September 23, 2XX0 — Coast of Petrichor
Skies clear. White birds scattered across the golden horizon.
The sun hung low over the coastline, glinting off the waves like molten gold. Wolfsbane Squadron cut across the air in tight formation, their F-5E Tiger IIs leaving thin, wispy contrails that trailed behind like smoke from a kiln. Nineteen Tigers and a single F-4 Phantom II—Candace "Sentinel" at the stick—led the formation with the calm authority of a seasoned veteran.
Candace's hands gripped the stick lightly but with intent. In the backseat, Houallet, young war journalist, adjusted his camera, eyes tracking each aircraft. His lens lingered on F-5E Serial 108, a sleek Tiger II holding its slot perfectly on Candace's right wing.
The radio crackled, harsh and urgent.
"Red Alert! Red Alert!
Command to Wolfsbane—multiple bogeys inbound. Unknown aircraft, heading 240 to 330 into Fontaine airspace. Intercept immediately!"
Candace's jaw clenched.
"Give me a break," she muttered, fingers tightening around the stick. "I'm babysitting rookies here."
A beat of silence. Then the thought hit her like a punch: My nuggets aren't ready to fight yet.
But command was ironclad. No one else could intercept.
"Fine," she muttered, flipping to squadron frequency.
"Baker, Starseer—trail me and stay close. The three of us engage. Everyone else, stay low. Avoid the fight. That's an order."
Houallet zoomed in, tracking F-5E 108 as it danced in perfect formation—naïve, untested, yet precise.
Then the sky ripped apart.
Ambush in the Skies
A sudden burst of contrails, then fire. Missiles screamed past like angry snakes.
"Shit—DEFENSIVE! BREAK! BREAK!" Candace bellowed. She yanked the stick hard, F-4 rolling violently as a missile detonated mere meters from her nose, a fireball tearing through the formation behind her.
The air turned into chaos: tracer streaks, smoke trails, and screaming jets.
"Everyone break formation and engage the bogeys!"
"All non-combat pilots, descend immediately! Evade and RTB!"
Candace's canopy reflected explosions as one Tiger took a direct hit, disintegrating into flaming debris.
"Baker's down! Eject! EJECT—!" the radio screamed. Nothing but fire spiraled toward the ocean below. Candace cursed, flipping comms.
"Starseer, disengage! Get the hell out!"
No response.
"No! I'm fighting!" Mona Megistus's defiance cut through the chaos.
Candace's blood ran hot. "Second Lieutenant Mona Megistus, I order you—disengage!"
Too late. Mona had her radar locked on, finger steady.
"Fox Two!" A missile streaked away, leaving a streak of white against the sunset.
The bandits, sleek and hungry, fanned out like wolves. They tore through the rookies with surgical precision. One Tiger II after another lit up in flames.
"Mayday! Mayday! I'm hit—!"
"Shit! I can't shake them!"
"They're killing the trainees!"
Candace's stomach dropped. Nineteen rookies—doomed in minutes.
The Survivors
Two aircraft returned. Only two.
Candace's Phantom, battered and scorched, limped onto the tarmac. And one Tiger II—Serial 108—its pilot unharmed but shaken, engines ticking down as she rolled to a stop.
The sun dipped low, long shadows stretching across the flight line. Candace climbed out, boots heavy, every muscle tight with the weight of what had happened. Houallet followed, still gripping his camera.
"I'm… sorry, Houallet," Candace said quietly.
"No. It's okay." He shook his head, focusing on the lone F-5E. "But 108… that pilot—she was incredible."
Candace scoffed, eyes scanning the young lieutenant beside the jet. Sweat-damp flight suit, ragged breath, violet eyes steady and unflinching despite the carnage. Mona Megistus. Alive, defiant, unbroken.
Candace marched over. "Mona. Keep flying like that and you will get yourself killed."
Mona ran a hand through her tangled hair. "I won't die, ma'am. Not now. Not ever."
Candace studied her for a long moment before scoffing. She gestured toward the empty flight line, debris and burned-out jets littering the ground.
"From where I'm standing… you couldn't even scratch a goddamn fly."
Candace turned, storming toward the commander's office. Houallet lingered, camera still warm in his hands.
Mona remained beside F-5E 108, exhausted but resolute. A small, tired smile cracked her face. The camera clicked.
A single photograph. A moment frozen. A beginning. A promise.
The Skyward Oath.
1600 HRS — Crew Room, Petrichor Air Force Base
The sun sank low, bleeding orange and crimson across the horizon. Long shadows stretched over the airfield, skeletal reminders of today's losses. Inside the crew room, the weight of it all hung heavy, thick as the stale air.
Candace sank into a worn chair, elbows resting on armrests, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Every muscle ached—physical strain, mental fatigue, emotional weight. They had been ambushed. Unprepared. And now, far too many of their own were gone.
Quiet murmurs filled the room. Pilots from various squadrons slouched over tables, clutched coffee cups still steaming, or stared blankly at the walls. The silence between murmurs was heavy with grief.
Among the survivors were Second Lieutenants Mona Megistus, Emilie, Teppei, and Kamisato Ayaka—the few left to bear the burden forward.
Candace straightened slowly, shoulders rolling as she exhaled.
"Alright, everyone. Listen up."
The room fell silent. All eyes tracked her movements, some wary, some fatigued, all attentive.
"We're low on pilots. Effective immediately, everyone here is on high alert." She let the words sink in. "Starting tomorrow, if the siren sounds, we launch. No hesitation. No excuses."
Her voice was firm, edged with exhaustion, grief lurking beneath every syllable. "When we fly, you stick to my tail like your lives depend on it."
Her gaze swept the room, scanning each pilot, finally resting on Mona.
"Mona."
The young pilot straightened instinctively, expression unreadable.
"Yes, ma'am?"
Candace's eyes narrowed slightly. "Starting tomorrow, you're my Number Two."
Surprise flickered across Mona's face, though she masked it quickly.
Candace leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "I'll be keeping an eye on you. Can't risk you getting yourself killed before your first real fight."
Mona's fingers curled against her flight suit, tension coiling in her shoulders.
"Yes, ma'am…"
Candace exhaled again, standing and stretching. "Get some rest. Tomorrow won't be any kinder than today."
She turned toward the exit. Her silhouette lingered in the fading light, framed by the dimming sky. No one spoke.
Mona remained seated for a long moment, staring at the floor, letting herself breathe for the first time since landing.
She had survived.
Tomorrow, she would fight again.