice from your momma's side, or your daddy's?"
Thunderspike exhaled sharply.
"Cut the chatter. Enemy wave bearing 230. You are cleared to engage."
Mona's voice followed, tense.
"It's too risky bringing the rookies out here…"
Emilie nodded. "Agreed. But there's no going back now."
Teppei exhaled. "I'm with you. Hell, they're still getting used to their jets—now they gotta handle air-to-air and air-to-ground?"
Emilie pushed throttles forward, holding back afterburners. "Raven, engaging."
"Herring, engaging."
"Soumetsu, engaging."
"Starseer, engaging."
Ahead, two Natlan high-speed hovercraft cut through the water, spraying mist and foam. Emilie dropped into a shallow dive, rotary selector to AIM-9 Sidewinders. IFF beeped. Tone steady.
"Fox Two!"
The missile detached and screamed toward the lead craft. A shockwave hit her airframe—behind, the hovercraft erupted in a fireball, water and debris flung into the sky.
She leveled, got tone on the second, and fired again. "Fox Two!"
The Sidewinder struck; the detonation threw a wall of water hundreds of feet high. Emilie cut through the mist, keeping the jet steady.
A rookie's voice came over the net.
"Captain? Do you ever get scared?"
Emilie blinked. "Of course. Sometimes."
"I see… So you're just like us."
She chuckled. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Comms erupted:
"Starseer's got a target hovercraft!"
"Down goes a landing craft!"
"Soumetsu's got an enemy Apache!"
A ground transmission:
"This is Petrichor Island Base Defense! Enemy amphibious force intercepted at the coastline!"
Teppei groaned. "Ah, great… Here we go…"
Emilie spotted an AH-64 Apache and a Natlan landing ship.
"Fox Two!"
The missile launched, striking the Apache dead-on. She immediately toggled to GBU-10s, leveled, and aligned her HUD over the landing ship.
"Bombs away, bombs away!"
She yanked back hard, pulling into a steep climb as the bomb fell. The detonation erupted—fire, smoke, seawater.
"Landing ship down!"
Mona reported, "Nice one, Emilie!"
Teppei: "Herring's got another landing ship!"
Ayaka: "Soumetsu took down an enemy helo and frigate!"
Emilie rolled inverted, scanning through the canopy. Enemy frigate spotted. She rolled out, swept wings fully forward manually, throttles to idle. Both hands on the stick, she pitched up high.
"Fox Two! Fox Two!"
Two Sidewinders streaked off rails. Throttles full, stick back to level. Wings reset.
Thunderspike confirmed: "Enemy frigate down!"
Enemy comms crackled, panicked.
"We lost majority of our fleet!"
"Keep going! We'll do what it takes to invade their island!"
Then, to everyone's annoyance, Colonel Courbevoie keyed in:
"Everyone! This is Colonel Courbevoie at base command! Do everything you can to stop this assault!"
"If you can't protect this island, what will we tell our great heroes in the skies?!"
Ayaka rolled her eyes behind her visor.
"What the hell is he saying now? 'Great heroes?' The man's got screws loose."
Teppei scoffed, throttling up slightly.
"Please. He's probably got a whole different speech lined up for us when we land."
Courbevoie's voice cut in again, melodramatic and booming:
"Airborne Attack Squadron! Don't worry about us! We will stand firm and fight to the end!"
Ayaka exhaled sharply through her oxygen mask.
"What a fucking tearjerker..."
Another shockwave rippled across the waters below, the ocean spraying up in violent arcs.
"Starseer took down another landing ship!"
"Herring's got another frigate!"
"Raven has another landing ship!"
Then Emilie caught it—something flickered on her radar, subtle but unmistakable. A pulse she didn't recognize. Her blood ran cold.
"Alert! Enemy missile launch—submarine origin!"
Ayaka's startled voice cracked through the net.
"Huh—what!?"
Emilie didn't hesitate.
"EVERYONE, CLIMB ABOVE FIVE THOUSAND! FULL BURN, NOW! NUGGETS, FOLLOW!"
She shoved both throttles past the detents into afterburner. The twin TF30s roared like untamed beasts, flames licking out from the exhaust cones. She yanked back hard on the stick—the Tomcat responding with a violent pitch-up, nose slicing skyward in a steep vertical climb.
Teppei's voice barked sharply, clipped and panicked:
"Climb, climb, climb! Let's go, baby! Get up there!"
AWACS Thunderspike's calm, normally even voice now carried tension.
"Confirmed! Missile type is burst—multiple warheads expected to separate mid-air. Maintain dispersal ceiling above five thousand feet! All units—adjust climb profile immediately!"
Emilie grit her teeth, scanning her RWR and altimeter.
"Shit… just like the one near Dornman."
Static cracked through the net, followed by Thunderspike's voice again—confused, almost strained.
"Wait… command override detected… Data link rerouting… unknown interface in the system. Standby…"
Emilie slammed her fist against the throttle quadrant.
"Make up your damn mind already!"
She leveled briefly at 7,000 feet, eyes sweeping left and right. Dozens of radar contacts shimmered across the display, scattered across the sky like deadly motes.
"Looks like they made it too…" she muttered.
Thunderspike's voice returned, distracted and slightly awed.
"Strange… showing countdown now. All units, maintain situational awareness…"
Teppei's gaze flicked down toward the rookies flying below. His voice tightened, laced with fear.
"Shit! They're not gonna clear the burst zone in time!"
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Silence—before a violet-blue beam tore through the sky like a divine sword. It carved a path through the atmosphere, impossibly fast, tracking a target Emilie barely registered.
Her heart slammed against her chest.
"Shit! Breaking away—breaking right! That's a fucking laser!"
A blinding flash flared directly below their altitude. The force of the light momentarily drowned out everything in her canopy.
Thunderspike came over, urgent now.
"Missile vaporized mid-air! Neutralized! I repeat: Burst missile destroyed!"
Emilie rolled inverted and dropped the nose, diving toward the sea once more, scanning for the last enemy landing ship.
"Raven back on the attack!"
Teppei's voice was half-laughing, half-shocked.
"Did you see that, Captain!?"
Emilie keyed the mic, focus sharp.
"Yeah—I saw it. That thing nearly fried me!"
Mona's voice cut in, skeptical but awe-struck.
"Wait… is that… the Skywarden!?"
Thunderspike didn't skip a beat.
"Affirmative. Laser beam originated from orbital altitude. Skywarden is live. On our side."
Enemy comms crackled, panicked and fragmented:
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!? WHAT IS THAT LASER!?"
"WE'VE LOST MOST OF OUR LANDING SHIPS! PULL BACK!"
Emilie switched to special weapons mode, the HUD flicking to her hardpoints. She tracked the final landing vessel, the circular reticle locking tight.
"Bombs away—bombs away!"
Two cluster bombs dropped clean from her Tomcat. She yanked back hard on the stick, left hand bracing right, as the aircraft strained against the g-forces, engines screaming.
Impact. A massive explosion tore the ship apart, sending seawater and debris skyward in a geyser.
"Raven's got a target! Splash one LST!"
A clipped military voice broke through.
"This is anti-sub patrol Pegasus. Sonar buoys confirm: Leviathan, Faxi-class carrier submarine, detected."
Thunderspike followed immediately.
"Second missile launch detected! Skywarden tracking. Intercept imminent."
Emilie rolled hard left, spotting an enemy AH-64 Apache closing in, too high and too fast. No time to hesitate.
Split throttles—left idle, right full burner. Hard left rudder, inverted roll. The asymmetric thrust bit sharply; the Tomcat tore into a tight, unnatural turn.
Engines equalized, leveling the jet behind the Apache. Lock tone.
"Fox Two!"
A Sidewinder streaked off the wing rail, searing toward its prey. The Apache didn't stand a chance, exploding in a fireball, rotor fragments scattering into the waves below.
A rookie's voice came over, young and shaken.
"I'm gonna make it! I'm staying alive!"
Another, firm and steady.
"Your plane's weaving—easy on the stick! Trim it out!"
Thunderspike confirmed once more, relieved.
"Second missile intercepted. Vaporized mid-air. Skywarden has neutralized the threat."
Enemy pilots were frantic again.
"That light again! What is that thing!?"
Emilie keyed back, voice sharp.
"I don't know… but we keep pushing—GO!"
But then… escalation.
The Anti-Ship Patrol Plane's voice cracked through the comms, tense and urgent.
"Alert! Two—wait… no… three—FOUR—FIVE! Five burst missiles inbound!"
Emilie's eyes narrowed, pulse spiking. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"That's too many!" she snapped.
Without hesitation, she shoved both throttles forward—the TF30s bellowing in protest, afterburners igniting into twin plumes of flame. She yanked back hard on the stick; the F-14's nose pitched sharply skyward in a steep vertical climb, airframe groaning against the sudden G-forces.
"Come on, Skywarden! Use that laser!" Mona barked over the net, urgency laced beneath her calm tone.
Then—the blinding pulse of directed energy lanced out from orbit, cutting through the clouds and slicing a missile clean in half.
Thunderspike's voice cut in, clipped, relieved:
"Missile vaporized!"
"But there's more coming!" Mona shouted. "Come on, Nuggets! MOVE IT!"
Rookie voices echoed in the net, high-pitched and panicked.
"Following flight leads! Climbing!"
"Climb! Climb, dammit!"
"Switching to emergency power!"
Emilie's HUD lit up with multiple inbound trajectories, dozens of warheads converging from different angles. She scanned frantically, mind calculating vector intercepts and fuel margins.
"Ten seconds to impact!"
Nine… Eight… Seven… Six… Five… Four… Three… Two…
Bursting. Now.
White-hot explosions tore through the coastline, columns of seawater and flame erupting like hellish geysers. The shockwaves rattled the F-14s; debris and spray slammed the surface around them.
The rookies' voices screamed over comms:
"Engines and wings damaged—going down!"
"Ejection handle jammed—I can't get out!"
"Losing altitude—this is it!"
"Ma'… I love you!"
Ayaka's voice was brittle, barely audible:
"They… they're all going down…"
Emilie slammed her palm onto the console; the cockpit rattled under her fury.
"FUCK! FUCK!! FUCK!!!"
Thunderspike's voice returned, calm but strained:
"We can't handle the enemy fleet like this."
Then came a new voice, harsh and urgent from coastal defense.
"This is Petrichor Base Defense! Intense fighting along the coastline—we can't hold much longer!"
Thunderspike:
"We have no choice. Weave through the missiles and attack the ships!"
Teppei's voice cracked, sarcasm mixing with fear:
"Oh yeah! Sure! Just weave through the fucking missiles—WHAT ARE YOU, NUTS!?"
Then—Skywarden spoke, deep, resonant:
"Pegasus, this is Skywarden! Any update on those sonar buoys? We need that feed!"
Pegasus replied:
"Skywarden, uploading sonar data—stand by."
The action continued over comms:
"Starseer's got the final frigate!"
"Soumetsu has taken down the last landing ship!"
Emilie spotted the last hovercraft skimming toward shore. She rolled into a steep dive, canopy level with the spray.
Lock tone. Tone solid.
"Fox Two!"
Two AIM-9 Sidewinders peeled off under her wings, trailing smoke and heat. She yanked the stick hard, rolling out and climbing sharply.
Impact. A fireball tore through the hovercraft.
Then—another blinding pulse from above.
"Firing laser!"
Thunderspike:
"Skywarden has fired into the ocean!"
Pegasus, urgent:
"Explosion detected! Leviathan surfacing! Coordinates uploaded!"
Emilie's eyes widened. A massive column of seawater shot skyward—the jagged black silhouette of the Leviathan breached the surface, a gaping wound running down its deck, steam and fire venting from exposed compartments.
Mona gasped.
"It… it's huge!"
Thunderspike:
"Looks like diving capabilities compromised. All units, commence attack!"
Emilie rolled right, diving toward the wounded behemoth. She toggled the rotary selector to GBU-10s, HUD locked on, crosshair centered.
"Bombs away!"
Four GBU-10s released cleanly from her hardpoints. She yanked back on the stick, roaring into a vertical climb as the bombs dropped. Four simultaneous detonations shook the Leviathan—metal groaning, fire ripping along the deck.
Thunderspike:
"Leviathan still operational!"
Pegasus:
"Preparing another burst missile launch!"
Mona banked sharply, aligning for another attack run.
"It's… like something out of Fontaine's demon legends."
"Bombs away!"
Two more GBU-10s plummeted, striking true.
Ayaka keyed in, voice steady but hopeful:
"Captain! If we sink the Leviathan here—can we turn the tide of this war?"
Emilie's voice was cold, steel-edged:
"Yes."
Ayaka:
"We've been on the defensive for too long!"
Emilie inverted, rolling into a final bombing dive. HUD steady. Target locked.
"Bombs away—bombs away!"
Four more GBU-10s released. She pulled hard, banking right. Each hit resonated deep in the submarine's hull. One strike hit near the last functioning reactor—critical damage.
The Leviathan lurched forward, bow plunging into the sea.
Then—white-hot detonation. The water roared upward in a towering pillar of fire. A chain reaction tore through the submarine's spine.
Emilie's chest pounded. She pumped a fist into the air.
"YES! YES!! THE LEVIATHAN IS GONE!"
Cheers erupted over comms:
"Nice one!"
"We got it!"
"YAHOOOO!"
Petrichor Base Defense came online, voices tense but relieved:
"Enemy forces are retreating!"
Thunderspike:
"All units—mission accomplished. RTB."
The four F-14s reformed, wingtip to wingtip, banking northeast. The roar of engines filled the empty sky as they headed home.
Minutes Later – Petrichor Air Force Base
The mood on the apron was heavy. Every engine idle, every crew member still in place seemed to echo the silence of loss.
Twelve rookie F-5Es had launched earlier. Only two returned.
Emilie stood rigid at the nose of her F-14A Tomcat, helmet tucked under one arm. Her gaze was fixed on the runway, though she wasn't seeing it. Mona, Teppei, and Ayaka lingered just behind her, all careful not to speak. Any sound felt intrusive in the quiet aftermath.
Her right fist clenched. Harder. Tighter.
Mona could feel the tension radiating off her.
"I've never seen Emilie this angry…"
Without a word, Emilie pivoted sharply and strode toward the base's main building. Boots striking the pavement with a hollow, measured rhythm, each step echoing her fury and grief.
Inside the hall, a junior officer in fatigues stepped forward.
"Captain. Debriefing's about to start."
Emilie didn't even glance at him. She shoved past, her voice low, clipped, flat.
"No fucking way… Not after what just happened."
The officer turned to the others. They froze. Mona avoided his gaze, Teppei crossed his arms, and Ayaka's eyes followed Emilie's retreating figure down the corridor.
The officer raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong with the Captain?"
Mona's voice came, hollow and unsteady.
"The rookies… the nuggets we escorted from North Dornman…"
Her pause stretched as she struggled with the weight of the words.
"Only two made it back."
The officer's face tightened.
"…Two? Out of how many?"
Ayaka's voice was soft, almost a whisper.
"Four… Twelve went up. Only four made it through the burst missile barrage. Only two made it home."
Teppei spat to the side, frustration and disbelief in his tone.
"They could've sent a damn veteran unit for that defense! Why throw fresh kids into a hot zone like that?"
Then—a door slammed somewhere down the hall.
"FUCK!!"
The outburst reverberated like a gunshot.
All three flinched.
"…Ouf," Teppei muttered, tension coiling in his chest.
Mona sighed, shaking her head.
"She's not taking this well…"
Inside Emilie's Quarters
The room was quiet, but the anger lingered, thick as smoke after a fire.
Emilie stood by the window, arms stiff at her sides, fists still trembling. Her head bowed, shoulders taut with grief and rage.
"…Fuck."
She whispered it again, almost to herself.
"Fuck…"
Her teeth bit her lip; her eyes burned, wet with unshed tears.
"I'm sorry, nuggets… I'm so sorry…"
Outside, the sun slipped toward the horizon. The base hummed faintly with evening activity. The Leviathan lay at the bottom of the ocean, the Natlan fleet in retreat—a tactical victory secured.
But it didn't feel like a victory.
Not after the cost.
Not after the silence of the ten missing F-5s.
Not after the lives of the youngest pilots she had sworn to protect.
Emilie's fists unclenched slightly, but the weight of command—the cost of the skies—remained. She stared at the tarmac, at the empty spaces where the nuggets should have returned, and knew that victory, today, had come at a price she couldn't forgive.