The Next Day
It was Furina's last day at Charybdis Air Force Base.
The sky stretched endlessly above, a pale blue canvas streaked with wisps of white clouds, indifferent to the world below. The ocean beyond the base was calm, its waves rolling in slow, steady motions against the distant shore. The salty breeze carried the ever-present hum of aircraft engines on the runways, the sharp bark of orders from officers, and the rhythmic sounds of a military machine that never stopped moving.
Beyond the perimeter fence, the town was stirring back to life. The skeletal remains of bombed-out buildings were now shrouded in scaffolding, construction crews working tirelessly to restore what had been lost. The streets, once silent and filled with nothing but dust, now carried the distant murmur of civilians reclaiming their home.
To the world, things were returning to normal.
But not for her.
Furina de Fontaine was no longer a pilot of the 405th Armée De L'Air.
No longer Tidal Two.
No longer anything.
She was a convict now. A scapegoat. A name buried in classified documents, condemned to a fate worse than death.
She had been found guilty.
Not by truth.
Not by evidence.
But by convenience.
They needed someone to blame. Someone to answer for the failure of Operation Sovereign Shield. Someone to take responsibility for the death of Former President Imena. And Furina had been the perfect target—the closest aircraft to the explosion, the pilot who had fired missiles near the Osprey.
It didn't matter that her shots had struck their intended targets.
It didn't matter that telemetry data could have exonerated her.
The verdict had been decided before the trial even began.
And now, she was being sent away.
To Krovograd Air Force Base.
To Drowned Squadron.
To the ones the military had deemed expendable.
To the spares.
Charybdis Dormitories
Furina sat on the edge of her small, standard-issue bed, her gaze locked onto the neatly packed duffle bag at her feet. Everything she owned, everything that had defined her, was in there.
Her sidearm? Gone.
Her rank? Stripped.
Her name? Tarnished.
But one thing remained. One thing they hadn't taken from her.
Her Dassault Rafale M.
Élégante et Efficace.
The jet that had once been her pride, the machine that had carried her to victory after victory, was still hers. But it would no longer bear the emblem of an Ace.
By now, the sin lines had already been painted onto its tail.
Three black slashes across the deep blue fuselage.
A mark of shame.
A brand of the condemned.
The symbol of a pilot who had sinned against the nation they once swore to protect.
Furina clenched her fists.
Her glorious aircraft, once a testament to her skill and legacy, had become the proof of her disgrace.
She exhaled sharply, running a trembling hand through her hair before standing up.
Her body felt heavy.
Not from exhaustion.
From anger.
Something had changed last night. Something had cracked, splintered inside her. And in its place, something new had taken root.
For weeks, she had drowned in grief, self-pity, and disbelief at what had been taken from her. She had let herself fall into the abyss, believing that this was the end.
But not anymore.
Now, all she felt was rage.
Cold. Unyielding. Unforgiving.
This wasn't the end of her story.
This wasn't how she would go down.
They thought they could break her?
They thought she would disappear quietly?
No.
Fucking.
Chance.
She grabbed her duffle bag, slinging it over her shoulder in a single, sharp motion. Then, she turned, taking one last look at the room she had called home.
The bed. The desk. The plain, military-issued walls.
None of it mattered anymore.
She exhaled slowly, voice barely above a whisper.
"Farewell, old life."
Then, without hesitation—without looking back—
She walked out.
Outside the Dorms
The morning was cold. The air bit at Furina's skin as she stepped outside, the chill settling into her bones.
Everything felt… different. The world moved around her, yet she felt frozen in place, trapped between what was and what was about to be.
Then, she saw him.
The Base Commander stood just outside the barracks, waiting for her.
She had expected a silent departure, a walk of shame with no one to see her off. But there he was—his uniform pressed, hands tucked behind his back, his face unreadable beneath years of hardened discipline.
But his eyes…
His eyes carried something she hadn't expected.
Regret.
And something else.
Pity.
He exhaled slowly, voice steady.
"Lieutenant Furina…"
She shook her head. "It's just Furina now."
The Commander's jaw tightened.
"No. To me, you're still Lieutenant Furina."
A tense silence settled between them, the distant roar of jet engines spooling up on the runway filling the empty space.
Then, the Commander spoke again, softer this time.
"Good luck at Drowned Squadron. I know this isn't fair. And I know you didn't do it. But keep your head up."
A pause.
"May the winds guide you home… safely."
Furina froze.
For the first time in weeks, she felt something crack beneath her anger.
She let her duffle bag slip from her shoulder, hitting the pavement with a dull thud. Then, before she could stop herself, she stepped forward—closing the distance, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace.
It was brief. Fleeting. But it was real.
The Commander tensed for only a moment before his posture eased, his hand coming up to rest on her back. A silent reassurance. A gesture that, despite everything, she was not alone.
When she stepped back, she wiped at her eyes quickly, forcing a nod.
"Thank you, Commander."
The older man sighed.
"Farewell, Waltz."
And just like that, it was over.
Furina bent down, grabbed her duffle bag, and turned away.
She never looked back.
The Last Flight from Charybdis
Hangar 1 stood before her, its massive doors yawning open like the gaping maw of something ancient, something that had swallowed her whole and was now spitting her out.
And inside—waiting for her, just as it always had—was her Rafale M.
Her Élégante et Efficace.
The jet that had carried her through everything. Her triumphs. Her failures. Her survival.
And now—her disgrace.
The black sin lines were already slashed across the tail, defiling her golden insignia with three jagged strokes. A scarlet letter burned into the sky itself.
The mark of the damned.
Furina clenched her jaw.
Fine. Let them mark her. Let them brand her a traitor, a criminal, a murderer.
It didn't change a damn thing.
This was her plane. And as long as she could still fly, she wasn't finished yet.
She walked forward, her boots striking the hangar floor with sharp, deliberate steps. But this time, she barely spared the jet a glance.
Not this time.
She crouched beneath the fuselage, unlatched the travel pod, and shoved her duffle bag inside with mechanical precision.
Click. Lock. Slam.
No hesitation.
She climbed the ladder and settled into the ejection seat, her body moving through the motions as if on autopilot.
The canopy hissed shut, sealing her away from the world.
Helmet on. Mask secure. Instruments checked.
Her flight plan was already inputted—four hours to Krovograd Air Force Base, where the Drowned Squadron awaited.
Her sentence.
Furina curled her fingers around the sidestick. Her throat was dry.
Let's get this over with.
Then—
Her radio crackled.
"Waltz."
She blinked.
It was the control tower.
"I know you didn't kill the former president."
Her grip on the stick tightened.
"But… it's been an honor having you as a pilot here. There won't be anyone else like you. Ever."
A pause.
"…You are cleared to taxi to Runway 30."
Furina stared at her instruments. Something in her chest twisted.
But she didn't let herself hesitate.
She keyed the mic, her voice steady. "Taxiing to Runway 30."
She pushed the throttles forward, and the Rafale rolled out of the hangar, its landing gear humming against the taxiway.
Left turn. Right turn.
Every movement measured. Every second stretched thin.
Her departure was unfolding like a slow death march.
Finally—she reached Runway 30. She lined up, the jet coming to a stop.
Then—
Another voice.
"This is Nocturne One."
Furina's heart clenched.
She inhaled sharply. "Ritesword?"
Lynette's voice remained calm, composed—just like always.
"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."
A brief silence.
Then—Lyney.
"Waltz, this is Magician. Godspeed. I hope we see you again soon. Maybe under better circumstances."
Another pause. Longer this time.
Then—
"You are cleared for takeoff. Unrestricted climb."
Furina's hands tightened on the throttles.
She took a slow breath.
Held it.
Then let it go.
"…Thank you, everyone. Waltz is departing. One last time."
She slammed the throttles to full afterburner.
The engines roared. Twin flames erupted behind her.
The base. The town. The past.
All of it blurred into nothing.
Then—rotation.
She pulled back on the stick.
The nose lifted. The wheels left the ground.
And Furina was airborne.
She screamed past Runway 12 at over 400 knots, her afterburners splitting the air with a thunderous roar, shaking the ground beneath Nocturne Squadron's feet.
Then—
Just as she cleared them—
She pulled into a vertical climb.
The Rafale knifed skyward.
She twisted into a barrel roll.
Once to the left.
Once to the right.
A final salute. A silent goodbye.
Lynette and Lyney stood side by side, watching as she disappeared into the clouds.
They exhaled in unison.
"Stay safe, Furina."
She was gone.
Two Hours Later…
Furina was deep into her cruise at 40,000 feet.
The sky stretched endlessly above her, an abyss of piercing blue, so vivid it almost felt artificial. Below, the land and sea blurred into a vast, indifferent landscape—mountains, rivers, and cities reduced to nothing more than shapes and colors. The world felt distant. Unreachable.
But she wasn't alone.
Trailing behind her in tight formation were three F-22 Raptors. Their sleek, angular frames sliced through the thin air, canopies dark and unreadable.
They weren't her escorts.
They were her jailers.
Furina exhaled through her nose, forcing herself to focus on the instruments. Her HUD displayed the essentials—altitude, speed, heading—but her mind kept circling back to the nagging reminder that she wasn't the one making the calls anymore.
Her Rafale M was set to a pre-planned flight path, the waypoints locked in. Any deviation, any hint of a course change, and the Raptors would be on her in an instant. The tactical datalink kept her tethered to the larger picture—Krovograd was still over an hour away, and the automated fuel readout confirmed that she had enough to make the trip without issue.
For now, her job was simple: fly straight, say nothing, and wait for the inevitable.
But the silence left too much space for her mind to drift.
Back to the night before.
Back to the moment everything truly sank in.
The Night Before – The Commander's Briefing
The office was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the worn mahogany desk. A faint scent of coffee and old paper lingered in the air, but nothing about this room felt comforting. Not tonight.
Furina sat stiffly in her chair, fingers curled into the fabric of her pants. Across from her, the Base Commander stood with arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
She already knew what he was about to say.
But hearing it? That was different.
"Alright, Waltz." His voice was heavy. "Let me brief you about Krovograd and the Spare Squadron there… the Drowned Squadron."
The name alone made her stomach twist.
Drowned.
Like those who had been forgotten.
Furina exhaled, forcing her voice to stay steady. "Alright. Tell me."
The Commander leaned forward, resting both hands on the desk. His blue-grey eyes darkened, as if part of him resented what he was about to say.
"Krovograd Air Force Base is a fake base. A decoy. It exists to lure Snezhnayan bombers into wasting their payloads on it."
He scoffed. "Not that they care. But those pilots? They're still human..."
Furina frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—" he sighed, rubbing his temple "—when the war started, the base took in an aircraft mechanic. Some old bastard who got himself arrested for breaking wartime aviation laws. The idiot stole a retired F-14A and tried to get it airborne without authorization. So, the base shot him down. But he survived."
Furina raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"And now he works there. Restoring old aircraft. Making decoys. He's part of the reason the base still functions."
But Furina wasn't interested in some washed-up mechanic.
"Who the hell flies the real aircraft?"
The Commander's lips pressed into a thin line.
"Convicts like you."
The room felt colder.
Furina sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. "You know them?"
The Commander nodded. "By TAC name only. So far, I know two of them."
He folded his arms, his expression darkening.
"First one: Callsign Rapperia. Drowned Two. Arrested for homicide. A so-called 'duel gone wrong.'
Second? Callsign Wolfbite. Drowned Six. Arrested for trespassing, assault, and robbery."
Furina's stomach twisted slightly.
They weren't pilots. They were criminals.
And she was about to become one of them.
She exhaled sharply. "And what exactly does this squadron do?"
The Commander hesitated, then sighed.
"They're the sacrificial squadron, Waltz. If you die, you die. No recognition. No honors. Just another number on a classified casualty report."
His voice turned grim.
**"Their missions are the worst of the worst. Suicide runs. Bombing enemy bases with outdated aircraft. Pretending to be aerial guards with little to no weaponry.
If there's a mission so dangerous that command doesn't expect anyone to return?
They send the Drowned Squadron."**
Furina felt a chill crawl up her spine.
But the Commander wasn't done.
"And the worst part?" His eyes locked onto hers.
"Every pilot there is given Sin Lines. The maximum is three."
Sin Lines.
A brutal, humiliating system. Every convict pilot had a visible tally of their crimes painted onto their aircraft. A single stripe for a minor offense. Two for more severe ones.
Three?
Three meant you were one mission away from being expendable. No chance of appeal. No way to clear your name. The moment command decided you were no longer useful, you'd be sent on a suicide mission.
Furina's breath hitched as the realization sank in.
The Commander exhaled, then delivered the final blow.
"And Furina…"
His next words hit harder than a missile lock warning.
"You already have three."
Furina's jaw clenched.
Her fingernails dug into her palm.
"No fucking way. I'm not having those goddamn strikes painted on my one-off livery!"
The Commander rubbed his forehead. "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'm part of Drowned Squadron now."
Her radio crackled to life.
Rancher One. One of the F-22 escort 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's eyes narrowed. "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 Krovograd. 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."
Then—radio silence.
Just the endless sky.
And the looming shadow of Krovograd ahead.
Hours later...
Korovograd Airspace.
Furina's knuckles tightened around the throttle as the base loomed into view.
A barren wasteland.
To her right—the fake Korovograd Air Force Base. A lifeless, hollow shell, built to deceive Snezhnayan bombers into squandering their payloads on an illusion. It had done its job well—too well. Crumbling hangars stood like skeletons, their once-proud walls scorched black from past raids. Burned-out vehicles lay scattered, frozen husks entombed in ice and time. The runway? Unusable. Torn apart by bomb craters, now a jagged, gaping wound stretching across the white expanse.
To her front—the real Korovograd Air Force Base. Bleak. Isolated. Unforgiving.
The runway was barely visible beneath layers of ice and snow, its original markings hastily painted over with massive X's—international aviation's silent warning:
"This place doesn't exist."
Furina exhaled slowly, her breath fogging the inside of her oxygen mask.
Then, her radio crackled.
"Welcome to your new home, Waltz."
The voice oozed condescension.
"Cleared to land. And don't mess up. We don't want you wrecking on your first landing as a Spare."
Furina rolled her eyes. "Great... Assholes."
She shoved the nose down.
The Rafale dove.
She came in fast.
Too fast.
But she didn't care.
Her tires slammed into the frozen tarmac. The jet bounced violently, rebounding off the ice before slamming down again. The screech of rubber against ice tore through the dead air, the jet shuddering as she wrestled it into submission.
Rough. Unforgiving. Angry.
A landing fit for a convict.
The Rafale finally slowed, rolling off the main strip and onto the taxiway. The dull glow of taxi lights flickered weakly beneath the frost, guiding her toward the parking apron.
Then—
The tower chimed in again, voice laced with barely-contained amusement.
"Go back to flight school already. The aircraft seriously can't handle your shit..."
Furina scoffed. "Fuck you."
Then—she saw them.
The aircraft of Drowned Squadron.
A graveyard of outdated machines.
They sat in a miserable row, barely hanging onto life:
An Su-27—its paint faded, chipped. A relic of another era.
A Mirage 2000—its fuselage scarred with battle damage, like an old soldier too stubborn to die.
An older-model F/A-18—missing a few panels, its canopy dark, as if resigned to its fate.
A Eurofighter Typhoon—barely held together with patchwork repairs and duct tape.
And now—
Her Rafale.
Pristine. Customized. One-of-a-kind.
Parked right next to them.
Out of place. Unwanted. Tainted.
The APU whined as she shut the engines down, flipping the switches with mechanical precision.
The familiar hum of turbines faded.
What followed was silence.
Eerie. Suffocating.
Her canopy hissed open. The cold wind cut into her like a blade, biting at her skin as she yanked off her helmet. She let it drop into the cockpit, not bothering to place it gently.
She unstrapped, grabbed her duffle bag from the travel pod, and slammed the hatch shut.
Then, she turned.
Snow.
Mountains to the north.
A sky so dull and gray it looked like it had been drained of life.
Her fingers curled into fists.
She exhaled, breath visible in the freezing air.
"Welcome to your new life, Waltz..."
First Impressions.
"Welcome, Furina."
A sharp, commanding voice cut through the cold.
She turned.
A man in a long officer's coat, his blue eyes like frozen steel, approached with measured steps.
Commander Colonel Jakob.
She'd heard of him before. Ruthless. A man who followed orders without hesitation.
"This is your new life," he said simply. His tone was flat. Emotionless.
Furina didn't salute.
Didn't react.
Didn't care.
Jakob's expression remained unreadable.
"Doesn't matter if you're really the former President's murderer or not."
His gaze hardened.
"You're part of the Teyvat Spare Squadron now. The Drowned Squadron."
Furina clenched her jaw.
Jakob gestured to a nearby officer.
"One of our senior officers will guide you to your quarters."
A pause.
Then—something unexpected.
"Charybdis' base commander left a good impression of you."
Jakob's lips curled. Not quite a smirk. Not quite respect.
"So… we won't be as hard on you as the others."
Furina said nothing.
She simply followed the officer inside.
Not out of respect.
But because she had no choice.
Back on the Apron.
The moment Furina disappeared into the base, a team of mechanics and painters gathered around her Rafale.
They were quiet. Observing. Watching.
Then—one of them spoke.
A tall, thin man with white hair. His eyes sharp. Analytical.
Aircraft Mechanic Albedo.
Beside him, a woman with glasses and pale green hair crossed her arms, frowning.
Sucrose.
Sucrose wrinkled her nose. "So this is the infamous 'murderer' of Imena?"
Albedo smirked. "Talk in the cellblock says so."
Then, his smirk faded.
He tilted his head. "I oughta thank her for doing it."
A pause.
Then, shaking his head, "Nah… I don't think so."
Sucrose sighed heavily, rubbing her temples. "I hate the smell of this fucking place."
Albedo exhaled slowly. "Me too, Sucrose. Me too."
Then—they watched.
The mechanics peeled away the protective layer covering the tail of her Rafale.
For a moment, the deep blue and white vertical stabilizer gleamed in the gray light.
Her golden crown insignia.
Her aircraft's registry—1013—printed in bold.
And then—they stained it.
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, narrow mattress of her new quarters, staring at the cracked ceiling.
The walls were dull. Cold. Uninviting.
The small barracks room felt like a prison cell.
Nothing like the dorms back at Charybdis.
No flight patches.
No squadron banners.
No traces of her past life.
Just a bed, a locker, and a reality she didn't want to accept.
She let out a slow, trembling breath.
"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.
No longer Fontaine's Ace.
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, nails digging into her skin.
Her voice was low. Steady.
Seething.
"I will prove my innocence…"
"Even if it fucking kills me."