Yellow Jacket

The rest of the week's classes stretched on endlessly, each day a grueling test of endurance and focus. The hours blurred into a haze of drills, bruises, aching muscles, and exhaustion that clung long after lights out. Every instructor had their own way of tearing them down and rebuilding them.

There was one exception that stood out sharply: the day Dr. Wirk asked Vaeliyan to remain behind after Skill Adaptation. The others filed out slowly, their boots dragging on the floor as they muttered complaints about the session's demands.

Once the door shut, Wirk launched into a meticulous, almost obsessive explanation of how to evolve an active skill into a passive one. He described the natural route first: the constant, unyielding use of a skill until the nanites and the soul adapted together, rewriting the skill's function through sheer persistence. That, Wirk said, could take months or years.

Then he revealed the other path, which was direct modification, his area of expertise. He spoke with pride about his doctorate in nanophanthology, the science of coding and restructuring nanite architecture. With an ease that suggested years of mastery, he spoke of the nearly ten thousand micro markers he knew by heart, each with its own specific meaning, and how these could be realigned to completely change a skill's nature.

Vaeliyan listened without betraying a flicker of concern. He could never tell Wirk the truth: that tampering with this particular skill would destroy him from within. So he simply lied, saying he preferred to take the slow route and learn the process himself.

Outside that conversation, the week offered no respite. Alorna's relentless team exercises pushed them to move as a single, fluid unit, driving them until their bodies responded to each other instinctively. Imujin's punishing sessions stripped away any remaining energy, then demanded even more, grinding their reflexes into weapons.

Lisa, though no longer instructing them directly, still had her presence felt. Each cadet received a personalized training program tailored to their weaknesses and strengths, one she monitored remotely with unnerving precision. When Merigold learned from Sylen that their entire class had been exempted from Lisa's course, she was floored. In her own year, she had only known of one cadet who had ever been excused from even a single class, and it wasn't her. For an entire class to be granted that? It bordered on legend.

Deck's lessons descended into darker waters. He walked them through the art of faking their own deaths, the forging of new identities, and the careful application of biohacking. One day brought them into the cold, sterile space of the cloning vats, with Dr. Lambert overseeing the process.

For the first time, Lambert set aside her usual medical detachment to engage directly. She detailed how a clone body could be crafted to perfect specifications, but also explained the fatal flaw: the mind could never be replicated in full. The only way to create a "working" mind was to let the clone become a Broken once a chip was installed. The revelation unsettled many, the fascination and horror mingling in equal measure.

Meanwhile, Imujin introduced them to the foundational katas of the Fist, a martial art both brutally simple and devastatingly effective. Within days, the cadets could shatter stone statues with compressed strikes delivered from ten meters away.

Vaeliyan's reach, even without assistance, extended to nearly twenty meters. With his Soul Skill, which felt almost tailored for the Fist's techniques, he could strike from an astonishing 37.8 meters. It still fell far short of a lance's range, but the sheer speed of the attacks gave him an edge in any mid-range fight.

The progress was measured in broken stone and the faint shock in his classmates' eyes whenever his strikes landed harder, faster, and farther than they expected.

Midway through the week, Deic intercepted him in the cadet lounge. She stepped into his path with the same sharp-eyed focus she always carried, her expression unreadable but her voice direct. There was no pretense of friendliness, no attempt at casual conversation. She simply asked if he was ready for next week and whether anyone had told him what to expect. Vaeliyan wasn't fond of her and had little interest in her company, but her tone carried a weight that made him pause. This was not the kind of remark meant to needle him or start an argument. It was, surprisingly, the kind of question asked by someone who might actually be trying to prepare him for something unpleasant. The thought lingered with him as he walked away, wondering if he should have asked her to explain more, and whether her warning had more layers than she let on.

Later that day, he delivered a special order to Yuri: a heavily modified food synthesizer capable of producing a variety of manures. The request had been odd enough to remember, and the modifications were elaborate, involving custom-coded nutrient cycles and specialized output dispensers. Vaeliyan didn't ask why. He had already decided that if he didn't want the answer, it was better not to invite it. His best guess was that it had something to do with Yuri's infamous "secret" garden, which Yuri still insisted was classified information even as he tried to invite nearly everyone to see it. The way Yuri managed to present it as both a jealously guarded secret and a public attraction was baffling, the sort of contradiction that made him simultaneously irritating and oddly entertaining. Watching him fuss over the delivery like it was a sacred relic almost made Vaeliyan want to ask, but he decided against it.

He had only met Thomas once, and the man hadn't said much in that brief encounter. Thomas was a fellow apprentice and Vaeliyan simply assumed they would cross paths again at some point.

In the evenings, Vaeliyan's private meetings with Imujin varied. Some nights the other apprentices were present, creating an atmosphere of mixed competition and reluctant camaraderie, each one trying to measure themselves against the rest without making it obvious. More often, though, it was just the two of them, the silence between drills filled with the faint hum of the training room systems.

Imujin claimed that the first month was primarily devoted to the newest apprentice, a time meant to establish a foundation before the training began. Vaeliyan took that seriously, using every moment to sharpen his edge. He listened to every correction, memorized every adjustment, and treated even the smallest piece of advice as something worth testing in combat.

One evening, in a rare moment of levity, Vaeliyan asked if there was any chance he could have another one of Imujin's infamous cookies. His tone was half-joking, but the question was sincere enough to make the Headmaster's answer immediate and firm. One a month was the absolute limit. Any more and, as Imujin put it, even a liver entirely replaced by nanites would fail spectacularly. The flatness in his voice suggested he wasn't exaggerating, and the way he looked at Vaeliyan afterward hinted that this was not a theoretical warning.

Later, Josaphine confirmed it during a lecture, adding layers of context that made the restriction sound even more severe. The ingredients, she explained, were so heavily regulated that their possession in large quantities was considered a war crime. Only a Headmaster, a High Imperator, or someone with enough wealth and influence to convince Verdance to part with them could obtain such things. She spoke about the supply chain, the legal loopholes, and the dangerous reputations of those who had tried to smuggle them. The explanation made Vaeliyan wonder what, exactly, Imujin's idea of a training method said about him, and what it meant to subject someone to consuming something treated like contraband by the rest of the world. He wasn't sure if it was a mark of trust, a test, or simply another layer of danger in a place that already thrived on it.

Vaeliyan had spent his mornings in the training room with Jurpat, Styll, and Bastard, logging hours of focused practice on everything Alorna and Instructor Sarn had been hammering into them. The four of them had, over time, developed a rhythm of working together, though it was far from perfect. Bastard, with his unnerving intelligence and predatory precision, proved to be a quicker study than Styll when it came to grasping his role in their little squad. He could read Vaeliyan's subtle signals with uncanny speed, adjust his position in perfect sync with Jurpat, and adapt to changing conditions without hesitation. Styll, while undeniably capable, brought her own brand of unpredictability to the team. She had a tendency to follow her instincts first and the plan second, especially if she thought her way might be more exciting.

It wasn't that her methods were useless, in fact, sometimes her spontaneity produced clever results, but stealth and coordinated timing demanded discipline. Her independent streak had a habit of throwing the operation's pacing off just enough to cause problems. This issue showed itself most clearly during the databank breach heist scenarios that Sarn had been running them through in class. The simulations were more than just drills; they were rehearsals for the kind of high-stakes missions the Legion expected them to execute in the field: infiltrating fortified Princedom data vaults, bypassing layered security, and extracting valuable intel before the enemy could react. Sarn's instructions were thorough to the point of suffocating, covering every angle from entry points to counter-surveillance maneuvers and the various forms of automated and human resistance they could face.

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One of the most critical lessons drilled into them was how the Princedom routinely flooded ventilation systems with nerve gas at the first sign of intrusion. Vaeliyan had explained it to Styll over and over, both before and after they ran the sim. He made it clear that using the vents was suicide, that no matter how tempting they looked as shortcuts, they were a guaranteed kill zone. Despite this, Styll's curiosity and nature kept leading her straight into them. In the chaos of each simulated mission, she would vanish into the ductwork while Bastard and Jurpat stayed on course. This left Vaeliyan torn between adapting the plan around her absence or attempting a mid-run rescue, which usually ended with the entire team "dead."

They ran that simulation almost sixty times before she even considered abandoning her favorite detour. Every failure ended with her claiming she had "almost" made it, as though being just shy of suffocating to death was a win. Her persistence became a recurring frustration for Vaeliyan and Jurpat alike, and even Bastard began casting her what could only be described as the feline equivalent of an exasperated glare whenever she set foot near the vent entry points.

When she finally stopped, it wasn't because she had accepted the logic of the plan. It was more like a temporary ceasefire between her instincts and the squad's collective patience. Even then, Vaeliyan could see the tension in her whiskers during the pre-run setups. She might have kept her paws on the floor for now, but he knew she was always calculating when she could slip away again, nerve gas or no nerve gas. That spark of mischief in her eyes told him that, given the slightest opportunity, she would be back in those vents, chasing the thrill as if all the previous failures had never happened.

It was the morning of Seventh's Day, and Vaeliyan felt the tension buzzing through him like a live wire. He wasn't entirely sure what the day would bring, but he knew one thing with absolute certainty: he was ready to break someone in half if it meant getting closer to finishing his task. Whether it meant ending the myth of Lord Barcus personally, cutting down the man face-to-face, or dismantling an entire organization brick by brick, he was prepared to do it. The specifics didn't matter. What mattered was that a major boon was at stake, at least, that's what he assumed the reward would be. Even without confirmation, the thought of it burned like a promise in his mind. Either way, by the end of this day, he planned to see this divine assignment through to completion. If luck were a stat, he liked to think it would be one of his highest, and today, he planned to spend every bit of it.

He moved with calm precision as he loaded his case, mentally ticking through what he might need. Jurpat waited nearby, checking over his own gear in silence, both of them aware that this was no ordinary morning. Without much more to say, they stepped out, heading toward Meri's house where the others would gather.

Halfway across the yard, House's voice came through in its usual dry tone. "Sub-Instructor Michael is hiding in the bushes just out of flame turret range. Would you like me to use the sawblade launcher?"

Vaeliyan stopped mid-step, frowning slightly before answering. "No, no. Roundy would have a heart attack if we ruined his bushes again… well, if he had a heart. Honestly, I can't figure out where I went wrong with that bot. I stripped down most of the functions in his programming, but every day he somehow manages to replace them. He doesn't even have hands."

As if summoned by the accusation, Roundy zipped past them and out the door slot, flashing a perfectly sculpted middle finger with a mechanical hand Vaeliyan was absolutely certain he had not installed. Jurpat's laughter broke into the morning air.

"I think you should just stop trying," Jurpat said between chuckles. "Whatever that bot is, you're not going to win."

Vaeliyan shook his head with a smirk. "I like the little fucker, but I just don't get it. There's nothing in his programming that should let him adapt like this. Maybe it's just another one of the many mysteries of Hemera. Not sure I want to know the answer."

Jurpat gave a knowing nod, and they continued on. That's when Sub-Instructor Michael decided to step into their path, still crouched low from his hiding spot. Unfortunately for him, he misjudged the flame turret's range. Vaeliyan had upgraded them with a boost from Yuri's Bottle Blaze, and the moment Michael crossed the invisible line, the turrets roared to life. In seconds, the man looked like a roasted mossback, crisp at the edges, steaming, and smelling faintly of char. He wasn't dead, thankfully, but the look on his face made it clear he wished he were anywhere else.

Vaeliyan paused just long enough to grin wickedly before he and Jurpat hefted the smoldering instructor between them. With no ceremony whatsoever, they dumped him onto a pad and sent him off, ass over head, to the nearest med vat facility. Watching him disappear in a shimmer of light, Vaeliyan almost wished he could see the med techs' expressions when they realized what had happened.

With that taken care of, the two of them stepped onto the pad themselves, ready to continue to Meri's house and get on with the day. Whatever awaited them next, Vaeliyan was sure it would be worth the trouble, and maybe, just maybe, worth all the trouble he planned to cause in return.

Meri and the 91st were already assembled, gathered in a loose half-circle near the edge of the courtyard, with Julian and the rest of the 93rd standing a short distance away. The air between the two groups carried a hum of tension, not quite nervousness but something close, a quiet anticipation that made even the most casual movements feel deliberate. Boots scuffed against stone, gauntlets flexed, and hushed words passed between cadets as if they were preparing for something larger than a simple outing.

Elian broke the silence first, folding his arms with the casual arrogance of someone too used to getting away with whatever he wanted. "So… do we just head to the pad and go to this ugly mug store?"

Kuri snapped before anyone else could answer, her voice sharp and carrying. "Dear gods, no! Do you think we want it logged that we padded there? That's like screaming our intentions to the entire city. Just because you all don't have to do punishment laps doesn't mean the rest of us get that same exception. And I swear, I am not running from tigers again, not even for you, pretty boy." She jabbed a finger at him before continuing, her voice pitched so everyone could hear. "We're taking Meri's house, docking it at the central plaza, and walking down to Ryan & Ryan from there. That way it looks casual, like we're just another group of kids with nothing better to do. We'll pick up some body mods so we don't get flagged by city surveillance, and yes, before you ask, the Citadel gets copies of those records too. So we need to be stealthy, careful, and quiet about this."

Elian raised his brows. "So you mean the mods that make you look like someone else? I thought civilians couldn't buy those."

"They can't," Elfa cut in smoothly. She tossed her hair back with the practiced ease of someone who lived half her life being watched and judged. "But we're not exactly civs anymore, are we? We're Legion now. That means certain doors open for us that stay locked for everyone else." She gave the group a pointed look, scanning them up and down. "And honestly, you should all probably pick up some random clothing while we're at it. We can't be strolling around in matching uniforms like a bunch of fresh cadets. Might as well paint a target on our backs if we do."

"Wait, what exactly does this body mod do?" Vaeliyan asked, his voice plain and unpolished. He sounded every bit the bumpkin he was accused of being. He looked at the others expectantly, then even turned toward Jurpat, who gave him a shrug that spoke of equal ignorance.

Sylen rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't stick that way. "Of course you wouldn't know," she said, her smirk curling like she was explaining something obvious to a child. "You're from the middle of nowhere. Cousin, these things aren't just makeup or face-swaps. They're whole fake bodies. Originally designed for infiltration ops, but these days the rich brats use them to break laws, sneak out from under surveillance, or live double lives. And guess what? We're about to do the same thing, except we actually have a reason. The best part is you can fully customize it however you want, and it comes with an ID spoof that tricks every scanner into reading it as the real thing."

Vaeliyan frowned, clearly trying to wrap his head around the idea. "How is that legal?"

"That's the fun part," Chime said, cutting in with a grin that matched the mischief in her eyes. She practically bounced on her toes. "It's super not. Not even close. Which is exactly why it's perfect. Civilians would get slammed into a cell for even thinking about it, but we get to walk right in and use them because we're Legion."

The group shifted at that, a low ripple of amusement moving through them. For a moment, the tension lifted, replaced with an unspoken agreement that whatever lay ahead was going to be equal parts trouble and opportunity, and none of them were about to back down from it.

Vaeliyan tried so very, very hard not to smile. The thought alone was almost enough to break his composure. Finally, he was going to have a way to be himself while in the Green, and none of them would even know. They would all just assume it was Vaeliyan under the disguise, the same cadet from nowhere, when in truth it could be something else entirely. Even if it wasn't exactly him, he could finally walk around as Warren again, free in a way he hadn't been since Mara.

Of course, the fake body couldn't make him shorter than Vaeliyan. That would raise suspicion, and the whole point was to blend, not stand out. But height aside, he could still look like Warren, his real face, the one he'd buried under blood, secrets, and the veil. Seeing that reflection again, even stretched taller, would be close enough. It would be a strange merging: Vaeliyan's frame carrying Warren's features, his height bending the memory but not erasing it. Maybe he'd even grab a yellow jacket just to nail the look, to step back into a skin that wasn't supposed to exist in the Green. The idea of walking the streets like that, seen but unchallenged, filled him with a vicious, private satisfaction that curled through his chest and refused to let go.

For once, he wouldn't have to hide behind the mask of Vaeliyan Verdance. For once, he could walk as himself, even if no one recognized it for what it was. And maybe, just maybe, he could test what it felt like to breathe in public as Warren Smith, daring the Green Zone to see through the lie and not flinch.