November 27
Everwinter Air Force Base — 0500 Hours
The airfield was alive with activity—an orchestrated storm of motion, noise, and precision. The flight line buzzed like a steel hive. Fuel trucks snaked between rows of combat-ready aircraft, hissing as pressurized hoses pumped JP-8 into thirsty engines. Dozens of F-15E Strike Eagles, F-15Js, Dassault Rafale's, F-15EX's, F-16 Fighting Falcon's and Eurofighter Typhoon's stood proudly under the predawn sky, their canopies fogging with condensation as the ground crews made final checks. Hydraulic jacks raised weapons pylons just long enough for ordnance teams to mount JDAMs, LGBs, and AIM-120s with meticulous care.
Every clank of metal, every shouted call, every turbine whine formed part of a unified, synchronized symphony: the sound of war engines gearing up for the first counter-offensive of the Jarilo campaign.
Behind the hangars, under the glow of floodlights, stood the men and women who would fly those war machines. Rows upon rows of flight suits, helmet bags slung at their sides, and eyes hard with focus. Veterans, rookies, ace pilots—every one of them knew the importance of today. This wasn't a routine sortie. This was it.
The beginning of the push to retake their homeland.
One air base. One village. One bloodstained field at a time.
At the front of the assembled pilots, just beneath a large projection screen bearing the island's topography, stood Commander Barrie, arms crossed, face grim but focused. Bronya stood beside him, flanked by the Teyvat Strategic Strike Group and Silvermane Team. Behind them, dozens of pilots from the Jarilo Air Force filled the hangar, helmets tucked under arms, hanging on every word about to be spoken.
Barrie stepped forward and cleared his throat, voice cutting through the low murmur like a razor.
"Alright, listen up."
He tapped a control pad. The screen flicked to a live tactical overlay.
"This mission marks the official start of our counteroffensive into the mainland. After nearly a month of being pinned down on Everwinter Island, we're finally going on the goddamn offensive."
He nodded toward the map.
"The enemy's air presence has been severely weakened thanks to last week's aerial interception. That gave us the breathing room we needed. Now it's time to hit back—and hard."
"This is a multi-phase operation. We're liberating Vagrant Field Air Force Base, and we're doing it with three coordinated operations."
He pointed to three highlighted sectors on the map, each blinking red with markers.
"Operation A: Silvermane Team and Gulliver Squadron will strike the air defense perimeter and secure the area west of the base. Suppression and strike packages—you're clearing the skies and hammering any remaining SAMs, anti-air artillery, and defensive structures."
"Operation B: Primordial Squadron and Coal Busters Battalion will push into the village sector south of the field. Expect entrenched infantry, IFVs, and mobile AA platforms. Watch your altitudes and stay coordinated."
"Operation C: Waltz Squadron will fly top cover for the Grate Mine Battalion and execute a SEAD and CAS run against the rebel armored division dug in along the southern highway. It's a tough nut to crack, but with Waltz in the air, we'll turn their tanks into scrap."
He let that sink in, scanning the crowd.
"If your assigned operation wraps up, don't sit pretty—redirect and support the others. Prioritize allied support, keep your ROE tight, and for the love of hell, don't try to play lone wolf. We win this by watching each other's backs."
A chorus of replies followed:
"Understood."
"Wilco."
"Copy that, sir."
"Let's fucking go."
Barrie nodded once, then turned to Bronya.
"Captain Rand. Anything to add?"
Bronya stepped forward, her silver eyes scanning the pilots in front of her—her team. Her voice was calm but firm, grounded in steel and years of military discipline.
"This is it. The campaign to take back Belobog begins today."
Her eyes narrowed.
"We're not just flying sorties anymore. Every mission we take from here on out builds toward one goal: Operation Free Belobog. And I want all of you there when that day comes. The more of us who make it... the more of us get to see home again."
She raised a fist.
"We will not let these traitorous bastards steal our nation from us."
"RIGHT!"
The hangar echoed with raised fists and defiant voices.
Bronya allowed herself a thin smile, then pulled her helmet from under her arm.
"Pilots, to your birds. It's time to take back our skies."
The formation dispersed like clockwork, each pilot peeling off toward their squadron aircraft with practiced efficiency.
Furina, Jean, Miyabi, Yanagi, Luka, Seele, and Pela remained, joining Bronya as she cinched down her flight harness one last time.
Furina crossed her arms, one brow raised.
"Damn, Bronya. Didn't think you had that kind of speech in you."
Bronya chuckled as she pulled the strap tight.
"Comes with the bloodline. Being the daughter of Jarilo's Supreme Leader teaches you how to rally a crowd."
Jean blinked.
"Wait... you're Cocolia Rand's daughter?"
Bronya nodded once.
"Yes. Bronya Rand. Twenty-three years old. Pilot of the Jarilo Air Force for two years. Next in line to lead—if the time ever comes."
Furina let out a low whistle.
"Shit... when I was twenty-three, I was still trying to impress my instructors."
She smirked.
"But hell, saying that doesn't make me thirteen years younger."
Pela tilted her head.
"You're thirty-six, Furina?"
Furina nodded proudly.
"Yep. Most pilots our age switch over to airline work or logistics. Me? I'm staying in the fight until my hands shake too much to hold the stick."
Jean chuckled.
"If that's the case, I must be approaching antique status."
Furina shot her a wink.
"Long as you're still flying, you're not old."
Bronya snapped her chin strap into place and gestured toward the runway.
"Enough chit-chat. Let's get to our planes."
"Right."
The eight pilots said nothing more as they broke away from the briefing area, the weight of what lay ahead shared in silent understanding. Each of them headed toward their aircraft, the sound of their boots on the tarmac drowned out by the whine of idling jet engines, the steady hum of the Everwinter Air Force Base coming to life like a great steel beast awakening for war.
Bronya reached her F-15E Strike Eagle—a sleek, twin-engine warhorse dressed in the grey of Jarilo's 9th Tactical Fighter Squadron. Her jet's Jet Fuel Starter had already been powered up by the crew, the faint scream of the JFS humming underneath the rising pulse of readiness.
She climbed the ladder with practiced ease, one gloved hand gripping the side rail, the other already flipping her visor down as she settled herself into the ejection seat. With a smooth motion, she buckled her shoulder harness, securing the five-point harness with an audible click-click-click. She tugged at the tightening straps across her chest and lap, cinching herself into the cockpit as if preparing to merge with the machine itself.
A member of the ground crew approached, pulled the ladder away, then stepped back and gave her a sharp thumbs-up paired with a salute. Bronya returned the gesture, then reached over and pulled the JFS lever firmly.
A deep mechanical whine surged through the airframe. The right engine spooled to life with a distinct turbine shriek, the pitch rising in intensity as she nudged the throttle from cutoff to idle. The F100-PW-220 roared to a stabilized hum, pressure building.
She gave the lever a second tug—left engine.
With a howl like some ancient beast roused from slumber, the second engine surged to life. Both turbines were now online, spitting heat and ready to burn holes through the sky.
She slid the canopy lever forward. With a sharp hiss and a satisfying thunk, the armored canopy lowered and sealed her in. The world outside was now a hazy bubble of refracted light, jet fuel, and thunder.
Bronya flicked the JFS switch to OFF, systems now fully transferred to the twin engines. She looked out over the left side of her canopy where a final thumbs-up and salute awaited her from the crew chief. She acknowledged with a nod and pulled her oxygen mask over her face, the hiss of the regulator engaging mixing with her own calm breathing.
Then she keyed her radio.
"All allied aircraft, check-in. Call sign Guardian. How copy?"
The responses came swift and steady over the net.
"Loud and clear, Guardian."
"Read you 10/10."
"We can hear you, boss."
Jean's voice followed next, calm and composed.
"Bronya, as flight lead of the main squadron, you're designated lead for the entire allied air formation. Your commands are mission priority—just say the word."
Bronya gave a sharp nod in her cockpit. "Wilco, Dandelion."
She flipped off the parking brake, her hand steady as she pushed the throttles to taxi power. The Strike Eagle began to roll forward smoothly, its wheels rumbling over the tarmac as it turned right, weaving between hangars and parked fuel trucks.
As she taxied out, she passed rows of fighters in shimmering formation—F-16 Fighting Falcon's, F-15EX's, Rafale's, Typhoons, and the F-15Js of the Teyvat Special Operations Unit. Jet nozzles shimmered in the morning light, heat distortion warping the air like water.
Behind her followed her team: Seele, Pela, and Luka—all in their own F-15E Strike Eagles, canopies down, engines lit, ready.
One by one, allied aircraft began to roll out from their revetments—fighters from the Strategic Strike Group, Special Operations, and Jarilian Air Force units from across the island. Each plane was a piece in the great machine of liberation now stirring to life.
The four Strike Eagles of Silvermane Team taxied onto the runway and lined up into takeoff formation.
Bronya in the lead.
Seele and Pela tucked in tight behind her wings, Luka in trail.
Then the tower's voice broke through the headset with measured authority.
"Silvermane Team, you are cleared for takeoff. Good hunting."
Bronya nodded sharply. "Roger that."
She slid the throttles forward—past military power, into full afterburner.
Twin pillars of flame erupted from the Strike Eagle's exhaust nozzles.
The jet surged forward, gathering speed with terrifying urgency.
130 knots.
150.
180.
By 182 knots, Bronya eased back on the stick. The nose lifted, and the rumble of the runway faded as the Eagle leapt skyward, wheels clawing into the air.
Gear up.
She reached out and pulled the gear lever up. The wheels folded in, and the gear doors slammed shut beneath her.
"Up and locked," she confirmed to herself.
Behind her, Seele's Strike Eagle followed, then Pela's, and finally Luka's—all of them soaring skyward, engines trailing violet fire.
And then—
They came.
One after another, the sky filled with wings.
A massive wave of allied aircraft—over fifty fighters—raced down the runway, rising like thunder into the morning sky.
From the snowy peaks of northern Everwinter to the sprawling coastline of the Vagrant River, the roar of turbines echoed across the land.
This was not just a sortie.
This was the beginning of the counteroffensive.
They were taking the fight to the enemy—taking it one stronghold at a time.
And they weren't coming back empty-handed.
One Hour and Thirty Minutes Later…
Over fifty aircraft streaked low across the treetops at just 1,300 feet, hugging the terrain to avoid radar detection. The afternoon sun dipped westward, casting long, amber shadows over the wide expanse of Vagrant Fields. Their speed was blistering—over 700 knots—as the joint operation entered its final approach phase.
Silvermane and Gulliver Squadrons advanced from the south, cutting across the hills like a steel tidal wave.
Waltz Squadron swept in from the north, sharp and poised like a scalpel.
Primordial Squadron surged in from the east, their engines snarling as they powered through the valleys.
The battlefield awaited them—quiet, but not for long.
Then, the AWACS—call sign Talisman—broke radio silence.
"Talisman to all forces, listen in closely!"
"We're about to engage enemy forces across the river from multiple vectors. Maintain formation integrity and execute by the book."
Almost immediately, ground chatter crackled in.
"This is Coal Busters! We're locking down the enemy entrenched in the town ahead. We need close air support to push through!"
Jean's voice came in smooth, composed as ever.
"Coal Busters, this is Dandelion. You're under our watch—we'll keep your skies clean. We will handle your CAS."
Another signal, different accent. Rougher, determined.
"This is Grate Mine Battalion. We're staging to retake the city sector east of the river. Counting on you, Waltz Squadron!"
Furina's laugh bled into the channel, sharp and theatrical.
"You can count on us, Grate Mine. The Regina of the Skies fights at your side!"
Talisman keyed in again, direct and crisp.
"Silvermane and Gulliver Squadrons, your ROE is Air Superiority. Clear the skies above the AO. We've deployed a temporary forward base on the plateau for rearming and refueling—use it if needed."
In the cockpit of his F-15E, Luka glanced to his right, taking in the sheer number of friendly fighters sweeping the skies around him.
"Damn… look at this sky. With all this steel, we could take Vagrant in minutes."
Seele chuckled
"Don't get cocky, Moltammer. You know the rules—plan with precision, strike with purpose."
Furina, flying north with Waltz, muttered under her breath, a slight panic in her voice.
"Please don't say it… not the canopy title… just this once—"
Amber's laughter cut through the comms like a whip.
"Haha! Just like what's written on Furina's canopy!"
"For fuck's sake…" Furina muttered, slapping the side of her helmet.
Bronya let out a rare chuckle
"That's a story for another time. Right now, let's focus."
She toggled her afterburners.
"All units—commence operation!"
Twin flames erupted from the exhaust nozzles of the F-15E Strike Eagles as Silvermane Squadron punched forward. The liberation of the island had begun.
Talisman's voice returned, one final briefing before chaos.
"Reminder to all wings—once your primary objective is complete, assist other squads. Don't fight solo. If you're in trouble, speak up. We want everyone coming home."
Bronya's IFF pinged.
Red blips appeared on the radar—hostile.
Above the river and near the air base, enemy fighters prowled in loose CAP formations. Forty hostiles, mostly Mirage 2000s and F-16s—leftovers from the 27th engagement.
Below, the ground shook with the echo of bombing runs. Fire plumed across the horizon.
Primordial Squadron had already made contact. GBU strikes were lighting up entrenched positions like the Fourth of July.
Bronya narrowed her eyes. Four Mirages, dead ahead, closing fast.
Her gloved thumb flicked the weapon select to AIM-120 AMRAAMs.
"Time to light the damn fireworks."
Her HUD painted four separate target boxes. Solid lock tones buzzed into her helmet.
Four locks. Perfect.
"Fox Three! Fox Three!" Bronya called out.
She depressed the trigger.
Four AMRAAMs detached from the belly rails with mechanical precision, flames trailing behind them. She yanked the stick back, rolling inverted and climbing, contrails slicing through the dying light.
Seconds later—impact.
Four distinct fireballs lit the sky, vaporizing the enemy fighters in a thunderous chain of explosions. No chutes. No survivors.
Furina looked up from her Rafale's canopy, witnessing the falling debris disintegrate midair.
"Looks like air superiority's officially underway!"
Navia, scanning the sky from Gulliver 2, responded crisply.
"Looks like it, Captain. Let's lock this airspace down."
"Right! Begin CAS for Grate Mine!" Furina ordered.
On cue, the commander of the Grate Mine Battalion radioed in.
"Waltz Team, keep those bastards from crossing the river! They're trying to push armor across the bridges!"
Furina smirked, eyes on the terrain below.
"Not on our watch. Waltz, engage!"
Across the valley, Primordial Squadron was in full strike mode. Their ordnance rained down in lethal precision—bridges, bunkers, and artillery emplacements shredded by GBU-12s and Mk-82s.
Columns of smoke bloomed in the distance, the sound of detonations rolling across the valley like thunder.
Furina slammed the throttle to afterburner and pushed into a sharp dive. The Rafale howled through the air as she selected her AASM-Hammer SBU-54s.
Her targeting pod acquired five targets:
Two ZU-23 AA cannons.
One mobile APC.
Two 37mm flak turrets.
"Flak? In this day and age?" she scoffed.
"Tch… talk about desperation."
Her targeting HUD confirmed multiple locks.
Five total.
"Bombs away."
Five SBU-54s dropped in sequence, gliding silently from her pylons with deadly precision. Furina pulled up hard, the G-loads pressing into her as she broke from the dive.
Below, the first bomb hit—the APC vaporized in a single explosion. A split second later, the AA guns were obliterated, sending shredded steel flying like confetti. The flak turrets followed, reduced to molten husks.
The rest of Waltz Squadron broke off in formation, releasing their own payloads in a wide pincer strike.
Explosions dotted the hills and riverbanks like wildfire. Smoke, fire, debris—all blooming violently against the setting sun.
Across the Area of Operations
The roar of jet engines echoed like thunder as Primordial Squadron swept in low and fast, unleashing a hellstorm upon enemy positions. They were relentless—ripping through the skies, launching bomb after bomb, tearing through ground targets with surgical precision. Operation B was nearing completion.
Enemy comms were a garbled mess of panic.
"All forces! Advance hard! We can't let them recapture this base! Fire all AA guns at the skies! Take them down now!"
Above the battlefield, Noelle—callsign Sweeper, the young but steadily rising ace from Mondstadt—was executing a tight 90-degree left bank. Her F-15EX shuddered under the strain, but she held the turn clean. As she leveled out and dove again, her RWR shrieked to life.
A lock.
"Incoming lock on Sweeper!" Jean's voice broke in, sharp and urgent. She was just ahead, unloading a GBU-54 onto a column of enemy tanks, a massive plume rising behind her.
"I know!" Noelle shouted, her hands already working the controls.
She yanked her throttle forward, punching into full afterburner. Countermeasure pods spat a flurry of flares as she pulled hard into a break-right maneuver, luring the seeker off. But then her threat display lit up again—this time a Mirage 2000-5 was trying to bracket her.
The enemy pilot closed in from her two o'clock high, nose swinging into position.
Noelle didn't flinch.
She flicked the gun master arm switch, squeezed the trigger. The M61A1 Vulcan roared.
Tracer rounds ripped across the sky. In a split second, her F-15EX's nose aligned—just enough. The rounds chewed through the Mirage's right wing. The enemy fighter rolled violently, spiraling down in a trail of smoke before slamming into the ground below. The pilot never had the chance to eject.
Her earlier GBU-54s, dropped just before the maneuver, found their mark—engulfing a fortified enemy position in a massive eruption of flame and debris.
Then came the call.
Talisman on broadcast.
"Operation B is complete. Primordial Squadron, proceed to support Operations A and C. Split up as needed and assist your allies!"
The radio crackled again, this time with a voice from the ground.
"This is Coal Busters Battalion! Thanks for the sweet air cover, Primordial Team!"
Another TSSG pilot laughed.
"Teamwork's a beautiful thing, ain't it?"
Noelle allowed herself a brief smile. "Damn right it is."
Jean keyed in, her tone now commanding yet light.
"Primordial Team, you know the drill—go where your instincts take you. Let's help close the curtain on this operation."
Meanwhile—High Above the AO
Silvermane and Gulliver Squadrons were tearing through the skies, embroiled in savage dogfights. Contrails and missile trails crisscrossed the heavens, the vapor patterns painting a masterpiece of chaos. Smoke curled from falling debris. Ejections dotted the sky like flares.
It was the art of war in the air—brutal, beautiful, and unforgiving.
Harumasa of Gulliver Squadron pulled hard into a pursuit vector, lining up a shot. Another missile streaked away from his F-15J's wing rail. The plume glowed orange in the setting sun before finding its target—a Free Jarilo F-16 Fighting Falcon. The jet exploded mid-roll, and the pilot managed to eject just moments before flames devoured the fuselage.
"Tango down for Zanshin!" Harumasa barked, steadying his jet.
Nearby, Yanagi was engaged in a high-speed scissors with an aggressive F-16. Each aircraft maneuvered violently, trading lead with every tight roll and snap turn. The dance was razor-close.
Suddenly, Yanagi slammed her right engine to idle while slamming her left to full afterburner, simultaneously pulling her stick sharply into herself. The move flipped her F-15J up in a tight pitch before falling into a controlled spiral.
The F-16 overshot, its nose slicing past too fast to react.
Yanagi quickly equalized thrust, leveling out of the spiral. By the time the enemy pilot tried to reacquire her, it was too late.
She was already behind him.
"Fox Two!"
A Sidewinder burst free from her rail, streaking toward the enemy aircraft. The F-16 never stood a chance. The IR seeker found the heat signature and detonated just behind the engine block. Fire consumed the fighter as it went down.
"Tango One down for Tenge," Yanagi said coolly.
AWACS TALISMAN
"We're almost there. Air Superiority is within reach. Keep it up! Vagrant Fields Air Force Base is almost ours!"
Then, another message, brief but triumphant.
"Waltz Team reports Operation C complete!"
Navia's voice crackled in response.
"Hey partners—need a hand?"
Pela laughed in the background.
"Any support is lovely!"
With a thunderous arrival, the Rafale F5-Ms of Waltz Squadron blazed into the AO. Dozens of missiles streaked away as the unit unleashed a massive offensive sweep.
In seconds, the count of enemy aircraft dropped from the low twenties to barely a handful.
Then, those who remained… ran.
"They're retreating!" Beidou exclaimed, spotting the enemy squadron fleeing eastward.
Talisman came back on the comms.
"Let 'em go, Haisan. We've got what we came for."
"Vagrant Fields is back in our hands.
Mission accomplished."
GROUND COMMS
"This is Grate Mine Battalion. We've linked up with Coal Busters. The airbase and surrounding village are secure!"
Back in the cockpit, Luka let out a long, relieved sigh.
"Holy hell… One step closer to Belobog."
There was a moment of quiet before he added with a grin,
"With the whole TSSG here, we'll be back in Belobog before we even know it."
Bronya chuckled over the radio.
"One step at a time, Luka. But you're right—we're getting there."
She looked down from her cockpit at the smoke curling from the newly secured air base.
"Come on," she said to everyone.
"Let's head to our new home for the night. We've earned it."
Minutes Later…
One by one, dozens of allied aircraft descended onto the reclaimed runway, their landing gear screeching against the weathered tarmac of Vagrant Fields Air Base. The cacophony of roaring jet engines and hydraulic whines echoed into the dusk, painting the twilight sky with streaks of condensation and the heavy scent of jet fuel.
Flares of sunlight glinted off a parade of war machines: Rafale C multiroles, F-16C Vipers, F/A-18E/F Super Hornets, F-15E Strike Eagles, Eurofighter Typhoons—a kaleidoscope of firepower, grace, and grim purpose.
Then came the TSSG birds, gleaming with their uniquely brutal elegance—F-15EX Eagles and Rafale F5 M Evolutions, their airframes still warm from afterburners and battle. They were joined by the Silvermane Squadron's pride—their trusted F-15E Strike Eagles, now bearing the proud scorches and scrapes of victory.
Not a single casualty.
On the flight line, the scene was organized bedlam—mechanical chaos in full swing. Ground crews, many of whom had only hours earlier been liberated from enemy captivity, rushed back into familiar routines. Veterans and fresh recruits alike darted between fighters with toolboxes and fuel lines, checking pylon hardpoints, writing maintenance logs, and debriefing pilots directly from their cockpits.
There was no time for ceremony—only swift purpose and the shared understanding that this was only the beginning.
Inside the cavernous hangar, now repurposed into a temporary command hall, Bronya stood at the front, her silver hair catching the fading light leaking in through the high windows. A large operational map of the region was projected behind her. The sound of boots echoed as pilots gathered around.
"All right, listen up," she began, voice calm but resolute. "What we achieved today wasn't just a tactical victory—it was the first hammer blow in our counter-offensive."
She tapped a laser pointer onto the western flank of the island, where a red-highlighted sector blinked ominously.
"Our next objective is Mt. Snowshine, due west. It's a key enemy logistics and radar site with another air base. If we take that mountain, we take control of the airspace and sever the enemy's resupply chain."
A murmur passed through the crowd. Everyone knew what that meant.
Bronya smiled faintly.
"When Mt. Snowshine falls, this entire island will be liberated. And with it, we take a step closer to Belobog."
She lowered her pointer, letting her gaze sweep across the pilots. Some were barely more than kids, others hardened veterans. All were exhausted, adrenaline barely faded—but they stood proud.
"Dismissed. Go get some rest. You've all earned it."
The pilots began to disperse, voices low, some exchanging half-jokes, others walking silently toward the barracks or the line of tents behind the control tower. A few drifted back toward their aircraft, unable to tear themselves away from their partners in the sky.
Among those who remained behind, leaning casually against the wing of a nearby Strike Eagle, were Seele, Pela, Luka, Furina, Jean, Yanagi, and Miyabi. A small, quiet gathering beneath the fading orange sun.
Bronya pulled the tie from her silver hair, letting it fall freely around her shoulders. The tension eased from her expression. She turned toward the others, arms crossed loosely.
"Hell of a job out there," said Jean, arms folded and voice warm. "You all flew like demons possessed."
Furina gave a slow, deliberate nod, her expression reserved but unmistakably pleased.
"That phrase—'Mission accomplished.' Never gets old hearing it in the air. Especially when it actually means something."
"Heh. You got that right, Furina," Pela added with a grin, brushing dust off her flight suit. "Never thought I'd see this runway operational again."
Bronya smiled gently.
"Say... I heard something from Amber before this op. Something about your plane, Furina?"
Furina tensed just slightly. Her cheeks tinted pink.
"W-What? Oh. Th-That."
Bronya gestured toward the ramp, where the Rafale F5 M Evolution gleamed under the lights, canopy still reflecting the last light of day. Painted beneath it in bold, elegant script were the words:
"Élégante et Efficace."
"I heard there's a story behind that," Bronya said, cocking her head.
Furina rubbed the back of her neck, eyes darting down.
"Well… it's a nickname I earned back at the Academy. Long story short, I was always the one who didn't just pass the sims—I passed them with style. Finished training missions flawlessly. Elegant in form, effective in function. That stuck. 'The Elegant and Efficient One.'"
"'Élégante et Efficace,'" Bronya repeated softly, turning back to the horizon.
"A fitting name. You flew like hell today. All of you did."
The group fell quiet, the distant sounds of clanking tools and humming generators the only backdrop.
Bronya's voice turned thoughtful.
"We've still got a long way to go. Snowshine. Then Belobog. Maybe more after that. But as long as we keep watching each other's six... we'll make it."
Seele stepped beside her, boots crunching softly against the concrete.
"We'll do it," she said, gaze unwavering. "Together."
Bronya looked back at her, eyes meeting Seele's. And for that brief moment, everything else fell away.
"As a team," Bronya said firmly.
They stood there, in the hangar bathed in dusk light, fighter silhouettes standing proud behind them—victors of the skies, protectors of the free.
And far off in the distance, across the cold ocean wind, the peaks of Mt. Snowshine waited silently for their reckoning.