November 3rd
08:30 Hours
Charybdis Air Force Base – Fontaine Mainland
The morning sun hadn't climbed far, its pale light casting long shadows across the tarmac of Charybdis Air Force Base. The coastal wind carried the familiar scent of saltwater and fuel, blending the calm of Fontaine's shores with the metallic tang of military aviation. Seagulls circled lazily above the runways, the only things in the sky that weren't tagged by radar.
Emilie, Mona, Teppei, and Ayaka had touched down just before dawn—flown in directly from the frontline for debrief and investigation. Now, hours later, they stood grounded in more ways than one. Their F-14A Tomcats sat cooling on the flight line, still wearing the dust and grime of yesterday's combat sortie. They had barely been powered down before ground crews rolled them away to the auxiliary hangars.
All four of them had changed out of their flight suits into formal service blues, the starched uniforms stiff against the more relaxed movements of pilots used to strapping into cockpits. Each epaulet on their shoulders bore the weight of rank—and now, scrutiny.
War hadn't reached Fontaine's heartland yet. Charybdis, despite being one of the most important airbases in the Teyvat military network, remained quiet, clean. Peaceful. It felt surreal.
They walked side by side, the hard soles of their shoes tapping rhythmically against the concrete as they passed along the long stretch of hangars. Their shadows followed behind them, dark and stretched by the rising light. It was 08:30, and they had fifteen minutes before the Fontaine Central Command officers would begin their questioning.
The base was active, but not bustling—routine movements, nothing urgent. Maintenance crews wheeled carts of tools to nearby aircraft, while a refueling truck hissed beside one of the parked Hornets. A pair of junior officers walked past them and offered curt nods. Emilie returned them with a quick glance, still half-focused on the hangars ahead.
Charybdis was home turf for the Armée de l'Air's 405th Tactical Fighter Squadron. And parked proudly outside the first five hangars were Nocturne Squadron's F/A-18 Hornets, immaculate under the morning sun. Their twin tails bore the signature deep blue and white wave motif unique to Fontaine's elite, and the planes looked untouched by war—every panel freshly cleaned, every pitot tube capped, every canopy gleaming.
A bit farther down, under Hangars Six and Seven, rested Tidal Squadron's two F-35C Lightning IIs. The stealth jets were like ghosts in daylight—flat, sharp-angled silhouettes designed to kill without being seen. They looked expensive. And untouchable.
Teppei leaned back, arms behind his head as he strolled, eyes fixed on the F-35s like a kid outside a candy store.
"Man, I wish we had those jets."
Emilie smirked. "Dream on. We're an auxiliary unit, Teppei. We're lucky they let us fly the F-14s without duct tape."
Teppei gave a mock gasp. "Blasphemy. The Tomcat is a legend."
Ayaka, walking calmly with hands behind her back, spoke with a touch of pride. "I don't have any complaints. The F-14's got bite. We've proven that much."
She glanced toward Mona. "What about you, First Lieutenant Megistus? Any regrets not flying something newer?"
Mona shook her head, her long violet hair tied neatly at the nape of her neck. "Not really. Tomcats suit me. Old, clever, and underestimated." She gave a small, dry smile.
"But imagine us pulling up in F-35s!" Teppei spread his arms dramatically. "Enemy radars wouldn't even know we're coming. 'Boom. Splash one.' Just like that."
Emilie chuckled under her breath. "Yeah. And then we'd wake up."
She reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, and tapped the screen. 08:40.
Her brow furrowed slightly, and she slid the device back into her pocket.
"Alright, time's up. Let's move. Don't want to keep the Central Command boys waiting, do we?"
"No, ma'am," Teppei muttered playfully, straightening his jacket with exaggerated care.
The four of them fell into step again, leaving behind the line of pristine jets and maintenance bays. As they walked toward the looming headquarters building, the air grew quieter. Less flightline noise, more formal. The kind of silence reserved for paperwork, classified folders, and sharp questions behind closed doors.
The four of them fell into step again, leaving behind the line of pristine jets and maintenance bays. As they walked toward the looming headquarters building, the air grew quieter. Less flightline noise, more formal. The kind of silence reserved for paperwork, classified folders, and sharp questions behind closed doors.
Charybdis' command structure sat nestled in a cluster of sharp-angled, glass-and-concrete buildings. The Fontaine flag flew at half-mast today, its blue-and-white colors fluttering just slightly in the breeze. A subtle signal of mourning—perhaps for the civilians caught in yesterday's mess, or for the trust eroded by war.
Guards posted at the entrance to the main administrative building gave them a nod and buzzed them through. The hallway inside was spotless, lined with framed photos of Fontaine's squadrons and decorated with ribbons of historical merit. A polished sign read: "FONTAINE OFFICE OF CENTRAL COMMAND – CHARYBDIS BRANCH"
It felt cold in there. Not in temperature. In tone.
A high-ranking official stepped through the corridor, his polished boots striking the tiled floor with weight behind every step. His expression was unreadable, forged by years of discipline and protocol. As he approached, Emilie instinctively stood upright, posture sharpened, her uniform neatly pressed, face composed.
She stepped forward first, extending her hand.
The man accepted it with a firm grip.
"Captain Emilie," the official began, voice low but direct, "I wish we were meeting under better circumstances. But your cooperation is no longer a request—it's a requirement."
Emilie nodded. "Of course, sir. We can begin officially whenever you're ready."
The official returned the nod, turning to the nearby door and pulling it open.
"Right. After you, Captain."
Emilie stepped inside without hesitation, the scent of ink, paper, and stale coffee lingering in the interview room. The official followed behind and closed the door with a heavy thud, the sound echoing slightly in the sealed chamber.
Both made their way to the center table. Emilie sat straight-backed, resting her cap on her lap. The official adjusted his chair before clicking his pen, then tapped the screen of a military-grade tablet.
"Right, Captain. Let's begin," he said, his tone clipped and focused. "Let's talk about November 2nd. Operation Retreatalblow."
Emilie gave a quick nod. "Yes, sir."
"Can you walk me through the objective?"
"It was a tactical strike," she began. "Our orders were to intercept and destroy retreating Natlan transport planes. Intel indicated they were pulling back to reinforce defenses around their capital. We were assigned to Sector Papa Alpha, over the Tepeacac Rise."
The official typed into his tablet, the clicks echoing in the still room.
"I see. Were you—by any chance—tasked with attacking an engineering college during that operation?"
Emilie's brows furrowed slightly. She shook her head.
"No, sir. Absolutely not."
She leaned forward slightly, voice steady.
"During the operation, we executed our mission profile: targeting transports and engaging enemy escort fighters. Everything was proceeding within standard ROE. Then—out of nowhere—we heard a new voice come over the allied comms frequency. Unfamiliar. They identified themselves as the 5050th Squadron."
The official paused his typing.
"The 5050th?" he repeated. "Captain… there is no such designation. No records in the Teyvat United Peacekeeping Force. None in Fontaine's Air Force, or any allied air units."
Emilie met his gaze with calm certainty.
"With all due respect, sir, we heard them. Loud and clear. They radioed in claiming they were 'proceeding with an operation.' Seconds later, chatter from the enemy frequency lit up in chaos—someone had opened fire on a civilian facility."
The official tilted his head. "A civilian facility?"
"An engineering college," Emilie confirmed. "We didn't have visual, but the timing... the location... the panic from Natlan's ground forces—it matched."
He resumed typing. "Still, there is no official documentation proving such a squadron exists. Nothing. Are you sure they were real? Could it have been a mistake? Or… a misidentified unit?"
"No, sir. This wasn't just some ghost signal. This wasn't static or friendly spoofing. We first came across them weeks prior—during the Deshret Desert incident."
The official leaned in slightly, interest piqued.
"That the same incident involving Meka One?"
"Yes, sir. The presidential transport," Emilie confirmed. "We were in patrol formation when Meka One had to execute an emergency landing after suffering engine failure. Later determined to be sabotage—spy disguised as the first officer. When we responded, the same unknown squadron appeared. Our IFF systems flagged them as friendly."
"Interesting…" the official murmured. "What were they flying?"
"F-15S/MTDs, sir."
He stopped writing. "Excuse me?"
"F-15S/MTDs," Emilie repeated without hesitation. "Confirmed visually. From fifteen miles out, I could clearly identify the forward canards, thrust vectoring nacelles. It was unmistakable."
The official leaned back, skeptical.
"Captain… only experimental units have access to those aircraft. That includes elite ace squadrons, mostly tied to Khaenri'ah's black projects. You're saying a rogue squadron, flying top-tier experimental airframes, appeared out of nowhere—twice—and then vanished into thin air?"
"Yes, sir," Emilie replied simply.
The official narrowed his eyes. "You do realize Candace and your instructors at the Academy said you were a terrible liar, right?"
Emilie gave a tight smile, more wearied than amused. "I'm aware, sir."
He sighed, then set his pen down.
"I'll have to corroborate your testimony. Please have First Lieutenant Megistus step in."
Emilie stood. "Yes, sir. And… thank you."
The official waved it off. "Don't thank me yet, Captain. This whole operation has brought a storm down on your squadron's head. Teyvat's government is already questioning your reliability. And Fontaine's ministers? They're not thrilled either."
Emilie nodded grimly, exiting the room. She closed the door behind her quietly, then leaned back against it, running a gloved hand through her hair.
"Damn…"
She turned her head. "Mona. You're up."
Mona nodded and walked past her. Emilie slid into a seat outside, folding her arms.
Inside the room, Mona took the same seat. The questioning began again, but her answers were precise and mirrored Emilie's testimony point for point.
Until the official added one more question.
"Miss Megistus. I have to ask: did you observe Captain Emilie at any point stray from formation? Was she ever off-course? Alone?"
Mona raised an eyebrow.
"With all due respect, sir—what kind of question is that?"
She leaned forward. "We were flying above 20,000 feet. Visibility was clear. Emilie's aircraft was always in our visual formation box. She never deviated. Not once."
The official didn't respond immediately, instead just nodding as he typed. The same questions were posed to Ayaka, and again, the answers aligned.
"We heard them too," Ayaka said. "They referred to themselves as the 5050th Squadron."
The official rubbed his face, exasperated.
"5050th squadron, 5050th squadron… it doesn't exist on any logs, manifests, shadow rosters—nothing."
Ayaka lowered her gaze, clenching her fists tightly.
Teppei was the final pilot to be questioned. His words echoed the others', nearly verbatim—but his frustration boiled to the surface fast.
He slammed a fist on the table.
"Dammit!"
Then threw up both hands.
"What the hell is going on here!? We're not lying—we heard them, we saw them, we fought near them!"
Before the official could respond, the door burst open. A young officer sprinted in, breathless.
"Sir! We have a situation! Natlan aircraft—multiple bogeys—detected moving fast toward Marcotte International Airport!"
The official jolted to his feet.
"What!?"
The officer's eyes were wide. "They're entering civilian airspace, sir! Multiple bombers and escorts—this isn't a probe. It's a full-scale strike package!"
The official pointed sharply at the four pilots.
"You four! On your feet! Get in gear, now! Scramble and defend the airport. Protect the civilians at all costs!"
Emilie, Mona, Ayaka, and Teppei didn't need to be told twice. They turned in unison and ran from the room, boots pounding the hallway floor as klaxons began to blare outside. Sirens howled across the base. Emergency lights flashed.
The crew changing room was already coming alive—ground crews rushing, technicians unlocking lockers, weapons crews preparing hardpoints.
The four pilots tore off their uniforms, slipping into their flight suits in practiced efficiency. No more questions. No more interviews.
This wasn't just another sortie.
This was it.
A full-scale invasion of Fontaine had begun.