Yellow Jacket

The rain had stopped, but the air still carried the weight of it. Mara breathed like a beast that had finally lain down to rest. Every rooftop, every sliver of metal and shattered stone, still glistened with the memory of downpour. And yet, the silence afterward felt louder than the storm had ever been.

Warren hadn't turned the city to ash. He had decapitated its old regime, stripped it of the systems that fed fear, and left the bones for someone better to inhabit. And now, the Yellow had taken root. Not in conquest, but survival. The tribes had poured through the Red behind Warren's lead, carving a path where none should have held. Now, that path was part of the city itself. Not a scar or fracture. A new artery, pulsing with purpose.

Mara.

The name had come together like breath through clenched teeth. Hard, but necessary. A promise scrawled in soot and survival. Muk-Tah and the other tribal leaders had remained behind. As stewards. They would lead in Warren's absence, hold the line, and keep the newly merged population from fracturing before it had time to fuse. It wasn't just about logistics. It was about holding something sacred until Warren returned.

The Green itself stood untouched. The walls remained perfect white, impossibly high. The buildings still gleamed with architectural brilliance, magnificent, imposing, whole. Nothing had been damaged. The only difference now was that the doors, once locked tight, stood open. For the first time, anyone could walk through them.

The Yellow's spirit ran through its veins now. You could hear it in how the people spoke to one another. How guards stood beside civilians, not above them. How suspicion softened, replaced not with trust, but with the possibility of it.

The Green had once stood as a shining beacon, a monument to order through fear. But now that the Yellow had taken it, and Mara had risen from its ashes, that beacon no longer shone with dread, it shimmered with hope.

The civilian population of the Green Zone had not all welcomed the new order. Some had fought. Clumsily. Desperately. They were put down. Others had fled. But most, surprisingly, adapted. They moved on. And still others tried to help, smiling, cooperative, overly polite. Warren feared those ones the most. The politicians. The operators. The ones who changed colors with whatever banner flew highest.

They had come in with cheerful faces and sweet words, offering to help manage the transition, to serve the new city of Mara. They were the worst of all. Warren handed them off to Muk-Tah and the other tribal leaders without ceremony or sentiment. Let them decide what mercy meant.

Warren knew what he was. He would never be a true political leader. He was a killer at heart and a general by necessity. Nothing more. Nothing less. And that was enough. He didn't want to rule. He wanted to matter. To be the line no one crossed. A symbol of power. Let others wear the crown.

The buildings still stood. The power grids still hummed. The control towers and sensor banks still blinked quietly, as if waiting for someone to plug back in. What had been destroyed wasn't the frame, it was the command. The bureaucracy. The enforcement protocol. The rule.

Warren stood just outside the remnants of the old north checkpoint, staring down the sloped road that led toward the Bazaar. The wall here had already been scrubbed, repainted, and patched with reinforced siding. The sigils of the Green were gone. Burned off. Sanded down. The new ones hadn't been decided yet. No one had asked Warren what he wanted to put there. He wasn't sure he would've answered even if they had.

The silence was what struck him most. No clatter from scavenger stalls. No hammering from the armory row. No yelling over bartering disputes or the slap of fresh canvas going up. Even the cats were quiet.

Oliver spotted him first. The man was leaning against a terminal rack near the center hub, jacket open, one hand resting casually on his sidearm. A guard now, but not a soldier. Not exactly. Someone who had adapted well to the new order.

He straightened up as Warren approached.

"You're up early," Oliver said.

"Didn't sleep."

Oliver nodded, like that made sense. "Car and Florence still haven't returned."

"I noticed."

Oliver reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small holo-emitter. It was an old model, clearly retrofitted, the casing covered in fine scoring from use and repair. One of Florence's builds, then. Probably modded three different ways to keep it from being traced or intercepted.

"Left this for you. Said you'd understand."

Warren took it, thumbing the activation panel. A blue-white figure shimmered to life in the air between them. Florence. Short hair, lab coat, boots laced wrong like always. Her voice came through, distorted slightly, but clear enough.

"Warren. I'm at the place you told me about. I brought enough dampener this time. If you're coming... bring the others. It's time you all saw what we found."

She didn't say goodbye. The message ended with a flicker and a high-pitched whine before the emitter shut off.

Warren pocketed it. Something cold settled in his ribs.

"How long ago?" he asked.

"Two days ago," Oliver replied. "Before the Green burned."

Warren exhaled through his nose. He looked at the far gate, then turned back toward the corridor.

They would bring the whole team.

Isol. Grix. Jurpat. Deana. Nanuk. Cassian. Batu. Calra.

And one more.

Tarric.

The others were prepping near the checkpoint when Isol approached Warren. No fanfare. Just a direct look and a quiet statement.

"We should take Tarric with us."

Warren frowned. He didn't respond immediately. Not because he didn't have an answer, but because he wasn't sure he wanted to say it aloud. "Why?"

Isol didn't flinch. Didn't blink. "He just helped you burn the only home he's probably ever known. That does something to a person. And maybe, just maybe, this is his way to be more than just an ex-enforcer."

There was a subtle weight to Isol's tone. Like he wasn't just asking on principle. Like he saw something Warren didn't.

Warren didn't answer. Grix looked skeptical, her expression a mirror of the doubts Warren couldn't yet voice. Jurpat rolled his shoulder and stayed quiet, a mountain made of muscle and silence. Wren watched Warren.

"I think it might be okay," she said. "He's not my favorite, but he fought beside us."

Her voice was tentative. Not optimistic, not trusting, but willing. And sometimes, that mattered more.

Still, it was Warren's call.

He glanced down. Styll was perched on his shoulder, still and listening. No tension in her posture. No warning in her breath. If anything, she seemed curious.

Warren sighed. Deep. Bone-deep. "Fine. But he stays in eyeshot."

Isol nodded once, satisfied.

Tarric said nothing when he was summoned. He didn't ask questions. Didn't sneer. Didn't thank them either. He just fell into line with the others. A man without allegiance, but not yet without purpose.

They gathered fast, quicker than Warren expected. Something about the silence of Mara made people move faster. Like they didn't want to be left alone with their thoughts for too long.

They didn't talk much during the initial preparation. There wasn't a need. Everyone knew what they were doing. The route was already mapped from the last time Warren and Wren had made the trip. Florence's old notes had helped too, patching in environmental anomalies and hot spots to avoid.

And this time, there would be no backtracking.

The Red wasn't welcoming. It never was. But today, it was still. Not calm. Not peaceful. Just... withheld. Like it had drawn back its claws to see what they would do.

The wind that usually carried the stench of decay was absent. The echoes didn't follow them through the tunnels. No broken claws skittered across metal. No eyes blinked from beneath rusted panels. The world felt like it was holding its breath.

Nanuk remarked on it first. "Too quiet."

Cassian nodded. "Don't like it."

Batu was already shifting at the edges of the group, sniffing at the air. Calra stayed silent, watching everything, especially Tarric.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Grix took point for a stretch. She didn't make jokes. Didn't hum. Just moved, like she was walking through a grave.

And maybe she was.

Warren kept to the center of the formation. Not out of fear. But because this time, leadership wasn't about walking ahead. It was about making sure no one was left behind.

The deeper they went, the more obvious it became that something had changed. The Red Zone wasn't just abandoned. It had been emptied. Recently. Thoroughly.

And ahead of them, somewhere at the base of the descent, the Arc waited.

A monument. A machine. A wound.

They didn't speak of it yet. Not directly. But the anticipation grew with every step.

Florence was waiting.

And whatever she had found, it would change everything.

Even the silence knew it.

The tunnels narrowed until even the dim ceiling lights gave up. Pipes ran like roots along the walls, some cracked and leaking, others hissing with steam. Steel beams crisscrossed overhead, bent and rusted, old scaffolding leaning into itself as though exhausted by time. The deeper they moved, the more the world above felt like a rumor.

Then, it opened.

The Arc didn't hide in shadows. The space had been lit, harsh utility lamps strung up on portable frames, the kind used in salvage digs and trench recon. Car had probably rigged a generator somewhere nearby, the cables coiled like veins through the scaffolding, a mass of smooth, seamless metal nestled within the ancient bones of the maintenance district. It rose from the stone like a memory too big to forget. No damage. No wear. No markings except for a single emblem pressed into its front. Not carved. Pressed. Like the world had yielded to its presence.

The group came to a halt.

Cassian whispered, "It's a mountain."

Tarric stepped forward, awe tightening his voice. "This was under the Green the whole time."

Warren's voice was flat, certain. "This is why we had to take the city."

They stood before the Arc, silent now, as if even breath might disturb it. Then Wren cupped her hands and called out, "Florence? Car? We're here!"

Grix frowned. "If they're hiding in that thing..."

Movement.

The sound of soft paws.

Gunner came first, followed by Wires, Whisper, and the chonky one with no name. They raced into view like a flood of fur and joy. Styll chirped from Warren's shoulder and dropped down to meet them. What followed was a chaos of a cuddle puddle. Then the cats swarmed Warren.

Last came Bastard.

He didn't run. He walked. A slow, deliberate approach. His stare locked on Warren like a blade. There was no chirp, no tail flick, no signs of affection. Just the cold, unimpressed stillness of a creature that remembered every slight.

Grix murmured, "I never thought I'd see a cat not jump Warren."

Tarric shook his head. "What is with you and cats? It was like this at your wedding, too."

Calra added, "Don't ask. Just let it happen. It's funnier that way."

But Warren didn't wave them off. He didn't protest or look for help. He sat in it. Let them pile on. Let the guilt land where it wanted.

The cats peeled away, one by one, except the chonky one, who simply chonked off and vanished behind a beam.

Bastard remained unmoved.

Warren crouched low, posture careful, as if approaching a wild animal. "I'm sorry, boy," he said softly. "You know I couldn't take you when you were still that hurt."

Bastard's eyes narrowed, tail swishing once. It wasn't enough. The look on his face wasn't forgiveness, it was judgment. A waiting kind of silence that stretched like a blade held just short of flesh.

Warren didn't flinch. "You were limping. You wouldn't have made the run. I couldn't risk it. I thought I'd come back sooner. I thought you'd understand."

Still nothing.

Then Bastard let out a slow, irritated huff, as if disgusted by the melodrama. And in the next breath, he pounced, not a strike, but a full-bodied launch into Warren's chest. They rolled, Bastard growling like he had to punish him before he forgave him, claws snagging fabric but not flesh.

Only then came the purr. Deep. Reluctant. Real.

The other cats dove back in. Even Styll joined.

When Warren rose again, he had five cats and a Styll clinging to him. Two were burrowed into his coat like it was their personal hammock. One had claimed his shoulder. Another was draped like a scarf, tail flicking into his face. Lastly Bastard sat proudly atop his head like a crown of fur and disapproval. Styll peeked from a chest pocket, ears twitching, as if she were the brains of the operation.

Warren looked less like a man and more like a trenchcoat packed full of smug, semi-feral cargo. A walking shrine to the feline overlords.

"This," he said dryly, "is the right amount of cats."

Laughter followed. From Grix. From Wren. Even from Tarric.

And then, more laughter.

Two voices. Familiar.

Florence and Car stepped out of a hidden seam in the Arc's wall, one after the other.

Still laughing. Still alive.

And the Arc stirred behind them.

Warren didn't hesitate, he stepped forward, arms out, still looking like a malfunctioning coat rack overloaded with judgmental, semi-feral accessories. With Bastard perched atop his head, Whisper curled around his neck, and two other cats half-submerged in his coat like smug parasites, he looked less like a war hero and more like a stray magnet that had lost a bet. Wren beat him there, throwing her arms around Florence. Grix wrapped Car in a half-tackle, half-hug.

Car grinned and tried to hug the cats, arms wide and ready, only for all of them to scatter like roaches dodging a spotlight. All except Bastard, who remained perched on Warren's head, unwavering.

Styll popped her head out from Warren's chest pocket and chirped, "Cars and Fouren! Stylls missesed yous. Loves you."

Car and Florence spoke together, grinning. "We love you too, girl."

Florence cleared her throat and gave Wren a nudge. "Enough with the touching. Family reunion's over. Who are your new friends?"
Calra and Deana smiled a greeting.

Warren turned, still somehow composed beneath the shifting weight of his feline entourage. "Well, you already know Batu and Nanuk."

Both nodded with a level of calm discipline that contrasted the chaos of a moment earlier.

Nanuk gave a salute with open palm. "Greetings, War Chief."

Warren gestured lazily with his thumb. "That's Grix's manmeat."

Cassian looked betrayed. "Her what now?"

Grix slapped Warren's hand in a perfect high-five.

Wren doubled over laughing.

Styll twitched her whiskers. "Wah mansmeats? Iz itz yummzy? Like bugzes?"

Warren sighed. "And the three tripping over themselves over there? Not related, as far as I'm aware."

Florence narrowed her eyes, stepping closer, now able to see their faces clearly in the lamp-lit shadows.

Her expression sharpened. "Warren, you know those are Enforcers, right?"

He didn't blink. "They were Enforcers. Now they're our allies. This is Jurpat, Tarric, and Isol."

The moment Florence's eyes hit Isol's hand, specifically the platinum ring, her demeanor shifted entirely.

The back of her coat exploded outward in a hiss of mechanical tension. Nine blade-like tentacles unfolded like a blooming predator. They shimmered with ready violence, humming slightly as they spread wide.

"Get behind me, kids," Florence said, her voice flat and dangerous. "That man is more than an Enforcer. I don't know if we can handle him. But he is no Enforcer."

Warren stepped between them. "No. That's Isol. The Paper Angel. A Legion instructor. And my friend."

Florence looked at him, stunned. "You know who you walk with?"

Warren gave a small nod. "Yeah. I do."

Car, meanwhile, was completely distracted. Grix had whispered something in his ear, and he jolted upright like someone had dropped ice down his back.

"They did what?! Wait, he's what?! What the hell happened?! What do you mean the Green is ours?! What do you mean I need to sit down?!"

Florence sighed.

Car, from the floor, groaned. "Florence. You need to hear this. Apparently they got married, killed the Warlord, took over the city, named it Mara, and... I don't even know what else."

Nanuk helpfully chimed in. "There's also the fact that Warren is the Tidelord now. So that might be a thing you want to know."

Car stared.

"Tidelord?" he echoed.

"Tidelord?!"

And with that, Car fainted.

Isol stepped forward while the rest of the group struggled to drag Car's unconscious body into the Arc proper. The cats were not helping. In fact, they were enthusiastically piling onto him, one on his chest, two curled against his legs, one batting his hair like it was a toy, and Bastard, as always, remained perched atop his head like a grumpy crown.

Warren watched this chaos unfold, sighed, and shrugged helplessly. Bastard gave him a slow blink and a nod, the universal cat gesture of: "What can you do?"

Florence pointed with one mechanical tendril and said, "That has to be the smartest cat I've ever seen."

"He is," Warren said. "Florence Vane, I'd like to introduce you to Isoldian Brent the Third, also known as the Paper Angel."

"Just Isol is fine," the man said with a slight bow. "It is an honor to meet you, Lady Vane."

"Just Florence. None of that 'lady' shit," she replied, crossing her arms. "So, can you two tell me what the hell happened while you were gone? Grix is just chaos. Anything she says is circumspect at best."

"No, she told the truth," Wren said, stepping forward.

Florence squinted. "Wait, so let me get this straight. You went on a journey to kill the Warlord and your first idea was to take on the Natah, climb a volcano, and kill the biggest, deadliest creature I've ever heard of? Then what, you get married and don't even wait for us?"

"Actually," Wren said, "we wanted you there. We had no choice. The tribes tried to claim Warren. I couldn't be with him because he was the Tidelord, and I was an outsider."

"Typical," Florence muttered. "They tried the same thing when I married Car. So what's next, you cross the Glass Ocean?"

Warren cut in. "Turns out the ocean is made of raw psyro glass. That's why the Warlord was out there."

Florence blinked. "What do you mean, raw psyro glass?"

Isol spoke smoothly. "There's a holo Jurpat has that can explain it, and another one from the wedding, actually. But Warren is right. It's one of the most valuable resources ever discovered in the world."

"Okay, okay," Florence said, rubbing her temples. "So they had the Warlord protecting their investment. You kill him, and then what?"

"I killed him again," Warren said.

Wren looked at him, mouth tight. "I thought that was a secret."

"Not from family," Warren said. "And Isol needs to know."

Florence and Isol looked at him, clearly confused. "What do you mean, you killed him again?" Isol asked.

Warren shifted awkwardly. "You remember how Grix and I appeared in the courtyard, like we teleported or something? We said it was her Skill malfunctioning. And she's chaos incarnate, so no one questioned it. That was a lie."

"Warren had to fight the resurrected Warlord," Wren said. "A divine duel to the death."

Florence narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean, divine?"

Warren exhaled. "Sooo... the Gods are 100% real. And that stuff Grix says about the Spitter? That's a god who literally spits out existence. It's real. It's weird. Also, the Warlord didn't really resurrect. His death was erased by Umdar, the god of erasure. He was his patron. Who is now my benefactor."

He started talking faster. "Anyway, I killed him again. Got his fragment. Got some boons. Grix got one too. I also met Steel."

Florence and Isol stared.

"I know you're not someone to make this up," Florence said. "And Wren's backing you up."

Isol nodded. "I've never known you to lie. I believe you. But this is unbelievable."

Warren continued. "So. The boons. First, I get one death erased. Not sure how it works, didn't ask. Just took the deal. Second, I get to evolve a skill, with help from Umdar. Third, Steel chose for me was this think called the Veil of Souls."

"What does that mean?" Florence asked.

"It's hard to explain. The gods say our Skill is our soul. With the Veil, I can take someone else's Skill, and their body, their class, their System integration."

Isol's eyes lit up. "That means Warren can enter a Green city and pass as a citizen. He could walk into the Citadel."

Wren turned. "What does he mean you can walk into the Citadel?"

"Isol says I need to grow stronger. He told me about the Legion, the High Imperators. If I train at the Citadel, I might stand a chance against the Nine."

Isol nodded. Wren looked torn.

"Okay," Florence said, pressing her fingers against her forehead. "That's a future conversation. What happened next?"

"We figured out the Augmented came from the Green Zone. They were supplying the Warlord. We have someone who worked on them, you should meet her later. Then we came back and took the Green. Killed the Lord Mayor. Took the city."

"Mara," Florence said. "You named the city Mara."

Warren nodded. "She would've hated it. But she deserves to be remembered."

Florence gave a solemn nod. "Anything else I should know before we head in?"

Wren raised her hand sheepishly. "Um... I'm pregnant."

Florence fainted.