Yellow Jacket

Dr. Morgan stepped out of the lab, her coat streaked with ash and sweat. Behind her, the massive steel doors creaked open slowly, just enough to allow passage. The air still stank of old blood and burned plastic.

Three figures followed her, unsteady, quiet, alive.

Warren stood waiting at the end of the hall, surrounded by the quiet shuffle of med teams and soldiers repositioning gear. The burn prep was already underway. Fires would come soon.

"These are the three transitionals," Morgan said. Her voice was flat, steady, but her eyes didn't leave Warren's. "I wanted you to see them before anything else burns."

The first was a girl, young. No older than ten. Pale, barefoot on one side. Her left arm ended in a mutated claw of bone and tendon, wrapped around a half-melted doll. She had three eyes. Two on her face. One blinking slowly from her shoulder. She didn't speak, just stayed close to Morgan's leg, whispering the same word over and over like a thread: "Help."

Morgan laid a hand gently on her head. "She never gave us a name. Started calling herself Fizzy one day and wouldn't answer to anything else."

Then, without hesitation, she lifted Fizzy into her arms. The girl didn't resist, just clutched her doll tighter and curled into Morgan's chest. Her voice was barely a whisper now, the word "Help" repeated like breath.

Morgan held her close, her voice softer. "It's okay, sweetie. It's finally over. We can finally get you out of here."

Fizzy clung tighter to the doll but didn't speak again. Her eyes kept blinking, all three of them out of sync. Her body trembled faintly, but it wasn't fear, it was exhaustion, deep in the bones.

The second stepped forward on her own. Late teens, tall and gaunt. Her movements were slow but precise, like every joint had been relearned under pressure. Her skin was too smooth, unnaturally pale. She looked embalmed, like someone who should have been dead days ago.

"They thought she was dead," Morgan said. "Filed her as non-viable. I kept her on life support. She never stopped breathing."

The girl didn't look at anyone. She just stood there, silent. Her presence was wrong and unflinching. One eye flickered faintly, as if something internal kept rebooting.

Then she spoke. Her voice was dry, flat.

"Bee," she said. "Like zombie. 'Cause I look dead. Didn't really remember what I was called before all this, so Bee works fine."

Bee didn't shift her gaze. She didn't blink. She just stood in place, watching everything with a stillness that was somehow louder than words.

The third was already staring. Male, maybe sixteen. Sharper features, eyes that tracked everything with surgical hatred. His spine bore the scar of rejected grafts, and his arms twitched slightly from unresolved nerve feedback.

"He remembers everything," Morgan said. "Didn't talk for months, then started listing names. Staff. Patients. Procedures. He doesn't forget."

The boy stepped forward, gaze fixed on Warren.

"You're the one who killed the Warlord," he said.

Warren nodded once.

"Good," the boy replied. Then stepped back into formation with the others.

The hallway was quiet. Tense. Like a string stretched between breathing bodies, not sure if it would snap or sing.

Bee tilted her head slightly toward Morgan. "You didn't save us," she said. "You just slowed it down."

Morgan met her eyes. "That's all I could do."

"Not enough," Bee murmured. "But better than nothing."

The boy looked at her sideways. "She didn't leave. That's more than most."

Fizzy stirred faintly in Morgan's arms, eyes twitching, whisper restarting. "Help. Help. Help."

Morgan tightened her grip. Not to silence her. Just to make sure she was real.

Warren stepped forward slowly, his boots silent on the scorched floor.

He looked at each of them, one by one. Not judging. Just measuring. Survivors didn't need praise. They needed proof.

"You'll be transferred to safe hands," he said. "Medical first. Then we decide what happens next."

Bee didn't respond. Neither did the boy. But they didn't argue.

Morgan turned to Warren. "These three are stable enough to move. The rest... aren't."

Warren glanced toward the lab doors. "We're not leaving anything recoverable."

"I know," Morgan said. Her voice cracked for the first time. "Just... let me do it."

He didn't answer. Just stepped aside.

Morgan shifted Fizzy in her arms and turned. Bee and the boy followed, their steps uneven but steady.

The hallway stretched ahead of them like a wound refusing to close. Each footstep felt too loud, even though the fires had already started behind them. The silence wasn't peace, it was restraint.

Fizzy kept whispering, "Help," but her voice was quieter now. Almost like a reflex. Something automatic, left behind in her like a song she didn't know she was singing.

Bee walked with rigid control. Every movement calculated. Her eyes never stopped scanning the hallway, not like she was scared, more like she wanted to memorize it. She didn't want to come back.

The boy hadn't said anything else. He kept behind Morgan, not watching her, but watching Fizzy. There was something in his eyes, not softness, but familiarity. Like he recognized what she was. What had been done to her. And he didn't look away.

A door opened ahead. The chamber widened. The burn charges had been placed, Cu-Lan and Jonas were waiting with the remote. Flame lines were already prepped, accelerant tracing out lines on the floor.

"This is your last chance to change your mind," Cu-Lan said, not looking at Morgan.

"I made mine up a long time ago," she replied.

She looked at the lab door, then back to the child in her arms. Fizzy had stopped whispering. Her head was tucked against Morgan's neck, the claw-hand tangled in the collar of her coat.

"Do it." Morgan said.

Jonas nodded. He touched his comm. "Prep team, we're leaving the east access. Fire goes live on our signal."

Warren gave a short nod. "Let's move."

They filed out one by one. Bee was the last to leave. She looked back once, not at the lab, but at the hall. At the space that had held them. At the quiet.

Then she turned and kept walking.

Behind them, fire caught.

The lab didn't explode. It just lit up slow, like something tired finally allowed to fall apart.

Flames rolled through the walls, creeping across surgical beds, licking at blood-stained tools. The restraints melted. The lights blinked. The machines coughed and died.

And the ones who had survived it walked out into the smoke.

No one looked back.

The courtyard filled slowly, but not with soldiers. With people.

Nearly three hundred by the final count. Men. Women. Children. Some injured. Some carrying others. Some just standing with the stunned posture of those who had survived something no one had prepared them for.

The smoke from the lab curled into the sky behind them. The fire was still eating the lower levels, but the compound itself stood. Barely.

Warren stood at the edge of the crowd, scanning faces. He saw grief, confusion, numb endurance. He didn't see panic. Not yet.

Isol moved up beside him, her gear slung loose, her eyes sharp. "So," she said, voice dry. "What's the plan, Warren?"

Before he could answer, Wren's voice cut in from the left.

"It's the same plan," she said, stepping forward. "We take the survivors who aren't assholes with us. Let the rest fend for themselves. We're heading home."

Warren's gaze swept the crowd again. "I'm not sure we can feed this many on the road."

Zal-Raan approached from the flank, arms crossed. "The tribes set up caches," he said. "Emergency supplies. In case a caravan got hit or a crossing failed. We can probably take this many. But it'll be a close thing."

Calra stepped up beside Wren, arms folded. "We do have a vehicle bay. Hidden. Not far from here."

Wren turned to her. "That's what I was thinking. But the Warlord never told me where it was."

Dr. Morgan stepped forward then, still holding Fizzy, who had gone quiet against her chest. "It won't work," she said. "There are biolocks. High-clearance. You'd need someone with system tags."

She gestured toward the burning pile of corpses across the courtyard, what remained of the Warlord and his closest guards.

Warren didn't respond immediately.

Then Mel's voice came, quiet but firm. "I know a way in."

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Everyone turned.

Mel stood near the edge of the group, one arm still braced around his side, but upright. Eyes clear.

"My brother showed me once," he said. "Said that if me and Tas, if we ever needed to run, that was how we could do it."

Wren stepped toward him. "You're sure?"

He nodded. "I remember. There's a maintenance access under the old water catch. It bypasses the locks. Leads straight into the vehicle bay."

Calra blinked. "That was never on the maps."

"Wasn't supposed to be," Mel said. "But it's there."

Warren finally nodded. "Then that's our way out."

He looked to the group again. Survivors. Fighters. Children. Scattered families still whole enough to walk. Others holding the broken pieces of what they had left.

The crowd was quiet, but not paralyzed. People were already shifting closer together, forming makeshift units, guardians stepping between children and the open flanks, medics coordinating with what little they had left.

A woman with a splinted leg limped forward with the help of two boys. A man with a bandaged head whispered to a child with no shoes. These were not soldiers. But they were survivors.

Warren walked to the front, stepped up on a broken slab of concrete, and raised one hand. Eyes turned toward him.

"We move soon," he said. "You'll follow the path we give you. Anyone who slows the line risks killing the people behind them. You walk, you eat, you survive. That's the order."

A murmur went through the group. No one objected.

Isol crossed her arms, eyes on the eastern wall. "We'll need a scout team to clear the catch first. If it's been sealed long, it'll be choked with dust or worse."

"I'll go," said Calra. "Take Tarric and Senn. We'll clear it before sundown."

Wren nodded. "Take Yeri too. She sees things we miss."

Morgan glanced down at Fizzy. The girl was silent now, eyes closed, but still gripping the melted doll. Her third eye blinked slowly.

"I'll stay with the medicals," Morgan said. "They'll need calm more than speed."

Zal-Raan moved off to begin pulling volunteers. Grix was already arguing with one of the cooks about how many meals could be broken down into high-calorie rations.

Warren looked to Mel. "You're sure you can find the entrance again?"

"Yeah," Mel said. "I remember every stone."

Warren placed a hand on his shoulder. Not praise. Just confirmation.

"Then guide them in. We move at dusk."

No one argued.

They had too many mouths and too few supplies.

But they had a path.

And that would be enough.

The sun was starting to dip when the vehicle bay doors finally groaned open.

Dust rolled out first, followed by the echo of age, long-idled engines, old oil, and steel fatigue. But the machines inside still worked.

There were Haulers. Dozens of them. Thick-bodied, flatbed transports designed to carry bulk loads or crowds of armed bodies. A few had turret mounts stripped clean. Others were patched with fast welds and old plating. Most could hold twenty, maybe more if people sat on the roofs.

And there were Zoomers.

They didn't touch the ground.

Hover-lift scout runners, narrow-bodied and twitchy, suspended just above the floor by glowing repulsor fields that hummed with residual charge. Each one looked like it had been welded together out of leftover flight tech and a bad attitude, long front frames, exposed thruster fins, and vertical grips like dive bars stripped from forgotten wrecks.

Each seated one comfortably, two if you didn't mind dying in tandem. Their engines gave off that high, unstable whine, the kind of sound that said speed came first, control a distant second.

None of them matched, different paint schemes, some tribal, some salvaged, a few bearing scorch scars from previous rides. But they all looked hungry. Built for desert runs, sharp corners, and the kind of sudden acceleration that left your stomach behind.

Cassian whistled low as he circled one. "Okay. No, seriously, these are cool. Like... dumb cool. I want to drive one."

Grix stepped in front of him without slowing. "You're riding. I'm driving."

Cassian opened his mouth, paused, then just nodded. "Yeah. That feels right."

She grinned once he turned away, sharp and toothy, a grin meant for speed.

People were already loading the Haulers. Families packed in with care, elders helped onto benches, children lifted onto laps or made to sit in tight rows. A few riders mounted the roofs, legs dangling off the sides. It wasn't comfortable, but it worked.

Some of the Haulers still bore military stenciling, faded designations, asset tags, and old unit symbols half-buried under dust and time. Others had been repainted with scav marks or survival slogans, but their original purpose was clear: these were war machines, not caravan carriers.

Isol did a final check of the Hauler's lock matrix, then looked up to see Jurpat approaching. Jurpat wasn't looking at him, he was looking at Calra.

Before he could ask, Calra passed by with Batu already waving her over.

Jurpat hesitated.

Isol rolled his eyes and jerked a thumb toward the second Zoomer. "Come on, lover boy. I'm not waiting for you to decide."

He grinned and jogged after her.

Deana was already securing packs in the back of a Hauler when Nanuk dropped down beside her from the rooftop. He landed heavy but stable.

"Riding with me?" she asked.

Nanuk nodded once. "You sing less when you're in charge."

"Debatable," Deana said. But she was smiling.

A few scavengers had begun forming lines, organizing who sat where. Someone had made a list. Someone else had already lost theirs.

Grix argued with a mechanic about throttle calibration, waving a grease-covered rag like a baton. She didn't trust numbers, she trusted the feel of a machine under pressure.

Bee sat cross-legged atop a Hauler's roof, watching everything. Her gaze tracked each person, each weapon, each slip of hesitation. She didn't say a word.

Fizzy clung to her doll in Morgan's lap. She didn't speak anymore either. Just watched the Zoomers with all three eyes, blinking slowly.

The boy with the memory scars stayed close to the rear flatbed, one hand tracing rust grooves in the metal. His lips moved now and then, but no sound came out.

Tamsin was still yelling about ammo distribution. Yeri ignored him, focused on box counts and clip loads. Calra barked orders from one side of the bay, her voice sharper than the engine noise.

Warren stood at the far edge, surveying it all. Wren beside him, quiet. Arms folded. Cracked tablet flickering in her hands.

They didn't say anything at first. Didn't need to.

Then Warren nodded toward the last Zoomer.

"You ready?"

Wren didn't look up. "You drive, I shoot."

"I drive and I shoot," he smiled.

"Deal." She said grinning.

He moved toward the machine, brushing a hand over its controls, not because he doubted them.
Because he was excited. This thing was a death machine. More bomb than vehicle. And he loved it.

The repulsor field surged when he touched the throttle. The hum climbed from a whisper to a growl. It felt like power waiting to be unshackled.

Wren stepped back, checked the lance sling across her back, then vaulted up and settled behind him. Her arms wrapped loosely around his waist.

"You crash this thing and I'll never let you live it down," she said.

Warren grinned. "Not planning to crash."

"Good," she replied. "Because we've got three hundred people watching. Don't screw up the takeoff."

Somewhere in the background, the convoy's signal lamps began to flicker. Green for clear.

Morgan gave a slow nod to Yeri. "Everyone accounted for."

Yeri raised a hand. "Convoy's tight. Movement in five."

"Make it three," Warren said into the open comm.

Three minutes.

Three minutes and they would be gone.

The wind outside had picked up. Ash swirled in thin threads near the compound walls. A few kids covered their faces. One older man reached for a mask he no longer had.

Deana handed him a spare. "You'll need this," she said.

He nodded without speaking.

Batu and Calra finished loading the last set of supply crates. A wrench dropped. No one flinched.

Nanuk hoisted himself into the zoomer with Deana, scanning the perimeter with calm purpose.

Isol ran a hand through his hair, then slid his goggles into place.

Jurpat was already bouncing on his heels.

Tension rippled through the air, not fear. Momentum.

Warren watched it all. Then dropped his hand.

"Go."

Engines roared. Haulers growled to life. The Zoomers surged forward like wolves cut from the leash.

And the road ahead opened wide.

The Zoomers were loud.

Not just loud, they howled. Every shift in speed was a scream, every corner a shriek of compressed lift fields and thruster yaw. Talking was impossible without comms. But Warren and Wren didn't activate theirs. They sat close enough to lean into each other's space, speaking just under the engine's roar, voices half-lost to the wind.

"I have so much to tell you," Warren said.

Wren didn't look at him. "About the Warlord? Or why you randomly teleported into the courtyard with Grix?"

Styll was curled in Warren's coat pocket, eyes barely open.

"Warn gots grab byes Dumdar," she said softly.

Wren blinked. "Who's Dumdar?"

"The god of erasure," Warren said.

Wren stared at him. "Okay… WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE GOD OF ERASURE?!"

"It's a long story," Warren said. "But just know I had to kill the Warlord twice. His real name was Wallace."

"So Isol was right about that." Wren muttered. "Wallace? That's a terrible name for a warlord."

"Yeah. But I got his Skill. Only you, Styll, and Grix know."

"That's good," Wren said. "Let's just keep that our little secret."

"I also got something called the Veil of Souls installed into my chip."

"Bale of sol make Warn not Warn but Stylls Warn," Styll said dreamily.

Wren frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Warren said slowly, "that I think I have a way into the Green. Maybe more than that. Also... I met Steel."

Wren slapped the back of his head.

The Zoomer jerked hard sideways, nearly clipping Calra and Batu's rig. Calra shot him a glare that could peel paint.

Warren muttered, pulling the Zoomer back in line. "Please don't do that while I'm driving a bomb. I don't think the four of us would walk away from that."

"Sorry," Wren said, hands raised. "But you just told me you met Steel. The god of the Cult of Iron. In person. Like it was a secondary thing. That's a huge revelation."

"How do you think I feel?" Warren said. "She basically said she wants me to be her champion. Then she gave me the Veil. Which I think can make me one. And I think Grix's god, the Spitter guy, is real too. Please don't hit me again."

Wren lowered her hand.

Warren continued. "The Spitter kinda said Steel found a way to do what she wanted, even though I'm apparently on a different path that she can't help with. And Umdar is now bound to me. Like divinely. I'm not totally sure what that means, but he seemed... less of a dick after all his original assholishness."

"So let me get this straight," Wren said. "You think this Veil of Souls thing actually makes you a god's champion?"

Warren nodded. "Yeah. Apparently it'll let me make a soul into my veil. The gods say a person's Skill is their soul. If I take a body and bind to it, I get a second soul that hides me. I'll be that person in all but mind to anyone who doesn't know."

Wren narrowed her eyes. "So you're not going to look like the man I married?"

"I'll be able to switch between. But I think the coolest part is I get everything. Their Skill, class, full system access."

"That is actually really cool," Wren admitted.

"We keep this a secret too?"

"Yeah," she said. "But we don't keep secrets from each other."

"I gots secrets," Styll chimed in.

Warren chuckled. "What's your secret then, girl?"

"Fourants says she finished the dabner before we leaves. Ask Stylls to keeps quiets tills we on way homes."

"Now that's a good secret," Warren laughed.

They were already hours into the road.

The convoy moved fast. Faster than any caravan should've. What was meant to be a two-week journey, a slow grind back to the Yellow with food, water, and careful rationing, it was being forced through in a day.

The Haulers pushed forward through slick, rain-slicked roads, tires and repulsors flinging muddy spray behind them. Zoomers surged ahead, weaving between rocky formations and dust-lashed canyons, their repulsors thrumming with power and heat. This wasn't a trail anymore. It was a hard push.

Ahead, the horizon shimmered from the heat. The sun was out, but weak, dulled by thick cloud bands and the steady curtain of rain that fell in thin sheets across the route. What light made it through scattered across broken road slabs and low ridges. The landscape bled color.

The path was old highway turned battlefield, cracked and jagged, pitted with ancient impact scars and scorched bones of long-dead vehicles. Metal fragments glittered in the ruts. Signs hung crooked on twisted poles, unreadable.

Every mile forward was a minor miracle. The strange thing was, the road ahead stayed mostly clear, like something had cleaned the path not long before. The terrain was still cracked and hostile, but it was passable. Clean, almost unnaturally so, like the land itself wanted them to make it through.

The Zoomer beneath Warren responded to every motion like it wanted to fight. There was no stability, just speed. Speed and split-second instinct. Wren gripped him tighter through every turn.

They were outpacing the main body easily. Scouting from the front.

Calra and Batu kept pace just behind. Grix's rig blazed far left, dragging a wild line over rougher terrain. Isol and Jurpat were closer to the center line, weaving through dust pockets.

Deana's Hauler was the anchor, steady and broad. Nanuk rode shotgun, literally.

In the far back, Bee perched again atop a rear Hauler, still unmoving. Fizzy was sleeping now, buried in Morgan's arms, her doll clutched against her chest like a shield.

The convoy stopped only once to switch out a ruptured stabilizer. Then it was moving again. No meals. No breaks. Just water and momentum.

Wren checked the route markers on her cracked tablet. "At this pace, we'll reach the Yellow before Muk-Tah's caravan even hits the fungal forest."

"Good," Warren said. "I want to beat the word. Not just the march."

"I think we will," she said.

The road climbed next. A low pass, steep, crumbling. The Zoomer's repulsors stuttered once near the edge, but Warren gunned it, dragging a ripple of air behind them as they cleared the drop.

Wren whooped aloud. First sound she'd made in minutes.

"Easy," Warren said, grinning. "We still need to make it there alive."

"But you love it."

He smiled and didn't argue.

Wind picked up as the elevation shifted. Cold and wet, it pulled the rain sideways in long slanting lines. Carrion birds circled in the distance. Nothing followed.

Yet.

They rode on.

Toward home. Or what was left of it.