Yellow Jacket

Gastlan didn't look like a town that should've survived the collapse. It was too clean. Too tall. The outer wall rose in sweeping white curves, unmarred by rust or wear. The towers gleamed, silent and bright like they'd been pressure-washed by god. Even the air smelled sterile.

No barricades. No scav posts. Just a checkpoint flanked by two standing enforcers, one Vanessa and one Bonaparte, both in full uniform, each armed with a lance and shock rod, unreadable behind regulation calm. They didn't wear exosuits. Didn't need to. Their presence alone did the job.

Vaeliyan stood in line with Jurpat and Isol, just another trio of civilians waiting their turn. A small family ahead of them, two parents, a child, stepped forward and were scanned without incident. The father bowed slightly, the mother clutched the child's hand tightly, and they were waved through. Another pair of scav-looking types followed. Nervous, twitchy. But their chips pinged green, and they were let in too.

Then came the runner.

A man broke from the side of the line, young, gaunt, with tattered sleeves and twitching eyes. No bag. No ID. He darted toward the gate, steps frantic, hands out as if pleading mid-sprint.

"Please, I just..."

The Vanessa didn't speak. She moved.

Her lance came up and fired. A flechette burst, center mass. It tore through the man's chest in a tight, brutal cluster, a mist of red and a sound like meat tearing. He folded mid-stride and collapsed in a heap, motionless. Blood spread fast in the rain, soaking into the clean pavement.

The Vanessa turned, calmly reset her stance, and smiled at the next in line.

"Next. Sorry about the commotion."

No one else tried anything. The crowd moved slow. Systemic. One scan at a time. IDs pinged. Chips flickered. Each person was either waved through or pulled aside. Efficient. Unnerving.

Vaeliyan swallowed. His mouth was dry. His skin, for once, not covered in rain or blood, felt too exposed. His hands curled into loose fists. Not out of defiance. Just fear.

He'd never been scanned before. Not like this. Not by a real Green Zone reader.

If the Veil didn't hold...

If it glitched, even for a second...

The line moved again.

Now it was his turn.

The Vanessa stepped forward, scanner in hand. "Please remain still."

He nodded, too fast. "Of course."

The device passed over him. Stopped. Red blinked.

A pause.

Her face didn't change. But she leaned slightly closer. Checked the device again.

"Something's not right," she said.

Vaeliyan's pulse hammered. He could hear it, in his ears, like thunder in a bottle. Every breath felt like it had weight. The air thickened.

She tilted the scanner, frowned.

Another enforcer approached, a Bonaparte, older, tired. He glanced at the reader.

"That's because you've got it upside down, you idiot."

The Vanessa blinked. "Oh." She flipped it, beeped twice, then smiled. "Carry on, citizen. Welcome to Gastlan. Hope you find everything you need on your stay with us."

Vaeliyan exhaled too loudly. "Thank you, sir or madam... gods, I keep forgetting not to say that. Anyways. Have a good day."

Jurpat facepalmed hard enough to slap.

Isol snorted and waved him forward. "Come on, diplomat."

They passed through the gate as the line resumed behind them, the towers of Gastlan looming ahead.

The rain had stopped by the time they passed fully through the checkpoint. Gastlan stretched in clean lines and pale symmetry, all gentle curves and muted colors. No rubble. No exposed wiring. No broken signs. Just order.

Isol looked entirely too comfortable.

"Alright boys," he said, adjusting the collar of his coat. "We're going to one of my favorite shops."

Vaeliyan raised an eyebrow. "You have favorite stores?"

"I have taste," Isol replied. "And this one, this one's special. It's one of the flagship locations. Ryan Ryan actually designed the floorplan themself. That means it's watched like a hawk. Everything's perfect. Uniform. Beautiful. Up to standard."

"Sounds... sterile," Jurpat muttered.

"It is," Isol said, grinning. "Which means nobody will shoot at us while we're shopping. Also, I've got a great account there. Credit access. Discounts. Perks. Let's go."

He clapped both boys on the shoulder and steered them into the deeper lanes of the city, where the buildings got taller and the faces on the street looked more and more alike.

Vaeliyan looked up as a holographic face drifted overhead, smiling without blinking. New jawline models. Updated brow structure. Sale tags on expressions. It was all so normal here.

He pulled his coat tighter and kept walking.

The store interior was spotless. White floors, softly glowing panels, and floating displays showcasing the newest fashion-grade armor and state-verified weapons. Ads drifted through the air, silent, translucent faces offering smiles and upgrade packages. New jawlines. Sleeker cheekbones. Trend alerts. The future of beauty, body, and war, all in one showroom.

Ryan & Ryan was everything the Green Zone promised: efficient, beautiful, and hollow.

Vaeliyan wandered past racks of precision-crafted melee weapons, plasma blades humming gently behind reinforced glass. He scanned the inventory: gleaming lances, streamlined shock halberds, neatly serrated blades that could split hairs midair. All perfect. All lifeless.

He stopped.

"None of this is right," he muttered.

Jurpat was busy holding a curved double-blade, testing the weight with a grin. Isol was off to the side, slipping into a sharply tailored coat that looked like it cost more than a Mara city block.

Vaeliyan approached one of the Ryans, androgynous and flawless, like someone had painted serenity on a marble statue.

"Do you have a stock of armor?" he asked.

The Ryan blinked once, then smiled politely. "Yes, sir. Though our selection of arms is vastly larger than our armor collection. Armor is not particularly in fashion this quarter."

"That's fine. I don't really care about fashion."

The Ryan looked horrified. As if he'd just confessed to murder.

They turned sharply, walking briskly across the showroom to another Ryan standing near a recessed display wall. This one was leaning against the panel, visibly bored.

"This one's for you," the first Ryan said.

The bored Ryan raised a brow. "Really? A customer here dumb enough to...."

The first Ryan interrupted with a tight smile and a nod toward Isol. "The Paper Angel is paying."

The bored Ryan frowned. "Who? That ugly old man over there? No way that's the Paper Angel."

"Biocreds match," the first Ryan said flatly. "Apparently those two lucky bastards are his wards."

"I can hear you," Isol called from across the room, mid-pose in a gangster-cut coat, arms out like he was modeling for war.

The Ryans paled. Vaeliyan stepped closer, unimpressed.

"So are either of you two chuck-fucks going to help me with the armor, or what?"

The bored Ryan straightened instantly. The other one fled.

"What are you looking for?"

Vaeliyan shrugged. "Something different. Can I see the full stock?"

"Certainly," the Ryan said with sudden professional crispness. "Right this way."

Meanwhile, Jurpat was stacking gear on a counter like a child let loose in a toy store. Combat visors. Energy batons. Something that looked like a collapsible buzzsaw.

"What are you going to do with all that?" Isol asked, chuckling.

"I watched every Legion holo I could get my hands on," Jurpat said earnestly. "All of these seemed super useful."

The Ryan trailing him nodded dutifully, arms full of gear. "Excellent choices, sir. The C7 Light Tactical Nuke is a perfect tool for civilization control."

Isol collapsed into a fit of laughter, barely able to breathe. "You know most of those holos that 'leaked' are just ads, right?"

Jurpat stopped. Stared.

He looked like a kid who'd just found out Santa wasn't real, and also his parents were getting divorced.

The showroom lights flickered gently as another ad passed overhead: "Join the Future of Combat. Bleed Beautifully."

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

The Green Zone always smiled.

The World Tree Inn didn't look like a building. It looked like something dreamed by someone who had never touched dirt. A tower of polished chrome and bioglass shaped into the impossible architecture of a tree, trunk wide as a city block, branches stretching into the mist like veins in a sleeping god. Each limb a suspended hallway or luxury dome, swaying gently even though there was no wind. The leaves weren't leaves. Just light. Soft projections, shimmering and shifting like thoughts caught in air.

There were no attendants. No front desk. No doors that needed to open. Just a voice.

"Welcome to the World Tree Inn, a World Tree Inn Corp experience. Your presence is appreciated."

The lobby was empty. Not just absent. Soundless. Guests passed, or maybe they didn't. It was hard to tell. Sometimes a figure flickered past the corner of vision, never quite forming, never quite real.

Isol moved like he'd been here a hundred times. He tapped the interface. Lights bloomed in the air. The screen never glowed, just appeared, like a memory returning.

"Suite allocated. Level 82, canopy-tier access confirmed."

The lift had no doors. The space simply changed.

Now they stood in a hallway of soft light and perfect stillness. Synthetic woodgrain met the soles of their boots like a whisper. The door to their suite sighed open before they reached it.

Inside, it was surreal.

The room pulsed gently with light. Nothing moved. And yet everything shifted, like the building was listening to their breath.

The windows weren't just glass. They were something more, a full 360-degree panoramic layer that wrapped the suite, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, showing the city in perfect, impossible clarity. Gastlan stretched out below them like a dream rendered in sterile light and impossible symmetry. Towers curved like spines. Streets glowed with regulated lumens. The people were shadows, small, coordinated, careful.

It looked peaceful. From this high up, the city seemed clean. As if chaos had been surgically removed.

Above, the canopy of the World Tree shimmered with veined light. The higher limbs vanished into low mist, caught in artificial weather that shifted color and temperature to match circadian rhythm suggestions.

Vaeliyan stood in front of the glass, hand pressed against it. There was no chill. No resistance. It didn't feel like glass at all.

In the living area, a low fountain shimmered in the center of the floor, casting faint light ripples onto the ceiling. The water wasn't real, it looped in an endless motion, folding into itself without ever rising or falling.

Chairs adjusted as they moved. Surfaces smoothed when touched. Even the scent of the room changed depending on who was standing where. A pulse of lavender when Jurpat passed near the beds. A trace of ozone where Isol rested.

The ceiling arced with slow constellations, false stars drawn in lines they didn't recognize. Some blinked. Some didn't. Maybe they were telling time. Or dreams. Or lies.

The walls were lined with panels that held no seams or edges, just soft gradients of light. Occasionally one would brighten, then fade, as if remembering something.

The beds weren't really beds at all. They were nanite clouds, hovering masses of programmable matter that swirled just slightly as if breathing. They responded not to weight, but to intention. You could walk through them and feel nothing but air. Step into them without sinking. But choose to lie down, and they remembered you. Or maybe imagined you.

The moment Jurpat laid down, the cloud embraced him. Becoming exactly what he needed. A shape shaped around the ghost of comfort. There was no surface. No texture. It felt like sleeping on the idea of softness, on a story told about rest. As if the room had built a cradle from dream logic alone.

Vaeliyan circled his, watching it shimmer. He extended a hand. The cloud parted. No contact. Just a shimmer of motes and light. And yet, when he let himself fall back, it caught him.

Isol found a chair that molded perfectly to his back. He sank into it with a sigh, eyes half-lidded, the tension gone from his face for the first time in days.
Bastard had vanished the moment the suite opened.

Styll padded into view minutes later, tail flicking with vague interest. She sniffed the floor, then the wall, then the air, and paused in the middle of the room like she was tracking something none of them could see.

A low hum came from the wall. Then a section of it peeled back like folded silk. A platform descended, carrying a perch carved from synthetic wood and slotted ivory. It drifted lazily until it settled near the fountain. Styll jumped up with the quiet dignity of an apex predator accepting tribute. The perch adjusted. A warmth pulsed up through it, temperature-mapped, pressure-controlled. She coiled like smoke and began to nap, her breathing syncing with the lights around her.

Bastard emerged from the ceiling, lounging on what looked like a hammock of threaded light. He blinked once at the others, then stretched like a creature built from knives and shadow. The structure holding him retracted into the ceiling slightly, giving him a better view of the floating stars above.

Neither had been offered these luxuries.

The room had simply known.

A small drone floated silently across the room, delivering drinks in crystal-clear containers. Nothing was labeled, but every glass tasted exactly as desired.

Vaeliyan tried one. It tasted like clean rain and electricity. He didn't even know he wanted that, until now. Somehow, it became his new favorite, not because of the flavor, but because of what it made him feel: like clarity had a taste, and comfort could be swallowed.

In the far corner, a small reading alcove adjusted to Isol's height and seating habits. When he sat, a console grew from the wall beside him, offering data feeds, maps, and real-time information from half the planet.

The AI's voice chimed softly: "Soundfield modulation enabled. Outside noise will be simulated at 3% to ease transition."

A breeze passed through the room, not from ventilation, but simulated. It carried the smell of distant pine, faint and fading.

Jurpat muttered, "This place is alive."

"No," Isol said quietly. "It's worse. It's trying to be."

The floor texture shifted as Vaeliyan walked, slightly firmer near the windows, softer near the bed. Subtle. Nearly imperceptible. Intentional.

Isol tossed his bag onto a padded bench and stretched like he belonged there.

"Alright," he said. "Room service. This is your last real meal before the road. Bug bars for the rest of the year. Get everything you want. Even things you don't want."

Vaeliyan shook his head. "This is... too much. I think I'm just going to lay on the floor. This is far too much too soon."

"This is a cheap suite," Isol said, smiling. "You should see the executive models. First time I saw one, I had to sit down. Thought it was a hallucination."

The AI spoke again, softer now. The voice of silk against silence:

"Room service menu available. Please select from our premium offerings."

"We don't need that," Isol said quickly. "Just the full food menu, please. Adult services not required."

"Guest restrictions applied," the AI confirmed. "Would you like to order anything now?"

"Please send one of everything for the moment," Isol said. "Put it on my account, and we'll go from there. Thank you, Willow."

"You are welcome, Mr. Brent."

A soft chime rang from the door.

Vaeliyan hesitated, already reaching for his hand lance. He moved slowly, gripping it tight, then opened the door just a crack.

Isol chuckled and walked past him like it was nothing, pulling in the first set of trays.

Vaeliyan sat cross-legged on the floor. The carpet warmed slightly beneath him, adapting.

He looked up. The light above him changed tone, growing slightly softer, more golden. Like a sunset remembered, not seen.

"I think I'm dreaming," he whispered.

Isol didn't answer. He just poured a drink and leaned back.

For a moment, they were nowhere. Or maybe somewhere far too perfect to exist.

And the World Tree Inn listened.

Vaeliyan refused the bed.

He didn't say it outright, but the way he unrolled his cloak in the corner of the room, back to the nanite cloud, was declaration enough. He muttered something about real scavvers sleeping on metal, not dreams, then crossed his arms and glared at the shifting mass of comfort like it had personally insulted him.

The bed didn't react.

But later, when the lights dimmed and the others began to settle, it crept closer.

First just an inch. Then a little more. Every time he turned his head, it was subtly nearer, like it was trying to make itself invisible between blinks. He moved. It followed. He shifted to the other wall. It realigned. At one point, he threw a pillow at it. The pillow vanished into the cloud like a whisper swallowed by fog.

"Willow," he hissed.

"Yes, Mr. Verdance?"

"Tell the ghost bed to stop."

A pause.

"Your suite's comfort systems are attempting to optimize your rest."

"Yeah, well, don't."

"Understood. Recalibrating proximity parameters."

But the ghost bed didn't stop.

Sometime after midnight, he tried to barricade himself using chairs, a small table, and two decorative floor cushions. The chairs vanished. The table folded itself back into the floor with an apologetic chime. The cushions whispered into smoke.

He sat there, knees to chest, watching the bed hover, just a few feet away now. It pulsed faintly, like it was breathing. Waiting.

He blacked out sometime after three, still muttering about boundaries and spiritual consent.

He woke up inside the cloud.

Not on it. Not near it. Inside. Wrapped, supported, weightless. Like the idea of comfort had decided to manifest specifically for him.

And he felt... perfect.

No tightness in his back. No soreness in his legs. No strain in his breathing. He didn't remember falling asleep. Didn't remember giving in. But the ghost bed had won.

He sat up slowly, eyes wide, heart racing.

A tray hovered nearby. On it sat a cup, ceramic, matte black. He didn't recognize it. But the scent punched him in the chest.

Wild citrus and sweet mint. Tea from a grove that had burned back when Mara was around. His favorite. Impossible.

He took a cautious sip.

Exactly right.

The lights shifted tone, cooling toward gold, just the way he liked them in the morning. A gentle breeze rolled across the suite, carrying a scent he hadn't smelled in years: the inside of Mara's coat. Clean cloth and copper dust.

He looked down.

A robe waited at the end of the cloud. Deep yellow, trimmed in muted gray. It was deep yellow, his favorite color, and for a moment it felt like it belonged to someone he should have known.

He stood up too fast and nearly slipped. The cloud retracted as he moved, silently respectful.

Willow's voice arrived like a lullaby:

"Good morning, Mr. Verdance. We calibrated this morning's comfort suite to match your subconscious needs. We hope you feel understood."

Vaeliyan dropped the robe like it bit him.

"It knows me," he muttered.

Jurpat groaned from across the room and pulled his cloud tighter around himself like a second skin.

Isol sipped from a cup and didn't look up. "You slept like a corpse."

"That's not comforting."

"Sure it is. Means it worked."

Vaeliyan turned back toward the robe. It hadn't moved. But it felt like it was waiting.

He sat on the edge of the cloud. It rose to meet him.

He glared at it.

"Fine. You win."

The room hummed in approval.

He didn't say thank you.

But he took the robe.

Stuffed it into his pack like it hadn't meant anything. Like it wasn't perfect.

He didn't wear it. Not yet. But the way he zipped the pack closed felt like a concession.

The room had won. And it knew it.

Outside the walls of Gastlan, the wind carried the scent of hot steel and market grease. The city's sterile white towers faded behind them, gleaming in the morning sun like they'd been extruded from cloud. In front of them, a scrapfield stretched wide, marked by rusted fencing, humming drone towers, and old men who still remembered what junk was worth.

Isol stood beside a merchant's stall, haggling in quiet, efficient tones as a pair of busted haulers were assessed by a drone with a bad attitude and worse paint. The haulers hadn't really worked in the first place. Now they were someone else's problem.

Vaeliyan stretched his arms, not sore for once, and grinned like he'd stolen something. Jurpat leaned against a crate, smug and rested, his posture dripping with the kind of satisfaction that only came from surviving the worst and finally being done with it.

"No more training," Vaeliyan said.

"Not unless he brings a coffin," Jurpat added.

They'd survived Isol's so-called light training, and now it was over. No more dragging haulers through dust. No more death jogs before dawn. They were selling the haulers because the shuttle to the Citadel didn't allow non-essential cargo, and nothing about those things had ever been essential, except maybe as instruments of torture.

Styll peeked her silver snout out from the front pocket of Vaeliyan's sleeveless yellow duster, whiskers twitching at the strange smells. She had grown since Mara, broader, maybe a little rounder. All that pampering was catching up with her. She ate like she was preparing for war and had no natural predators. Her voice had started to form in sharp clicks when she deigned to speak, but today she was content to just ride and observe, a spoiled monarch in furred disguise. But right now, she was just observing. Bastard, meanwhile, lounged across Vaeliyan's head like a crown, claws curled loosely in the fabric of his hood, his tail wrapped around one side like a second braid.

They earned stares.

Not for the ferret. Not even for the silver-eyed cat with the posture of a gang boss.

For Isol.

People looked at him like he was some kind of ghost. Not because of his stance or his presence, but because of his face. Old. Lined. Weathered by time. The kind of face that shouldn't exist anymore, not in the Green.

With all the gene mods, nanite lifts, and facial sculpting that went around, seeing someone like him was like spotting a statue moving in a city that had forgotten history.

One woman actually flinched. Her face reset too quickly, a glitch in her social programming, before she offered a bright, strained smile and ducked away.

Isol didn't react. He never did. He just signed the merchant's ledger, received a thin packet of credit markers, and turned back toward the boys.

"Ready to go?" he asked.

Jurpat's eyes lit up. "Finally. The shuttle and no more training."

Vaeliyan nodded, practically bouncing. "No more training! Gods, I might cry."

"Enjoy the break while it lasts," Isol muttered. "They don't go easy on fresh blood."

Vaeliyan rubbed his hands together. "So long as the shuttle's not uphill, we're golden."

"It is."

They both groaned, but even that had some laughter in it.

Isol gestured toward the road. "Come on. Breakfast first. After that? You're off the leash."

Neither of them looked upset about it.

Not today.