October 30th – 1630 Hours
Three and a half weeks had passed since Wolfsbane Squadron—or anyone stationed on Petrichor Island—had seen combat.
The war, however, had not paused. Teyvat's combined military forces—from Mondstadt, Liyue, Inazuma, Sumeru, and Fontaine—were steadily advancing into Natlan territory.
Sumeru's troops had begun reclaiming the Deshret Desert, establishing forward operating positions and emplacing long-range anti-aircraft systems across the sands. With those gains secured, the full-scale offensive was finally underway.
Fontaine's Armee De L'air 405th Squadron, operating alongside Nocturne and Tidal Squadrons, spearheaded a surgical strike on Natlan's naval hub at Tequemecan. Within hours, the port and airfield had fallen under Teyvat control, opening the mainland to the coalition's forces.
Yet Petrichor Air Force Base remained unnervingly silent.
Emilie hadn't shaken the memory of the surprise Natlan assault from weeks ago.
The flight line reflected that emptiness: four F-14A Tomcats sat ready, their wings swept, a pair of parked C-130s and a lone C-17 idling quietly, and the last two F-5 Tiger IIs—the only survivors of a rookie flight—stood as a grim reminder of lives lost.
Emilie lingered beneath the port-side variable-geometry wing of her Tomcat, desert wind tugging at her hair. Her eyes traced the near-empty ramp, her thoughts heavy.
Seeing a flight line this empty hurts...
But seeing those kids thrown into an attack they weren't ready for...
The fire in their eyes—their excitement to fly...
They wanted to be like us.
She swallowed hard.
They were just kids hoping to come home to their families. And now... some of those families will never see their children again.
She blinked rapidly, forcing the emotion down. A faint crunch of boots on tarmac made her flinch slightly—she didn't turn. She didn't need to.
Mona stepped into her peripheral vision, matching Emilie's gaze over the flight line, eyes dark with the same sorrow.
"What a damn sad sight," Mona muttered.
Emilie gave a small, tight nod. Silence stretched between them before Mona exhaled sharply.
"Captain. I know that look. Four weeks, and it hasn't faded."
Emilie's nostrils flared as she exhaled. "Still can't stop thinking about what their families are going through... and that idiot base commander—he knew exactly what he was sending them into."
Her hand curled into a fist.
Mona's palm landed lightly on her shoulder. "Fuck him. You do your job, Emilie. Karma will hit him harder than anything we could do."
A dry, humorless chuckle escaped Emilie. "Tch. Right."
Mona clapped her on the back. "Come on. New operation today. Briefing starts in ten. Let's move."
Emilie allowed a nod. "Yeah."
They walked together back toward the main building. The hallways were sterile and dimly lit, the faint hum of the base's systems underlining the tense quiet. Soon, they reached the briefing room, the air-conditioned chill doing little to soothe the weight in their chests.
By the time they arrived, Base Commander Courbevoie was already at the front of the briefing room, arms crossed, jaw tight. Emilie didn't spare him a glance as she slid into the center seat between Mona and Ayaka, folding her arms and crossing her legs.
The air was thick, heavy with unspoken tension.
"Alright," Courbevoie began, voice clipped. "Now that everyone's here, we can start."
"Since Natlan's failed attempt to seize our island, their activity has been minimal… until five days ago. Almost feels like peace again, doesn't it?"
Emilie let out a dry scoff. "Yeah… sure."
Maksim stepped forward, taking over the briefing with the precision of a seasoned operations officer.
"The Fontaine Air Force's Armee De L'air 405th Squadron launched a full-scale invasion of Natlan on October 27th. Operating out of Charybdis Air Force Base, they seized the naval port and airfield at Tequemecan. The coalition's offensive is now underway."
He flipped to the next slide: a digital map marked with patrol zones.
"For you: today's mission is a standard air patrol over the Deshret Desert. Two aircraft will cover the northern sector, two the southern. Your patrol route arcs toward the coastline, then loops back to Petrichor."
Red circles glowed on the screen, marking danger zones.
"The airspace is fortified with Sumeru's surface-to-air network. Anything tagged as hostile will be engaged immediately. Avoid those zones."
"Maintain IFF integrity. Maintain altitude discipline. Eyes sharp. Stay vigilant."
He scanned the room once more, voice softening slightly. "You're dismissed. Come back in one piece. I don't want to see any more lives lost."
Emilie blinked. He actually cares… she thought, briefly.
Then Courbevoie barked: "Don't be reckless out there! Got it?!"
The sharpness cut through the moment. Emilie stood, grabbed her helmet, and walked out without a word. Teppei, Mona, and Ayaka followed, moving in unspoken synchronization.
At the flight line, the four walked side by side toward their Tomcats. The desert wind carried the faint smell of jet fuel and hot tarmac.
Teppei let out a long, weary sigh. "Man… it's a damn graveyard out here."
Ayaka's gaze drifted over the empty spots where F-5s had once stood. "Seeing those rookies fall… it still doesn't feel real."
Emilie's jaw tightened. "I swear… karma will make that bastard commander pay for this."
Mona added, grimly, "Right. He'll answer for the kids' lives eventually."
Emilie's eyes scanned her team. "But that's not for us. That's for karma to settle."
Ayaka hesitated, then asked softly, "Captain… you feeling alright?"
Emilie gave a faint, almost weary smile. "Yeah. Better than I was a few weeks ago. But seeing this ramp… it still stings."
They peeled off toward their respective aircraft.
Emilie climbed the ladder into her Tomcat, sliding into the ejection seat. Her fingers moved with practiced precision: harness secured, helmet placed, canopy switches engaged. Hiss. Slam. Click. The cockpit sealed with a reassuring finality.
Beneath her, the twin TF30 engines ignited, roaring to life with a tremor that shook the airframe. One by one, her wingmates followed, taxiing in disciplined formation down the length of the runway.
The throttle advanced. Wheels spun. Dust kicked up along the tarmac.
Within minutes, all four F-14s lifted into the cloudless desert sky, wings slicing through the warm wind.
The patrol over the Deshret Desert had begun. Emilie's eyes scanned the horizon, mind sharp, reflexes ready. Every climb, turn, and sweep of the desert below was a test of vigilance—a reminder that even routine missions could turn deadly in an instant.
Hours had passed. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting the desert in long, molten shadows.
Wolfsbane Squadron had split into two elements. Emilie and Mona patrolled north of Deshret, their F-14As slicing through the darkening sky, each turn calculated, wings carving arcs that balanced speed and stability. Radars and targeting systems hummed softly in the cockpits, their displays alive with blips and threat data.
Teppei and Ayaka flew the southern sector, eyes scanning the horizon, scanning for any Natlan aerial or surface activity.
The radio crackled to life. Teppei's voice came first, tinged with frustration.
"Ugh… that stupid base commander can't give us a break, huh…"
Ayaka followed, teasing lightly.
"Even if he's an ass, he still relies on us, First Lieutenant Teppei. And hey—congrats on the promotion, by the way."
Teppei scoffed. "Huh. That's weird, I don't feel any different."
Emilie chuckled softly into her headset. "Alright, alright. Where are you two now?"
Teppei scanned his radar, brow furrowed. "About 150 miles south of your position."
"Roger that," Emilie replied.
Static erupted over the frequency, faint but urgent.
"…Damaged… Th… Fully… It's light…"
Mona keyed her mic, voice precise and professional. "Transmitting aircraft, state your assignment and current status."
The crackling voice returned. "Finally! This is Teyvat Transport aircraft Meka One. We're en route to the neutral nation of Inazuma. Transmitter set at minimum power."
"Requesting visual identification. Maintain your heading," Mona replied.
Emilie's eyes scanned the skies. "I've got visual. 747, looks damaged but airworthy."
Mona confirmed. "Wilco. Following your lead."
Emilie eased her throttles to military power, avoiding afterburner—just steady, efficient acceleration. Mona mirrored her perfectly, the twin TF30s rumbling in harmony as they cut through the cooling desert air.
Meka One's voice came again. "We see you on radar now. Request guidance through the Sumeru AA network. We're transporting the President from Sumeru to Inazuma—top secret. IFF is off; cannot transmit valid signals."
Static cracked. "…Near the Sumeru-Deshret border, friendly AA clipped our wing. Shockwave damaged radar. Cannot maintain straight path through network."
Emilie keyed her mic. "Wilco. We'll take the lead. Follow our flight path."
She eased the nose down slightly, lining up an intercept vector ahead of the transport. Mona fell in as tailing cover. Both F-14s glided in formation, eyes scanning for radar contacts and the faint glow of surface missile sites below.
Teppei's voice cut in. "Heads up, north element. Bogeys inbound. Air Defense Command reports an enemy flight vector approaching your position."
Mona's tone carried a smirk. "Understood. We're counting on you south."
Emilie scanned radar and visual cues, identifying a clear corridor through the overlapping AA coverage. "Meka One, follow our lead. Corridor is safe, but keep your path smooth—no abrupt maneuvers."
Meka One's pilot responded. "Wilco. Sharp turns are impossible—airframe limits."
Mona nodded. "Acknowledged. Path is curvy, gradual. Maintain heading and airspeed."
Static broke the comms again, now in a foreign accent. "Enemy target confirmed."
Teppei's dark chuckle came over the radio. "Just like intel said…"
Ayaka, confused, replied. "The radio's picking up enemy chatter too…"
Teppei laughed. "These guys… sound as sweet as Thunderspike! Roses and sunflowers, I swear…"
Another enemy voice entered, ominous and cold. "Remember, just because it's a transport… Taking it down won't just be a kill—they'll build statues in our honor!"
A skeptical counterpart added, "You sure that's a transport? Looks like a civilian airliner."
Mona frowned, brushing a strand of hair behind her helmet. "What the hell are they even saying?"
Emilie's eyes flicked to the approaching horizon, the faint outline of missiles and radar-guided threats illuminating in her HUD. Keep it smooth. Keep it steady. One wrong move and this corridor becomes a tomb.
Her hands gripped the throttle, scanning the sky, calculating every vector for the transport's survival. Above the desert, the real fight was about to begin.
They entered the radar valley—a narrow, treacherous corridor threaded with overlapping AA radar coverage. The desert stretched beneath them, dotted with the faint glint of missile emplacements and SAM guidance antennas.
Emilie's voice was calm but precise. "Looks like we're in it now. Stay tight on me."
Mona keyed her radio. "Meka One, switch to 122.800. Maintain that frequency."
"Roger. Switching now," came the transport's strained reply.
Mona's voice returned to Emilie's headset. "Any more issues with your aircraft?"
"No issues so far," the co-pilot answered, tension audible. "But we need to get out of here fast. Minimal stress on the airframe—no abrupt maneuvers."
Emilie adjusted her throttles, easing the Tomcat into a gentle bank. "Don't worry. These turns are wide hairpins. You won't even feel them."
The transport followed, struggling but obedient, as the three aircraft threaded carefully through the radar valley.
Then came a new alert over Meka One's comms.
"We're losing oil pressure on engine two!"
The captain's voice remained calm, controlled. "Throttle engine two back. Leave it at idle. Understood?"
"Roger. Engine two idle," the co-pilot replied promptly.
Emilie keyed her radio. "Halfway through the corridor. Hold steady—almost clear."
The F-14s carved their way deeper, radar pings flickering on the HUD, highlighting each SAM site and radar sweep. Every second felt drawn out, the tension coiling tight in the cockpit.
Finally, Emilie spoke again. "Meka One, you're clear of the AA network. Proceed."
Relief came over the line. "Roger. Thanks. Until Fontaine airspace… we'd appreciate continued escort."
Mona responded smoothly. "Of course. Two more of our planes will join you shortly."
Emilie's radar lit up—two friendly blips approaching.
"Looks like Soumetsu and Herring are closing in."
Teppei's voice crackled through. "Raven, we've got you in our twelve. You're in command now."
Emilie's HUD flickered with contacts to the north. "Wolfsbane, defensive positions! Bogeys inbound!"
"Herring, Soumetsu, maintain escort on the transport!"
Mona keyed her mic. "Meka One, break off and head straight for the Petrichor VOR at full speed!"
"Roger, breaking away," came the captain's voice. "Take care!"
Emilie slammed the throttles forward, afterburners igniting in a roar that shook the airframe. The F-14 accelerated violently, thrust surging through her harness.
"Raven, engaging!"
Her HUD lit with IFF symbols: enemy contacts detected. Two F-14As, two F-16s, and two F-15Cs. Radar echoes flickered, each pulse signaling danger closing fast.
Just then, the comm crackled again.
"Captain, we're losing engine two!"
"Understood," Emilie muttered. She toggled systems and ran through the emergency engine shutdown checklist. The second TF30 groaned under load, oil pressure dangerously low. We can't keep this up much longer, she thought, eyes scanning the airspace, hands steady on the throttle.
Every movement, every bank and climb, was now a calculated risk. In the desert twilight, the first real dogfight of the evening was about to erupt.
Emilie pushed the F-14 into a dive, dropping beneath the enemy formation. Airspeed climbed rapidly, the Mach gauge flicking upward as the desert floor blurred below. She yanked hard on the stick, pulling into a high-G, 180-degree nose-over climb.
The airframe groaned under the stress, but the Tomcat held firm. Inverted, she traced the enemy squadron ahead, eyes sharp on the HUD as it flickered with multiple hostile contacts.
The F-14 responded as an extension of her body—fluid, lethal. She rolled upright, locking radar onto four targets.
"Fox One! Fox One!"
Four AIM-54 Phoenix missiles tore from the pylons, leaving streaks of vapor in the twilight sky. Two enemy aircraft broke formation, veering violently to dodge, but an F-14A and an F-15C were too slow. They were engulfed in explosions, tumbling from the sky in fireballs.
"Got one!" Emilie exhaled, already scanning for the next target.
She banked hard right, aligning on another F-14 weaving through the air. She mirrored every evasive move—rolls, jinks, tight climbs—keeping the hostile squarely in her gunsight.
"Starseer, bandit in your six!"
Mona's voice crackled. A precise burst from her Vulcan cannon shredded an F-15C, tracer rounds ripping through its fuselage. The aircraft spun, cockpit disintegrating, before erupting in fire.
Emilie's target F-14 jinked left, then right, pushing its airframe to the limit. She anticipated each movement, fingers firm on the stick.
"Guns! Guns!"
The M61 roared, tracers punching into the F-14's right wing. Flames engulfed it, and the enemy jet spun out of control before exploding midair. Emilie banked sharply to avoid debris, the fireball illuminating the desert below.
Mona remained locked in a duel with an F-16. Both aircraft weaved aggressively, the F-16 attempting to anticipate her moves—but Mona's control was tighter, her reactions faster.
She grinned, thumb flicking to guns. The Gatling cannon erupted in a staccato roar, rounds slamming into the F-16's fuselage. Sparks flew, and one round penetrated the cockpit. The F-16 spiraled, disintegrating in midair.
"Yes! Starseer bagged a target!" Mona cheered, but the radio crackled with alarm.
"H-Hey! What are you doing?! Get back to your seat!"
The 747 they were escorting began dutch rolling violently. Teppei's voice came over the headset, panicked.
"Hey! Something's happening! The transport's unstable!"
Emilie cursed under her breath, still tracking the last F-14 in her sights. She couldn't leave; the transport was still in danger. HUD warnings flashed as she shoved the throttles forward, afterburners igniting. A hard left turn pulled the Tomcat into a surge of G-force.
The enemy F-14 tried to jink again, but Emilie stayed relentless, locking sights on its fuselage. Another sharp maneuver from the foe—hard right this time—was met with a swift trigger pull.
"Fox Two! Fox Two!"
Sidewinders streaked into the sky, one finding the target centerline. The enemy jet split in two, tail and fuselage separating in a deadly display.
"Raven's got a bandit!" Teppei's voice came through, relief evident.
No time to savor the kill. The last F-16 swooped in, locking her radar with lethal intent. IFF blared a lock warning.
Emilie slammed left on the stick, rolling unpredictably. The F-16 followed, radar painting her as hostile.
A maneuver from training flashed in her mind. Throttles to full, stick hard back, climbing aggressively. Forward-swept wings, asymmetric throttle, rudder stomped—speed bled off as the Tomcat snapped into a tight right turn. The F-16 barely missed.
Emilie corrected, equalized power, and regained her line. She fired once more.
"Fox Two!"
The missile struck perfectly. The F-16 erupted, cockpit and fuselage disintegrating, smoke trailing as the wreckage plummeted.
"All bogeys down!" Mona's voice confirmed, calm but victorious.
The desert sky fell silent, save for the roar of the four Tomcats and the steady thrum of the crippled transport moving under their protection. Wolfsbane had cleared the airspace, but the adrenaline lingered—high, sharp, and unrelenting.
A new voice crackled through the comms—a female voice, tense but steady.
"Umm… Uhhh. This is… this is Meka One. The captain has been shot."
Emilie's eyes widened. She keyed her mic immediately.
"What?"
Mona followed suit, voice calm but urgent. "We're on our way. Stay with us."
Another voice, strained, joined the channel, panic just beneath the surface.
"The First Officer… might be a spy. Engines are failing… we might not make it to Fontaine."
Teppei's tone cut sharply through the static. "Hey! What kind of cargo are you carrying? Dangerous stuff?"
A pause. Then the female voice, trying to maintain composure:
"Well… you could say I'm the cargo. Captain's shot, first officer unconscious."
Silence fell, broken only by the drone of the 747's engines and the distant roar of the Tomcats.
"I'm flying the plane," she continued, voice hesitant but steadier now. "I've flown small planes before… but never an airliner."
Emilie's fingers tightened on the stick. "Stay calm. I'm guiding you. Keep the nose level, anticipate every movement. Think ahead—don't react, lead the aircraft. Flaps first on landing, then gear, then full flaps. Don't skip steps."
A brief pause. "Roger, ma'am."
Emilie's eyes scanned the desert below, analyzing terrain and slope.
"There!" the cargo voice said more confidently, spotting a flat expanse. "We can land there!"
She keyed the mic again.
"Are you still there, Miss?"
"Emilie. Captain Emilie, Fontaine Air Force, Wolfsbane Squadron."
"Ah… what a lovely name, Miss Emilie."
Teppei chimed in, voice lighter, breaking the tension. "And I'm Herring!"
The cargo chuckled softly. "That… is a great name too."
Teppei laughed, voice warm over the radio. "I like you, man!"
The cargo's reply held a hint of humor now. "Alright… we're coming in. Hang on tight."
Ayaka's calm, reassuring voice joined the chatter. "Airspace clear. Everything's fine."
"Perfect," Emilie said, eyes locked on the descending 747. The massive aircraft, engines humming, began its slow, controlled descent.
The GPWS callouts cut sharply through the comms, each word precise, almost mechanical:
"300… 200… 100… 50… 40… 30… 20… 10…"
The landing gear kissed the sand. The plane shuddered under its immense weight, sinking slightly as the soft desert floor yielded. Engines partially submerged in the sand, the transport ground to a stop—but safely.
Emilie banked left, canopy giving her a perfect vantage of the grounded aircraft. Her voice remained calm, authoritative.
"You alright there? Rough landing, but you made it."
Mona's tone softened, concern showing. "Are you okay, Miss Cargo?"
A pause, then a shaky but relieved response:
"Uhh… yeah. We're alright. Pretty smooth ride, all things considered."
Emilie exhaled slowly, letting herself relax for the first time since the dogfight. Around her, the desert stretched silently, the threat passed, for now.
Mona exhaled slowly, tension in her shoulders easing slightly as she keyed her mic.
"But… Ma'am, I have a question."
The "cargo" replied cautiously. "Yes?"
Mona paused, as though weighing the weight of her words. "Do we really have to use the Bird of Peace for this war?"
Her voice carried more than curiosity—there was a deep, reflective undertone, a subtle grief for the lives lost.
The "cargo" responded softly, understanding the implication. "Yes."
Mona's tone grew heavier, almost wistful. "I wanted to see… your Bridge of Peace span into outer space."
The cargo's voice gained conviction. "It's still possible. With the Skywarden. We're on even terms now."
A note of hope threaded through her words, though still soft. "I'm supposed to be flying to Inazuma because I believe we all still have a second chance."
Mona followed, reflective. "To hold peace talks in neutral territory…"
The "cargo" paused, carefully considering her words. "Right."
"Communication is vital in a peaceful world," Mona continued, slower now, but filled with respect. "So I can believe in you then?"
Her voice softened further, sincere. "I don't want to see any more young men and women die in this war."
Emilie's gaze remained fixed on the horizon. She keyed her mic with a quiet sigh. "Same here, Ma'am."
She continued, her voice now quieter, more personal. "Of the twelve rookies we flew from North Dornman weeks ago, only two made it back after the operation."
The cargo's sigh reflected the shared weight of that reality. "Me too, Captain Emilie. And…?"
Mona spoke steadily now. "First Lieutenant Mona Megistus."
"And Miss Megistus," the cargo replied, her tone warmer, carrying a hint of relief.
Suddenly, Teppei's voice cut in over the comms, urgent but casual. "Uh oh. Looks like I'm low on fuel, but enough to make it back to Petrichor."
A sharp, clear voice broke through the static next.
"This is the Teyvat Air Force 5050th Squadron. We observed your emergency landing on radar. Do you have visual on us?"
Emilie checked her radar—seven blips. She flicked on her IFF, confirming the contacts as friendly.
The voice continued. "You can leave the rest to us. We'll provide support until the crew is rescued."
Emilie nodded to herself, voice steady over the comm. "Roger, 5050th. Please take care of them for us."
The squadron leader's response was calm, resolute. "Sure thing, Ma'am."
Emilie glanced at Mona before gently banking right. "Alright, Wolfsbane, heading northeast to Petrichor. We'll leave the rest to them."
The four F-14As surged into a smooth, coordinated turn, engines roaring as they sliced through the desert sky. The 5050th squadron spread out over the grounded transport, their presence a shield until the crew could be safely rescued.
Wolfsbane's formation settled into a steady climb, northeast toward Petrichor Island. Emilie allowed herself a moment to exhale, the tension finally loosening, though the memory of the day's combat lingered. The war still raged—but for now, one life had been spared.
Hours later, back at Petrichor, the four F-14s sat silent on the flight line, their engines cooled, the roar of combat replaced by the low hum of distant ground vehicles. New pilots had arrived—twelve F/A-18s from mainland Fontaine, along with a few Sumeru aviators—adding fresh energy to the base, but the air remained heavy.
Emilie and her team walked toward the main building, footsteps light, minds weighed by the day's events.
"Man… what a day, huh?" Emilie broke the silence, voice low but carrying a trace of fatigue.
Mona nodded, not in the mood for conversation, yet agreeing. "Yeah."
Teppei, eyes narrowing in thought, asked, "Hey… who was that 'Cargo' anyway?"
Emilie let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head as the memory of the tense radio exchange resurfaced.
"I know… seemed to be the President of Teyvat… Ma'am Imena."
Teppei's jaw dropped, disbelief flashing across his features. "Whaaat?! You're kidding!"
Mona shook her head slowly, her voice contemplative. "Sounded like her. And it makes sense."
She paused, folding her arms. "Talks of peace in neutral ground? That's basically a ceasefire discussion between Teyvat and Natlan."
The following day—November 1st—brought rare downtime. The squadron had no new operations, leaving a silence that felt almost unnatural after the intensity of the past weeks.
Mona reclined on the lounge couch, scribbling in her notebook. The air hung heavy, charged like the calm before a storm.
Mona exhaled deeply. "What a start to the month…"
Houallet, seated nearby, tilted his head in curiosity. "What do you mean, Mona?"
She shook her head, pen paused mid-word. "The Skywarden… it's fallen into Natlan's hands."
Emilie's gaze lifted, shadowed by concern.
"They now outclass us in firepower," Mona continued, frustration and worry threaded through her voice.
"And it was the only trump card President Imena had for peace negotiations," she added softly, the words weighted with gravity.
Emilie leaned her head on her arm, letting out a long, quiet sigh. "And now… it's out of our hands."
Houallet's own sigh followed, heavy with the knowledge of what this meant.
"So… we don't know how long this war will drag on?"
Emilie nodded grimly. "Yeah… and we have no idea if we'll ever be able to neutralize the Leviathan's sister ship—the Nuckelavee."
The war was escalating, spiraling beyond their control. Natlan, now strengthened by the Skywarden, represented a growing, immediate threat. One thing was certain: the Skywarden, once their most potent asset, now in enemy hands, shifted the balance of power irrevocably.
And with the Leviathan-class Nuckelavee looming as part of Natlan's arsenal, the stakes had only risen. Any future operation would demand precision, courage, and no small amount of luck.
The squadron sat quietly, each lost in their own thoughts, aware that the battles to come would be even harsher. The desert wind whispered across the base, carrying with it the faint promise of more war, more danger—and the unyielding resolve of those who remained.