September 28
Three days had passed since what should have been a simple intercept mission spiraled into a full-on dogfight. The adrenaline had long burned off, but the unease still lingered like smoke after an explosion.
The morning sun crept slowly over Petrichor Air Force Base, its rays stretching long, sharp shadows across the apron and hangars. The salt-heavy breeze off the western ocean carried the distant calls of gulls, mixing with the faint tang of jet fuel that seemed permanently soaked into the air of any frontline base.
Inside one of the maintenance hangars, Captain Candace leaned back against the steel frame of the open door, arms crossed, jaw set. Her gaze was locked on the horizon where the blue-gray of the ocean bled into the pale sky. Not a hint of softness in her posture—just the guarded stillness of someone waiting for the other boot to drop.
On a bench a few feet away, Houallet sat hunched forward, notebook open but forgotten in his lap. He pretended to jot something, though his eyes were fixed on the horizon as well. Silence stretched between them, heavy, broken only by the occasional metallic groan of the hangar settling under the morning heat.
Finally, Candace let out a long exhale, almost a growl.
"Why the hell do they even bother reprimanding me anymore?" she muttered, voice flat but edged. "At this point, I know damn well I'll be stuck as a captain forever."
Houallet's brow furrowed. He turned just enough to glance at her, then back toward the distant line of sea and sky.
"But who do you think's covering up the battle?" His tone was careful, probing.
Candace gave him the barest sidelong look before shaking her head.
"Doesn't matter."
Her eyes cut back toward the western ocean. The light shimmered off the distant water, almost taunting.
"But here's the thing…" Her voice hardened. "The only thing sitting across that water is Tequemecan Air Force Base. That's Natlan territory."
Houallet frowned, his jaw tight.
"We've been allies with Natlan since the Khaenri'ahn War—fifteen years ago. And Natlan's part of Teyvat. It's not like the Snezhnayan Federation." He hesitated, choosing his words. "They wouldn't pull something like this… would they?"
Candace gave a sharp, humorless exhale through her nose, pushing off the hangar frame and pacing a step before leaning back again.
"No. Snezhnaya's its own beast. Always has been." She raked a hand through her hair. "But Teyvat's six nations—Mondstadt, Liyue, Inazuma, Sumeru, Fontaine, and Natlan—are supposed to be unified under central government. That's the whole point. Which is exactly why people are breaking their backs right now trying to figure out what the hell's going on over there."
Her eyes tracked toward the main base complex where comm towers and operations buildings stood like sentinels.
"I'd bet my Phantom that inside those walls, half a dozen officers are burning up the phone lines to headquarters, trying to make sense of this mess." Her voice had a bitter bite. "And of course the higher-ups don't want a single word of it leaking. If the public found out Natlan jets were firing missiles over Fontaine territory? Panic. The whole system unravels overnight."
She let her head tip back against the hangar door, staring at the corrugated steel ceiling.
"Not that it matters to us."
A short, humorless chuckle escaped.
"Soldiers like us? We're too dumb to think for ourselves. They tell us to shut up, we shut up. That's how the machine works."
Her eyes flicked back to Houallet, the hard edge in her expression softening for a moment.
"Sorry you got dragged into this."
Houallet smirked faintly, shaking his head.
"No, it's alright. Honestly… I get to be with you guys. That's enough for me."
Candace didn't answer, but her gaze lingered on him for a beat longer before sliding back to the ocean.
The clock tower at the edge of the apron chimed faintly. 10:40 hours.
Across the base, Emilie lay on her back in her quarters, staring up at the ceiling. Her helmet rested on the desk nearby, the visor still smudged with sweat and salt from three days prior. The room was quiet, but her mind wasn't.
Were those really Natlan planes that attacked us?
The question gnawed at her like a dog worrying a bone. She pressed her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose, shutting her eyes, but it didn't help.
Why would Natlan attack us? We've been allies for fifteen years…
Her mind churned through possibilities. Was it some rogue squadron? False-flag ops? Or worse—a deliberate fracture, the start of something designed to tear Teyvat apart?
Her frown deepened.
Could this be an attempt to dissolve the Union? A war where all six nations declare independence and the whole balance collapses?
No. That doesn't make sense. Not without a trigger. Not without a plan.
She sat up abruptly, elbows braced on her knees, jaw tight.
"It has to be Natlan aircraft," she whispered.
Her gaze sharpened as she mapped it out in her head.
West of Petrichor, beyond Fontaine's borders, lay the Deshret Desert. Dead land since the Natlan-Sumeru conflict decades ago. Nobody claimed it. No one lived there.
She exhaled, sharp and steady.
"The closest civilization is either Aaru Village in Sumeru… or the Natlan naval town of Tequemecan."
Her jaw clenched, voice low.
"It has to be Natlan. It's no coincidence."
But then came the question—the one that twisted her stomach into a knot.
Why attack a neighboring Teyvat nation?
The knock at her door snapped her from her thoughts. Emilie stood quickly and opened it.
Mona stood there, helmet tucked under one arm, expression unreadable.
"Emilie."
Emilie blinked. "Mona?"
"The briefing's about to start," Mona said simply.
Emilie nodded, brisk. "Right. I'll be there."
Mona gave a short nod and turned, boots echoing down the corridor. Emilie turned back inside, grabbed her helmet from the desk, and took one last glance at the ocean through her window before stepping out and closing the door behind her.
The day wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
By the time Emilie padded into the briefing room, most of the pilots were already seated. She slid into one of the last empty chairs beside Teppei, the small scrape of metal on metal oddly loud in the tense hush. Colonel Duret glanced up from the front and gave her a short nod. "Glad you could join us, Emilie."
She returned the nod and settled, adjusting the cuff of her flight suit. The lights dimmed; the display wall at the head of the room hummed to life and showed a gray-blue satellite image of the coastal approaches. A single dark silhouette sat off the coastline, calm and inscrutable.
"Alright. Let's get started." The commander's voice carried no theatrics — just facts.
He zoomed and annotated. "A ship of unknown origin has been detected approaching the Petrichor coastline." He tapped the remote; a scatter of smaller blips sprang away from the main contact. "We've confirmed multiple UAVs have been launched — likely reconnaissance assets. They're conducting surveillance patterns and will attempt recovery to the mothership on completion."
A low murmur swept the room. Small radar returns and low-RCS signatures make pilots nervous because they demand you close the range and see — and seeing means risk.
The commander's tone hardened. "Mission brief: intercept and destroy those UAVs before they can return to the vessel. You are not to engage the ship itself. Weapons against the mothership are prohibited unless you receive explicit further orders from Command. Any deviation — hold fire unless ordered."
Candace rose from her seat as if on a latch. She turned to the squadron, shoulders squared. "Alright, everybody. Let's head out. Looks like a beautiful day to swat some drones." She didn't wait for anyone's approval — she led the way without ceremony.
Teppei bumped Emilie's shoulder on the way out. "What's with the captain today?" he whispered, eyebrow cocked.
Emilie shrugged the worry away, clipped the strap of her helmet to her hand. "Don't know. Doesn't matter. We've got a job." She pushed through the door and the squad moved for the flight line.
—Flight Line, Petrichor AFB—
Four birds sat on their chocks, engines cold but ready. Candace's F-4 Phantom loomed bulky and mean, a real interceptor with the punch to prove it. The three F-5E Tiger IIs — Emilie's jet, Mona's, Teppei's — hugged the sun on the ramp: small, lithe, and built to dance.
The morning was a pilot's friend: clear sky, good visibility, light winds off the sea. Perfect for visual intercepts and the kind of short-range kinetic solution they planned.
The pilots split for their aircraft with the efficient choreography of people who've done this a thousand times. Emilie climbed the ladder, eased into the cockpit, and let the ejection seat bite her spine. She ran through the preflight in a practiced rhythm: canopy clean, circuit breakers reset, battery on, avionics upload, transponder ALT, altimeter set and cross-checked, fuel quantity verified, generator online. PCLs at idle, hydraulics green, flight controls free and correct — stick, rudder, ailerons, trim.
She ran the checklist aloud under her breath, the cadence steadying her pulse. The ground crew moved like clockwork around her aircraft. She flicked the engine masters; the two General Electric J85s complained then spooled, the characteristic high-pitched whine rising through the fuselage and into her teeth. RPMs climbed, EGTs stabilized, oil pressure came alive in the green. She cinched the five-point harness, snapped the helmet chin strap, sealed the visor, and felt the world narrow to the canopy, the HUD, the stick.
Through the glass she gave the crew a thumbs-up. They returned it, pulled the ladder, and cleared the jet. Candace's voice snapped across the squadron net: "Wolfsbane Squadron — callsign check."
"Wolfsbane Four, checking in," Emilie keyed back, crisp.
"Wolfsbane Two, checking in," Mona's calm voice replied.
"Wolfsbane Three — hello!" Teppei chirped with a nervous brightness that couldn't fully mask his tension.
Candace rolled her bird onto the taxiway first. "Roger. Nuggets, move out. We're not letting those drones relay a damn thing back to their owners."
Emilie taxied next, careful with throttle inputs — keep the nosewheel centered, don't over-steer, watch for jet blast. Mona and Teppei filed in behind. The tower cleared them, flaps set, lights on, brakes released. Candace shoved her throttles; the Phantom lunged and took the runway first.
Emilie pushed the Tigers' throttles forward. The J85s screamed; the airspeed needle climbed. At rotation speed she eased the stick back and the Tiger popped off the pavement, the gear retracting with a firm clunk. Positive rate: gear up, lights off. The four jets rose into a loose combat spread at roughly 1,000 feet AGL — low enough to keep visual contact on small, low-flying UAVs while retaining enough energy to maneuver should one of them decide to become lethal.
Inside the cockpit it was a controlled chaos of instruments and senses: the datalink painting tiny radar returns onto her MFD, TACAN pulses ticking at the bottom of the HUD, the RWR quiet but watching, the constant wash of turbine noise like a metronome against which her heart kept tempo. She monitored range to the mothership and the radial tracks of the UAVs — closure geometry, aspect, approach vectors. If the drones tried to swarm the ship or vector to land in shoreline clutter, they'd need to be aggressive but surgical — guns over missiles where possible to avoid turning the recovery area into debris field.
Candace's voice came over the net with geometry and rules of engagement: "Phantom high overwatch. Mona and Teppei take the northern axis. Emilie, you're with me south. Visual ID required. Guns preferred on small UAVs. Missiles only if hardened or hostile weapon signatures appear. No engagement of the ship. Copy?"
"Copy," the flight answered.
They tightened formation and rolled toward the contact. The ocean below flashed silver; the tiny drone blips resolved into shapes through the canopy as they closed. Emilie's HUD lit with target pippers and range buckets. The intercept had moved from chart to reality — the drones were real, noisy, and already scanning for a way home.
Every pilot felt the same low hum of tension: intercept geometry, target aspect, ammunition state, and the diplomatic knife-edge of shredding a drone that might have diplomatic implications. Emilie's hands were steady on the stick. The jet breathed under her palms. They were committed.
Wolfsbane rolled westward, a small spear of grey and steel against the clear sky, set to make the intercept and keep whatever secrets that ship had from sailing home.
For a moment, the only sound in Emilie's world was the constant rumble of the J85s behind her and the faint vibration through the stick. The formation cut across the sky in silence, each pilot's breathing the only reminder of humanity inside the machines. Then the headset came alive with a sharp crack of static.
"This is AWACS Thunderspike. Be advised — multiple unmanned recon drones are breaking off and heading back to the contact vessel. You are cleared to intercept. Repeat, shoot them down before they reach recovery."
Candace's reply was immediate, sharp as a trigger squeeze.
"Copy that, Thunderspike. Wolfsbane, you heard the lady — intercept and burn them down before they make it home."
Emilie's thumb brushed her transmit switch.
"Wolfsbane Four, loud and clear."
A beat of silence. Then Candace's voice came back, sly with just a hint of challenge.
"Since you spoke up first… after you, Raven."
A grin tugged at Emilie's lips. "Roger that." She shoved the throttles forward through the detent into afterburner. The F-5 lurched, twin J85s spitting fire as her speed bled upward. The canopy shook as she surged past the formation, contrails peeling away from her wingtips.
Behind her, Candace's voice carried the smile Emilie couldn't see.
"Show me what you've got, Raven."
Emilie keyed back, calm and clipped. "Sure thing, Captain."
Her radar scope bloomed — two small contacts ahead, low RCS, moving hard for the mothership. Her HUD symbology confirmed: two UAVs, hot aspect, thirty miles and closing.
Candace broke in again, voice steel now.
"Remember — under no circumstances do you fire on that ship. Targets are the drones only. Copy?"
"Roger."
"Atta girl."
Emilie rolled her shoulders, settling into the harness. She worked the throttle forward, watching the range ticks melt off the scope. Her right thumb toggled the weapon select to AAM — Sidewinder. The growl filled her headset as the seeker head woke up.
Closer.
Lock.
Tone.
"Wolfsbane Four, Fox Two!"
The Sidewinder ripped off her rail with a sharp clack-thump, motor igniting into a streak of white smoke. Emilie eased her nose right, lining up the second UAV.
Lock.
Tone.
"Fox Two!"
Another streak leapt away. She held steady, eyes flicking HUD to target. The first AIM-9 curved on its seeker track, closing, closing— impact. The UAV bloomed into a smear of fire and aluminum, pieces tumbling into the sea. The second followed a heartbeat later — another fireball, more wreckage carving downward trails into the ocean below.
AWACS confirmed.
"Splash two. Good hits, Raven."
Emilie's IFF updated. More blips. Her eyes cut left — sixty degrees off, another cluster running for the vessel. She snapped the stick over, bank angle steep, throttles still firewalled. The F-5 rattled as she punched through transonic, then a thunderous crack rolled across the sky as she broke Mach 1.
Her teeth rattled from the shockwave. The controls stiffened, the jet alive under strain. She gritted her jaw and drove on.
Candace came back, voice teasing even in the roar.
"So, mission's easy, huh, Emilie?"
She keyed coolly.
"So far, it is."
Candace chuckled. "That's what I like to hear. But let's wrap it before they reach the boat."
Emilie's HUD lit again — range collapse, seeker growl. She nudged the nose.
Lock.
Tone.
"Fox Two! Fox Two!"
Twin Sidewinders leapt free, their smoke plumes twisting as they hunted. Both found their prey; two explosions shattered the horizon.
Thunderspike came back:
"Splash two more. Four UAVs remaining."
Emilie throttled back slightly, spoilers popping to dump speed. The Tiger vibrated as drag bled her down into a firing window. The last contacts lined up ahead. Her seeker growled high-pitched.
"Fox Two! Fox Two!"
Two more streaks. Two more impacts. Fireballs scattered in the sky. Emilie keyed up, her tone clipped and professional despite the adrenaline hammering her veins.
"Raven has two more bandits. Two left."
She banked left, nose hunting. HUD lock. Tone steady.
"Fox Two! Fox Two!"
Missiles away.
That's when Teppei's voice cut in, all nerves and grin.
"Hey Emilie! Let's count our kills after this sortie!"
Then the sky lit again — both UAVs blown apart, their remains tumbling into the sea.
Teppei gave a low whistle. "…Never mind."
The radios went quiet. No more tones, no more blips. Only the sound of turbines and breathing filled the cockpits. The sea below glittered, littered with burning fragments that hissed out as they hit the waves.
For a brief, fragile moment, Wolfsbane Squadron had the skies to themselves again.
Just as Wolfsbane Squadron thought the mission was wrapped, AWACS Thunderspike's voice shredded the calm.
"Alert! Multiple bogeys inbound—closing fast!"
Candace's eyes snapped to her radar repeater. New contacts were spiking the scope.
"What!? Same attack axis as yesterday?"
"Affirmative, Captain. Same bearing—two-eight-zero."
Emilie's gut clenched. She gripped her stick tighter.
"Geez… how many planes do they have lined up on the border!?"
Candace's jaw worked behind her mask. Their F-5Es were quick, nimble, but hopelessly outgunned if the enemy had brought serious hardware.
"We've only got four planes. Best we pull out. All callsigns, abort and RTB!"
Emilie didn't wait for the others.
"Wilco! Raven's retreating!"
She yanked her Tiger II into a hard left break, rolling out toward Petrichor. But before she could settle into the escape…
"I can't make it!" Teppei's voice cut in, urgent, strained.
"They're running me down! I'm firewalled—this is all she's got!"
Candace barked back, half humor, half grit.
"Oh, so you're dragging tail today, Rock n' Roller? Hold tight—we'll clear your six. All planes, weapons free!"
Her HUD lit—two fast movers diving onto Teppei's six. The IFF tagged them: MiG-21s.
Emilie rolled inverted, pulled hard, bleeding altitude into speed. She dropped right onto their backs.
Lock.
Tone.
"Fox Two! Fox Two!"
Twin Sidewinders peeled off her rails, their motors burning white-hot.
Impact.
The lead Fishbed snapped apart midair, shearing into flaming halves that fell smoking into the sea. The wingman panicked, pulling hard right, vapor spilling off his wingtips. Emilie jammed her stick over, following through the roll.
Candace's voice hit the net.
"All Wolfsbane, engage and splash those bastards!"
But Thunderspike immediately countered.
"Negative! Wolfsbane, you are NOT cleared to engage! Repeat, NOT cleared! Break off immediately!"
No one was listening. Mona's voice cut across.
"Starseer, tally bandit! Breaking right!"
Then Candace: "Sentinel, in hot!"
And Teppei, relief lacing his voice: "Herring engaging!"
The surviving MiG pulled into a near-vertical climb. Emilie rammed the throttles forward, her G-suit biting into her ribs as she followed.
Lock.
Tone.
"Fox Two!"
The Sidewinder screamed off the rail. A moment later the MiG vanished in a flash, raining molten shrapnel.
"Raven's got a splash!"
Mona's voice answered, clipped and tense: "Starseer's got one bandit down!"
Then, across the net, a burst of accented chatter from the enemy.
"Enemy squadron has begun counterattack! Engage them head-on!"
Thunderspike roared into the frequency.
"Goddamn it, Wolfsbane! You just splashed without authorization! What the hell are you doing out there!?"
Emilie ignored it. New spikes bloomed across her radar—three heavier returns, fast and hostile. MiG-29 Fulcrums.
She dropped low, throttles rammed to the stops. Sea spray blurred beneath as she skimmed the deck, then she yanked into a half-loop, rolling out inverted behind them.
Lock.
Tone.
"Fox Two! Fox Two!"
Her Sidewinders snapped after the formation. The Fulcrums scattered. One broke too late.
Impact.
The jet erupted in a fireball that lit the sea.
She swung after the second, its silhouette growing in her gunsight.
Meanwhile Mona's voice broke in again, frustration bleeding through.
"I still can't ID their markings—what nation even are these guys!?"
Candace's laugh came sharp and bitter.
"Oh, so you're back, Starseer. Gonna fight instead of sightsee this time?"
No response.
Another blast echoed through the comms. Teppei's voice whooped.
"Herring's got a kill!"
One bandit left.
Emilie was locked onto his tail. The MiG jinked hard, crossing left and right, throwing vapor trails. Then it nosed over, diving for the ocean in a desperate split-S.
Not today.
She followed, throttles at the stop, nose glued to its exhaust plume.
Lock.
Tone.
"Fox Two!"
The Sidewinder chased him down, ignoring his climb-out attempt. The missile speared him straight through the canopy. The Fulcrum bloomed into a fireball that slammed into the sea.
Silence hung in her headset. Then Thunderspike's voice, heavy with exasperation.
"…All enemy planes confirmed destroyed."
But then—
Escalation.
The spy vessel lit off.
Her threat receiver screamed. Mona's cockpit filled with piercing tones, the HUD flashing red.
"SAM launch! Missile inbound—tracking me!"
Her breath hitched. She yanked hard left, rolled, then shoved the stick forward into a dive. The F-5 bucked under her hands, the horizon spinning, but the missile's seeker stayed glued to her heat signature.
"Shit! It's not shaking!"
Candace's Phantom thundered into view, cutting across Mona's tail. She dumped flares, hauling into the missile's path.
The seeker snapped—switching target.
Candace hauled the stick right, barrel-rolling to break lock—
Impact.
The missile clipped the Phantom's starboard wingtip in a blinding flash. The jet shuddered, wing half-sheared, hydraulic fluid venting into the slipstream.
"Fuck! I'm hit!"
Mona's voice cracked in horror.
"Captain!"
The Phantom rolled, but Candace muscled it level, her tone tight but calm.
"Don't worry, I'm still here. Control's compromised, though… I'm not bringing her back."
A pause. She exhaled slowly.
"Jets are expendable. Getting the crew back alive—that's what counts."
Static filled the channel as she keyed the mic again, voice steadier now.
"Call SAR. And tell Kaeya to prep my reserve jet."
Mona's reply was quiet, almost pleading.
"Roger, Captain. Just… stay safe."
The stricken Phantom slowed, shuddering near stall. Candace pulled the handles—
The canopy blew. The seat rocketed skyward, the blast muffled by Mona's sharp gasp.
The F-4 rolled inverted, trailing smoke, before nosing down and smashing into the ocean in a plume of fire and spray.
Silence.
Then AWACS Thunderspike's voice cracked over the net, sharp and urgent.
"Wolfsbane Squadron—break off and return to base! Immediately!"
Emilie's heart lurched.
"But the rescue team isn't on station yet!"
Thunderspike's tone was grim, edged with something darker.
"Listen to me. You need to rearm and refuel. Priority order."
Then the words came—flat, final.
"The enemy has declared war on Teyvat."
Emilie's blood ran cold. Her hands clenched the stick so hard her knuckles whitened.
"Wh—what!? Who!?"
Dead air. For a moment, only the hiss of static.
Then Thunderspike delivered the name like a death sentence.
"…Natlan."
The frequency went silent. No wisecrack from Teppei. No analysis from Mona. Just the hum of their jets and the truth of war pressing down like lead.
At last, AWACS's voice came back, harder than before.
"All Wolfsbane, RTB now. Rearm, refuel—this is not a drill."
Emilie forced herself to respond, throat tight.
"Roger."
Teppei followed, subdued.
"Roger."
Mona's voice was the last, soft but firm.
"Roger."
The three F-5Es lit their afterburners, streaking back toward Petrichor Air Force Base—
Leaving Candace adrift in the open water, waiting for rescue.
Minutes Later – Petrichor Air Force Base
The three F-5 Tiger IIs came in hot, trailing contrails of vapor as their wheels slammed onto the runway. Tires screeched, brakes howled, and the air was thick with the smell of scorched rubber and jet exhaust. They barely cleared the active runway before being met by a flood of ground crews rushing in with trucks and equipment.
Fuel lines were dragged across the tarmac, missile carts rolled into position, and shouted commands cut through the roar of cooling turbines. Ordnance crews were already yanking spent Sidewinder rails clean and slapping fresh AIM-9s onto pylons. Armorers called out confirmation codes while hoses hissed with refueling JP-8.
All around them, the atmosphere was electric—tense, chaotic, practiced.
Emilie popped her canopy and climbed down, helmet under one arm, sweat plastering her bangs to her forehead. She tugged the straps of her G-suit loose, drawing in lungfuls of the humid coastal air. Teppei and Mona joined her just beyond the edge of the flight line, out of the way of the swarm.
For a moment, they just stood there, silent. The ground shook faintly with the thud of loaded bombs being maneuvered onto pallets. Radios buzzed with clipped voices, but in their little circle, only the pounding of their own hearts filled the gap.
Emilie finally broke it. Her voice was low, steady, but lined with something cold.
"I knew something was off."
Mona let out a long breath, her helmet dangling from her hand. She nodded, eyes unfocused as if she were replaying the last half-hour on loop.
"Yeah… I know."
Emilie's gaze drifted out toward the western horizon. The sky, clear when they launched, was now marred by heavy storm clouds pushing in off the desert, a curtain of dark weather creeping closer.
"It makes sense now…" She exhaled sharply, her shoulders rising and falling.
"Out west, beyond the Petrichor coast, is the Deshret Desert. No nation's controlled it since the Natlan-Sumeru War—almost fifty years ago. It was supposed to stay neutral ground."
She shook her head, bitter disbelief hardening into anger.
"But Natlan's part of Teyvat. They were supposed to be allies."
Teppei crossed his arms, his face caught between frustration and dread.
"So are Mondstadt, Liyue, Inazuma, and Sumeru. We're all supposed to be on the same side."
The words fell heavy. None of them moved. The noise of the flight line pressed in—impact wrenches, shouted checks, the metallic clank of bomb racks slamming home—but around the three pilots it felt like silence, the kind that eats into your bones.
It had happened.
Not an exercise. Not some "border flare-up" to be cleaned up with diplomacy.
A nation of Teyvat had crossed the line.
Natlan had declared war.
And for Wolfsbane Squadron, there was no turning back.