Chapter Text
Lambert Airfield. The last time Ingrid had been here, it had been called Fhirdiad Royal Air Base.
Not that the name change drastically altered anything about the Faerghus Air Force base she once called home back when she was in service. The hangars were all in the same place, the royal blue paint on their exterior walls slowly chipping away potentially as a result of the frigid winters Faerghus was infamous for. All the taxiways and runways were constructed just as she remembered, and even the barracks, briefing rooms, and mess halls were all where they were years ago.
Ingrid grew to like the name change. King Dimitri may have proclaimed it on his news conference to honor his late father, but a smirk formed on Ingrid’s lips as the name change would also make it easier to reference the base mid-flight. No more calling out the base something awkward like “Fhirdiad Royal” or “Fhirdiad RAB.” Now, it was simply “Lambert.” Short, sweet, concise, efficient.
Of course, the new name wasn’t the only change the air base experienced recently. Ingrid glanced to her left, running her hand along the sleek gunmetal edge of her new partner’s airframe. The F-11 Pegasus, Nuvelle Air’s prototype fighter plane, broke FAF tradition by being named after a mythological creature not based on a lion, but its specifications quickly qualmed the doubts of any naysayers. The Pegasus traded some durability for an impressive speed of Mach 5, operating range of well over 4000 kilometers, and, perhaps the characteristic Constance spent the most time engineering and advertising, its ability to take off, fly, and successfully land in the infamously glacial conditions characteristic of a Faerghan winter. Ingrid scoffed; if only such advancements had been made when she was still flying with the Air Force.
A clacking of heels made itself known behind Ingrid, breaking the pilot’s mental trip down memory lane. She turned around, and sure enough Constance Nuvelle, the CEO of Nuvelle Air, was striding towards her.
Ingrid couldn’t help but note the CEO’s rather clashing design choice for the day. While the heels, gray dress slacks, and teal dress shirt were definitely fitting for giving a presentation in the conference room, Constance had elected to don her old bomber jacket over her dress shirt, complete with a pair of aviator sunglasses covering her stormy blue eyes. It was as if the fighter pilot of the past fused itself with the company executive of today, and Ingrid once again found herself proud at how far her battle-sister had come.
Constance grinned. “Ingrid Galatea! How is my favorite test pilot doing?” She grabbed Ingrid’s shoulders, a manic grin on her face, before the shoulder grip transitioned into a tight embrace which Ingrid returned.
“Constance,” Ingrid laughed, “I’m your only test pilot.”
“Which makes you my favorite!” Constance defended herself, releasing Ingrid from the embrace. “I mean, there’s me as well, but as long as Hapi repeats the broken record of not being able to fly because I have a more important role as CEO of the company, I fear I may never get to sit in the interior of a cockpit ever again.”
“She means well, Constance. You’ve done so much building Nuvelle Air from the ground up; surely you don’t wish for it all to come crashing down if you die during a test flight?”
The mirthful look from Constance’s face evaporated almost instantaneously, a gripping seriousness substituting for it. She removed her sunglasses for a moment to make direct, unobstructed eye contact with her test pilot.
“The same thing can happen to you too, you know,” Constance reminded Ingrid, a heavy note of concern laden in her voice.
“I know,” Ingrid acknowledged solemnly. “But the difference here is that you can find another test pilot. Nuvelle Air can’t find another CEO as brilliant as you are.”
“You’re missing the point. To achieve my vision for Nuvelle Air, this competition is only a small step on the path. What is truly important, at least, one of the things that is truly important, is you, ” Constance affirmed, pushing her index finger into Ingrid’s chest to emphasize her statement. “I need my friend. My squadmate. I want Falcon there beside me when Nuvelle Air becomes the best damn aerospace contractor for the Faerghus military.”
Ingrid nodded, smiling weakly at Constance using her old callsign. “How have the other contractors done so far?” she asked, eager to change the topic.
“Admittedly a bit all over the place. Rowe Aeronautics had their plane sunder apart mid-flight upon trying to push Mach 9 - the pilot is safe, managed to eject just in time. Weathervane did fairly well with theirs, though they were a bit conservative - plane is durable, but only hit Mach 4 when we know the Almyrans have the new Barbarossas which can pull Mach 4.5. But the real contender so far is Charon Technologies - their Manticore pulled a Mach 6 and looks as fast as it is dangerous.”
“Mach 6? We only tested the Pegasus up to Mach 5!” Ingrid protested.
“Because Mach 5 was the acceptable limit for the Pegasus’s airframe as it was designed,” Constance sighed. She quickly looked behind her, then looked at Ingrid. “I gave the presentation on the Pegasus this morning and I think I have a good number of them interested. If we can match or beat Manticore’s speed, we’ll have this contract in the bag. Do you think you can try to pull Mach 6 during the test flight?”
The divide between Mach 5 and Mach 6. About an additional 340 meters per second, the acceleration to which would lead to additional stresses being endured by the plane’s airframe. Ingrid knew that the margin for error was infinitesimally small - once past a certain threshold, the newly incurred stresses would rip the Pegasus, and Ingrid with it, apart in an instant. She bit her lip, her mind still running through the calculations.
“Okay, okay, how about this,” Constance compromised, seeing the clearly concerned look on her friend’s face. "We know the Pegasus can handle Mach 5, no problem. We take her there first, then you slowly, and I mean, slowly, accelerate to see if we can hit Mach 6. I'll be monitoring the airframe from the room; the moment something starts to go wrong I'll tell you and you back off."
Ingrid didn't want to disappoint Constance, not when an important military contract was on the line. "Constance, I -" she started to protest.
"No buts, Ingrid. A pilot's life is more important than a costly engineering project. If I had to choose between you or the plane, I choose you every time. The moment something goes wrong, hell, you start to feel like something is going wrong, you back off. Get me?"
Ingrid acquiesced. "Yeah. I get you."
Constance nodded, satisfied. "Right. It's our turn to show off now; I'll let the crew know you are ready to taxi. Best of luck, Falcon."
"You too, Bolt."
And with that, the CEO turned away to walk back inside the hangar and Ingrid mentally prepared herself for what very well could be her last flight.
Constance Nuvelle knew she was the odd person out in the room.
Nuvelle Air was miniscule in size compared to her competition. Rowe Aeronautics, Weathervane, and Charon Technologies each had thousands of employees dedicated to the design, testing, and refinement of new aircraft. Constance had only founded the company two years ago after she graduated from Fhirdiad University and had only perhaps under 200 employees to her name.
A small grin etched itself onto Constance’s lips. Her company may be small, but they managed to pull together to create the work of art now taxied onto the runway, its engines a tense orchestra waiting to be conducted by the maestro in the cockpit. The long hours, the endless design arguments, the annoyance of material shipping costs - it all led to this.
Constance could feel the stares of everyone in the viewing room bore into the back of her skull. She didn’t care about them much, for she knew what the representatives from the other aeronautics companies were thinking. She knew they expected her to fail. They all probably thought she was letting her ambition get the better of her, a company with only a handful of employees thinking it could contend with its more well-funded and established counterparts.
The person who arguably intimidated Constance the most in the room was the colossal yet stoic figure of Minister of Defense Dedue Molinaro. The right-hand man of King Dimitri was a giant, easily dwarfing Constance in her heels. He was crisply dressed in a three-piece suit, the lines of the fabric neatly pressed as if they had been meticulously ironed earlier in the morning. A dark blue scarf was neatly wrapped along his neck, pinned together by a golden medallion on his left. Constance didn’t know what the medallion was supposed to represent, but had enough sense to know that it and the scarf were an homage to Minister Molinaro’s Duscur heritage.
She stopped looking outside at the Pegasus to turn back to the room. The room they were all in was a refurbished conference room meant for high-ranking officers; a long rectangular wooden table was in the center of the room orbited by newly acquired leather chairs (Constance could tell as there was no evidence of the leather exterior peeling away). Speaker and microphone equipment were installed both in the table and in the ceiling of the room, and the CEO of Nuvelle Air looked at the wide television screen to her left which displayed information on the Pegasus along with different camera views of the plane’s airframe and cockpit interior.
Constance took a minute to glance at the camera feed of Ingrid Galatea, her friend now fully equipped for a flight with her helmet on, visor down, and (rather cumbersome, Constance may add) oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth. Okay, moment of truth.
Constance activated her earpiece, not caring that the government officials and company representatives in the room could hear her.
“Falcon, this is Bolt. Everything set?”
“Bolt, Falcon. Ready to go; awaiting engine startup and take-off on your call,” Ingrid responded, making the “OK” symbol with her right hand in front of the camera.
Constance turned to look at the stern-looking female officer to Minister Molinaro’s right, silently asking for her approval to authorize engine start-up and take-off. Brigadier General Minerva Macedon had once been the commanding officer of the wing Constance and Ingrid were a part of during the war, but if anything, peace time had accelerated the rate her auburn hair was turning gray and the number of stress lines on her face. Perhaps bureaucracy was a more dangerous adversary than the Adrestian military.
General Macedon rose from her seat and held down a button on the intercom, the bright red light indicating a connection to Lambert Airfield’s Air Traffic Control Tower had been made.
“Air Traffic Control, this is General Macedon. Authorize engine start and take-off of prototype Pegasus on Runway 4,” the General succinctly ordered.
“Acknowledged, General. Authorizing engine start of prototype Pegasus now,” the Tower responded.
Constance returned her gaze to the plane below on the runway, this time now joined by everyone else in the room as they walked up to the window to observe, anticipation of the test flight firmly gripping everyone. A tall silhouette of a figure emerged on Constance’s right as Minister Molinaro stood beside her, pulling his reading glasses off from his nose with a delicacy Nuvelle Air’s CEO did not initially believe was possible from the man.
A roar erupted from the runway as Ingrid fired up the engines of the Pegasus, having received authorization from the Control Tower. Perhaps the Pegasus was not named after a lion, but after hearing the roar of her engines, one could not deny that the fighter jet had the heart of one. The engines held steady for a moment, Ingrid smartly checking if there were any issues before she took off.
Constance looked down at her tablet which displayed even more information on the Pegasus than what was shown on the conference room’s television screen. To anyone else it may have been a random assortment of colors, numbers, and figures, but not to Constance. She saw dynamic information on temperature, values of various stresses on the aircraft, Ingrid’s vitals, fuel levels, and the status of the aircraft’s engines. Nothing looked out of place so far.
“Okay, Falcon,” Constance whispered to no one in particular. “Let’s see some of that pilot shit.”
Minister Molinaro glanced at her, obviously catching the profanity. Constance winced, for a time too buried in memories of the past to remember where she was now.
“Apologies,” Constance whispered to Minister Molinaro. If the colossal man of Duscur heard her apology, he made no sign of it, returning his view to the steadily moving Pegasus on the runway below.
Suddenly, the roar of the engines increased to a crescendo, and the Pegasus sped to a full run along the runway before it lifted off the ground, ascending higher and higher into the blue skies for what would be Nuvelle Air’s greatest test to date.
Now this was Ingrid’s domain. Nothing but her, the sky, her aircraft, and -
“Falcon, Bolt. Please respond.”
Oh, right. Constance.
“Systems green across the board. Approaching altitude of 15,000 meters,” Ingrid responded, checking her altitude readouts.
It really was perfect weather for flying - winds weren’t too harsh and cloud cover was at a minimum. If there were to be any obstructions to the Pegasus’s flight, it wouldn’t come from Mother Nature herself. Ingrid steadily climbed until she reached 15,000 meters, leveling the jet until she was looking at an endless blue horizon with the bright yellow rays of the sun shining from her right.
“Pegasus level, awaiting testing instructions,” Ingrid reported, left hand hovering over the thruster lever in anticipation.
“Acknowledged. Nice and easy to start off; let’s show off some of her tricks,” Constance’s voice rippled over the radio.
Ingrid smirked underneath her oxygen mask. The time has come at last. She patted the joystick affectionately, perhaps for luck, perhaps for trying to settle the adrenaline surging through her veins with the force of a river bursting from a dam.
“Let’s show them what you got, girl,” Ingrid whispered, too soft to be picked up by her radio.
Ingrid pushed the thruster lever forward, and the Pegasus was released from its trot into a full run, the plane slashing through the blue sky as if air resistance was a non-factor. Channeling her training from years ago, Ingrid imagined she was in pursuit of an enemy Adrestian fighter. She blinked a couple of times, willing an apparition of an enemy craft in front of her.
Ingrid sped up a bit, seeing that the apparition was trying to do a break turn. She pulled back on the stick, forcing Pegasus to climb, noticing a drop of speed as she looked down through her canopy at the still turning aircraft. She then pushed her stick down to dive, smoothly rolling Pegasus over mid-turn to get the underside of the craft facing towards the ground. Ingrid peered through her targeting reticle at the imaginary enemy aircraft; she had it dead center for a few precious seconds.
In reality, nothing happened. Pegasus had been loaded with dummy armaments to simulate the additional mass, but nothing has been primed to actually fire out of safety. In Ingrid’s mind, however, a thunder of gunfire erupted from Pegasus’s cannons, shredding the enemy craft apart until it exploded in an angry burst of orange and black. Ingrid sped past it, climbing once more before applying the Pegasus’s rudder to yaw the aircraft around into the opposite direction, applying a burst of speed as she did so.
Glancing up from her instruments panel, Ingrid saw there was another enemy craft right in front of her. She was closing fast, perhaps too fast to the point there was a very real danger she was going to overshoot her target. To lose speed, Ingrid once again pulled up on the stick to will Pegasus into a climb before instincts kicked in and she immediately transitioned into a barrel roll on the short dive down. The enemy was in her crosshairs, and Ingrid took the shot. Like their comrade before them, sparks flew from the enemy craft as bullets bit into its airframe before it too exploded in a violent cloud of black smoke.
The sole test pilot of Nuvelle Air didn’t have time to revel in her victory, however, as an imaginary missile warning alarm erupted in her cockpit. She slammed the button for flares on the side, jerking her stick to the right to maneuver. The explosion of the enemy missile behind her thundered in her bones, but this was no time to let fear cloud judgment.
Ingrid sharply raised Pegasus’s nose up, allowing the enemy craft to soar past her. Now it was Pegasus’s turn to go on the offensive, Ingrid leveling the craft out in pursuit. The enemy pilot dodged and weaved - a simple guns defense, nothing special. Shaking her head, Ingrid achieved target lock on the craft, and chalked one more kill for herself as one of Pegasus’s missiles collided with her envisioned enemy and tore it asunder.
Pegasus screamed through the sky, energized by the thrill of the hunt and the skill of her pilot. A smile, wider than what she would normally show anyone, formed from Ingrid’s lips. Here she was the master of her fate, the captain of her soul.
It took most of Constance’s willpower to suppress shooting her competitors a smug look.
One can’t fly a prototype fighter plane like any normal aircraft. These fighter planes, if they were to be adopted into His Majesty’s initiative for a revitalized air force, need to be treated like fighter planes. Tested like fighter planes. Stressed to the limit like fighter planes. Fighter pilots are pilots, but pilots aren’t fighter pilots. Regular pilots, like the ones Rowe Aeronautics and Weathervane used, couldn’t understand the stresses and trauma both pilot and aircraft experience in live combat. On the other hand, veteran fighter pilots like Cassandra Charon of Charon Technologies and her own Ingrid Galatea knew of the risks and the maneuvers required of them and their craft. Experience, not a manual, is the best and only teacher for these matters.
Constance took a moment to peer down at her tablet, noticing Ingrid’s heart rate increased. Normal, she supposed; Ingrid must be imagining combat scenarios to showcase the combat potential of the Pegasus. Occasionally she would notice shades of red appear then disappear at parts of the ship’s airframe to signify a focused increase in stress as Ingrid did all sorts of rolls, turns, pivots, dives, and climbs required of a true air superiority fighter craft. Not concerning. Yet.
The CEO surveyed the conference room to gauge the general reactions to the Pegasus. General Macedon and Minister Molinaro watched the feed of the fighter jet in quiet yet firm interest. Gwendal, the representative of Rowe Aeronautics, had a scowl etched on his wizened face. Constance had no doubt he was simmering with rage at his company being brought low by a competitor as nascent as Nuvelle Air.
Towards the other side of the conference table, Gustave, the CEO of Weathervane, watched with his eyes narrowed, brow furrowed in thought as he saw the Pegasus frolic among the blue sky. Cassandra Charon, substituting for her father as he took another call, was enraptured by the Pegasus, her eyes wide and a small grin etched onto her face. The pride of Nuvelle Air, or rather, Ingrid’s skills in flying, had impressed the test pilot of Charon Technologies thoroughly.
But now was time for the grand finale. The test to gauge the Pegasus’s top speed. Constance pressed her earpiece, hailing Ingrid.
“You having fun up there?” Constance asked with a smirk.
“Not to worry - I’m trying not to get too carried away here,” Ingrid responded, breath a bit heavy. Constance reasoned she must have just done a high-G turn.
“What say we end this and show how fast Pegasus can run?” Constance asked, her audible question attracting the eyes of everyone in the room.
“Top speed test? You sure?”
“Just like we discussed,” Constance confirmed.
A pregnant pause filled the radio channel linking Constance and Ingrid together. The CEO could hear her pilot give off a deep breath.
“Here goes.”
No sooner had Constance heard Ingrid’s reply that the Pegasus’s speed dramatically picked up and kept steadily climbing. All eyes in the room were now fixed on the Mach counter on the television screen in the conference room. Mach 1 was surpassed within seconds of the acceleration, with Mach 2 being crossed shortly after. Constance watched the plane exceed Mach 3, then Mach 4, before Ingrid held it steady at Mach 5.
“Holding steady at Mach 5; how are your readouts?” Ingrid called Constance.
Constance looked down at her tablet. An outer layer of yellow-orange surrounded the outline of the Pegasus’s airframe to indicate a spike in surface temperature, but it was information she had seen before in previous flights.
“I'm seeing a predictable rise in surface temp. Proceed with caution,” Constance warned.
“Acknowledged. Acceler - wait, what the -”
Constance’s heart jumped up to her throat, but she couldn’t give off an attitude of panic, not with the people around her.
“Falcon, you broke up there for a second. Is there a problem?” Constance asked, applying a herculean amount of effort to keep her voice level.
All Constance could hear was static in reply. She looked down in alarm at her tablet, wondering if there had been a severe malfunction in the plane. Everything looked fine, except for one thing.
Ingrid’s heart rate was at 125 beats per minute and climbing.
Constance widened her eyes, taking her tablet and running as fast as her heels allowed her to a private room.
She knew what this was.
It couldn’t have been him. Yet it was him.
There was no mistaking the F-9 Griffon that suddenly appeared in a classic combat spread formation to Ingrid’s right. The blue striped markings on the wings, the artwork of an unsheathed sword next to the pilot’s cockpit.
Glenn Fraldarius was flying next to Ingrid. Glenn Fraldarius, her former squadmate. Her deceased squadmate. Ingrid shook her head and blinked her eyes rapidly. This couldn’t be real. He couldn’t be real. He was dead. Dead. Ingrid saw him go down, Ingrid avenged him, Ingrid heard his screams over the radio as flames engulfed him, Ingrid saw his charred corpse melted to the -
“Hey ‘grid. What’s shaking?” Glenn’s voice asked her over the radio.
“Shut up. You’re dead,” Ingrid snapped, trying to shake this apparition out from reality.
“Thanks to you! How did you not see her coming? How did you let her blindside you like that? How could you have let me die? It wasn’t enough for my father to learn that Felix - “
“Shut up! ” Ingrid screamed, pushing the thruster lever forward, going further beyond Mach 5 without even realizing it. She needed to put distance between her and Glenn, she needed to get away -
“You can’t get away that easy, ‘grid!” Glenn taunted, his Griffon accelerating to catch up with Pegasus.
Ingrid saw Glenn gaining on her, an incredulous gasp escaping her lips. The Griffon was only designed to go Mach 3 at the maximum; how was Glenn gaining on her? She rolled into a dive, heading towards a nearby cloud to hopefully confuse her pursuer, but then she saw Glenn do the same, fire erupting from one of his Griffon’s engines.
“Poor little Ingrid. Always suppressing, always hiding. Never letting anyone in!” Glenn’s voice grew more distorted as the crackle of an orchestra of fire accompanied his voice. Ingrid’s eyes widened in panic. No, no this can’t be happening again -
Ingrid urged Pegasus to speed up, the plane groaning and shrieking in protest. She didn't know how fast she was going, and she didn’t care - what mattered was that she loses Glenn.
“I know, girl, I know, but just a little more!” Ingrid pleaded with her metal steed, about to accelerate even further.
“Aw, still talking to your planes like those little horseys back on your family ranch? You’re so pathetic, Ingrid! You can barely help your father, you can’t help stupid, hapless Sylvain, and you can’t even do your damn job for Constance like you couldn’t do your damn job in watching my back!”
Unadulterated rage was rapidly infecting the rational centers of Ingrid’s mind, the pilot furiously looking at Glenn’s Griffon, now completely engulfed in flames yet by some hidden force still airborne next to her in a combat spread.
“Ingrid! Ingrid, do you read! Ingrid! Ingrid, respond, now! ”
The sharp timbre of Constance’s panicked plea rang like a cacophonous note that successfully disrupted the symphony of madness and rage consuming Ingrid. She steadied her breathing, not wanting to sound panicked to worry her friend.
“Constance, I read you. I read you,” Ingrid confirmed, slowing Pegasus down to the point she and the jet both took a sigh of relief.
“Land Pegasus. You’re done,” Constance ordered.
Ingrid was aghast. “Constance, we still need to try and beat Mach 6, I can do -”
“Ingrid Galatea, land the fucking plane at once,” Constance barked, emphasizing her profanity. “You’re done, that’s enough.”
Not wanting to antagonize her friend further, Ingrid gained her bearings and gradually turned right to head back towards Lambert Airfield. She slowly turned her gaze to the right.
Glenn was gone.
Landing at Lambert Airfield and getting taxied back into the hangar all happened in a haze in Ingrid’s eyes. Satisfied that the jet’s engine and systems were well and truly off, Ingrid opened the canopy of the cockpit and climbed her way out, a hangar technician helpfully guiding her down the ladder he had placed next to Pegasus’s cockpit.
Ingrid bent her knees as her boots made solid contact with the tarmac of the taxiway, her feet undoubtedly rejoicing at being reunited with solid ground. She stretched her legs and arms, her limbs no doubt happy to no longer be in a confined space, but out of her peripherals, she saw Constance Nuvelle walking briskly towards her with purpose.
Ingrid was hoping this conversation could wait until later, but it looks like she was going to have to do this now. “Constance, I’m sorry, I can expl - “
The start of Ingrid’s apology was cut short as the CEO tightly embraced her, squeezing her so tight that it almost reminded Ingrid of experiencing additional G-force during a tight turn.
“Never ever scare me like that again,” Constance whispered. She disengaged from the hug, looking at Ingrid dead in the eyes. The CEO didn’t say anything, but Ingrid knew this conversation was far from over.
“Did we win?” Ingrid asked, desperately wanting to change the subject.
Constance bit her lip. “They haven’t come to a decision yet. Looks like they are between us and Manticore though from what I hear. You really showed them something, Ingrid. That high yo-yo maneuver you did at the start? Fabulous. Exactly what a fighter jet should be able to do.”
Ingrid blushed, silently accepting the praise from her friend. “I didn’t get the chance to go beyond Mach 6 though.”
“Pegasus was on the verge of catastrophic failure at Mach 5.7, Ingrid. If you hadn’t slowed down when you did, things could have been…worse,” Constance admitted, letting her last word hang in the air between the two women.
Ingrid glanced at the Pegasus once more, walking over to gently caress the underside of the plane’s right engine.
“I’m sorry I pushed you so hard,” Ingrid apologized to the jet, her voice dropping to a whisper like she was in solemn prayer. “But you were amazing today, girl. Hopefully there’s a future for you yet with the FAF.”
Ingrid turned back to Constance, noticing how the sun was starting to sink down into the horizon beyond.
“Dinner and drinks?” Ingrid suggested.
“Yes, dinner and drinks sounds lovely,” Constance affirmed, the two friends walking together away from the jet and towards an evening of adventure.