Yellow Jacket

Warren stood still, silent, then gestured once. Grix caught the motion and immediately moved to corral the others. "Come on, time to clear out," she called, nudging Cassian with a nod. He helped usher the rest away, murmuring reassurances where needed.

Deana didn't move. Neither did Wren. Muk-Tah remained as well, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Warren didn't argue.

"You don't have to stay," he said.

Deana's voice was firm. "We do."

Wren stepped forward, eyes steady. "You shouldn't do this alone."

Muk-Tah exhaled. "I trust your words, my son. But I'll stay over here. Near the toads. Just in case you need someone less... close."

Warren nodded. That was enough.

Anza, still pale, followed Yeri. The two disappeared without protest, still shaken, still unraveling.

Warren walked to the first of the remaining three prisoners, a captured enforcer chained by the wrists, mud splattered across his boots and chest plate. The man's eyes went wide as Warren approached.

"What were your orders?"

"We don't have orders," the man said too fast.

Warren's face didn't change, but something inside him twisted. He took a half-step forward, intention radiating off him like heat.

The prisoner flinched.

"Wait," Wren said.

"Give him a second," Deana added.

The enforcer cracked. "We take the job, we put on the suit, we say the phrase, and four hours later we get paid. That's it. Most of us sleep through patrol. The suits handle everything. It's a good wage. Please don't feed me to those things. I didn't do anything wrong! I did what everyone does."

Ugly sobbing, unfiltered. Warren didn't blink.

"Why did the helmet move on its own when it was taken off?"

The second enforcer, older and exhausted-looking, spoke before the first could catch his breath. "Protocol. I heard it's to keep our identities hidden. We're not told much. Just get in the suit, let it walk."

The third, sharper-edged and defensive, chimed in. "You think we wanted this? You think we signed up knowing what we'd walk into? The suits walk, we sleep. It's like a paid vacation, except you're not really there."

He spat on the ground beside him. "I didn't even realize we were in Sector C until someone hit a wall. My visor played loops. Music. Ads. I didn't know this was a real op."

"None of us did," the second added, voice rising. "They don't tell us anything. They just load us up and hit play. Warm bodies, that's all."

"Half the time, I'm not even conscious," the third muttered. "I figured out how to drop my vitals just enough to stay under. Nap the shift away. They don't care."

The older one coughed and gave a bitter laugh. "Elite force? No. We're volunteers. I was a teacher at the citadel academy, for the gods' sake. Retired. They threw armor on me, gave me a name patch, and said I'd get paid."

"I was recruited after a bar fight," said the sharp one. "I did sign something, eventually. But not before they patched me up. The offer came fast, this or exile."

"They said we'd patrol safe routes," the first muttered. "Didn't mention the Wilds. Didn't mention monsters. Didn't say anything about you."

Warren's gaze moved slowly across the three of them. Not pity. Not yet. Calculation.

"You," he said, locking eyes with the third. "You're the one who said I'd die for this."

The man stiffened.

"So tell me: who gave the order to come after me?"

A moment of silence. Then: "Repar Malcus. He gave the order to our squad. I don't know if it came from higher."

"Who the fuck is Repar Malcus?"

"The head of the Psyro glass inc branch in the city"

Warren's thoughts snapped back to Car, to the custom hand lance, the Psyro Glass maker's mark.

"The lance makers?"

The first enforcer gave a hollow laugh. "They used to be. Now they build chips. Full R&D integration, neural sync protocols, post-market behavioral tuning. They're embedded in Green infrastructure."

"Yeah," said the second, "and they're untouchable. Even the Legionnaires flinch when they walk in."

The sharp one muttered, "My brother worked sub-floor in their labs. Said they test on volunteers. No one leaves those bays right."

Warren's expression sharpened.

"You know a lot."

"No," said the first. "You just don't. This is common knowledge in the Green. But you're not from there. So it makes sense."

Warren tilted his head. "You seem more willing to talk now."

"I am," the man said. "But I'd be a lot more willing if you took us out of this animal pen. Maybe gave us food. Maybe something to drink."

The older one added, "And maybe don't feed us to the galbrats, yeah?"

"Or at least let us piss in something other than our breeches," said the third.

Warren turned to Muk-Tah.

Muk-Tah gave one slow nod.

"That can be arranged," Warren said.

The three enforcers were marched out under close watch, surrounded by at least a dozen Boneway tribesmen, each armed and alert. The procession wasn't hostile, but it wasn't friendly either. Tension rode every step as the captives were guided toward a nearby cargo hauler, one of the old-world transports that had long since been gutted, salvaged, repurposed.

Inside, the hauler was mostly empty. Its interior had been cleared hastily, though not carelessly. A few crates and sacks still lined the edges, but already three cots had been set down in a triangle, each with a threadbare but clean blanket folded at the end. Two tribesmen were wrestling a collapsible table into position, locking its legs with audible clicks. Another brought in flimsy plastic chairs, light, unstable, and clearly chosen because they couldn't easily be turned into weapons.

One of the Boneway women placed a clay pot of stew near the center of the space. The smell rose immediately: something rich, spiced, unfamiliar but inviting. Next came a sealed jug of purified water with three cups set beside it. It was a gesture of hospitality, but also of clear control.

Warren stepped inside and looked over the arrangement without speaking. The prisoners were unchained, but closely watched. They were not being punished now. They were being tested.

He stood before the one who had spoken most before, the older man, the one who claimed to be a teacher.

"What do I call you?"

The man straightened a bit, seeming to appreciate the shift in tone.

"My name is Isol," he said, voice quieter now. "Isol Brent of house Brent."

Warren gave a slight nod. Behind him, Muk-Tah crossed his arms and frowned as he looked between the three men.

"Why do you all look the same? Or close enough I can barely tell one from the other."

Isol blinked, looking mildly offended. "This is the fashion."

Wren, who had followed quietly and now leaned against the hauler's frame, raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, 'fashion'?"

Isol brightened slightly, as if this was a subject he knew. "Well, this is that new look everyone's going for. You know, the brave adventurer from all the holos, what's his name..."

He turned, squinting toward the youngest of the three enforcers, who had been unusually quiet up to now. "Jurpat? What's that holo player's name?"

Jurpat perked up instantly. "You mean Bonaparte."

"Yeah! That's the one," Isol snapped his fingers. "Bonaparte. You know, the one all the ladies love. That one."

Cassian, who had been watching silently from the hauler's doorway, looked confused. "Wait, what?"

Isol turned toward him, still animated. "Oh, I keep forgetting. You people don't know these things. A holo is like a story, one you can see and hear play out right in front of you. Fully immersive."

"No," Cassian said, frowning. "I mean, what the hell? You all changed your faces to look like some actor because he looks cool?"

Isol didn't seem to take offense. He shrugged. "Well... yeah. He's the one they show in all the enforcer ads too. The bone structure, the vocal timbre, the expression ratios. We get modded. The skin's part of the uniform now. They want people to think any one of us might be him."

"It works," Jurpat added proudly. "The ladies love it."

Deana, arms folded, leaned in slightly. "So, is there a lady version of this Bonaparte fellow?"

Isol looked to Jurpat, who grinned.

"Yeah. She's super good-looking. And I'm pretty sure I'm dating her. But... you never really know with these things, you know?"

Isol laughed. "Definitely not. That's half the fun."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

The moment held for a beat too long, this odd clash of cultures, of broken men playing soldier with the masks of myth. Warren didn't laugh. But he didn't stop them either.

He wanted to know what made them tick before he decided if they got to keep ticking.

Isol leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on his knees. "It's a bit unsettling, I suppose, if you're not used to it. But that's how they sell it to us. Uniformity through desirability. The more we resemble a symbol, the more we're accepted by the public, even admired. Makes us seem trustworthy. Familiar."

Muk-Tah snorted. "You mean forgettable."

Isol hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Sometimes... yes."

Jurpat piped in again. "It's not like they forced it. You get a bonus if you match the look. So everyone does it. Its quick and painless. Just minor shifts at first. Hair, eye color. Then skin tone. Jawline. You barely notice until you're already him."

"The real Bonaparte dead or something?" Cassian asked.

"Probably not even real," Deana muttered.

"He is," Jurpat said, too quickly. Then, more sheepishly, "I think. He is. Definitely real. But what matters most is the illusion."

Wren stepped forward a half-step, voice cooler now. "And that illusion makes you forget what you were before."

Isol didn't deny it. "Sometimes that's the point."

They sat in silence for a beat. Then one of the Boneway tribesmen stepped inside with another steaming pot, refill for the stew. The smell thickened in the air, mingling with something faintly floral from the herbs.

Warren circled them slowly, arms loose at his sides, watching. Calculating.

"You all follow the look, the image, the brand. But who do you follow when the image breaks? When the symbol shatters, and all that's left is the truth?"

No one answered.

He turned to the third enforcer, the one who had remained completely silent since their arrival. The man hadn't flinched, hadn't spoken, hadn't moved beyond what was necessary. He stood just off-center from the others, back straight, eyes unwavering.

Warren approached him directly. "You haven't said a word. Got a name?"

The man lifted his chin slightly. "Tarric Solvane," he said. "House Solvane."

"You part of this Bonaparte pattern, too?" Deana asked, folding her arms.

Tarric nodded once. "Of course. We're all part of the same template net. Minor variation. My ratio set was front-assault ready. Heroic jaw, widened stance. Tactical resonance voice pack. Chose it the day I signed up. Thought it was the best model."

"And you said nothing until now because...?" Wren asked.

Tarric looked at her. "Because no one asked."

Jurpat gave a small huff of amusement. "He talks like that all the time. It's not an act."

Isol rolled his eyes. "He's a statue until you plug him in."

"Discipline isn't silence," Warren said, watching him. "But silence can be a kind of control."

Tarric didn't respond. He didn't need to. The quiet around him answered just fine.

He stood again and motioned for Muk-Tah to stay. The others filtered out without needing words.

Wren lingered last. Warren caught her gaze and gave the smallest nod.

She left without speaking.

Then the real questions began.

Warren didn't sit.

He stayed standing, arms loose at his sides, gaze fixed on the trio. The rain outside tapped at the metal slats in a steady rhythm, but the inside of the hauler was quiet. Muk-Tah stayed seated on the overturned crate beside the wall, hands resting on his knees, watching. Not relaxed. Just still.

The three enforcers sat on unstable chairs. Each one wore a different posture: Jurpat restless, bouncing his leg; Isol composed, maybe rehearsed; and Tarric unmoving, unreadable.

Warren finally broke the silence. "What the hell is a House? You all throw that word around like it means something. I thought you were just corpos."

Jurpat blinked. "What's a corpo?"

Isol gave a small, apologetic smile. "Sorry, sir, Warren. They're both a bit young to understand. It's a bit hard to explain... I'm not sure how much, if any, information you've got on the formation of our zone-based structure."

Warren shrugged, the gesture sharp. "First of none of this sir stuff, it's just Warren and, I know we were all part of the Empire. Then you guys made chips and wanted more power, so you split off. Then you beat the Empire."

Isol nodded slowly. "Well... that's a start, I guess. But it's like explaining a map with half the roads missing."

Warren didn't respond.

Isol leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees. "We were part of the corporate wing of the Empire. And honestly, we were its backbone. Infrastructure. Enforcement. Research. Commerce. All of it."

Muk-Tah shifted but said nothing.

"And when I say 'we,' I mean the royal 'we.'" Isol gave a faint smile. "Not me, not Jurpat, not Tarric. But I mean the Houses we served."

Warren's expression darkened. "So what? Noble families with corporate budgets?"

"Something like that," Isol said. "During the Empire, there were noble Houses and corporate divisions, but they weren't always separate. Most major Houses ran their own corps. Some were given military control zones. Others specialized in trade, tech, agriculture, surveillance."

Jurpat looked confused. "You mean like how the Nine do everything now?"

Isol nodded. "Exactly like that. Except back then, there were hundreds of them. And they all paid taxes to the throne."

Warren folded his arms. "Then they broke off."

"Eventually," Isol said. "But not all at once. There were fractures, wars inside wars. And as the Empire crumbled, the Houses that had the most control over chip research formed a coalition."

"That's when the Green Zones were born?" Muk-Tah asked softly from near the doorway.

"Yes," Isol said. "They weren't called that yet. Just Consolidated Cities. Massive urban reclamation efforts, built around tech salvage and agricultural zones. The chip system came after."

Warren's voice was low. "And the Houses stayed in charge."

Isol gave a slight nod. "The ones that survived. Most did. Some changed names. Some merged. But their structure stayed the same. Power doesn't like to reinvent itself. Except one."

"What was the exception?" Warren questioned.

"Yurimdaal Gleck," Isol replied. "Founder of House Gleck."

Warren narrowed his eyes. "He wasn't noble during the Empire?"

"Correct," Isol said. "He was just a scientist. A genius, maybe. No bloodline. No legacy. Just results."

"And after the Empire fell," Isol continued, "the Nine corporations, those that rose from the old Houses, voted to make him one of them. Gave him a House."

"They made him nobility?" Warren asked, incredulous.

"They made him something more," Isol said. "He's the closest thing we have to a true ruler."

Warren didn't look impressed. "I've heard about him. Someone I know told me that he was polite. Quiet. And utterly, unfixably mad."

Isol's lips pressed together. "Wouldn't know. Never seen the man."

"You'd think someone like that would be a public face," Muk-Tah muttered.

Jurpat spoke up. "People say he stays in his palace. In the capital. Working on the next big thing."

Warren frowned. "Capital? There's a capital in the Green Zone? I knew it was big, but I didn't think it needed a capital."

The trio laughed. Then they stopped. Warren wasn't joking.

Isol's face fell. "No. The Capital's not here. It's in Kaarushkaa. On the other side of the world."

Warren stared.

Isol studied him. "You really don't know, do you?"

He sighed. "I'm sorry to tell you this... but you, me, everyone you know, we live in a small town. A dot. A border sector. It doesn't even have a real name anymore. Not one worth putting on a map."

Warren didn't speak.

Even Muk-Tah looked shaken.

"I thought this was the center," Warren said at last. "I thought this was the fight."

"It is," Isol said gently. "Just not the one."

Jurpat leaned forward. "There's cities you can't imagine, Warren. Green Zones that sprawl for days. Floating towers. Arc domes that run full-environment simulations, like VR, except it's more real than virtual. Cities where the sky isn't rendered, it's built, where every breeze and beam of light is shaped by algorithm and atmospheric scaffold. We're the back end."

"They call this the edge ward," Isol added. "Because that's all it is. A fringe. A burnoff zone."

Warren's hands curled slightly. Not into fists. Just into thought.

"How far does it go?"

"Farther than you'll ever walk," Isol said.

"And Gleck rules it?"

Isol paused. "No. He's the myth that haunts it. The others rule. But they all answer to him. In theory."

"So the Green I fight, the one I bleed against, is just a shard."

"Yes."

Jurpat, trying to be helpful, said, "Maybe you're more than that. If people are talking. If your name reaches inward."

Muk-Tah stood slowly. "We fought for scraps. All this time. We thought we'd held the line."

"You did," Warren said. "But the map was bigger than we knew."

No one spoke for a long moment.

Then Warren turned to Tarric.

Still silent. Still watching.

"You knew this."

Tarric nodded.

"And you still came here."

"Orders," Tarric said simply.

Warren stepped forward. "You follow orders even when you know they're beneath the truth?"

"Structure matters," Tarric said.

"Even broken ones?"

"Especially broken ones," Tarric said. "Because they have to be rebuilt."

Warren stared at him.

"You believe that?"

"Yes."

Warren turned back to the others. "So what now? You've seen what's left. You've seen who we are."

Isol looked down, then lifted his head. His gaze lingered on Warren a beat longer than before. There was no open defiance in his face, but something thoughtful had settled there, like he'd just seen the edge of a map he hadn't realized was unfinished. He looked over at Muk-Tah, then back at Warren.

"You just met him, didn't you?" he asked, quietly.

Warren gave a slight nod.

Isol's lips pressed together. "And he still follows you. Like he's been waiting his whole life to. That's... not what I expected."

Jurpat leaned forward, more cautious than before. "This isn't like the adventure holos. You're not polished. You're not funded. But people are listening. I don't know what that means yet. But I know it's real."

Isol nodded once, more to himself than anyone else. Not agreement, just acknowledgment. "It's strange. I spent my life learning about leaders. Teaching their rise and fall. But this... this feels different."

Jurpat added, quieter now, "Even Tarric's listening. Doesn't mean he agrees. But he hears you. That's rare."

They weren't pledging anything, but something had shifted: a gleam of doubt in what they used to know, and a flicker of interest in something new.

Tarric looked uneasy. He didn't seem to like the way the others had shifted, like they'd forgotten this man had just killed their companion and was wanted by the Green for erasure. Sure, Tarric wasn't a patriot, not exactly, but it didn't sit right with him. This man had offered them to the toads. That wasn't okay. Not in anyone's book.

Tarric said nothing.

And Warren let the silence stretch.

Because it spoke louder than any oath they could give.

Because this, this moment, was where everything started to crack.

Not just the illusion.

The whole damn world.

Warren turned slowly, without rush or drama. Just moved, like a tide pulling out, not sure what it would bring back. He gestured for the trio to follow, and they did, silent, uncertain, still absorbing everything they'd heard. Muk-Tah came last, stepping out of the hauler behind them, his gaze lingering on the empty space they'd left behind. He followed, but there was still doubt in his eyes. Still questions he hadn't decided whether to ask.

They crossed the camp grounds, boots sinking slightly into wet soil, and approached the edge of the fire pit where the expedition's leaders had gathered earlier. A few were still nearby. Calra, Grix, and Wren were gathered near a battered supply crate, bent close over something, quiet, focused, their voices low but animated. Whatever they were planning, it carried weight. Deana and Nanuk stood in the corner under the tarp, speaking quietly but with fire behind their words, fervor. Urgency. Like they were building a fuse and arguing over the flame. Cassian was off with Batu and the rest of the troops, checking weapons and laying out the night's rotation, watch shifts, fallback routes, fallback on fallback. Not calm. Just practiced.

Wren saw him first. She rose quietly and fell in beside him.

"Why are they here?" she asked.

"Need them here."

He didn't stop walking until he reached the center of the camp, where the rain fell unhindered and the fire had long since burned low. The glow was weak, but it was enough.

"I need everyone to gather around," he said, not shouting, not commanding, just clear.

Cassian joined first. Then Deana. Grix groaned and stood. Batu didn't move, but Muk-Tah tapped his shoulder, and that was enough.

Soon the expedition force formed up along side the boneway tribesmen.

Warren looked at them: soldiers, scouts, medics, mercs. People who had followed him into the Wilds. People who thought they were holding a line that mattered.

He gave Isol a nod.

Isol stepped forward, hesitant at first, then steady. He told them. Not everything, but enough. About the Green. The Nine. Kaarushkaa. The capital on the other side of the world. The shape of the cities that sprawl endlessly. The corporations that wear crowns without saying so.

And what the Yellow really was.

The silence that followed cracked fast. Someone shouted. Someone else called it a lie. A trick. That the World couldn't be that big. That they weren't just nothing out here.

Warren raised his hand. Just once. It was enough.

"They're not lying," he said. "We are not the center."

The words struck harder than yelling ever could.

"You heard him," Warren said. "About the Green. About the Nine. About Kaarushkaa."

A few nodded. Others stayed still.

He didn't pace. He didn't perform. He let the rain fall on his coat, let it bead and soak and weight him down.

"We are not the center," he said. "Not the front. Not even the edge they care about. We're a dot."

Silence.

"We are a dot to them. But dot can become a crack. A crack can become a break. And if what we've seen is just one shard of their system, then I want to see the whole thing. I want to know where it ends."

Deana folded her arms. "And when we know?"

"Then we break that too," Grix muttered. Not sarcastic. Just matter-of-fact.

Warren glanced at her, then he nodded to Isol to continue.

He let Isol speak again, just enough to make it real.

And when the anger came, the disbelief, Warren didn't flinch. He only said what they all needed to hear:

"We are not what we thought we were. But we can become something greater."

one of the expedition medics spoke, voice low. "If we go further, we won't be hidden. We'll be a threat."

"We already are," Warren said.

Wren stepped closer. "So what's the move?"

Warren looked at the fire.

Then at each of them.

"We take the Yellow. We free it from the Green's control. And if we are on the edge, just a blip so small they don't even know we're there, then we build something so real that by the time they do, it will be far too fucking late."

Cassian exhaled through his nose. "That's a big thing to build."

"Then we start small," Wren said. "One sector. One block. One crack at a time."

They stood quiet. Still. But no one turned away.

And that was enough for now.

Rain kept falling. Somewhere beyond the trees, something howled.

Warren listened to the sound.

And smiled.