Yellow Jacket

They exited Josaphine's class in a tighter formation than they had entered, instinctively seeking proximity in the aftermath of collective psychological trauma. The impact of the prior lesson lingered with invasive clarity, manifesting in shallow breaths, stiff postures, and a haunted absence behind their eyes. Varnai, still semi-conscious, was supported between the twins as the transport pad beneath them surged to life, consuming their forms in light and redepositing them elsewhere.

Their new location was unmistakably a weapons range, broad and tactical by design. The space stretched far beyond immediate visibility, partitioned by modular barricades and elevation shifts meant to simulate urban engagement zones. Vantage points were numerous: sniper nests fashioned from kalacrete scaffolding, embedded cover slabs, crawlspaces, and sloped breach corridors. The air bore a chemical sting, the residue of heat-reactive compounds and lubricant oils used to keep the range functional under sustained fire.

A lone woman stood at the central firing platform. Her appearance was exacting, every element curated for efficiency. Her clothing was matte, a muted gray that absorbed light instead of reflecting it. Her posture suggested military precision without affectation.

Her hair was an understated blue, a metallic hue that resisted flamboyance, unlike the garish affectations worn by the Stone brothers. It framed her face in sharp contrast to her narrow, aquiline features. But it was her eyes that arrested all attention. They were not metaphorically avian, they were, in biological mimicry, engineered to be so. Prosthetic replacements modeled after raptor ocular systems, with irises layered in feathered rings of gold and brown, capable of hyper-fast dilation and embedded with a subtle second eyelid that flicked across the eye like a membrane. The effect was unsettlingly natural until the mechanics revealed themselves.

She didn't speak immediately. She studied them. Not like a human would. Like a machine narrowing its parameters.

"I am Gwendoline Pyke," she said, voice balanced and devoid of ornament. "You may call me Gwen. I am your Lance Training instructor."

She allowed the silence to resettle.

"The lance is the core of the Legion. It is not ceremonial. It is not sacred. It is a tool."

She began pacing down the line of cadets, hands clasped behind her back, footsteps measured against their breathing.

"Its function is simple: aim, fire, eliminate. The flechette is not emotional. Neither are you."

No one made a sound.

"You all know how to use a lance. You all already know how to kill. What you have not learned is how to execute without pause. You will learn how to fire on command, without hesitation. You will learn that withholding is equivalent to treason. And you will unlearn the notion that lethal force is ever optional once the barrel lifts."

She stopped walking. Turned.

"In this course, you will be taught how to operate under physical duress, how to maintain targeting alignment while bleeding, and how to engage before conscious recognition is complete."

She lifted a lance, standard issue, no markings, no attachments. Its black casing was scuffed at the grip from repeated use. She rotated it with practiced ease, the weight balanced perfectly in her hand, not to show off, but because that's what familiarity looked like.

"You will treat your lance as an extension of your body. You will disassemble and reassemble it blindfolded. You will master it to the point that maintenance becomes instinct. You will learn to dismantle hostile physiology with surgical precision. Vertebrae, artery junctions, soft armor seams, you will target them without visual confirmation."

Across the range, training dummies began to activate, emerging from partial concealment among the simulated cover. Still, Gwen did not prompt them.

"This course is not about precision. It is about finality. When you lift your lance, there can be only one result. If you hesitate, your teammate dies. If you wait for verification, the moment is gone."

Her mouth curled into something that might have resembled a smile, had it not been so fundamentally predatory.

"Welcome to the first day of lance training. Any questions?"

No cadet moved. Gwen regarded their silence with clear approval.

Gwen stood in front of Class One with her arms folded, a predator in a room of fledglings. Her eyes were hard, her stance harder. She didn't bother with pleasantries.

"Show me your lances," she said. "Start with Elian."

Elian stepped forward smoothly, confidence polished and expensive. He unshouldered his repeater lance with an almost ceremonial grace and presented it without hesitation. Gwen didn't move to take it, just looked.

It gleamed. psyro-glass make. Top-tier repeater lance. Balanced for auto-pivoting grip. Two matching TK-12 hand lances sat at his hips like jewelry, chromed and untouched.

"Brand new," Elian said with a small, practiced smile. "Never seen a day of field use."

"That obvious?" Gwen asked, deadpan.

He nodded. "I like my gear clean."

She stepped closer, inspected the finish. Not a scratch. Not even a fingerprint on the casings.

"Top of the line," she said, voice flat. "Shame they're toys."

Elian blinked. She was already moving on.

The rest of Class One followed, some hesitating, others proud.

Leron and Vexa presented twin carbon-flex whip lances, magnetized to arc together in coordinated strikes. They didn't speak, just moved in eerie unison, flipping the lances into compact mode and back.

Sylen's lance was a beast, a brutal rail lance with exposed recoil dampers and a pressure-synced capacitor. Ugly, functional, and clearly used.

Chime's was floral and wicked: a hollow-core pulse lance with an ornamental barrel wrap of iridescent metal leaves. Beautiful, yes, but also clearly rigged for bleed damage on soft targets.

Then: Jurpat.

He brought out what looked like enforcer surplus, dual hand lances, a pulse rifle model strapped to his back. But up close, Gwen's sharp eyes caught the irregular weld lines, the scarred housings, the unusual rigging strapped around the coils. These weren't field mods. They were full overhauls.

She didn't comment. Just nodded once and moved on.

Then came Vaeliyan.

And like Jurpat's, they spoke of hands other than his own, someone skilled, exacting, and entirely off-grid.

But he offered no explanation.

First, the hand lance. Small. Dense. Precision-forged. Gwen took it from him and turned it over, noting the hand-carved inscription etched just below the grip.

A FATHER'S PROMISE.

Her eyes snapped to his, a silent question in the tilt of her head. His gaze didn't waver. He said nothing.

Then she reached for the long weapon slung over his back.

Vaeliyan's stinger looked beautiful, but far too delicate, like a weapon that shouldn't survive its own purpose. It looked like a hybrid, if a thunder lance and a repeater had been fused under battlefield conditions by someone who didn't believe in safety. Only elegance in its deadliness.

The barrel was long and thin almost a needle, with a reinforced shock frame that looked like it belonged on a display model. The stabilizers were off-center. The back coil had no proper housing. It looked elegant in a way that felt deceptive, made to kill, but delicate enough that it seemed like it might shatter the first time it fired.

And deadly.

She hefted it experimentally, felt the weight sag unnaturally, as if the center of mass had shifted halfway through the build.

"The kick on this could tear a man's shoulder out," she muttered. " The hells, I don't think I could wield this thing."

She paused, then smiled slightly.

"And I'm a three-time lance world champion."

There were quiet exhales in the room. Someone blinked too loudly.

She looked back at Vaeliyan. "But I watched your entrance tournament. You used this. The recoil should've twisted your spine."

He held out his hand.

She handed it back, careful now.

"Show me how to fire this beauty," she said. "Please and thank you."

He nodded, checked the weight, adjusted nothing, and asked:

"What do you want to see?"

She considered.

"What's the drop on that thing?"

"Two miles," he said without hesitation.

Gwen whistled softly. Then she nodded.

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A target appeared at the far end of the range, barely a speck. Flat and distant.

"Show me."

Vaeliyan stepped forward.

And everyone else stepped back.

Vaeliyan aligned his stance with subtle precision, inhaled, then exhaled with measured control. Without theatrics, he discharged three rounds from his custom-built lance, the motions fluid and unbroken.

The shots were unremarkable in volume but unmistakable in clarity. They rang out like conclusions, not questions, each one a testament to refined technique rather than sheer power. He remained perfectly still post-firing, not adjusting or reacting.

Gwen signaled, and the target retrieval system engaged. Its repulsors gave a soft whine as the platform glided forward and rotated for visibility. The cadets leaned in, compelled by the quiet precision of it all.

What returned was a circular target with a single, immaculate puncture in the upper-left quadrant. The impact was nearly imperceptible in terms of force trauma: no tearing, no fragmentation. The entry wound was almost too clean.

"Good," Gwen said evenly, though her expression shifted, just slightly. A fractional smile suggested professional approval rather than surprise. There was no celebration in her voice, only the cold acknowledgment of technical proficiency.

Roan leaned forward. "That's not center mass. And it looks like just one round hit the target."

Rather than debate, Gwen initiated a secondary evaluation. A second target, a humanoid silhouette embedded with anatomical overlays, materialized beside the first. It displayed critical zones in subdued tones, mapping out organ systems with forensic accuracy. Gwen calibrated the two targets, then moved them into alignment.

"Let me show you what my eyes saw," she said, stepping aside as the system layered both displays.

The placement of the shot, when overlaid on the human model, was now unmistakable: a direct strike through the center of the heart. A precise kill shot with lethal intent.

"He wasn't aiming for the bullseye," Gwen explained. "He was aiming for a kill." She tapped the edge of the wound. "And that single hole? That's from three rounds. The impacts were so precisely aligned it only made one hole."

Roan's voice dropped. "He grouped three shots... into the same point?"

Gwen kept her attention on Vaeliyan. "Exactly. You, cadet, are as capable as the other instructors claim. Would you be willing to assist me during today's class?"

Vaeliyan responded with a silent nod.

Without missing a beat, Gwen turned to the armory wall, selected two standard-issue repeater lances, and tossed one to Vaeliyan. Her movements were practiced and sharp, the ease of someone long familiar with the weight and balance of such tools.

"We'll run a precision duel," she said. "Shot for shot. I fire first, then you mirror. The sequence will escalate. Focus, speed, and situational adjustment, that's what I'm assessing."

She turned to face the rest of Class One, her voice lifting slightly.

"Pay attention. This is the benchmark. If any of you believe you're operating on this level, now's the time to demonstrate it. If you aren't, stay clear."

Fenn and Elian stepped forward. They offered no bravado, only presence. Elian's approach was methodical, as though constructed from simulations and standardized drills. Every movement was calibrated but lacked the unpredictability of real field improvisation. Fenn, meanwhile, exhibited a quieter intensity, eyes tracking every variable, body steady with the calm of someone focused not on display but on outcome.

Gwen didn't question their initiative. Instead, she acknowledged it with a curt nod. "Good. This will be a technical gauntlet. Observe. Replicate. Maintain pace until you can't, or until I decide you've earned your place in the line. If you fall behind, step out. No shame in it, but I won't slow down for anyone."

She turned to the range. "Lances ready. Let's begin."

Gwen commenced the exercise with no introductory remarks, her demeanor and movement radiating a commanding confidence.

Her opening volley was delivered with meticulous precision, and the subsequent round followed before the acoustic echo of the first had fully dissipated. The tempo she imposed was unrelenting and deliberate. Each movement from one target to the next was executed with a refined economy of motion, exhibiting an elegance that suggested biomechanical unity between woman and weapon. The lance did not appear wielded; it appeared part of her rather than an external tool. Gwen moved not like a soldier trained to fire, but like a creature that had evolved for the singular purpose of doing so.

As the assessment progressed, the difficulty of each target escalated. Targets shifted in spatial distribution and required increasingly complex ballistic trajectories. Timing windows narrowed to fractions of a second. Despite these increasing demands, Gwen's execution remained unshaken. Her lance consistently struck its mark with unerring certainty, regardless of target velocity or angle. There was no perceptible hesitation. There was only impact.

Vaeliyan was the first cadet to sustain pace with her. His rhythm did not mirror hers precisely, but rather harmonized with it, he formed a parallel cadence, simultaneously independent and reactive. His shots were devoid of excess, characterized by exactitude and deliberation. He wasn't merely replicating Gwen's targets, he was engaging with her intent. The precision of his mirroring was unsettling in its fluidity: instinct refined through practice, not automation. He demonstrated an understanding that precision is not a matter of coordinates alone, but of context.

Elian, operating with a reserved and methodical approach, surprised with a high degree of consistency. His performance was akin to executing a well-rehearsed protocol, his body moving with mechanical confidence. Every shot, every stance, adhered to optimal form as taught, the kind of consistency that implied rigorous simulation training. He lacked the organic creativity of Vaeliyan, but what he offered was an impressive reliability. Nothing wasted, nothing unsure.

Then came Fenn.

Previously regarded as the perennial comic relief, Fenn's reputation centered on theatrics, irreverent commentary, and an apparent disregard for discipline. But the moment he raised his lance, that persona dissolved. His posture shifted to something controlled and deliberate. His grip was not hesitant. His eyes were not searching. The initial sequence of shots, three in rapid succession, landed with both precision and speed. These were not the outcomes of luck or natural instinct. They were the product of dedicated, if concealed, expertise.

While Vaeliyan's strength lay in replicating precise ballistic conditions, Fenn's advantage was kinetic adaptability. He transitioned between targets with exceptional rapidity, adjusting for angles and distance without delay. His shots weren't always perfectly centered, but his response time far exceeded expectation. As Gwen escalated the complexity of the drill, shifting stance, repositioning targets, changing firing angles, Fenn recalibrated in real time. His adaptability wasn't reactive. It was predictive.

And Gwen took note.

Her own ocular augmentations were designed for combat superiority, engineered to process high-speed visual data, overlay predictive targeting metrics, and account for recoil and movement in real-time. She was built to outperform. And yet, here was a cadet whose purely biological eyes, unassisted by enhancement, were keeping pace. Perhaps he possessed a skill for targeting or perceptual clarity, but even accounting for that, his performance defied classification.

That realization struck Gwen with the weight of cognitive dissonance. Fenn had not simply exceeded expectations, he had obliterated them.

As the trial reached its midpoint, Gwen ceased viewing him as a cadet to be assessed. She had begun to evaluate him as a potential peer.

Participants began to reach their limits.

Elian disengaged first, acknowledging his threshold with a brief nod. Perspiration marked his effort, and his breathing betrayed the strain of sustained concentration. His performance had been commendable, but he understood his limits.

Vaeliyan stepped back next. Not out of weakness, but with the self-awareness of a tactician. He had reached the apex of his skill and chose not to compromise his standard. It was a calculated withdrawal, executed without ego.

Fenn did not yield.

He continued until the final volley, demonstrating sustained accuracy under mounting physical and cognitive pressure. His shooting lacked Gwen's biomechanical fluidity, but he compensated with superior adaptability and accelerated targeting acquisition. When Gwen concluded the sequence with a definitive shot, she turned to him, not with condescension or superficial praise, but with a narrowed gaze that indicated intellectual recalibration.

Her expectations had been surpassed.

Fenn stood, breathing steady, sweat-dampened, but composed. His performance had forced her to revise her schema, to recognize potential beyond her established framework.

And what she experienced then was not merely surprise.

It was respect.

If Fenn maintained his current trajectory, if he resisted self-sabotage and continued to refine his potential, then he would not merely meet her at the top.

He would surpass her.

She walked over to Fenn with deliberate, measured steps, each one carrying the weight of decision. Her eyes didn't waver, didn't blink, didn't soften. The moment belonged to her, and she filled it entirely.

"You, cadet," she said, her voice ringing like a drawn blade against stone, precise and undeniable. "I will be taking you."

Fenn blinked, once, then again, confusion washing over his face like cold water. He looked around, unsure if the statement had been rhetorical, or perhaps misdirected. But her stare never shifted.

She continued, words snapping off her tongue with clarity and resolve. "I will be seeing you after every day's classes are done. You are mine now. I am going to make you into a High Imperator if it kills you. Do you hear me?"

The class around them stilled, all noise and movement muted by the force of her declaration. Fenn's mouth opened slightly, hesitated, then finally produced a whisper of resistance. "But ma'am..."

She cut across him instantly, the air between them sharp as a command. "Don't 'but' me, cadet. This is not a request. It's not open for dialogue. This is an order from a senior commander of the Legion. Do you even understand what I'm offering you? Do you comprehend what this moment is? Those two, Vaeliyan and Elian, they're remarkable, yes. Talented. Focused. But they don't live for this. Not like you. I have never seen anyone with as much raw, untouched potential with a lance as you, cadet. Not once. Not even when I look back at myself. I wasn't even close to this good when I entered the Citadel."

She took a step closer, voice lowering, not to soften but to drive the weight of her words in deeper. "You have something no one can teach, something no simulation can create. I don't know how you've hidden it, or why you act the fool, but underneath that mask is a lancer I would put into the field right now if I could. And I don't say that lightly."

Fenn swallowed again, more forcefully this time. His lips parted, but he didn't speak. Whatever rebuttal or deflection he might have made fell to pieces in his throat.

Gwen let out a dry laugh, full of disbelief and almost reluctant admiration. "Gods... Imujin is probably laughing his ass off."

Then, perfectly, uncannily, she dropped into his voice, gravel-thick and low with that razor grin he wore when predicting pain. "They are a bunch of little monsters, Gwenoline. A bunch of little monsters. Not just the top, every single one of them."

She let the silence stretch, not awkward, but deliberate. Then nodded once, sharp and final. "Be ready. I'm not letting this go to waste. Not this time."

And with that, she turned her back to him, not out of disrespect, but with full confidence that he'd follow, and walked back to the class. Her mind already moving ahead, running scenarios, imagining drills, plotting limits to break.

Behind her, Fenn still hadn't moved. He stood alone with the echo of her words, heartbeat loud in his ears, the weight of the moment folding itself around him like armor he hadn't expected to wear.

The rest of the class said nothing.

But they knew. Something had just changed.

And no one, not even Fenn, knew what that was going to mean, but they all knew they couldn't look at him the same again.

In a quieter section of the Citadel, deep in the lower levels where everything was kept cooler and more controlled, a group of instructors stood in a circle around a group of armor tanks. These tanks weren't ordinary, they were growing suits of Legion armor, designed to match the DNA of the cadets they belonged to. By now, the suits were nearly finished, glowing softly as they reached the final stages of development.

Dr. Lambert stood closest to a tank that glowed with an unusual yellow light, her eyes wide with a mix of awe and delight. She leaned in slightly, captivated by the data scrolling across the screen. "This is extraordinary," she said, almost breathless. "I'm not sure if it's his DNA, some unknown mapping factor, or an environmental anomaly we missed... but Subject Sixteen's armor isn't just different, it's exceptional. This is beyond anything we've modeled or predicted. Even compared to the newest models and upgrades to our system, nothing should be this efficient. Look at this, the suit finished growing four hours, thirty-two minutes, and twenty-seven seconds ahead of schedule. That's unheard of." She practically beamed at the others. "This isn't just fast. It's elegant. It's precise. This might be the most perfect maturation I've ever seen."

From across the room, Imujin's voice rang out, full of excitement. "Just look at them. Every single one of these kids is going to be incredible. They're little monsters already, and we haven't even finished the first month. But this one..." He pointed at Subject Sixteen's armor. "This one might be something else. Did you watch this morning's training? He destroyed every single practice dummy. All of them. I think only Marco ever did that on his first day. Am I right?"

Valrock stood with his arms crossed, thinking carefully before nodding. "Yes. That sounds familiar. I think that's right, but Isol would know for sure."

Isol stood quietly, hands behind his back, eyes locked on the glowing tank. His voice was calm and even. "Nero and Marco both did. Class One of the 43rd but was the exception. Not the rule."

He didn't blink. He didn't glance at anyone else.

He wasn't just looking at armor.

He was imagining what it would become.