Yellow Jacket

The first island was what anyone expected. It wasn't green. Wasn't soft. No trees, no breeze. But there was shade, real shade. The island was stone, a jagged rise of volcanic rock cooled into solid footing. High cliffs wrapped around three sides like the ribs of a cracked bowl, shielding it from the worst of the wind and offering full cover from the rising sun. The center sloped inward into a natural hollow, wide, dry, and smooth enough to lie down without cutting into skin or gear. At the far end, a rusted segment of Old World metal jutted from the stone like a broken tooth, possibly the remains of a signal tower or buried transport mast. It had warped with time, forming a thick shadow that stretched nearly to the center. This was shelter. Not comfort. But safety. A place to hide from the heat, to breathe without fear of the light. And in this world, that was a rare kind of gift.

Warren was the first to step onto it. His boots slipped once before finding purchase. The stone still shifted underfoot, not enough to move, but enough to remind him it would one day be beaten away by the molten tide. The heat had faded, but the memory of it clung to every step. His soles were cooked, even through insulation. Others had it worse.

Behind him, Deana dropped to one knee, gasping. Her face was tight. Jaw clenched. She didn't speak. Wren followed just behind, sweat streaking her face, hands and fingers shaking from hours of treating burns and wrapping scorched feet along the march. She didn't say anything either. Just leaned one shoulder to the stone and let herself slide down, eyes closed, chest heaving.

Grix landed in a crouch, both hands braced. "That sucked. That sucked a lot. Who do I complain to?"

No one laughed.

Calra arrived with Cassian and Nanuk close behind, her stride steady but her legs shaking. The white fabric wrapped around her thighs was scorched at the edges, and her boots were rimmed in black. She didn't say anything until she reached Warren.

"We're not doing that again."

He didn't answer right away. Just looked at the others. They were arriving in ones and twos. Most walked. A few limped. Two had to be carried the last stretch by others. Then he spoke, quiet but flat:

"We don't have a choice. Either way, we have to cross again."

The last section before the island had dipped. A fault line. Less cooled than the rest. One of the ex-warlord scouts had gone in too fast and cracked through a thin shell. He hadn't sunk, but his leg had blistered raw before they pulled him back. Tarric had done it without hesitation. Carried the man the rest of the way. Now he sat on a pack, unwrapping his own feet. Quiet. Focused.

Six hours. That was the cost of the first crossing.

The sky was already starting to pale. Not dawn. Just the first signs that night wouldn't last forever. They had maybe three more hours before the surface started to warm again.

"We can't stay long," Nanuk said. "This island is thin."

"How thin?" Wren asked.

Nanuk touched the stone near the center spire. "You hear that?"

They all fell quiet. The sound wasn't loud. A low pop, deep underfoot. Like something adjusting. Settling.

"It shifts," Nanuk said. "We stay too long, it'll crack. We have till just before sunset. Then we move."

Warren shook his head. "No. We don't move before sunset. If the Glass is still soft, we aren't going anywhere. We don't really get to make a choice. We're here until it lets us move. Or we die."

Warren looked over the group. No one was eager. Some were barely conscious. But none argued.

He dropped his pack. Opened it. Pulled free a folded tarp, then unrolled it across the flattest surface he could find. Wren followed suit, then Calra. Before long, a makeshift rest site had formed. No tents or fires. Just gear spread wide and bodies settling down where they could.

No one spoke of the next leg.

Batu was the one who finally broke the silence. "We're going to lose people."

No one disagreed.

"The second island's farther," Deana said. "And there's no cover between here and there. If the Glass starts to wake before we make it…"

"We will make it." Warren said. "If they fall behind, we carry them."

"And if you're the one who falls?" Calra asked.

He didn't blink. "Then someone else leads."

A few glances shifted toward Nanuk. Then Wren. Then back to Warren.

Jurpat coughed and leaned forward, his face pale. "I don't think I can do this twice more."

"You can," said Isol, dropping a pouch of water beside him. "Because you're here. That's more than most."

Jurpat nodded, but didn't speak again.

Batu walked the perimeter. Not pacing, just checking the surface, ears tilted slightly forward like he could hear something no one else did. He stopped once, placed a hand flat against the ground, then moved on.

Wren knelt beside Warren. She passed him a strip of bark meat. He didn't eat it. Just held it.

He turned to her, watching the tremble still in her fingers, the way her breathing caught between words. Her hands were scraped and smeared with dried ointment from the makeshift med kits she'd used on the worst of the wounded. He reached out, not touching her, but close. "You alright?" he asked, voice low. "Do you need anything?"

Wren didn't answer right away. Just closed her eyes and shook her head once. He waited.

Then, softer, she said, "I'm fine. Just tired. The baby's fine, too. I can't really feel anything yet, but today everything just... pulled."

"How bad is it?" she asked quietly.

He didn't look at her. "Bad enough that the third leg might kill us all."

She nodded. "But we're going anyway."

"We have to."

No grand speech. Just a truth spoken and accepted.

A few of the tribesmen gathered near the spire. Grix stood beside them, pointing at something etched into the base. Symbols. Old ones. Not tribal.

Warren joined her.

"You know what that is?" she asked.

He shook his head.

Isol arrived a moment later, squinting. "Looks like old military salvage. This might've been a sub-station. One of the last towers before the Arc's edge."

Grix sniffed. "Well, it's ours now. Nice of the old world to leave us a stepping stone."

Wren looked up. The sky was starting to shift.

"We rest till sunset," Warren said. "Then we move."

No one argued.

But the silence that followed wasn't peace. It was tension waiting to break.

The Glass would wake soon.

And the next step would be harder than the first.

The second night began in silence.

No horns. Just the sound of shifting gear, creaking straps, boots scraping stone. People moved slow. Stiff. Some hadn't really slept, just collapsed and closed their eyes until the edge of rest caught them. Others had stayed up, watching the sky. Waiting for the last heat to bleed from the air.

They moved out just after full dark. The wind scraped low against the cliffs as they filed single-file through the narrow break, then out onto the next stretch of Glass.

Warren led.

The surface was cooler now, but still warm enough to pulse through soles. They moved carefully. No one rushed. Every step tested. Watched. Confirmed.

The second stretch was longer. Flatter in some places, but deceptive. Smooth didn't mean safe. Twice, Warren slowed the line to reroute around a ripple in the surface where gas shimmered beneath.

Styll rode in Wren's pocket again, unusually quiet. Her little body shifted with the rhythm of Wren's steps, head tilted, nose twitching.

Cassian muttered under his breath at one point, nothing loud enough to carry. Just a litany to himself. Step, check, step. His lips moved like he was trying to remember the steps to a dance he'd never learned properly.

A low groan echoed from far ahead, stone or Glass, no one could tell. But it made everyone freeze in place until the sound faded.

Batu moved like he wasn't tired, but the sweat running down his arms said otherwise. His broad shoulders flexed with each step, bearing one of the heavier packs. He didn't complain. He never did.

The old man, grizzled, sun-dark, proud, was three people back from the front. He hadn't asked for help. Not once. Even with the burns. Even with his limp. He followed Warren's pace, eyes locked forward, jaw tight.

"Still good?" Senn whispered behind him.

He didn't look back. "Walkin', ain't I?"

The group passed through a narrow choke in the crust where steam vented lightly across their path. Warren timed their crossing carefully. One every three breaths. Wait for the plume to shift, then go. It wasn't fire-hot, but it could cook exposed skin if you got careless.

Deana slipped once, but caught herself. She drew a sharp breath between her teeth, eyes wide. "I'm fine," she snapped before anyone could ask.

The second hour passed. The cliffs behind them vanished. The dark ahead opened wider, emptier. The stars above were clearer now, the air less hazy. That should have been a comfort.

It wasn't.

The group's breathing grew shallow. Even the strongest among them had started to feel the weight of it, each step stretched long, a slow, aching movement through a world that seemed thinner than it should be.

Wren glanced back more than once, checking faces. Checking gait. She moved with purpose but not confidence. This stretch felt wrong, and everyone knew it. Even the glass didn't creak the same way.

Zal-Raan whispered a prayer under his breath. Old words. Foreign, even to him. Not for safety. Just for witness.

Calra hadn't spoken once since they left the island. She kept one hand near her belt, eyes scanning for threats that wouldn't come from anything she could fight.

The old man grunted once as he climbed over a shallow ridge of folded Glass. Not loud, just a breath forced through grit teeth. He didn't slow.

Someone near the back started humming. It lasted two notes before Grix snapped a look over her shoulder and elbowed them silent.

The wind picked up. Subtle. It stirred the mist that clung low to the path, lifting fine threads of it like unraveling silk. Everyone hunched instinctively.

Warren raised a hand. The line stopped. Ahead, a patch of the surface looked off. Not melted, not soft, just too uniform. Too smooth. He took a step to the left and probed with the heel of his boot. It held. He waved them forward again.

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They followed. Silently. Carefully.

Another thirty minutes passed.

The group moved past a fissure in the Glass wide enough to swallow a person. Warren had marked it earlier with a bit of burnt cloth tied around a shard. It still hung there, fluttering faintly.

The air had grown warmer again.

Then it happened.

A sharp breath. A shout. "Wait, don't..."

The old man stepped wrong. Not fast. Just a half-foot too far forward. The surface caved under his boot like it had been waiting. A soft spot. A pressure vent sealed by cooling tension and nothing more.

He dropped.

The scream came fast. Raw. Then cut off.

Gone.

Warren reached the edge two seconds too late. All that remained was the faint release of pressurized air, the shimmer of deeper heat bubbling under the crust. No sign of him. Just the scent, burnt meat and hair.

Someone made a noise. Choked. Swallowed it.

Wren turned away.

Cassian stood silent. Fists clenched. But he didn't speak. Didn't move.

No one did.

Warren stared a moment longer. He hadn't even known the man's name. Didn't know why he'd followed. But he would be remembered.

Then he turned. "Keep moving. Single line. Step where I step. No exceptions."

The wind shifted.

And the march continued.

The Glass didn't care how hard you tried.

It only cared if you missed your step.

The night deepened, and brought rain.

It started as a mist. Not enough to soak, just enough to shift the air, cooler, denser, ghost-fine threads that clung to skin and lashes. Warren noticed it first. Not just because he was leading, but because the rhythm of the march changed. The silence behind him had altered. Softer. Duller. No longer the dry grind of boots on glazed stone. Now it was softer, almost musical.

He slowed.

The group behind him adjusted without needing a command, but their unease rippled forward all the same. Warren tilted his head back.

Rain.

He should've welcomed it. He always had. Rain meant quiet. Rain meant cover. In the ruins, it cloaked sound and smell. Made him untouchable. A ghost. But here, on the Glass, it was different.

This rain wasn't grace. It was sabotage.

The moment the droplets touched the surface, he heard it, soft at first. A ping. A crack. Then another. And another. Like distant wind-chimes gone wrong. Beautiful. Delicate. Dangerous.

The Glass beneath them began to craze.

Hairline fractures spider-webbed out underfoot. Some only traced the surface like frost. Others splintered deeper, thin but sharp, carving lines across the march path like a net waiting to collapse.

He raised a hand. "Stop."

The word was quiet. But it reached.

Steam lifted in curls from the path ahead. At first it was gentle, like breath exhaled over coals, but it thickened fast. The sudden clash of cold rain on searing Glass sent up scalding vapor. It wasn't just thick, it was hot. It bit at the lungs, seared open mouth. The mist had turned to steam, and the steam wanted to flay them. It began to blur the edges of the world, the cliffs, the stars, the backs of those a few paces ahead.

Wren stepped up beside him, eyes tight. "This is bad."

He nodded.

Behind them, someone slipped. A shout. Not a fall, just a stumble. But it rang loud. Grix cursed as the mist thickened.

Cassian said something that vanished into the fog. Zal-Raan reached out and caught the back of Batu's pack to keep from drifting too far sideways.

The fractures grew bolder.

The sound shifted, no longer cracks, now pops. One segment behind them gave way entirely with a brittle snap and the sharp echo of something hollow falling in on itself. No scream this time. No one had stepped on it. Yet.

The path was gone. The mist had become steam. Hot. Choking. It wrapped around them and made the world vanish. They breathed it like damp cloth pulled too tight against the mouth.

Mist had swallowed it. Lines that had once glowed with trapped heat now faded under cooling rain. The path, the landmarks, even the burn cloth strips Warren had tied to the vents, vanished into the white.

He clenched his jaw.

"I'll find it," he said. Not to anyone. To the air.

Then louder, to the group, "Hold formation. No one moves unless I do."

He stepped forward, slowly, testing each new plate of Glass like it might bite. The surface shifted under him, not breaking, but humming with tension. More rain fell. The mist grew deeper.

He hated this.

Not the rain. The uncertainty.

He couldn't lead what he couldn't see. Couldn't map what he couldn't feel. And that meant people would die.

The rain ran down his coat in rivulets. His boots pressed soundlessly into the faintly steaming surface. Another ten feet. Then twenty. Then he stopped.

"There," he called out, pointing. "Flatter section. I'm marking it."

He drove a shard into the seam, then twisted off the handle of one of his tools and tied the fabric into place. A new marker. A new path.

"Follow in pairs. Tight spacing. You lose sight, you shout."

The group began to move again. Not in a line. Not in rhythm. But they moved.

And behind them, the Glass continued to sing its broken song.

The storm was absolute.

Rain boiled into vapor the instant it struck the still-cooling glass. The mist surged upward, thick and choking, steam rolling in dense clouds that clung to skin and filled lungs. Breath came hard. Eyes burned. Visibility collapsed into a shroud of white and gray, and the world vanished into the storm's gut.

Voices became distant. Shouts thinned to echoes. Someone screamed.

Warren turned. Couldn't see. Couldn't place it. The sound twisted through the haze, warped by pressure and wet heat. Another scream came, closer, more raw, but the mist swallowed it like a throat.

He reached for Rain Dancer. Not with voice or motion. With heart.

The Skill answered.

And twisted.

It coiled inside him, a serpent of pressure and heat, of wind without direction. It did not reject him. It did not lash out. It aligned. Too well. Too much.

He tried to stop the rain.

But he was the rain.

The pressure spiked. His blood pounded like hail. The mist didn't retreat, it thickened. The storm churned around him, attuned to his pulse, and that pulse was fraying. Wren would die. They all would. He had brought them to this.

Another scream.

The thought of her dying, because of him, split something inside his chest.

He staggered. Heat curled up his spine. His fingers twitched without control. The ground swam, a sheet of luminous glass flickering beneath layers of mist and rain. He tried again to command the Skill, to halt the rising storm, but it was like trying to dam a river with thought alone. Every breath made it worse. Every heartbeat summoned more chaos.

He couldn't control it.

He was breaking.

Styll pressed herself against his chest, small and shivering. Her fur was soaked. Her tiny frame trembled with each pulse of the storm. Her wide eyes looked up at him, and for the first time, she looked afraid.

He felt it crack deeper.

Deana's hand slammed into his shoulders.

"Warren!" The voice was half-lost in the steam, shredded by noise and space, but it hit harder than any blow. "Calm down!"

He blinked. She was barely more than a silhouette, glowing eyes, the shape of her, her mouth moving, but he couldn't read her face. Could barely hear.

"You are the storm!" she yelled. "You are the one it's following! Gods damn it, you moron!"

He flinched.

"You're going to get us all killed! I saw it, I saw when you took it. When it didn't work, you panicked."

He shook his head, no, no, he hadn't, but she kept going.

"You are the god of this storm. It's not just around you, it follows you. You panic, it panics. You rage, it rages. So calm the fuck down. Tame yourself. Then tame this storm. Save us all."

He stared at her.

The words landed. Heavy. Hot. True.

Beneath the pressure, beneath the steam, beneath the pounding in his skull, he found breath.

In.

Out.

He closed his eyes.

He didn't force the storm, didn't fight it. He welcomed it home.

His heart slowed.

His pulse lessened.

Rain Dancer stopped thrashing like a caged tiger.

It wasn't sudden. But it slowed.

That subtle shift encouraged him.

He focused.

He thought of the Scav Code.

He hadn't recited it in so long. It felt distant. A whisper from another life.

But it was there.

The storm trembled, then stilled just slightly more.

His head throbbed. His muscles ached. His body was burning, but the pain was honest. Familiar.

He had four unspent stat points. The fear of another stat imbalance. The pressure was rising. If he leveled again, if he made the wrong move, something inside him might break.

And Wren...

Wren could die.

Styll could die.

They could all die.

That terror, that flood of fear, had been what drove him to the edge. But now...

Now he stood at the edge of the storm.

And looked inward.

He found the eye.

And in that eye, he saw her.

Mara, her voice low, steady, cruel in the way that saved him.

"Protect what's yours," she had said. "And the ones who can't fight back."

He opened his eyes.

The storm obeyed.

Rain softened. Mist parted.

Steam no longer clawed at lungs.

The world did not clear. But it made room.

A breath. A step. A way forward.

[Area-Wide System Broadcast Initiated]

The Skill: Rain Dancer — has been tamed.

They started the march again.

The storm had not vanished, but it no longer threatened to drown them. Rain fell soft and slow now, a constant drizzle that cooled skin and eased lungs. The mist still lingered, but it shaped itself away from the path, parting gently around their movement, never smothering, never clinging. Steam thinned with each step. No one spoke for a long time.

Eventually, Isol broke the silence.

"This isn't actually glass," he said.

Jurpat turned to glance at him. "What tipped you off? The fact that we're not sliced to ribbons, or the glowing veins underneath us?"

"I mean, seriously," Isol continued, ignoring the jab. "Glass doesn't behave like this. It doesn't flex underfoot. It doesn't burn this long after forming. And it sure as shit doesn't pulse."

"You think it's alive?" Calra asked, her voice dry but curious.

"No," Isol muttered. "I think it's something else."

Jurpat perked up. "Yeah, it's raw psyro-glass?"

Isol turned. "Psyro-glass? You think stuffs raw psyro-glass?"

"It is." Jurpat said, holding up his holoscope. "Got bored one day on duty. Started pulling up holo-docs. Turns out, there's an episode with Science Bonaparte and Science Vanessa"

Isol interrupted, eyes lighting. "Vanessa! That's the lady enforcers name."

Warren raised an eyebrow but stayed silent.

Jurpat nodded. "Yeah anyways. The episode was on rare tech applications, and PGI brought in a raw sample. Psyro-glass. Looked just like this. Rapid shifts in temperature, fluctuating between molten and solid, create a layered structure with internal glow."

Isol stared at the surface underfoot. " This is raw psyro-glass."

Jurpat nodded, almost absently. "I think we're walking across the biggest deposit ever recorded."

Isol stared at the surface underfoot, eyes wide. "I can't even imagine a number big enough for how many credits this would be worth."

Calra stopped walking. "That would explain Gregor."

"Who?" Isol asked.

"The Warlord," Calra said. "That's his name."

"That's not his real name, You said he was an ex-enforcer before." Isol said, frowning. "That's the name of the face. One of the Legion models."

Warren finally spoke. "You've said that before. What's the Legion?"

Isol exhaled. "They are the military. Real soldiers. They trained to use their suits. Fought with them. The legion is the Nine's hammer."

Jurpat nudged the glowing path with a boot. "If PGI knew this was here... they'd erase us from existence and take every last drop."

"They don't," Warren said. "Yet."

Isol rubbed at his jaw. "So our Green Zone's trying to claim it before the real power shows up."

Wren looked back at the horizon behind them. "And we're walking across the prize."

"Yeah," Calra said. "No pressure."

They kept walking. Rain light. Mist folded back. And underfoot, the glass glowed.

But it was no longer just glass.

It was treasure.

And someone would come to claim it.

Warren Smith — Level 12

(Second threshold requirements met)

Class: Drift Walker

Alignment: Aberrant

Unallocated Stat Points: 4

Attributes:

Strength: 13

Perception: 16

Intelligence: 26

Dexterity: 20

Endurance: 13

Resolve: 23

Skills at Level 12:

Soft Flicker (Active)

Echo Vision (Passive)

Examine (Active)

Quick Reflexes (Passive)

Crafting (Active)

Warren's Skill – Rain Dancer

Stage Two

Core Effect – Phase Slip

Environmental moisture, rain, mist, blood, steam, no longer reacts to Warren. It aligns with him. He is not moving through the storm. He is the storm's chosen vector.
Water flows with him, not around him.
Raindrops spiral to his motion.
Mist forms his silhouette before he steps into it.
Visibility itself becomes distorted in his presence.
Flicker-style movements trigger atmospheric surge events, small implosions of mist and pressure as he vanishes and reappears.

Passive – Micro-Evasion Boost

Every movement Warren makes is adjusted, not just spatially, but meteorologically.
Wind pressure shifts around his path. Microcurrents redirect trajectories.
Flechettes miss by millimeters.
Melee swings veer away as air density warps.
Objects moving toward him may deflect subtly, as though pushed by sudden wind shear.
To observers, it looks like supernatural instinct.
To the System, it's a behavior it cannot fully explain.

Attack Sync Effect – Kinetic Surge

When Warren strikes mid-motion, the environment becomes a weapon.
A swing of his truncheon may bring a concussive burst of pressure, water, or mist.
Rain compacts and detonates on impact.
Mist lashes like a coiled whip.
Droplets act as accelerants, increasing momentum and range.
His blows land with the violence of hurricanes.
His movement leaves behind impact craters, gouged stone, or collapsing structures, not from strength, but from the mass of motion given form.

Visual Signature

Rain doesn't fall, it follows.
Mist doesn't obscure, it shapes him.
Each movement trails spirals, rings, and pulses of moisture that react before contact.
Lightning sometimes arcs around him, not to strike, but to avoid him.
The storm bends toward him, not in service, but in recognition.

Growth Conditions:

Rain Dancer evolves through high-risk engagements in poor visibility conditions.
Rain, smoke, fog, blood mist, steam, any atmosphere with distortion potential increases adaptation.
Direct kills made immediately following an evasion spike increase psychological effect range.
The more he endures, the more the storm learns him.

Known Limitations:
Less effective in arid, dry, or open-sky environments.
More moisture decreases its limitations.

Stage Two Upgrades:

Function (Path of Clarity):
Controlled Precipitation: Rainfall within the field thins to preserve sightlines, airflow, and coordination. Peripheral zones retain full density for concealment and misdirection.
Steam Dispersal: Heated mist is redirected outward or downward, creating breathable corridors even in high-temperature vapor zones. Visibility stabilizes.
Pressure Equilibrium: Localized fluctuations in atmospheric pressure are neutralized. This reduces disorientation and strain, allowing full function even in hostile weather environments.

Notable Effects:
Rain falls as needed: soft over breath, heavy where silence must hold.
Mist shapes passage instead of shrouding it.
Steam thins without vanishing.
The field does not clear the storm, it harmonizes with it.
Relief without weakness. Shelter without retreat.

Switch Conditions:
The Skill responds without voice or motion.
Intent defines function.
Desire for clarity calms the storm.
Need for sight, for breath, for balance, these shape the field.
There is no surge. Just space to endure.

Resonant Field Memory:
Each encounter with distorted air sharpens the field's response.
Areas previously traversed will adapt faster in future returns.
Steam, rain, and fog alter more intuitively in zones where the Skill has learned to listen.