Providing Cover

A Week Later…

After the success of the last operation, the tide had begun to shift. Half of Drowned Squadron no longer believed Furina was the one who assassinated the former President of Teyvat. But skepticism still lingered. Some still whispered, still sneered behind her back. To them, she was still the murderer of Imena.

But Furina didn't care.

Her name had begun to spread. Not just through the squadron. Not just through the ranks. But beyond. The Teyvat United Peacekeeping Force had taken notice.

They were watching.

Korovograd Air Force Base was quiet that morning. The sky hung low, thick with slate-gray clouds. The wind carried the cold bite of an oncoming storm, whispering through the airfield, howling softly against the buildings.

Furina stood alone on the rooftop of the base's main building, leaning forward against the metal railing. From up here, she could see the distant mountains, their jagged peaks shrouded in mist.

She inhaled, eyes half-lidded, letting the wind whip against her face, letting it toss her hair freely. The cold didn't bother her. The solitude didn't bother her.

For the first time in a long time, her mind felt clear.

And yet, despite the storm brewing around her—both in the skies and in the war—she allowed herself the smallest of smiles.

Because for once, she wasn't alone.

Two people had proven themselves to be more than just wingmen.

Clorinde. Wriothesley.

Two pilots. Two allies.

She sighed, eyes locked onto the mountains.

"Clorinde and Wriothesley are both great pilots... but why the hell do they treat us like we're on death row?"

Her fingers gripped the railing tighter.

And then, another thought.

"Snezhnayan drones that fly like us... that maneuver like us..."

Her breath hitched. A sharp memory cut through her mind.

One Week Earlier—Furina's Room

It wasn't a fancy place. Just a small barracks room with a bed, a desk, and a single window that barely let in any light. Furina sat on the edge of her bed, one leg crossed over the other, while Clorinde and Wriothesley took the chairs by the desk. The air was thick with discussion, the low hum of the base outside barely noticeable.

The conversation had turned from idle chatter to something far more serious.

Furina leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "So what about the rest of the squadron? Why are they here?"

Wriothesley exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "No idea about Drowned Five through Eight, but…" He scowled. "Drowned Four? That guy's a fucking creep."

Furina raised an eyebrow. "Albert?"

Clorinde scoffed. "Yeah. Stalking charges. You know the singer-songwriter from Mondstadt? Barbara Pegg?"

Furina's eyes widened slightly. "Wait… Barbara Pegg? The pop idol?"

Wriothesley nodded. "Her sister, Jean Gunnhildr, is an Air Force pilot. Used to fly for the Mondstadt Air Force before transferring to the Teyvat Strategic Strike Group. Guess who used to serve in the same squadron?"

Furina's expression darkened. "Albert…"

Clorinde leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "Jean caught him stalking her sister's house. Apparently, he'd been at it for a while. Jean was—well, let's just say she was livid."

Furina shook her head in disgust. "I'd be livid too."

"Yeah," Clorinde muttered. "She beat his ass and had him arrested. Five days before the war even started."

There was a moment of silence.

Then, Wriothesley changed the subject. "By the way, I've been digging into something. Something you might want to remember, Furina."

She narrowed her eyes. "Enlighten me, Wolfbite."

Wriothesley leaned forward. "The Snezhnayan Air Force hired a weapons tech company called Imperatora Industries. And guess what?"

Furina said nothing. She was already listening intently.

"They were tasked with collecting flight data from real pilots—to feed into their drones."

Her jaw tightened. "You're telling me those things we fought were using real pilot data?"

Wriothesley shook his head. "Not yet. But they're working on it. And they've already got a pilot in mind."

Furina's heart skipped a beat.

"The Snezhnayan Air Force calls her The Knave."

Furina's expression hardened.

"A fighter pilot. Over a hundred confirmed kills. And in Snezhnaya, they call her the deadliest ace in the entire Air Force."

Clorinde and Wriothesley watched as Furina's hands curled into fists.

Wriothesley continued, "She's been deployed in this war. Last sighting? A black and red SU-57."

Furina's breath hitched.

Her mind reeled back. Operation Liberty.

A memory— Nocturne Two. A desperate voice over the radio. A missile alert.

And then—silence.

Furina snapped her gaze back to Wriothesley, her voice urgent. "How many SU-57s are in active service?"

Wriothesley raised his hands slightly. "Whoa, easy. There's five. But only one was deployed last month."

Her eyes twitched. "Calcagni."

Clorinde and Wriothesley exchanged glances. "Who?"

Furina inhaled sharply. "Nocturne Squadron's second pilot. My squadron."

Clorinde stiffened. "Wait… your old squadron?"

Furina nodded, her jaw clenched. "Yeah. Calcagni was shot down by an SU-57."

She turned to Wriothesley, her voice low and sharp. "Which operation was it deployed in?"

Wriothesley hesitated. "Last sighting was Operation Liberty."

Silence.

Furina exhaled. Her hands trembled slightly, but she forced them still. "…So it was her."

Nocturne Two was dead. Because of her.

Clorinde and Wriothesley didn't say anything. They just let Furina sit with the weight of it.

Furina's voice was cold. Steady.

"It doesn't matter. It won't bring her back."

She lifted her gaze, her expression unreadable.

"The only way to avenge her is to take The Knave down."

Wriothesley shook his head. "Furina, The Knave is… she's different. That SU-57 is stealth. It's damn near impossible to track."

Clorinde scoffed. "Stealth my ass. That thing's so big it takes up two parking spots. And it's detectable the second it enters radar range."

Wriothesley chuckled. "True. But it can outmaneuver anything."

Clorinde smirked. "Yeah? But not Furina's Rafale."

Wriothesley nodded. "Fair point." He glanced at Furina. "What the hell did Dassault do to your plane? That thing moves like it was built for airshows."

Furina chuckled darkly. "Beats the hell out of me. Even my old squadron asked the same question…"

Reality Crashes Back

Furina's mind snapped back to the present.

"The Knave... Friendly fighters piloted by enemy technology..."

Her jaw tightened. The idea was sickening—her comrades' instincts, their maneuvers, their very way of flying, being copied, twisted, and used against them.

She glanced at her watch. 12:50.

"Shit. Briefing's about to start."

She exhaled, straightened herself, and turned away from the railing. Boots clicking against concrete, she made her way back inside, down the cold, steel-lined corridors, descending into the underground levels of the base.

The briefing room was already packed when she arrived. The same pilots. The same weary, battle-worn faces. Some trusted her now. Others? Still skeptical.

She didn't hesitate. Didn't spare anyone a glance. She walked straight to the open seat by Clorinde and Wriothesley, settling in like she belonged.

Then the doors slammed open.

Commander Jakob entered, his presence cutting through the room like a blade. No wasted movements. No bullshit. Just straight to the point.

The screen flickered on, casting a cold blue glow over the pilots' faces. A map appeared—jagged mountain terrain, a twisting valley cutting through the heart of Volchiy Omut. Deep in Snezhnayan territory.

Jakob didn't waste time.

"Alright. It's time for you all to actually be useful."

The tension in the room tightened.

The map shifted, a new flight path drawn over it.

"The Teyvat Strategic Strike Group is deep in Snezhnayan airspace, running recon. Due to… certain 'factors' in their original route, they've had to make adjustments."

Another flicker. The route changed—a more direct path home.

"But that new route?" Jakob's voice was gravel. "It takes them straight through Volchiy Valley. Scenic. Snowy. Mountainous. And crawling with enemy radar and anti-air."

The room was dead silent.

Jakob continued, his gaze sharp.

"Their recon birds won't make it through alone. That's where you come in."

A pause. Then:

"Your mission is to escort Primordial Squadron out of the kill box and get them home. Even if it means putting your own asses on the line."

Another flicker. The display zoomed in. Red blips. Hostiles.

"And trust me—you will. Because they will send interceptors."

A longer pause. Then Jakob's voice dropped colder.

"And the weather?" His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smirk.

"Overcast. Heavy rain. Icing conditions. Zero visibility."

He let that hang in the air.

"You don't get a say in this. You sortie. Now. Dismissed."

The March to the Apron

The room erupted into motion. Pilots stood, boots scraping against the floor, heading straight for the tarmac. No hesitation. No bullshit.

Furina walked with them, the cold air hitting her like a slap as they stepped onto the vast apron.

But this time? Something was different.

Her Rafale wasn't buried in the back.

This time? It was parked at the front.

She stopped. Stared for a second.

"Finally." She smirked. "I'm first in the spot."

Clorinde stood beside her, arms crossed. "Looks like the ground crew finally grew a spine and arranged the planes properly—by callsign number."

Wriothesley nodded. "Yeah. There's some form of order now."

Furina chuckled, shaking her head. "Order? There's still one chaotic bastard. And so far? He's been the fucking hangman."

Clorinde laughed. "Oh, I know exactly who you're talking about."

Wriothesley smirked. "So do I. Zero kills. Loves hanging around a singer's house."

No names were said. None were needed.

The three of them shared a glance. A silent understanding.

Then—without another word—they split.

Furina and the Three Strikes

Furina walked towards her Rafale.

Even in the overcast gloom, its paint gleamed. Sleek. Clean. Untouched by dirt or wear. The best-maintained fighter on the tarmac.

But her gaze drifted to the tail.

The marks were still there.

Three sin lines. Three strikes.

Furina exhaled sharply, scowling.

"Once I'm out of here, I'm peeling that shit off."

She reached out, fingers brushing the paint protection film.

"Or hell—maybe it'll rip itself off with the speed I'm flying."

A bitter chuckle.

Then she climbed the inbuilt ladder, settling into the cockpit with the kind of practiced ease that only came from experience.

Helmet on.

Harness tight.

Flight plan reviewed.

Canopy sealed.

Engines hummed to life.

Outside, the storm loomed.

And inside?

Furina was ready.

Thirty Minutes Later – Volchiy Valley

The clouds hung low and heavy, swallowing the jagged peaks of Volchiy Valley in a dense, turbulent fog. Visibility? Absolute shit.

Furina led the formation, her Rafale slicing through the stormy skies like a blade. Thunder rumbled in the distance, echoing across the mountains. This wasn't just a battlefield—it was a goddamn death trap.

Then, a voice cut through the static—

AWACS Justice.

"Drowned Squadron, don't waste any time today. Take out all enemy AA and radar sites—quick and fast. ETA on Primordial Squadron's arrival: fifteen minutes."

Furina's grip on the stick tightened.

"And remember," Justice continued, "these sites are dug into the mountains. Rugged terrain, cloud cover—a whole lot of it."

Then—Drowned Eight's voice, laced with frustration.

"Hey! Who's the dumbass that came up with this fuckery of a plan!?"

A long-suffering sigh from Justice.

"Just obey the goddamned orders."

Furina smirked, fingers twitching over the throttle.

"Alright, let's turn and burn!"

She slammed the throttles forward, her afterburners igniting, punching through the thick patches of storm-laced clouds.

The rest of Drowned Squadron peeled off, breaking formation, each fighter diving into the fog-choked abyss to find their targets.

Time to work.

Through the Storm

Furina's HUD flickered. Interference.

The weather was hell. Winds howled. Rain lashed against the canopy. The clouds swirled, shifting in endless, suffocating waves.

She grit her teeth. This was bullshit.

Then—she remembered.

Her Rafale was fitted with an advanced IR camera system—cutting through weather like a damn god's eye.

She tapped her central display.

Radar—active.

TAC Mode—enabled.

Two new windows flared to life—one fixed on the ground, the other aligned with her nose cam.

The feed? Crystal clear.

A shark-like grin.

"Sweet. Love ya, Dassault."

Her eyes locked onto her first target—an AA gun with a radar dish.

She pushed forward, slicing through the cloud cover, descending fast.

Lock.

TONE.

"Fox Three!"

A laser-guided bomb detached, screaming toward the ground.

Furina yanked the stick hard, pulling into a steep climb just as the explosion erupted behind her.

"Drowned One, direct hit!"

Another explosion.

"Drowned Three, target destroyed!"

And another.

"Drowned Two, target destroyed!"

AWACS Justice's voice crackled through the comms.

"I'll hand it to you, Drowned Squadron. You're doing well. Six more to go."

Furina's eyes darted across her radar display.

There.

Another SAM site tucked against a mountain ridge. Beside it—a radar vehicle.

She exhaled sharply.

This one was gonna be tricky.

The Mountain Strike

Furina yanked back on the stick—vertical climb.

Her stomach twisted as her Rafale shot upward, slicing through the storm, G-forces slamming against her chest.

Then—she inverted.

The world flipped upside-down, the ground rushing into view as she dove—fast, steep, merciless.

Her targeting system locked on.

TONE.

"Bombs away!"

The moment she released, she yanked the stick back—her fighter groaning as she pulled up just meters from the rocky surface.

Then—impact.

A shockwave rattled the airframe.

"Drowned One, SAM site down!"

The radio erupted with more confirmations—

"Drowned Five, SAM site and radar destroyed!"

"Drowned Eight, AA gun and radar destroyed!"

"Drowned Six, SAM site and radar facility destroyed!"

The squadron was tearing through the enemy's defenses like a scalpel.

Then—a new voice.

Primordial Squadron Arrives

Female. Confident. Commanding.

"Air Force Base 51, this is Primordial One. We are seven aircraft. Standby—we're arriving shortly. Be advised: we're low on ammunition. Engagement will be difficult."

Furina's smirk faltered for just a moment.

Then she whispered, almost to herself—

"Jean Gunnhildr... Dandelion."

AWACS Justice responded immediately.

"Primordial One, this is Justice. Mission's almost complete. Standby."

Then—the final three strikes.

Furina locked onto a SAM site— "Fox Three!"

Wriothesley blasted an AA site— "Scratch one!"

Clorinde nailed another SAM— "Good hit!"

Then—silence.

A moment of relief.

Then AWACS Justice's voice returned—calm.

"All targets destroyed. No complaints here."

Furina sighed, sinking slightly into her seat.

But before anyone could breathe easy—

Justice's voice snapped—sharper, angrier.

"Except for you, Drowned Four. What in Archon's name are you doing!?"

A pause. Then—a sheepish, pathetic voice.

"...I... uhh…"

Justice didn't even let him finish.

"Save it! Your ass is in solitary again! Useless."

The squadron's comms went dead silent.

Then, someone chuckled.

Furina?

She just smirked.

"Alright," she exhaled, rolling her shoulders. "Escort duty begins. Let's get them home."

Chaos in the Skies – The Drone Ambush

"All Aircraft! This is Dandelion! Primordial Squadron is being chased by drones! Take them out!"

Furina's gut twisted.

Fucking drones. Again.

AWACS Justice's voice followed—sharp, urgent.

"Drowned Squadron! Eliminate those drones!"

Then—the boom of thunder.

A deep, rolling roar that shook the sky as Primordial Squadron scattered.

One pilot, Spindrift, screamed over the radio, panic creeping into her voice—

"If things can get worse—LIGHTNING! If we get hit, we're done for!"

Dandelion's voice cut through, firm and unshaken.

"Primordial Squadron! Get above the clouds—NOW."

The seven fighters of Primordial Squadron punched upward, disappearing into the storm-choked abyss.

For a moment—silence.

Then—they broke through.

A scattered formation, drones swarming like vultures.

Furina's grip tightened. Her eyes flicked to her radar—fourteen targets.

Her heartbeat kicked up.

"Drowned Squadron, let's help our friends!"

Her squad snapped into action, breaking formation and diving into the fight.

One Kill, Two on Her Tail

Furina spotted her first target.

A drone was chasing Primordial One—Dandelion herself.

She dived in, radar screaming—lock acquired.

TONE.

"Fox Three!"

A long-range missile tore through the sky, slamming into the drone with a violent detonation.

AWACS Justice confirmed, "Waltz—nice work. Primordial One, you're in the clear. Break away!"

Jean's voice followed, calm but grateful.

"Waltz, thank you. Primordial One—breaking away."

She banked hard, veering toward safety.

But then—

Furina's warning systems shrieked.

Two drones— tailing her.

A new voice cut in—Primordial Two, Outrider.

"Waltz! Behind you!"

Furina smirked.

"Not today, you unmanned piece of shit."

She slammed her throttles idle, pulling the stick hard back—

Her Rafale pitched up—hard—90 degrees.

Outrider's voice cracked over the radio, shocked.

"Holy shit! What in the hell!?"

The UAVs overshot, unable to match the maneuver.

Furina pitched her nose down—locked on.

TONE.

"Fox Three!"

She broke away just as both drones exploded.

AWACS Justice's voice followed—

"Splash Two, Waltz! Good work!"

Another drone down—this time chasing Primordial Two.

"Splash one, Drowned Two! Good work!"

Outrider's voice crackled through.

"Thanks for the help! Primordial Two—breaking away!"

Another.

"Splash one, Drowned Six!"

"Primordial Three—breaking away! Thanks!"

And another.

"Splash one, Drowned Eight!"

Primordial Five, Raiden, checked in.

"Thanks for the help! Primordial Five—breaking off!"

The battlefield was shifting.

The drones—once overwhelming—were now being picked apart.

Praise from the Primordials

As the fight raged, Primordial Squadron took notice.

Primordial Three, Tianquan, spoke first.

"For a Spare Squadron… they have incredible formation."

Outrider agreed.

"Yeah. And whoever's leading them? One hell of a pilot. A Pugachev maneuver in a Typhoon!? Incredible!"

Furina clenched her jaw, forcing words past the G-forces as she dove after another drone.

"No... This... Is.. A... Ra—Rafale!"

TONE.

Lock.

She fired.

"Fox Two!"

A Sidewinder screamed off the rails—direct hit.

AWACS confirmed it.

"Another hit, Waltz! Good work."

Primordial Four, Spindrift, came through.

"Thank you, Waltz! Primordial Four—breaking away!"

Then—two more targets.

Primordial Six and Seven—being hounded by drones.

"Get these things off my ass!" Primordial Seven barked.

Furina pulled into a steep climb, rolling into position.

Lock.

TONE.

"Fox Three!"

Two LCAA missiles streaked away—both drones obliterated.

AWACS confirmed.

"All targets destroyed!"

Primordial Six, Cullinen, radioed in—his voice shaking.

"Th—thank you, Waltz! Primordial Six, breaking off!"

Then, the last one—Primordial Seven, Kiongozi.

"Thank you for the assistance, Waltz! Primordial Seven—breaking off!"

Mission Accomplished

AWACS Justice's voice came over the radio, calmer now.

"Mission accomplished. RTB."

Then—his tone darkened.

"As for you, Drowned Four—you need to get your fucking ass out of the goddamned gutter and start shooting down enemies. Three in a row, and you didn't fire a single missile. You are useless. Absolutely useless."

A long, painful silence followed.

Then—Dandelion.

"Justice. Who is the lead flight of the squadron? Tell him—or her—I'm grateful."

AWACS responded, his voice steady.

"The best pilot I've ever seen in this damned squadron. Drowned One. TAC Name—Waltz."

Then, his final call.

"Everyone, RTB."

Furina exhaled, a smirk tugging at her lips.

She rolled her Rafale, breaking into formation for the flight home.

Mission success.

A Warning Too Late

Just as the tension settled, AWACS Justice's voice cut through the radio again—urgent, sharp.

"Everyone, stand by! Fast-moving bogey!"

Then—

"Stalker! It's heading to you!"

Furina's blood ran cold.

"All available aircraft, support Drowned Four!"

She didn't hesitate.

Throttle—FULL.

She wrenched her Rafale into a hard turn, closing the distance.

"Waltz engaging! Hang on tight!"

Then—Albert's voice, crackling with stubborn defiance.

"No! I got this! I'm no Hangman! I'll show you all!"

Furina cursed.

The F/A-18—Albert's plane—was being hunted.

By a sleek, black-and-red fighter.

A cold, unnatural shape.

Then—AWACS Justice confirmed it.

"All aircraft, it's a Red-and-Black SU-57!"

Furina's heart stopped.

Then, a new voice—

Dandelion.

"That's the Knave!"

The radio crackled again—Albert's panicked voice.

"It's glued to my tail! But it's still not firing!"

AWACS Justice barked, voice strained.

"DROWNED FOUR, DO NOT DOGFIGHT IT! I REPEAT, DO NOT DOGFIGHT IT!"

Albert scoffed, defiant.

"No. I'm no Hangman!"

He pitched up hard, attempting the Pugachev Cobra.

Trying to mimic Furina.

But he wasn't her.

The F/A-18 climbed too fast.

The SU-57 followed—effortlessly.

A lock.

A tone.

A missile away.

A direct hit.

Static.

The F/A-18 was gone.

The SU-57 sliced through the smoke.

Then—a new voice.

Cold. Detached.

"You could have done that sooner, Knave."

A second voice—the Knave herself.

"I always try to understand the enemy."

AWACS Justice's voice was grim.

"Drowned Four—lost."

Furina clenched her teeth.

"Alright, you bastard. Let's see how you fly."

The Duel—Knave vs. Waltz

She slammed her throttles forward, the afterburners roaring to life as she locked onto the SU-57.

The enemy fighter dived below the clouds, streaking low through the mountains.

Furina followed.

AWACS Justice's voice barked, frantic.

"WALTZ, DO NOT ENGAGE!"

She ignored it.

She lined up the shot—fired her machine gun.

Two rounds hit.

The SU-57 didn't even flinch.

She fired again.

More hits.

Still nothing.

"What the hell is her plane made of!?"

Frustration burned in her chest.

Missiles.

She switched—locked on.

Tone.

"FOX TWO!"

The missile streaked forward—

The SU-57 pulled into a Pugachev Cobra.

Furina overshot.

And just like that—the Knave was behind her.

"Shit."

Then—the warning tone.

Missile launch.

Furina's instincts screamed.

She slammed her throttles idle, pulling hard back on the stick, kicking the rudder.

The Rafale pitched up—

90-degree vertical climb—

Then spun—

A perfect Pugachev Cobra.

Now—she was chasing the Knave.

The enemy radio crackled.

"She's a good pilot. A very good one indeed."

Another voice.

"Knave, the weather is getting bad. RTB."

The Knave hesitated.

Then—

"Fine."

The SU-57's afterburners roared, the sleek fighter punching above the clouds.

Furina chased—but as she broke through the cloud cover—

Gone.

"WHERE DID IT GO!?"

AWACS Justice responded.

"She's long gone, Waltz. Return to your squadron."

The Aftermath

Furina exhaled sharply, banking back toward her squadron.

Drowned Five's voice came through, bitter.

"Kindness can get you killed, Waltz."

Furina scoffed.

"Shut your damn trap, Drowned Five."

AWACS Justice, surprisingly, defended her.

"She tried. But she held her own. RTB."

Then—Dandelion, Jean Gunnhildr, spoke again.

"Hey, Justice. Who was that pilot that chased the Knave?"

Justice responded without hesitation.

"That would be Waltz."

A pause.

Then—Jean's voice, curious.

"And the real name of this pilot?"

Justice replied.

"Furina de Fontaine."

Then—Jean addressed her directly.

"Furina. This is Dandelion—Jean Gunnhildr. Great work holding up. Still begs the question—why are you in this hellhole in the first place?"

Furina scoffed.

"It's complicated."

AWACS Justice cut back in.

"Primordial Squadron, head toward Korovograd Airbase. You can rest and refuel there. But I doubt you have enough fuel."

Jean responded.

"Sure thing. Thanks for the help."

The two squadrons formed up, flying together toward Korovograd Air Base.

The battle was over.

But Furina's war was far from finished.

Aftermath—The Question That Lingers

Hours later, the Drowned Squadron touched down, engines cooling in the cold air of Korovograd Air Base.

Despite the loss of Albert, Drowned Four, there was no room for grief.

Not in this place.

Maybe… it was for the better.

They gathered in the briefing room, the weight of battle still lingering in the air.

For once—Commander Jakob looked impressed.

The timeline of the mission played on the screen—AA eliminations, drone engagements, the final dogfight.

Then—his verdict.

"Good work, Drowned Squadron. You did great as escorts. Today, nobody is going into solitary. Keep it up. Dismissed."

For once, no punishments.

The Commander left to debrief the Primordial Squadron.

Furina leaned back in her seat, a rare look of satisfaction on her face.

Clorinde turned to her.

"What in the hell was that, Furina? An SU-57?"

Furina nodded. "Yeah. Apparently, it's the Knave."

Wriothesley, arms crossed, frowned. "The Knave? Did it have the same paint scheme?"

Furina confirmed. "Yep. Black and red. With a red X on the tail."

She thought back to the fight—

The impossible maneuvers.

The ruthless precision.

The eerie composure over the radio.

The Knave was a monster in the sky.

And yet—

For Furina—

It was exhilarating.

But now, a new question lingered.

Can Waltz take out the Knave?

And—

What is the Knave's real name?