Friend Or Foe
Operation: Blind Sky
Dymny Kordon Air Force Base – Night Sortie Prep
October had arrived, dragging with it the biting chill of Snezhnaya's unforgiving autumn. The base, once a lifeless stretch of concrete and steel, now pulsed with movement. The air reeked of jet fuel, burning exhaust, and cold metal.
Engines idled in a low, guttural hum, sending shimmering waves of heat into the night. Ground crews worked with urgency, weaving between the parked fighter jets—checking systems, loading ordnance, fueling aircraft. Every movement was deliberate, precise.
From a distance, Furina and Clorinde stood side by side, watching it all unfold.
Furina's sharp blue eyes flickered over the scene, her arms crossed.
"Looks like we've got a new op."
Clorinde's gaze followed a munitions truck as it pulled up beside a Dassault Rafale M. Ground crews wasted no time, securing missiles onto its hardpoints.
"Yeah," she muttered. "And from the way things are moving, it's a night sortie."
Furina pulled back the cuff of her flight suit, checking her watch. The sun was sinking behind the mountains, bleeding deep purples, blood-reds, and the last streaks of gold into the sky.
She exhaled sharply. "Shit. Flying in the dark. Just our luck."
Clorinde checked her phone. "Looks like it."
Furina rolled her shoulders, her expression hardening. "Come on. Let's get to the briefing room. Looks like we've got our work cut out for us."
Clorinde slid her phone back into her pocket and nodded. "Right."
With that, they turned, leaving behind the roaring engines and the thick scent of war in the air.
Briefing Room – Dymny Kordon Air Force Base
The tension inside the briefing room was suffocating.
Primordial and Waltz Squadrons sat in their usual places, their eyes fixed on the large map of Snezhnaya pinned at the front of the room. Helmets rested beside flight suits, visors up, oxygen masks clipped to the side. Conversations were hushed—spoken in the clipped tones of those who knew what was coming.
Furina and Clorinde slipped into their seats.
At the front, Jean stood with arms crossed, her sharp gaze scanning the room.
The moment the last straggler entered, she stepped forward.
"All right," Jean began, her voice firm. "Now that everyone's here, let's get down to business."
She planted both hands on the table, leaning forward.
"As of now, both Teyvat and Snezhnaya's communication satellites are down. We lost them during the Battle of Morepesok. That means no long-range radar, no satellite imaging, no secure lines of communication. The entire theater is flying fucking blind."
A ripple of unease spread through the room.
No satellites meant no early warning systems. No intelligence updates. No command oversight.
Jean pressed on.
"With Snezhnaya cut off from itself, anarchy is spreading. No clear chain of command, no centralized leadership. We don't know when—or if—communications will be restored."
A pause. Then:
"Despite that, we're sticking to HQ's original strategy before the blackout."
She turned, gesturing to the map. Red and blue markers littered its surface, lines drawn toward the coast.
"Since the war started, we've been receiving intel—classified transmissions from a Snezhnayan Army officer. He's been feeding us enemy positions, weaknesses, and movement patterns. And now, with Morepesok under our control, Snezhnaya's radical elements are losing power fast. Their support is crumbling, and their ability to wage war is getting weaker by the day."
Jean's expression hardened.
"The Teyvat Peacekeeping Force sees an opportunity. If we can extract this officer safely, we can use his knowledge to force negotiations—maybe even end this war before it spirals any further."
That got everyone's attention.
A possible end to the war.
A chance to finally go home.
Jean let that hang for a moment before continuing.
"The officer is hiding on the outskirts of Alicorn Bay. He's linked up with a Mondstadt Special Forces operative, and together they're moving toward the rendezvous point at the harbor. A helicopter will be waiting to extract them."
She exhaled sharply.
"But here's the problem—Snezhnaya's Intelligence Division and whatever remains of their elite forces aren't fucking stupid. They know someone's moving. They will try to intercept before the extraction happens."
Silence.
Every pilot in the room understood what that meant.
This mission could go to hell in a heartbeat.
Jean leaned forward, her voice razor-sharp.
"Both Primordial and Waltz Squadron are being deployed for escort and close air support. Expect heavy resistance. Our objective is to keep that convoy alive at all costs."
She hesitated for only a fraction of a second before delivering the next part.
"With the communication network down, our satellite-based IFF systems are completely nonfunctional."
A sharp murmur rippled through the room. Furina's fists clenched.
No IFF meant manual target identification.
That meant increased risk of friendly fire.
Jean held up a hand, silencing the room.
"We'll be relying entirely on infrared cameras installed in our aircraft. Once we get close enough, the system will process the image and confirm if it's friendly or hostile before engaging. That includes both Snezhnayan rebels and conservatives."
She let out a slow breath.
"That means if you don't ID your target properly, you could be shooting down allies. And if you hesitate too long… you'll be dead before you can fix your mistake."
The air grew heavier.
Jean straightened, her expression steel-hard.
She grabbed her helmet.
"Mission parameters are clear. Let's sortie immediately."
No hesitation.
Chairs scraped against the floor as pilots rose to their feet.
No one spoke. There was nothing left to say.
This wasn't about words anymore.
It was about action.
One by one, they filed out of the briefing room, heading toward the hangars.
Outside, the October night stretched over the airbase, dark and endless.
Their aircraft—fully fueled, fully armed, waiting beneath the starless sky—stood like war machines poised to strike.
This was it.
This was war in the dark.
And in the chaos of Snezhnaya's civil war…
There were no guarantees.
As the squadron approached the hangars, the hum of jet engines and the distant echoes of maintenance crews filled the cold Snezhnayan air. The sky overhead was a deep slate gray, streaked with wisps of thinning clouds—an omen of the storm they were flying into, both literally and figuratively.
Furina strode forward, her boots tapping against the concrete, her flight suit still clinging to the residual warmth of the cockpit. She spotted Jean and Amber up ahead, standing near their aircraft. With a smirk, she closed the distance.
"Hey, Jean. Amber."
Jean and Amber turned at the sound of her voice.
Jean smiled. "Oh. Furina."
Furina chuckled, shifting her weight slightly. "So, how's that F-14 treating you?"
Jean exhaled sharply, shaking her head with an amused smirk. "Honestly? I'm just glad I stole an F-14B… and not an F-14A."
Amber scoffed. "You got that right. The last thing we need is our engines stalling out of nowhere in the middle of a goddamn dogfight."
Furina snorted. "No kidding. One compressor stall, and you're just a sitting duck. And if you enter a flat spin? Game over."
Jean gave a knowing nod. "Yeah. That's not exactly how I want to go out."
Furina adjusted the strap of her flight suit. "Alright. My hangar's here. Let's all make it back in one piece."
Jean nodded, giving her a thumbs-up. "That's the plan."
Furina winked before turning away, making her way toward her hangar.
There she was.
Her Dassault Rafale M.
It sat like a coiled predator, sleek and lethal under the dim hangar lights. The deep blue, sky blue, white, and black livery flowed seamlessly along the aggressive yet elegant airframe, its curves and edges whispering of aerodynamic perfection. On the tail, the golden emblem—a crown over flowing water—stood proud, a testament to both grace and dominance. Just below the canopy, painted in a sharp, confident font, the words:
"Élégante et Efficace."
A reminder of her style and skill.
Her jet was more than just a machine—it was an extension of herself. And it was ready for war.
Live ordnance was already mounted. A mix of air-to-air and air-to-ground weapons lined the hardpoints, reflecting the cold light of the hangar. This wasn't just another sortie. This was a mission that carried weight.
Furina climbed the integrated ladder and swung herself into the ejector seat with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times before. She settled into the cockpit, feeling the familiar press of the seat against her back.
She reached for the shoulder harness, pulling it over her shoulders and securing it with a firm click. Then, she tugged on both adjustment tabs, tightening the restraints snugly across her chest.
Her fingers ran through her hair as she exhaled. "Returning to Alicorn Bay... That's something I didn't expect."
She grabbed her helmet, sliding it over her head with practiced precision. The oxygen mask dangled loosely for now—no rush to secure it just yet.
Leaning forward, she tapped at the left-hand display, inputting the mission waypoints manually. Normally, this would have been an automated process, but with the communication satellite down, everything had to be done the old-fashioned way.
Two waypoints.
Home: Dymny Kordon Air Force Base.
Destination: Alicorn Bay.
A direct flight south—thirty minutes across Northern Snezhnaya, past frozen tundras and industrialized wastelands, into Southern Snezhnaya, where Alicorn Bay sat, a cold fortress by the sea.
With the flight plan locked in, she reached up, pulling the canopy down with a decisive motion. A mechanical hiss followed as it sealed shut. The outside world was now reduced to muffled noise and the soft glow of cockpit displays. She reached for the oxygen mask, securing it before moving to the startup sequence.
Time to bring the beast to life.
Her hand moved to the main electrical switch, flipping it from standby to right. A low hum vibrated through the airframe as systems powered on.
The right-side M88 engine began spooling up, its whine rising in pitch. As soon as N2 reached 25%, Furina pushed the right engine management lever from cutoff to idle.
The engine roared to life.
A deep, powerful howl reverberated through the fuselage as the turbine stabilized at idle. The cockpit vibrated ever so slightly—a heartbeat beneath her.
With one engine online, Furina flipped the main electrical switch from right to left, initiating the same startup process for the left engine.
Moments later, the twin M88s were both running, idling smoothly, ready for action.
She keyed her radio. "Waltz Squadron, callsign check."
The responses came in one after the other, crisp and immediate.
"Waltz Two. Ready."
"Waltz Three. Ready."
"Waltz Four. Checking in."
"Waltz Five. Ready to go."
Furina nodded, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Waltz Squadron, let's sortie."
She disengaged the parking brake and pushed the throttle slightly forward. The Rafale rolled out of the hangar, its landing gear humming against the tarmac as it turned onto the taxiway.
One by one, the rest of Waltz Squadron followed.
Waltz Two and Three—both Rafale Ms.
Waltz Four—an F-15E Strike Eagle, its aggressive silhouette standing out against the gray sky.
Waltz Five—Collei, in her own Rafale M.
Trailing behind them, the Primordial Squadron emerged.
Primordial One—Jean, in her F-14B, its twin tails cutting through the cold air. Amber sat in the back seat, acting as the Navigator and RIO.
Primordial Two, Three, and Four—F-15E Strike Eagles. Heavy-hitters built for endurance and firepower.
It wasn't long before they reached the runway.
Furina was first. She lined up, pushing the throttles forward, feeling the engines surge with power as the afterburners ignited.
The others waited in ten-second intervals, their own engines growling in anticipation.
Their mission was clear.
Protect the Snezhnayan officer.
And eliminate any targets that were enemies.
Furina sat at the threshold of the runway, her Rafale M poised like a predator ready to strike. The engines behind her screamed with raw power, glowing twin flames in the cold night air. The entire airfield was alive with motion—fighter jets rolling into position, floodlights casting long shadows, the low murmur of radio chatter filling the comms.
Her fingers wrapped tightly around the throttle, heart pounding with the anticipation of what was to come.
"Waltz One, commencing takeoff."
She pushed the throttles to full military power. The Rafale surged forward, its nose dipping slightly as it devoured the runway beneath it.
80 knots.
110 knots.
140 knots.
The HUD flashed.
"V1."
She was committed now.
"Rotate."
Furina pulled back on the stick, the nose lifting effortlessly as the jet clawed its way into the night sky.
"Waltz One, airborne."
Then, Primordial Squadron.
Jean's F-14B was the last to take off, its twin General Electric F110 engines roaring like a beast awakened from slumber. The heavy fighter thundered down the runway, its wings sweeping back as it climbed into the dark sky, banking slightly to join the formation.
From above, the entire strike group assembled—two clean, disciplined formations slicing through the night like sharpened blades.
"All aircraft, climb to fifteen thousand feet and maintain course for Alicorn Bay," AWACS Visionaire commanded.
Furina reached up, flipping her radar to combat mode. The display flared to life, a sea of uncertain blips marked only as UNKNOWN.
No satellite uplink. No automatic IFF. No way to tell friend from foe until they were practically nose-to-nose.
Her jaw tightened. This was war in the dark.
A flicker of movement in her peripheral vision—Jean's F-14 drifting slightly to her right, the twin red beacons on her stabilizers pulsing in the night.
The radio crackled.
"Feels weird flying without an IFF," Jean muttered.
"Yeah," Furina agreed, her voice edged with unease. "Feels like we're ghosts flying through a fucking graveyard."
Jean scoffed, a dry chuckle bleeding into the static. "Then let's make sure we're the ghosts that haunt them."
30 Minutes Later – The Battle for Alicorn Bay
By the time they arrived, the night had fully set in, blanketing Alicorn Bay under a suffocating shroud of darkness. The only illumination came from the infernos raging through the city—fires licking at shattered buildings, casting flickering shadows against the ruined skyline.
The two squadrons held a tight V formation, descending toward the chaos below. The closer they got, the more the city revealed itself—columns of smoke rising like funeral pyres, the rhythmic bursts of anti-air tracers stabbing into the sky. Even from altitude, the cacophony of war reached them: distant explosions, sporadic gunfire, the distorted wail of sirens.
A voice crackled through their radios.
"To the unidentified Teyvat aircraft, this is Captain Belinda of the Mondstadt Army. Are you the escort?"
Furina keyed her mic.
"Captain Belinda, this is Captain Furina De Fontaine of Waltz Squadron, accompanied by Captain Jean Gunnhildr of Primordial Squadron. We are the Teyvat Strategic Strike Group. We are your escort."
A pause.
Then, a scoff. "Really? You're not the escort I was expecting. Are you really friendlies?"
Jean cut in, her voice firm. "Captain Belinda, we are friendlies. We're on your side."
Another moment of silence. In the background, the low rumble of an engine and distant gunfire hinted that Belinda was still on the move. Then, a sharp exhale.
"Captain Gunnhildr... it really is you! I'm guessing Captain Furina is the pilot with the gold crown?"
Furina smirked. "That would be me."
As they descended further, another voice joined in—Wriothesley.
"Hey, Visionaire. Is everything really unknown?"
A slight pause, then AWACS Visionaire responded.
"That's right."
Belinda's voice returned, more tense this time.
"It's a state of civil war. The Snezhnayan Army is fighting itself. There's no guarantee they won't shoot at us in this chaos. Even our supposed allies are scattered."
Visionaire followed up. "We'll use IR image processing from your onboard cameras to identify targets. Do not fire unless confirmed hostile. The last thing we need is friendly fire."
A chorus of acknowledgments followed.
"Wilco."
"Roger."
"Understood."
Furina's gaze locked onto the streets below, her fingers tensing on the controls.
"Commence operation. Spread out. Engage all confirmed hostiles."
With that, the two squadrons broke formation, peeling off in different directions as they began sweeping the city for threats.
Urban Warfare – The Battle Begins
Furina throttled forward, her HUD marking the urban battlefield. Below, a column of vehicles raced down a scorched highway—Belinda's convoy, moving fast.
Then—her radar pinged.
A flicker on her display.
Unidentified radar vehicle.
Her eyes narrowed. Thumb poised over the missile release. The lock warning blared in her headset.
Lock. Tone.
"Fox Two!"
A Sidewinder screeched from the rail, a white-hot streak against the night sky. It found its mark a second later—an eruption of fire and shrapnel consumed the vehicle, reducing it to a smoking husk.
Furina pulled up sharply, her wings nearly clipping a rooftop before banking back into the fray.
Clorinde's voice chimed in. "If they shoot at us, we just run, right?"
Furina steadied her breath. "Correct. Until we confirm they're hostiles, do not fire."
Another flicker on her IFF.
Unknown contact.
She adjusted her heading, bringing it into her sights. Then—the IFF flickered again.
Hostile APC.
Lock. Tone.
"Fox Two!"
The missile howled away, slamming into the armored personnel carrier in a thunderous explosion. The vehicle lurched sideways, its flaming wreckage spilling onto the street. Furina banked again, scanning for her next target.
The battle for Alicorn Bay was in full force.
Jean & Amber – Roadblock Intercept
Across the city, Jean and Amber's F-14B circled above a suspected enemy roadblock. Below, the streets were a hellscape—burning cars, makeshift barricades of wrecked civilian vehicles, enemy forces lurking in the ruins of collapsed buildings.
Jean kept her grip steady, banking the Tomcat lower, the cockpit illuminated by the orange glow of fire below.
"No IFF yet… Give it a second," Amber muttered from the back seat, studying the sensor readout.
Then—the IFF updated.
Hostile forces confirmed.
"Enemy roadblock. They're Snezhnayan Socialist holdouts!"
Jean's eyes narrowed.
Tone. Lock.
"Fox Two!"
The Sidewinder launched off the rail, cutting through the night. A second later, the explosion tore through the barricade—shrapnel and flames consuming the entrenched hostiles.
Jean pulled up, circling once more to confirm the kill.
Then—their secondary comms crackled to life.
A voice. A Snezhnayan news broadcast.
"War is something we will never grow used to… but tonight is a total shock."
"The entire nation is under martial law. Gunfire and roaring jets echo through the cities and countrysides."
Jean exhaled slowly. A sobering reminder.
This wasn't just another battle.
This was the beginning of something far worse.
Hope in the Chaos
Across the city, Collei had an F/A-18 in her sights.
Her finger hovered over the trigger.
Then—the IFF flickered.
Allied aircraft.
Collei's heart nearly stopped.
"Shit—almost shot them down!"
The radio crackled, Visionaire's voice cutting in, ever casual.
"Give me the IDs of Waltz and Primordial Squadron. And… oh, hand me that grilled ham and cheese too."
Collei let out a breathless chuckle. "Always hungry, huh, Visionaire?"
"Always."
Then—AWACS Visionaire's voice rang through all allied channels.
"This is AWACS of the TSSG to all allied fighters. Transmitting friendly IDs now."
Seconds later—
"Waltz and Primordial, confirmed."
"We got their IDs!"
For the first time that night, amid the flames and the fog of war, there was a sliver of hope.
The Tides of War
The armored vehicle carrying Captain Belinda and Officer Rotchev roared through the tollgate, tires screeching against the pavement as it hurtled northwest. Smoke and flame choked the air, the road littered with burning wreckage and abandoned vehicles. The distant coastline of Alicorn Bay was within reach, its waters shimmering under the chaos of war.
Above them, the sky was a battleground—tracer fire crisscrossed the air, missile contrails twisted like deadly serpents, and the sky flashed with the brilliance of distant explosions. The roar of jet engines, the thunder of anti-aircraft guns, the wail of sirens—all of it fused into one relentless storm of destruction.
Then, the enemy radio crackled to life.
"Listen! And listen closely!" The voice was sharp, urgent, cutting through the chaos. "Those enemy fighters protecting Officer Rotchev… they are Patriots! They want this war to end as much as we do! Do NOT fire at the enemy fighters!"
Another voice, hesitant. "Even… even the plane with the golden crown?"
"Yes! Even the plane with the golden crown!" The first speaker barked back, frustration bleeding into conviction. "They're protecting Officer Rotchev from the skies!"
A pause. Then, softer—almost a prayer.
"And if you're listening… may the Anemo Archon guide you safely."
Furina scoffed, a smirk tugging at her lips as she banked her Rafale M into a shallow climb. "Well, what do you know… looks like we have unexpected allies."
The Truth from Officer Rotchev
Inside the armored vehicle, Belinda's radio crackled again. This time, a voice—calm, composed—spoke beside her.
"Captain Belinda, are you recording this conversation? Because I want to explain the situation inside Snezhnaya."
It was Officer Rotchev.
Belinda, gripping the wheel tightly as she swerved around the remains of a collapsed overpass, nodded. "Our friends up above are recording it for us."
Rotchev exhaled. "Good."
Then, he began.
"The open declaration of war… the expansion of the frontlines… all of it was orchestrated by young Snezhnayan officers. We call them the Radicals. Or the Rebels. But an unforeseen force was guiding them."
Belinda's gaze hardened. "What force?"
Rotchev's voice darkened. "Technology."
A silence hung over the radio.
Then he continued.
"Technology borrowed from the Khaenri'ahns."
Furina's heart skipped a beat.
Jean's voice crackled through the radio, edged with tension. "What…?"
"When the Radicals took that technology to war, their attack drones performed beyond their wildest expectations." Rotchev's voice was grim, filled with reluctant truth. "They weren't just powerful—they were precise. Clean. The public saw this, and suddenly, the war didn't seem so brutal anymore. The Radicals gained public support. Even… even the Tsaritsa herself was manipulated into believing in them."
Right on cue, Furina squeezed the trigger, launching a Sidewinder. The missile streaked downward, locking onto an enemy vehicle speeding toward the southeast quadrant.
A moment later—impact.
A fireball erupted on the street below. Shattered metal and flame blossomed into the night.
She keyed her mic. "All enemies eliminated. Allied forces remain in the southeast quadrant."
But Rotchev's voice pressed on.
"The Khaenri'ahn technology advanced our UAV research by at least ten to fifteen years." His words were bitter now. "They used flight data from a Snezhnayan ace to create the AI for the drones. That pilot was… Arlecchino Snezhevna."
Furina's blood ran cold.
Jean's voice was equally sharp. "The Knave?"
"Yes." Rotchev sighed. "But to us, this technology… it's no different from magic. Or alchemy."
A sharp breath.
"Planes are meant to be flown by humans. Real people. Am I wrong in saying that? Including our friends up in the skies?"
Furina clenched her teeth. "Damn right."
Then—another voice interrupted.
"This is Chinook Three. The rendezvous point by the harbor is too dangerous. Sending new coordinates."
Right on cue, new blips flashed on Furina's radar.
Unknown aircraft.
Her fingers instinctively tightened around the stick. Her Rafale M banked toward the nearest bogey, the IFF flickering.
Enemy F/A-18.
Her thumb hovered over the missile release.
Lock.
Tone.
"Fox Three!"
An HCAA missile erupted from the rail, its engine flaring as it closed the distance. The enemy pilot barely had time to react.
Direct impact.
The Hornet disintegrated in a furious explosion, flaming debris tumbling into the ruined cityscape below.
Clorinde – The Pursuit
Elsewhere, Clorinde was locked in a vicious high-speed chase, her Rafale M weaving through the night, hot on the tail of an enemy Su-30.
The enemy fighter pitched up sharply, rolling into a vertical climb—a desperate attempt to force an overshoot.
Clorinde followed.
Higher, higher—the Su-30 stalled.
That was all she needed.
Lock.
Tone.
"Fox Two!"
A Sidewinder hissed from her wing, streaking up toward the defenseless fighter.
Clorinde rolled over into a dive, watching as the missile found its mark.
A heartbeat later, the Su-30 exploded, pieces of molten debris spiraling into the sea below.
She broke away, scanning for the next target.
Jean & Amber – Against the Odds
At the northwest edge of Alicorn Bay, Jean and Amber were locked in a brutal dogfight against a lone F/A-18.
An older-generation fighter versus a newer-generation one.
On paper, the F-14B should have been outmatched.
But war isn't just about the machine.
It's about the pilot.
Jean wrenched the Tomcat into a tight turn, her body crushed by G-forces, sweat slick on her brow. The F/A-18 twisted and weaved, struggling to shake her as she forced her crosshairs onto its tail.
Amber's voice was sharp. "You got it, Jean! You got it!"
Jean's breathing was steady, hands firm. The HUD confirmed a lock.
Tone.
Lock.
"Fox Two!"
A Sidewinder cut through the night, burning toward its target like a meteor.
Impact.
The F/A-18 exploded midair, wreckage tumbling toward the dark waves below.
Amber punched the air. "Hell yeah, Jean! Splash one! Splash one!"
Jean chuckled, breathless from the fight. "You know, it's more fun having a passenger in the back."
Amber smirked. "Damn right it is!"
Southeast Alicorn Bay – Above the Bridge
Wriothesley swept past the suspension bridge, his Rafale M thundering low over the steel structure. His HUD flickered, six unknown contacts appearing in tight formation below.
His instincts screamed trouble.
Narrowing his eyes, he pulled up hard, looping around for a diving attack.
Then—his IFF pinged.
Confirmed hostiles.
Six enemy units—anti-aircraft weapons, tanks, APCs—blocking the road. A full kill box, primed to tear through anything trying to cross.
Right on cue, the allied radio flared to life.
"Enemies on the bridge! We're sitting ducks down here! Take them out!"
Wriothesley's jaw tightened. No hesitation.
Tone. Lock.
His thumb crushed the trigger.
"Fox Three!"
A LACM missile shrieked off the rail, its jet engine flaring as it streaked downrange.
He broke left, rolling away from the expected blast radius.
A fireball erupted, the missile slamming dead center into the cluster of vehicles.
Three down. Three to go.
One More Pass
Without missing a beat, Wriothesley cut the throttle, banking hard to realign for another strike. His radar scope locked onto the remaining three targets.
Tone. Lock.
"Fox Three!"
Another LACM detached from the pylon, arcing toward the burning wreckage.
Impact.
The bridge exploded into a storm of fire and shrapnel, the intense heat distorting the air above.
Then—Belinda's voice cut in over the comms, breathless but clear.
"Bridge is clear! You just saved our asses—thank you!"
Wriothesley exhaled, fingers flexing against the throttle.
"Just doing my job. Keep moving."
Enemy Pursuit
But just as Belinda's convoy gunned it across the bridge, she caught something in her rearview mirror.
Her heart sank.
"Shit! We're being chased! Four unknown vehicles—closing fast!"
Up above, Furina's eyes snapped to her radar, spotting the new blips flanking the bridge.
She didn't wait for orders.
With a hard right rudder, she dropped altitude, her Rafale M slicing through the air as she lined up the targets.
IFF confirmation—hostile.
Tone. Lock.
"Fox Three!"
A LACM tore free from its pylon, streaking down toward the pursuers.
But just as she fired, a new problem flashed in her peripheral vision—
She was flying straight into the bridge suspension cables.
"Shit—!"
Adrenaline kicked in. She wrenched the stick hard left, rolling just in time to slip between the thick steel cables. A near miss.
Then—detonation.
The missile found its mark. A fireball erupted, enemy vehicles shredded in the blast.
Belinda's relieved voice crackled through the radio.
"Enemy down! Thought we were done for!"
Furina smirked, rolling her shoulders.
"Not on my watch. We're your eyes in the sky."
The Golden Crown's Reputation
Then—an unexpected voice from the ground.
"It's that plane with the gold crown!"
Another soldier chimed in, his voice tinged with disbelief.
"Yeah! What the hell is a penal unit pilot doing flying a plane?!"
Furina's eye twitched.
She slammed the transmit switch, barking into the radio.
"HEY! DUMBASS! YOU'RE TALKING TO THE CAPTAIN OF WALTZ SQUADRON!"
A dead silence.
Then—somewhere in the background—
"Oh shit! Looks like you triggered her!"
Another voice cut in, more serious now.
"Haven't you read the September reports? She wasn't the one who assassinated the former president. An allied aircraft piloted by an enemy did that."
Furina clicked her tongue, exhaling sharply.
Tch…
No time to dwell on it.
Her radar painted new hostiles, more enemy vehicles emerging from the ruins, the battle still raging.
But something was different now.
The number of rebel forces was thinning.
The Snezhnayan Conservatives were still standing.
And for the first time in this war—
The tide was shifting.
The Truth Unveiled
The radio crackled, its static momentarily drowning out Officer Rotchev's voice. Then, his grim, resolute tone cut through the interference.
"There's more to the Khaenri'ahn technology than just UAVs. They've also mastered IFF spoofing. For one, it was an astonishing feat."
Jean and Amber, still circling over the tunnel's exit, exchanged glances as they listened in.
Jean exhaled sharply. "Can you believe that?"
Amber let out a slow breath. "Yeah… That's… something."
But Furina wasn't listening to them.
Her mind had already drifted—dragged back into the past.
Back to the Drowned Squadron.
Zimorodny Cliffs – The Drowned Squadron's Mission
The radio call still echoed in her ears. A ghost from that day.
"This is the 51st Teyvat Spare Squadron. What is your affiliation?"
Then—movement.
A formation of seven F/A-18s emerged from the horizon, gliding in perfect sync, their contrails slashing the sky like scars on an open wound.
"Allied Fighters. Respond."
Silence.
No response. No acknowledgment.
Then—the alarms.
Her RWR blared in her ears, sharp and shrill. The missile lock warnings screamed across her HUD, filling her cockpit with an eerie red glow.
Her blood ran ice cold.
Her hands clenched the flight stick. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
"H—Hey! What the hell!?" Furina barked, her voice cracking with confusion.
Clorinde's voice snapped across the radio, edged with urgency.
"I got locked on!"
Then Wriothesley.
"Same here! What the fuck!? They're marked as friendlies!"
Furina's gut twisted.
Something was very wrong.
"SHIT! EVERYONE, DIVE BELOW THE CLOUDS!"
She yanked back on the stick, rolling inverted before pulling into a steep, gut-wrenching dive.
Her Rafale screamed as it plunged through the cloud cover, the G-forces crushing her body into the seat.
Behind her, the rest of Drowned Squadron followed.
Clorinde. Wriothesley. Drowned Six. Drowned Eight.
Every single one of them tucked in and dropped like hawks evading a strike.
But their pursuers did not relent.
The F/A-18s followed.
Like sharks drawn to blood.
The Moment of Realization
"SHIT! THEY AREN'T ALLIES!"
Justice's frantic voice shattered the last lingering thread of doubt.
Wriothesley's growl followed. "Are they spoofing our IFF!?"
Then, Justice again—this time, grim. Final.
"No. The IFF is linked directly to our satellite. They can't crack it. Those birds are real. And they're hostile."
Everything changed.
The enemy hadn't just hacked their systems.
They had rewritten the rules of war.
Friendlies marked as hostiles.
Hostiles marked as friendlies.
A nightmare scenario.
Back to the Present – The Revelation
Furina's mind snapped back to the present.
Her knuckles were white around the stick.
Her breathing was heavy, controlled—barely.
She keyed her mic.
"Rapperia, Wolfbite. Remember Zimorodny Cliffs?"
Clorinde's response came immediately, cold with disbelief.
"Yeah. Those F/A-18s. Marked as Allies."
Wriothesley's voice was weighted, low.
"They were piloted by AI. They really did spoof our IFF system."
Furina's rage boiled over.
Her fist slammed against the canopy glass.
"SON OF A BITCH!"
Then—Rotchev's voice returned. The final blow.
"The same technology was used in assassinating Former President Imena."
A chilling silence gripped the radio.
"Snezhnaya deployed an AI-piloted F/A-18. It flew alongside Nocturne and Tidal Squadrons. As a Rafale fired two missiles at drones, the AI fired a third—hitting the right side of the Former President's Osprey."
Furina's eyes widened.
The final piece of the puzzle clicked into place.
Her breath hitched.
"So… All this time… An AI-piloted F/A-18 took out the Former President… and made it seem like I was the one that fired it..."
Her voice was barely a whisper.
The crushing weight of betrayal sank in.
Shattered Illusions
Clorinde exhaled sharply. Her voice was cold.
"Snezhnaya orchestrated the entire assassination… to frame you."
Jean, listening intently, spoke up.
"We can't ignore a story like this, Furina."
Furina's voice was raw. Hollow.
"Yeah... It's all clear now... Snezhnaya set me up. I was the closest to Imena's Osprey. I fired two missiles. Not three."
The truth had come at a heavy price.
She had been framed.
And now—her focus was razor-sharp.
Snezhnaya's betrayal ran deeper than anyone could have imagined.
The Final Run – Belinda's Convoy
The radio crackled again.
Mavuika's voice. Urgent.
"Bad news. The tunnel has a blockade."
Jean's F-14B Tomcat swooped low, her radar scanning the blockade.
Enemy forces.
Her HUD lit up. Lock.
She had the tone.
"Fox Three!"
A LAGM missile streaked from the Tomcat's belly, a silent predator racing toward its target.
Jean banked hard, her fighter rolling away just as the missile struck dead center.
A fireball erupted.
Flames and debris ripped through the tunnel entrance.
Down below, Belinda's car surged forward.
"Just in the nick of time, Jean! Thank you!"
Jean smirked, leveling her fighter.
"We're closing in on the new rendezvous point. You have our many thanks!"
Belinda's vehicle took a hard right, tires shrieking as it exited the highway—
And raced toward the harbor.
The Extraction Begins
Furina's sharp blue eyes flicked to her IFF display, tracking the extraction helicopter now settled on the ground. The rhythmic whump-whump of the rotors filled the comms, a steady beat amidst the tension-choked air.
"The extraction helicopter has landed."
Her fingers tightened around the flight stick. They were almost done here.
Then, Officer Rotchev's voice crackled back over the radio—grim, unwavering.
"The Rebels truly believed that boosting drone production would make up for our losses."
A pause. Then, his voice hardened, resentment bleeding through every syllable.
"But they should be responsible for the fall of the capital! Instead, they are prolonging the war!"
Furina exhaled slowly, keeping her jet steady as Rotchev continued.
"That's why Conservatives like myself are moving in—to help regain control of this nation. If all goes well, we might be able to sign a ceasefire and a truce, bringing this war to an end."
Down below, Belinda's voice cut through the roaring helicopter blades, her words barely audible.
"We've reached the chopper! We're heading out! Stay safe, guys!"
A flicker of relief washed over Furina. Mission accomplished.
But then—
AWACS Visionaire's voice shattered the moment.
"Multiple aircraft approaching Alicorn Bay from the north."
Instantly, Waltz and Primordial Squadron snapped into formation, banking hard toward the unknown radar contacts.
Then—
The radio crackled again.
"This is a civilian aircraft with two F/A-18 escorts. We're not here to engage in combat. Please stand down."
Eula's voice shot onto the allied frequency, sharp and laced with suspicion.
"What the fuck is going on?"
AWACS Visionaire's tone remained professional but wary.
"Furina, get close and confirm identification."
"Wilco."
She pushed her throttles forward, feeling the surge of her Rafale's twin M88 engines as she broke from formation and angled toward the unknown aircraft.
Furina approached fast, her HUD illuminating the transport plane. She passed it once, then pulled into a tight 180-degree turn, rolling smoothly into position off its wing.
Then—
A female voice crackled over the secondary comms.
"What's going on, Doctor Hroptatyr?"
Furina's grip on the stick tightened. Before she could respond—
Wriothesley's voice cut in over allied comms.
"Whoa, whoa. There's a girl aboard!?"
Furina narrowed her eyes. She studied the transport's markings, scrutinized its flight path.
Everything checks out. Civilian plane. Two escorts. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Then—
The secondary comms flared again.
"Wait… I know this plane. Captain Arlecchino mentioned this plane before…"
A long pause.
Then—
"The golden crown."
Flare deployment.
An explosion.
"SHIT! THE PLANE'S UNDER ATTACK!" Furina roared, yanking her stick hard right as debris streaked past her canopy.
The radio erupted into chaos.
"That's the liaison plane! The one engaged in Khaenri'ahn witchcraft!"
"Take it out!"
Wriothesley's voice barked over comms.
"VISIONAIRE! PERMISSION TO ENGAGE?!"
AWACS Visionaire's response was immediate.
"Negative! Identify them first! It might be Teyvat fighters!"
Furina checked her IFF.
Her blood ran cold.
"IT'S SNEZHNAYAN REBEL FORCES!"
A beat.
Then—
"Alright. Weapons free."
Furina's voice rang out across the allied comms.
"WALTZ AND PRIMORDIAL SQUADRON! ENGAGE!"
Dogfight Over Alicorn Bay
The squadrons scattered into combat formations, sweeping wide to intercept the enemy Su-33s.
Furina locked onto one trying to break away.
HUD locked. Tone steady.
"Fox Two!"
A Sidewinder shrieked from her wing, tracking flawlessly. The missile found its mark, detonating against the Su-33's fuselage. The explosion sent burning debris spiraling into the sea.
Then—a second Su-33 streaked past, banking hard right.
Furina reacted instantly. She snapped right, rolling into pursuit, her Rafale carving a sharp arc through the sky.
The enemy pilot weaved aggressively, fighting to shake her.
Then—
The Su-33 pitched up sharply.
A Pugachev Cobra.
Furina's eyes flicked to her airspeed and angle of attack. She recognized the trap.
Instead of biting, she eased off the throttle, keeping level.
The enemy stalled out above her.
Her HUD locked.
"Guns, guns, guns!"
BRRRRTTT!
Tracer rounds chewed into the Su-33's wing and cockpit. The jet buckled, its wing shearing off. The canopy shattered—seconds later, it spun into a fiery death dive.
Furina barely rolled clear as flaming wreckage streaked past her.
Jean & Amber – Against the Odds
At the northwest edge of Alicorn Bay, Jean and Amber were locked in combat.
A fourth-gen Su-33 against their aging F-14B.
On paper, the Tomcat should've been outclassed.
But it's not just about the plane.
It's about the pilot.
Jean yanked the stick into a tight turn, pulling high Gs as she fought for a missile solution.
Amber's voice was sharp.
"You got it, Jean! You got it!"
The Su-33 juked, but Jean stayed on its tail.
Tone.
Lock.
"Fox Two!"
A Sidewinder launched, slicing through the night sky.
Impact.
The Su-33 erupted into flames, spiraling toward the dark sea below.
Amber punched the air.
"HELL YEAH, JEAN! SPLASH ONE! SPLASH ONE!"
Jean chuckled, breathless.
"You know, it's more fun having a passenger in the back."
Amber grinned.
"Damn right it is!"
The Final Kill – A Deadly Maneuver
Jean's relief was short-lived.
"We got one on our six!" Amber shouted.
Jean's jaw tightened.
"Hold on."
She grabbed the wing sweep lever, pushing it forward. The F-14's wings snapped into full forward-sweep mode.
Then—
She split the throttles.
Right engine: Full afterburner.
Left engine: Idle.
A sharp kick of the rudder.
The Tomcat spun aggressively, dropping into a steep dive.
The Su-33 couldn't follow.
It broke away—straight into Furina's sights.
Furina's voice crackled over comms.
"Jean! I got it! Take your shot!"
Jean steadied the stick.
Tone.
Lock.
"Fox Two!"
The Sidewinder streaked from the F-14B.
Furina banked hard, dodging as the missile found its mark.
A fireball erupted behind her.
She turned—debris rained down from the destroyed Su-33.
She pumped her fist.
"That's a splash, Jean! Good work!"
Amber's voice erupted in triumph.
"LET'S FUCKING GO!"
Furina laughed.
"Looks like fun in there, huh, Jean?"
Jean chuckled, shaking her head.
"So much fun."
Then—
AWACS Visionaire's voice cut in.
"All enemy fighters down."
For the first time in hours—
Silence.
A moment of relief.
Then—
"Wait."
A wailing chorus of warning tones filled every cockpit.
Furina's HUD flashed red.
Missile alert.
Her breath hitched. What the hell!?
Then—an urgent voice crackled over the secondary comms.
"No… NO!! The escort fighter is missing it! It's missing the drive!"
AWACS Visionaire's voice snapped across the radio, sharp and urgent.
"Liaison aircraft escorts—DISENGAGE IMMEDIATELY!"
Jean's voice cut in, furious.
"We were helping you, for fuck's sake!"
Then—another voice, cold as steel.
Raiden.
"So this is betrayal? You fools!"
Collei scoffed, her tone laced with venom.
"So this is how you repay protection? Tch."
And then—Doctor Hroptatyr's voice sliced through the comms, heavy with grim finality.
"To the Teyvat Air Force! Those escort aircraft are DRONES!"
A split second of silence.
Then—
Furina's palm slammed against the canopy glass, rage seething through her veins.
"YOU'VE GOT TO BE SHITTING ME!!"
Her hand shot forward, throttles shoved to max power.
No hesitation. No second thoughts.
She engaged.
Her HUD locked onto a rogue F/A-18.
Tone.
Lock.
"Fox Two!"
A Sidewinder streaked away, its white-hot flame cutting through the darkness before slamming dead center into the drone.
Impact. Detonation. Debris.
AWACS Visionaire's voice flared through the comms.
"Waltz, what the hell are you doing!?"
Furina's teeth clenched.
"You've got to be kidding me. They're attacking us, right!? TAKE THEM OUT!"
Doctor Hroptatyr's voice returned, grim and resigned.
"Unfortunately, taking them out is the only way."
A heavy sigh from AWACS Visionaire.
Then—
"All aircraft—destroy the escort fighters."
Doctor Hroptatyr muttered almost to himself.
"Let's see if they deploy the drones…"
Furina scoffed, frustration boiling over.
"There's no drones! We took out the drone containers during the first operation for the Razushitel! We were here before!"
But there was no time to argue.
Raiden was already in pursuit, her F-15E closing in on another AI-piloted F/A-18.
The drone weaved erratically—inhuman, mechanical, unnatural. But she held her lock.
Tone.
"Fox Two!"
Her Sidewinder streaked out.
A direct hit.
Then—Mavuika's voice, sharp and steady.
"I got the second-to-last one!"
Tone.
Lock.
"Fox Three!"
An HCAA missile tore away from her jet.
Direct hit.
One left.
Furina had it in her sights.
A simple kill.
Her hand tightened around the trigger.
Tone.
Lock.
"Fox Two."
The last drone erupted into flames, disintegrating mid-air.
Silence followed. Heavy. Suffocating.
Then—AWACS Visionaire confirmed it.
"All enemy aircraft destroyed."
A pause.
Then—
"And the officer and captain's helicopter is out of Alicorn Bay airspace."
A breath.
Then—
"Mission Accomplished. RTB."
Furina exhaled, her shoulders tense, mind racing.
She turned north, climbing to 30,000 feet.
Her squadron formed up behind her, perfect in their formation.
The 30-minute flight home was underway.
A mission well-executed.
A battle survived.
Yet—something felt wrong.
Something unsettled her.
Something she couldn't explain.
Unheard by them…
Inside the transport aircraft, an officer of the Snezhnayan Air Force stood before Doctor Hroptatyr.
Her voice was low. Serious.
"The plane. With the gold crown."
Doctor Hroptatyr frowned, eyes narrowing.
"What does that mean?"
The officer shook her head.
"The tail of that plane… It's something Captain Arlecchino talked to me about."
Then—
A distant explosion.
The two turned sharply toward the cockpit.
Through the glass—
An aircraft was falling.
Shot down.
At their two o'clock position.
A chilling silence settled over the cabin.
Dymny Kordon Air Force Base – The Aftermath
The mess hall was unnervingly quiet.
Two squadrons. Exhausted. Frustrated. Drinking in silence.
The bitter taste of beer wasn't enough to wash away the tension hanging in the air.
Furina slumped back in her seat, running a hand through her disheveled hair. She exhaled sharply, staring at the amber liquid in her glass. The dim lighting cast long shadows across the table, stretching with the weight of unspoken thoughts.
"How much longer will this be?"
No one had an answer.
Amber shook her head, staring blankly at the label on her bottle.
"Don't know… I don't know how long I can bear having my targets marked as 'Unknown.'"
Raiden leaned back, fingers tapping the side of her bottle, her face unreadable.
"No kidding. I nearly shot down an allied fighter thanks to the damn satellite being destroyed."
Then—
The door swung open.
Jean walked in.
Her hair was a mess, dark circles under her eyes. She looked like hell.
She let out a long, heavy sigh as she ran a hand down her face.
"Can't believe this shit."
She dropped into a chair, grabbed a beer from the nearest crate, twisted off the cap, and took a long, deep swig.
Then—she slammed the bottle down on the table with a dull thud.
And spoke.
"Officer Rotchev and Captain Belinda are dead."
The room went still.
Furina's head snapped toward her.
"What!?"
Jean exhaled, shaking her head slowly.
"They were shot down by a Teyvat aircraft. Mistaken identity."
A long silence.
A heavy, suffocating silence.
Furina's stomach twisted.
Mistaken identity.
Just like before.
Just like the assassination of Former President Imena.
How many more times was this going to happen?
Jean leaned forward, elbows on the table, staring down at her half-empty bottle.
Her voice was tired. Resigned.
"Worse yet—this was the last operation from the Sealed Order. We have no plan on what to do moving forward."
Furina's grip on her glass tightened, the cold condensation pressing against her palm.
Jean's gaze swept across the squadron, her voice cold. Matter-of-fact.
"All we can do is watch our own backs."
She took another sip.
"We're on our own."
A War Without Direction
With the Sealed Order operation completed, the Teyvat Strategic Strike Group was in limbo.
No orders.
No new objectives.
No reinforcements.
Just a civil war spiraling deeper into chaos.
And now—
Their allies were just as likely to kill them as their enemies.
The war wasn't ending.
It was only getting worse.