Friendly Fire
Five Days Later…
Charybdis Air Force Base was alive with movement, the usual chaos heightened by an unusual sight—trucks rolling out, crates being secured, and soldiers hauling supplies as if the entire base was uprooting itself. Helicopters idled in the distance, their rotor blades slicing through the frigid air, while the scent of jet fuel and oil clung to everything like a second skin.
Furina stood with her arms crossed, her sharp blue eyes sweeping over the scene. Beside her, Clorinde remained as composed as ever, while Wriothesley leaned casually against a railing, watching the organized frenzy unfold. The three of them stood near the flightline, where the aircraft of Drowned Squadron sat in silence—predators waiting to be unleashed.
One by one, transport trucks rumbled by. One by one, squads of soldiers marched past, their boots hammering against the tarmac.
Furina exhaled through her nose. "Packing up already."
Clorinde smirked slightly. "Looks like it's happening."
Furina shot her a glance. "On the brink of being pardoned, huh?"
Wriothesley gave a slow nod. "Yeah. And it looks like that all comes down to this next operation."
Furina rolled her shoulders, tension melting away—just a little. "Finally. We might just be out of this hellhole soon."
Clorinde folded her arms. "And pardoned…"
Furina let out a dry chuckle, shaking her head. "About damn time."
The cold wind carried the distant hum of engines and the sharp tang of metal, a familiar cocktail of scents before a major operation.
She pulled back her sleeve and glanced at her watch. 13:30. Time was slipping away fast.
She lowered her arm and turned to the others. "Alright, let's move. Last thing we need is to be late and get our asses thrown into solitary."
Wriothesley smirked. Clorinde chuckled. "Right."
And with that, they headed for the briefing room.
The Briefing – Zimorodny Cliffs Raid
By the time Furina, Clorinde, and Wriothesley stepped inside, the briefing room was already packed.
The air was thick—a suffocating mixture of sweat, exhaustion, and tension. The dim yellow glow of overhead lights flickered against the dull gray walls, the scent of worn leather flight suits and old jet fuel clinging to everything.
At the front, Commander Jakob stood with his usual imposing presence.
Expression cold. Eyes sharp.
The moment his gaze swept the room, the murmuring died.
Furina and the others took their seats at the front as the display screen flickered to life, revealing a topographical map. Snow-covered peaks. Treacherous valleys. Zimorodny Cliffs.
A blood-red overlay marked the battlefield.
Jakob exhaled sharply, his voice cutting through the silence.
"Alright. Seems like Headquarters is starting to view some of you as actual fighter pilots."
A pause. Then, his expression darkened.
"But let's be real here—it's all bullshit. Just rumors."
A chill settled over the room.
Every pilot sat rigid, their eyes locked onto him.
"Let's get one thing straight."
Jakob's glare was sharp as a blade, his voice dropping to a razor's edge.
"You're still criminals. You're here to atone for your mistakes by carrying out these missions. Don't let that fact slip from your thick skulls."
The atmosphere turned frigid.
Then—
A scoff.
From the back, a voice rang out—dry, bitter.
"And what? You sit here all day collecting medals while we do the dirty work?"
Silence.
The room froze.
Jakob's expression didn't even flicker. His gaze shifted, locking onto the source—Drowned Six.
The look he gave promised death.
"Your ass—solitary. Now. You don't get to do this mission."
Two MPs stepped forward instantly, grabbing Drowned Six before he could even react.
"Wait, Commander—!"
"Shut it. Get him out of my sight."
The metal doors slammed shut, the echo ringing through the room like a final nail in a coffin.
Jakob turned back to the squadron—completely unfazed.
The briefing continued.
The display screen flicked to a grainy satellite image of a communications facility buried deep within the cliffs.
Radar towers. Satellite dishes. Transmission hubs.
A nerve center.
"We've identified Snezhnayan communication facilities up north at Zimorodny Cliffs."
Jakob pointed to the map, his tone as cold as the landscape.
"This facility is directly responsible for controlling the drone squadrons we've been facing. Take it out, and we cripple their ability to deploy autonomous units."
The map zoomed in. A red circle marked the target.
The terrain was a nightmare—steep ridges, harsh crosswinds, and ice-laden valleys.
And then—the real problem.
"But don't expect this to be easy."
Jakob's eyes flicked across the room.
"The entire region is under constant surveillance by a Snezhnayan spy satellite."
Furina's fingers instinctively tightened around the armrest of her chair.
Shit.
Jakob continued, unflinching.
"If you get caught, expect anti-air missiles to be launched straight at you."
A brief pause.
"Unless you have a fucking death wish, you'll use the clouds as cover. Stick to the base of the mountains. Keep low."
Pilots exchanged uneasy glances.
Flying low through the cliffs while dodging a satellite and missile fire?
Not just difficult—suicidal.
Jakob folded his arms.
"And if they do fire on you—"
He leaned forward, voice ice-cold.
"You hide. Use the clouds to shake them off. Otherwise, you might as well start reciting your last rites now."
No one spoke.
No one dared to speak.
Jakob straightened.
"Sortie now. Dismissed."
One by one, the pilots stood, their boots thudding against the metal floor as they marched toward the flightline—
Where fate awaited them.
Sortie – Into the Frozen Hell
The tarmac pulsed with motion, sound, and tension.
Trucks rumbled past, engines growling as they hauled crates stacked with missiles, bombs, and spare parts. Mechanics barked orders over the roar of idling fighter jets, their voices cutting through the thick haze of exhaust and jet fuel. The scent of burnt fuel, grease, and cold metal clung to the air—the unmistakable stench of war, always on the move.
Furina walked alongside Clorinde and Wriothesley, her gaze sweeping across the chaotic scene.
A sharp exhale left her lips.
"Tch. Rumor my ass. This place is busy as hell."
Clorinde remained composed, but the sharpness in her eyes said everything.
"That's the commander for you. Always feeding lies and collecting medals."
Wriothesley crossed his arms, scanning the swarm of soldiers and mechanics.
"Yeah. And now, with one pilot out of the game, it's just us five to finish the mission."
Furina rolled her shoulders, exhaling.
"Yep. And I pray to God this is the last one."
The weight in her voice wasn't lost on them.
They had flown sortie after sortie, cheated death more times than they could count, and lost even more. All for the chance of being pardoned.
One last mission.
That was all it took.
One more.
Then maybe—just maybe—they could leave this frozen hell behind.
Without another word, the trio parted, each heading for their aircraft.
Furina's Lifeline – The Rafale Évolution
Furina's Rafale M Évolution sat exactly as she had left it—pristine, deadly, perfect.
The cleanest, most well-maintained aircraft on the base.
It was her lifeline.
Her weapon.
Her cage.
The others weren't as lucky.
All but one aircraft were war-torn, patched up with whatever the mechanics could scavenge. Fading paint. Burned metal. Ghosts of past battles etched into their airframes.
If the rumors were true—if Headquarters was finally recognizing them as real pilots—then maybe they'd get something better than these flying coffins.
But right now?
They had one mission left.
Furina climbed the built-in ladder of her Rafale, gloved fingers grazing the cold metal as she hoisted herself into the ejection seat.
Settling in, she yanked the harness tight, locking herself into place.
A deep breath.
Her helmet rested in her lap, the visor reflecting the dim lights of the hangar.
For a moment, she just stared at it.
Fingers lingered over the smooth, cold surface.
"One more mission…" she muttered.
"I hope."
How much longer can I endure this?
Who the fuck knows…
Without another thought, she pulled the helmet over her head, adjusting it until it locked into place. Then, she reached for her oxygen mask, snapping it over her mouth with a sharp click.
No more time to waste.
The canopy sealed shut with a pressurized hiss.
Furina's hands moved on instinct, flicking switches in rapid succession.
Engine Two—start.
The deep whine of the Snecma M88 turbofan roared to life.
Engine One—start.
Her HUD flickered on, bathing the cockpit in cold blue light.
Three waypoints flashed on the screen.
Home.
Enemy Territory Entrance.
Area of Operation.
She exhaled through her nose.
No turning back now.
Pushing the throttle forward, her Rafale rolled onto the taxiway, cutting through the exhaust haze as she led the squadron toward the runway.
Behind her, Clorinde's Su-27 Flanker and Wriothesley's Mirage 2000-5 trailed closely.
Then came the last two aircraft—an aging Eurofighter Typhoon and an older-model F-16—rolling into position.
Final checks.
Final moments of silence.
Then—
Clearance granted.
One by one, engines screamed as the fighters tore down the runway.
Wheels lifted.
The ground disappeared beneath them.
And the sky swallowed them whole.
The Ascent – Flight to Zimorodny Cliffs
The squadron climbed through freezing Snezhnayan airspace, the world below vanishing into an endless sea of clouds.
Far ahead, beyond the veil of ice and wind, lay Zimorodny Cliffs—a graveyard of jagged peaks and frozen valleys.
One last battle.
One last fight.
Then, freedom.
Furina's grip tightened around the sidestick.
"Let's get this over with."
The Sky is Ours
The Zimorodny Cliffs stretched out before them, jagged peaks stabbing through the thick, low-hanging clouds like the spires of some ancient fortress. A sea of gray mist rolled through the valleys, swirling and shifting like a living thing, eager to hide the enemy's presence.
Furina led the formation, her Rafale M slicing through the dense air, flanked by the rest of Drowned Squadron. The atmosphere inside the cockpit was thick with tension. Everyone knew the stakes—stay low, stay fast, strike hard.
Then, the radio crackled to life.
AWACS Justice, ever the condescending bastard, barked over comms.
"The enemy is watching from above. So stay below the overcast clouds unless you want a fucking missile up your ass."
A brief pause.
"If you are below, no missile. If you climb, you're a dead man. Your dumbasses must understand that."
Clorinde scoffed, rolling her eyes as she pulled her Su-30 into a slight bank.
"Talk about an enclosed space, Justice."
Justice chuckled dryly. "If you want 'enclosed,' your ass would be in solitary. Now shut up and commence the damn operation."
Furina smirked.
"Alright, let's get to work."
She pushed the throttles forward, the M88 engines roaring as her Rafale dove into the valleys below. The terrain was tight and unforgiving—looming rock formations flashed past her canopy, forcing her to make quick, precise adjustments.
A sharp left. Hard bank right. A sudden drop to stay below the ridgeline.
The G-forces tugged at her body as she pulled a tight high-speed turn, the mist swirling in her wake. This was knife-fighting in the mountains, and one mistake meant death.
Then—a radar tower loomed ahead, standing tall above the clouds.
Furina's fingers tightened around the stick.
Tone. Lock.
The missile growl filled her headset, the sound rising to a sharp, insistent whine.
"Fox Three!"
The LACM tore away from her wing, the missile shuddering as it cleared the pylon before streaking toward the target.
A heartbeat later—impact.
The tower erupted in a fiery explosion, debris raining down the mountainside.
Justice's Bullshit
Justice's voice cut in, sharp and grating.
"Waltz! Ass back in the clouds!"
Furina scowled.
"Why don't you shut the fuck up and let us do our work? If you want those radar sites destroyed, then you have no choice but to let us climb above the clouds!"
She didn't wait for a response. Nosing down, she plunged back into the mist, the cold vapor streaking across the canopy.
Ahead, the valley split into two paths.
Left: A narrow canyon leading to another radar site, but further away.
Right: A closer radar site, but the terrain was brutal—one wrong move and you'd be a smear on the cliffs.
Furina made her decision.
"Drowned Three, take the left valley and hit the far radar site."
Wriothesley responded instantly. "Wilco, Waltz. Breaking left!"
His Mirage 2000 rolled smoothly before disappearing into the canyon.
The rest of the squadron stayed on course, dodging flak and weaving through ground fire. The sky above them was a death trap—enemy satellites scanning for any movement above the clouds.
One by one, kill confirmations came through.
"Drowned Two, AA site destroyed."
"Drowned Six, SAM site neutralized."
"Drowned Eight, SAM site down."
The Climb for the Kill
Furina locked onto the next radar tower, her eyes flicking between her HUD and the terrain ahead.
She pulled back on the stick, feeling the Rafale strain as it surged upward through the mist.
The moment she cleared the overcast layer, sunlight flooded her cockpit—blinding for a split second—before her HUD flashed solid red.
Lock acquired.
She didn't hesitate.
"Fox Three!"
The LACM streaked toward the target.
Impact.
The radar installation vanished in a fiery eruption, sending a plume of smoke curling into the sky.
Justice's voice returned, laced with frustration.
"Another radar site destroyed. However, the satellite is still operational."
Furina gritted her teeth.
"Holy fucking shit, Justice, shut the fuck up!"
Justice sighed.
Then—boom.
Another fireball.
"Radar site destroyed. Drowned Three, good kill."
Wriothesley nosed back down, rejoining the formation.
Final Approach
Furina pushed the Rafale to its limits, weaving through the valley at breakneck speed.
Hard left. Hard right. Hairpin right.
The IFF lit up—one more radar site ahead.
She pulled the stick back, breaking through the cloud layer one last time.
Tone. Lock.
Furina grinned.
"Bon voyage!"
The missile shot off her wingtip.
Impact.
A blinding explosion sent shockwaves rolling through the valley. Furina rolled inverted over the wreckage before diving back into the mist.
Justice's voice came through, this time almost relieved.
"All radar sites destroyed. That should put a stop to their satellite missile capabilities."
Then, a pause.
"Someone fly above the clouds and test it out."
Drowned Six chimed in immediately. "You do it, Drowned Eight."
Drowned Eight snapped back. "Hell no. You do it."
Furina groaned, exasperated.
"If neither of you dipshits will do it, then I will."
She slammed the throttles forward, feeling the raw power of the M88 engines as she climbed.
3,000 feet.
3,500 feet.
4,000 feet.
Her RWR stayed silent. No locks. No warnings.
She leveled off, exhaling as she gazed out over the endless sky.
"We're in the clear."
For the first time that day, a wave of cheers erupted over the radio.
The entire squadron broke above the clouds, forming up in a tight combat spread alongside Furina's Rafale.
The sky was finally theirs.
But Then—Urgency.
AWACS Justice's voice crackled through the radio, but this time, it wasn't the usual measured tone. There was an edge to it—something just off.
"Wait. Hold on."
Furina's stomach dropped. Justice never hesitated like that.
Clorinde, already keyed up from the mission, snapped, "Ugh! What now!?"
But Justice wasn't talking to them anymore. His voice now broadcasted over an open frequency.
"This is the 51st Teyvat Spare Squadron. What is your affiliation!?"
Silence.
Then—movement.
Through the wispy tops of the overcast, seven F/A-18s emerged, their formation too precise, too deliberate. A textbook 'V'—the kind seen in coordinated strikes. Their contrails carved through the sky like silent blades, cutting across the void.
Justice's voice sharpened.
"Allied fighters. Respond."
Nothing. No comms. No wing waves. No sign of acknowledgment.
And then—
ALARM.
The shrill wail of missile lock warnings flooded every cockpit.
Furina's pulse spiked. Her fingers tightened around the stick.
"H-Hey! What the hell!?" she barked.
Clorinde cursed. "I got locked on!"
Wriothesley's voice flared over the radio. "Same here! What the fuck!? They're marked as friendlies!"
Furina's breath caught. No. This isn't right. This isn't protocol. Every instinct screamed at her—
"SHIT! EVERYONE, DIVE BELOW THE CLOUDS!"
She yanked the stick back, flipping her Rafale into a gut-wrenching dive. The overcast swallowed her whole, her stomach lurching as the G-forces clamped down on her body.
The others followed—Clorinde, Wriothesley, Drowned Six, Drowned Eight—dropping into the misty abyss like falling stars.
But the bogeys didn't hesitate. They followed, predatory, diving after them with intent.
Then—Justice's voice, urgent.
"SHIT! THEY AREN'T ALLIES!"
Wriothesley growled. "Are they spoofing our IFF!?"
Justice's response was grim. "No. The IFF is linked directly to our satellite. They can't crack it. These birds are real. And they're hostile."
The realization hit like a hammer.
This was a setup.
Furina clenched her teeth. "Goddamn it! Now what!? Stay below the clouds and wait to fucking die!?"
Clorinde wasn't having it. "We can't just sit here and get picked apart!"
Justice barked back. "Goddamn it, NOT RIGHT NOW!"
Then—an idea.
Clorinde's voice cut through the chaos.
"EVERYONE! GATHER AROUND WALTZ!"
Confused responses fired back—
Drowned Eight: "What!? Why!?"
Clorinde: "Justice! Can you register Waltz and any blips SURROUNDING her as friendlies!? If we're too far, tag us as enemies!"
Justice exhaled sharply. "You're insane—"
"JUST DO IT!"
Silence. Then—Justice relented.
"Fine. Waltz, you're the nucleus. Get moving."
Furina hauled her Rafale upward, tearing back through the mist. She skimmed along the jagged peaks of the mountains, hugging their ridgelines.
One by one, her squadron re-emerged—Clorinde sliding into position to her right, Wriothesley to her left, Drowned Six and Eight locking in at her six.
Her HUD flickered—IFF recalibrating.
Justice's voice crackled through the radio. "I'm on it. Drowned Six, Eight, confirm position."
Drowned Six responded, tense. "Right behind Waltz."
Another flicker.
Then—the enemy tags switched.
The seven F/A-18s turned red.
Justice's voice was grim, but sure. "IFF updated. Those fuckers are fair game. Take them out!"
Furina bared her teeth. "Roger that. EVERYONE—BREAK!"
Clorinde snapped right. Wriothesley rolled hard left.
Drowned Eight and Six peeled off, flanking opposite directions.
Furina punched the throttles forward, surging toward the lead F/A-18.
The fight had just begun.
Missiles and Chaos
As the dogfight erupted, a new alarm blared across the radios.
AWACS Justice's voice cut through the comms, urgent, sharp.
"ALERT! INCOMING PROJECTILE!"
Furina's patience snapped.
"FUCKING HELL, WHAT IS IT NOW!?" she roared.
Justice barely had time to respond. "Goddamn it, not right now!"
Wriothesley let out a slow exhale. "That doesn't sound too good."
But Furina had no time for that.
Her Rafale's tone sang.
Lock.
"Fox Three!"
An HCAA missile roared from under her wing, streaking ahead.
BOOM. Direct hit. One enemy gone.
Before she could celebrate—Justice's voice dropped another hammer.
"HQ just gave us intel. It's called the Bezglubok."
Then—
A blinding blue explosion detonated above them.
The shockwave slammed against their airframes, sending turbulence rattling through their jets.
Furina's instincts screamed—
"SHIT! BREAK AWAY!"
She ripped the stick to the side, banking violently as the expanding blast wave clawed at her.
Then, Justice's voice, grim as death—
"These are long-range missiles from Sepharis Birds."
Furina's blood turned to ice.
Her fists slammed against the canopy glass.
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!?"
Sepharis Birds.
Snezhnaya's elite. The most ruthless, most heavily armed squadrons in the world.
Before she could process it—
AWACS Justice confirmed the worst.
"SPLASH ONE! DROWNED THREE!"
"SPLASH ONE! DROWNED SIX!"
The radio fell into stunned silence.
Jets were falling.
One by one.
Furina's breath hitched. Her chest heaved as her HUD flickered with the dwindling count of friendlies.
"Not fucking today."
She whipped her Rafale toward another target.
Lock.
"Fox Two!"
A Sidewinder spiraled off her rail, cutting through the sky.
AWACS confirmed: "Splash One! Four left!"
Then—another blue detonation.
Another Bezglubok.
It bloomed dangerously close to Drowned Six.
"SHIT! BREAKING AWAY!"
Clorinde's voice snapped.
Lock.
"Fox Three!"
BOOM. Another enemy down.
Justice's voice crackled. "Three to go!"
Furina was already on another—
Then—her radar blared.
Missile warning.
AWACS Justice's voice rang through her headset.
"WALTZ! MISSILE INCOMING! EVADE, EVADE!"
Furina reacted on instinct.
She slammed the throttles to idle, yanked the stick back, and threw her Rafale into a near-vertical climb.
The F/A-18 on her tail overshot completely.
Furina smirked.
"Dumbass."
Lock.
"Fox Two!"
The missile found its mark.
AWACS confirmed: "Two to go!"
The battle raged on. And somewhere, just ahead—
The Sepharis Birds were watching.
AWACS confirmed, voice sharp and clear:
"Two to go!"
Wriothesley didn't waste time. He lined up the shot, his Mirage steady.
"Fox Three!"
BOOM. The missile found its mark, and another enemy fighter exploded in a fireball.
Justice's voice came through, strained but focused.
"One to go! Get it, Rapperia!"
The Wrong Lock
Clorinde locked onto the last target—her HUD flashing red.
But something felt off.
The IFF marked it as hostile, yet an unease crawled up her spine.
"I got a lock!" she reported, finger tensed over the trigger.
Then—
"RAPPERIA, DON'T FIRE! I GOT A LOCK!"
Wriothesley's voice cut through the comms like a blade.
Clorinde's eyes narrowed. "I'm locked onto an enemy!"
Wriothesley's response was tight, controlled, but urgent.
"I'll give a wing wave! See if it's me!"
Clorinde hesitated. "Wilco."
Across the battlefield, Wriothesley's Mirage rolled gently—left, then right.
A wing wave.
Clorinde's breath hitched.
She flicked her gaze back to her HUD.
The lock remained red. Still hostile.
Her fingers trembled over the trigger.
"Justice, what the hell!? Wolfbite got tagged as an enemy!"
A stunned silence from AWACS.
"What!?"
Furina's voice exploded over the comms, venomous.
"ARE YOU FUCKING TRYING TO MAKE RAPPERIA KILL WOLFBITE!?"
Justice sighed heavily, exhaustion clear in his voice.
"It was an accident!"
Furina slammed her fist against the canopy glass.
"DAMN IT!"
Justice exhaled. "Mission's done. RTB."
Drowned Squadron formed up, pulling into a tight V formation as they set course for home.
The Flight Home
Adrenaline still buzzed through their veins, but the worst was over.
The squadron cruised through the sky, riding the afterglow of victory.
Then—
"Rapperia to Waltz."
Furina glanced at her radar. "Go ahead, Rapperia."
A pause.
Then Clorinde asked, voice edged with something unreadable,
"Where are your three strikes?"
Furina blinked. "Huh?"
Wriothesley chimed in, just as puzzled.
"Yeah, same on the right side. Your strikes are gone."
Furina tilted her head slightly, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the canopy glass.
The tail of her Rafale was clean.
The three black slashes—the marks of her exile—were gone.
She smirked.
"Looks like the paint protection film decided to blow away."
Silence.
Then—laughter crackled over the comms, shaking off the last vestiges of tension.
Even Furina chuckled. Just for a moment, things felt lighter.
But beneath the humor, something burned in her mind.
That wasn't an accident.
Someone tampered with their IFF.
Someone wanted them to kill their own.
And this war was far from over.
Hours Later – The Calm After the Storm
The squadron made it back safely to Korovograd Air Base.
For the first time in weeks—maybe months—there were no alarms. No immediate threats. No frantic orders crackling through the radio.
The skies stretched out above them in hues of deep orange and fading purple, a dying sun casting its last golden light over the airbase.
No bullets. No missiles. No war.
Just… a strange, unfamiliar quiet.
The afterglow of battle had settled. The roaring flames, the spiraling contrails, the distant echoes of missile detonations—it was all in the past now.
And for once—just this once—
The base commander seemed… calm.
The Briefing Room – An Unspoken Acknowledgment
Inside the briefing room, the air was still.
No shouting.
No reprimands.
No threats of solitary confinement for failure.
Just… acceptance.
The grainy, static-filled mission footage flickered on the projector screen, replaying the battle they had just survived.
Their kills.
Their evasions.
Their close calls.
Their survival.
Commander Jakob stood at the front, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the screen.
No insults.
No biting remarks.
No sarcastic jabs.
Just silence.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke.
His voice was low, even… almost reluctant.
"There's nothing else to say about this mission."
A pause.
Then—
"But you all did good."
The words settled, heavier than any reprimand he had ever given.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Because for the first time in this godforsaken place—
They had been acknowledged.
A brief nod.
Then—"Dismissed."
And with that, Commander Jakob turned and walked out, his footsteps echoing down the hallway before fading into the stillness.
The pilots didn't linger.
There was no celebration.
No congratulations.
Just a quiet, unspoken understanding.
One by one, they stood.
Some headed to the barracks, searching for a few hours of sleep.
Some made their way to the mess hall, desperate for something that didn't taste like cardboard.
Some drifted toward the hangars, where their war machines sat cooling on the tarmac, waiting for the next battle that would inevitably come.
And then—there was Furina.
The Rooftop – A Moment of Stillness
She didn't follow the others.
Didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
Her boots carried her up the old, steel stairwell of the main building, the echo of her footsteps swallowed by the vastness of the airbase below.
Then—the rooftop.
A cold evening breeze greeted her, biting against her flight suit, wrapping around her like a silent embrace.
She inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering shut for just a second, letting the crisp air fill her lungs.
For once—the air wasn't thick with jet fuel and gunpowder.
For once—there was no urgency, no orders, no war pressing down on her.
She exhaled slowly, opening her eyes.
Her hair flowed freely, strands caught in the wind, dancing against the last golden light of the sun as it dipped below the horizon.
From up here, she could see everything.
The distant runway, lined with cooling fighters, their canopies reflecting the dying light.
The trucks moving in a steady rhythm, transporting equipment, refueling jets, preparing for something unseen.
The staff, the engineers, the mechanics—still moving, still working, still preparing.
Because the war wasn't over.
Not yet.
She sighed, watching as the last sliver of sunlight melted into the endless blue.
And then—almost unconsciously—
She began to hum.
A soft, familiar tune.
Her leitmotif.
Still nameless.
Still undefined.
But hers.
The melody drifted with the wind, a quiet whisper against the vast, empty sky.
It carried with it the echoes of battle.
The roar of missiles.
The deafening crack of cannon fire.
The desperate, breathless calls over the radio.
And yet—she didn't stop.
She kept humming.
And humming.
And humming.
Until—finally.
She felt at peace.
For the first time in a long, long while.
But was this truly the end?
Had the Teyvat Spare Squadron earned their pardon?
Or was this just a momentary reprieve before the next storm?
Because even in the silence—war was still waiting.
And she knew, deep down—
This wasn't over.
Not yet.