Yellow Jacket

Vaeliyan had already seen his armor before, but this was the first time he would actually put it on. The anticipation was sharp in his chest, a mix of pride, curiosity, and something else, an almost electric itch under his skin. He approached slowly, each step deliberate, studying every contour of the suit as if it were alive, which, in its own way, it was. The closer he got, the more he swore he could feel its presence pressing back at him, like it recognized him and was impatient to be worn.

He reached for the helmet first. The segmented metal was cool and solid in his hands, heavy enough to promise protection but light enough to be unnerving. Slipping it over his head, the world changed instantly, sound cut down to a dull hum, the weight of the air shifted, his breathing sounded closer, harsher, contained. Piece by piece, he fitted the rest of the suit, each plate locking into place with a subtle click and faint vibration, the hum of integrated systems brushing against his skin like a distant heartbeat. By the time he sealed the last segment, he had expected to feel unstoppable, transformed into something more than himself. Instead, he felt… mostly the same. The armor sat on him like a patient burden. His shoulders and back carried its weight with every breath, and his vision through the visor seemed slightly blurred, as if a faint haze hovered just beyond the edges of his sight, making him hyperaware of every movement.

Somewhere beyond the helmet, Dr. Lambert's voice filtered in, muted, dulled, almost unreal. She was explaining something about a command phrase setup and a suit activation sequence. Vaeliyan tried to focus, leaning slightly as though the angle of his head might change the clarity, but her words came through like a garbled radio signal. It was like trying to listen to a conversation underwater while someone knocked faintly on the glass around you.

Not far away, Jim moved toward the group of cadets who were clearly struggling to adjust to their own armor. Their movements were jerky, hesitant, like they were fighting the suit instead of working with it, the way an unbroken horse bucks against the saddle. Jim made a sharp gesture for them to remove their helmets. There was a moment of hesitation before they obeyed, relief showing in the way they shook their heads as the sound returned.

"Alright," Jim said, scanning the group with an unimpressed expression that could have flattened steel. "Let's try that again. First off, it appears these new armors come with sound-dampening built in. That's not something the older models had. It'll keep you alive in certain situations, but right now it's keeping you from hearing a gods damn thing I'm saying."

He turned his gaze toward Dr. Lambert. "Emila, you're up. Maybe tell them what they're actually doing before you throw them in the deep end."

To every cadet's horror, Lambert smiled at Jim, not her cold, clinical 'I've found something interesting and will dissect it' smile, but a genuine one between friends. Somehow, that was worse. It sent an involuntary shiver through more than a few spines, the kind you get when you realize something dangerous can also be warm.

Her voice cut cleanly into the moment. "Alright, each of you will put on your helm…" She stopped mid-sentence with an exasperated, "Gods damn it, not now," as she caught Elian just about to slip his helmet back on, wearing the smug satisfaction of someone who got to land the joke for once.

"After I give you the instructions on how to wake up your suits," she continued, pinning him with a look sharp enough to leave marks, "you'll put your helmet on and say the following phrase: 'Activation protocol, new link requested.' Once you're done with the activation, come stand in a line, shoulder to whatever passes as a shoulder." Her eyes slid to Lessa, whose suit had no arms at all, only a pair of massive cannons mounted where they should have been. It made sense; the back of the armor had distinct slots designed to connect seamlessly with her prosthetic arms.

Vaeliyan put his helmet back on, the movement deliberate and almost ceremonial, and spoke the activation phrase with steady precision. Almost instantly, his AI came alive in a flood of data, cascading streams of crisp notifications across his awareness, each one perfectly placed, each one demanding attention without overwhelming him.

Neural link established. User: Vaeliyan. Request activation... Activation request approved. Please set new passphrase for handshake.

He paused for a heartbeat, considering the possibilities. A hundred different codes and key phrases ran through his mind, cryptic ones that no one could guess, symbolic ones that might carry weight later, tactical ones for efficiency. But in the end, he dismissed them all. He didn't need to be clever for this. It had to be memorable, quick, and very, very him.

Please confirm passphrase verbally.

"Yellow Jacket."

Passphrase accepted. Welcome, user, to your MK1 Legion armor.

The change wasn't subtle. It hit like a switch being thrown in his brain, sudden, absolute, and impossible to ignore.

The blur he'd noticed earlier vanished, replaced by an entirely new way of seeing. It wasn't true 360° vision, but it was close enough to feel impossible. The warping effect of the compound eye structure gave him a seamless, spherical awareness, allowing him to take in what was behind him as naturally as what lay ahead. Nothing was distorted, nothing was filtered, everything simply existed in perfect focus. Vaeliyan's own sight had evolved recently; peripheral vision meant nothing to him. Anything in his line of sight, from edge to edge, was already fully processed and crystal clear. Now, the armor's optics amplified that ability until it felt as though the entire room had been pulled into the palm of his mind. Every flicker of motion, every shift of light, every detail lived there without effort.

For anyone else, it might have been overwhelming, a sensory overload that could leave them reeling. For Vaeliyan, it felt natural, like this was the way he was meant to see all along.

And vision was only the beginning.

A new sense slid into place, as if it had always been there, waiting to be switched on. The armor's antennae weren't just receivers; they were extensions of his awareness, pulling in information through channels no human sense had ever used. It wasn't smell in the traditional sense. There was no air drawn into lungs, no particles meeting receptors. He simply knew. The cadets around him each carried a distinct scent-signature: sweat, leather, oil. The faint metallic tang of blood from a scraped hand somewhere to his left. The sterile, chemical note of freshly-treated armor plating. Even the faint oxidized bite from a powered-down wedges in the corner. Every one of those impressions slotted into his perception without hesitation or effort, perfectly cataloged.

Then came the most intimate change of all.

The armor didn't just fit him, it was him. There was no separation, no lag, no barrier between his thoughts and his movements. His sense of touch remained completely intact, and that was perhaps the most unsettling part. Through the armor, he could feel the world. The cold edge of a metal plate registered in his mind not as the sensation of steel, but as if his own skin had touched it. Pressure, texture, weight, they were all there, just filtered and refined through the suit's systems until the interface between man and machine was nonexistent.

Every step felt precise. Every shift of balance was perfect. Strength hummed through his muscles, magnified but never clumsy. Speed sat coiled deep in his limbs, waiting to explode outward at a moment's notice. The sensation was intoxicating, dangerous in the way it whispered that he could do anything, survive anything. He knew it was an illusion, no one was unkillable, but the armor made it hard to care.

His gaze swept the room without conscious effort. He noted the way some cadets moved with careful, tentative steps, their bodies unsure inside the suits. Others overcompensated, swagger turning into imbalance as they misjudged the enhanced speed and power. He didn't need to study them; the awareness was just there, each detail fitting into place like it had been waiting for him to notice.

A slow, knowing grin pulled at his mouth.

How am I still the shortest…

Vaeliyan walked forward first, his armor catching and scattering the light with every deliberate step, the segmented surfaces gleaming like living metal alive under his command. Each motion radiated quiet confidence, every shift of weight balanced with precision. The air itself seemed to tighten around him; this was the first true reveal, the moment everyone would remember, and the weight of those first impressions pressed in from all sides.

Next came Elian, or at least, Vaeliyan assumed it was Elian. The armor masked faces well, but the gods-damned crown welded to the helm and the long, rippling cape trailing in his wake were impossible to miss. It was ostentatious to the point of absurdity, but there was no denying the commanding presence it created. Elian's armor towered over the others, its proportions stretched to an intimidating height. He was a battlefield monarch wrapped in alloy and arrogance, the design a perfect balance of dominance and vanity.

Jurpat followed, his armor a predator's dream: the snarling visage of a short-faced wolf molded into the helm, eyes narrowed to killing slits. The lines of the plating hinted at speed and brutal power, an apex hunter ready to tear into anything in his path.

That confirmed it for Vaeliyan, Soul Skills had bled directly into the growth of their Legion armor. His gaze dropped to his own insectoid plating. Why a bug? When he'd stared into his Soul before, the monster he'd seen hadn't been an insect. Maybe the shape of one's monster wasn't the same as the shape of their true soul. The thought lingered, strange and uncomfortable, but he pushed it away. The spectacle of the others' armor was too captivating.

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The twins' suits were a matched celestial set, one plated in radiant red and gold, the other in deep silvers and black, sun and moon locked in perfect balance. They moved with eerie synchronicity, their steps mirror images, as if tethered by some invisible thread that kept them in harmony.

Fenn's armor looked ripped from an old war epic, ram horns curling from his helmet in an imposing arc, twin quivers resting at his hips, each arrowhead glinting with lethal promise.

Lessa's suit was built for punishment and endurance, broad and heavily reinforced. Her helmet resembled a deep-sea diver's mask, the thick lenses speaking to crushing pressures and a refusal to yield.

Torman's armor was an exercise in weaponized geometry, each panel an angular blade in its own right. From his back, impossibly fine threads drifted lazily, shimmering like spider silk in shifting light, adding a haunting grace to his otherwise brutal form.

Wesley's armor was in constant flux, half-melted and half-liquid, the surface shifting subtly as if refusing to settle on a single shape. His helm was crowned by a constant corona of flame, tongues of fire licking at the air without ever fading.

Xera's was pure predation made tangible: eight gleaming eyes fixed in place on her helm, four spider-like limbs arching from her back, jointed and poised to pierce armor or climb any surface with effortless speed.

Sylen's suit resembled the bare-chested armor of a male gladiator, stylized and imposing, but her deliberate, exact movements made her instantly recognizable despite the disguise.

Ramis's armor draped in sculpted folds like ceremonial robes, the plating flowing upward into a great rounded helmet shaped like a cauldron. He looked less like a soldier and more like some ancient ritualist summoned for war.

Roan's suit was a biomechanical anomaly, two powerful forelimbs supporting the front, and an additional pair of legs extending seamlessly from behind, built for stability and speed across any terrain. The rear set angled with raw, coiled strength, a strange grace in their placement, yet Vaeliyan couldn't help picturing the disaster that might come from such a build during an orbital drop.

Chime's armor was a steel-boned nightmare, skeletal plating sharpened into jagged edges, every line radiating threat. She was death forged into metal, a walking omen. The sight drew Vaeliyan's eyes back to his own armor with a flicker of unease, why did his have to be a bug?

Rokhan's armor was the embodiment of immovable force, broad and solid, as if someone had given an anvil a spine and set it marching. Every movement was slow, deliberate, and absolute.

And then there was Varnai. Her armor was alive with shifting menace, too many eyes blinking and tracking in every direction, too many tentacles moving with liquid precision. The plating rippled as if breathing, responding to cues no one else could sense. Each eye operated independently, locking onto different points in the room without pause. Watching her was overwhelming, like standing in the center of a predator's web, knowing the hunter already had every angle covered.
The instructors paced slowly along the line, boots striking the floor with a steady rhythm that carried an unspoken authority. Their gazes swept over each armored cadet with the precision of people who had done this for decades, taking in every curve of plating, every joint alignment, and every subtle shift in posture. They stopped occasionally, leaning close to inspect a seam, tap a gauntlet, or check the flex of a knee joint. Voices dropped to low, technical tones as they peppered Dr. Lambert with questions: power output thresholds, weight distribution under strain, neural link latency, environmental adaptation rates, and system sync tolerances. Nothing was overlooked.

Dr. Lambert answered without missing a beat, each reply crisp and confident. "They're stronger, faster, and far more deeply bonded to the user's Soul Skill than any model we've deployed before," she said, pride and irritation mingling in her voice. "If the higher-ups had a shred of sense, they'd implement this design Legion-wide immediately, phasing out old models from the top down. But instead, I'm here, handing the most advanced suits we've ever created to fresh cadets. And this," she gestured to the line with a sharp tilt of her chin, "is only the Mk1. When these begin to grow and adapt to their wearers, we won't even be able to predict the limits. I can't imagine what we've just given a group of children, but I'll admit, I'm looking forward to finding out. This class is sharper, faster, and more instinctive than any I've seen."

Imujin gave a slow, considering nod, his attention still fixed on the armored figures before him. "They're ahead of the curve. Even for Class One, they're exceptional."

Isol crossed his arms, a small, knowing smile tugging at his mouth. "Exactly as I've been saying. The new generation keeps coming in stronger, physically, mentally, and tactically. Records show steady improvements each cycle. If the pattern holds, it won't be long before we're the ones left behind."

Jim let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Left behind? Not yet. We've still got years before that happens. But I will admit, some of these kids are scary motherfuckers…"

"So, what do we test first?" Josaphine asked, folding her arms and glancing toward Dr. Lambert with a hint of anticipation.

"I think we start with the endless run," Lambert replied without hesitation, her tone casual but carrying the weight of someone who knew exactly what she was about to put them through.

Lisa's lips curved into a sharp, predatory smile. "Alright, you sacks of meat, let's have some fun." She strode to the far wall and tapped a control panel. Metal groaned, and with a heavy, echoing thud, a line of massive training wedges slid into place. They were similar to the cadets' own wedges in shape, but the size difference made them look monstrous, twice the bulk, with reinforced edges and anchor points that looked like they could rip the floor apart. "You all know what these are. The only difference is these start at zero weight, but unlike your standard wedges, these get heavier every millisecond. Not every step, every fraction of a step. You'll feel the load increase with every heartbeat. It's going to fight you the entire way. Strap in, because you're going to run until you physically can't pull anymore, and when you stop, it's going to make sure you know exactly where your limit is."

Vaeliyan raised his hand, voice dry. "What happens if we're still running when class ends?"

Lisa scoffed, amused by the challenge. "If any of you last until the end of class, I'll give you all full credit and you'll get a free period."

"Are Soul Skills allowed?" Roan asked, shifting his weight as his extra set of legs clinked against the floor. "Also, how exactly am I supposed to strap in? You got something for me? Because this..." he gestured down at the human-shaped harness setup... "isn't going to work unless you want me tripping over myself."

Lisa grinned wider. "Anything goes, Soul Skills, whatever you've got. Doesn't matter to me how you run, as long as you don't quit. As for you... " she pointed at Roan "Deck, honey, grab Mitten's harness from storage. It should work for now. We'll get one custom-made for the next time something like this happens."

The air in the gym thickened with anticipation. The cadets exchanged glances, some grinning with the thrill of competition, others already dreading what was about to happen. The wedges loomed like silent predators, waiting for their prey to make the first move.

They strapped in, the heavy metal harnesses locking into place with a sharp, echoing click that seemed to reverberate through the whole gym. The sound carried like a warning, followed by the low, throbbing hum of the machines powering up. The wedges, huge, hulking versions of the cadets' own, sat poised, lights flickering faintly in anticipation. Lisa stood front and center, arms folded, her wolfish grin a silent promise that this was going to hurt. When she finally barked the word "Go," the wedges blazed to life, flooding the floor with light as the drag engaged.

And they were off.

The first five-mile lap was almost insulting in how easy it felt, easier than running without armor on standard wedges. The second lap, however, slammed into them like the final stretch of a fifty-mile slog. Muscles started to scream, breath came harder, and that's when the Skills came out. Soul Skills flared, subtle tricks slipped into each stride, and blatant cheating bloomed like wildfire. Lisa had always claimed she despised cheaters, but Deck had long said that was nonsense. Coming from the Legion's reigning champion of bending every rule until it snapped, her marriage to him made her position laughable.

Then something changed, just a flicker at first. Vaeliyan broke from the pack, his pace exploding into something almost unreal. He shot past cadet after cadet, whispering something under his breath every time he overtook someone. There was no reason for his speed to climb this late into the run, yet it did, inexorably.

The others began to slow. Not him. His pace kept climbing, smooth and relentless, until minutes bled into nearly an hour. Armor steamed with sweat, lungs heaved, legs trembled, but Vaeliyan only became faster. Cadets stumbled to the sides, unstrapping and collapsing in heaps. The instructors exchanged baffled looks, except Isol, Josaphine, and Imujin, whose glances toward Lisa were tinged with sympathy.

"How in the hells is he doing that?" Lisa asked, irritation edging into disbelief.

Deck's laugh was low and smug. "Love, you've forgotten, he's the dirtiest cheat you've ever met. And that's from me. The kid doesn't even recognize rules when you spell them out. You told them anything goes as long as they kept running, right? Look at his wedge."

Lisa followed his gaze. Her eyes narrowed. The wedge wasn't even touching the floor.

"It doesn't matter how heavy it gets," Deck said, grinning, "if it's not dragging against anything."

Lisa blew out a long sigh, somewhere between frustration and resignation. "You can stop now. You win. I'll go make some other class miserable."

"That's the spirit," Velrock chimed in. "Maybe the command track could use some one-on-one tiger drills."

Lisa's grin shifted into something thoughtful. "Not a bad idea. We lose enough in real combat to people who don't know how to run fast enough. Maybe this is a blessing. This class doesn't need much conditioning anyway. I'll give them home exercises, check in now and then… honestly, this might be better. I can't look at that kid after what he pulled this morning. And now, I don't have to."
No more endurance training for the whole class, a free period instead.

Vaeliyan was beginning to wonder if he could finish all four years before the first one was even up. It might be a challenge, but there was a possibility that if he really pushed himself, he could make it happen.

The thought had weight, but it wasn't enough. He came here for the power the Citadel offered, and to find a way to protect Mara and everything it held.

If he just kept skipping his way through classes at this pace, he'd be missing most of what the Citadel was offering, and walking into a war he wasn't sure he'd be ready for.

Sure, they might be able to graduate as High Imperators, but would they really be qualified without the knowledge they'd be leaving behind? He doubted it.

For him, speed alone wasn't victory, mastery was. He needed the knowledge, every scrap of it, to see things through the way he intended.

The information, the experience, the details buried in every lesson were worth far more than bragging rights. Each class was another tool, another weapon for the future, and he wasn't about to throw any of them away.

If anything, he wanted to gather as much as he could, piling it high, stockpiling it until the day came when the real work began, when all that learning would stop being theory and start shaping the world.