Yellow Jacket

The city didn't wake so much as exhale. Metal groaned, locks clicked, and floodgates to the deeper roads peeled back under Car's clearance. What had once been sealed freight access now passed as a caravan launchway.

Warren stood at the edge of the platform, coat drawn close against the lingering rain. The sound of boots behind him meant his squad was nearly assembled. Twenty guards. Eight scouts. Twelve mercs.

Car was already waiting beside one of the front transports, hulking steel-framed behemoths that looked more like armored beasts than vehicles. They hissed and clicked with internal pressure, four in total, chained together with magnetic locks and reinforced wheels that could grip the fractured roads and glass flats alike. Not fast. But nothing this heavy ever needed to be.

They looked like war trains trying to remember how to run.

Wren stood beside Warren, eyes wide as the caravan powered up. It was the first time she'd seen anything move like this that wasn't alive or dying.

Florence was pacing just behind them, running last checks on supplies and diagnostics. She wasn't coming. Neither was Car.

"I wish I could ride with you," Car muttered, arms crossed. "But the Green won't let us leave the city."

"We won't be long," Warren said. His voice was quiet, steady. "And you've got your hands full."

Car nodded tightly. "We're still building that new housing district. Florence is knee-deep in that project you had planned. We can't afford to step away."

"You're not meant to."

Warren turned from the edge of the platform and started walking down the line. Troops stiffened at his approach. Some offered short nods. Others kept their eyes forward, rigid in posture but tight with nerves.

He didn't know most of them by name. Only a few stood out, one more than the rest.

Cassian.

The younger man straightened as Warren drew near. It was the first time they'd seen each other since the fortress. Since the moment it could've gone either way.

His eyes caught on Warren's coat, then the truncheon. He didn't step back. Just stood still, like a man waiting to be judged.

Cassian had been a conscript. One of Lucas's. He hadn't lifted his weapon. When the call came down to kill, he hesitated, and when his squadmate rushed forward, Cassian had tried to stop him.

He hadn't been fast enough.

Warren had shattered the other man. Left him broken and twitching in the rain. Cassian could've fought. Could've followed through. Instead, he dropped his stance, stood over his friend, and offered Warren his back.

That wasn't weakness. That was a choice. A hard one.

Cassian had followed the Scav Code without knowing its name.

And Warren hadn't seen him again until now.

And here Cassian stood. Not broken. Not gone. Wearing the scars like they meant something.

"Sir," Cassian said, his voice unsteady, like it hadn't been used in days. Then he swallowed, stood straighter, and tried again. "The troops... are ready for deployment. We're positioned and prepped. We can move as soon as the caravan is locked in."

"You're squad lead now?"

Cassian gave a tight nod. "Yes, sir. One of them. First squad. Soldier line.
Hand selected to be the first point of contact for the Expedition troops by Carmine and Grixalia."

Warren didn't smile. But he didn't look away.

"Hold the line, then. No panic. And if something breaks formation, you don't chase it. You report, you wait, you strike when I say."

Cassian nodded again. Firmer this time. "Understood."

Warren stepped past him, scanning the rest. Silent acknowledgment. Just enough pressure to remind them who was watching.

Then the sound of boots on steel echoed from the side of the platform. A cluster of warriors approached: bonepainted armor, marked blades, loose leather over plated vests. The Boneway.

At their front: Elder Muk-Tah.

The elder clapped Car's arm. "Carmine. You still bleed, brother?"

"Every day."

"Good. Then you remember the rules."

Car hesitated. "We need passage. And protection. Just this once, as a favor."

Muk-Tah's expression didn't change. "This is the favor. You know the way."

He turned to Warren.

"If we carry you, outsider, you must bleed."

Warren didn't flinch. He stepped forward and held up his hand, palm out. "Then I'll share my blood with your sons, those who I will call brothers."

Muk-Tah grinned wide. "He speaks of the old ways. We shall honor that."

Behind him, five Boneway youths stepped forward, each drawing a hooked blade in unison. No words. They cut their palms as one. Blood dripped in silence.

Warren reached into his coat. Not for a weapon. For something more meaningful than a blade. He drew Mara's pocketknife, small, unimpressive, but his.

He sliced his palm without ceremony. The cut was clean. The blood was real.

Muk-Tah raised an eyebrow. "He plans to fight with a baby knife?"

Car shook his head. "Not the knife. He's planning on fighting with his bare-hand."

Muk-Tah frowned. "He plans to fight them barehanded?"

"No," Car said, grinning slightly. "Didn't say hands. Just one."

He pointed to Warren's bleeding palm.

Muk-Tah stared. Then laughed, loud and hard. "That boy really has a death wish."

Car stepped aside. "Just watch. You'll understand. That kid's something else."

The Boneway caravan waited like a beast in slumber, massive, segmented vehicles bound by magnetic locks and old-world force couplers. Each engine roared low, waiting for blood and order to give it reason to move. Rain slicked the metal hulls, pooling in the wheel gaps and trickling along the grooves like the caravan itself was weeping in anticipation.

Warren stood at the front of the procession, staring down five men who had each earned the right to lead a tribe of their own. Sons of Muk-Tah, not by blood, but by battle-earned name. The rite he'd invoked was old. Ancient. Brutal. And intentional.

Car watched from behind, arms folded, grinning like a bastard who'd lit a match too close to the oil.

Florence stood farther back near the city ramp, silent but unblinking. Deana was pacing like a tethered bolt, barely able to stay quiet. Grix leaned on the wheelhouse with Calra, both grinning with feral interest. Wren held Styll in her arms, her red hair darkened by rain and clinging to her cheeks, catching the faint stormlight like fire seen through mist. Styll wriggled excitedly in Wren's grasp, squeaking, "Yay Warn!" with every slam and cheer.

Puddles rippled beneath the onlookers. Rain tapped hard on canvas and steel alike, beating a rhythm that seemed to echo the thrum of adrenaline. The caravan creaked as wind passed through its couplings like breath through metal lungs. Mud sloshed underfoot. Cloaks clung to armor. Every breath steamed the cold air.

Warren stepped forward. The fight began.

He didn't move with speed. He didn't need to. The first son lunged with a scream and a downward slash, Warren sidestepped with a slip barely wider than a heartbeat and let his opponent stumble past. Then, with his bleeding hand alone, he caught the man's belt and twisted. The son fell flat on his back, breath gone, weapon lost. Warren didn't stop, he stepped on the blade, broke it clean, and stared down the next two.

They came together, coordinated. High and low. One swung for his jaw, the other for his thigh. Warren dipped under both, swept his stance with a slide of his foot, caught the low one in the shin and sent him reeling. Then with only his open hand, he delivered a snapping chop to the other attacker's collarbone, knocking him down.

It took less than four seconds.

Three down.

The fourth son circled. He feinted injury, clutching his side, limping, inviting an overstep. Warren took two slow paces in, raised his single hand, and drove a flat palmstrike into the man's jaw with surgical timing. The son crumpled. Warren stepped past him without looking back.

Nanuk remained.

Car had told Warren about him, how Nanuk was one of the most promising warriors Muk-Tah had ever raised. A born brawler. Not just a named son, but a True blooded one, Muk-Tah's own by birth. A full-blooded heir of the Boneway, cut from the same flesh, tempered by the same fires. Not just another tribesman, but the leader in waiting.

Rain dripped from his brow. His stance was wide. He didn't shout. He didn't posture. He knew this fight was different.

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

They circled.

Nanuk came in fast, faster than the others. Hooks, jabs, low swipes meant to pull Warren into a rhythm and break it. But Warren didn't play the game. He didn't parry. He didn't dodge wide. He simply moved with precision, never raising anything but his left hand.

Nanuk swung a curved blade in wide arcs, each meant to bait a block or a retreat. Warren ducked the first, stepped inside the second, and landed three bone-echoing punches to Nanuk's gut and ribs, all with that single, bleeding hand. No follow-ups. No knee. No elbow. Just relentless strikes with the one weapon he'd chosen.

Nanuk reeled, shocked. He feinted a stumble, then suddenly threw dirt into Warren's eyes and lunged with a hidden blade. Warren didn't blink. He twisted his hips, brought his palm up across Nanuk's chin in a rising arc, and sent him reeling backward.

Nanuk fell hard. But he rose again, snarling. Desperate.

He tackled Warren in the mud, tried to bite, gouge, smother. Warren didn't retaliate with elbows or knees. He braced with his shoulder and struck again, an open-hand blow to Nanuk's ear. Another to the neck. Another to the gut.

One hand. Only one hand.

The crowd was no longer cheering. They were silent. Watching something they didn't know how to name.

Deana whispered prayers with her fists clenched to her chest. Then she screamed again, a warcry of awe and belief. "He's everything! Look at him!"

Grix muttered, "He's a monster." And smiled.

Calra was stone-faced, arms folded, mouth curled in a grin that mirrored Grix's. She wasn't faithful, not like Deana, but she'd seen Warren fight before. This was exactly what she expected.

Styll and Wren shouted together, over and over. "GO WARN GO!" Their voices rang out against the storm, small and strong, full of pride and awe.

The wind howled through the stone corridor, lifting cloaks and hair. Warren rose from the grapple, soaked in rain, hand bleeding freely. Nanuk tried to rise. Warren stepped forward, raised his bloodied palm, and struck a single, flat blow across Nanuk's chest.

Nanuk wheezed. Looked up. Still fighting.

Warren paused, lifted his hand again. Prepared to end it.

But instead, he knelt.

"I name you my First Scar," Warren said. "Death-sworn. You are mine. Not dead, but bound."

Nanuk coughed blood, spit red. "I'd rather join the ancestors than follow where you lead."

Muk-Tah stepped forward, eyes blazing.

"Nanuk, you fool. The offer he gives you is more than servitude. Think, you thick-skulled boy. He beat you with no skills. No weapon. One hand. The same hand he cut to give blood to the rite. That blood marks you now, with dozens of death blows, and you still breathe. My son Warren is by far the strongest here. I don't think I could hold my own against him if he had a blade in hand."

He let the words settle.

"You call for death, and the rite will answer. But he offers life. In the wake of a man more than I've ever seen in all my years. Our father, Kal-Gish, would have been proud to call him brother."

Nanuk didn't answer.

Warren let the blood drip. It struck Nanuk's chest.

A slow mark, just over his heart.

And the Boneway gasped.

The rain fell harder.

The rite was sealed.

Warren stood. No blade. No wound. Only blood, his own, marking his chosen.

The Boneway bowed.

And Car laughed.

"Told ya."

The storm didn't ease when the rite ended. If anything, it swelled, rain thickening into sheets as if the sky itself bore witness and chose not to look away.

Nanuk remained on his back, mud streaking his ribs, the imprint of Warren's open hand still marking his chest. Rainwater mixed with the blood Warren had spilled, creating a diluted crimson that pooled around them both.

Warren stepped forward.

Nanuk tensed, expecting another strike, maybe a deathblow. But Warren didn't raise his hand.

He reached down.

Not to strike.

To take Nanuk's braid in his fingers.

With one smooth pull, Warren severed it at the base. The braid fell to the ground, soaked and heavy. Nanuk gasped, not from pain, but from what it meant.

He looked up, rain cascading down his face in rivulets. "What would you have of me, Wayfinder?"

Warren looked at him, voice steady despite the storm.

"You will teach me the ways of the Wilds," he said. "And walk with me in blood as a brother."

Nanuk stared, his eyes wide with disbelief. "I am nothing but a Scar. I have no right to call you brother."

"And yet I name you as such," Warren answered, voice quiet but firm. "You will be by my side wherever I lead. So you shall be what I call you."

He let the silence hold.

"And I call you brother."

Behind them, the other Sons of Muk-Tah stirred.

Anger laced their expressions. One stepped forward, sneering through blood-streaked teeth. "We will never call you brother. Not after this. Not after you spared him."

Another spat into the mud. "He should have died. That was the law. He lost."

A third growled, "He was beaten and should have stayed beneath your heel, not beside it."

The fourth, the one who had struck the least, said nothing, but his eyes burned with betrayal.

Car's laugh cut through the rain like a drawn blade. Loud. Unapologetic.

"With the way you four fought?" he said, stepping forward. "He would never have claimed you as brothers. You're not worth the blood he would've wasted saving you from the fire."

He nodded to Nanuk.

"Only that one was worth a damn."

The insult landed like a stone in the pit. The sons froze. Their pride wounded deeper than any cut they'd taken that day. Car's voice had weight. He was not just another man. He was Carmine the Warsong, a son of Kal-Gish, the first outsider to lead a Wilds tribe, brother to Muk-Tah, war-chief by rite.

"You speak like a City-born," one of the sons snapped, rage hiding his shame. "You would let blood mix before rite?"

"I speak as aChieftain," Car answered. "And blood has already mixed. His Wayfinder made it so."

"You would dare call him brother?" another snarled.

"I call him what he has earned." Warren stood still, letting their fury splash uselessly against his silence.

"You want to call yourselves sons of Muk-Tah?" Car said. "Then fight like you are. What I saw was four men swinging like drunks and falling like cowards."

That drew a hiss of breath from the gathered crowd.

"I should burn the braids off your heads myself," Car added.

The sons looked to Muk-Tah. Waiting.

But the war-chief said nothing.

Because the words were true.

Warren's blood still dripped from Nanuk's chest, slow and steady. It soaked into his skin like ink into paper, writing a mark deeper than any scar.

Warren's gaze did not waver.

"I chose him," he said, not raising his voice. "That is the path. He walks it beside me. Not behind."

One of the sons spat again. "He was your prize. Your kill. You gave that up."

"I do not need trophies," Warren said. "I need warriors. Brothers. And only one of you earned the right to stand with me."

The air shifted.

Muk-Tah stepped forward. Slow. Heavy.

His gaze swept his sons first. The challengers. Then Nanuk. Then Warren.

"You claimed him?"

"I did," Warren said.

"Not as a servant."

"No."

Muk-Tah exhaled, the sound almost lost in the rain.

"My son still lives," he said. "Not by honor. But by mercy."

He looked at the other sons.

"And mercy is the hardest lesson of all."

He turned away then, not to shame them, but to let them reckon.

Car watched them all, arms folded, stormlight flashing across his face.

"You'll find no comfort here," he told the four. "You spat on the path and were found wanting. You can kneel, or you can leave. But if you speak again of law, know that the Wayfinder speaks for the Scars. His word guides his own. Nothing more."

Nanuk bowed his head. Not in shame, but reverence.

And for the first time, his brothers knelt to Warren.

But the silence didn't last.

One of the sons, the second eldest, rose halfway. His lip curled in defiance. "He names him brother, but he is not one of us. That is not our way."

Muk-Tah turned. There was weight behind the motion, the kind that made the sons stiffen.

"You think this was weakness?" Muk-Tah asked.

"He spared him," the son replied.

Muk-Tah's eyes burned like coals. "He spared the one none of you could defeat. He chose, not the weakest. Not the slowest. Not the one who might yield, but the one you all feared."

The sons looked away.

Muk-Tah stepped forward, closing the space between them with the slow inevitability of an avalanche.

"If the rites did not forbid it," he said, "I would strike you down myself, jackals that you are. You think yourselves sons of Muk-Tah? Then understand this: Warren did not take a place at your feet. He took the head."

He pointed toward Nanuk, still kneeling beneath Warren's bleeding hand.

"He was the First Son. And by Warren's word, he is my son again."

The challengers froze. The crowd murmured. No one had expected it. Not this.

Muk-Tah's voice softened, but it didn't lose force. "You think power is in dominance? In the kill? Power is in the choice to do otherwise. And that is something none of you showed today."

He looked at Warren.

"You are his Wayfinder. The path is yours to shape. And if you say this one walks beside you, then so it shall be."

Warren nodded once.

"I do."

And with that, Muk-Tah stepped back. Not as a war-chief to a lesser. But as a father acknowledging the choice of another.

In the rain, with blood still fresh and braids still broken, the old way bent, not in surrender, but in reverence.

And Nanuk, blood-soaked and bowed, rose at Warren's side.

Not behind.

As brother.

The departure of the Boneway caravan had already begun.

No shed tears. No drawn-out goodbyes. Just the crunch of wheels over wet soil and the distant growl of engines waking under the storm.

And one very very pissed off cat.

Bastard hissed and paced on the railing, tail thrashing, ears pinned flat as rain slicked the wood beneath his paws. He'd always been a handful, but now he was a blur of outrage and betrayal, claws scraping the railing as though he might chase the caravan himself.

Bastard finally gave in, growling low in his throat but settling with grudging weight into Car's hold. Car hadn't grabbed him, he never did. He only waited until the cat came to him, full of fury and rain, and held on when the moment allowed it.

They stood together in the watch post, overlooking the winding trail the caravan had already begun to snake down. Car held Bastard against his chest. Florence stood beside him, arms folded, silent.

From this high up, they could see Warren, Wren, Grix, Calra, and Deana, all mounted on the armored haulers, sleek slabs of linked bulk transport made for crossing the ruins to the wilds. Vehicles built like thunder, stitched with magnetic rails and stormproofed hulls.

"I still think bringing the girl was a mistake," Car said quietly.

Florence didn't look at him. "It wasn't your choice."

"They're young."

"They're not," she said. "Never were."

Bastard let out a sharp, pitiful whine, the sound too small for something that held so much fury.

"I know, boy," Car murmured. "I miss them too."

"They'll make their own mistakes," he muttered. "And I'll be here when they come limping back. Same as always."

Florence smiled, just faintly. "They won't limp. Not with Warren in front."

"He's still reckless."

"Maybe," she said. "But he's ours."

Car said nothing for a long time. Rain traced down his cheeks, and Bastard eventually settled against his shoulder, fur damp but no longer bristling.

Car scratched the back of Bastard's neck with a thumb. The cat closed his eyes and purred, like a storm engine gone soft. Car didn't smile, but something behind his eyes flickered, just for a second.

Florence turned, walking back inside. "The dampener's finished," she called over her shoulder. "But don't tell them. Let it be a surprise."

Car's eyes stayed fixed on the caravan, already shrinking in the distance.

"We're heading to the place Wren told us it would be," Florence added. "We'll find something. I know it."

Car grunted. "Warlord hunting," he muttered. "Wish I could've gone."

He leaned on the rail, Bastard draped over his shoulders like a wet scarf.

"But they'll be back," he said. "That boy… he'll bring war to the Yellow. And when he does...."

He smiled, teeth bared like a knife pulled slow from the sheath.

"...we'll be ready."

Florence didn't answer. But in the room behind her, machines hummed to life.

And far below, the caravan disappeared into the storm.

The rain fell harder now, masking the rumble of wheels and engine fire, as though the world itself wanted to drown the memory of departure.

But Car didn't blink. He stayed at the rail. Watching. Measuring.

He remembered the first time he met Warren. A scrawny slip of a thing, eyes like rusted knives, already walking like the storm answered to him.

That boy wasn't carved by the world. He was born to reshape it.

Bastard lifted his head, ears flicking toward the empty road.

"He'll tear it all down," Car whispered. "And we'll help him build it better."

Florence reappeared behind him, holding a sealed case the size of a child's coffin.

"Adventure's calling," she said. "And it's time we answer."

Car turned to her, nodded once. Then back to the trail.

The storm blurred the horizon, but he could still feel them out there. The weight of their path. The promise of their return.

He adjusted Bastard's position, letting the cat curl tighter around his shoulders.

Florence joined him for one last glance. Without words, she slipped her arm through his. A quiet gesture. The kind you only make when the fight has lasted for years, and your trust has lasted longer.

"We'll have something for them when they get back."

"We better," Car muttered. "They'll need it."

The wind shifted. Brought with it the faint scent of oil, steel, and wet earth.

Florence closed her eyes and breathed it in. "Smells like the world waking up."

Car didn't answer. He didn't need to.

The two of them stood in the watch post a while longer. Silent sentinels. Builders. Survivors.

Until the storm took even the last trace of their children's trail, and only the hum of machines kept the silence from breaking.

Then, finally, Car turned.

"Let's get to work."

And Florence followed.

Together, they disappeared into the light.