December 8 – 1600 Hours
Musk Reef Operational Zone
The sea was unnervingly still. A heavy silence hung over the waters surrounding Musk Reef—broken only by the faint, rhythmic hum of radar dishes and the soft groan of steel under strain.
The Arkhe Task Force stood motionless across the waves—monumental, quiet, almost spectral.
It was the same fleet Emilie, Mona, and Ayaka had defended nearly two months ago, back when the war still felt distant—something fought over maps and headlines. Now, it had clawed into every corner of their lives. And it showed.
Two supercarriers—Arkhe and Egeria—sat at the formation's center. Their flight decks were largely empty, only the dull gleam of deck lights hinting at life. Four destroyers formed a tight cordon around them, their hulls scarred and streaked with salt. Even at full readiness, the fleet felt abandoned—like a floating ghost town.
On Arkhe's deck, just three aircraft remained.
Two UH-60 Black Hawks, Sea Monster's rescue birds, rested side by side—rotors still, cabins dark. Beyond them, a lone F-14A Tomcat stood silent in the fading light. The sleek fighter bore the markings of VFA-28, the last active combat unit aboard.
Its pilot, Captain Mualani "Tempest", was now the squadron's sole survivor.
Captain Gracie, the first woman in Fontaine's naval history to command a carrier, stood at the forward deck rail. Her long, weathered coat flapped faintly in the sea wind.
Beside her stood Kaeya, silent, his gaze tracing the horizon—blue eyes hard, reflective.
Below, the ship's heartbeat was faint. Deckhands moved slowly, ghostlike in the dying light. Somewhere near the catapult rail, a lone sailor played a soft, mournful tune on a harmonica, the sound barely cutting through the wind. The rest of the crew stayed below decks, avoiding the vast emptiness above.
Gracie exhaled, condensation forming in the cold air.
"This ship might be unharmed," she murmured, voice low but edged with fatigue, "but it feels like she's bleeding out. Every mission we fly, fewer birds come back. Every sortie leaves the sky quieter than before."
She shook her head, the motion weary, bitter.
"Right now, the only pilot left from VFA-28 is Captain Mualani. The squadron leader. The rest…" Her voice trailed off. "Gone... Downed... Lost to this damn war."
Kaeya's reply was steady but heavy.
"No one wants a carrier without aircraft. Defeats the whole purpose. So we sit. And wait."
For a while, the only sound was the soft slap of waves against the hull.
Then Kaeya spoke again, voice quieter now—almost lost to the wind.
"At the end of the Khaenri'ahn War… they gave me an order. Drop a nuclear warhead on one of my own cities."
Gracie turned, eyes narrowing.
"I refused," he continued flatly. "Went AWOL before I could be forced into it. Captain Candace found me. Pulled me in. Took me under her wing."
He chuckled once—dry, humorless.
"Back then, she was called Raven. Sometimes Kid. Strange woman. Fifteen years in service, never promoted past Captain. Didn't care about rank. Just did her job."
He glanced down, flexing his hands as though testing the weight of memory.
"In Khaenri'ah, there's a group called the Khemian. Old-guard loyalists to the fallen regime. They're still around—quiet, patient, dangerous. To them, I'm a traitor. Have been for fifteen years."
His voice softened.
"And for those same fifteen years… Candace protected me. From them—and from myself."
Gracie's expression hardened as she stepped closer, lowering her tone.
"You don't think the Khemian had something to do with President Imena's disappearance, do you?"
Kaeya's gaze flicked toward her.
"I wouldn't rule it out."
Gracie crossed her arms, eyes turning seaward.
"One of our ships—the Capitolium—is a dedicated SIGINT platform. She monitors everything: satellite traffic, encrypted bursts, radio chatter. A few days ago…"
She paused, glancing around before continuing quietly.
"She intercepted a tight-beam burst in old Khaenri'ahn code. We traced it to a relay near northern Natlan."
Kaeya frowned. "And?"
"It referenced a secure holding site," Gracie said. "And it mentioned the President by name."
Kaeya exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair.
"Damn. So that's why you called us here."
"I called you here," Gracie confirmed, "because we're moving again. Quietly. And I need your help to do it."
Kaeya smiled faintly, tapping a finger against his chest.
"I'm no pilot anymore, Gracie. Just a man patching holes in airframes and tuning radar arrays."
But his gaze drifted past her, toward the bow—where four figures stood under the waning sunlight: Emilie, Mona, Ayaka, and Mualani. Their uniforms rippled in the sea wind. Their expressions carried the exhaustion and resolve of those who'd survived too long, seen too much.
Kaeya nodded toward them.
"But them? It's their time now."
Gracie followed his gaze, her expression softening."They're the next generation of aces."
Kaeya turned back to her. "And the aircraft?"
Gracie smiled faintly. "We seized a ship smuggling fighters from North Khaenri'ah to a Natlani airfield. Real quiet operation."
She tilted her head toward the hangar.
"They're already aboard. Four F-14A Tomcats—fully modernized. Upgraded radars, IFF suites, datalinks, locking systems, control architecture. They might still be Tomcats in airframe, but under the skin? They're cutting-edge."
Kaeya nodded slowly, then raised a hand and signaled the group of pilots across the deck. Emilie caught the gesture.
"Looks like we're being called," she said, straightening her jacket.
The four women crossed the deck together, boots ringing against the steel.
Mualani spoke first. "What's happening?"
Kaeya's grin widened. "You've got new aircraft. And not just any—these are enhanced Tomcats. Built for precision, survivability, and performance."
Mona raised a hand. "I get the timing's tight, but why now?"
Gracie stepped forward. "Because we intercepted a credible transmission out of Khaenri'ah. It concerns the President. These aircraft will give you a fighting chance if resistance shows up—which, if we're right, it will."
Mualani arched an eyebrow. "Even mine's getting replaced?"
Gracie smirked. "Yes, Mualani. Even yours. The systems in these birds put them in a different league altogether."
She gestured toward the island superstructure. "Come with me. They're waiting below deck."
The six of them moved together, the wind tugging at their jackets and flight suits. The sunset's amber light washed across the deck, the sea reflecting molten gold as the carrier rumbled beneath their boots.
By the time they descended into the hangar bay, the atmosphere had shifted entirely.
The metallic hum of machinery filled the cavernous space. Floodlights bathed the deck in white and blue, illuminating four aircraft lined up nose-to-nose with perfectionist symmetry.
They were unmistakable.
Four freshly painted F-14A Tomcats stood waiting—jet-black, with sharp streaks of blue and gold chasing along their fuselages like lightning frozen in motion. Their canopies gleamed, control surfaces clean and razor-edged. Every panel, every rivet spoke of precision.
Emilie, Mona, Ayaka, and Mualani slowed to a halt.
"These are yours," Gracie said, stepping up beside them. "F-14A Tomcats—extensively modified."
She nodded toward the jets.
"Upgraded radar, IFF, targeting logic, control response. Full avionics modernization. Single-seat conversion—no RIO required. Everything about them has been optimized for high-G combat, low radar signature, and immediate system feedback."
She folded her arms.
"They'll handle smoother, track faster, and feed you more data than the old models ever could. You'll feel the difference the moment you touch the throttle."
Her tone softened, but her words carried weight.
"Each aircraft's tail code and nose number were carried over. They're yours now—rebuilt, redefined. Your war machines."
Emilie took a slow step forward. The polished black sheen of the nearest Tomcat reflected her silhouette in perfect detail. For a moment, she just stared—then spoke under her breath.
"…Emberhowl."
The word hung in the air, quiet but resonant.
Mona blinked. "What?"
Mualani tilted her head. "Say again?"
Emilie clenched her fist, the leather of her gloves creaking softly.
"We're no longer Wolfsbane," she said evenly. "That name went down with us when we hit the ocean."
She turned to the others, eyes sharp and unwavering.
"From this moment on—we're Emberhowl."
A silence followed. Heavy. Charged.
"The ghosts of Emberhowl," she added, voice low and steady.
Mona folded her arms, giving a faint, knowing smile. "Not official, maybe—but it works."
Ayaka nodded once. "Agreed. It fits us now."
Mualani grinned, placing a hand on the tail of her new jet. "Emberhowl… I'm in."
Kaeya stood behind them, hands in his pockets, the glint in his eyes betraying a flicker of nostalgia. Gracie allowed herself a small smile.
"Well then," she said quietly, "looks like I'm aboard too."
Her tone hardened again.
"We move at dawn. The intel we intercepted is solid. The President's alive—and in hostile hands. These jets will give you the edge you need to bring him home."
She glanced toward the aircraft, her voice steady.
"They were seized en route to Natlan—experimental variants packed with classified tech. Black market avionics, stealth control systems, everything. Whatever they were meant for, they're ours now."
Then, looking back to the pilots—
"Emberhowl may not be on any roster or flight log. But tomorrow… you'll take to the skies as them—together."
The hangar fell silent again. The distant clang of a dropped wrench echoed from somewhere aft, a lonely sound against the hum of the carrier's heart.
The four pilots stood before their new machines—jet-black Tomcats forged in secrecy and reclaimed from shadow.
At dawn, they would rise again.
And with them, Emberhowl would take flight.