Wings of the Stars

The Next Day

A new operation.

A new battlefield.

And Furina's first sortie as a convict. A fallen ace. A disposable asset of the Teyvat Spare Squadron—The Drowned Squadron.

She had just finished lacing up her brown combat boots. Tight. Secure. Ready for whatever bullshit they were about to throw at her. It didn't matter anymore. She had accepted it. She wasn't here to argue, or to beg, or to cry about how unfair it all was.

Now, it was about proving something.

She stood up, took a slow breath, and walked over to the mirror in her quarters. Her reflection stared back—eyes sharp, cold, burning with something deeper than just anger. She knew what she had to do.

She lowered her head slightly, muttering under her breath.

"Time to show these lowlifes who the real ace is."

She grabbed her flight suit and stepped out, making her way toward the briefing room. Every step echoed through the empty hall. Every step brought her closer to the damn reality of what her life had become.

This isn't over.

Not by a long shot.

The Briefing Room

Furina stepped inside. Five other pilots were already seated. The rest of the Drowned Squadron. A collection of criminals, outcasts, and rejects.

She took a seat. No words. Just silence.

Then, Colonel Jakob took the stage. The display behind him flickered to life, a 3D projection of the base forming in midair.

"Alright, listen up. We got a new face today. Though I'm sure all of you already know who she is."

Jakob's eyes locked onto Furina.

"This here is former Lieutenant—now convict—Furina de Fontaine. Callsign 'Waltz.'"

He let the name sit in the air for a moment before continuing.

"She was found guilty by the Teyvat Peacekeeping Court-Martial for the murder of Former President Imena. Guilty or not—whether she pulled the trigger or not—it doesn't matter anymore. She's here now. She's one of you. A member of the 51st Teyvat Spare Squadron. The Drowned Squadron."

The room stayed dead silent.

"But let's not fool ourselves with symbolic bullshit. Each and every one of you is here for a reason. Some of you even more than others. And remember this—you cons have an obligation to atone for your crimes."

Jakob's gaze landed on Furina again, his voice turning sharp.

"And one of you? One of you knows how to fly a little too damn well."

Furina didn't react. Didn't flinch. She just met his stare with that same cold, unshaken look.

"I'm looking at you, Waltz."

He turned back to the display.

"HQ needs bodies to plug the gaps in our Air Force. Originally, they proposed sending you dumbasses on a recon mission at Mount Yuzwhny. But that idea was rejected outright. Instead, its been re-assigned to the newly formed Teyvat Strategic Strike Group—TSSG."

The display zoomed out, showing the real purpose of Korovograd Air Force Base.

"Most of you already know by now—this base is a decoy. A goddamn magnet for enemy fire. And you? As its members? You'll be the ones taking those hits. Your job is to keep this base looking important, so the enemy keeps wasting their resources attacking us instead of targeting the actual priority sites. Consider it your personal atonement."

Then—alarms blared.

A distant rumble. Bombers passing overhead, dropping payloads somewhere beyond the airstrip. The ground shook.

Jakob sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Get that damned alarm off! It's just the usual bullshit!"

The alarms cut off. He exhaled and turned back to the squadron.

"Today's mission is simple. We're scrambling a flight to play the role of aerial guards for this base. You won't be engaging—just making noise. You'll be flying with limited armaments. If something happens? Pray to whatever god you believe in."

He started calling out names.

"Let's start with the guiltiest of all. Waltz."

He locked eyes with her.

"Congratulations. You're the lead flight of the Drowned Squadron. Drowned One."

Before Furina could react, another voice snapped from across the room.

"Hey! What the hell!? Why am I not the lead!?"

Drowned Two. Callsign: Rapperia.

Jakob didn't even blink. He just pointed at her like he was scolding a misbehaving child.

"Sit your ass down, Clorinde. I'm not saying it again."

Rapperia—now identified as Clorinde—clicked her tongue, scoffing as she sat back down.

"Then you, Rapperia. Then Wolfbite. Then Stalker. Then Lune."

Jakob's tone sharpened.

"That's all. Sortie now."

Then—another voice cut in.

"Hey! What about me!?"

Drowned Seven. Some guy Furina hadn't even bothered to remember.

Jakob didn't even look up. "You're on standby in case one of them gets killed."

Drowned Seven clenched his fists, teeth grinding together.

"Screw that! I'm flying whether you like it or not!"

He stormed toward the door, fists clenched at his sides.

Jakob finally snapped his gaze up.

"If you do, your ass is going straight to solitary!"

But Drowned Seven was already gone.

Jakob sighed, rubbing his face.

"Fucking idiot."

Furina didn't care. She was already on her feet, heading toward the hangars.

First sortie as a convict.

Time to remind them who the fuck she was.

Moments Later – The Squadron Arrives at Their Aircraft.

The lineup of aircraft sat in the dim morning light, engines still cold, frost clinging to the canopies. They looked like a graveyard of war machines—some old, some rusted, some still bearing scars from past battles.

Furina's Dassault Rafale M was the only one looking new. But it stood among them, its sleek, modified airframe still as sharp as ever—but now marked with three black strikes.

The Sin Lines.

A mark of disgrace. A symbol of exile. A death sentence in the sky.

To her right sat the SU-27, marked with One Sin Line, assigned to Drowned Two—Clorinde. TAC name: Rapperia.

The Mirage 2000-5 beside it belonged to Drowned Three—Wolfbite. Real name: Wriothesley. Marked with two sin lines

Next, the F/A-18, assigned to Drowned Four—Stalker. Albert. Marked with two sin lines

The F-15, a rugged, battered beast, was assigned to Drowned Five—Lune. Real name unknown. Marked with one sin line

And then, the MiG-25 Foxbat—a relic of an old war—assigned to Drowned Seven. The wild card. The suicidal bastard. Marked with two sin lines

On standby sat a Eurofighter Typhoon. Assigned to Drowned Eight. Marked with one sin line

Furina climbed up the ladder, ready to settle into her seat—when Clorinde's voice cut through the noise.

"Waltz! Don't think you're the lead flight. I'm in command!"

Furina didn't even bother looking at her.

She scoffed, muttering under her breath, "Shut the fuck up, my god."

She dropped into the ejection seat, buckled herself in, and slid her helmet over her head. With a sharp click, she locked her oxygen mask into place. The world became silent.

The only thing she could hear now was her own breathing.

And then—the engines.

Twin M88s roared to life beneath her, the raw power of the aircraft vibrating through the cockpit.

She exhaled.

"Let's get this over with."

Taxiing Out – The Convicts Roll to War

The squadron began moving, taxiing one by one toward the runway. Furina was the last to roll out, her Rafale following behind Clorinde's SU-27.

Then, the radio crackled to life.

"All aircraft, check your altimeters and taxi out."

A second voice—Clorinde's—immediately cut in.

"Tower, send me out first."

Before the tower could even reply—another voice cut through the frequency.

"Drowned Seven, what the hell are you doing!?"

The controllers had spotted him.

The MiG-25 was moving—without clearance.

"You're not cleared to taxi or take off! Turn around and shut it down!"

Drowned Seven's voice spat back over the radio.

"Go to hell."

Furina's grip on the sidestick tightened.

"Fucking idiot."

Then—a warning from the tower.

"All aircraft, watch out for Drowned Seven! He's forcing a takeoff!"

As the rest of the squadron continued rolling toward the runway, Clorinde's voice came through the comms.

"I'll take command. Any objections?"

A beat of silence.

Then—Wriothesley's voice.

"Uhh, yeah? Waltz is the lead flight. She's in command."

Clorinde scoffed. "As if."

Then—tower finally made the call.

"Waltz, your callsign is Drowned One. You're lucky you're lead flight. Don't disappoint."

Furina didn't hesitate.

"Sure."

The planes began launching, taking off in 25-second intervals. One by one, they disappeared into the sky.

Clorinde's SU-27 was next.

Then—Furina.

"Drowned One, cleared for takeoff."

She didn't reply.

Instead, she slammed the throttles forward.

The afterburners erupted to life, and the Rafale screamed down the runway.

Faster. Faster.

With a slight pull on the stick, Furina felt her jet lift from the ground—free from gravity.

Gear up.

She banked right, climbing high, circling the airbase.

The Drowned Squadron was now airborne.

All aircraft were equipped with LRAAMs and HCAAs.

But only Furina's jet was fully armed.

The others? Light weaponry.

Barely enough to fight back.

Not a coincidence.

A message.

The commander had already made his stance clear—Furina wasn't like the others.

She had been an ace.

Now?

Now she was just a convict with three black marks on her tail.

Then, over the comms—Drowned Seven's voice.

"Yes! My blood is boiling!"

Tower responded instantly.

"Toss his ass in solitary when he lands!"

Furina rolled her eyes.

"Fucking moron."

Then—Clorinde chimed in.

"So, our weapons are locked. Again. Not surprised here."

Furina scoffed.

"Doesn't matter. Just defend."

Clorinde clicked her tongue.

"Like you were here in the past, murderer."

Furina's fist clenched around the throttle.

But she didn't respond.

Then—a new voice joined the frequency.

A different AWACS. Not Zaytun.

This one was different.

AWACS Justice.

The cold, sarcastic voice oozed through the comms.

"Convicts don't get to use weapons.

Not even a fucking pencil sharpener."

Time dragged on. The Drowned Squadron kept flying in circles above the airbase, pretending to be an aerial defense. A joke of a mission.

Furina could feel her patience wearing thin with every passing minute.

Then—Drowned Seven's voice cut in over the comms.

"Here comes Imena's murderer."

Furina's fingers twitched on the sidestick.

Then—Wriothesley joined in.

"Shot a missile right by her right side. Didn't even stand a chance."

A scoff from Clorinde. "Always in the know, huh, Wolfbite?"

Wriothesley chuckled. "In this war? It's all about intel, my friend. Always."

Then—AWACS Justice chimed in, voice thick with sarcasm.

"Settle down, you two. Excited to have another murderer in the squadron? Just remember—you're all just here to make noise. If you get locked onto by a missile? You've got flares. Use them.

Clorinde scoffed. "Yeah, yeah. Let's see if Waltz can last against a wave of bombers."

Wriothesley smirked. "If you've seen the reports on how Waltz flies, you'd be thinking you were in a nightmare."

Clorinde's tone sharpened. "What the hell do you mean by that, Wolfbite?"

Wriothesley's grin was almost audible through the radio. "You'll see when she gets into action."

Then—the enemy radio cracked open.

"This is the bombers. We're ready to launch the payload."

Another voice confirmed. "Roger. Release them on the airbase."

Moments later—the TU-95 bombers released their payload.

Explosions ripped across the fake base adjacent to the real one. The line of fake aircraft was incinerated, flames lighting up the snow-covered runway.

Furina scoffed. "Look at them. Bombing fake planes. What idiots. I'd see that from a mile away."

But then—disaster struck.

A panicked voice. "Hey! One of the bombers hit the control tower! No response!"

Then—the base commander's voice cut in.

"What the hell is with the shak—"

Silence.

AWACS Justice's voice turned sharp. "Commander Jakob? Commander, do you read!?"

Nothing.

The Snezhnayans came way more prepared than before.

Then—AWACS Justice took over. "This is AWACS Justice. All aircraft—shoot down every enemy fighter and bomber in the air!"

Furina's weapons display flashed from red to green.

Her IFF system updated.

Enemy aircraft. Red targets. Everywhere.

Furina grinned.

"Alright. Time to show them who the real ace is."

She slammed the throttles forward, the twin M88 engines roaring to life as she shot forward.

Clorinde's voice cut in. "Alright! All aircraft, support me!"

"As if!" Wriothesley shot back. "Waltz is lead!"

Clorinde scoffed. "As if!"

And then—a sonic boom.

A blur of blue, white, and gold tore past Clorinde at nearly Mach 1.

Furina broke right, turning toward the bombers.

"Whoa! What the hell was that!?"

Wriothesley chuckled. "Looks like you triggered Waltz."

Furina switched to her LRAAMs.

Two locks.

She fired.

"Fox Three!"

She broke away, banking hard.

Two direct hits.

AWACS confirmed it. "Drowned One, splash two. Good work."

Clorinde growled. "Good work!? She stole my kills!"

AWACS Justice's voice was flat. "Shut your trap, Rapperia. First come, first served."

Furina ignored them. Her eyes locked on to another group—enemy fighters near the real airbase.

Time for a dogfight.

She dived in.

Three Su-33s.

One broke left. The other two held formation.

Furina chose her targets.

Lock. Tone. Missile away.

"Fox Two!"

A direct hit.

"Splash one, Waltz."

Then—her radar screamed.

"MISSILE INBOUND!"

AWACS called it. "Waltz, missile inbound!"

Furina smirked.

"Now, watch, you pricks."

She slammed the throttles to idle.

Pulled hard on the stick.

The Rafale pitched up at a perfect 90-degree angle, nose reaching for the sky.

Drowned Three—Wriothesley—watched in pure disbelief.

"What in the fuck!? How did she—"

The Su-33 overshot.

Too late.

Furina rolled the Rafale over, locking onto the enemy fighter below.

Tone. Lock. Missile away.

"Fox Two!"

A direct hit.

"Waltz, splash one!"

Clorinde's voice cracked in. "What the hell is on with you, Wolfbite!?"

Wriothesley's voice was stunned. "She... She just pulled a Pugachev!"

Clorinde sounded confused. "Who!?"

Wriothesley exhaled. "Waltz!!"

Then—Furina's voice cut through.

Cold. Calm. French.

"Regardez et apprenez, salauds. Je vais vous montrer qui est vraiment un Ace Pilot."

Clorinde's voice was lost. "Did... What!?"

Wriothesley laughed. "Only if you understood what she said. I'm impressed, Waltz."

Then—AWACS update.

"More bombers incoming. Bearing 010. Altitude—8,000."

Clorinde snapped in. "En route!"

Furina smirked.

"Pas sous ma montre."

She slammed the throttles forward and banked hard, turning toward the incoming bombers.

Tu-22Ms.

As Clorinde climbed toward them, something passed her at insane speeds.

A blur.

A fighter almost breaking the sound barrier.

Clorinde's eyes widened. "Who the hell is that!?"

AWACS responded.

"Élégante Et Efficace, Rapperia."

Clorinde blinked. "Who!?"

AWACS Justice scoffed. "You'll see."

Furina got three locks.

Tone. Missiles away.

"Fox Three!"

She broke off hard left, just as an escort fighter—a MiG-29—dived toward her.

Behind her—three explosions.

AWACS confirmed. "Waltz. Three more splashes. Great work."

With every passing minute, the kill count skyrocketed.

Furina led the scoreboard—Thirteen confirmed kills.

Wriothesley trailed behind at four.

Clorinde followed with three.

The rest? Two a piece.

Except for Drowned Four.

Zero.

Clorinde smirked, her voice dripping with cockiness.

"Hey, Waltz. Let's count our kills when we're done."

AWACS Justice chimed in, voice heavy with sarcasm.

"There's nothing for you to count with Waltz if you're still at three, Rapperia."

Meanwhile—Furina was locked in.

A MiG-29 in full retreat.

The enemy pilot desperately pulled evasive maneuvers, twisting and turning, fighting for his life.

It didn't matter.

Tone. Lock. Missile away.

"Fox Two!"

The Sidewinder streaked forward.

A direct hit.

AWACS confirmed it.

"Splash one, Drowned One!"

But then—another MiG-29 swung into her six.

A missile warning screamed in her ears.

"MISSILE INBOUND!"

Most pilots would panic.

Most pilots would flinch.

Furina?

She grinned.

Throttle—IDLE.

Stick—HARD PULL.

Rudders—LEFT KICK.

The Rafale snapped backward, nose pitching high as she executed a Pugachev Cobra.

Clorinde watched in horror.

"WHAT IN THE FUCK!?"

The MiG-29 overshot.

Furina rolled her aircraft over, locked on, and squeezed the trigger.

"Fox Two!"

Another direct hit.

AWACS Justice confirmed. "Waltz, another splash."

A beat of silence.

Then Clorinde's voice crackled in. "Okay. I'm gonna admit. That was fucking badass."

Wriothesley chuckled. "You have to stop underestimating Waltz, Rapperia. And start being friendly with her. She might be a great asset for you, ya know."

Furina ignored the chatter.

She was already scanning for the next kill.

Then—AWACS Justice called out.

"Four bombers. Low flying. TU-95s."

Furina adjusted her heading.

"Roger."

She banked hard, her Rafale slicing through the air.

Then—Drowned Seven chimed in, his tone dripping with amusement.

"Hey, Waltz. Don't die now. I got good money riding on your survival."

Then—Drowned Four spoke up, smirking.

"I'm betting she won't make it back."

Furina didn't respond.

Her eyes locked on the incoming bombers.

Altitude—Low.

Speed—Slower than they should be.

Big mistake.

She rolled her shoulders, cracked her knuckles inside her gloves, then pushed forward.

They were coming straight at her.

Head-on.

Furina narrowed her eyes. "Let's see how you bastards handle this."

She squeezed the trigger.

Her aircraft's machine gun ripped through the first bomber's cockpit.

The massive aircraft lurched—engines stalling—before dropping from the sky.

One down.

She shifted targets.

A second burst of gunfire tore into the next bomber's wing.

The left engine caught fire—then exploded.

Two down.

Another burst—third bomber down.

She rolled left, twisted, and lit up the last bomber.

The fourth TU-95 spiraled, engines failing, before slamming into the mountains below.

AWACS Justice was silent for a moment.

Then—"Four machine-gun kills from Waltz."

Drowned Five whistled. "Holy shit. This thing flies nice. Whatever that aircraft alchemist has done is amazing."

Clorinde scoffed. "If you saw Waltz pull off the Pugachev's, you'd be thinking otherwise."

Drowned Five chuckled. "I know, I know. But still—what the hell did that guy and his assistant do to these aircraft? Can you believe these were supposed to be scrapped?"

Wriothesley snapped. "Doesn't matter. Fly it and take the enemies out!"

Then—AWACS updated the confirmed kills.

"Drowned Two, splash."

"Drowned Three, splash."

"Drowned Five, splash."

Then—the final targets.

Six bombers.

AWACS Justice called it in.

"Six bombers. Bearing 360."

Furina responded instantly. "En route."

AWACS Justice sighed.

"Come now, Waltz! Let the others have some kills too!"

Furina's voice came through, cold. Sharp. French.

"Aucune chance en enfer." (No chance in hell.)

She locked on to two bombers.

Tone. Lock. Missiles away.

Two direct hits.

The bombers disintegrated in midair.

"Splash two, Waltz!"

She flew straight through the explosion, rolling right, then climbed into a steep ascent.

Then—she snapped into a dive.

Locked onto another two.

Missiles away.

Both targets—destroyed.

She still had altitude.

Two bombers left.

Lock. Fire. Break.

Both missiles found their mark.

AWACS confirmed the final kills.

"All enemies confirmed eliminated."

Cheers erupted across the comms.

Drowned Seven laughed.

"Hell yeah! Still alive, Imena's murderer? Dinner is on me tonight, Waltz!"

Furina groaned. "Ne m'appelle pas comme ça." (Don't call me that.)

AWACS Justice cut in, voice sharp.

"Cut the chatter, Drowned Squadron. RTB."

Final Score?

Furina—Twenty-One Kills.

The Rest Combined? Not even close.

Half an hour later.

All aircraft returned to base safely.

As Furina taxied in, AWACS Justice made one last call.

"Waltz. I lost a lot of money today. Don't forget that!"

Furina smirked, shutting down her Rafale's engines and electrical systems.

She took off her helmet, shaking out her hair, then muttered into the radio.

"Next time, don't bet against the Ace."

She climbed down from the cockpit, feet hitting the tarmac with a solid thud. Without looking back at her aircraft, she strode off, heading toward the main base.

Minutes later – The Debriefing Room.

The timeline of the mission played on the main display, mapping out every dogfight, every kill, and every maneuver.

The room was dead silent as the commander spoke.

"Alright. I'll hand it to you all. You defended the base well."

Then, his eyes locked onto Stalker.

"However—Stalker didn't get a single kill. Throw him into solitary."

The room remained still.

A pair of guards stepped forward. Albert—TAC Name Stalker—tensed.

"Wait! Come on, I—"

"Save it," the commander snapped. "Maybe next time, you'll actually fight."

The guards grabbed him by both arms and dragged him out. His protests faded into the distance.

The commander turned back to the remaining pilots.

"Everyone else did well. Dismissed."

With that, he walked out. The rest of the pilots dispersed.

Furina stood from her chair, running a hand through her hair.

Then—Clorinde and Wriothesley approached her.

Clorinde sighed, folding her arms.

"Alright. I'll admit it, Waltz. I underestimated you. I was an ass earlier."

Furina arched a brow.

"Not a big deal."

Clorinde hesitated, then extended a hand.

"It's nice to meet you, Furina."

Furina glanced at the hand. A pause. Then, she shook it firmly.

"Nice to meet you too, Clorinde."

She then turned to Wriothesley.

He, too, extended a hand.

She shook it.

No words were needed.

Furina walked away, heading toward her room.

Behind her, Wriothesley and Clorinde exchanged glances.

"She's something else," Wriothesley muttered.

Clorinde nodded. "Yeah… You were right about those reports you dug up. She really is an Ace."

Wriothesley chuckled. "Best you don't piss her off."

Clorinde exhaled. "Yeah. Let's get on her good side. The last thing we need is the only pilot who might actually keep us alive deciding to ditch us and leave us to die."

Wriothesley nodded. "Agreed."

As Furina walked the dimly lit halls, something inside her shifted.

Her mood had lightened—just a little.

Maybe—just maybe—she had found allies in this forsaken squadron.

But even as she settled into her room, one question still remained.

How long will Furina stay here?

Will she survive long enough to clear her name?

Or is she doomed to be buried in the shadows of the Drowned Squadron?

Only time will tell.