That evening at Petrichor Air Force Base, the crew lounge was alive with the usual hum of off-duty chatter. Laughter rose and fell like waves against the walls, beer bottles clinked across wooden tables, and the faint scratch of a battered radio in the corner pushed out tinny strains of music just loud enough to fill the background. Cigarette smoke hung in a lazy haze under the lamps, the kind of atmosphere where war felt a little less real—if only for a night.
Emilie, Mona, Teppei, and Houallet had claimed one of the smaller tables near the far wall. Flight gear left in lockers, jackets unzipped, helmets stowed—this was as close to normal as they were going to get. For once, Emilie's hands weren't wrapped around a stick, but around a sweating bottle of Fontaine beer. Across from her, Mona raised her own bottle and tapped it against Emilie's with a metallic clink before they both took a long sip.
When Mona set her drink down, her eyes lingered on Emilie a little longer, curiosity edging through the haze of alcohol.
"Say, Emilie," she began, voice softer than her usual clipped tone over comms. "I ought to know more about you."
Emilie smirked faintly, swirling the bottle idly. "Same here, Mona. We've been strapped into the same cockpits for weeks now, and I barely know more than your callsign."
Mona leaned forward on her elbows, hair falling to one side. "Alright then—answer me this. Are you the first in your family to join the Air Force?"
Emilie's smile softened as she nodded, setting her drink down with a muted thud. "That's right. My father works for the Marechaussee Phantom under Maison Gardiennage, and my mother's in forensic medicine. Between the two of them, I grew up surrounded by law, crime scenes, and stacks of case files."
Mona raised her brows slightly. "So basically, your parents are tied up with Fontaine's police apparatus."
"Sounds about right," Emilie said, leaning back in her chair.
Mona gave a small nod, then offered her own in exchange. "Well, my parents are both from Mondstadt. Originally from Dornman Port, but they moved to Mondstadt City a few months before I was born. That's where I grew up." She shrugged. "I'm the first Megistus in the military, let alone the Air Force. Didn't have a template to follow."
Her voice took on a nostalgic rhythm as she continued. "I trained at Mondstadt's academy, spent about a year and a half in the reserves. The moment a slot opened up in Fontaine's Air Force, I jumped on it. Packed a bag, left home behind, and…" she gestured wide with her arms, "…here I am, halfway across the world, drinking cheap beer with you lot."
Emilie chuckled. "Could've ended up a lot worse."
"No kidding," Mona said with a smirk. "But what about interests, Emilie?"
"Interests?" Emilie echoed cautiously.
Mona nodded, her grin widening. "Yeah. You know, things outside of flying, killing, and listening to Thunderspike nag us over the airwaves."
Emilie tilted her head. "Honestly… nothing worth mentioning."
"Oh, don't dodge," Mona teased, leaning closer. "I'll trade you. Mine's the stars."
"The stars?" Emilie asked, amused.
"Astronomy. Astrology, really," Mona corrected herself with a self-deprecating laugh. "I've always wanted to chart them, maybe even chase them. As a kid, I read every scrap of Barbeloth's writings I could get my hands on. That's why I'm a Megistus. My parents were just as obsessed, thought it was fate." She twirled her bottle between her fingers. "Still think someday humanity will claw its way up there, beyond the clouds we're so used to flying through."
Emilie blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. "That's… something."
Mona tilted her head. "Now your turn."
"Me?" Emilie hesitated, rubbing the back of her neck. "It's… weird. Not exactly table talk." She forced a small laugh.
Mona smirked knowingly. "Fine. Keep your secrets."
They clinked bottles again, the moment easing back into warm laughter.
Across the lounge, Teppei had collapsed into the couch beside Houallet, arms draped lazily across the cushions like he owned the place. The two shared a comfortable silence until Houallet leaned forward, breaking it.
"Say, who's leading the flight tomorrow?"
Teppei barked a laugh, shaking his head as he stretched out his legs. "Who's leading? Hell, I'd say Emilie, but does it even matter?" He tilted his head back. "We're an auxiliary squadron, Houallet. We fill gaps, plug holes, and get sent wherever the higher-ups can't spare their shiny frontliners."
He jabbed a thumb upward. "And besides, the Lieutenant Colonel is dropping in from mainland Fontaine tomorrow. Big brass likes to wave their hands around and remind us grunts where we sit in the food chain."
Adjusting his headset, Teppei tapped the side of it, nodding along to whatever was blasting in his ears. "Man, this track's perfect. Gonna knock me out cold the second I hit my bunk. Sleep like a goddamn baby."
Houallet wasn't convinced. He leaned in, voice lower. "And what about Natlan? We were allies fifteen years ago, right?"
That got Teppei's attention. He straightened, humor fading. "Yeah. I remember my history. Doesn't take a genius to know alliances don't mean jack when politics twist." His voice hardened. "And the base commander—don't think I haven't noticed. He's been circling Candace's name ever since the op."
He cleared his throat and dropped his voice into a gravelly imitation of the commander. "'Is there any suspicion about Captain Candace's behavior?'" Teppei scoffed and sat back with a shake of his head. "I'm more worried about the loose screw rattling around his skull."
Houallet was about to reply when the sharp wail of the air raid siren split the night. The sound rattled glasses on tables, slicing clean through laughter, music, and conversation. The room froze in collective shock before the pilots reacted as one. Chairs scraped back, bottles clattered, and the casual warmth evaporated into cold urgency.
Emilie and Mona were already up, zipping their flight suits in practiced motions as they bolted for the doors.
On the couch, Teppei threw his arms up in mock despair, groaning loudly. "You've gotta be shitting me! An air raid?! Now?!" He flopped sideways with exaggerated drama before springing upright, muttering, "Un-fucking-believable…"
Despite the theatrics, he was sprinting after them a moment later, boots pounding the tile as the trio poured out of the lounge toward the flight line.
The night at Petrichor was no longer calm.
The base was in chaos.
Enemy aircraft filled the night sky—fast, dark silhouettes illuminated only when an explosion ripped through the air or a stream of tracer fire clawed upward from the ground batteries. The wail of the air raid sirens was relentless, the kind of scream that drilled into the skull, mixing with the roar of engines, the crackle of burning wrecks, and the panic of shouted orders echoing across the flight line.
Ground crews scrambled in a desperate ballet—fuel trucks reversing at full speed, ordnance crews rolling racks of Sidewinders and bombs off the tarmac, while fire crews wrestled hoses toward burning aircraft. Pilots sprinted for whatever birds were still intact. The base's air defense guns chattered furiously, their tracers streaking across the dark sky, trying to claw the bombers out before they could release again.
Emilie bolted down the taxiway toward the lineup of F-5 Tiger IIs, boots hammering against the concrete. Her lungs burned, heart hammering. She reached her jet, vaulted up the ladder, and dropped into the cockpit with the practiced speed of muscle memory.
Harness yanked.
Helmet sealed.
Canopy slammed shut.
The ground crew was already tearing the ladder away as she reached for the switches. The cockpit came alive, gauges flickering, warning lights blinking like angry stars.
Behind her, Teppei's F-5 was already rumbling, the turbines shrieking as the aircraft taxied forward. Emilie snapped her hand down onto the right engine start.
The turbine whined, caught—then coughed.
Her eyes snapped to the gauges. EGT dropping. N2 RPM dropping.
"Come on, come on, don't you fucking quit on me now…" Emilie hissed, slamming her palm against the panel as if she could will it back to life.
For a gut-clenching moment, the engine sputtered on the brink of flameout. Then—whoomph—the whine steadied, stabilized into a high-pitched roar.
Emilie blew out a breath. "These turbines are gonna kill me one of these days." She reached over and hit the left engine start. That one caught clean.
The twin engines screamed in unison, the F-5 trembling with restrained power.
She barely had time to breathe before the world outside lit up like hell opening its jaws.
A deafening roar tore through the base as an F-14A Tomcat fell out of the night sky, trailing fire and debris. The big fighter spun like a mortally wounded animal, nose pitching wildly, flames spilling from its fuselage.
"Shit!" Emilie barked.
The Tomcat slammed into the ramp belly-first, skidding like a stone across the tarmac before colliding with a parked F-5. The impact blossomed into a fireball, the shockwave hammering across the apron. Emilie's jet rocked violently, canopy rattling against its seals. The radio came alive with overlapping screams and ground chatter.
"Mayday! Mayday! Control's hit!"
"Get a crew over here, fire's spreading!"
"Goddammit, they're dropping bombs right on top of us!"
"Archons almighty…" Emilie muttered, forcing her mind back to the task. She released the parking brake, throttled forward, and the Tiger II lurched into motion.
Her headset crackled with the tower's strained voice.
"All aircraft, priority departure! Cancel all altitude restrictions—repeat, cancel all restrictions! Defend the base at all costs!"
Emilie shoved the throttles forward, nose wheel bumping along the taxiway. Ahead, Teppei's F-5 was already rolling out, Mona's just behind him. Flames and searchlights painted the night, the chaos behind them only growing.
They reached the runway threshold in a line—Herring, Raven, Starseer. No room for neat takeoff intervals tonight.
Teppei punched forward, his Tiger II screaming down the runway. Emilie lined up next, holding brakes, throttles firewalled. The twin J85s howled at full military thrust. She released. The F-5 surged forward, her helmet slamming back into the headrest as the acceleration crushed her into the seat.
120 knots.
140.
150.
She pulled back hard on the stick. The nose lifted, wheels left the tarmac, and the earth fell away beneath her. The gear retracted with a heavy clunk as the jet leapt into the night sky.
Her radio lit up as she banked right, eyes snapping to the dark shapes above.
"All planes, engage! Prioritize enemy bombers—get them before they unload!" Emilie barked.
"Wilco—Starseer, engaging!" Mona's Tiger II peeled left, afterburners blazing as she angled toward a cluster of shadows lumbering across the sky.
"Roger—Herring, engaging!" Teppei split right, already laughing into his mic like a madman.
Emilie leveled out, HUD painting multiple targets ahead—bombers, heavy and slow, crawling toward the base with their fighter escorts darting above them like wasps.
She shoved the throttles into afterburner. The twin engines thundered, the cockpit vibrating as her F-5 leapt forward like a predator let off its leash.
"Raven, engaging. Let's clean this mess up."
Emilie shoved the throttles forward, TF34s howling as the afterburners lit. The F-5 shuddered under the sudden kick of thrust, nose climbing toward the fresh radar blips screaming in from altitude.
Her IFF blinked. Two big signatures, high and fast. B-1Bs—supersonic bombers.
She leveled out, HUD flashing tone. Her thumb jabbed the release.
"Fox Two, Fox Two!"
Twin AIM-9 Sidewinders ripped from the rails, contrails curling white in the night air. They tracked hot and true. Both slammed home. One Lancer split down the fuselage like a torn can, fuel and fire venting as it disintegrated. The other sheared apart at the wings, falling in burning slabs that lit up the sea below.
Her radio snapped alive with urgent chatter.
"Raven's got two bombers!"
Then another voice cut in, deeper, controlled.
"This is Lieutenant Colonel Reed, inbound to Petrichor. What's the situation?"
Teppei barked a bitter laugh even as he thumbed his pickle button.
"Oh, great. Here comes his royal highness from the mainland."
"Fox Two!"
His missile clipped an F-4E Phantom mid-turn, blowing the fighter apart in a fireball. Teppei keyed the mic again, adrenaline thick in his tone.
"Herring's got a bandit!"
The tower was almost shouting over him.
"Lieutenant Colonel, we're being swarmed! Fighters and bombers everywhere!"
Emilie spotted another Phantom rolling off her nose, its twin J79s glowing hot. She pitched up, radar tone solid.
Tone. Lock.
"Fox Two!"
The Phantom snapped hard right, dumping flares. The Sidewinder lost the track, spiraling off harmlessly. Emilie cursed, threw her stick over, and pulled in behind him, blood rushing into her helmet as she cranked into a six-G chase.
"I'm not losing you!"
Switching to guns, she thumbed the trigger. The 20mm cannon barked, tracers carving the dark. The rounds stitched across the Phantom's starboard wing root. Metal tore, then the whole wing folded. The fighter cartwheeled once, then slammed into the ground in a dirty orange fireball.
"Enemy fighter down!"
Reed's voice was calm, surgical through the comms.
"Emilie, can I trust you to hold that runway until I arrive?"
She swallowed hard, knuckles white on the stick.
"Y-yes, sir!"
"Good. Keep at it."
Her radar flared again. Another B-1, low and committed. She rolled in, Sidewinders screeching in her ears.
"Fox Two, Fox Two!"
Both missiles streaked out, slamming into the bomber's port wing. The whole section sheared away, engines trailing fire as the aircraft pitched into the ocean in a massive plume.
A secondary boom lit the sky off her nine o'clock. Teppei whooped into the net.
"Herring's got two more bombers!"
"Outstanding work, Teppei!" Emilie grinned, heart pounding, eyes already hunting for the next contact.
The sky was still alive with threats. Mona's voice cut sharp across the frequency.
"The bombers that flew overhead earlier—they're turning back for another run!"
Teppei flicked his eyes toward the ground, where floodlights gleamed across the hangars. One of the dark silhouettes on the taxiway moved—an F-5 was rolling out, canopy sealed.
He keyed up.
"Hey! We got someone in another Tiger!"
Mona's voice rose.
"Who the hell pulled that out!?"
A fresh, clear voice broke through the static.
"This is Ayaka! Kamisato Ayaka!"
Teppei blinked hard, disbelieving.
"Ayaka?! What the hell are you doing out here?!"
Her reply was steady, though the nervous edge was there.
"I was at the hangars with Kaeya—we had this one ready to scramble! I'm taking off!"
Teppei's grip on the stick tightened until his knuckles ached.
"Like hell you are! You're not even through replacement pilot training yet!"
"Is there anyone else? Any other pilots at the hangars?" Emilie cut in, voice sharp but controlled.
Ayaka answered immediately.
"Negative, ma'am! I didn't see anyone!"
Mona hissed into the mic.
"We don't have time to argue, Teppei. We need every warm body in the air." Then softer: "Be careful, Ayaka. I'll cover your six."
Ayaka's voice steadied, iron beneath the nerves.
"I'll try, ma'am."
Teppei cursed, breathing hard, then keyed his mic.
"Raven, Ayaka's out here and she's green as hell. We just gonna sit and watch her burn up?"
Emilie, still hot off a guns kill, rolled inverted over two Tornadoes and smoked both with quick Sidewinder shots before answering.
"No. Provide cover and supporting fire. I'll keep the bombers off her. She doesn't fight alone."
Teppei clicked his mic, forcing steel into his tone.
"Roger that, Emilie. Let's give her a hand."
He pulled right, trading altitude for speed, swinging onto the tail of another fighter. The bombers would have to wait—his job now was keeping the kid alive.
Then the tower broke in, voices clashing.
"Wait! Don't let her go! It's suicide!"
Another, firm and resolute:
"Negative! Let her fly! She can do this! May the Anemo Archon guide you, Soumetsu!"
Ayaka's voice followed, strong, almost defiant.
"This is First Airwoman Kamisato Ayaka, callsign Soumetsu. Departing the runway to provide support for friendly aircraft!"
The tower responded immediately, no hesitation.
"Roger that, Soumetsu. Godspeed."
Then directly to Emilie, almost pleading.
"Raven, I trust you to take care of Soumetsu. Watch over her!"
Emilie tightened her harness, rolled wings level, and muttered under her breath before keying up.
"Of course. She's with me now."
The frequency shifted again. A new voice—calm, authoritative, almost unnervingly steady amidst the chaos.
"This is Wolfsbane Leader. Petrichor, I'm out of fuel. I'm landing."
The tower came back immediately, urgent.
"Sir! Negative! You can't land yet—we're still under attack!"
Emilie didn't have time to dwell on it. Her HUD lit red—another B-1 lining up for its bomb run. She rolled level, switched to guns, and squeezed.
The Tiger II's M39 cannons thundered, tracers tearing into the Lancer's starboard engines and wing root. Both turbines coughed flame, then ripped open in a chain of explosions. The wing snapped in half and the whole bomber nosed over, fire consuming it as it plunged into the sea.
"We've got two bombers left!"
Teppei's voice cut in, rough and heated.
"But plenty more fighters still out here!"
Emilie gritted her teeth, eyes flicking between radar and sky.
"Keep pressing! We're almost there!"
Then Ayaka's voice broke through, firm and bright.
"This is Soumetsu—airborne and providing supporting fire!"
Before Emilie could respond, the Lieutenant Colonel came back on.
"Negative, Tower. All aircraft—cover me while I land."
Teppei's voice cracked with disbelief.
"WHAT ARE YOU, INSANE!?"
A tired chuckle followed.
"Second Lieutenant Teppei… is that you?"
Teppei froze for half a beat.
"Y-Yes?"
"Heh. I'll make sure to write you up when I la—"
The transmission cut short with a thunderous boom. Teppei's head snapped left just in time to see an F-4 Phantom cartwheeling in fire.
"The Lieutenant Colonel's going down!"
His eyes locked on the contrails of an F-16C pulling away, smoke curling from its missile rail.
Teppei's rage boiled over. He yanked his Tiger II into a brutal turn, the wings screaming as the Gs crushed his chest. He thumbed a Sidewinder.
Tone. Lock.
"Fox Two!"
The missile chased hot and true, punching into the Falcon's belly. The jet ripped apart midair, forward fuselage tumbling into the ocean.
"Splash for Herring! Bastard's down!"
The fight raged on, but momentum had shifted. Emilie rolled in on the remaining Lancers. Her guns shredded the first one in a line of fire, peeling its skin away until it fell apart in flames. She snapped left, locked tone, and loosed her second-to-last Sidewinder. The missile bit hard into the second bomber's wing root, tearing it into a flat spin before disintegrating over the waves.
That left one.
It banked away, high at ten thousand, trying desperately to climb out of range.
"Not happening," Emilie muttered.
She shoved the throttles forward, J85s screaming, the Tiger II rattling as it clawed for altitude.
The Gs crushed her against the seat, blood sinking from her vision. Her altimeter ticked up—six thousand, seven thousand—eight.
Then her left engine coughed violently, the whole airframe shuddering.
"Shit! Compressor stall, left engine!"
She eased the throttle, coaxing the airflow back. The RPM needle wavered, then steadied. It was holding—for now.
But the bomber was nearly in range.
Tone screamed in her headset. She thumbed the button.
"Fox Two, Fox Two!"
Her last two Sidewinders tore free, contrails carving white arcs into the sky. Emilie pitched forward into a nose-over descent, forcing the F-5 down vertical, airframe trembling under the stress.
Above, both missiles slammed home. The final Lancer erupted in a violent blossom of flame, breaking apart into a rain of molten wreckage that tumbled from the heavens.
"Final bomber's down!" Emilie exhaled, lungs burning.
The net filled with rapid-fire chatter:
"Soumetsu's got three bogeys!"
"Herring splashed the last Tornado!"
"Starseer nailed the final fighter!"
Then—silence.
Emilie leveled off at low altitude, sweat running down her brow. Her Tiger II drifted into formation as Mona and Teppei slid onto her wings, Ayaka trailing close behind. Four battered F-5s hung in the sky in a perfect diamond.
The tower's voice finally came, almost disbelieving.
"It's over. All enemy fighters and bombers eliminated. Petrichor is secure. Outstanding work, everyone."
Emilie sagged back against her seat, every muscle trembling.
Then Ayaka's voice, softer, almost hesitant.
"Hey, Emilie?"
Emilie glanced left. Soumetsu's Tiger held steady on her wingtip.
"Was my flying… okay?"
Emilie gave a visible thumbs-up through her canopy, a small grin tugging her lips.
"It was fantastic. Three kills in your first fight? Not bad at all, Ayaka."
Ayaka's voice brightened.
"Thank you… but it was only because of your support."
Down below, the ground troops' voices carried faintly over the frequency.
"Looks like Ayaka didn't need us after all—she was incredible out there!"
"Yeah! Let's throw a celebration party tonight!"
Emilie chuckled under her breath.
"Now that's something I wouldn't mind…"
Teppei cut in with a laugh.
"Hell yeah! Beers all 'round for me!"
Mona finally sighed, voice heavy with exhaustion and relief.
"After the shit we've been through today… yeah. We've earned it."
Minutes later…
The battered quartet of F-5 Tiger IIs dropped out of the night sky in tight formation, their navigation lights winking against the darkness. Emilie led them in with precision, easing her Tiger down onto final approach.
"Wolfsbane flight, check gear down."
"Three green." Mona's voice came back, steady despite the exhaustion.
"Herring, three green."
"Soumetsu, three green."
The formation touched down almost as one. Tires screeched, rubber burning against the runway as each fighter settled, drag chutes blossoming in unison behind them. They rolled out and cleared the runway in perfect sync, a textbook recovery despite the chaos they had just survived.
As their canopies cracked open and the J85s wound down, a wall of sound rose up from the ramp. Ground crews, officers, even wounded personnel from the infirmary—everyone poured out onto the apron, cheering themselves hoarse. Flares lit up the night sky, and floodlights swept across the returning jets.
The Wolfsbane Squadron had held the line.
And Ayaka Kamisato had just blooded herself in her first real fight.
Inside Petrichor's mess hall, the celebration was nothing short of raucous. The stench of jet fuel still clung to the pilots' flight suits, mingling with the tang of spilled beer and sweat. The tension of combat melted into laughter, ribbing, and the clink of glasses echoing off the walls.
Emilie raised her mug high. "Cheers, everyone!"
"Cheers!" The response was thunderous, dozens of voices booming in unison. Glasses collided, amber liquid sloshing over the rims.
She chuckled and turned as a familiar figure approached—Kaeya, still in his oil-stained coveralls, sleeves rolled up, a glass in hand.
"Hey, Kaeya," Emilie said, lowering her voice just enough for him to hear over the din. "Sorry I chewed you out earlier."
Kaeya smirked, swirling his drink lazily. "No harm done. You were under fire, flying antiques, and I was the guy keeping them in the air. Comes with the territory." He took a sip, then gave her a knowing grin. "Honestly, it's a miracle both engines didn't flame out on you at once. F-5s are solid, but they're relics. You all made them look like frontline birds tonight."
Emilie sighed, half-laughing, half weary. "Yeah… it feels like it's about time the 'auxiliary squadron' stopped flying museum pieces."
"Couldn't agree more," Kaeya said, tapping his glass against hers.
Before Emilie could reply, the sound of heavy boots cut through the mess hall. The conversations dimmed instinctively as Captain Maksim stepped in, arms folded behind his back, posture ramrod straight. His gaze swept the room before locking on Emilie's table.
"Actually," he said, voice carrying over the noise, "that problem's already being handled. Two days from now, report to the hangars with your team." His eyes lingered on Emilie for a beat. "We've secured surplus aircraft from a squadron that just upgraded. Consider it your next step."
Emilie straightened unconsciously, her tired body responding to the weight in his tone. "Yes, sir."
Maksim gave a sharp nod, then turned on his heel and strode out. The buzz of conversation resumed immediately, louder than before—half speculation, half excitement.
The celebration stretched deep into the night, beer and laughter spilling into every corner of the hall.
And eventually, September 27 came to an end.
But that single day had seen three major operations—
Eliminating enemy UAV reconnaissance.
Defending Fontaine's naval fleet from surprise attack.
And withstanding a sudden air raid on Petrichor itself.
Through it all, Wolfsbane Squadron had not only survived—they had triumphed.
They had proven themselves more than just expendable auxiliaries.
They were pilots who could stare down chaos and carve victory out of the fire.
They were aces.