November 3rd – 08:30 Hours
Charybdis Air Force Base – Fontaine Mainland
The morning sun was still crawling up the horizon, casting pale gold across the hard concrete of Charybdis Air Force Base. Long shadows stretched from hangars and light towers, the kind of early light that made the base look colder than it really was. The wind rolled in from the coast carrying that unmistakable blend—salt spray off the surf, kerosene fumes hanging faint from the refueling lines, the acrid tang of ozone around the grounded jets.
Seagulls wheeled overhead, squawking lazily. Out here they were the only things airborne that weren't tracked by radar.
Emilie, Mona, Teppei, and Ayaka had arrived well before dawn—flown straight from Petrichor to Fontaine's mainland in their F-14A Tomcats. The birds now sat parked on a remote taxiway at the edge of the field, engines quiet, paint dulled and streaked with oil and powder residue from yesterday's combat. The Tomcats looked used—dusty from the frontlines, salt-stained from carrier ops, every panel telling the truth of where their squadron had been.
They hadn't even been given the dignity of prime hangar space. Instead, ground crews had rolled them off to auxiliary bays, out of the way of Fontaine's spotless home squadrons. To Emilie, it was a reminder: they were outsiders here.
Now, dressed in service blues instead of flight gear, the four walked the long stretch of hangars toward Central Command. Starched collars itched against skin used to flight suits and harnesses. Rank insignias on their shoulders seemed to weigh heavier than usual, like the scrutiny attached to them had physical mass. Their bootheels clicked against the pavement, echoing in steady rhythm.
The war hadn't touched Fontaine's heartland yet. Charybdis was a major base, but it was clean, orderly, untouched. No shell craters in the apron, no smoke plumes in the distance, no smell of scorched wrecks. Just polished glass buildings, fresh paint, and the methodical routines of peacetime aviation. It felt wrong.
Teppei tilted his head, taking it in. "Whole place feels like a damn airshow," he muttered under his breath.
"Keep your voice down," Mona said softly, eyes forward.
The stretch of hangars opened to reveal Fontaine's pride.
Five immaculate F/A-18 Hornets sat lined in front of Hangars One through Five—Nocturne Squadron. Their tails carried Fontaine's blue-and-white wave motif, paint fresh enough to gleam. The jets looked factory-new, even down to the capped pitot tubes and polished canopy glass. Ground crews buffed them with towels like prized cars at a dealership. Not a scratch, not a stain.
A little farther down, under Hangars Six and Seven, rested Tidal Squadron's F-35C Lightning IIs. The stealth fighters crouched low, angles sharp and unforgiving, like predators designed for another era of war entirely. Even parked, they radiated menace. To Teppei, they looked like they were sneering.
He craned his neck, whistling low. "Holy hell… the real deal. Imagine flying one of those. You'd be invisible."
"Dream on," Emilie said, not bothering to look twice. "We're an auxiliary unit. Be grateful they even let us keep our Tomcats without duct tape and chewing gum."
Teppei gasped theatrically. "Blasphemy. The F-14 is a legend. Pure soul in those wings."
Ayaka walked with hands folded neatly behind her back, her stride calm but her eyes sharp. "Legends don't keep you alive unless you master them. But the Tomcat has bite. We've proven that much."
She glanced at Mona. "What about you, Lieutenant Megistus? Regret not being in something newer?"
Mona's mouth tugged in a faint smile, her hair tied back tight, posture textbook-perfect. "No regrets. Tomcats are clever aircraft. Old, underestimated, full of quirks. I think we're a good match."
Teppei shook his head in disbelief. "You're all insane. You can't tell me you wouldn't trade for an F-35 if someone handed you the keys right now. Imagine rolling up in one of those—enemy radar screaming in confusion, then—" he spread his hands wide—"boom, splash one bandit before they even know you're in the sky."
Emilie chuckled. "And then you'd wake up drooling on your bunk."
Mona smirked. "He'd still be bragging about it in his dreams."
They shared a short laugh, but it didn't last. Emilie pulled her phone from her pocket, thumbed the screen. 08:40.
Her smile faded. She slid the phone away. "Alright, fun's over. Time to go. Central Command won't appreciate us being fashionably late."
Teppei mock-saluted. "Yes, ma'am." He fussed with his jacket, exaggerating the straightening of his lapels like he was prepping for a parade.
The four fell into silence as they left the pristine hangars behind. Ahead, the headquarters building loomed—glass-and-concrete, sharp-angled, the kind of structure built to intimidate as much as to house bureaucracy. The closer they got, the quieter the air grew. No laughter of ground crews, no hiss of refueling lines, no gulls. Just the faint whistle of the wind and the sound of their own footsteps.
At the entrance, a pair of armed guards in dark Fontaine blues gave them a professional once-over, then nodded them through the security barrier. The metal detector hummed faintly as they passed.
Inside, the air felt sterile. Walls spotless, lined with framed squadron photos and ribbons of merit. Every floor tile polished. A brass plaque at the first intersection read:
"FONTAINE OFFICE OF CENTRAL COMMAND – CHARYBDIS BRANCH"
The Fontaine flag hung at half-mast in the atrium, its blue-and-white fabric stirring gently in the recycled air. A subtle reminder of mourning. Maybe for the civilians lost yesterday. Maybe for trust itself.
Emilie glanced once at her squadron as they walked deeper inside. No one spoke. The silence was heavy—not the quiet of professionalism, but of suspicion. And it followed them like a shadow down the cold corridors of Central Command.
A high-ranking official appeared at the end of the corridor, his boots striking the tile with heavy, deliberate cadence. The kind of walk that made space for itself without asking. His uniform was immaculate—creased sleeves, brass buttons polished until they caught the fluorescent light, ribbons stacked with quiet authority. His expression was unreadable, ironed flat by years of discipline.
As he approached, Emilie's spine straightened instinctively. Shoulders back, chin up, posture sharpened. She stepped forward before the others, hand extended.
"Captain Emilie," he greeted, voice low but precise, accepting her handshake with a grip that brooked no hesitation. "I wish this meeting were under better circumstances. But your cooperation is no longer a request. It is a requirement."
Emilie nodded once. "Of course, sir. We're ready whenever you are."
The official inclined his head, then turned sharply to a door marked with the Fontaine crest. He pulled it open and gestured inside.
"After you, Captain."
The room beyond was small and sterile—an interview chamber with pale walls, a single table bolted to the floor, and the faint smell of ink, paper, and stale coffee. The heavy door thudded shut behind them, the sound echoing just long enough to make the silence feel oppressive.
Emilie sat with composure, cap resting on her lap. The official took his seat opposite, adjusted his chair, and tapped a military tablet awake. The click of his pen filled the quiet.
"Let's begin," he said, tone clipped. "November 2nd. Operation Retreatalblow."
"Yes, sir."
"Walk me through the objective."
"It was a tactical strike. Orders were to intercept and destroy Natlan transport aircraft retreating from the Tepeacac Rise. Intel assessed they were reinforcing defenses closer to their capital. Wolfsbane Squadron was assigned to Sector Papa Alpha."
His stylus scraped against the glass as he typed. "Acknowledged. Were you—at any time—tasked with attacking an engineering college near that AO?"
Emilie's brows knit tight. "No, sir. Absolutely not."
Her voice stayed steady as she leaned forward slightly. "We engaged transports and escorts per ROE. Then, out of nowhere, an unknown voice cut into allied comms—claimed callsign '5050th Squadron.' Within minutes, Natlan ground chatter spiked. Panic. Reports of a civilian facility under attack. The timing aligned perfectly."
The official stopped typing, eyes narrowing.
"The 5050th?" His voice carried a razor edge. "Captain, there is no such designation. Not in Teyvat United records. Not in Fontaine's rolls. Not anywhere."
"With respect, sir, they exist. We heard them clearly. They transmitted on secure channels, responded to IFF interrogations. This wasn't noise or spoofing."
"You're certain?"
"Yes, sir." Emilie didn't flinch. "We encountered them before. During the Deshret Desert incident. The day the presidential transport, Meka One, was sabotaged. They appeared then, too."
The official leaned in. "What aircraft?"
"F-15S/MTDs," Emilie replied without hesitation. "Forward canards, thrust-vectoring nacelles, modified intakes. I identified them visually at fifteen miles. No mistaking it."
The official's face tightened. "Those airframes are restricted to experimental test units. And black-project aces tied to Khaenri'ah. You're telling me a phantom squadron, flying cutting-edge prototypes, appeared twice, then disappeared without trace?"
"Yes, sir."
He set his pen down, studying her carefully. Then, almost dryly:
"You know your instructors said you were a terrible liar."
Emilie gave the faintest, weary smile. "I'm aware."
The silence stretched. Then he exhaled, leaned back, and tapped his tablet. "Fine. Your testimony will be recorded. Send in Lieutenant Megistus."
Emilie stood, cap in hand. "Understood, sir." She paused briefly at the door, voice lower. "And… thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," he muttered. "Your squadron's under more fire than any missile strike could manage. The ministers are circling."
Emilie slipped out, shutting the door gently behind her. She let her head rest back against the wall for a second, closing her eyes. Her hand ran once through her hair.
"Damn…"
She turned to the others. "Mona. Your turn."
Mona walked past with crisp efficiency, expression unreadable. Inside, the questioning began again—details of mission, comms chatter, the mysterious intruders. She delivered answers clean, precise, consistent with Emilie's account.
Until the official dropped an extra question.
"Lieutenant Megistus… did you observe Captain Emilie deviate from formation? At any point?"
Mona's eyes narrowed. "With all due respect, sir—no. We were at twenty thousand feet, clear skies. Emilie was always inside visual formation box. She never broke pattern. Not once."
Her voice carried steel. The official nodded slowly, but his face betrayed nothing.
Ayaka's interview was the same. Calm, polite, unwavering. "We heard them too," she confirmed. "They called themselves the 5050th Squadron."
The official rubbed at his brow, frustration leaking through. "5050th… doesn't exist in any log, roster, shadow manifest. Nothing. You're all swearing ghosts into being."
Ayaka lowered her eyes, fists clenched white.
Teppei was last. He barely lasted three questions before boiling over.
"Goddammit!" His fist cracked against the table. "We're not making this up! We saw them! We flew with them in our airspace!"
Before the official could respond, the door burst open. A young officer nearly stumbled inside, chest heaving.
"Sir! Multiple bogeys inbound—Natlan strike package, bearing for Marcotte International Airport!"
The official shot to his feet. "Repeat!?"
"Bombers with heavy escort! They'll be over civilian airspace in minutes. This isn't a probe—it's a full-scale strike!"
The official turned on Wolfsbane, his voice cutting like a blade.
"You four—on your feet! Scramble now! Defend the airport and protect those civilians at all costs!"
The words had barely landed before Emilie was already moving. Mona, Ayaka, and Teppei fell in behind, boots hammering the corridor as alarms began to howl across the base. Red strobes lit the halls, klaxons blaring outside.
They burst into the ready room. Crews were already in motion—lockers flung open, technicians handing out flight gear, armorers rushing to arm hardpoints. The roar of the scramble was deafening: shouted orders, hissing hydraulics, the high-pitched whine of turbines spinning to life out on the line.
The four tore off their dress blues, flight suits pulled on in record time. Gloves snapped, zippers yanked. Oxygen masks clipped to harnesses. Every movement was muscle memory, drilled in blood and sweat.
Emilie snapped her helmet visor down with a final click. No more questions. No more sterile walls.
This wasn't politics anymore.
This was war.
Fontaine itself was under attack.