Yellow Jacket

The Boneway caravan was in motion, hulking haulers grinding across shattered stone and overrun rail, chain-linked beasts of rust and willpower. Rain soaked the land again, as if the Wilds themselves were watching with breath held and judgment ready.

Inside the lead hauler, Warren sat quiet. Coat damp, truncheon beside him, eyes closed but not resting. Around him: Wren, Grix, Calra, Deana, Styll curled like smoke on his lap. And now Nanuk, silent, alert, watching everyone with a warrior's wariness.

He had earned his place. Not just as a warrior, but as Warren's First Scar. The rite had sealed it: Nanuk, born son of Muk-Tah, now walked beside another, his Wayfinder who had marked him with blood and spared him in mud. But he hadn't settled into it.

The hauler rumbled forward, its metal shell creaking with every shift in weight. A low hum filled the air, not just from the engine but from the low murmur of voices as the expedition began to ease into the rhythm of travel.

Grix sat cross-legged in the center of the hauler, surrounded by a growing pile, hand-carved tokens, and discarded gear. Cassian had already lost his jacket, boots, and, judging by the embarrassed laughter, his dignity. He stared down at his newest hand in disbelief.

"This isn't possible," Cassian muttered, rubbing a hand through his hair. "This is the ninth set we've tried. She isn't even making realistic calls, and they still come true."

Calra leaned against a support beam, smirking. "Oh, young one. That's why you never play for keeps with Grix."

Deana, perched nearby with arms crossed and an amused gleam in her eyes, nodded. "Her domain is chaos and chance. Even my god hasn't beaten her in anything that counts as a game."

"I've beaten her a bunch," Wren said with a grin.

Grix hissed immediately, baring her teeth.

Warren opened one eye and added, "That's because you're a dirty cheater."

"Hey," Wren said, feigning offense.

"It's true. You somehow find a way around the rules every single time."

Wren shrugged. "If there's no rule against it, then it's fair."

"That's not how rules work," Calra said, rolling her eyes.

"Whose side are you on, Cal?

Zoldy, I know better than anyone besides Warren that I know your tricks."

Warren and Calra shared a look and then high-fived in perfect sync.

"We do love you, though," Calra said.

"Filthy cheater," Warren finished.

Laughter spread through the hauler, easing some of the earlier tension.

Still, the atmosphere wasn't completely unified. Some of the Boneway tribe kept their distance, watching the games and camaraderie with a mix of curiosity and disdain. Their body language was stiff, reserved, their eyes lingering longer on the chipped warriors who laughed too loud and the odd tools they carried.

Even Nanuk shifted, uncomfortable. He leaned close to Deana and spoke low. "You aren't wildsmen."

Deana followed his gaze, her expression unreadable. "No. The Wilds shaped some of them, Calra, Wren, but they're not tribesmen. Not like you."

Nanuk nodded slowly, then pointed subtly toward Warren. "When you said your god... did you mean him?"

Styll chirped from Warren's lap, her tiny voice carrying. "Warn's good. Warn is Warn."

Deana turned to face Nanuk, and something lit in her eyes. Not just light, flame. The calm observer was gone in an instant, replaced by a zealot carved from faith and fire.

"Yes," she said, tone reverent. "He is the god I walk behind. Not because he demands it. But because the storm listens to him. The rain bows. The System flinches. He doesn't seek worship, he earns it. Every time he draws breath."

Nanuk's brows furrowed, uncertain. But he didn't interrupt.

Deana stepped closer. "You think the rite bound you to a man. But I tell you, you followed a rising star. You're walking beside something the gods themselves are watching."

The hauler jolted slightly. No one looked up.

Even the Boneway guards, stoic and skeptical, leaned in to hear more.

And Warren, eyes still half-closed, said nothing.

He didn't need to.

The storm was coming.

The air inside the hauler was thick with damp heat and quiet tension. Mud still clung to boots. Every creak of the chassis echoed louder than it should have.

The Boneway clan had honored Warren with the right to form a new branch. A clan of his own. He bore a new title now, Son of Muk-Tah. Not just a guest or ally, but named in blood and rite. The Boneway had two true sons now, one born of legacy, one by trial. Nanuk bore the birthright. Warren had taken his by might. If he could survive. If he could lead.

The tension thickened. Not fear, something worse. A knowing. A pressure building in the air itself, like the storm was holding its breath.

Warren's gaze tracked past the squad, past the flickering rain and the shuddering horizon.

He felt it. A shift. Weight moving behind the veil of clouds. Something was coming.

"Cassian," Grix said without looking away from the squad. "Get the men ready."

Cassian didn't argue. He turned on his heel and barked orders to the expedition's forces, who immediately began to spread out, taking cover and bracing for escalation. Dice and laughs fell silent as the tension turned the air thick as molasses.

Even Deana stopped speaking. Her expression shifted from fervor to alert calculation. She turned slowly, her eyes locked on the skyline behind them, where the fractured shell of the nearest city loomed like a sleeping beast in the rain.

The Boneway warriors, half-wild and half-in-awe, clustered together uneasily. Most of them had never seen the System move. Not like this. Not real.

Nanuk narrowed his eyes, his hand flexing near his hilt. "This scent. This storm. Something rides it."

Something was approaching.

"Do you feel that?" Warren asked quietly.

Styll's fur stood on end. She made a low, uneasy noise in Wren's arms.

Calra tightened her grip on her lance.

Outside the hauler, the storm deepened.

The System stirred.

It started with a ripple on the horizon. A flicker of motion no storm had made. A trail of lightless shapes darting through the lowland fog.

Then the caravan jolted. The first hauler locked its wheels.

"Blockade," one of the scouts called out. "Multiple hostiles. Four fliers. Patterned movement. Enforcers."

That word hit like a dropped blade.

Before Warren could stand, the rear hatch released a burst of pressure and opened. A squad of enforcers stepped through the veil of rain: gleaming segmented armor, visors opaque, weapons sleek and silent.

Their lances were powered but not yet raised.

The squad spoke in unison. Voices perfectly synchronized, a mechanical echo that filled the hauler with a sound like system alerts stacked on top of static.

"Warren Smith. You are under arrest."

Grix snarled. "Fuck you. Fuck the Green Zone. And fuck the massive dick you rode in on. We ain't in the Green. Even if we were, we'd never bow to your plastic authority."

The squad's heads turned slightly in eerie tandem.

"Resistance will not be tolerated."

The moment stretched.

Deana stepped forward. "You won't take him."

The caravan guards echoed that in motion, lances lifted, stances set.

Nanuk was already gone from sight. A shadow slipping through the mud. But one enforcer turned too quick, leveling a lance straight at his face.

The laughter died down. The pressure changed. Warren could feel it, something was coming.

Warren's voice cut clean through the storm.

"Hold."

Everyone froze.

He stepped forward, hands up, mud sucking at his boots. "You came for me. Let's talk."

The enforcers didn't designate a speaker. They replied together.

"Warren Smith. You are in violation of Green Zone Mandate 74D-1002617."

Warren narrowed his eyes. "I've never heard of it."

"Your existence violates the pact between Green and Yellow."

"My existence is a crime now?"

"It is futile."

Warren's brow furrowed. "What does that even mean?"

"You must surrender yourself for examination and termination, as mandated by law."

"So let me get this straight," Warren said, voice low. "You want me to turn myself in because I exist… so you can erase me."

"Yes."

Warren stepped closer. "You really think this ends with you on top?"

The enforcers did not react with anger. They reacted with escalation.

"All those who aid you are also in violation."

They turned their featureless visors toward Wren, Calra, Grix, Cassian, Nanuk, Deana and everyone else in the hauler.

"Azolde Flint, unregistered medical practitioner, accomplice to fugitive activity. Guilty by proximity and willful association."

Calra stepped in front of Wren.

"Calra Flint, insurgent. Guilty of protection of a classified threat, and resistance to lawful protocol."

Cassian scoffed. "Lawful? You got the nerve to say that with a straight synth-mouth?"

"Cassian Grey, rogue element from Sector Twelve. Guilty of desertion, aiding fugitive transport, and obstruction of inter-zone order."

Grix grinned wide and stepped forward. "Let me guess, 'public menace'?"

"Grixalia Goldthorn. Guilty of disrupting enforcement operations, probable use of unauthorized fragments, and failure to comply with mandatory documentation."

Styll hissed from Warren's shoulder. One enforcer aimed but hesitated.

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

"Entity: unknown. Containment recommended. Guilty of association with high-risk anomaly."

Nanuk's knuckles cracked. "Say it to my face."

"Muk-Tah of the Boneway. Guilty of tribal recognition of the anomaly. Acceptance of outlaw as clan-blood. Violation of cross-zone cultural code."

Deana stepped forward slowly. "You're out of your depth."

"Zerl Deana. Guilty of attempting to sanctify an anomaly. Accused of spreading an unauthorized cult."

"That's not a cult," she said. "That's faith."

"There is no distinction under Mandate Protocol."

"Then your mandates are broken."

"You just declared war on everyone I care about," Warren said.

"The law is absolute. The anomaly's existence cannot continue. Submission now will reduce the need for extended suppression."

Cassian spat. "Suppression? Sounds like you're scared."

"We do not fear. We cleanse errors."

"You're trying to cleanse The Ghost in the rain?"

The pressure in the air thickened. The enforcers were aligning. Lances tilted, bootlocks engaged. Precision across twenty figures.

Wren stepped to Warren's side. Her hand found his without hesitation.

"You're not alone," she said.

"Never was," he replied.

Grix raised a middle finger. "Come try and take him."

"Any resistance will result in total suppression."

"You already said that," Calra said. "And we already answered."

Another volley of charges came.

"Unlicensed operation of system-grade weapons. Possession of redacted tech. Harboring fugitive. Unauthorized territory traversal. Interference in enforcer response. Tampering with surveillance nets. Illegal sanctuary protocols. Cross-zone data corruption. Unauthorized survival."

"Unauthorized survival?" Cassian said. "Do you even hear yourselves?"

Warren didn't move. He listened. Let them speak. Let them stack the crimes higher.

"Manipulation of anomaly vectors. Fabrication of false system echoes. Interference with system sync. Presence during system failure event. Resistance to deletion. Unapproved statistical variance."

"Hostile behavior in proximity to authorised system enforcers. Failure to accept class. Manual override of system class selection. Introduction of non-coded entity to active field. Weaponization of weather-adjacent phenomena."

At that, Warren smiled.

"Yeah," he said. "That last one's on me."

Grix cracked her neck. "Was wondering when they'd bring up the rain."

Rain continued to fall, heavier now. Pools gathered at Warren's feet. Mist curled around the edges of his boots.

"Final warning," said the squad.

"Terminate the anomaly, or prepare for deletion."

Warren stepped closer. "Well. I guess I don't have a choice then."

The squad's voices hummed again. "Your cooperation is noted. Your erasure will be swift and painless."

Warren tilted his head.

"Sorry," he said. "I pick option two."

Rain Dancer woke.

Pressure twisted beneath his feet, water thickened around him, and the air parted like it had been waiting. Mist surged from the ground as if pulled by gravity in reverse. The storm bowed.

He moved before any of them could blink.

One explosive wave erupted from beneath him, a burst of pressure so dense and immediate it launched every enforcer off the Boneway hauler in a single, devastating moment. They hit the mud like discarded wreckage, bodies crashing through wet earth, armor scraping stone, systems sparking under impact. No warning. Not even his own people had seen it coming.

Cassian blinked in disbelief, Deana's eyes lit with fire finally seeing her God awaken once again. Calra leapt to her feet, lance coming up on reflex. Grix let out a sharp bark of laughter, half-wild, half-in awe.

Muk-Tah's brow furrowed, sensing something new and violent unfold before him. His hand hovered near the knife at his belt, not in threat, but in instinctive reverence.

Wren and Styll cheered with unfiltered delight from the hauler's edge. Wren clapped once and leaned forward eagerly, her face lit up like a child at a festival. Styll bounced on her shoulder, squeaking out, "GO! Warn! GO!" in her tiny high-pitched voice.

Even Nanuk straightened. Even the storm seemed to pause.

Warren stepped forward into the silence that followed, rain tightening around him like a sheath. His truncheon dropped from his side into his palm with a wet slap. He held it not like a weapon, but like a conductor's baton. His other hand moved in sync, and the world answered.

He walked to the edge of the hauler and dropped down without a sound. The mud didn't cling to him. It recoiled.

He stepped, and vanished. Not speed, not blur. Just absence. Flicker slipped him past their sight lines, quiet as mist under moonlight. He reappeared inside the squad's perimeter, where their formation had no answer waiting.

He didn't strike. The storm did. Torrents slammed sideways, ripping weapons from hands, peeling helmets from armor seams. The storm moved with Warren, sharp and surgical.

Flechettes fired wildly, some struck steel, others punched holes in the caravan walls, but none touched Warren.

He shifted position again. Slammed an enforcer into the mud with a force that cracked the ground. Another was dragged into a shallow crater by pressure alone, their voice lost in a gurgling choke as rain drowned their comms.

Armor split under fingers that knew every weak seam. Water surged into vents. Sparks burst from overloaded joints.

Warren's movements were theatrical by nature: a violent ballet rendered in storm and rhythm. Every step was performance, every strike a statement. But beneath the spectacle, there was no wasted motion. Precision lived in the core of the flourish. He didn't kill with brute force, he dismantled with intent, each blow calculated, each disarm deliberate, taking them apart piece by piece while the world watched.

Then he moved again, faster than thought. A hammering wave of water detonated outward from his body, invisible until it struck. The few enforcers still on their feet were flung away like dolls swept from a table.

They hit the mud hard, bounced and rolled through muck, clattering into thick puddles and hard stone. Groans and sparks filled the air.

The enforcers scrambled into formation, boot-thrusters igniting. They rose in the air like a broken star converging, a formation not meant for men but for machines.

They attacked in concert. A diagonal pincer. One from the left, three from above, two low from the flanks, and the rest forming a perimeter to close him in.

Warren didn't flinch. He surged.

Water buckled beneath his feet. A jet-propelled wave hurled him upward, intercepting the overhead strike with a crash that shattered air. Their service lances, sleek instruments of precision warfare, skidded uselessly against his guard: the ocean itself.

He twisted midair. A flicker. Landed between two flanking enforcers and crushed them into the mud with arms spread wide like the wings of a storm.

Another shot screamed for his head. It never reached. Rain turned solid, just for an instant, blocking the flechette like a god's shield.

One enforcer blinked. That hesitation cost him his helmet as Warren's truncheon burst through water and cracked it in half with a vicious upward snap.

The mud turned chaotic. Splashes gave way to pillars of force. Waves rolled under the battlefield like buried snakes, tripping and tossing enemies off balance.

Shots came in synchronized volleys. Warren moved faster. Used Flicker again, appearing behind, above, beside. He twisted, turned, ducked, shattered.

The air bent around him. Every strike they sent was devoured.

He wasn't dodging. An ocean bent for him. Not a man, they were fighting weather.

One enforcer lunged in with his shock rod driving for Warren's ribs. Warren didn't touch it. A wave burst from the mud, arcing upward like a rising wall. It caught the rod before it could make contact, redirected it into the sky with a flash of redirected force. Warren moved through the aftermath, took the weapon mid-air, snapped it in two with one hand and embedded the jagged half through the enforcer's shoulder seam. Then he spun his truncheon in a tight arc and brought the handle down on the man's helmet, denting it flat.

Another screamed down from above, fists charged with pulse emitters. Warren met him mid-jump. They collided, not like warriors, but like gods. The force cracked the earth, made the hauler rattle behind them.

Grix shouted something gleeful in the background, but the words vanished in thunder.

Wren whooped, slapping the hauler's wall with excitement. "Go get em, Warren!"

Styll spun in circles on her shoulder perch, chanting, "Warn! Warn! Warn!"

Water exploded outward again. Sheets of it, walls. Pressure so dense it made men choke. One enforcer tried to crawl out, only for the water to grab his limbs and hold him like hands.

Cassian shouted, "Back him up!"

Deana held up a hand. "No. We can't help him. That's not a man in there."

Calra gritted her teeth. "We owe him more than just watching."

Nanuk whispered, "I thought I had seen stormcallers before.... But this.... This is something else."

Nanuk's eyes flared faintly, mirroring Deana's glow. Muk-Tah watched in silence, one hand over his heart, the other resting on his knee as if bearing witness to something sacred. He didn't cheer. He didn't shout. But something ancient stirred behind his eyes.

One enforcer took to the air, tried to flee. Warren looked up.

The rain moved faster than the man could.

It coalesced into a spear, pierced the flier's shoulder, and dragged him down. Warren met him halfway in the fall and sent him skimming across the mud like a stone.

They tried again, two from the rear, three fast from the sides.

Warren let them get close.

Then the ground erupted.

He'd charged it. Saturated it. Weaponized every puddle. A geyser sprung from every inch of earth. They were caught in their own momentum.

Warren twisted and spun like he was dancing, because he was. Every step was part of the rhythm. Every pivot was a change in tempo. He was a conductor and the storm answered his every cue. The truncheon rose and fell, not as a bludgeon, but as a baton, calling forth arcs of rain and sheets of force.

Two more enforcers tried a synchronized strike, both went limp mid-charge as water flooded their helmets.

He slammed his palm into the earth.

A tidal burst threw the last airborne unit fifty feet back.

Then silence.

Then breath.

They tried to regroup. Broken, bruised, some spitting blood. The symmetry of their movements was gone. Their faces bruised, too pretty to die like this.

One of them, young, bleeding from the temple, whispered, "This means death. You know that."

Warren stared down at him, unblinking.

"That's all you have ever offered."

He stepped closer. "You think you have the right to say who can exist because you have power."

Rain coiled tighter around his fists.

"I don't think you understand. I dance with death on a daily basis."

And then he struck.

The earth screamed with him.

Mud swallowed the last of them.

And Warren stood, a shadow in the rain, breathing steady.

Behind him, the Boneway didn't speak. Some knelt. Others stared like they'd seen a god. Calra dropped her lance, eyes wide. Cassian exhaled something between awe and terror.

Deana whispered, "My god walks."

Wren leaned into Styll, beaming. "This was even better than last time."

Styll purred. "Warn wins. Always wins."

Muk-Tah nodded once, barely perceptible. A recognition. A vow. He had come expecting to guide.

Now he knew he would follow. This Son would have been his brother in another life.

Silence followed.

The Expedition's troops held their ground, weapons still ready, but stunned.

The Boneway stepped forward, shaken. They'd seen Skills before, bursts of speed, flashes of heat, and martial abilities that could shatter stone by chipped warriors. But this wasn't that.

They weren't all chipped, but they understood instinct. And something in them knew: what they'd witnessed wasn't just power. It was dominance made manifest. The storm moved because Warren moved. The world bent because he told it to.

The youngest of the Sons of Muk-Tah watched in silence, eyes wide. Even Nanuk, born to the bloodline, looked at Warren like the old stories might be true. Like a man could command the storm and walk away a god.

Calra moved to Warren's side. Her voice soft. "Was that... really necessary?"

Warren didn't answer. He just stared at the broken visors, the identical eyes beneath.

"They weren't here to take me," he said quietly. "They were here because something told them they had a chance."

"And?" Grix asked, blood still humming.

Warren turned. "I will find out who told them to give me their lives."

Lightning flashed.

But the storm had not taken them all.

Several enforcers groaned where they'd fallen, armor cracked, helmets fractured, but bodies still intact. A few crawled. One tried to lift his weapon, only to find it already gone. Their formation had shattered, their pride along with it, but breath still clung to their lungs.

Cassian signaled to the Expedition soldiers. "Strip them. Weapons first. Then suits."

Grix and Calra moved in sync with the rest of their people, checking for pulses and disabling helmet comms. Shock rods and lances were yanked from holsters and slings, tossed into crates. Service armor plates were unlatched and dumped in piles, boots torn free from power-assist anchors.

"Sir where do we hold them?" Cassian asked, glancing at Muk-Tah.

Muk-Tah stepped forward, slow but certain. "Spare hauler. The one used for livestock. It has bars. Holds scent and sound well."

Cassian nodded. "Get them chained."

The surviving enforcers were dragged through the muck, hands bound with link clamps from the expedition's tool lockers. Some resisted, barely. Most had nothing left.

One spat blood at Warren's feet. Warren didn't even look.

Others stayed silent, eyes fixed on the ground, as if avoiding his gaze might spare them.

It didn't.

They were thrown into the hauler, once a moving pen for beasts of burden, now grudgingly repurposed for broken soldiers. The scent had not been cleared, thick with the reek of fur, feces, and old fear. Muck clung to the grated floor in streaks, and remnants of hay rotted wet in the corners. A six-legged, moss-backed brayhorn shrieked once from deeper inside, its voice a wet, ululating wail that echoed off the hauler walls like someone gargling thunder, startled by the intrusion.

But the brayhorn wasn't alone.

A blinkdrake crouched in a corner cage, translucent skin quivering with residual light. It shimmered whenever someone passed too close, its vertical pupils tracking movement with predatory stillness. Its breath smelled of ozone and wet copper.

Three dush-feathered galbrats, small, bird-like creatures with feathered bat-like wings and oversized tails clung to the ceiling mesh. They squaked at the enforcers as they were pushed past, churping in chorus before scuttling back into a dark, hay-stuffed vent.

Something unseen growled low from beneath a stack of old crates. No one checked.

A quartet of giant four-eyed toads, their warty backs slick with blue-green mucus, crouched in one of the muckier corners. Each blink was slow and unsettling. Their eyes moved independently, tracking every motion. One croaked low, and the sound made a nearby soldier flinch, it was less a frog call and more a deep, wet belch of displeasure.

The soldiers recoiled, gagging at the stench as they locked the enforcers down. Chains were hooked into old livestock clamps on the floor, rusted but still functional. One by one, the enforcers were secured, forced to kneel in filth, their breath loud in the sour air. No mercy. No comfort. Just cold iron, rain, and the lingering scent of animals who'd long since stopped trusting men.

As they were chained down, some of the enforcers began to protest. Loud, indignant voices cutting through the stench.

"This is beneath us!" one screamed, coughing through his missing teeth "We are citizens of the Green!"

"We demand proper holding conditions!" he wailed. "This is barbaric!"

"I am a graduate of The blue Citadel!" shouted another, writhing in his binds. "My family owns a stake in the powerlines, do you have any idea what that means?!"

The soldiers didn't answer. The door creaked shut.

One enforcer sobbed, gagging as a toad let out a long, mucus-laced belch in his direction.

"Oh dear Gods," a third one choked out, "Why are you leaving us in a place that smells like rot and vomit?"

From the other side of the bars, Cassian just smirked. "Because under all that white plating, you're just meat like the rest of us."

Grix slammed the door shut with a final clank of steel. "Let the Green Zone see what they truly are, entitled children with borrowed power. We send them back in pieces, not just for what they did, but for what they thought they were."

Deana walked past, checking restraints. "No escape. No signals."

Calra whispered, "They came armed for slaughter. Let them feel what they would have given."

Cassian stepped outside and closed the locking bar. "If the green wants you back, they can try."

Nanuk stood just outside the hauler, his massive arms crossed, rainwater still clinging to his chest. His eye-light, dull through most of the battle, flickered now with sharp pulses, irregular, almost like it was reacting emotionally instead of functionally. He said nothing, but he watched.

Watched as Cassian and the others dragged the enforcers into the cargo hauler.

Watched as the nobles without their precious armor screamed that this was beneath them.

And he didn't flinch.

One of the blinkdrakes let out a low, rasping noise from a corner of the hauler, blinking in rapid bursts as it shifted its weight atop a rusted cage. Four-eyed toads croaked in tones that sounded closer to coughing than calls. The brayhorn gave a mournful bellow. Inside the livestock hold, the stink was a living thing, and it welcomed its new guests.

Grix leaned against the outer rail, flicking blood off a bent dagger. "Told you they weren't soldiers."

"They don't know how to hold the ground," Calra said. "Not where it matters."

Deana didn't speak. She was watching Nanuk.

So was Styll, curled beside Wren.

Wren turned to Warren, who stood a little apart. She didn't speak either. Just smiled, the kind of smile someone wears after watching a storm carve a new shape into the world.

Warren didn't watch the final restraints go on. He stood near the front of the hauler, staring toward the horizon.

Rain fell again, quieter now.

The Boneway caravan rolled forward.

Toward the Wilds. Toward the warlord.

And toward a war the gods had already started.