Yellow Jacket

Warren stood still.

Grix held the lance she'd taken, cocked casually over one shoulder, relaxed but not safe. Styll shifted on Warren's shoulder, head down, paws tight around the collar of his coat. Across from them, the woman who had spat on the Warlord's corpse, who had tried to draw on them a breath later, stood with both hands slightly raised. Empty. Smart enough to stop moving.

Warren had watched the Warlord scream at her earlier, and her bow her head like a cornered dog. Then he died, and she didn't flinch. Just spit on his corpse like it was a long-overdue response.

Now she looked at Warren like he was a much bigger problem.

"You weren't there," she said quietly. "And then you were."

Her voice was clear but strained, like she hadn't decided whether this was her execution yet.

Warren didn't speak.

She went on.

"He didn't even have time to scream. That's what's wrong. He always screamed, loud, ugly, like a beast choking on power. But this? It was just gone. Like the world skipped a sound."

Grix tilted her head, smile sharp. "Want a do-over on that sentence?"

The woman didn't answer. Just kept her eyes on Warren. Calculating. Not hostile, but not begging.

"I was part of the project," she said finally. "Not one of his goons. I made things work. Power. Systems. Infrastructure."

Warren studied her. No combat stance. No defiance in her posture. But not afraid in the right way either. This was someone used to surviving by staying useful.

"Name," he said.

"Dr. Nicole Morgan. I ran Phase Spiral. The augmentation wing."

Grix's jaw tightened. "You made the Augmented."

Morgan shook her head. "I made sure most of them failed. I knew what he was trying to build, and I made sure it never worked the way he wanted it to."

Warren's expression didn't change. But something in the air between them stilled.

"The two that didn't fail," he said.

Morgan nodded. "Outliers. That failure was on me the first time. I didn't know what he wanted them for. When I figured out it wasn't what he tried to sell me on, I made sure they never made more. You the one who killed them?"

"I did."

"Then you've already cleaned up half the mess."

She exhaled once, steadying herself. Rain tapped the stone underfoot.

"Five human Augmented in cells," she continued. "Still viable. I didn't sabotage them. Wasn't allowed to. But I stalled the process. They're unfinished. Contained. Six test subjects too, humans. Pre-op. Some still think they're here for treatment."

Warren stepped forward. Just enough to let her feel it.

"You want to live."

"I want the lab shut down without killing the ones who haven't fallen yet. And yes, I want to live. But not badly enough to lie."

Grix looked ready to make a different decision. Styll let out a low warning sound.

Morgan didn't flinch.

"You kill me, and the method's still out there. We didn't make it, he gave it to us. I don't know where he got it, probably got it from the Green. And look... I don't really want to die. I've been trying to reverse the process, see if it can be undone. I think it can. I don't think they'll ever be the same, not exactly, but better human than a suicide meat missile, right?"

Warren said nothing.

But he didn't kill her.

Somewhere behind them, Nanuk's voice rang out, orders shouted, boots stomping. The compound was falling into their hands, piece by piece.

And Dr. Nicole Morgan waited, knowing the only reason she was still breathing was because Warren hadn't made up his mind yet.

The sound of approaching boots broke the stillness.

Wren reached Warren's side first, her coat slick with rain, eyes sharp as she scanned Morgan. Calra and Deana moved just behind her, weapons lowered but not holstered. They weren't rushing. Just arriving with purpose.

Morgan's shoulders slackened just slightly. Recognition flickered in her expression.

"Azolde," she said softly. "And Calra. I thought you were both dead, but I'm glad I was wrong."

Wren didn't respond immediately. Her gaze lingered on Morgan's face, measuring something quieter than hostility. Then she spoke.

"You were... kinder than most. In your position. That's a rarity among the Warlord's council."

Calra didn't smile. "I remember you too. You weren't cruel. But you were the one who worked on the Augmented, weren't you? That's a hard stain to ignore."

Morgan nodded slowly. "It should be. I won't argue that."

Deana stepped in then, her tone more grounded. "She was the one who gave Lucas the instructions. How to handle the two Augmented he was sent with."

Calra's brow furrowed, but she didn't bristle. "That's because the Warlord didn't understand what he was deploying. She did. That's not on her, not fully."

Morgan gave a bitter smile. "He didn't know the difference between a suppressor and a stabilizer. I at least tried to keep them from eating civilians."

Wren folded her arms. Then glanced toward Warren.

"I think Florence would want to meet her."

Grix snorted from Warren's side. "Oh, she really would. Watching that old bat lose her mind for days because she couldn't figure out how those things were made? That was funny. For two days. Then it just kept going. It never stopped."

Warren answered without a pause. "Never stopped."

Wren nodded.

Calra exhaled. Deana gave a dry little smirk.

Morgan just stood there, visibly unsure whether she'd just been spared or handed a longer rope to hang from.

But she was still standing.

And that was something.

Comms crackled softly in Warren's ear, the low murmur of command reports filtering through static and rain.

"Compound's east wing is secure," Cassian's voice came through, clipped and professional. "Multiple surrenders. Yeri's leading cleanup on the lower barracks. Batu has a breach team working through the comms tower. No resistance yet."

Warren tapped the side of his comms. "There are cells. Sublevel. I didn't mark the entrance, find them."

A brief pause.

"Cells?" Cassian's voice came back. "You want prisoners intact or tagged?"

"Find out who's inside first. Then we decide."

Batu chimed in from another channel. "Zal-Raan's sweeping the western tower. Bio-locks and steel barricades activated when he got close. Someone barricaded the lab floor and tried to fry the locks. Whatever's down there, they didn't want us getting in."

Warren glanced toward Morgan.

She didn't flinch. "That was me."

Wren narrowed her eyes. "You were trying to keep people out or in?"

"Both," Morgan said. "What's down there can't leave. And no one else knows how to shut it off clean."

Deana frowned, then switched her comms open to a separate line. "Cassian, double up the squad heading for sublevel access. Tell Zal-Raan to be ready for containment. We're not burning it until we know who's breathing."

Nanuk's voice slid into the channel next. "South tower's clear. Few holdouts tried to make a run, but Yeri ran them down. No sign of high-value targets."

"There are two people I want found," Warren said calmly, the words landing like weights. "Tasina. A girl about four years old. And a boy, Mel. maybe a teen not sure but If they're alive, we bring them out."

"Got it," Cassian said. "I'll tag the search to priority one."

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Silence hung in the courtyard again. The rain had settled into a steady curtain, muting the sound of distant gunfire, the shouted calls of sweeping squads, and the occasional grunt of someone being hauled to their knees.

Dr. Morgan watched Warren without speaking, her posture firm but no longer defensive. Wren stood beside him now, closer than before. Calra and Deana flanked her like they always had, half-circle forming around the choice yet to be made.

Warren didn't move.

He was waiting for the right weight to settle.

And then it did.

A new voice slipped through the comms, small, high-pitched, shaky.

"Um... I found them."

It was Anza.

Wren's expression froze. Deana straightened. Grix's head tilted.

The girl's voice trembled slightly.

"I found Tasina and Mel. They're in a storage room under the dormitory wing. But... Mel's hurt really bad. One of the Warlord's men was beating him when I got there."

The silence that followed wasn't shock.

It was the cold, methodical pull of clarity.

They didn't speak.

But their feet were already moving.

And the rain didn't even dare follow.

The door to the dormitory wing groaned open.

Warren moved first, Wren just behind him. Their boots echoed down the corridor, muffled by the rain still clinging to their coats. The hallway was dim, the lights above flickering from damage or neglect. Rubble marked where walls had caved slightly from past impact, but the path forward was clear.

Then they saw her.

Anza stood near the far end of the hall, just outside a half-open storage room. She looked impossibly small, blood smeared across her arms and coat, her braids frayed. In her arms, she held Tasina, barely four years old, wrapped in one of Anza's outer layers. The child was sobbing into her chest, fists clinging to her like driftwood.

"She keeps asking for her mommy," Anza whispered, not looking up. "And for someone to fix her uncle."

Wren crouched beside them, hands gentle as she checked Tasina over. The girl was uninjured, shaken, terrified, but physically fine. Wren brushed her thumb over Tasina's forehead, soothing her enough to breathe.

Warren stepped past them.

The door creaked further open at his touch.

Inside the room, the air stank of sweat, copper, and death.

Mel was on the floor, half-sitting, half-slumped against a rust-streaked storage cabinet. His eyes were glassy, wet with unshed panic. Blood soaked his shirt. One hand was pressed to his abdomen, holding something in that should never have been outside him. The other hand trembled as he held it toward the open door.

"It's okay," he kept whispering. "It's okay, Tasina. Don't cry. You're okay now. You're gonna be okay. I got you, okay?"

Next to him, the body of the Warlord's soldier was cooling in a growing pool of blood. The angle of the neck, the wide-eyed finality of the stare, it told the whole story. Anza had done that.

Wren stepped in with Warren.

Mel tried to straighten up. Failed. "Don't... don't let her see me like this. I think I'm dying. Just don't let her see..."

"She won't," Wren said, already moving.

Deana took Tasina gently from Anza's arms and carried her a few steps down the hall. She knelt beside a broken bench and wiped the tears from the girl's face.

"Hey," Deana said softly. "Do you like music?"

Tasina nodded through the hiccups of crying.

"What's your favorite song?"

Tasina sniffled. "The bird one. The one mommy sang."

Deana nodded and looked back toward Calra.

"We know that one. Right?"

Calra gave her a nod. Grix rolled her eyes, but there was warmth in it.

And then they sang. And they were good. Not perfect, but close enough to make a child believe it mattered. With grounding. The words stumbled at first, Calra low and rich, Deana steady, Grix irreverent but true. A lullaby from another life, broken across three voices.

Inside the room, Wren pressed her hands over Mel's torn side. Her fingers were already glowing with that soft, eerie edge of Mercy's Cry.

Mel kept muttering, eyes wide and unfocused. "I'm not ready. I don't wanna die. I just wanted to get her out. I was gonna hide her, they tried to take her and I wouldn't let them."

"You don't have to run now," Wren whispered. "You already did the hard part. You held on. You kept her safe. You bought us time. That's enough. Now let me do my part."

She pressed again, and the torn tissue beneath her palms began to close. Her hands bled blue, and it sank into the wound, stitching it shut.

Mel sucked in a breath like it hurt to be whole again.

"Is he going to die?" Tasina asked softly, her face buried in Deana's chest.

"Not today," Deana said. She ran her fingers through the child's hair and nodded toward the others. "He's got someone special taking care of him."

In the room, Mel was coughing now. Wet, sharp coughs from deep in his chest. He tried to sit up again and failed again.

Wren caught him with one hand, still glowing. "Don't move. You'll rip it open."

"She was so scared," Mel said. "Tasina. They dragged her out screaming. I was supposed to protect her. That was the deal. I was.... I was supposed after her. And then they said they'd come back for us. I just had to hold out. But they never came back..."

He trailed off. But his face broke.

Not like a man dying. Like a brother who thinks he failed.

Wren leaned in close. "You didn't fail. You did exactly what you said. She's alive. She's safe. You did that."

Mel closed his eyes. "You're not lying very well."

"I'm not lying."

Outside, the song shifted. The three women carried it gently, the melody bending with the child's breath.

Tasina looked up at them, less tears now. More listening.

Her mouth moved with the chorus. Quietly. But she remembered it.

Deana smiled. "You're good at that."

"Mommy said it was my job to sing it to Mel when he was scared."

"Looks like he passed that job back to you. You okay to hold it for a while?"

Tasina nodded. A little stronger this time.

Inside, Wren finished sealing the last of the open wound. The skin beneath her hands smoothed entirely, tissue regenerating without scar or flaw. The blue light pulsed once more, brighter this time, and then faded, leaving no trace of the damage that had nearly killed him.

"That's it," she said. "You're all better now. You can go see her if you want, but if you try to run or throw a punch in the next few hours, I will knock you out myself."

Mel gave a breathy half-laugh. Then grimaced.

"He's going to live," Wren said aloud. "But keep her singing. It's helping."

Outside, Tasina did.

Warren watched from the doorway.

This wasn't a victory. Not exactly.

But it was a moment worth protecting.

And that was enough.

For now.

The hallway was still humming with quiet, far-off activity when Warren turned away.

He gave Wren a final look, Tasina now in her lap, Mel breathing steady beside them, and nodded. No words passed between them. None were needed.

"You've got this," Wren said. Her voice didn't shake.

He walked back down the path they'd carved through the ruined dormitory wing. His steps were sharp. Measured. The weight of what came next pressed down harder with every footfall.

Behind him, another set of quieter steps followed.

"You're not going to try and kill me, are you?" Dr. Nicole Morgan asked from a pace behind.

"If I wanted you dead, you'd already be bleeding out with a hole in your neck," Warren said without turning.

"That's comforting."

They turned two corners, passed a barricade Grix had cleared earlier, and hit the first locked gate, still powered, still humming with emergency red sigils and reinforced plate.

Warren pressed a knuckle to his comm. "Cassian. Report."

"Still sealed," Cassian's voice came over the line. "Some kind of internal lockdown rigged to bio-authenticity. We got thermal spikes below the floor about five minutes ago. Could be a backup generator or containment rig flaring up. Zal-Raan tried running a pass on the firewall, but the thing adapted in real time."

"Who's with you?"

"Batu, Yeri, Nanuk, Jonas, Tarric, Cu-Lan and Mabok. They're all holding position. No casualties. Yet."

Warren gave a nod, even though they couldn't see it. "I'm close. Don't touch anything."

He moved again. Dr. Morgan kept up.

"You didn't tell them," she said.

"Didn't need to."

"They're going to see it."

"I know."

Another bend. Another flickering hall of cracked tile and exposed wiring. The deeper they moved, the colder it got. The air here smelled like processed antiseptic and failed experiments.

Dr. Morgan tucked her coat tighter around her. Her steps were less steady now. "The locks went up the second the Warlord got close. Not a second before. He didn't want the rest of his people knowing what was down there."

"A kindness?"

"He didn't care. But he didn't trust anyone else not to crack."

Warren stopped in front of the final door. Steel. Impossibly thick. The kind meant to keep something in, not just keep people out.

Zal-Raan looked up from his kneeling position beside the interface panel. Sweat beaded at his brow. Batu was standing watch beside him, while Yeri and Jonas covered the flanks. Tarric stood back, arms crossed, face unreadable. Cu-Lan leaned against the wall with a wrench in one hand and dried blood on his boots. Mabok stood a few paces off, staring at the sealed door with a furrowed brow, wondering what kind of horrors they'd find behind it.

Nanuk gave Warren a slow nod. "About time."

"Stand clear," Warren said.

Dr. Morgan stepped up beside him. "You're going to want to see this yourself. I'm not going in alone."

"I wasn't going to let you."

She lifted one hand and pressed it flat to the reader.

The machine buzzed. Then it went dead.

Dr. Morgan took a step forward, frowning. "That... that shouldn't have worked."

The door began to open.

Inside, the dark waited.

And then came the lights, flickering into cold white rows that stretched into a lab. Rows of cells. Stainless steel counters. Drainage pits.

And movement.

Something inside had just realized the door was open.

The door finished opening with a low, final click.

What spilled out wasn't air. It was sound.

Screams, raw and layered. People and Broken. And broken people.

Some were still human, caught in cells they'd never escaped, voices hoarse from begging. Some weren't human anymore, Broken in the truest sense, tech-rotted and twitching with corrupted systems sparking behind their eyes. And some were the worst of all: those in between. The broken people. The ones who still thought they were alive, who still spoke in full sentences, who still wept and asked questions, but whose bodies were already gone, warped by surgeries and code they never agreed to. Those were the ones who made the screaming unbearable.

Language and static. Blood and glitch. Echoes of who they were and mockeries of what they'd become.

The lights overhead buzzed, sickly white against the blood-smeared steel and shattered restraints bolted to benches. The room went on longer than it should have, too many cells, too many signs of trial and error.

Jonas made a choking noise in his throat.

Even Nanuk flinched.

Warren didn't blink.

Dr. Morgan stood beside him, pale and still. "I feel sick every time I walk in here," she said. "But at least... it can finally all end here."

Warren's voice came low. Cold. Final.

"No. This is just the first. We're not ending it here. The Green's going to burn for this, if we have any say in the matter."

He stepped forward.

The floor beneath his boots stuck slightly, tacky with dried blood. Ahead, one of the cells rattled as something inside threw its weight against the bars.

"Secure the room," Warren ordered. "No one opens a cell until we know exactly what's inside it."

His team moved. Cautiously. Weapons raised.

And still, the screaming continued.

The team swept wide, falling into practiced positions, but the room made mockery of discipline. It was too much. Too wrong. Not even a battlefield, just a slaughterhouse with surgical ambitions.

Zal-Raan's voice came in low. "Clear to the left. Holding perimeter."

"Same," said Yeri. "But I don't like this silence in the corner cells. Something's... off."

Warren ignored the chatter for now. He stopped in front of one cage, eyes locked with the occupant.

A young woman. Maybe. Her body had been stitched too many times to guess what parts were original. One eye tracked him. The other flickered with embedded light, pulsing like a heartbeat. She didn't speak. Just mouthed a word again and again like a prayer.

"Help."

Morgan stepped up beside him. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to.

Cu-Lan started gagging in the back, turned and emptied his guts against the wall. No one mocked him. Not here.

Warren turned from the cell.

"These ones?" he said, not raising his voice. "We save the ones we can. We end the rest quick."

No one argued.

Morgan nodded slowly. "I can help sort them. I know which ones might still come back."

"Do it," Warren said. "Fast."

He tapped his comm. "Cassian. Get the med teams ready. The ones who can walk will need escort. The ones who can't... we'll need stretchers. And tarps."

"Copy," came the quiet reply.

In the background, one of the broken began singing, off-key, a nursery rhyme from a century no one remembered. Others joined in, each on a different verse. The result sounded like laughter and sobbing combined.

Morgan flinched. "I told you this place made me sick."

Warren didn't answer.

He stared down the long stretch of cells, watching them breathe like a lung that never should've been built.

"We'll burn the Green," he said again, softer now. "But this... this gets buried."

Then he turned away.

The door to the lab stayed open behind them, but the team moved forward. Not to flee, only to finish what was left.

The screaming never stopped. But at least now, someone was finally listening.