Yellow Jacket

The second island appeared just before the horizon thinned into heat again. It rose much larger than the first, smoother in silhouette and higher in elevation. No cliffs this time, just wide bands of volcanic stone sloped in hardened sheets, their black surfaces cracked and curled like dried ink.

But the color was different. Faint striations of green shimmered in the surface. Not plant life exactly, but something like it. Tufts of fibrous growths clung low to the stone, reaching no higher than the shin, branching into tight curls of green-brown filaments. Some bent in the breeze. Others held firm, unmoving. They looked like trees reduced to memory, resilient grass-like towers, wide at the base, splitting into shaded fans that could survive both flame and drought. And they gave cover.

Warren was the first to step onto the island. He moved slow. Deliberate. Each step a test. But the stone didn't shift. Didn't groan. It was solid. A relief.

He looked behind him.

Wren was helping Cassian walk. One arm around his back, the other bracing them both. Styll had burrowed into her coat again, no longer trembling, just still. Deana followed, eyes bloodshot, hair stuck flat to her scalp. She moved like someone who had drowned and crawled back out.

Then the others came.

Zal-Raan carrying one of the wounded. Calra steady, her coat stained from lifting a collapsed scout. Batu limping but upright, Nanuk with her shoulder singed. Grix arrived last, flipping the bird at the Glass behind them.

"We made it," she said. Then collapsed.

The island wasn't paradise. But it wasn't death.

In the center, a wide pool shimmered.

Warren knelt beside it. Touched a finger to the edge. The water didn't boil. Just lapped gently against the sides. It was real. Cool. And the tree-things surrounded it in a broken ring like guardians.

"Filter everything," he said. "No one drinks till it's clean. Then get some rest."

They did as he said. One by one, in silence. Some washed hands and faces. A few just stared.

The mist had followed them, but now it curled wide. The rain hadn't stopped, but it no longer fell to harm. It was light. Like breath.

Rain Dancer was still active. But it no longer fought him.

Warren sat at the edge of the pool, just far enough that the water wouldn't touch his boots. He let the cooling mist move around him, let it fill the air without choking it.

Wren approached, crouched beside him. "How long can we stay?"

He looked to the sky. "We could rest a few days, this one's more stable, and the scouts didn't report any faults. But we don't get that luxury. We move at sunset."

She nodded. "There's shade. There's good water. That almost feels like a win."

"Don't say it too loud. The Gods might hear."

She smiled, just barely.

Across the clearing, Calra and Nanuk set up a watch rotation. Deana was already checking the wounded. Cassian had curled up near one of the fibrous tree-things and was asleep with a strip of cloth across his eyes.

Jurpat and Isol wandered the edges of the stone, still muttering about the composition. "It's all stone and actual dirt." Isol said. "This island's big enough to stand above the worst of the tide. That's why it holds."

"Yeah," Jurpat said, kicking a stone. "Big enough. I just think it's pretty."

People dropped where they stood. Not wounded. Just stopping. Letting the relief take them. Some curled up with their packs still on. Others fell to their knees and pressed palms to the stone like they couldn't believe it wasn't burning.

Grix had found a stretch of shade and was sprawled out beneath it, arms splayed, eyes closed. "Tell the cats I died cool and full of spite," she muttered.

Deana sat down beside a scout with cracked boots and a bandaged shoulder, pulling his canteen free and refilling it from a portable filter. She didn't say anything. Just kept working. Her hands knew the rhythm now.

Zal-Raan finally let go of the unconscious man he'd carried. He didn't drop him, just eased him down onto a patch of cooler stone, then sat beside him, panting. "He's not dying today," he said. "Not here."

Batu removed his boots. One toe was blistered raw, but he didn't flinch. Just flexed it. "Could've been worse," he said to no one.

Wren pulled out their food rations and paused. She stared at the sealed package. Then sighed. "We still have the bug bars."

A groan came from across the camp.

"Don't say it," Cassian called without opening his eyes. "I'll crawl back into the ocean."

Grix sat up enough to grin. "Hey, mine aren't that bad. The honey ones tasted better less like sadness."

"You gave me one," Cassian replied, sitting up on his elbows. "It tasted like a swarm of bees trying to violently get through me as quickly as possible."

Grix shrugged. "So I wasn't technically wrong."

"Food that tastes pissed off," Wren said dryly, "isn't much better than food that tastes like sadness."

That got a few chuckles. Light ones. Dry. But real.

A scout near the edge of the shade called out. "Tracks!"

Warren stood immediately. "What kind?"

"Small. Three-legged. Fast. Maybe local fauna. Might be edible."

Wren looked at him. "Worth the risk?"

He hesitated. Then nodded once. "If they're real. They're meat and not bug bars."

Within an hour, a small team had split off. They came back with three charred creatures, each about the size of a dog, long-limbed and furred with a thick mineral-crusted hide. Not poisoned. Just wild.

The scouts prepped the meat. It smelled sharp when cooked, like pepper and iron, but it didn't make anyone retch. That was enough.

For the first time in days, they had a hot meal that didn't taste like processed trauma.

Warren didn't eat right away. He waited until the rest had food, then picked a small piece and sat beside Wren again.

She took a bite. Chewed. Paused.

"…Not sad," she said. "Definitely not sad."

"Not like a swarm of angry bees either," he added. "Progress."

The sun was still low. But they could feel it rising.

Soon, the Glass would stir.

But for now, they rested.

And the island held.

They didn't win. But they hadn't lost.

That was enough.

And tonight, they would move again.

The rain had softened to a mist, just thick enough to blur outlines but not enough to choke breath. It gave cover. Not perfect, but enough. Warren stood at the far edge of the camp circle, watching the horizon where the glass darkened into heat beyond the second island. The final stretch wasn't visible, but everyone felt it coming.

"We need to talk," he said. Not loud. Just firm enough to be heard by those who mattered.

Grix glanced up from where she'd been rechecking the bindings on her boots. "What now?"

Warren didn't answer directly. Just tilted his head toward the shade clusters beyond the pool.

Isol caught the meaning first. "About the last leg?"

Calra stood. "We'll need a path after all of this, won't we? The sun's already setting."

Nanuk nodded. "And a backup if the first plan burns."

Wren was already moving. She didn't say anything. Just fell into step beside Warren.

Deana stretched her arms, then rose. "We doing this now?"

"I have to," Warren said. "I won't get another chance after this."

Cassian frowned. "Why not wait until the lookout?"

Isol cut in. "Because the Cult's gates are never empty. Rest stop or checkpoint, there's always someone watching."

Warren turned, eyes steady. "And we'll be coming in with more than fifty people. Too visible."

He reached into his coat and pulled something small from the inner lining.

A blackened token. Old. Scarred. Marked with the brand of a Harrow.

"This should get us all in," Warren said. "But a few seed bags would go a long way toward keeping us in good standing."

Nanuk gave a low whistle. "Didn't think anyone would who wasn't a devotee would have one of those."

Wren didn't speak. She didn't need to. The look she gave Warren was enough, she remembered where it came from. The bodies they'd left behind. The ones they didn't bury.

Cassian exhaled. "Then Batu and I will stay here. Set camp. Keep people organized. Gear checks. Morale maintenance."

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Batu didn't object. Just nodded once, then crouched to begin sorting packs.

Warren gave a short nod. "Thank you."

Grix stood and rolled her shoulders. "If anyone asks, we're making a plan. Not a lie, just... a strategic distraction."

Deana cracked her neck. "If this works, we walk through the Cult's gates without a fight. If it doesn't?"

Calra tapped the hilt of her blade. "Then we find another gate. One that doesn't kill us for knocking."

Isol smirked, but the smile didn't last. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

No one asked what else Warren needed. But they knew.

He wasn't just leading the group anymore. He was holding the storm on a leash, and everyone felt the pressure behind his silence.

Calra tightened the straps on her backplate and scanned the edges of camp. "Someone's watching us. I can feel it."

Grix snorted. "That's just paranoia. Or common sense."

Deana's expression didn't change. "Same difference these days."

Cassian watched them go. He didn't call out, didn't offer parting advice. Just nodded once to Wren as she passed. She met his eyes with the barest flicker of worry.

"Take care of him." Cassian said.

Wren didn't speak. But she didn't look away.

The group began to walk. Quiet. Deliberate. No urgency, but no wasted motion.

They crossed the edge of the pool's clearing and moved into the shade growths, fibrous stalks twisting overhead, diffusing light like soft glass. The air felt cooler here. Heavier.

Calra paused, letting the others pass. Then she looked back.

"Batu," she said over her shoulder. "You're good at spotting shifts."

He raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"If anything changes. Anyone looks like they're about to move against us, don't wait. Send Batu."

Batu's smile was thin. "Thought you'd never ask."

She nodded once, then disappeared into the stalks.

The main group vanished behind shade and stone.

And Warren prepared to break himself quietly, where only loyalty could bear witness.

Warren chose a spot at the edge of the shade ring where the light filtered soft and broken through the reed-like growths. The ground here was firmer than the rest, cracked but stable. No one else followed him into the narrow gap between the rock shelves, but they lingered nearby, watching without hovering. That was the deal. Be close. But not close enough to interrupt.

He sank to one knee. Then sat fully. The air was still. Damp, quiet, edged with the low sound of breath and shifting gear. Wren stood just out of reach, arms crossed. Calra and Deana formed a rough perimeter, faces locked forward. Nanuk had crouched behind one of the shade-fans, his eyes tracking shadows. Grix lounged sideways with her back to a broken ridge, not even pretending to be serious. Isol sat cross-legged, journal already out, pen poised.

Warren exhaled.

He opened the interface, not aloud, not with motion. Just thought. A thread pulled tight.

Four points. All unspent. The imbalance loomed like a blade, silent and waiting. He could already feel the way his body twitched under it, the way certain motions lagged, others struck too fast.

He applied all four at once: two to Strength, two to Endurance.

And then the nanites woke.

They didn't trickle. They surged. Black threads rippled under his skin, crawling like rivers through his arms and chest, down his legs, up his spine. His muscles clenched, spasmed, and tore. Then rebuilt. Then tore again.

The pain was immediate.

It wasn't a flash. It was a grind: bone pulled open from the inside, marrow replaced in real-time. Every ligament strained. Every nerve shouted.

The sound was audible.

Bones cracked.

Then cracked again.

Warren's head snapped back. His eyes rolled. He bit his own tongue hard enough to bleed, but he still didn't make a sound for the first few seconds. It wasn't pride. It was calculation. If he could just ride the crest.

But the crest never broke.

He seized. One leg kicked out. The other twisted. His back arched so far it looked like it would snap.

Then came the sound of tearing. Not skin. But tissue. Meat. A dozen tiny pops, then a full-body shudder.

"Here it comes," Calra muttered. She didn't flinch.

Deana inhaled, steady, clinical. "Brace him if he starts to choke."

Nanuk said nothing. Just stared. The fear in his eyes didn't rule him anymore. But it hadn't gone.

Wren moved forward a step, stopped.

His veins pulsed like live wires. Every major muscle group was visibly swelling, contracting, stretching, trying to keep up. Sweat poured off him. His skin rippled. Literally. Like something was swimming just beneath it because there was.

He finally screamed.

Not loud. But long.

Grix's smirk faded. "Yep. That's worse than what Florence told me."

"Why's it visible?" Isol asked, barely over the sound of Warren's strangled breath.

Grix look at him. "Florence said it's because the System can't reach his nanite. No governing cap. No throttling. So it just does what it's supposed to do, fast. Brutal."

Wren nodded. "Florence called it normal. Just not... in public."

"Meaning this is what everyone would go through if they weren't protected by the system?" Isol asked.

"Maybe," Grix shrugged. "I wasn't really paying attention. I was trying to distract her long enough to steal jam out of her preservers."

Another crack. Louder.

Warren's ribs flexed outward. Then settled. Then expanded again.

Isol kept writing. "It would've been nice if Jurpat didn't pass out. His holoscope would be useful for this."

"You're not recording this, are you?" Wren said, voice flat.

"No," Isol said. "Just wish... Well... It's... shocking. Even after the first time."

Warren's breathing hitched. Then stopped.

Not death. Just suspension. His lungs had locked under pressure. His hands curled into fists so tight his nails drew blood.

Deana knelt beside him, not touching. Just monitoring. "Muscle fiber collapse. Full replacement. The nanites aren't building over, they're erasing the old and putting themselves in its place."

"He'll survive," Wren said. "He always does."

The nanites surged one last time.

The light caught them, barely, but enough. Black shimmer under pale skin. A river of heat and rebuilding. His heart punched through a dozen erratic rhythms. Then steadied.

He passed out fully.

His body hit the ground hard.

But it didn't stop.

Even unconscious, Warren's transformation continued. Cracks echoed. Flesh shifted. The nanites didn't need him awake to finish the work. They had their blueprint. And they rebuilt.

Behind the group, deeper in the mist, something or someone moved.

Warren's first breath came fast.

Not ragged. Just sudden. Like surfacing after a dive that went too deep. The air was cool. Tasted clean. His chest rose with it, then held. He didn't move yet. Just let the moment sit. Let sensation return.

There was no pain.

Though he remembered screaming. He felt the echoes of pressure where his body had rebuilt, but only as absence. A quiet space where something violent had passed and left him whole.

His fingers flexed. He could feel them again. They moved smooth. Lighter than before.

He opened his eyes.

The sky above him wasn't sky. It was shade and fiber, those strange reed-things still swaying gently, catching the mist as it passed. A breeze moved through. Not enough to chill. Just enough to remind him he was alive.

Wren was the first thing he saw when he turned his head. She was seated on her heels, arms folded, eyes fixed on his face. There were no tears. Just a long breath of relief.

"You didn't scream for long," she said.

He swallowed. Voice still raw. "Felt longer."

"You always say that."

He blinked again. His body still felt foreign, but not broken. Stronger. More quiet. The hum of pressure from the stat imbalance was gone.

Calra's voice came from just beyond the reeds. "He's up."

Nanuk stepped into view, massive silhouette outlined by the low mist. He said nothing, just nodded. There was no judgment in his face. Only watchfulness. He had once thought Warren a monster. Now he just looked like a soldier at ease with what he guarded.

"Vitals normal," Wren said, brushing his hair back briefly. "You were out for a while, but nothing abnormal."

Behind her, Deana stood with her arms crossed. She wasn't watching like Wren was. She was observing. Quiet. Intent.

"You went quiet halfway through," she said. "Then your body kept moving. Sounded like... a quarry being torn open."

Warren sat up slowly. No pain. Just weight.

"Grix?" he asked.

A voice from the rock ledge above: "Still here. Still grossed out. That was a lot of spine flexing."

"I counted eleven rib shifts," Isol added from where he crouched, journal in his lap. "Give or take. Could've used Jurpat's holoscope for clarity, but he passed out after dinner like a coward."

Wren shot him a look. Isol held up one hand.

"I'm not recording. Promise. Just notes."

"You'll burn the notes too," she said.

Isol nodded. "Eventually."

Warren tested his legs. They felt... efficient. Like his center of gravity had shifted subtly. He wasn't just rebuilt. He was redrawn. A slightly different version of himself was now walking.

"Someone saw us," Nanuk said suddenly. His voice changed the air. "In the mist. A figure. I caught it in the corner of my eye. They didn't come close. But I don't think they could have seen what happened clearly."

Everyone tensed.

"Where?" Calra asked.

"Near the lower edge. Moved like a scout. But wrong pace. Like they were... counting time."

Warren stood.

And everyone noticed.

The way his shoulders moved. The way the rain shifted with him. The mist parted without pressure. He wasn't casting a shadow, he was drawing the shape of one.

No one spoke for a beat too long.

Then Grix, softer than usual: "Well. That's a hell of a way to stand back up."

Deana was still watching. She didn't bow. Just lowered her head slightly. Enough to mark the moment.

Wren stepped closer and touched Warren's chest. Her hand stayed there, light. "You're still warm. That's how I know it's you."

He covered her hand with his.

"Let's go," he said.

And the group moved. Not behind him.

With him.

Sunset came like a gong.

The expedition understood it for what it was: a signal. Not of rest, but of reckoning. This was the beginning of the end. The choice they had already made.

There were no speeches.

Just the sound of final gear checks, quiet breaths, and the wind dragging mist across the stone. The sun had dipped far enough to set the horizon aflame. Not with color, but with heat. Light rolled in waves now, distorting the edge of sight, warping the glass where it met the horizon.

Warren stood at the front. The path ahead looked smooth, but everyone knew better. It was never the even ground that killed you, it was the fault lines hiding underneath.

"Third stretch," he said. "No stops. No shelter. We make it to the far side before sunrise or we don't make it at all."

No one argued.

They had seen the heat rise. Had heard the stories. Some had seen what the sun could do when it hit the glass with full force. The run wasn't just about speed. It was about precision. You didn't just need to be fast. You needed to be flawless.

Cassian walked the line once more, nodding to the teams he and Batu had organized. There were fewer than when they'd started. But not weak. Not unready. Most had made it this far, and they were rested, fed, and sharper than expected. It was more than many had dared hope for.

Wren tightened her pack. Checked the straps across Warren's back herself. She didn't speak. Just gave him a look. One he understood.

Calra locked her bracers in place.

Deana knelt briefly and whispered something into the glass. A name, maybe. Or a promise.

Nanuk lifted his weapon across his back and fell into position beside Warren.

Grix didn't stretch. Didn't check anything. She just grinned. "Let's ruin something."

Isol walked with his journal sealed and strapped. He wasn't writing tonight.

Jurpat, pale but standing, clutched his holoscope like a lifeline.

Warren turned toward the open path. The Glass stretched ahead like a black sea frozen in motion. Jagged, deceptive. Light pooled in its crests, glowing faintly from trapped heat. Somewhere in that vast surface were vents, faults, melt lines. Somewhere were bones from those who had tried and failed.

He took a step.

It didn't shatter. It didn't shift.

The glass held.

He stepped again.

Behind him, the group began to move.

They didn't speak.

The only sounds were boots on fused ground, the occasional soft click of gear, and the deep settling hush of cooling glass, like breath being held too long.

This was not a path you survived with luck.

This was the Death Run.

And it had already begun.

Warren Smith — Level 12

(Second threshold requirements met)

Class: Drift Walker

Alignment: Aberrant

Unallocated Stat Points: 0

Attributes:

Strength: 15

Perception: 16

Intelligence: 26

Dexterity: 20

Endurance: 15

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

Passive – Micro-Evasion Boost

Attack Sync Effect – Kinetic Surge

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.