Wings of the Stars

The Next Day

It was Furina's last day at Charybdis Air Force Base.

The sky was clear, the ocean calm, and the town surrounding the base was slowly rebuilding from the devastation that had rocked it just a month ago. Life had resumed in a way that felt normal—for everyone except her.

She was no longer Tidal Two.

She was no longer a pilot of the 405th Squadron.

She was a convict. A scapegoat.

Furina De Fontaine had been found guilty of murder.

But despite nearly losing everything, one thing remained. One thing they didn't have the heart—or perhaps the courage—to take from her.

Her Modified Dassault Rafale M.

Her Élégante et Efficace.

The sleek, customized jet that had carried her to glory, that had danced through the skies under her command. But soon, it will bear a mark of shame.

Three strikes.

Sin lines.

A sign that she was no longer trusted. That her hands were stained.

The mark will soon be been painted in jet black across the tail, right where her golden crown sat against the deep blue, where her aircraft's registry—1013—was printed in bold. Now, the strikes slashed across the surface like scars, a permanent reminder of what they claimed she had done.

Furina sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the neatly packed duffle bag at her feet. Everything she owned, everything that had defined her, was in there.

Her standard-issue sidearm? Gone.

Her rank? Stripped.

She had been reassigned to Krovograd Air Force Base, to Drowned Squadron. The spare unit. The forgotten ones.

And to make sure she wouldn't try anything, she wouldn't even be flying there alone. She was ordered to fly with a different squadron—one that would not hesitate to shoot her down if she deviated from her flight plan.

But last night, something inside her had changed.

She was no longer the same Furina from Operation Liberty. No longer the bright-eyed ace who took to the skies with a smile.

No.

This Furina was angry.

This Furina had something to prove.

And she would prove it.

Even if it killed her.

She stood, grabbed her duffle bag, and slung it over her shoulder. With one last glance at the room she had called home, she sighed.

"Farewell, old life."

Then, without looking back, she walked out.

Outside the Dorms

As she stepped into the cold morning air, she was greeted by the last person she expected—the Base Commander.

He sighed heavily, looking at her with something between regret and understanding. Pity.

"Lieutenant Furina…"

She shook her head. "It's just Furina now."

The Commander's expression hardened. "No. To me, you're still Lieutenant Furina."

There was silence between them for a moment.

Then, he exhaled slowly. "Good luck at Drowned Squadron. I know this isn't fair. And I know you didn't do it. But keep your head up. May the winds guide you home… safely."

Furina hesitated. Then, for the first time in weeks, she let herself be vulnerable.

She dropped her bag and hugged him.

The Commander tensed slightly before returning the gesture. It was brief, but it was enough.

When they pulled away, Furina picked up her bag, nodding once. "Thank you, Commander."

The older man sighed. "Farewell, Waltz."

And with that, she turned and walked away, heading toward Hangar 1.

The Last Flight from Charybdis

There it was.

Her Rafale M.

The jet was already powered up, its APU running, sitting silently in the hangar like it knew this was goodbye. It had carried her through everything—victories, losses, life, and now, disgrace.

Furina didn't stop to admire it. Not this time.

She crouched beneath the fuselage, unlocked the travel pod, and shoved her duffle bag inside before slamming the hatch shut. Then, without hesitation, she climbed the ladder, settled into the ejection seat, and pulled her helmet over her head.

Her flight plan was already inputted. A four-hour flight to Krovograd Air Force Base.

She took a deep breath. Let's get this over with.

Then, a familiar voice crackled over the radio.

"Waltz."

It was the control tower.

"I know you didn't kill the former president. But… it's been an honor having you as a pilot here. There won't be anyone else like you. Ever."

There was a pause.

"…You are cleared to taxi to Runway 30."

Furina closed her eyes for a second. Then, she keyed the mic.

"Taxiing to Runway 30."

With a push of the throttles, she moved.

The jet rolled smoothly out of the hangar, making a left turn onto the taxiway. Then another turn to the right. Step by step, her departure was unfolding like a slow death march.

Finally, she lined up on the runway and came to a stop.

Then, another voice.

"This is Nocturne One."

Furina's heart clenched. "Ritesword?"

Lynette's voice was soft but steady. "We're at the end of Runway 12, watching you. It's been an honor to fly with you, Furina. May the Anemo Archon guide you safely."

Then, Lyney. "Waltz, this is Magician. Godspeed. I hope we see you again soon. Maybe under better circumstances."

A pause.

"You are cleared for takeoff. Unrestricted climb."

Furina tightened her grip on the throttle levers.

She took a deep breath.

"…Thank you, everyone. Waltz is departing. One last time."

With that, she slammed the throttles to full afterburner.

The jet roared to life. The hangars, the base, the town—everything blurred past her.

Then, rotation.

She pulled back on the sidestick, feeling the familiar resistance. The nose lifted. The Rafale surged into the sky, leaving the runway behind.

As the Nocturne Squadron stood at the end of Runway 12, they watched her jet soar past them at over 400 knots. The afterburners screamed, shaking the very ground beneath them.

Then—just as she cleared them—Furina pulled into a vertical climb.

She twisted the jet into a barrel roll.

Once to the left.

Once to the right.

A final salute. A silent thank you.

Lynette and Lyney stood side by side, watching until she disappeared into the sky.

They exhaled in unison.

"Stay safe, Furina."

Two Hours Later…

Furina was deep into her cruise at 50,000 feet.

The sky above her was a deep, endless blue. The world below—miles and miles of land and sea—felt distant, unreachable.

Behind her, three F-22 Raptors trailed at a steady distance, their sleek, menacing forms cutting through the air. Her escort.

Not there for her protection.

No.

They were there to ensure she didn't try anything stupid.

She kept her Rafale steady, hands gripping the controls loosely as her mind drifted back to the night before.

The Night Before – The Commander's Briefing

She sat in the dimly lit office, the Base Commander standing before her with arms crossed. His face was unreadable, but the way he sighed before speaking told her everything.

"Okay, Waltz. Let me brief you about Korovograd and the Spare Squadron there… The Drowned Squadron."

The name alone made Furina uneasy.

"Korovograd Air Force Base is a fake base. A decoy. It exists to lure Snezhnayan bombers into wasting their payloads on it."

He scoffed. "Like they care. But those pilots? They're still human..."

He continued.

"When the war began, the base took in an aircraft mechanic. He was arrested for breaking wartime aviation laws—flying a retired F-14A without authorization. The base shot him down, but he survived. Now, he serves by restoring old aircraft and making decoys."

Furina raised an eyebrow. "Who the hell flies the real aircraft?"

"Convicts like you."

The room felt colder.

"You know them?" she asked.

The Commander exhaled. "By TAC name only. So far, I know two of them."

He leaned forward.

"The first one is Callsign Rapperia. Drowned Two. Arrested for homicide. A so-called 'duel gone wrong.' The second? Callsign Wolfbite. Drowned Six. Arrested for trespassing, assault, and robbery."

Furina's stomach twisted.

"And what exactly does this squadron do?"

The Commander sighed. "They're the sacrificial squadron. If you die, you die. No recognition. No honors. Just another number on a classified casualty report."

His voice grew heavier. "Their missions are the worst of the worst. Bombing runs, destroying enemy bases, pretending to be aerial guards with little to no weaponry. If there's a suicide mission? They get it."

He sighed again.

"And the worst part? You're all given Sin Lines. The maximum is three… And, Furina…"

His eyes met hers.

"You already have three."

Furina's hands clenched into fists.

"No fucking way. I'm not having those goddamn strikes painted on my one-off livery!"

The Commander ran a hand down his face. "Look, I'll try to have some sort of paint protection film installed before you leave. If the verdict ever changes… or if you're pardoned... you can just peel it off."

Furina's breathing steadied.

"Fine..."

Back to Reality

The wind screamed against her canopy, but inside, the cockpit was eerily silent.

Furina's fingers curled against the controls, jaw tight.

It had sunk in now.

"I... I'm part of Drowned Squadron now."

Her radio crackled to life.

Rancher One. One of the F-22 pilots.

"Waltz. I'll be honest with you. Despite the circumstances, we actually envy you."

Furina raised an eyebrow. "Tell me you're bullshitting me right now."

Rancher One chuckled. "No, actually. As a matter of fact, the Rancher Squadron thinks you're not responsible for Imena's death."

Furina scoffed. "Enlighten me."

A new voice joined in—Rancher Two.

"There are murmurs about Snezhnaya experimenting with unmanned fighter jets. Not drones—actual autonomous fighters. Using airframes from Fontaine, Liyue, Mondstadt, Natlan, Sumeru, and Inazuma."

Furina narrowed her eyes. "Unconfirmed bullshit."

"Maybe. But it would explain a lot, wouldn't it?"

Furina laughed. A dry, bitter chuckle.

"Doesn't fucking matter. I'm Imena's murderer. In the flesh."

Then, Rancher Three chimed in.

"The Rancher Squadron doesn't believe that. None of us do. We think it was those drones."

Furina shook her head, gripping the throttle tighter. "As if that changes a damn thing. I'm still heading to Korovograd. I'm the Teyvat Union Peacekeeping Force's scapegoat."

She exhaled sharply, staring dead ahead.

"Watch."

Her voice dropped to a low, seething whisper.

"When I'm out of this hellhole, I'll prove I'm no murderer. I'll prove that I'm a fighter."

The cruise was uneventful.

No radio chatter. No enemy encounters. Just silence.

Furina stared at her instruments as the miles ticked away. Her Rafale M sliced through the cold sky like a blade, leaving a thin contrail behind.

Then, she saw it.

Korovograd Air Force Base.

To her right—the fake base. A lifeless decoy, built to fool Snezhnayan bombers into wasting their payloads.

To her front—the real base. A bleak, isolated airstrip, its runway markings painted over with X's.

She exhaled slowly.

Then, her radio crackled to life.

"Welcome to your new home, Waltz. Cleared to land. And don't mess up. We don't want you wrecking on your first landing as Spare."

Furina scoffed. "Great… Assholes."

She nosed the Rafale down, coming in hot.

The tires slammed into the frozen tarmac, bouncing slightly before skidding with a violent screech. It was rough, but she didn't care.

They wanted to treat her like a criminal? Then they could deal with an angry landing.

She quickly decelerated and taxied off the runway, rolling toward the apron where the squadron's aircraft were parked.

As she neared, she finally got a good look at them.

Aged. Worn. Outdated.

Sitting in a row were:

An Su-27, its paint faded and chipped.

A Mirage 2000, scarred with battle damage.

An older-model F/A-18, missing a few panels.

And a Eurofighter, barely kept together with patchwork repairs.

It was a graveyard.

And now, her one-off Rafale M was parked right next to them.

She shut the engines down, flipping the switches with mechanical precision. The hum of the turbines faded, replaced by an eerie silence.

The canopy hissed open, and she pulled off her helmet, setting it down inside the cockpit.

Then, she grabbed her duffle bag from the travel pod beneath the fuselage, slammed the hatch shut, and turned to take in her surroundings.

Snow.

Mountains to the north.

The biting cold that sank into her skin.

She sighed, staring up at the dull gray sky.

"Welcome to your new life, Waltz..."

First Impressions

"Welcome, Furina."

She turned.

A man in an officer's coat approached her. His cold, blue eyes held no warmth.

Commander Colonel Jakob.

"This is your new life," he said simply.

Furina stayed silent.

"Doesn't matter if you're really the former President's murderer or not," he continued. "You're part of the Teyvat Spare Squadron now. The Drowned Squadron."

He gestured toward a nearby officer.

"One of our senior officers will guide you to your quarters. Charbdiys' base commander left a good impression of you. So… we won't be as hard on you as the others."

Furina didn't respond.

There was nothing to say.

She followed the officer inside.

Meanwhile, back on the apron, a team of mechanics and painters gathered around Furina's Rafale.

One of them—a tall, thin man with white hair—watched closely.

Aircraft Mechanic Albedo.

Beside him, a woman with glasses and pale green hair sighed.

Sucrose.

"So this is the infamous 'murderer' of Imena?" she muttered.

Albedo smirked. "Talk in the cellblock says so."

Then, his smirk faded.

"I oughta thank her for doing it," he said. Then, shaking his head, "Nah… I don't think so."

Sucrose wrinkled her nose. "I hate the smell of this fucking place."

Albedo crossed his arms. "Me too, Sucrose. Me too."

Then, they watched.

The mechanics peeled away the semi-opaque protective layer covering the tail of her Rafale.

Her deep blue and white vertical stabilizer—marked with her golden crown and the number 1013—was now permanently stained.

They carefully applied three bold, black slashes.

Three Strikes.

A sin mark.

A brand of guilt.

Whether she was guilty or not…

It didn't matter.

She had been judged.

Her New Reality

Hours later…

Furina lay on the stiff mattress of her new quarters, staring at the ceiling.

The room was cold. Small. Uninviting.

Nothing like the dorms back at Charybdis.

She sighed.

"Accept it, Furina… This is your new life."

Tomorrow, she would take off for the first time as a pilot of the Drowned Squadron.

She was no longer Tidal Two.

She was no longer Fontaine's Ace.

She was no longer a hero.

Now, she was just another convict.

A pawn.

A sinner.

But this wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

Her hands clenched into fists as she whispered to herself.

"I will prove my innocence…"

"Even if it fucking kills me."