Skyward Ambitions

Four weeks had passed since Furina and her crew took delivery of Air Fontania's first 737 MAX9, flying it from Boeing Field in Seattle with a stopover in Miami, all the way to Fontaine in Teyvat. It had been a significant milestone for the airline, and for Furina personally, as she added yet another achievement to her growing list of accomplishments.

Now, it was a busy day at Ormos International Airport in Sumeru. Furina had just completed her first A330-300 flight from Marcotte and was waiting for her scheduled flight back home to Fontaine. Sitting at a cozy café near her gate, she sipped her coffee, her Speedmaster catching the sunlight streaming through the tall windows. The buzz of travelers filled the air, but Furina remained relaxed, enjoying the calm moment between flights.

As she took another sip, a young woman with green hair hesitantly approached her. She clutched a notebook in one hand, her other fidgeting nervously with the strap of her bag.

"E-Excuse me... Are you Miss Furina by any chance?" the woman stammered, her voice tinged with both excitement and anxiety.

Furina glanced up, setting her coffee cup down gently. "That's right," she replied, her tone warm but curious. "What can I do for you?"

The woman visibly exhaled, a small smile forming as she nodded quickly. "I-I just wanted to ask… I'm currently working on my CPL license, and I wanted to know… Were you nervous flying for the first time with passengers?"

Furina chuckled softly, leaning forward slightly. "Of course I was nervous the first time I flew with passengers! I don't think there's a pilot alive who wasn't." She grinned, her eyes sparkling with recollection. "But, eventually, you start to focus so much on the flight itself that sometimes you forget there are passengers in the back. Not that I'm saying you should ever actually forget them! But with experience, it all starts to feel natural. You'll see."

The woman's eyes widened, her nervousness giving way to fascination. "Oh… That makes sense. Th-Thank you so much, Miss Furina!"

"Glad I could help," Furina said with a smile. She tilted her head slightly. "What's your name, by the way?"

"Oh! Um… Collei," the woman replied, her cheeks flushing slightly.

"Well, Collei," Furina said, leaning in just a bit closer, her voice low but encouraging. "Let me give you some advice that helped me when I was in your shoes."

Collei nodded eagerly, hanging on every word.

"When you fly, just be yourself. Trust what your training and lessons have taught you. Each pilot has their own style, their own way of doing things, and that's part of what makes us unique. Use your strengths. Don't let anyone make you feel like you're not enough. Just. Be. Yourself."

Collei's face turned a deeper shade of red, her smile growing as she nodded. "Th-Thank you so much, Miss Furina! I'll remember that!"

Furina extended her hand with a confident grin. "I'm glad I could help, Collei. Who knows? Maybe one day, we'll cross paths in the skies."

Collei hesitated for a moment, then quickly extended her hand, shaking Furina's with a firm grip. "I-I'd love that. Thank you again!"

With a wave, Collei hurried off, leaving Furina to finish her coffee. Moments later, she looked out the window to see an Air Fontania A330 pulling into the gate. She watched as passengers disembarked, and then the crew began filing out one by one.

As Furina stood near the café counter, a familiar face lit up in recognition. It was Cornelia, one of her former cadet classmates from their real touch-and-go training days. Cornelia beelined straight for Furina, surprising her with a tight hug.

Caught off guard, Furina raised her hands slightly. "Oh. Um… Cornelia?"

"Sorry, Furina," Cornelia said, sighing into the hug. "I needed this."

Furina raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"

Cornelia backed away, running a hand through her hair. "That captain was a real douche…"

Furina tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. "Who?"

Cornelia glanced back toward the plane, then back at Furina. "Captain Vacher," she said, the name practically dripping with disdain.

Furina's expression hardened, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Captain Vacher?"

Cornelia nodded. "Yeah. He's the type who tries to shut down first officers at every turn. Didn't have a single nice thing to say the whole flight. He's got some kind of grudge against young FOs. Said something like, 'Kids these days can get into the cockpit with barely any experience.'"

Furina scoffed, crossing her arms. "And you're letting that get to you? Come on, Cornelia! We're women pilots. Do you know how rare that is? We're part of the few who've made it this far. You're going to let some bitter old captain bring you down? Screw that. File a formal complaint, and if I were you, I'd send it straight to Clorinde."

Cornelia exhaled in relief, nodding. "That's the plan. Is it okay if I fax the letter to you once you're back in Marcotte? I'll text you when it's ready."

"Of course," Furina said, placing a reassuring hand on Cornelia's upper arm. "I'll probably end up flying with Vacher anyway. That's literally my flight back later."

Cornelia winced. "Good luck with him, Furina. He's going to be a real pain in the ass, especially with you."

Furina smirked, her confidence unshaken. "Relax, Cornelia. I can handle my own."

Cornelia nodded, stepping back with a small smile. "Well… I'm off. See you around, Furina."

Furina nodded in return. "Of course. Take care, Cornelia."

As Cornelia walked off, Furina leaned back against the counter, taking another sip of her coffee. She glanced out the window at the A330, a determined look settling on her face. Whatever challenges lay ahead, she was more than ready to take them on.

Furina boarded the Air Fontania A330-300, her flight bound for Marcotte. As she stepped inside, she turned left toward the cockpit, her polished flats clicking faintly against the cabin floor. She reached the cockpit door and knocked lightly before peeking inside.

"Captain?" she called out, her voice professional but warm.

The captain, Vacher, didn't even bother to look up, his eyes fixed on the flight deck instruments. His tone was curt, bordering on dismissive. "Take a seat. Let's start the briefing."

Furina blinked, caught off guard by the lack of courtesy. She sighed inwardly, keeping her composure. "Okay…" she replied, stepping inside.

She placed her luggage and flight bag in the designated storage compartment before settling herself into the first officer's seat. The familiar routine of fastening her lap belt and securing her tablet in its holder by the right window gave her a small sense of comfort.

Vacher finally glanced at her, his expression as unwelcoming as his tone. "Let's begin the briefing. You're the pilot in command. We're departing runway 31R. Anything happens on the takeoff roll, it's all on you. Got it? Any questions?"

Furina raised an eyebrow at his sharp delivery. All on me? she thought to herself. She muttered the words quietly, her tone laced with disbelief.

But outwardly, she nodded, forcing a neutral tone. "No questions."

"Good," Vacher replied bluntly, turning back to his screens.

Furina exhaled through her nose, shaking her head as she opened her tablet to load the METAR weather report for Marcotte International Airport. "This attitude… in bad weather? Great," she muttered under her breath.

When the weather data loaded, her brow furrowed. Overcast skies, heavy rain, and poor visibility greeted her on the screen. It wasn't looking good.

"Perfect," she whispered sarcastically. "Poor weather, poor visibility, and now poor teamwork. If his attitude doesn't improve on arrival, who knows what kind of ride we're in for on approach…"

Pushing her concerns aside, she closed the weather report and began inputting performance numbers into the Airbus A330's MCDU. The flow of procedures helped her refocus, even as the tension in the cockpit lingered.

An hour later, boarding was complete, and the aircraft was ready for pushback. Furina watched as ground crew signaled from below. Soon, the aircraft taxied out of the gate, making its way down Taxiway A toward runway 31R.

"Fontania Six Eight Yankee, contact Ormos Tower on one one nine point two. Good afternoon," came a voice from Ormos Ground Control.

Vacher leaned forward to reply. "Tower one one nine point two, Six Eight Yankee."

He switched frequencies and keyed the mic. "Ormos Tower, Fontania Six Eight Yankee on Alpha, taxiing to Alpha One Seven for Three One Right."

The tower responded promptly. "Fontania Six Eight Yankee, hello. Continue taxiing to Alpha One Seven, hold short runway Three One Right. A Sumeru Airlines Seven Six Seven is on a five-mile final."

Vacher acknowledged, his tone clipped. "Roger. Six Eight Yankee."

Furina glanced at him briefly, her thoughts swirling. What's with him today?

The A330 made its way to Taxiway A17, coming to a halt just short of the runway. The tower called again.

"Fontania Six Eight Yankee, after the arriving Sumeru Airlines Seven Six Seven passes from right to left, line up runway Three One Right."

"After the Sumeru Seven Six, line up Three One Right, Six Eight Yankee," Vacher repeated.

Moments later, the Sumeru Airlines 767 touched down gracefully and rolled past them. The tower gave the final instruction.

"Fontania Six Eight Yankee, line up runway Three One Right."

Vacher read it back, "Line up Three One Right, Six Eight Yankee."

Furina disengaged the parking brakes and eased the throttles forward slightly. The Rolls-Royce Trent 700 engines howled to life, pushing the aircraft smoothly onto the runway. She lined up perfectly with the centerline, her eyes trained on the markings ahead as she brought the A330 to a stop and re-engaged the parking brakes.

But before she could sit back, Vacher leaned forward, scrutinizing the alignment. "We're off the centerline, Furina…"

Furina leaned forward herself, checking the alignment. It was perfect. Not a single deviation. She raised an eyebrow. "Looks like it's perfectly aligned to me, Captain."

Vacher leaned back, scoffing. "Whatever."

Furina's patience frayed slightly. She gave him a sideways glance, unimpressed. What the hell?

Shaking her head, she settled back in her seat, waiting for further instructions. Down the runway, the Sumeru 767 cleared, and the tower called back.

"Fontania Six Eight Yankee, winds calm, runway Three One Right. Cleared for takeoff."

Vacher read it back. "Cleared for takeoff, Six Eight Yankee."

Furina disengaged the parking brakes once more, her left hand steady on the throttle levers, her right on the joystick. She smoothly advanced the throttles to 50%, letting the engines stabilize before pushing them into the FLEX detent. The engines roared, their power vibrating through the aircraft.

"Man, Flex fifty-seven, runway Three One Right," she called out.

Vacher remained silent, failing to crosscheck.

Furina glanced at him, irritation flickering in her eyes. "Captain, I'm going to need callouts. Help me here."

Still, Vacher didn't respond.

As the aircraft gained speed, Furina called, "Eighty knots, crosscheck, please?"

Silence.

Frustrated, she pressed on. The numbers climbed steadily on her PFD until they reached V1.

"V1," she called out.

Moments later, the aircraft hit VR—rotation speed.

"Rotate," she called, pulling back gently on the sidestick. The A330's nose lifted smoothly off the ground, and the aircraft soared into the overcast skies.

"Positive climb. Gear up, please," Furina called.

Vacher reached for the gear lever and retracted it without saying a word. Furina's lips pressed into a thin line as the landing gear retracted with a series of familiar clunks.

She sighed and called out for herself, "Gear up, doors locked."

Pulling the throttles from the MCT detent, to the CLB detent, she continued the climb. The tower's voice crackled over the radio.

"Fontania Six Eight Yankee, contact Departure one two four point four. Good afternoon."

Vacher replied, "Departure, one two four point four, Six Eight Yankee," and switched frequencies.

Furina reached for the flap lever herself, retracting them fully. "Flaps up," she muttered through gritted teeth.

Finally, she activated autopilot, pressing the AP2 button firmly. "Autopilot right," she called out, more for her own reassurance than anything.

The tension in the cockpit was thick, almost suffocating. Furina glanced at Vacher, her jaw tightening. This flight is going to feel a lot longer than it should…

Hours later, the Fontania A330-300 cruises steadily at 34,000 feet, slicing through the quiet expanse of the night sky. The hum of the engines is constant, a comforting background noise for most, but inside the cockpit, it does little to diffuse the thick tension lingering since departure. Hours have passed, yet neither Furina nor Vacher has said a word. Only the periodic calls from Teyvat ARTCC to other aircraft in the region break the oppressive silence.

The air between the two pilots is heavy, charged with unspoken frustration and mutual irritation. Eventually, it's Vacher who chooses to break the silence—but instead of relief, his words only deepen the chasm between them.

"That was sloppy, Furina. I expected more from you," Vacher remarks, his tone sharp and condescending.

Furina's eyes twitch behind her aviator sunglasses. She takes a deliberate breath, her jaw tightening as she slowly removes the shades and turns to glare at him.

"What is your deal with me, Vacher? What did I even do? This is my first time flying with you," she retorts, her voice tinged with a mix of anger and incredulity.

Vacher barely glances at her, his eyes fixed ahead. "It's kids like you—and that friend of yours before—getting into the cockpit with little to no real skill. It's all money. Money keeps talking."

Furina scoffs, her frustration bubbling over. She turns her gaze away momentarily, attempting to rein herself in, but the restraint doesn't last.

"Money?" she snaps, her voice rising slightly. "You really think it's about money? I worked my ass off for this! I went through everything by the book. Every license, every exam, every hour logged. Blood, sweat, tears—you name it. And you think it's just money? Yeah, I have money, but did I flaunt it? Did I use it as a shortcut? Hell no! I earned my place here!"

"Whatever," Vacher mutters dismissively, as if her words were little more than static noise.

Furina throws her hands up in frustration before letting them drop heavily onto her lap. "This attitude of yours, Vacher, has to stop. We're headed into Marcotte, and it's going to be rough. The conditions are poor, and your attitude? It's a liability. It'll get us in serious trouble—or worse, killed. When I needed my callouts during takeoff, I wasn't saying it for fun. We need Cockpit Resource Management here, for fuck's sake!"

Vacher doesn't respond, his silence feeling more like a wall than a truce.

Furina shakes her head, biting her lip to stop herself from completely losing it. She decides to end the conversation before it spirals further.

"If this keeps up until landing, Captain, I'll have no choice but to file a formal complaint with the company. And don't you dare think Cornelia won't file one too. You better believe she'll back me up on this," she says firmly, her words cutting through the tension like a knife.

Still, Vacher doesn't budge. The silence resumes, heavier than before, broken only by the occasional crackle of radio transmissions from Teyvat ARTCC.

Two hours later, the sun begins its slow descent beyond the horizon, casting long, golden shadows across the cloud layer. The A330-300 is descending now, approaching 4,000 feet, swallowed by thick clouds as it nears Marcotte. Fog clings to the airfield below, and rain lightly streaks the cockpit windows. The weather has improved slightly—reduced to light rain and calmer winds—but it's still far from ideal.

The aircraft is on base approach to Runway 27R, coming in from the north. The tension in the cockpit is palpable, hanging like the low-lying clouds outside.

"Fontania Six Eight Yankee, cleared ILS approach Two Seven Right. Call when established on the localizer," comes the instruction from Marcotte Approach.

"Cleared ILS Two Seven Right. Fontania Six Eight Yankee," Vacher replies mechanically, his voice devoid of energy.

The aircraft's autopilot captures the localizer on cue. The PFD indicates LOC APP, and the plane begins a gentle right turn to align with the runway.

"Six Eight Yankee on the localizer Two Seven Right," Vacher reports.

"Fontania Six Eight Yankee, roger. Contact Marcotte Tower on one-one-eight-point-one-five. Good evening," the controller responds.

"Over to tower at eighteen-point-one-five. Six Eight Yankee," Vacher replies, switching frequencies.

"Fontania Six Eight Yankee on the ILS runway Two Seven Right," he announces to Marcotte Tower.

"Fontania Six Eight Yankee, hello. Winds variable at five, gusting ten. Runway Two Seven Right, cleared to land, number two," comes the reply.

"Cleared to land Two Seven Right. Six Eight Yankee," Vacher repeats.

Furina exhales audibly and issues the first of her final approach commands. "Gear down."

Vacher finally reacts, pulling the gear lever down. The landing gear deploys with a satisfying clunk.

"Gear down. Three greens," Vacher announces dryly.

Furina can't help but mutter under her breath, "Finally."

"Flaps full, please," she calls out next.

Vacher doesn't move.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Furina mutters before reaching for the flap lever herself, pulling it down to the full position. "Flaps full," she snaps, her voice sharp with irritation.

She sets the final approach speed—146 knots—on the autopilot MCP and double-checks the autobrakes, confirming they're set to medium. Her eyes flick to the spoiler lever. It's not armed.

Furina sighs in exasperation, yanking the lever up. "Spoilers armed," she growls, glaring at Vacher.

Leaning back, she adjusts her shoulder harness and exhales sharply. "Before landing checklist complete."

As if on cue, the GPWS system begins its calls.

"One thousand."

Furina glances at Vacher, whose silence remains infuriatingly intact.

"Stabilized. Go-around altitude set," she mutters, half to herself.

"Five hundred."

"Four hundred."

"Three hundred."

"Approaching minimums."

"Minimums."

Furina peers through the windshield. The runway is now visible through the thinning fog.

"Continue approach," she calls.

"Two hundred."

"One hundred."

Her thumb presses the red button on the sidestick, disconnecting the autopilot with its familiar triple chime.

"Priority right. My aircraft," she announces.

Predictably, Vacher says nothing.

"Figures," she mutters under her breath, gripping the controls.

"Fifty."

"Forty."

"Thirty."

"Twenty."

"Retard. Retard."

Furina gently pulls back on the sidestick, flaring for touchdown as she brings the thrust levers to idle.

"Ten."

"Five."

The main landing gear touches down softly, followed by the nose gear. Spoilers deploy with a rush of air. Furina pulls the reverser levers, and the engines roar to life, slowing the aircraft rapidly.

At sixty knots, she stows the reversers and lightly taps the manual brakes, guiding the plane onto taxiway Z3.

"Fontania Six Eight Yankee, welcome home," comes the voice from Marcotte Tower. "Taxi Kilo Three and hold short of Two Seven Left."

"Kilo Three, hold short Two Seven Left. Fontania Six Eight Yankee," Vacher replies flatly.

As they taxi, Vacher begins shutting down the landing configuration, raising the flaps and retracting the spoilers. He switches off the wing lights, strobes, and landing lights before powering up the APU.

In the silence, Furina stares ahead, her mind already calculating the exact words she'll use in her complaint.

Minutes have passed, and the Fontania A330-300 is now parked securely at the gate. The passengers have disembarked, blissfully unaware of the storm of tension that brewed in the cockpit during the flight. Furina leans back in her seat momentarily, exhaling deeply. Another flight is complete, capped by a textbook landing on a rain-slicked Runway 27R. Yet, there's no sense of accomplishment—just lingering frustration.

Furina grabs her coat and suitcase, ready to leave the aircraft. Vacher doesn't say a word as she exits the cockpit, his silence no longer surprising. Without sparing him another glance, Furina disembarks and makes her way through Terminal One. Her usual calm demeanor is overshadowed by the simmering anger she can't quite shake.

Instead of heading straight for the parking lot where her Gallardo is waiting, Furina takes the airport tram to Terminal Two. Her destination isn't her car but the airline's training center. Clutching two pieces of paper—formal letters of complaint—she marches with purpose through the halls, the heels clicking sharply against the polished floors. One letter is from her, and the other from Cornelia, who had flown with Vacher before and endured the same attitude.

Arriving at Clorinde's office, Furina knocks on the door—hard. The frustration she's been holding back is evident in every sharp rap.

From behind the door, Clorinde's calm voice calls out, "Come in!"

Furina opens the door and steps inside. Clorinde's eyes widen slightly as she sees her. "Furina! What brings you here?"

Without wasting a moment, Furina places the two letters firmly on Clorinde's desk. "Letters of complaint," she says bluntly.

Clorinde blinks, then picks up the papers. "From who and to whom?"

Furina leans forward, her gaze steady and unwavering. "From me and Cornelia. Complaints about Captain Vacher."

Clorinde sighs and presses a hand to her forehead. "Vacher again?"

Furina tilts her head, her tone sharp. "What do you mean, 'Vacher again'?"

Leaning back in her chair, Clorinde sets the papers down and laces her fingers together. "Vacher has a... history. He's got a thing against First Officers. It's like he despises them, always ranting about how they're not like First Officers 'from the old days.'"

Furina scoffs, crossing her arms. "Yeah, right. He put us in a dangerous situation today. Barely made any callouts during takeoff at Ormos or during the landing at Marcotte. I had to argue with him during cruise just to get him to take cockpit resource management seriously. Cornelia dealt with the same crap. Her flight got canceled today, so she's still in Ormos, but she was livid when I told her what happened."

Clorinde rubs her temples, clearly exasperated. "Right. I'll deal with this today. I'll have him called into my office later. Go home and rest, Furina. You've had a frustrating day, and I can feel it."

Furina exhales sharply, nodding. "Fine. But I hope his ass gets handed to him."

"You'll hear from me," Clorinde promises.

Furina shoots her a look over her shoulder as she heads for the door. "Good. Because this crap doesn't belong in the cockpit."

She slams the door shut behind her, the sound echoing down the hallway. Clorinde sits back in her chair, shaking her head. "No more chances, Vacher. I'm done."

Furina makes her way to the parking area and spots her Gallardo gleaming under the fluorescent lights. She opens the frunk, places her luggage inside, and slams it shut. Climbing into the driver's seat, she secures her five-point harness with practiced ease before twisting the key to the start position. The 5.0-liter V10 roars to life, a powerful, angry symphony that matches her mood.

Her foot hits the accelerator, and the Gallardo shoots out of the parking lot. The aggressive growl of the engine reverberates as she speeds away from the airport, heading back to her home in Narbonnais.

Meanwhile, back at the training center, Vacher arrives at Clorinde's office, his posture rigid as he walks inside. He's greeted not only by Clorinde but also by Chevreuse, the president of the airline who's been brought in to handle the situation.

Clorinde gestures toward the chair across from her desk. "Have a seat, Captain Vacher."

He complies, sitting stiffly. "What's this about?"

Clorinde clasps her hands together, her expression grim. "Tell me, Vacher. Why do you think you're here?"

Vacher shrugs, feigning ignorance. "No clue, Captain."

Clorinde exhales, her frustration evident. "You're here because of your constant attitude issues in the cockpit." She begins listing his infractions. "No callouts during takeoff and landing. Missing items on checklists. Insubordination. Frequent arguments with colleagues. And to top it off, you've been piling up complaints for months." She pauses, then adds, "Today, I received two formal letters of complaint. Would you like to know who they're from?"

Vacher shakes his head. "Not really."

Clorinde slams the two letters onto the desk, the sound startling in the quiet room. "These are from Cornelia. And Furina."

Chevreuse, who has remained silent until now, leans forward, his tone firm. "We cannot accept this behavior, Vacher. As of today, you are suspended without pay. An investigation will be launched into your flights over the past six months."

Clorinde nods, her expression unyielding. "We'll be interviewing crew members who've flown with you to ensure we understand the full extent of your behavior."

Chevreuse rises, signaling the end of the conversation. "You are dismissed, Captain."

Vacher stands, his face a mask of disbelief. "This is bullshit," he mutters, storming out of the office.

Back in Narbonnais, Furina sits in her dining area, a glass of wine in hand. The deep red liquid glints in the soft light as she swirls it idly. Her phone vibrates on the table, breaking her moment of calm.

She picks it up and sees a message from Clorinde:

"Vacher is suspended without pay. We're conducting an investigation into the flights he's done in the past six months, including interviews with crew members. Don't worry about yourself, Furina. The letters you and Cornelia sent were sufficient. Get some good sleep. I know you need it. - Clorinde"

Furina sets her glass down, a smirk spreading across her lips. "Good fucking riddance."

Finally, the weight of the day begins to lift. The flight, almost a nightmare, is over. The toxic presence in the cockpit is being dealt with. For the first time all day, Furina feels truly at ease.