The sirens came first—harsh, wailing alarms that rattled through the reinforced corridors of Charybdis Air Base. Red klaxons strobed above the hangar doors and briefing rooms, bathing the walls in flashes of crimson. For a heartbeat the entire base seemed to freeze, then routine took over. Chaos became muscle memory.
In the locker room, Wolfsbane was already moving. Emilie yanked her flight suit up in one practiced motion, zippers snapping home, Velcro sealing with a slap. Teppei stomped his boots tight and swore under his breath when the laces snagged. Mona was all precision—gloves cinched, survival vest clipped, mask hanging loose on its lanyard. Ayaka's hands shook faintly at the wrist, but her face stayed composed as she sealed her suit.
They were halfway to the hangar when the PA system crackled alive, a voice sharp as a whip:
"Wolfsbane! Front and center!"
Everyone froze mid-stride. Even the veterans of Nocturne Squadron—seasoned killers from the 405th—halted in their prep. Helmets dangling, they turned to see who'd dare interrupt a scramble order.
The answer stepped into the locker room with boots that echoed on tile: the base commander himself.
His eyes swept the room, pinning Emilie and her team. "Poisson City took another strike. We're stretched to the breaking point." His voice was gravel, all clipped authority.
Then he reached into his coat pocket and drew out a battered coin. It gleamed under the fluorescent lights as he rolled it across his knuckles.
"So. Which op do you think you'll take today?" His lip curled. "Not that it's your choice anymore. Not after the shitstorm you dragged us into over Tepeacac."
The coin went airborne, flipping end over end before slamming into the tile. It spun violently, ringing like brass against glass until it wobbled, slowed… and dropped flat.
Heads.
The commander bent, scooped it up, then straightened to his full height. His gaze locked on Emilie.
"Marcotte International. That's yours."
His tone went from cold to ice. "Natlan aircraft are inbound. Retaliation strike—civilians this time. Fontaine's airports are now fair game because someone, somewhere, made it open season."
He stepped in close, close enough that Emilie could smell the faint tang of tobacco on his coat. "Passengers are being evacuated as we speak. You intercept, you engage, and you put every one of those bastards into the dirt before they can hit that field. Clear?"
No one dared breathe.
"Then get moving." He stepped aside, jaw clenched like stone.
Before they could leave, one of Nocturne's younger pilots edged forward—helmet tucked under his arm, his expression tight but curious. His TAC name patch read Ritesword.
"Ma'am?" His eyes flicked between Emilie and the commander. "What's his problem with you guys?"
Emilie gave a weary exhale, running a gloved hand through her bangs. "Hell if I know. We didn't hit that college. We were just in the area. That's it."
Ritesword nodded slowly, lips pressed thin. "Watch your six out there, Wolfsbane."
Emilie gave him the faintest smirk. "You too, kid."
Helmets in hand, Wolfsbane sprinted.
Outside, the tarmac was alive with floodlit fury. Crew chiefs waved wands in arcs of orange light, shouting over the scream of already-spooling engines. Fuel trucks peeled away from fighters in a haze of exhaust. Munitions crews leapt clear as weapons bay doors slammed shut.
Tidal Squadron's F/A-18Cs were already racing down Runway 30, burners streaking like comets.
Emilie climbed her Tomcat's ladder two rungs at a time and dropped into the cockpit. The familiar smell hit her immediately: jet fuel, machine oil, leather worn thin from countless flights. She strapped in, her hands moving on autopilot.
Battery on. Avionics live.
"Right engine start." The TF30 behind her spooled up with a deep whine that swelled into a banshee howl.
Helmet locked. O2 mask clipped.
The canopy hissed down and sealed with a metallic clack.
"Left engine start." The second TF30 shrieked awake, gauges flicking into the green.
Ground crew flashed her a thumbs-up, dragging away air carts and power cables. Emilie returned the signal, her thumb crisp against her glove.
"Brakes off. Taxi."
The Tomcat lurched forward, heavy and eager, rolling onto the floodlit taxiway. Teppei, Mona, and Ayaka's F-14As fell in behind her, exhaust cones glowing orange.
Emilie swung onto Runway 30, the strip ahead lit like daylight under rows of sodium lamps.
"Wolfsbane, Tower. Immediate departure cleared. Cancel altitude restrictions. Priority intercept. Get your asses airborne. Godspeed."
Emilie keyed her mic, steady. "Wolfsbane copies. Rolling."
Throttles slammed forward. Afterburners roared to life, twin pillars of fire shoving her back into her seat. The Tomcat leapt forward, nose wheel bouncing against the asphalt as speed built.
140 knots.
160.
170.
Stick eased back. Nose up. Wheels off.
The Tomcat lifted, wings carving the night sky as the gear snapped into the fuselage. She pitched into a steep climb, the city lights of Charybdis shrinking behind her.
Her HUD painted three friendly tags sliding into formation—Mona tight on her wing, Teppei sweeping wide right, Ayaka anchoring the rear.
Wolfsbane Squadron was airborne.
West, toward Marcotte.
Wolfsbane Squadron cut westward in a tight V, contrails feathering out against the high cirrus above Fontaine. Four Tomcats punched through cloud bands, the thunder of their TF30s rolling over the countryside below. Altitude 2000. Speed edging just under the transonic wall—fast enough to intercept, not so fast as to rattle windows over the city neighborhoods they streaked past.
Marcotte was out there, and they weren't about to let it fall.
They hit the AO in under two minutes, descending through patchy cumulus into a sky already growing crowded. Emilie's radar bloomed with contacts—fast movers inbound, closing on the air corridors over the capital.
Teppei's voice cracked in over squadron net.
"Ah, man! Still can't believe we got coin-tossed into this! Not funny!"
"Eyes forward, Herring," Emilie snapped. Her HUD painted the first set of blips breaking in from the north.
Twin Tomcats—F-14Bs—sliced out of the clouds at their eleven o'clock.
"Wolfsbane, engage!"
She firewalled the throttles, afterburners punching her seat back as the Tomcat surged. Her squad peeled off in quick succession, voices sharp over the net:
"Wilco—Starseer engaging."
"Herring engaging!"
"Soumetsu engaging."
Emilie rolled right, HUD tone stabilizing. The seeker head locked, a single Tomcat filling her reticle.
The enemy broke high, climbing vertical. Emilie yanked back hard, her F-14 groaning under the Gs. The AoA tape on her HUD flickered into the red—TF30s straining, right on the edge of compressor stall. She eased just enough to keep the engines lit.
Lock tone. Solid.
"Fox Two, Fox Two!"
Twin AIM-9Ms leapt from her rails, white smoke carving skyward. She nosed over into an aileron roll, bleeding altitude fast. Seconds later—impact. A blossom of fire ripped through the cloud deck, jagged shrapnel trailing down toward the farmland below.
"Splash one, Raven."
She scanned low. The second F-14B was weaving for the civilian corridors, using passenger traffic as cover.
Marcotte Tower cut in, urgency snapping like static:
"Red Alert! All departures and arrivals cancel immediately! All airborne commercial flights divert and hold clear of Marcotte airspace!"
Civilian chatter broke through the ATC frequency—panicked, clipped.
"This is Air Fontania 1013, we just had a high-speed aircraft blast past us—less than 600 yards! What the hell's going on out here?!"
Emilie flashed past a 737, her shockwave buffeting its fuselage. She flipped her weapons selector, HUD shifting to her eight-missile active radar loadout. Crosshairs locked—one, two beeps.
"Fox Three!"
An AIM-120 screamed free. The hostile Tomcat tried to pull vertical, flare blooming, but too slow—the missile speared the cockpit in a flash, the jet disintegrating midair. No chute, no hope.
"Raven, splash two."
Tower came back, directing panicked civvies.
"Fontania 1013, allied fighters are engaging hostiles over Marcotte. Comply with TCAS advisories immediately. Repeat—follow collision avoidance protocols!"
The airliner's reply carried disbelief.
"Allied fighters? Here? I thought the front was still hundreds of miles away…"
A thunderclap rolled from the east. Emilie glanced across and caught a column of fire trailing into the riverbank—Mona's kill.
"Starseer bagged a hostile. One F-16 down."
The tactical net lit with new orders.
"Tidal Squadron, Nocturne Squadron, follow Raven's lead. Wolfsbane One is flight lead for this intercept."
Lynette's voice—Nocturne Two, Ritesword—chimed sharp in her headset.
"Copy that. Raven, Nocturne is on your wing. What's the play?"
Emilie's lips curled despite the chaos. "Right on time. All units—engage at will. Keep the airspace clear of civvies. Weapons free."
Teppei laughed, voice full of mock tears.
"Oh, look at that teamwork! I'm getting emotional already."
Ayaka's tone cut across his.
"Wait—contacts on the east apron! Multiple Mirage 2000s rolling for departure!"
Tower clarified fast, stress in the controller's tone.
"Those are Capital Air Defense Squadron! Launching for Poisson City, neutralizer dispersal! Do not engage friendlies!"
Fontaine Defense Command followed with clipped authority.
"Wolfsbane, Tidal, Nocturne—you defend Marcotte International. Defense Squadron is outbound for Poisson. Confirm."
"Copy," Emilie said, eyes snapping back to her radar.
Four new blips. Fast. Hostile.
"Bandits inbound, Hornets—bearing 210, closing."
She toggled back to her active radar missiles, HUD painting multiple hard locks.
Tone. Three solid.
"Fox Three, Fox Three!"
Three AIM-120s kicked off the rails, contrails stabbing straight into the hostile formation. A second later the sky lit in triple blossoms, F/A-18s shredding apart midair, debris tumbling toward the northern fields.
Ayaka's breath cracked in her mic. "D-damn…"
"Guess the other side of that coin flip was just as ugly, huh?" Teppei muttered.
"Yeah," Emilie said grimly. "No good outcomes today."
Then Ayaka's voice spiked, panicked.
"New radar hits—right over the airport!"
Teppei swept his display.
"Where? Air? Ground? Overwater? Talk to me, Soumetsu!"
Marcotte Tower's voice came back, urgent, demanding.
"Unidentified transports at Freight Apron North! Aircraft on the ground, state callsigns and squadron numbers immediately!"
Command cut across, harsh.
"Negative authorization. No friendly transports were cleared to civilian airfields. Repeat—no transports authorized for Marcotte."
Marcotte International lit up like a warzone in seconds.
"Tower to all units! Armored vehicles are disembarking from those transports—tanks, APCs—hostiles on the ground!"
The controller's voice broke into a yell:
"Shit! They're opening fire on the terminal! Repeat—enemy ground forces opening fire inside Fontaine airspace!"
Emilie's cockpit vibrated as she shoved her throttles into full afterburner. Twin TF30s howled behind her, the Tomcat surging downward. She bit down hard on her oxygen mask mic.
"Fuck."
Teppei's panicked voice filled her headset.
"Hey Emilie! Did you—did you hear that?!"
"YES, I heard it, Herring!" she snapped, banking hard into a shallow dive.
"This is the middle of Fontaine! Broad daylight! How the hell are they pulling this shit here!?" Teppei barked back.
No time for speculation. Emilie's HUD framed the first target—a lumbering C-5 Galaxy on the north cargo apron, still lowering its nose ramp while olive drab armor clattered onto the tarmac.
Weapon selector—Sidewinders. Tone stabilized.
"Fox Two, Fox Two!"
Twin AIM-9Ms screamed off her rails, contrails streaking low across the apron. Both slammed into the C-5's midsection.
The transport erupted like a ruptured fuel tank. Its nose sheared sideways, collapsing onto the apron as an inferno engulfed its fuselage. Vehicles half-rolled down the ramp were vaporized instantly.
Emilie pulled up hard, wings flexing under the Gs as she tore through the boiling smoke cloud. Alarms blinked across her HUD from the thermal spike, but she ignored them, rolling right to reset for another pass.
Mona dropped in next, radar tagging a convoy spilling down the taxiways—tanks, APCs, and at least one radar-guided SAM on a tracked chassis.
"Multiple movers—convoy, bearing 060!"
Tone. Lock.
"Fox Two, Fox Two!"
Her missiles knifed into the lead armor. Two tanks lifted off the ground, fireballs chewing through their turrets. Shrapnel shredded the following APC.
She rolled inverted, pulled nose-down, switched to guns.
BRRRRT!
Her Vulcan spat a stream of 20mm, tracers tearing into the convoy. One APC lit up, its troop hatch flying off in flames. The nearby SAM launcher cooked off, sending its own missiles screaming skyward unguided in a chain reaction.
Mona rolled out, wings flicking through smoke and fire. "Convoy neutralized!"
A new blast thudded across the field. Emilie's second Sidewinder stitched through another C-5, the transport splitting apart in a shower of burning debris.
"Raven, splash another transport!"
Above, Ayaka's voice cut in—sharp but uneasy.
"Soumetsu has a Tornado! Splash one hostile!"
A Panavia Tornado cratered into the taxiway in a detonation that shook the tower, but Ayaka didn't sound victorious.
"Wait… this airport was fine when we passed earlier! They weren't targeting flights at all…"
Emilie's gut clenched. She keyed up on squadron net.
"You're right. Their mission was never the terminal—they're here to seize Marcotte. Forward base of operations. Push straight into Fontaine's mainland from inside the capital."
Meanwhile, Teppei was locked in a knife fight. A Hornet clung to his six like glue, countering every roll and break. The two jets wove through the sky, vapor streaming off their wingtips. Teppei's grunts filled the channel as the Gs piled on.
"Argh—dammit! This F-18's on my ass, won't let go!"
"Break right, Herring! Disengage, I'll take him!" Emilie barked.
"Copy, disengaging!" Teppei rolled into a hard right break. The Hornet countered left, both fighters splitting wide.
Radar sweep. Merge imminent.
Teppei caught the glint of the Hornet swinging back toward him. Sweat stung his eyes. He snapped the selector to GUNS.
He held. Waited for the pipper.
"Guns, guns!"
The Vulcan thundered. Tracers lanced straight through the canopy. The Hornet jerked once, then nosed over into a flat spiral. Pilot killed instantly. It slammed into the riverbank in a fireball that shook the runways.
Emilie's voice snapped back. "Nice kill, Herring!"
"Yaaahooo! Thanks, Captain!" Teppei whooped, rolling inverted in celebration before leveling out.
Ayaka's voice cut in next, calm but urgent.
"Fox Two, Fox Two!"
Her Tomcat peeled away as two AIM-9s streaked into the last C-5. The giant transport sheared apart mid-fuselage, its cockpit collapsing sideways on the apron.
"Target hit. Last transport destroyed!"
For a heartbeat, the net went quiet, the chaos muted by the roar of afterburners and distant crack of exploding fuel. Then Mona's voice filtered through—low, shaken.
"…Why is Natlan doing this? Is it just retaliation for that college? For what they think we did?"
Emilie's grip tightened on the stick. Her tone was steel.
"No. Not us. This is the 5050th Squadron's work. A frame job. And now they're using it as justification for open war in Fontaine's heartland."
The airwaves suddenly shifted—civilian frequency cutting through the chaos.
"Fontania 1013, go around! You are not cleared to land, repeat, go around immediately!"
The reply came back ragged, the voice of a desperate airline captain.
"Negative! We're on fumes here—we can't go around! We need to land now!"
Tower snapped, voice hard with disbelief.
"Are you insane? This is an active warzone! Cargo terminal's a burning crater, runways are chewed to hell! If you try to put down here, you'll be landing in shell holes and wreckage!"
Inside her cockpit, Mona groaned audibly.
"Ugh… if that's their excuse, they're really gonna stoop this low? Why are people always so damn stupid?"
Emilie let out a bitter breath, sweat still damp under her helmet liner.
"Reminds me of that pilot back in the rebellion war. Took a SAM hit, told her wingman to ditch their crippled fighter in the middle of a stadium. Some folks just… lose the plot under pressure."
Before anyone could answer, Emilie's RWR went berserk.
LOCK WARNING.
Shrill tones screamed in her headset.
"Shit—missile lock!"
She yanked her stick back, hauling the Tomcat into a steep vertical climb. The horizon dropped away as the F-14 clawed skyward, speed bleeding fast. The G-forces punched her chest and thighs, straining her harness. The jet buffeted violently, AoA needle dancing red.
"Come on, girl, hold it—"
She jammed in left rudder, split the throttles, and yanked the stick over. The Tomcat shuddered at the edge of a stall, then whipped sideways in a brutal flat-yaw maneuver.
The missile streaked past her canopy, a white contrail scything by just meters off her nose.
Beep-beep-beep— the lock tone died.
Emilie exhaled hard through clenched teeth, chest heaving. "Missile evaded."
But before relief settled, a thunderclap filled the sky behind her—one of the enemy birds erupted in a rolling fireball.
A Hornet dove past the explosion, silhouetted in the blaze.
"Raven, this is Ritesword—got your six!" Lynette's voice cut sharp over comms, her tone fierce.
Emilie managed a breathless laugh. "Copy that, Ritesword. Thanks for the save."
But her reprieve was short-lived. Warning lights flared across her console—amber, red, flashing in sequence. The Tomcat jolted under her boots.
"What the hell—!?"
Mona's voice came in tight, urgent.
"Raven, your starboard engine's belching fire! I see it—right engine's gone!"
Emilie's gut dropped. She snapped her eyes to the engine instruments—RPM spiking, nozzle temp in the red, fuel flow zero.
"Compressor stall!" she barked.
Her right TF30 had flamed out. The Tomcat yawed hard, fighting asymmetric thrust. She jammed in opposite rudder, easing her left throttle back to keep the bird balanced.
"Stay with me, girl—"
She reached down, cutting fuel flow on the dead engine. The turbine wound down to silence, cockpit rattling with residual vibration.
Before panic could claw in, Command's voice crackled into every headset.
"This is Central Command—enemy ground and air forces neutralized. Control Tower, confirm?"
A pause. Then the tower came back, ragged but certain.
"Tower here—we are clear. Repeat, Marcotte is secure. Wolfsbane and 405th, damn fine work."
"Copy," Emilie muttered, half to herself, as she got to work. She toggled the restart switch for the right engine, thumb pressing down hard on the guarded button.
Whine. Spool. The turbine coughed to life, numbers climbing on her gauges. She gently advanced the right throttle, watching EGT rise.
Ignition. A belch of smoke. Then a clean roar.
The TF30 caught, stabilizing at idle. She eased both throttles together, feeling the Tomcat settle back into balance.
She let out a shaky laugh. "Engine restart successful. I'm back in business."
Her wingmates closed up around her. Off her starboard, Mona eased in, helmet turning as she rapped her knuckles against Emilie's canopy with a gloved fist.
"Hey Emilie—need a new pair of pants?"
Emilie chuckled, voice still trembling.
"Sorta. Just another reminder our birds are a little… temperamental."
Teppei's voice boomed in next.
"Couldn't agree more! If both my engines flamed out, I'd just give in!"
Mona snorted. "No, Teppei—you eject. That's what the handle's for, dumbass."
Their laughter cut through the static, the kind of banter that came only after surviving another brush with death.
Four battered Tomcats arced east, afterburners cool, smoke trails fading behind them. The silhouette of Marcotte International burned on the horizon, black columns rising where the enemy's plan had collapsed.
Wolfsbane Squadron flew home, their formation tight and silent against the amber sky.
Minutes Later – Charybdis Air Force Base
Twilight bled across the horizon, the last light of day spilling in orange and violet over Charybdis Air Force Base. The runways shimmered with residual heat, dotted by fuel trucks and tractors snaking in every direction.
The flight line was pandemonium. Crews sprinted under the wail of APUs, marshallers flared wands frantically, and the metallic groan of tow bars echoed against hardened shelters. The usual cadence of launch and recovery was gone—this was raw triage, the base trying to catch its breath after a battle that had come far too close to home.
At the center of it all sat Wolfsbane Squadron's Tomcats, soot-streaked and scarred. Paint blistered on nacelles, scorched residue trailing from exhaust nozzles, even small pockmarks across their fuselages where shrapnel had chewed metal. They looked less like fighters and more like survivors dragged back from the abyss.
Captain Emilie popped her canopy and dropped down the ladder. Her boots hit the concrete with a tired thud, knees jarring from hours spent under crushing G. The heat radiating off her jet's skin clung to her flight suit, the stink of burned JP-5 hanging thick in the humid evening air.
She tugged her helmet free, running a hand across her damp bangs.
"Man… I don't ever want to go through that shit again."
Her voice carried that mix of relief and exhaustion that only came after a sortie where survival felt like a coin toss.
Moments later Mona, Teppei, and Ayaka trudged up beside her, visors unlatched, suits darkened with sweat and smoke residue. Their boots scuffed the tarmac in slow, uneven rhythm.
Mona let out a long sigh, pulling her oxygen mask loose.
"No kidding. A compressor stall that low? You're lucky you didn't end up punching out. Good thing Ritesword rolled in when she did."
Emilie gave a weary nod, eyes drifting toward the line of aircraft still taxiing in, their canopies glinting with the last light.
"Yeah… I owe her for that. Big time."
As if on cue, a pilot in Nocturne Squadron colors approached from the shadows between parked Hornets. Her flight suit still bore fresh soot stains, helmet tucked under one arm, stride hesitant but steady. The violet insignia of Fontaine stood out sharp on her sleeve.
"Captain Emilie?" she asked, her voice tentative but carrying over the din of idling turbines.
Emilie turned, surprised, then offered a small nod.
"Yeah, that's me."
The young woman hesitated, shifting her helmet against her hip. "I just… wanted to say—I'm glad to see you made it back." Her eyes flicked toward Mona, Teppei, and Ayaka, then settled back on Emilie.
Emilie couldn't help a short laugh, the tension bleeding out of her shoulders.
"I should be the one saying something."
She stepped forward and extended her hand, glove outstretched.
"Thanks for saving my ass up there."
The pilot's eyes widened a fraction. For a heartbeat she froze, then grasped Emilie's hand firmly—nervous but proud.
"You're… you're welcome, Captain."
Emilie grinned, holding her gaze.
"Name?"
The young woman straightened instantly, muscle memory kicking in.
"Second Lieutenant Lynette Snezhevna, Fontaine Air Force. Callsign: Ritesword."
Emilie gave her a firm nod. "Then thank you, Ritesword. Couldn't have picked a better moment to drop in."
Lynette managed the faintest smile before stepping back, still stiff with formality.
With nothing else needing to be said, Wolfsbane and Ritesword fell into step, walking across the tarmac together. The sea breeze carried the tang of salt and jet exhaust as they passed lines of grounded aircraft, canopies catching the last amber light. In the distance, the ocean mirrored the fading sun—a momentary calm after the storm.
Charybdis AFB – Briefing Room
The debriefing room was shoulder-to-shoulder, a press of flight suits, squadron patches, and exhausted faces. Pilots leaned against walls, intel officers sat with notepads balanced on their knees, and the stale hum of the overhead projector filled the silence. On the screen, a topographical map of coastal Fontaine flickered, dotted with radar tracks and red icons marking the wreckage fields.
The base commander stood at the front, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone. He scanned the room once, then spoke, his tone calm but edged with steel.
"First off—good work. Every one of you who went up today brought something back. That was a hard mission, and you stopped an enemy incursion in the middle of Fontaine's capital district."
He pointed to the map. Red X's stamped Marcotte International.
"The transports were destroyed before they could establish a foothold. The armor they deployed is ash. And their attempt to turn Marcotte into a forward operating base is over before it began."
A ripple passed through the room—some pilots exhaled in relief, others shifted uneasily, still wound tight.
The commander continued.
"Nocturne and Tidal Squadrons executed a clean intercept on the follow-on strike packages, pushing them back before they could reach urban airspace. Casualty reports from the capital are zero. That's a win in my book."
He flipped to a new chart, his tone sharpening. The atmosphere shifted instantly.
"But that brings us to the bigger questions. How the hell did they get in? Why Marcotte? And why now?"
Silence. The only sounds were the faint buzz of the projector fan and the scuff of boots on tile.
"The investigation is active," he said flatly. "All squadrons are to remain at readiness until we have answers. No assumptions. No complacency."
The slide changed again—an aerial still of Poisson. Columns of mist lingered above the city, ringed by hazmat crews.
"The chemical attack at Poisson has been contained. Neutralizers were deployed successfully. No civilian fatalities." His jaw tightened. "The perpetrators have been confirmed as Natlan Special Forces. Their plan was to link up with the Marcotte incursion once the airport was secure."
The room stirred—a few pilots whispered sharply, others cursed under their breath.
The commander's voice rose. "These weren't rogue actors. This was coordinated. Organized. Somebody green-lit this op, and they expected it to succeed."
His gaze swept the room, letting the weight of his words land.
"You all did your part today. Now you get some rest. Tomorrow, we'll be ready for whatever comes next."
He shifted his attention to Wolfsbane, his tone softening a fraction.
"Wolfsbane Squadron—you're returning to Petrichor tomorrow morning. You've earned the downtime. Dismissed."
The sound of scraping chairs and clattering boots filled the room as crews filed out, voices low, the tension of unanswered questions trailing them into the night.
Runway 30 – Shoreline
Hours later, when the noise of the debrief had faded and the flight line had gone quiet, Wolfsbane found themselves drawn to the edge of the base. Runway 30 stretched toward the ocean, ending in a jagged line of rocks where the waves struck in a steady, rhythmic crash.
The twilight had deepened to indigo. Navigation lights from patrol craft glimmered faintly across the horizon, while the breeze carried the sharp tang of salt and jet fuel.
The four pilots walked slowly along the shoreline, helmets dangling at their sides, their voices subdued.
Emilie broke the silence first, her eyes fixed on the black water.
"Something's off. Way off."
Teppei kicked at a pebble, sending it clattering into the surf.
"No kidding. Transports sneaking into Fontaine airspace in broad daylight? That's not bad luck—that's either someone feeding them intel or someone looking the other way."
Mona walked with her hands folded behind her back, gaze thoughtful. "I've got the same feeling. Like we're only seeing the surface. Whatever this is… it runs deeper."
Ayaka tilted her head toward her. "Deeper how?"
Mona brushed a lock of hair from her eyes, expression tightening. "I can't put it into words. Just… big. Like the opening move in a much larger game."
Teppei scowled, his voice uncharacteristically grim. "Natlan's moving on every front. Land, air, covert ops… and they're supposed to be allies. Doesn't add up."
Emilie folded her arms, her profile lit by the faint red glow of the distant runway lights. "No, it doesn't. And I don't think Natlan's the only hand at play. Somebody wanted today to spark something bigger." She turned to them, her tone hardening. "This war isn't moving on its own. Someone's pulling strings."
For a long moment, no one spoke. Only the sea answered, waves hammering the rocks with quiet, relentless force—steady, inevitable, as if it too was keeping secrets.