Off To The Carriers.
The Day After – The World Burns
The full scale of the Snezhnayan bombing raids was finally revealed at sunrise.
Charybdis Air Force Base had survived.
But everything around it hadn't.
The harbor lay in ruins, vast sections reduced to nothing but burning wreckage. What was once a bustling naval hub had been obliterated in a single night. The towering cranes were now twisted skeletons of metal, the docks littered with the shattered hulls of warships that would never sail again.
The neighboring town, once full of life, was scarred beyond recognition. Craters pockmarked the streets, entire blocks of buildings collapsed into rubble. Smoke curled lazily from the remains of homes, businesses, and markets—places that, just yesterday, had been full of people.
But the most gut-wrenching sight lay in the waters of the ruined port.
The aircraft carrier Harmost.
One of Fontaine's naval titans.
Now, it lay capsized to its port side, half-submerged in the harbor.
Its mighty hull, once an unbreakable wall of steel, was now a monument to the brutality of war.
Even from high above, the destruction was staggering.
The earth itself had been scarred—aerial recon reports showed blackened craters stretching for miles. The wreckage of downed enemy bombers and their escorts had been retrieved from the ocean, but some remained twisted and mangled across the land, their metal corpses scattered where they had fallen.
What was once a peaceful nation had turned into a graveyard.
The News Report
Inside the small pilot's lounge, members of Tidal Squadron and Nocturne Squadron sat in grim silence, gathered around a television screen.
The air was heavy—no banter, no jokes, no relief.
Just stone-cold expressions and the sound of the broadcast filling the room.
Then, the words came.
"As of 10:00 AM today, the nation of Snezhnaya has officially declared war on Fontaine, Liyue, Mondstadt, Natlan, Sumeru, and Inazuma."
A heavy silence fell over the room.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Then—
"As soon as the news broke, enemy aircraft began bombing Fontainian, Natlan, Inazuman, Liyuan, and Mondstadt territory, causing widespread destruction. The Teyvat Union Defense Force has released a statement suggesting that these initial attacks were conducted primarily by drones."
The screen flickered, now displaying a sleek, black MQ-99 attack drone.
A machine built for precision strikes. Built to kill.
"Military analysts speculate that these drones were launched from container ships hidden in harbors and ports, remotely operated to carry out precision bombings. Intelligence reports suggest these units were smuggled into multiple nations, bypassing defenses entirely."
The feed switched to an aerial view of multiple naval ports—all of them burning.
"According to the Secretary of the Air Force and the Navy, these drones targeted key naval ports across all affected nations. Intelligence confirms that half of Teyvat's aircraft carriers, including those still under construction, sustained severe damage in the attacks."
The weight in the room grew heavier.
Then—
The next revelation came.
"And just recently—Snezhnayan military forces have seized the Teyvat Orbital Elevator."
Some pilots tensed. Others muttered curses under their breath.
Furina's eyes narrowed.
They took the Orbital Elevator?
This wasn't just an act of war.
This was a power move.
The report continued.
"Reports state that former President Imena was touring the elevator at the time of the attack. Her current whereabouts are unknown."
Furina clenched her jaw, her grip tightening on the armrest.
This was getting worse by the second.
The news anchor's voice pressed on.
"In other news, the Ousia-class carrier, the Arkhe Two, was deployed near the capital city of Morepesok, Snezhnaya. Fontaine's Air Force launched a counterstrike, successfully hitting key military targets and shooting down multiple enemy fighters."
A pause.
"However, these victories came at a heavy cost—numerous Fontainian fighters were lost in battle. Reports also confirm that some of the disabled aircraft crashed into Snezhnayan civilian areas."
The screen flickered for a moment.
Then, the TV was shut off completely.
The room remained still.
A low murmur of voices echoed through the space.
Some pilots leaned back in their chairs, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Others exchanged glances, their expressions reflecting the unease settling deep in their bones.
Furina glanced at her watch.
Her familiar Speedmaster, secured with a navy blue NATO strap, ticked forward in its usual precision.
The hands read 12:00 PM sharp.
Her eyes darkened.
"They declared war just two hours ago…"
Lyney let out a long, frustrated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"So… drones. Isn't this just great?"
Lynette shook her head, arms crossed.
"As if this wasn't bad enough. What else could possibly happen? We can't maneuver like those drones."
Lyney shifted his gaze toward Furina, his voice thoughtful.
"I don't even think Furina's moves in the air can handle the way a drone maneuvers."
Furina smirked, raising an eyebrow.
"That sounds like a challenge."
The Briefing Room – Orders from Command
Before anyone could reply—
The doors swung open.
The Base Commander strode into the room.
His expression was unreadable. Serious. Commanding.
The room instantly fell silent.
His voice came low, sharp, and absolute.
"Everyone. Briefing room. Now."
The March to the Briefing Room
Without hesitation, the pilots stood up, abandoning their unfinished conversations as they moved toward the briefing room.
Their footsteps echoed against the sterile tile floor, a quiet but steady march toward whatever came next.
By the time they settled into their seats, the atmosphere was thick with anticipation.
The display screen flickered to life, revealing a detailed map of the war-torn regions.
Then, the Base Commander spoke.
"Alright."
His voice was stern, unwavering, carrying the full weight of reality.
"After reviewing thorough damage reports, it's a damn miracle we didn't sustain any casualties—especially civilian. So I applaud both Nocturne and Tidal Squadrons for their swift and decisive retaliation."
A pause.
A brief moment of acknowledgment.
But his tone soon hardened.
"But that's not what's important right now."
The display zoomed in, revealing a strategic location along the coastline.
A name appeared on the screen.
Dorman Port.
A major Mondstadt harbor city—one of the last remaining strongholds along the ocean.
"Your next assignment: You'll be flying to the Ousia-class aircraft carrier, the Blancheur."
Several pilots exchanged glances.
The Blancheur.
One of Fontaine's most powerful carriers.
For two elite squadrons to be assigned there meant only one thing—
Something big was coming.
Deployment Details
The screen adjusted, highlighting the carrier's projected position in open waters.
"You will all be carrying external fuel tanks for the journey. Both squadrons will fly in a defensive formation in case of unexpected enemy contact."
A second set of coordinates appeared.
A meeting point.
"Once aboard, you will receive a full mission briefing tomorrow morning from the Carrier Admiral. You will be stationed there for three operations."
Then, the Commander turned to face them.
His gaze was sharp, unwavering.
"Everyone. Dismissed. Departure is in two hours."
No further discussion.
No room for questions.
This was war.
The pilots stood up immediately, some heading back to their rooms to pack their gear, others taking a moment to process what lay ahead.
Furina's Quarters – Preparation for War
Furina moved with purpose, her strides quick and decisive as she navigated the halls of Charybdis Air Force Base.
Her mind was already racing ahead, calculating exactly what she needed for an extended deployment.
The moment she stepped into her quarters, she grabbed her duffle bag and got to work.
Weeks' worth of clothes.
Flight gear.
Personal essentials.
One by one, she double-checked everything, ensuring she was fully prepared.
Then, her eyes flicked toward the black gun case.
Without hesitation, she unfastened the locks and flipped it open.
Inside—
A Beretta 92.
Standard-issue sidearm. Custom-fitted wooden grips for better control.
A weapon meant for defense, but in this war, it might become a necessity.
She pulled the magazine out, checked the rounds, then slid it back in with a soft click.
Satisfied, she locked the case shut and set it beside her duffle bag.
Then, she took a breath.
And checked her watch.
One Hour and Forty-Five Minutes Until Deployment.
Furina exhaled slowly.
This was only the beginning.
War had arrived.
And this time—
There was no going back.
A Knock at the Door
The sharp rap against the door broke the silence.
"Furina? May I come in?"
Her head turned slightly, recognizing the voice instantly.
Without hesitation, she stood at attention, snapping into a crisp salute.
"Yes, sir."
The Base Commander stepped inside.
His gaze swept over the room, taking in her packed gear, her weapon case, her readiness.
Then, his stern demeanor softened—just slightly.
A small, knowing smile.
A Moment of Recognition
"At ease, young Furina."
She relaxed, though her posture remained strong.
The Commander took a step forward, studying her carefully.
Then—
"Good work on defending Charybdis."
A pause.
Then, more weight to his words.
"If it weren't for you, who knows how many would have died."
Furina's eyes widened slightly.
She hadn't expected that.
"But sir, with all due respect… I'm just a freshie here."
The Commander chuckled, shaking his head.
"And yet, you claimed eleven kills on your first sortie."
A beat.
Then, the words that truly hit her.
"That's more than an ace, Lieutenant."
Furina rubbed the back of her head, a sheepish grin forming.
"I suppose so? I didn't even count my kills."
The Commander nodded, placing a firm hand on her shoulder.
His grip was steady. Respectful. A silent acknowledgment of what she had done.
"Keep up the great work, Lieutenant Furina."
A final pause.
"I'll see you when you get back."
Furina straightened her posture, snapping into a sharp nod.
"Yes, sir."
With that, the Commander stepped out, leaving her alone once more.
Final Preparations
She exhaled, turning back to her gear.
One final check.
One final moment of stillness.
The weight of the mission hung over her.
But her focus?
Razor-sharp.
This was war.
And she would be ready.
Departure Preparations — The Walk to War
An hour later, the pilots of Tidal and Nocturne Squadrons walked toward the hangars as a unit, their strides filled with purpose and anticipation.
The war had barely begun, yet they were already moving to the next battlefield.
No one spoke.
There was no need to.
Each of them knew what came next.
Hangar Three – The Lone Rafale
Furina arrived at Hangar Three, where her Dassault Rafale M awaited.
The overhead lights bathed it in a cold glow, accentuating its sleek, predatory silhouette.
Unlike the others, hers was the only Rafale at the entire base.
Nocturne Squadron flew F/A-18 Super Hornets.
Lyney, Tidal One, piloted an F-35 Lightning II.
And Furina?
She flew something completely different.
A one-off, modified Rafale M, custom painted in deep blue, sky blue, black, and white—golden trim accentuating its design.
The very aircraft that had secured eleven aerial kills.
The Rafale that had earned her the title of Ace—on her first combat mission.
She crouched beneath the aircraft, moving toward the travel pod mounted beneath the centerline fuselage.
On either wing, two external fuel tanks were securely fastened to the pylons—ensuring the extended range they needed for the long flight ahead.
In the middle, the travel pod—large enough to store a few bags of personal belongings.
With careful precision, she unlatched the pod door, securing her duffle bag and gun case inside, twisting the lock mechanism into place.
As she stood up, she noticed something.
The entire Nocturne Squadron and Lyney had gathered outside her hangar.
Their eyes weren't on her.
They were locked onto the Rafale.
Some had their arms crossed, others murmured quietly, but they all carried the same expression.
They weren't just looking at a jet.
They were looking at the aircraft that had dominated the skies the previous day.
The jet that had defied expectations.
The Rafale that had pulled off maneuvers no one thought possible.
The Rafale of Lieutenant Furina De Fontaine.
Furina approached Lyney and Lynette, both still admiring the one-of-a-kind war machine.
She smirked, arms crossed.
"She's a beauty, isn't she?"
Lyney whistled, shaking his head.
"She's one hell of a bird, that's for sure. I still don't get how you pulled off those Pugachev maneuvers in a Rafale."
Lynette nodded, eyes still scanning the fuselage.
"Yeah… whatever Dassault—or whoever modified your plane—did, they turned it into something special. I expected Snezhnayan jets like Sukhois or Tupolevs to pull off those stunts, but a Rafale? That's something else."
Furina shrugged, gaze drifting toward her pride and joy.
"I have no clue what kind of modifications they put into it. But whatever it is… I like it."
Lynette's eyes traced along the fuselage, stopping at the golden script just below the canopy.
"Élégante… et Efficace?"
She turned to Furina, intrigued.
Furina chuckled.
"Funny story, that name…"
"Is That Supposed to Be Your TAC Name?"
Lyney tilted his head.
"Is that supposed to be your TAC name?"
Furina shook her head.
"No, no… That's actually the funny part."
She leaned against the cool metal of the jet, recalling the memory with a smirk.
"Back at the Academy, when we had live training sessions, we ran drills in groups. One squadron would fly while the others watched. Since I was the only one flying a Rafale… and the only girl in the entire batch… the way I maneuvered caught a lot of attention."
She gestured toward the script on the fuselage.
"They started calling me 'Élégante' because I was the 'pretty' girl in the class. And 'Efficace' because I got the job done—fast and efficiently."
Lynette smirked, nodding in approval.
"Well, you certainly live up to that name, Furina."
Lyney then pointed toward the golden crown insignia painted on the tail fin.
"And what about the crown? What's the meaning behind that?"
Furina snapped her fingers.
"Oh, that? That's a reference to what I originally wanted to be."
Lyney's brow furrowed.
"Which was…?"
Furina chuckled.
"An actor."
Both Lyney and Lynette snapped their heads toward her.
"An actor!?" They said in unison.
Furina nodded, grinning.
"That's right. When I was a kid, I loved acting. But that dream was short-lived. One day, I watched my uncle—my dad's brother—take off in a Rafale. From that moment on, I knew exactly what I wanted to do."
She exhaled, a nostalgic smile forming.
"My parents actually approved. My mom was skeptical at first, but she eventually gave in. And now? Here I am."
Lynette raised an eyebrow.
"So, what about your jet's registration? 1013-FF?"
Furina's smirk widened.
"Ironically? It's the same as my birthday."
Lyney blinked.
"Is it?"
Furina nodded.
"Yep. Ten-thirteen. October Thirteenth. That's my birthday."
Lynette shook her head, smirking.
"Of course. I should've guessed."
30 Minutes Until Departure
Furina glanced at her watch.
30 minutes until departure.
She clapped her hands together.
"Alright. Let's get these birds up and running. We've got nothing else to do, so let's go."
Lynette nodded, turning toward the gathered pilots.
"Everyone! To your planes! It's time to depart!"
The pilots of Nocturne Squadron piled out of Furina's hangar, heading toward their respective F/A-18s.
Lyney walked toward his F-35 Lightning II, parked beside hers.
The time had come.
Furina climbed up the ladder to her cockpit, settling into the ejection seat. The worn padding pressed against her back, the familiar embrace of steel and restraint wrapping around her like a second skin.
She secured her harness, the straps pulling tight across her chest. No room for slack. No room for hesitation.
Helmet on. Visor down. HUD flickering to life.
Her fingers found the Main Electrical Switch and flipped it to STBY. The cockpit displays flickered, lines of data scrolling across her screens as power surged through the aircraft's nervous system.
With a quick, practiced motion, she pressed the APU button.
A mechanical whine filled the cabin, the auxiliary power unit coming to life with a steady, high-pitched hum. The vibrations pulsed beneath her fingertips, a faint tremor running through the fuselage as systems booted up one by one.
Outside, the night air was alive with movement—ground crew scurrying across the tarmac, the distant glow of navigation lights painting streaks across the darkness.
A dispatcher climbed the ladder, handing her a thick folder.
"Here's your OFP, Lieutenant."
Furina nodded, taking the Operational Flight Plan. A detailed roadmap of her mission, filled with precise altitudes, fuel calculations, and time-on-target estimates.
"Thanks," she said, tucking it into the side pocket of her flight suit.
The dispatcher gave her a thumbs-up. "Safe flying, Waltz."
She smirked beneath her oxygen mask. "I always do."
As the ladder was pulled away, she gave her harness one final tug, ensuring it was locked tight.
It was time to fly.
She reached for the left-side Multi-Function Display (MFD), fingers moving quickly over the interface as she inputted the flight plan. Each waypoint was carefully plotted, with calculated altitude shifts and fuel adjustments ensuring maximum efficiency. The mission was long-range. No errors. No oversights.
Her hands moved on muscle memory, logging the final inputs.
Total fuel load? Topped off.
External tanks? Secure.
Projected airspeed? Optimized for endurance.
With a final tap, the MFD confirmed the route.
She exhaled.
Then, she reached for her oxygen mask, adjusting it before keying her mic.
Her voice came through steady and professional.
"Tidal Two. Requesting squadron radio check."
A brief crackle of static. Then, one by one, the pilots began checking in.
"Nocturne One. Check."
"Nocturne Five. Check."
"Tidal One. Loud and clear."
"Nocturne Four. Five by five."
"Nocturne Two. Checking in."
Satisfied, Furina reached for the canopy switch.
With a mechanical hiss, the glass canopy lowered, enclosing her in the tight, isolated space of the cockpit. The hydraulic locks engaged, sealing her inside her war machine.
Fifteen seconds later—
A final click. Locked.
Engine Startup – Bringing the Rafale to Life
She adjusted her mask, ensuring a tight seal, before reaching for the main electrical switch.
A flick—
STBY to RIGHT.
Immediately, the right M88 turbofan whined to life. The turbines spooled up rapidly, the cockpit vibrating softly as the RPM climbed.
25% N2 speed.
She pushed the right engine lever to IDLE.
A deep, mechanical roar followed, the right engine stabilizing, its hum settling into a steady rhythm.
Then, she repeated the process for the left engine.
RIGHT to LEFT.
Another whine. Another ignition.
The aircraft came alive.
The APU shut off automatically, transferring full control to the main turbines.
Furina scanned her instruments, eyes flicking across the displays.
Engine temps? Nominal.
RPM stability? Locked.
Fuel flow? Optimal.
Everything checked out.
Now, she waited.
Taxi Clearance – Moving Out
Her ears stayed sharp, listening for Nocturne Squadron's taxi call.
Five minutes later, it came.
"Nocturne One. Taxiing out to Runway Three-Zero."
"Nocturne Two. Following lead."
"Nocturne Three. Following."
"Nocturne Four. Following lead."
"Nocturne Five. Following lead."
Their formation moved smoothly, F/A-18s rolling out in succession.
Then, Lyney's voice followed.
"Tidal One. Following Nocturne Squadron."
Furina keyed her mic.
"Tidal Two. Following the lead."
Right on cue, Lyney's F-35 Lightning II rumbled past her hangar, its twin engines producing a deep, powerful roar.
From the cockpit, Lyney turned his head slightly, raising a hand.
A signal.
Follow me.
Furina raised a thumbs-up, then disengaged the parking brake.
With a gentle push on the throttle, her Rafale M rolled forward, its tires gliding smoothly over the taxiway.
She followed Lyney's F-35 onto Taxiway Alpha, keeping a steady distance while maintaining proper formation.
Ahead, Nocturne Squadron was departing one by one, each fighter taking off in one-minute intervals.
Before long—
It was her turn.
Cleared for Takeoff
She lined up dead center on Runway 30, her Rafale's nose pointed straight down the stretch of tarmac.
The radio crackled.
"Tidal Two, cleared for takeoff."
Her fingers flexed over the controls before she keyed her mic.
"Cleared for takeoff. Tidal Two."
A deep breath.
Eyes narrowing.
Then—
With a swift motion, she slammed the throttle forward.
The twin M88 engines ignited, afterburners erupting into a fiery blue glow.
The G-force slammed into her chest, pinning her against the ejection seat as the Rafale surged forward.
150 knots.
180 knots.
200 knots.
The cockpit trembled, the aircraft devouring the tarmac with sheer velocity.
Then—
Rotation speed.
Furina pulled back on the sidestick.
The Rafale lifted.
The ground fell away.
With a quick motion, she reached for the landing gear lever—
Pulled it up.
A soft thud confirmed gear retraction.
Moments later, the tower came through.
"Tidal Two, altitude restriction lifted. Safe travels, Waltz."
A smirk curled at her lips.
"Copy. Climbing to altitude."
With a graceful hand, she adjusted the angle of attack, her Rafale slicing through the sky like a blade.
The Climb to War
Nocturne and Tidal Squadrons climbed in perfect formation.
Their ascent was steep, aggressive—clawing through the thinning air as they surged toward their cruising altitude of 45,000 feet.
The world below shrank.
Cities turned into clusters of dull lights. Highways became thin, winding veins stretching across the landscape. The coastline melted into a golden ribbon, barely distinguishable from the deep blue beyond.
And above them?
Nothing but an endless expanse of sky, stretching far beyond the reach of mortal hands.
They pressed on.
Toward their next battlefield.
Toward the Ousia-class aircraft carrier, Blancheur.
A three-and-a-half-hour flight.
And even though the skies were calm now…
Everyone knew the war was just beginning.
For now—
They climbed.
Higher.
Into the skies unknown.
An hour passed.
At Flight Level 450 (45,000 feet), Nocturne and Tidal Squadrons settled into a smooth, high-altitude cruise.
Up here, the air was thin, crisp, and eerily silent—the kind of silence that never sat right in a fighter pilot's gut.
The formation remained disciplined.
Nocturne One and Tidal One—Lynette and Lyney, the sibling duo—led from the front.
Nocturne Two held steady off Lynette's right wing.
Tidal Two—Furina—stayed locked behind Lyney's left wing.
The remaining Nocturne Squadron members flew in a tight, unwavering line, cutting through the sky with surgical precision.
Ahead, the atmosphere stretched endlessly—a gradient of deep blue and fading white, cirrus clouds drifting lazily far beneath them.
The sun sat high, its light catching the edges of their canopies, scattering across their visors like shards of glass.
The only sounds?
The steady hum of jet engines.
The occasional crackle of radio chatter.
The rhythmic inhale and exhale of oxygen masks.
Despite the stillness—
War awaited them beyond the horizon.
A Moment to Breathe
With the cruise stabilized, Furina exhaled.
She reached up, unclipping her oxygen mask, letting it dangle loosely against her chest.
Her fingers found the bridge of her nose—she pinched it, sighed, and let the exhaustion settle in.
"Damn this…" she muttered under her breath.
The cabin air brushed against her sweat-slicked skin, a momentary relief from the pressure of high-altitude flight.
She flexed her fingers, rolling her shoulders against the stiff flight suit. The cockpit was cold, but the tension in her muscles burned like fire.
Then—
A familiar voice crackled through her headset.
"Hey, Waltz. I gotta ask."
Furina reached for her mask, bringing it close before keying the mic.
"Go ahead, Magician."
A brief pause.
Then, Lyney's voice returned, laced with curiosity.
"That helmet design—also your work?"
Furina chuckled, a small smirk tugging at her lips.
"Yep. That's my design too."
Her helmet was a reflection of her style—a clean sky blue, accented with a bold gold stripe running down the center.
At the front?
A golden silhouette of a Rafale, nose pointed skyward, its swooping contrail seamlessly blending into the emblem of her crown.
A signature.
A statement.
Lyney let out an impressed whistle.
"That's a nice design, Waltz. Simple and minimalistic. Gotta say, you do have an eye for this kind of thing."
Furina smirked.
"I don't know… I guess I just self-taught myself to draw?"
Lynette's voice slipped into the conversation, amused and light.
"You really do have a lot of things up your sleeve, huh, Waltz?"
Then—
Another voice.
Nocturne Two.
"What's next for Waltz? Maybe she gets her own drones? Like that experimental Dassault nEUROn UCAV thing."
Furina laughed softly, shaking her head.
"Last I heard, that thing's still in testing."**
"Designed to work alongside the Rafale, but at this rate… it could be anything. The outcome of the war depends on the Teyvat United Peacekeeping Force now."**
She leaned back slightly, eyes drifting toward the endless stretch of sky.
For a brief moment—
She allowed herself to just exist.
To soak in the silence, the altitude, the weightlessness of being above it all.
But the reality was—
War never stopped.
It just waited.
Lurking beyond the clouds.
Approaching Dorman Port
The formation pressed onward.
Ahead, Dorman Port drew closer on their HUDs—a blinking waypoint growing brighter with every passing minute.
The flight had been smooth.
Uneventful.
The jet stream pushed at their backs, carrying them nearly an hour ahead of schedule.
But despite the clear skies—
Despite the peaceful cruise—
Every pilot felt it.
That instinct.
That unspoken truth gnawing at the edges of their thoughts.
This was just the beginning.
The storm of war hadn't passed.
Hours later, the squadron finally reached their destination.
The Ousia-class aircraft carrier Blancheur loomed below, a floating fortress of steel cutting across the endless blue.
From 45,000 feet down to approach altitude, Furina took in the sheer scale of the warship.
An island at sea.
The ocean churned beneath it, whitecaps forming in its massive wake.
Surrounding it, a phalanx of escort ships patrolled the waters, their sleek hulls carving sharp white trails through the waves.
Up on deck, the carrier was alive with movement—a symphony of organized chaos.
Flight crews in color-coded uniforms rushed across the tarmac, signaling directions, prepping arresting cables, clearing the landing zones.
Above, Tidal Squadron entered a holding pattern.
They circled at a safe distance while Nocturne Squadron landed first.
One by one—
Nocturne One.
Nocturne Two.
Nocturne Three.
Nocturne Four.
Each Super Hornet touched down, snagged the arresting wire, then taxied off to the side.
Only one remained.
Furina's gaze locked onto Nocturne Five—the last to land.
From her vantage point, she watched as the Super Hornet descended, its tailhook lowered, its landing gear aligned perfectly with the deck.
The radio remained silent—everyone holding their breath.
Then—
Touchdown.
The tailhook barely caught the fourth wire—the last one. The most dangerous one.
Had Nocturne Five been just a fraction lower, they would have slammed into the ramp at the carrier's stern.
The radio crackled to life.
"One wire!" the controller called.
Furina exhaled sharply, tension bleeding from her shoulders as she watched the Super Hornet come to a sudden, jarring halt.
Then—
Lynette's voice.
Cool. Measured. But laced with quiet disapproval.
"Nocturne Five, you'll have to report to the Admiral later."
A sigh.
Short. Almost defeated.
"Roger."
As Nocturne Five taxied away, the tower finally called for Tidal One.
"Tidal One, it's your turn."
Lyney responded immediately.
"Roger."
His F-35 peeled off from formation, descending smoothly.
From afar, Furina observed his approach.
Methodical. Precise. Almost effortless.
He took an extended downwind leg, spacing himself fifteen nautical miles before making his turn onto final approach.
The tower's voice followed.
"Tidal Two, make your approach preparations. Cleared to enter final approach."
Furina nodded, keying her mic.
"Roger."
She rolled her Rafale 90 degrees, smoothly entering the downwind pattern, lining herself up for her turn.
A few moments later—
Lyney touched down.
His tailhook caught the second wire—one of the cleanest landings possible.
The controller confirmed it.
"Two-wire, Magician. Great work."
With a smooth taxi, Lyney cleared the deck.
Now—
It was Furina's turn.
Carrier Landing – Right on the Money
She turned onto final approach, lining her Rafale dead center with the carrier deck.
The radio crackled again.
"Waltz, you're cleared to land. Listen to the approach guide."
She tightened her grip on the stick.
"Roger. Cleared to land."
Her HUD switched to landing mode, displaying her:
Glideslope
Speed
Centerline alignment
Every movement was deliberate. Controlled.
Her angle? Perfect.
Her speed? Optimal.
Her approach? Flawless.
Then—
The approach guide came through the radio.
"Slow down, Waltz."
She eased back on the throttle, preparing to engage the spoilerons for additional drag.
"Right on the money, Waltz."
The carrier deck rushed up to meet her.
She remained calm. Steady. Unshaken.
Then—
Touchdown.
The Rafale's tailhook grabbed the third wire—one of the cleanest landings possible.
Following protocol, she slammed the throttles to full power—in case the hook failed to catch.
But then—
A jolt.
Her aircraft snapped to a halt, coming to a dead stop within seconds.
She immediately pulled the throttles back, the M88 engines spooling down slightly as the controller's voice came through.
"That's a three-wire, Tidal Two. You get the highest score today. Great job."
The radio erupted with laughter.
"The rookie showing the seniors how it's done. Nicely done, Waltz." Nocturne Two quipped.
Furina chuckled, exhaling.
"Thanks, fellas."
She reached over, pressing the tailhook button.
A mechanical whine filled the cockpit as the tailhook retracted, releasing the arresting wire.
The cable snapped back into position, ready for the next landing.
With that—
She eased forward on the throttle, taxiing toward the remaining free parking spot beside Lyney's F-35 Lightning II.
As she neared her spot, she executed a smooth 180-degree turn, ensuring her jet was properly aligned.
Parking brakes engaged.
Throttles to idle.
Then—
She reached for the engine controls, shutting both M88 turbines down.
The cockpit dimmed, the displays powered off, and the familiar whine of the turbines faded into silence.
A sharp hiss escaped as Furina pressed the canopy release, the cockpit glass lifting above her.
Immediately, the cool ocean breeze rushed in, carrying the sharp scent of salt, jet fuel, and steel.
She took a slow breath.
It was the first time in hours that she wasn't breathing through an oxygen mask.
Reaching up, she unclipped her helmet, pulling it free.
Her silver-blue hair spilled slightly loose from its tight fit, strands shifting in the wind.
The flight had been smooth. The landing? Near perfect.
And yet—
The weight in her chest hadn't lifted.
A deck crew member approached, securing a ladder against the side of her Rafale.
With practiced ease, she unbuckled her harness, stretched her arms briefly, and swung her legs over the cockpit edge.
The metal rungs were cold, but she barely noticed as she climbed down, her boots hitting the carrier deck with a dull thud.
She turned, crouching beneath the fuselage.
Hatch unlatched.
Duffle bag secured.
Gun case retrieved.
With a final twist of the locking mechanism, she sealed the travel pod shut.
Only then did she take a moment to look up—
To really see the carrier around her.
A hive of controlled chaos.
Crew members sprinted across the deck, guiding incoming jets, securing cables, refueling, rearming.
The hum of turbines mixed with the distant roar of a fighter approaching final approach.
Overhead, the sky was clear, but the storm of war loomed beyond the horizon.
She exhaled, slinging her duffel over her shoulder.
Tomorrow, the real work began.
But for now—
She had made it.
The Briefing – Aboard the Blancheur
Minutes later, both Nocturne Squadron and Tidal Squadron gathered inside the carrier's briefing room.
The air was thick with tension.
No one spoke.
The low vibration of the Blancheur's engines rumbled beneath their feet, a constant reminder that they were aboard a floating fortress of war.
At the front of the room, standing on a raised platform, was a man who radiated authority.
His naval officer's uniform was immaculate, adorned with campaign ribbons and service medals.
His eyes were sharp. Calculating.
This was Admiral Augereau.
The man overseeing their operations aboard the Blancheur.
His gaze swept over the assembled pilots, assessing their expressions, their stances, their exhaustion.
Then—
He spoke.
"Welcome aboard the Blancheur. I am Admiral Augereau."
His voice was firm. Steady. Measured.
Not a man who wasted words.
Not a man who tolerated failure.
"You will be stationed here for three missions, spanning three operations."
A brief pause.
Then—
"Tomorrow morning, we commence Operation Northern Front. Mission details will be briefed at 0800 hours."
Silence settled over the room.
Then, with a single nod—
"For now, get some rest. Dismissed."
Dispersal – The Calm Before the Storm
For half a second longer, the squadron remained at attention.
Then—
The tension dissolved into motion.
Some pilots headed for the mess hall, hoping to eat something before passing out.
Others moved toward their assigned quarters, eager for even a few hours of sleep.
Furina said nothing.
She slipped quietly out of the briefing room, walking alone through the narrow metal corridors of the carrier.
The ship hummed with life.
The distant sounds of jet maintenance echoed from the hangar decks below.
The muffled chatter of sailors and officers drifted through the halls.
And yet—
Despite all the movement, she felt strangely isolated.
The weight of the day pressed down on her shoulders.
This had been a simple transfer.
A routine flight.
And yet—
The world had changed.
War had begun.
A Moment of Solitude
She reached her assigned room, swiping her keycard and stepping inside.
The cabin was compact but functional—
A small bed.
A desk.
A locker for personal belongings.
The hull of the ship vibrated faintly, the sound of the ocean lapping against the steel exterior barely audible through the reinforced bulkheads.
She let out a quiet sigh, slinging her duffel bag onto the foot of the bed.
The first thing she did was unzip her flight suit, the stiff material peeling away from her skin.
Her gloves and helmet hit the desk.
She rolled her shoulders, stretching out the lingering tension in her muscles.
Then—
She collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The mattress was stiff. Military-issued.
She didn't care.
The exhaustion was catching up to her.
She turned her head slightly, gazing at the featureless metal walls of her quarters.
Her mind replayed the events of the day.
Every maneuver.
Every radio call.
Every second spent in the cockpit, staring into the vast, empty sky.
Her fingers absently traced the seams of the bed's fabric.
Then—
A quiet murmur escaped her lips.
"I hope I don't get sick…"
Carrier life was different.
The tight corridors.
The constant motion of the ship.
The limited space, the routines, the cold steel atmosphere.
She had never been stationed on a carrier before.
She had never lived at sea.
She knew some pilots who never adjusted—
Those who got seasick or felt trapped by the endless horizon of nothingness.
Would she be one of them?
She exhaled sharply, pushing the thought away.
It didn't matter.
Because this wasn't a temporary assignment.
She wasn't here to adjust—
She was here to fight.
And the question lingering in her mind—
The one she couldn't yet answer—
How long would this war last?
How long until they could fly without fearing the next missile lock?
How long until they could return home?
Would they return home?
She let her eyes close for a moment.
Tomorrow, the real fight began.
For now—
All she could do was wait.