Yellow Jacket

Warren knew this place had to be tied to the Citadel. Too many signs pointed that way. The biggest clue was the announcer: Ruby. She was unmistakable, her voice carrying that same sharp charisma he had heard during his final match with Elian. Sure, it might not be the same Ruby, duplicates were always a possibility, but Warren doubted it. And even if she wasn't the original, maybe she was just a mask, a face designed to serve the same function: control the story, own the spectacle, bind the crowd. Whoever she really was, her presence anchored the truth. The Ninth Layer wasn't just some back-alley pit; it was part of something much bigger, maybe even sanctioned by the Citadel itself.

Ruby's words rolled over the chaos of the crowd, flawless in their rhythm. She called out victory for what was apparently a fan favorite, the Broken called Ettin, and the name made grim sense: two heads, one body, swinging like some nightmare out of a fairy tale gone wrong. She didn't just call the win, she celebrated it. Her voice crackled like fire through the speakers, sharp and alive:

"Darlings, do you see? Ettin stands again! Two heads, one fury, no mercy! Ettin, Ettin, Ettin!" She chanted with the crowd, her pitch rising like a conductor leading an orchestra. "The twin terror of the pit, our beloved monster! Bleeding, broken, crushed, it does not matter, Ettin always rises! Ettin always wins!"

Every syllable dripped theater. She spoke about the creature as though it were more than a beast, as if it were a legend being forged before their eyes. The crowd roared back, some crying out in worship, others slamming their fists against the railing until blood stained their knuckles. Ruby turned slaughter into poetry. She painted inevitability with her voice, painting Ettin as unstoppable, adored, inevitable. It reminded Warren of the way she had narrated his fight with Elian. Smooth, sharp, pulling every listener deeper into the spectacle until they couldn't look away. It was masterful, and it confirmed his suspicion: this wasn't just another pit fight. This was performance, and Ruby was the voice tying it all together.

At the gate, someone barked at him, voice rough and impatient, the kind of tone that came from years of corralling eager fighters. "You, kid in the yellow raincoat. What do you want them to call you?"

Warren paused, thinking only for a moment before answering with deliberate calm. "Itself."

The gatekeeper stared at him like he was an idiot. Then he let out a loud, dismissive snort. "That's a dumb name, kid."

Warren's lips twitched into a small smirk, his storm-grey eyes steady as he leaned slightly closer. "Wait till you hear her call it out. Just imagine… and then I get punched in the face by Itself." The words carried a faint amusement, the kind of joke only he could find funny, and he chuckled at the absurdity of it.

The gatekeeper shook his head, clearly unimpressed. "Whatever, kid. They don't pay me to listen to puns. They pay me to keep the fights moving. My job is to tell you the rules and shove you through that door when your number's up."

He leaned in, his voice dropping into the gravelly growl of someone who had delivered this warning too many times to count. "Rule of the day is two-on-one. You heard me right. Doesn't matter who walks in there with you, you're going to be outnumbered. And for your match? Improvised weapons only. Skills are allowed, but no punches, no kicks, no headbutts. Not a single clean strike. And don't think about smuggling in a blade. No real weapons, unless you're lucky enough to find one lying in the sand."
And one more thing. Tonight's Kill Night. Means no med-staff, no mercy, no second chances. If you go down, you stay down. Crowd wants bodies, so give them a show, or you'll just end up another stain in the sand.

The man let the silence hang for a beat, waiting to see if Warren would balk, complain, or show a hint of fear. He didn't. Warren's face stayed unreadable, a mask of calm, though his fingers flexed slightly at his sides as if already imagining how to twist the rules into his own advantage.

He gave a single nod, sharp and certain, without hesitation. "Understood."

The gatekeeper frowned, unsettled by the lack of reaction. "You're either the dumbest cadet I've seen in years, or the most dangerous. Can't tell which yet."

Warren's smirk returned, faint but unshakable. "Why not both?"

The man grunted, gesturing toward the looming door ahead, its iron frame scarred from years of fists, claws, and weapons pounding against it. Beyond those hinges waited the pit, the crowd, and Ruby's voice ready to shape every moment into legend. Warren adjusted the collar of his yellow jacket, shifted his grip on the umbrella he carried like a weapon, and stepped forward. He was ready.

Ruby's voice crackled to life, smooth and mocking, carrying across the pit like a blade through silk. "And now, my darlings… the next bout. On one side, the sweet sisters of slaughter, Pretty and Beautiful Daisies!" The crowd roared, stomping feet and pounding fists against the iron rails. "And on the other side…" She paused, letting silence hang before her tone turned sly. "Itself. Yes, that's what it wants to be called. Really? Itself? Hells, we always get an influx of weirdos around this time each year. Whatever. Daisies, show Itself what it means to step foot in the Ninth Layer."

The gates screeched open. The Daisies walked out in mirrored steps, chains dragging across the sand, their smiles sharp and cruel under the pit's burning lights. The ground this time wasn't clean; it was scattered with junk, old gears, twisted pipes, broken haulers, what might once have been a boat, even the bent frame of a bicycle tossed against a pile of rusted scrap.

The crowd's roar became a steady chant as Ruby egged them on, her voice dripping with delight. "Chains and flowers, chains and thorns! Who bleeds first, my darlings? Who cries the sweetest?"

The Daisies didn't hesitate. They spun their chains in unison and charged, the links whistling through the air. Warren didn't flinch. He walked to the bicycle, lifted it with casual strength, and began to sing. His voice was low, so low that it never reached the stands or Ruby's eager ears. Only the Daisies heard it, a private melody curling between them like a whisper of doom.

"Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do." Pretty's chain lashed out, wrapping toward his arm, but Warren swung the bike in a brutal arc. The frame smashed into her ribs with a crunch that echoed through the pit. She staggered, blood flecking her lips.

"I'm half crazy, all for the love of you." Beautiful darted low, her chain snapping for his legs, but he twisted. The back wheel whipped around, spokes catching her across the cheek. Flesh split, and she reeled, chain clattering from her hand.

"It won't be a stylish marriage, I can't afford a carriage." Pretty snarled, whipping her chain like a spear. Warren caught it in the bike's frame, yanking her forward before ramming the handlebars into her stomach. She folded and hit the sand.

"But you'll look sweet, upon the seat, of a bicycle built for two." Beautiful lunged from behind, but Warren caught her chain in the pedals, twisting until the sharp teeth shredded her shin. She screamed and collapsed.

"There is a flower within my heart, Daisy, Daisy." Warren swung the bent frame like a club, striking Pretty across the jaw. Teeth sprayed from her mouth as she fell sideways.

"Planted one day by a glancing dart, planted by Daisy Bell." He stomped the back wheel down on Beautiful's hand, bones cracking as she shrieked.

"Whether she loves me or loves me not, sometimes it's hard to tell." Pretty tried to rise, chain dragging, but Warren hooked the frame around her neck and wrenched her down.

"Yet I am longing to share the lot, of beautiful Daisy Bell." He drove the handlebars down into her face until the chain slipped from her fingers.

"Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do." He swung the bike in a full arc, knocking Beautiful sprawling again. "I'm half crazy, all for the love of you." He brought the back wheel down against her ribs until she gagged blood. "It won't be a stylish marriage, I can't afford a carriage." Pretty clawed forward, only for Warren to smash the bent frame into her shoulder. "But you'll look sweet, upon the seat, of a bicycle built for two." He kicked the chain aside and pinned both sisters under the twisted wreck of the bicycle.

"We will go tandem as man and wife, Daisy, Daisy." He dragged Pretty up by the throat and hurled her across the sand, her body skidding until it hit the pile of gears.

"Pedaling away down the road of life, I and my Daisy Bell." Beautiful tried to crawl away, but he shoved the broken pedal into her back, grinding her face into the dirt.

"When the road's dark, we can both despise, policemen and lamps as well." Warren swung the bicycle sideways like an axe, the frame crunching against Pretty's spine. She screamed once before going limp.

"There are bright lights in the dazzling eyes, of beautiful Daisy Bell." He leaned down close to Beautiful, still humming, and smashed the wheel down over her skull. The scream cut short.

"Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do." He sang it softly as he dropped the ruined bicycle across their broken forms. "I'm half crazy, all for the love of you." The Daisies twitched in the sand, bloodied and beaten. "It won't be a stylish marriage, I can't afford a carriage." The crowd roared, blind to the song. "But you'll look sweet, upon the seat, of a bicycle built for two."

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The crowd went wild, half in laughter, half in horror. Ruby's voice rose above it all, giddy with the chaos. "Darlings! Did you see that? The Broken Daisies just got run over by the bicycle Itself! That's what I call weed-wacking!"

The crowd screamed, stomping and laughing, their frenzy shaking the pit.

Warren glanced at the twisted bicycle still in his grip. A low chuckle slipped out, almost drowned in the noise.
"Guess the bicycle did it… Itself."

He let the mangled frame drop across the broken Daisies, storm-grey eyes unblinking as Ruby carried the legend into the Ninth Layer's screaming night.

When Warren walked back to the pit gate, another fight had already started. The sound of fists cracking against flesh, chains rattling, and the roar of the crowd rolled over him like a wave, almost alive in its hunger. He ignored it. His eyes weren't on the pit anymore. He wasn't where he had come from—he was standing in front of another hallway, dimly lit, walls streaked with grime and old stains that seemed older than the Citadel itself. The air carried the metallic tang of blood, oil, and rust, mixed with the sour scent of fear. At the far end, an elevator waited with its doors shut, silent like a mouth ready to swallow him whole. The hum of the machinery behind it was faint, but it spoke of depths below that most men would never crawl back from.

The pit master, or at least the man who had told him the rules earlier, leaned against the wall near the gate. His posture was casual, but his eyes were sharp, restless, and heavy with the weight of too many fighters dying for nothing. His arms were crossed, his voice rough from shouting, carrying a rasp that suggested more smoke and whiskey than sleep. He looked Warren up and down with that same flat disinterest he gave everyone who passed through, like he was just another body to be broken and recycled into memory.

"You planning on sticking around?" the man asked. His tone was dry, almost amused. "You got a spot in tonight's battle royal."

Warren tilted his head, his expression unreadable as he studied him. "What's the prize?"

The man snorted like Warren had asked something absurd. "Other than the thrill? Not much, kid. We don't even need to pay idiots like you to fight. There's always a surplus of eager murderers lined up for blood, hoping to make a name or bury one. The Ninth Layer never goes hungry, not when people are so desperate to prove they matter. But…" His voice dropped lower, carrying a quiet edge that cut through the noise of the pit. It made Warren pause. "Win five battle royals, and, well… there might be something worth it after all the carnage. That's what they tell us, anyway."

Warren narrowed his eyes, a flicker of curiosity breaking through his calm. "Is that how I get to meet this Lord B?"

The pit master shrugged, the motion slow, as if brushing off the question but savoring the weight behind it. "Can't say. Never met him myself. Truth be told, I've never even seen anyone actually win five royals. Not once. People get close, then they break. Or they bleed out. Or they vanish. Doesn't matter. The carrot's always dangling, and there's always some dumb bastard willing to chase it. Keeps the cycle going. Keeps the crowd fed. So, I'm guessing you're in."

There was no mockery in his voice. It was colder than that, the kind of certainty that came from watching hundreds march into fire with the same stubborn gleam in their eyes, none of them walking back out with it intact.

Warren just nodded. He didn't waste words or bravado. There was no point. The secrets of the Ninth Layer weren't going to reveal itself in whispers, promises, or half-truths. They would come out only through blood, grit, and persistence. If five battles were the price. He was excited to pay it, maybe he might get a level or five out of it in the process. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, the faintest smile ghosted across his lips. First, though, he had a battle royal to win. That was enough. The thought set the weight in his chest humming with anticipation, like a storm gathering behind his ribs, ready to break with anticipation for the chaos ahead. The elevator stood as an option for those who wanted to quit, a silent escape route back into the shadows. But Warren wasn't here to leave. He was here for the blood, the roar, the test waiting inside the pit. The battle royal was coming, and he would meet it head-on.

The upper gallery of the Ninth Layer was restless, the crowd still buzzing from the brutality they had just witnessed. Whispers and curses carried through the air, bouncing between stone walls and iron rails. Two of the most beautiful fighters the pit had to offer, the Daisies, radiant even by Green Zone standards, otherworldly in their crafted perfection, had been torn apart in minutes. Not just beaten, but humiliated, their elegance wrecked under the spinning frame of a rusted bicycle. Itself had turned junk into a weapon and artistry into carnage, and now the gallery simmered with outrage.

Spectators who had come to adore the Daisies shouted over one another, angry at the mockery of beauty, furious that a nobody had survived when their favorites had not. Some voices rose with a hungry edge, calling for blood, promising that the battle royal would end with Itself's head rolling in the sand. Others muttered dark wagers, shifting coin and promises, betting heavily that he wouldn't make it through the night.

The cadets of the 91st and 93rd sat scattered among the crowd, their disguises intact, body-mod faces calm and blank. Every single one of them had watched Warren dismantle the Daisies with ruthless efficiency, though their reactions varied. Some wanted to cheer. Others wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. But most kept quiet, they were here to keep their heads down and enjoy the chaos.

Locke (Elian) leaned close to Ember (Lessa) and muttered, "That was the most violent use of a bicycle I've ever seen."

Ember arched a brow. "Brutal, sure. But honestly, it looked sloppy. He could've done it cleaner."

Locke smirked faintly. "Not saying I couldn't have done it better, but… well, maybe I am."

Reeve (Ramis) leaned over the seat in front of him. "Itself, remember? That's the name he gave."

Maddy (Leron) snorted softly. "Itself. Yeah, that's going to stick. People are pissed, but they'll never forget it now."

Boris (Wesley) hissed under his breath, glancing at nearby spectators who were glaring. "You want to get us gutted? Keep your mouths down. Half this place thinks the Daisies were saints."

Junie (Sylen) whispered, "Saints don't get flattened by a bike. That's on them."

Star (Vexa) shrugged. "Pretty faces, chains in hand, and they still got wrecked. Not much else to say."

Lewis (Torman) muttered, "They were supposed to be terrifying. He made them look like amateurs."

Ash (Varnai) kept his tone level. "Don't get cocky. He's alive now, but that crowd wants him dead. The royal's going to be a feeding frenzy."

Flint (Roan) grinned, eyes sharp. "Good. Let them come. I'll put coin on Warren over any of them."

Ben (Rokhan) tilted his head. "Bold words. Maybe he'll last, maybe he won't. Either way, this place is bloodsport. No one leaves clean."

Nora (Xera) said nothing at first, then finally murmured, "He stood out. That's dangerous here. Dangerous for us too."

Carven (Merigold) smirked faintly. "At least it's entertaining. I was worried we'd come all this way just to sit through dull fights."

Veyra (Lupa) leaned back with a bored look. "Don't fool yourselves. Down there, it's not a game. But I've seen nastier scraps. Once watched a guy fight with nothing but a busted lantern. He died, but it was funny."

Serah (Grace) twisted a straw in her drink. "He didn't hesitate though. Like he's been waiting for this. Still… it's not the wildest thing I've seen down here."

Drenn (Melkor) rolled his eyes. "Gallery already wants his corpse. Same as they wanted that guy last month who went at it with a meat hook. Didn't last long either."

Nivor (Nemo) grinned lazily. "Maybe they'll get their prayers backfired. Wouldn't be the first time."

Elrae (Elfa) wasn't even looking at the pit anymore, more interested in tracing patterns on her glass. "Crowd's predictable. Same rage, different faces."

Keth (Ken) waved down a vendor. "Doesn't matter. Drinks now, blood later."

Auren (Aluminis) took a swig. "If he wins the royal, Ninth Layer's going to choke on it. Might even be fun to watch."

Garan (Geo) chuckled. "Or they'll bury him before he gets that chance. Which means better odds for us."

Halric (Fred T.) nodded toward a couple making out two rows down. "See? Half this crowd doesn't care either way. They're here for the party."

Ladmir (Yuri) smirked faintly. "Good. Let him carry the target. Gives the rest of us a night off."

Ruby's voice cracked through the Ninth Layer like a whip, smooth yet edged with mockery, filling every inch of the gallery and pit with her tone. She lived for moments like these, the anticipation that sat thick in the air before blood was spilled. And tonight, her voice was the drumbeat of violence.

"Darlings, gather close! You know what night it is. Oh yes, it's that time again, our weekly battle royal! The event where the strong get stronger, the weak get shredded, and the lucky ones crawl out with most of their limbs still attached. You've come for the spectacle, and I promise you'll get it. I always deliver, don't I?"

The crowd roared, stomping against the iron floors, voices breaking into cheers and jeers. Ruby let it swell, let it taste ripe before she cut into it again.

"Now, let's keep a little perspective, shall we? There are no med-staff waiting with open arms to patch your poor broken bodies this time. No kind healers in the wings. If you die, well…" she dragged out the pause, voice curling like smoke, "…then you die. Consider it an early retirement. Less mouths to feed, more entertainment for me. Fair trade, isn't it?"

Laughter and howls rose from the gallery, some cadets joining in, others sitting quiet as the energy sank claws into them.

"That said, I'm not completely heartless. Sometimes a friendly rivalry, a little showmanship, is worth more than the messy business of tearing each other limb from limb. Oh, who am I kidding? You didn't come here to watch a tea party, and I sure as hell didn't dress for one." Her voice cracked sharp, rising to a fever pitch. "You came for carnage!"

The gallery surged. Tankards spilled. A chant rose from somewhere deep in the crowd: blood, blood, blood.

Ruby grinned, and the sound of her voice sharpened. "Still, why not make things interesting, hmm? Tonight isn't just about you tearing each other apart. No, no. We've got something extra to spice the stew. Beasts! That's right. Freshly chained, freshly hungry, and ready to sink their teeth into anything dumb enough to cross their path. You think you're hard? You think you're killers? Prove it while something twice your size is trying to rip your spine out through your throat. Now that's entertainment."

The pit gates groaned, somewhere deep below, the sound of steel and rust echoing up. A ripple went through the audience, fear, excitement, hunger all at once.

"So sharpen your wits, my darlings, because you'll need them. Weapons are scarce, allies are temporary, and luck is a fickle bitch. Only one of you walks out with glory. The rest? Corpses, scars, or worse. I can't wait to see which."

Her voice softened, mock-gentle now. "Step in, little fighters. Show me your rage, show me your beauty, show me your ruin. The battle royal begins when the gates open, and they're creaking already. Don't keep me waiting."

The crowd thundered back at her, eager, hungry, desperate for blood. Ruby spread her arms as though she had birthed the chaos herself. In a way, she had.

Her final words dripped with venom, smooth as silk but sharp as a knife: "Most of you will die, and that is a price I'm willing to pay." The crowd howled at the cruelty, at the promise of death spoken like an afterthought. Ruby only laughed, basking in it, her voice carrying over the madness as the gates thundered open.