Friendly Fire

Five Days Later...

The base was in full motion, a chaotic blend of movement and noise. Trucks rumbled across the tarmac, their tires screeching slightly against the concrete. Helicopters idled in the distance, their rotors chopping through the cold air. Soldiers hurried about, hauling crates, securing cargo, shouting orders. It was nothing unusual—except for one strange thing.

They were packing up.

Furina stood with her arms crossed, her sharp blue eyes scanning the activity in front of her. Clorinde stood beside her, calm as ever, while Wriothesley leaned slightly against a nearby railing, watching the commotion unfold. The three of them stood on the apron where the Drowned Squadron's aircraft were parked, lined up and waiting like silent predators before a hunt.

One by one, transport trucks rolled by. One by one, rows of soldiers marched past, loading up supplies, securing weapons, and preparing for something big.

Furina exhaled through her nose. "Huh. Packing up already."

Clorinde smirked slightly. "Looks like it's happening."

Furina glanced at her. "Looks like we're on the brink of being pardoned, huh?"

Wriothesley nodded. "Yep. And it looks like that'll be determined in this next operation."

Furina let out a long breath, the tension in her shoulders easing ever so slightly. "Finally. We might just be out of this hellhole soon."

Clorinde crossed her arms. "And pardoned…"

Furina gave a small chuckle, shaking her head. "About damn time."

The air was cold, the wind carrying the distant scent of oil, metal, and jet fuel. It was always like this before a big mission—an eerie mix of anticipation and exhaustion.

She pulled up her left sleeve and glanced at her watch. The needles read 1:30 PM. Time was slipping by fast.

She lowered her sleeve and turned to the others. "Alright, guys. Let's head to the briefing room. Last thing we need is to be late and get our asses thrown into solitary."

Clorinde and Wriothesley chuckled at the same time. "Right," they said in unison.

With that, the trio turned and made their way back into the main base, heading straight for the briefing room.

The room was already filled with the usual fighter pilots by the time they arrived. The air was thick with a mixture of sweat, fatigue, and anticipation. The overhead lights cast a dull, yellowish glow on the walls. At the front, standing in his usual imposing stance, was Commander Jakob.

The trio took their seats at the front, right before the display screen flickered to life. A map of Zimorodny Cliffs appeared, the jagged mountains highlighted in a dull red hue.

The commander cleared his throat and spoke, his voice as sharp as a knife.

"Alright. It seems that Headquarters is starting to view some of you as valid fighter pilots. But let's be real here—it's all bullshit. Just rumors."

His gaze swept across the room, his expression unreadable.

"Let's get one thing straight. You're still criminals. You're here to atone for your crimes by carrying out these missions. Don't let that fact slip from your thick skulls."

From the side of the room, Drowned Five scoffed. "And what? You sit here all day collecting medals while we do the dirty work?"

The room went dead silent.

Commander Jakob's eyes snapped toward him. Without missing a beat, he pointed directly at Drowned Five. "Your ass—solitary. Now. You don't get to do this mission."

Two guards stepped forward without hesitation, grabbing Drowned Five by the arms and dragging him out of the room. The sound of boots scraping against the floor echoed through the tense silence.

Once the door slammed shut behind them, the commander continued, unfazed.

The display switched to a grainy image of a communications facility deep in the snow-covered cliffs.

"We've identified Snezhnayan forces' communication facilities up north at Zimorodny Cliffs. This facility is directly linked to the swarm of drones you've been encountering. If we cripple their ability to communicate, we weaken their drones."

The map zoomed in, a red circle appearing around the target area.

"But don't expect this to be easy," the commander continued. "The entire region is under surveillance by a spy satellite. If your ass gets caught, expect AA 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 sides and the base of the mountains."

A few murmurs spread across the pilots in the room. Furina, however, remained unfazed. She'd dealt with worse.

The commander folded his arms. "And if they do fire on you, you hide. Use the clouds to shake them off. Otherwise, you might as well start reciting your last rites now."

His voice lowered. "Sortie now. Dismissed."

The five remaining pilots stood from their seats, their boots echoing against the metal floors as they walked towards the apron where their planes were waiting.

Outside, the tarmac was alive.

Trucks rushed by, moving crates stacked high. Mechanics yelled orders as they prepped aircraft. The air smelled of burnt fuel, grease, and tension.

Furina walked alongside Clorinde and Wriothesley, her eyes scanning the frantic movement of personnel.

"Tch. Rumor my ass. This place is busy as hell."

Clorinde exhaled. "That's the commander for you. Always feeding lies and collecting medals."

Wriothesley nodded. "Yeah. And now, with one pilot out of the game, it's just us five to finish the mission."

Furina sighed. "Yep. And I pray to god this is our last one."

The trio parted ways, each heading toward their own aircraft.

Furina's Rafale was exactly as she left it—pristine, deadly, perfect. The cleanest, most well-maintained fighter on the entire base. It was her lifeline. Her weapon. Her cage.

The other pilots? They weren't as lucky. They could only pray that the rumors of better equipment were true.

Furina climbed the built-in ladder of her Rafale, settling into the same seat as always. She pulled her harness tight, securing herself.

She glanced down.

Her helmet rested on her lap, the visor reflecting the dim light of the hangar.

"One more mission…" she muttered under her breath. "I hope."

Her hands lingered over the smooth surface of the helmet. How long can I endure this?

Who the fuck knows…

Without another thought, she pulled the helmet over her head, adjusting it until it locked in place. Then, she reached for her oxygen mask, snapping it over her mouth.

No more time to waste.

The canopy sealed shut with a hiss.

She flipped the switches, her M88 engines roaring to life.

Engine Two—start.

Engine One—start.

Three waypoints appeared on her HUD.

Home.

Enemy Territory Entrance.

Area of Operation.

Furina was first to taxi out, her Rafale rolling forward, cutting through the haze of exhaust and jet fuel.

Behind her, Clorinde and Wriothesley followed.

Then the last two aircraft—a Eurofighter Typhoon and an older-model F-16—rolled onto the runway.

The moment clearance was given, they were gone.

Engines screamed.

Wheels lifted.

And the sky swallowed them whole.

They climbed away, leaving the base behind.

Heading straight for Zimorodny Cliffs.

25 Minutes Later...

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 covered the valleys, swirling and shifting as if trying to hide the enemy's presence.

Furina led the formation, her Rafale M cutting through the sky like a dagger, flanked by the rest of Drowned Squadron. The air was thick with tension. Everyone knew the stakes—stay low, stay fast, and strike hard.

Then, AWACS Justice crackled onto the radio, his voice filled with its usual condescension.

"The enemy is watching from above. So stay below the overcast clouds unless you want a fucking missile up your ass."

"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 slammed the throttles forward, feeling the M88 engines roar as she plunged into the valleys below, weaving between the jagged cliffs. The terrain was tight, forcing her to make quick, precise adjustments, banking hard left, then right.

A radar tower loomed ahead, standing tall above the clouds. Furina lined up her shot.

Tone. Lock. Fox Three!

The LACM tore away from her wing, streaking towards the target.

A heartbeat later—direct hit. The tower exploded in a fireball, sending debris tumbling down the mountain slopes.

Justice came back on the radio, voice sharp.

"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!"

Without waiting for a response, she nosed down and dove back into the mist, the cold vapor swirling around her canopy.

Then, 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 tight and dangerous.

Furina made her decision. "Drowned Three, take the left valley and hit the far radar site."

Wriothesley responded instantly. "Wilco, Waltz. Breaking left!"

He peeled off, his Mirage rolling smoothly before disappearing into the canyon.

The rest of the squadron stayed on target, focusing on enemy AA and SAM sites guarding the facility. The sky above them was crawling with enemy satellites—if they made one wrong move, the entire area would light up with incoming missile locks.

Then, one by one, the kill confirmations came in.

"Drowned Two, AA site destroyed."

"Drowned Six, SAM site neutralized."

"Drowned Eight, SAM site down."

Furina reached the next radar tower.

She pulled back on the stick, her Rafale climbing sharply through the mist. The moment she cleared the overcast layer, sunlight flooded her canopy—blinding for a second—before her HUD registered the lock.

Tone. Lock. Fox Three!

Another LACM shot off her pylon, streaking toward the target.

Impact. The radar site was wiped out.

Justice's voice came through again.

"Another radar site destroyed. However, the satellite is still operational."

Furina groaned. "Holy fucking shit, Justice, shut the fuck up!"

Justice sighed, his voice laced with frustration.

Then—boom. Another radar site erupted into flames.

"Radar site destroyed. Drowned Three, good kill."

Wriothesley dove back into the clouds, regrouping as the squadron pushed forward toward the last three remaining radar installations.

Furina flew at breakneck speed through the valley, her hands steady on the stick as she weaved between cliffs.

Hard left. Hard right. Hairpin right.

Her IFF display lit up—another radar site ahead.

She climbed.

Tone. Lock. LACM away!

Another direct hit.

Justice confirmed. "Radar site down, Waltz."

Then—another explosion.

"Radar site down, Drowned Two."

That left one more.

Justice's voice was sharp. "One more to go. Show it the same hospitality."

As they scrambled toward the last radar site, Wriothesley came over the radio, his voice filled with amusement.

"You know, it's so easy to break into enemy systems sometimes. Dumbasses just leave the password on a damn sticky note. Picked up a bunch of intel."

Justice's voice was laced with irritation. "Silence, Wolfbite."

Wriothesley chuckled. "Trust me, Justice, this is something you're gonna want to hear."

Justice sighed. "Interesting, Wolfbite. Spill it later."

All the while, Furina was already on the final radar site.

She pulled the stick back, climbing above the clouds one last time.

Tone. Lock. "Bon Voyage!"

The missile streaked off her wingtip. Impact. The explosion lit up the clouds, sending shockwaves rolling through the valley.

She 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. "If neither of you dipshits will do it, then I will."

She slammed the throttles forward, feeling the M88 engines surge as she climbed.

3,000 feet.

3,500 feet.

4,000 feet.

No locks. No warnings.

She leveled off, exhaling as she looked 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, laced with an unfamiliar unease.

"Wait. Hold on."

Clorinde, already on edge, spat back. "Ugh! What now!?"

Justice wasn't answering them. Instead, his voice carried out 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, a formation of seven F/A-18s emerged, flying in a crisp, perfect 'V.' Their contrails cut through the sky like scars, silent predators slipping into striking range.

Justice tried again, voice sharper. "Allied Fighters. Respond."

Nothing. No comms, no wing waves, no sign of acknowledgment.

And then—

ALARM.

The shrill wail of lock-on warnings flooded every cockpit.

Furina's blood ran cold. Her grip on the stick tightened instinctively.

"H—Hey! What the hell!?" she barked.

Clorinde's voice cut in. "I got locked on!"

Wriothesley's, too. "Same here! What the fuck? They're marked as friendlies!"

Furina's breath hitched. This wasn't right. This wasn't protocol. Her gut screamed at her.

"Shit! EVERYONE, DIVE BELOW THE CLOUDS!"

She yanked the stick back, inverting hard into a steep dive. Her Rafale plummeted into the misty abyss below, her stomach lurching from the sudden G-force.

The rest of her squadron followed—Clorinde, Wriothesley, Drowned Six, Drowned Eight—all diving like hell.

Above, the bogeys didn't hesitate. They moved like sharks smelling blood, following them into the dive.

Then—Justice's voice, rushed, frantic—

"SHIT! THEY AREN'T ALLIES!"

Wriothesley snarled. "Are they spoofing our IFF!?"

Justice's response was grim. "No. The IFF is linked directly to our satellite. They can't crack or de-code it. Those birds are real. And they're hostile."

The realization hit like a sledgehammer. These weren't friendlies. These weren't strays.

This was a trap.

Furina gritted her teeth. "Goddamn it. And now what!? Stay below the clouds and wait to fucking die!?"

Clorinde wasn't having it either. "We can't just sit here and get picked apart!"

Justice snapped 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 sighed.

"Fine. Waltz, you're the nucleus. Get moving."

Furina hauled her Rafale upward, breaking through the mist like a bullet. She arced around the mountain, hugging its peak.

One by one, her squadron re-emerged—Clorinde sliding in to her right, Wriothesley to her left, Drowned Six and Eight forming up at her six o'clock.

Furina's HUD flickered. IFF recalibrating.

Her radio crackled.

"Justice, it's on you now!"

Justice's voice came back, strained. "Wilco. Where are you, Drowned Six and Eight?"

Drowned Six responded. "Right behind Waltz."

Another flicker.

Then—the enemy tags switched.

The seven F/A-18s were now red.

Justice's voice cut through the comms. "Your IFF is updated. Those fuckers are fair game. Take them out!"

Furina bared her teeth in a grin. "Roger that. EVERYONE—BREAK!"

Clorinde snapped right. Wriothesley rolled hard left.

Drowned Eight and Six peeled off in opposite directions.

Furina slammed her throttles forward, surging after one of the enemy F/A-18s. The fight had just begun.

Just as the squadron begun the fight, a new alarm blared across the radios.

AWACS Justice's voice cut through the comms, urgent and sharp.

"ALERT! INCOMING PROJECTILE!"

Furina's patience snapped.

"FUCKING HELL, WHAT IS IT NOW!?" she roared, her frustration boiling over.

Justice barely had time to respond. "Goddamn it, not right now!"

Wriothesley sighed. "That doesn't sound too good."

But Furina had no time to worry about it. She had a lock.

A tone.

"Fox Three!"

An HCAA missile launched from under her wing, streaking across the sky. It cut through the air with deadly precision.

Direct hit.

One enemy down.

But before she could celebrate—Justice dropped more bad news.

"HQ just gave us some intel. It's called the Bezglubok."

Then—BOOM.

A massive blue explosion detonated above them, the shockwave rippling through the sky.

Furina's instincts screamed at her. "SHIT! BREAK AWAY!"

She pulled hard on the stick, rolling her Rafale out of harm's way, just as the force of the explosion nearly tore through her.

And then—another update.

AWACS came back, voice grim.

"These are long-range missiles from Sepharis Birds."

Furina's blood ran cold.

Her teeth clenched, her hand slamming against the canopy glass.

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!? SEPHARIS BIRDS!?"

Before anyone could process the full weight of that information.

AWACS Justice confirms two kills.

"SPLASH ONE! DROWNED THREE!"

"SPLASH ONE! DROWNED SIX!"

More jets were falling.

Furina snapped her head around, eyes darting between her HUD and the battlefield. They were getting picked off.

She gritted her teeth.

"Not fucking today."

She lined up another target.

TONE.

LOCK.

"Fox Two!"

A Sidewinder launched, spiraling towards an enemy F/A-18.

Furina didn't wait to confirm the hit—she broke away immediately, rolling hard to the right.

BOOM.

AWACS confirmed. "Splash One! Drowned One! Four left!"

Then—another blue explosion. Another Bezglubok.

It detonated dangerously close to Drowned Six.

"SHIT! BREAKING AWAY!"

Clorinde lined up her own shot.

TONE.

LOCK.

"Fox Three!"

Another missile away.

BOOM. Another enemy down.

Justice's voice crackled through the comms. "Three to go!"

Furina was already on another target.

But then—her radar blared.

Lock warning.

AWACS's voice was loud and urgent.

"WALTZ! MISSILE INCOMING! EVADE, EVADE!"

Furina reacted instantly.

She slammed the throttles to idle, yanked her sidestick back, and threw her Rafale into a 90-degree vertical climb.

A 90 degree Pugachev—at full speed.

The F/A-18 behind her overshot completely, flying right past her nose.

She smirked. "Dumbass."

TONE.

LOCK.

"Fox Two!"

A Sidewinder tore through the air.

Direct hit.

AWACS confirmed. "Two to go!"

Wriothesley locked onto another.

"Fox Three!"

BOOM.

Justice's voice came through. "One to go! Get it, Rapperia!"

**Clorinde locked onto the last target—**but this one wasn't an F/A-18.

Something was off.

"I got a lock!" she reported.

But then—

"RAPPERIA, DON'T FIRE! I GOT A LOCK!"

Wriothesley's voice came through the comms, sharp and urgent.

Clorinde frowned. "I'm locked onto an enemy!"

"I'll give a wing wave! See if it's me!"

Clorinde hesitated. "Wilco."

Across the battlefield, Wriothesley's Mirage tilted left, then right. A wing wave.

Clorinde's eyes twitched.

"Justice, what the hell!? Wolfbite got tagged as an enemy!"

A stunned silence from AWACS.

"What!?"

Furina's rage exploded.

"ARE YOU FUCKING TRYING TO MAKE RAPPERIA FRIENDLY-FIRE SOMEONE!?"

Justice sighed heavily, his exhaustion evident.

"It was an accident!"

Furina slammed her fist against the canopy glass.

"DAMNIT!"

Justice groaned. "Mission done. RTB."

The squadron regrouped and flew back to base, forming up in a tight V formation.

The adrenaline was still high, but the worst was over.

As they cruised along, Clorinde's sharp eyes caught something off.

"Rapperia to Waltz."

Furina glanced at her radar. "Go ahead, Rapperia."

A pause.

Then Clorinde asked, "Where are your three strikes?"

Furina blinked. "Huh?"

Wriothesley chimed in. "Yeah, same on the right side. Your strikes are gone."

Furina, then smirked.

"Looks like the paint protection film decided to blow away."

A moment of silence.

Then—laughter filled the comms.

The tension faded just a little as Drowned Squadron flew back home, victorious.

Hours Later

The squadron made it back safely to Kovorograd Air Base.

The skies were clear, painted in warm hues of orange and deep purple as the sun began its descent toward the horizon. The afterglow of battle had settled, replaced by a strange, unfamiliar quiet.

For once—just this once—the base commander seemed… calm.

No shouting. No reprimands. Just acceptance.

Inside the briefing room, the air was still, the usual tension absent. The debriefing timeline played on the projector screen, mission footage rolling in grainy static.

The commander stood at the front, arms crossed, watching in silence. Then, after a long pause, he spoke.

"There's nothing else to say about this mission. But you all did good."

He let the words settle.

"Dismissed."

With that, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

The pilots didn't linger. One by one, they scattered, heading their separate ways.

Some to the barracks.

Some to the mess hall.

Some to the hangars, where their war machines rested.

And then there was Furina.

She didn't join the others. Instead, she made her way to the rooftop.

The moment she stepped outside, a cold evening breeze greeted her.

She inhaled deeply, letting it fill her lungs. The air was crisp, clean, untouched by the smell of fuel and gunpowder.

Her hair flowed freely, strands caught in the wind, dancing against the fading sunlight.

For the first time in weeks—she felt at peace.

She stood there, watching as the sun slowly dipped beneath the horizon, casting long shadows over the airbase. The world below still moved—staff members shuffling around, moving equipment, refueling jets, running final checks.

But up here?

It was quiet.

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, weaving through the empty space, carrying with it the echoes of battle, of survival, of everything that had led her to this moment.

But she didn't stop.

She kept humming.

And humming…

And humming…

Until, finally—she was at peace.

But was this truly the end for the Teyvat Spare Squadron?

Had they earned their pardon?

Or was this just a momentary reprieve before the next storm?

Only time would tell.