October 10
Months Later...
In the span of four months—
Emilie turned detective.
After everything that happened, she couldn't let the truth die buried beneath politics and protocol. So she started digging. Peeling back the layers behind the case built against Furina. Pulling threads no one else dared to touch.
She dug deep into Snezhnayan tech. Deeper still into the rot festering inside the Teyvat Peacekeeping Union.
And in two months—June through August—she struck gold.
Evidence. Real, damning evidence.
The case surrounding the death of former President Imena—the same case that labeled Furina a murderer and traitor—began to unravel.
It started with a data package extracted from Furina's Rafale on June 6th. Emilie reviewed the onboard logs. Scanned the footage frame by frame.
Furina had fired two missiles.
Only two.
The footage confirmed both connected—striking and neutralizing two MQ-101 drones.
Then—less than a second later—it happened.
The Osprey's right wing tore off. The aircraft spiraled into a death roll.
Emilie froze the frame. Slowed it down.
And there it was.
A third missile.
It wasn't Furina's.
It came from somewhere else.
Another onboard recording arrived days later—this time from the F-35C Lightning II of Lyney Snezhevich, Tidal Squadron's lead flight. He'd been flying just behind Furina when it happened.
In the clip, a Super Hornet banked hard across his right flank. Smoke still trailing from its pylon.
A third missile had launched.
From a so-called "friendly" aircraft.
With an enemy behind the stick.
The truth hit like a hammer: there had been a hostile on board that Super Hornet. Sabotage. From within.
Emilie kept pulling.
And what she uncovered next only made it worse.
The lead investigator for Furina's case—Monica—had tampered with evidence. She hadn't even bothered to review the Rafale's extracted data. She buried it. Ignored it.
Tried to bury Furina along with it.
But on August 1st, thanks to Emilie's relentless work, the case was re-opened. Three days later, on the 4th, Monica was convicted of espionage and tampering with evidence.
She was court-martialed. Stripped of rank. Sentenced to prison.
And Furina?
She was pardoned.
All charges dropped.
Her rank reinstated.
Thanks entirely to Emilie.
She didn't go public. She didn't boast. She just sent the full investigative report—meticulously detailed, indisputable—straight to the higher-ups at the Teyvat Peacekeeping Union.
To someone who trusted her judgment.
Former Captain of the Ousia-class carrier Arkhe: Captain Gracie.
The skies over Zephyr's Island were heavy with cloud.
Gunfire echoed in the distance. Jet engines screamed overhead.
War had come.
The refugee camp—where Emilie, Escoffier, and Chiori had taken shelter—was now surrounded. Snezhnayan radicals, loyal to the regime, had encircled them.
All they could do was stay quiet. Hold their nerve. And hold the line.
Emilie sat behind the counter of the camp's main hall, flanked by Escoffier and Chiori. The constant rattle of gunfire, the rumble of armored vehicles, and the distant roar of aircraft overhead made the walls tremble. She kept her hand close to her shoulder holster, fingers brushing the grip of her sidearm.
Escoffier gritted her teeth.
"This is getting scary, Emilie…"
Chiori nodded, tense.
"Yeah. Who knows when the Snezhnayans'll break through the camp?"
"They won't," Emilie said coolly. "We've got conservatives with us. This camp's not going down that easily."
Escoffier shot her a glance.
"Still… I gotta ask. First two months we were here, you barely left your dorm. Every night, more coffee. Barely spoke."
Emilie raised an eyebrow. "You're bringing that up now?"
"Curiosity," Escoffier shrugged.
Emilie exhaled. "I was working on something. A report."
Chiori leaned in with interest. "What kind of report?"
Emilie leaned away. "Nothing civilians need to worry about."
"Oh, come on!" Chiori groaned. "You're a civilian too!"
Emilie scoffed. "Yeah, with military access—part-time analyst for the Teyvat Forces, remember?"
Escoffier nudged her. "Just tell us already!"
Before Emilie could reply, the radio on her belt crackled to life—static, choppy at first:
"Th…is is the Te…vat Strat…gic Gr…up! Th… aircraft in your airspace are T…G—hold y…ur fi…re!"
Then the signal cleared:
"—Wait… I recognize that voice! Captain de Fontaine!?"
Emilie's eyes widened. "Furina…"
Escoffier raised a brow. "The hotshot rookie?"
"Not anymore," Emilie smirked. "Not since my report."
She stood up, radio in hand, and moved quickly to the balcony outside. The wind whipped at her coat as she listened.
"This is the pilot with the golden crown!"
"Allied aircraft—we're taking heavy fire! We need close air support, NOW!"
"Waltz One, engaging," came the reply.
Emilie leaned over the railing, eyes scanning the gray skies above the island. In the distance—descending fast from the clouds—ten aircraft cut through the storm, heading straight for the shoreline.
Someone stepped up beside her.
"Looks like Furina's arrived," he said.
She turned. "That's right, Albedo."
Albedo nodded. "Give them a few minutes to sweep the island."
He glanced at Emilie's radio. "Mind if I borrow this when I need it?"
Emilie handed it to him. "Anytime. Just let me know."
Albedo clapped his hands together. "Right. I'll have the others prep an evacuation boat. Once the island's clear, we head for the Orbital Elevator."
He turned and went back inside, calm as always.
Emilie remained on the balcony, listening.
"We're transmitting ID codes for both squadrons now."
"Copy. Update us on ground conditions."
The voice that came back was strained, breathless.
"It's bad. Snezhnayan rebels breached the northern front. We're falling back—heading straight for the Orbital Elevator."
Another voice cut in—familiar, sharp, alarmed.
"Wait—you're going to the Elevator? But that means…"
"Yes, Captain de Fontaine," the ground crewman replied. "We heard it was abandoned after the capital fell. Satellites went dark. But we can spoof the Sepharis Bird's IFF using enemy datalinks."
Emilie blinked. Whispered to herself, "Welcome back, Furina…"
Then, the plea came through:
"We're on the run. We've commandeered boats, but we need air support—please. We can't hold out much longer."
AWACS Visionaire didn't miss a beat.
"Wilco."
Then came the final order:
"Do not engage until targets are identified."
Another voice followed—cool, commanding:
"Waltz and Primordial Squadron—spread out. Take down the Snezhnayan radicals. If the conservatives fire—engage at will."
Emilie gave a short chuckle.
"Looks like Furina really did get a squadron named after her after all."
Emilie turned on her heel and headed back inside.
She descended the stairs swiftly, moving toward Chiori and Escoffier.
"Get whatever you have left. We're moving out once the Strike Group clears the island."
Escoffier shot to his feet.
"Strike Group!? We're being bombed!?"
Emilie let out a sigh.
"No—calm down. They're friendly. It's the Teyvat Strategic Strike Group. Formed during the war for high-risk missions."
Chiori slowly rose to her feet, eyes wide with disbelief.
"So… we're saved?"
Emilie gave a small nod.
"Let's hope so. We just need to hold out a little longer."
Then—
A voice shouted from outside.
"Emilie! We need you, ASAP!"
Gunfire suddenly erupted.
Emilie turned toward the entrance, instincts taking over.
"YOU TWO! GET BEHIND SOMETHING!"
Chiori and Escoffier dove for cover as bullets smacked into the walls.
Emilie crouched low and unholstered her sidearm, pressing against the doorway.
"Albedo! What the hell's going on!?"
Albedo, crouched behind a low wall, gritted his teeth.
"Kill those sons of bitches!"
Emilie peeked briefly around the corner—just in time to see a bullet ricochet off the brick a foot from her head.
She yanked herself back behind cover.
Meanwhile, her radio crackled with overlapping chatter:
"Raiden! That's an ally!"
"GOD DAMN IT!"
Emilie leaned out, lined up her sights, and squeezed the trigger.
Three quick shots—each one hitting its mark. The enemy soldiers collapsed.
She ducked back behind cover.
Albedo gave a sharp nod.
"Nice shooting!"
Emilie smirked.
"Thanks. But I prefer doing this in the sky. Easier to kill targets when I'm a few thousand feet up."
Albedo blinked.
"You served in the Air Force?"
"Yeah," Emilie replied, without hesitation.
Her radio crackled again, this time with a female voice—tense, uncertain.
"I've got multiple Snezhnayan Conservatives on the ground. They're not engaging. They're just… standing there. Saluting me."
Silence.
Then—
"That's good news. Maybe we've got some of them on our side."
Emilie blinked, eyebrows raised.
"They work fast, huh?"
Albedo nodded.
"That's the Teyvat Strategic Strike Group for you."
He held out his hand. "Give me the radio. Time to make a call."
Emilie unclipped her radio from her belt and tossed it to him.
Albedo caught it and turned the dial, his expression calm, his tone casual despite the chaos around them.
Then another figure appeared beside him.
"Hey," she said. It was Lune.
Albedo nodded. "Hey, Lune."
She grinned. "Time to call in the big guns."
He keyed the mic, voice steady.
"Hey. You. Dumbass with the golden crown. You there?"
Emilie blinked, then snorted softly.
"I know exactly who he's talking to."
"Furina," she muttered.
Albedo continued without skipping a beat.
"I need you to help us. We've got civilians pinned down—refugees under fire from tanks and APCs. I don't think I need to spell it out."
A new voice broke in—crisp, firm.
"This is a secure military frequency. Identify yourself."
Albedo chuckled, completely unfazed.
"You might know me as... the Aircraft Alchemist."
A moment passed, then Furina's voice came through.
"Stand down, Visionaire. He's an ally. Let me talk to him."
Then, more softly: "Albedo. Never in a million years did I think I'd hear your voice again."
He laughed.
"Good to hear from you too, Furina. Looks like you've got your own squadron now, huh?"
Lune nudged him with her elbow.
"Hey, let me say something!"
Albedo passed her the radio.
"Hey, Furina! It's Lune—Drowned Squadron's Number Eight! I knew you were still up there kicking ass!"
Furina chuckled warmly.
"Lune! Great to hear from you too."
Lune grinned. "Remember: stick with Waltz, and you'll make it!"
Furina scoffed playfully.
"Yeah, yeah. You guys still haven't let that go?"
Albedo took the radio back, shifting to business.
"Alright, listen. I've got intel. You'll want to hear this."
A new female voice joined the comms.
"Of course we're interested. We're all ears, Mr. Alchemist."
Albedo sighed, half amused. "Figured you'd say that. But first—we need help with the refugees."
Visionaire chimed in again, skeptical.
"Wait… you don't have a laser target designator?"
Albedo sighed.
"No."
Another fighter crouched beside him, holding up a red smoke canister.
"Use this."
Albedo nodded, then looked over his shoulder.
"Tsaritsa—your throw."
The Tsaritsa stepped forward, yanked the pin, and lobbed the canister. A column of red smoke began to rise above the compound.
Furina came back on the radio.
"I see red smoke! Is that you, Albedo!?"
He nodded furiously.
"Yes! And hurry—those tanks are closing in!"
Visionaire's voice followed:
"All aircraft, threat matrix datalink updated. Hostile targets locked. Engage at will!"
Then came Furina's voice again—sharp and resolute.
"Waltz One, engaging."
A moment stretched like eternity.
Then—
The island shook.
Ripples of explosions echoed through the complex.
Gunfire. Screaming metal. The roar of tanks.
And then—silence.
Albedo slowly peeked outside.
Only smoke. Fire. Wreckage.
"We're clear!" he called.
Cheers erupted across the compound.
Chiori and Escoffier sprinted over to Emilie.
"Emilie!" they shouted in unison.
Chiori raised a fist. "We're clear!?"
Emilie nodded.
"Yeah. We're clear."
Albedo keyed the radio once more.
"Nice work. Area's secure. No casualties."
His tone shifted—calm giving way to gravity.
"Alright. Time for the intel drop."
He took a breath.
"A defected Snezhnayan soldier told me this: a Single-Stage-To-Orbit craft is prepping for launch at the Mass Driver Base to the west."
Visionaire exhaled sharply over the radio—his fatigue bleeding through.
"Well… that's something. That's very valuable intel."
Before anyone could respond—
The island's sirens blared.
A sharp, wailing howl.
A warning.
A male voice crackled through the radio—
Tense, edged with dread.
Wriothesley.
"That doesn't sound good."
Then—over the interphone system—another voice.
Mechanical. Cold.
A countdown.
"Five… Four… Three… Two… One…"
And then—
A thunderous roar split the skies.
Emilie's eyes snapped wide open.
"Rocket boosters!"
She bolted outside, heart hammering, sprinting toward the shoreline by the hangars.
Her eyes locked onto the distant silhouette of the Zephyr's Island mass driver.
There—
Two SSTO vehicles—single-stage-to-orbit craft—blasted skyward, streaking through the air like lances of fire.
Over comms, Furina's voice exploded with fury.
"Shit! They launched SSTO vehicles!"
Albedo cut in, sharp and clinical.
"They're supply ships for the Sepharis Bird! You have to intercept them before they dock!"
Emilie squinted toward the skies—
A single aircraft sliced across the cloudline.
A Dassault Rafale.
She could just make out the tail design—
A golden crown rising above a surge of stormy blue water.
Beneath it, clear as day:
1013 – FF.
Her breath caught.
"Furina…"
Then—she looked forward.
Her eyes widened in disbelief.
A wall of storm.
A massive cyclonic front, spiraling with lightning—dark, churning clouds flashing with blue and violet arcs of energy.
A curtain of chaos.
The radio crackled again.
Furina groaned.
"Fuuuuck! This can't get any worse!"
And then—
It did.
The two SSTOs split formation.
One veered toward open skies—smooth, unhindered ascent.
The other?
Straight into the storm.
AWACS Visionaire's voice came over the net—urgent now, clipped.
"Waltz One, you have three minutes before it reaches the Sepharis Bird's air defense grid. Hurry!"
Furina snapped back through static.
"I'M TRYING!!"
Her Rafale's afterburners lit up—
And she disappeared into the clouds.
Emilie's hands clenched around her weapon.
Tighter.
And tighter.
And tighter.
Then—
A distant explosion.
A shockwave echoed across the skies.
A burst of blue light flared within the clouds.
Emilie whispered, breathless.
"One down…"
Chiori, Escoffier, Tsaritsa, and Albedo rushed out to join her, eyes on the heavens.
Albedo glanced over.
"Emilie?"
She didn't respond at first—just closed her eyes.
Then:
"Shut up. Wait…"
She started counting under her breath.
The radio crackled again—
"Splash One, Furina! Two minutes remain!"
Furina snarled through the channel.
"STOP with the countdown! I GOT THIS!"
More voices filled the net—pilots monitoring the intercept.
"Holy shit, did you see that explosion?"
"Yeah… same blue hue as when we hit those fuel convoys in a blizzard—back in my old squadron."
"That's it. Rocket fuel. She hit the core."
Emilie's voice remained steady.
"Five…
Four…
Three…
Two…
One…"
Then—
A second explosion.
This one even brighter—bluer, more violent.
The clouds rippled outward, breaking apart from the sheer force of it.
Cheers erupted from around her.
"Yahoo! They did it!"
"We're clear!"
Visionaire's voice beamed across the channel.
"That's the last one! Damn, I wish this AWACS had windows—I bet that was beautiful!
Nice work, team!"
Furina's voice came through, breath ragged.
Adrenaline still laced every syllable.
"Nice… and sorry for yelling, Visionaire."
He chuckled.
"Don't worry, Furina. I'm used to it. We're cool."
Albedo stepped forward, voice calmer now.
"We'll find a boat. Get off this island while we still can. We'll take the refugees and the defected Snezhnayan personnel with us."
A brief pause.
"We'll find a way to contact you again."
He handed Emilie her radio.
"Thanks, Emilie."
She nodded, securing it back onto her belt.
"No worries."
Then—
Someone else sprinted toward them from the corridor.
"Albedo! We've got a boat!
They're from the Mondstadt Navy!"
Albedo clenched a fist in relief.
"Yes! That's perfect!"
He turned toward the hallway.
"Everyone! Grab your gear—we're heading to the Orbital Elevator!"
Emilie, Chiori, Escoffier, Tsaritsa, and Lune all followed, moving fast back into the building.
Next stop—
The Teyvat Orbital Elevator.
Hours later.
Sunset.
Golden-violet hues shimmered across the calm waters of the Northern Mondstadt Sea, casting their light on the massive destroyer slicing through the gentle swells. The ship headed steadily north—toward the towering silhouette on the horizon.
The Teyvat Orbital Elevator.
Emilie stood alone on the forward observation deck, her eyes locked onto the dark figure looming in the distance. She leaned into the railings, the ocean wind rustling her jacket, her mind adrift in the orange haze of twilight.
Footsteps.
Two more joined her—quiet, solemn.
Albedo.
And the Tsaritsa.
She didn't turn.
Instead, she exhaled, voice low.
"Take a look at that..."
Her gaze remained fixed.
"This destroyer's heading for a single rope hanging down from the heavens..."
A pause.
A slight scoff from her nose.
"Do you know where that rope leads?"
Albedo remained silent. He knew. But it wasn't his place to answer.
The Tsaritsa hesitated. Her voice was barely audible, her head bowed slightly.
"O… Outer space…"
Emilie nodded slowly.
"Yes… and no."
Her eyes sharpened against the light of the setting sun.
"It's a direct connection to the very potential of mankind itself."
A silence lingered between them.
Then she sighed.
"Or… it was. Until war found its way back to the stars."
The Tsaritsa spoke again. Her voice, softer than before, trembled with something distant—perhaps guilt.
"Even before this war began... the world had started to crumble again. Ever since that conflict nine years ago... the one in Khaenri'ah."
She paused, then pressed on.
"President Imena built this tower… a symbol of peace. A monument meant to unify the world under one sky.
"But I still wonder... What was going through her mind when she tried to destroy the very thing so many sacrificed themselves to protect?"
A beat.
"What are the Aces of Emberhowl thinking right now?"
Emilie tensed.
That name.
It never failed to hit like a bullet to the chest.
Emberhowl.
She swallowed.
Now it makes sense… she thought.
"Now I might understand why Imena turned the Osprey around that day... Maybe she was sacrificing herself. To destroy what she once believed in. Or what she built, but no longer could trust."
She shook her head and pressed her lips into a thin, firm line.
Albedo noticed.
"Emilie?" he asked gently. "You okay?"
A slow nod.
"Yeah…"
He moved closer.
"That doesn't sound like a yes. Want to talk?"
Her eyes met his, then drifted to the Tsaritsa.
A moment passed.
Then Emilie spoke.
"About the Aces of Emberhowl..."
Albedo raised an eyebrow.
"What about them?"
She inhaled deeply.
Then the words came.
"I was one of them."
"I was lead flight and one of the three commanders of the Emberhowl Air Command Squadron."
Albedo froze.
"Wait… what?"
Emilie nodded, her voice steady.
"Nine years ago. Me, and two of my closest squadmates—my family—were branded traitors. Labeled Khaenri'ahn spies. We were exiled from our airbase at Petrichor. Our callsigns were struck from the records."
Her jaw clenched.
"We were screwed. Royally. No home. No place to land. Nothing but the skies, and the ocean beneath us."
Her hand curled around the railing.
"The following morning. 0730 hours. They sent interceptors after us. We were shot down… but we ejected. Landed in the ocean. Stayed beneath the waves, clinging to survival, waiting for someone—anyone—to pull us out."
She looked to the Orbital Elevator again.
"That's when Imena's rescue team, Sea Moster found us."
"After the war... She told us about the plans for the elevator. Told us it wasn't just a technological marvel. It was supposed to be a bridge to the stars—a symbol of unity. A place to dock the future of space travel, and maybe, one day, peace."
A pause. Her voice softened.
"One of my wingmates—my best friend—is still out there. She took off on an SSTO platform two years ago. She's scheduled to return between the final days of October to early November. And she's supposed to dock at this very tower."
Emilie clenched her fist.
"But this place isn't safe. Not yet."
She pointed to the sky, toward the edge of the horizon.
"The last Sepharis Bird… Celestia... It's still out there. Watching. Waiting. Until someone brings it down, this war won't end."
Her eyes narrowed.
Then she turned to them.
"But this tower… it's more than a spaceport. It's also a communications relay. One of the strongest on the continent. It can broadcast across the entire world—Teyvat, Snezhnaya… everyone."
Albedo's eyes widened with realization.
"If we get a message out… we could form a global coalition."
"Exactly," Emilie nodded. "One final united strike on Celestia."
She continued, her voice gaining force.
"The Sepharis Bird is directly linked to the elevator's infrastructure. At the observation floor—there's a server room. Every drone, every autopilot correction system, the APS—all of it runs through that server farm."
"Destroy the servers, and you cripple the Bird."
The Tsaritsa asked quietly:
"How crippled?"
Emilie met her eyes.
"Its Active Protection System, drone relays, and even the engine's self-repair subroutines will fail. It'll be dead in the sky."
Albedo nodded, processing fast.
"Understood. So how do we reach the communication network?"
Emilie turned back toward the towering structure on the horizon.
"The support facility's communication room is underground. Beneath the main elevator shaft. I know the route. I'll take us there."
A heavy silence settled among them, but it wasn't empty—it was filled with determination.
The fight wasn't over.
But now?
They had a chance.
And maybe—just maybe—the skies could be free again.
Hours Later.
The destroyer finally reached the mainland platform of the Teyvat Orbital Elevator.
Refugees began to make camp on the upper floors of the massive tower, their makeshift shelters clinging to hope amidst metal and glass. But Emilie, Albedo, the Tsaritsa, Lune, Chiori, and Escoffier descended deeper—down into the facility's support structure, far below the eyes of the desperate.
They moved in silence through dim corridors until they arrived at a lounge just before the lower decks.
A mural caught their eyes.
A towering painting stretched across the wall—four jet-black F-14A Tomcats flying in tight formation, guarding the elevator from unseen threats.
Emilie exhaled sharply, the sight pulling something out of her chest.
She knew those aircraft. Too well.
Albedo narrowed his eyes. "Those Tomcats… they're—"
Emilie cut him off, voice distant. "Mine. That's my squadron."
No one said a word.
They moved past the lounge and into the hall beyond, where three unmarked doors greeted them. One on each wall.
Emilie tapped her chin. "Never came down this far before. But I know where we're headed. Let's go straight and see what's behind it."
She led them forward. The center door hissed open.
Then the hum started.
Metal clanged. Welding torches hissed. Servo motors whined.
They stepped into a corridor with an observation window—and froze.
A production line.
Rows of automated arms moved in mechanical synchronicity. The air smelled of oil and heat.
But it wasn't just any aircraft being assembled.
Drones.
Sleek, angular. Terrifyingly familiar.
Painted on the glass in block letters:
ADFX-11
A second door opened with a quiet hiss.
Emilie's instincts snapped into place.
She drew her sidearm and aimed at the silhouette in the doorway.
"STOP RIGHT THERE!" she barked.
The man in the doorway startled—then dropped something.
A data chip.
It skidded across the floor and stopped near a terminal.
Escoffier's gaze darted to it. The casing was matte black, with a blood-red 'X' drawn across it.
Emilie kept her gun trained as she approached, stooped down, and picked up the chip. She turned it over.
Handwritten on the side in marker:
"Tester (Arlecchino) Version 20"
Her grip tightened. She raised her eyes.
"Who the fuck are you," she growled, "and what the fuck is this?"
The man slowly sank to the floor, seated now. He sighed, pulled off his glasses.
"I'm Hroptatyr. Imperatora Industries."
Something in Emilie's face twitched.
"Imperatora…?" Her voice cracked. "You're Khaenri'ahn?"
He nodded once.
"Yes."
She advanced slowly, fury bubbling in every step.
"Your fucking nation marked me and my squadmates traitors nine years ago. You almost tore this continent apart in a civil war. And now you're here… building god-knows-what with Arlecchino's name on it?!"
She raised the chip and snarled.
"WHAT IS THIS FOR?!"
Hroptatyr looked down.
"That chip… It's Arlecchino's flight data. Full telemetry, combat algorithms, reflex training. Everything needed to make drones fly like her."
Emilie's eye twitched. Her pistol lowered—then came up in an arc.
CRACK.
She pistol-whipped him across the face, hard.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS WAR TO YOU?! Restoring Khaenri'ah's pride? That's it!?"
Her voice deepened, steel in every syllable.
"I called the skies my home. I still do. I fought for Teyvat. I bled for peace, not your fucking ghost war! And now you think you can drag this world back into hell for what? A legacy?"
She stood over him now, shaking with restrained rage.
"Where's the fucking pride in a country that nuked itself six times?"
Hroptatyr said nothing.
Just silence.
Emilie scoffed. Cold. Disgusted.
She dropped the chip on the floor.
BANG. BANG.
Two rounds tore into it.
Then came her heel—stomping down hard, crushing it beneath her boot with a crack.
She turned to the console, jaw tight. Her eyes scanned the active displays.
"You already uploaded her flight data, didn't you?" she muttered.
Hroptatyr shook his head, panicked.
"No. I pulled the upload before it was completed."
She raised her pistol again. "Don't lie to me!"
"I'm not!" he shouted. "I swear! But… two drones. Two ADFX-11s. The data was scheduled to be installed in another factory. This isn't the only site."
Emilie exhaled through her nose. Cold rage burned behind her eyes.
She turned to the others.
"We're cutting power to this entire facility once we send our broadcast. I know where the breakers are."
Escoffier held up a hand. "And what about those Sepharis birds?"
Emilie didn't miss a beat.
"They're still active. But the servers running them are on solar battery backups. We can still knock them out with a direct strike."
She turned to Lune.
"Zip tie him."
Lune nodded and moved in without hesitation.
The rest of the team sprinted toward the communications hub, deep in the facility.
The Tsaritsa lingered.
She stepped up to Hroptatyr—now restrained, bleeding slightly from his face.
She didn't shout.
Her voice was quiet. Icy.
"I wonder what was going through your mind... when you stole Arlecchino's data without her consent. Did you ever stop to think about what it would do to her? What she's already endured?"
She leaned in.
"I hope you take time to reflect. On the damage you caused. The lives destroyed."
A pause.
Then, colder still—
"Especially hers."