Yellow Jacket

They stepped onto the pad and into a classroom that felt almost surreal in its simplicity. For once, there were no holograms flickering across the walls, no simulations, and no chaotic orientation drills. Just real desks arranged in tidy rows, a faint scent of chemical cleaner, and an actual whiteboard, white, scuffed, and half-shadowed in the standard overhead lights. Notes were already scribbled across the board, written so finely that squinting didn't help; the print was practically microscopic, like a test in and of itself.

Dr. Wirk stood at the front, unmoving, arms folded behind his back as if he'd been waiting all morning.

"Welcome. Ah, boys, sorry, still don't remember your names. Faces, yes. Names, no. But that's not important today. Everyone, please take a seat."

They did. The chairs were hard, the air unusually quiet.

Wirk moved with deliberate steps, pacing once across the front of the room.

"In front of you," he said, gesturing, "is a skill fragment. It contains the most common skill in the Legion arsenal: Flash. It's basic. Almost laughably so. But it's also deceptively flexible. And for our purposes this year, it's more than just a training tool, it's your foundation."

He turned back to the board and sketched something fast and loose, an angular diagram of light dispersal patterns, ripple effects, maybe even nanite dispersion vectors. It was messy genius.

"This year," he said, turning around, marker still in hand, "your primary task will be to evolve Flash without System guidance. That means no using your skill evolution points and absolutely no letting the System shape the outcome for you. You'll be doing the shaping."

He tapped the board twice for emphasis.

"I've had cadets turn Flash into bursts of flame. Into soundwave detonations. One even managed to make it spray something like acid. Don't ask me how. The point is: you will take control of its function and bend it into something new."

He let the silence stretch a few seconds.

"But that's only half of it. You'll also be creating your own skill fragment from scratch. A combat viable one at that."

Dr. Wirk looked around the room. His gaze sharpened.

"Yes, technically, every skill can be used in combat. But let's not pretend a needlepoint skill is the same as a dagger cloud, is it? Don't confuse useful with viable. Some of you will make skills that kill in one strike. Others will make... disappointment. Either way, we'll study both."

He walked along the front row, arms behind his back again, nodding to himself as if already mentally ranking them.

"You'll receive your base fragments shortly. Every attempt must be documented. Every variable noted. That means heat, angle, proximity, emotional state, whatever contributes. You'll be expected to understand what went wrong when it fails, and explain it when it works."

Then his tone changed, just a little colder.

"This is a military facility. You are not artists in a loft. You are not children with toys. You are Legion cadets. Theft of lab equipment, though rare, will result in court-martial. And if I have to waste my time filing reports, I assure you, you'll wish I'd just thrown you into a particle cannon instead."

He turned to face the room fully. Still. Centered.

"Let me be clear. This class will teach you how to craft your own skills, from class function during skill shaping, to adaptive layering and fusion mapping. In return, you will listen. You will ask questions that matter. You will respect the time I give you and the power you're about to touch."

His eyes narrowed, just a fraction.

"The Legion doesn't care if you're creative. It cares if you win. That's what this is about. Winning, on your terms. Now. Let's start lesson one, class formation. Anyone here still level 20?"

Vaeliyan, Elian, and Jurpat raised their hands.

Dr. Wirk blinked once, then let out a surprised laugh. "Well. That's a first. More than one hand. This is going to be a very exciting year. I might actually enjoy this."

He glanced around the room with renewed interest. "The only thing that could top that would be if one of you didn't spend both of your level 15 skill evolution points... but that's never happened. I suppose I'll just have to be content helping form real classes this year."

Vaeliyan slowly raised his hand again.

Dr. Wirk narrowed his eyes. "Yes? What is it?"

Vaeliyan met his gaze without hesitation. "I did."

"You did what?"

"I saved one of my evolution points."

Dr. Wirk stared at him, expression unreadable. Then he spoke quietly. "What's your name, young man?"

"Vaeliyan, sir."

Dr. Wirk smiled. Not politely, genuinely. "Vaeliyan. I will remember your name."

Vaeliyan didn't smile. He just nodded, but his pulse had shifted, like the world had leaned half a degree closer to alignment. Something about hearing his name land like that, meant, remembered, hit deeper than he expected.

Now I'm really excited," Dr. Wirk said, hands clapping once with sudden enthusiasm. "Let's talk about skill evolution. I've had this lecture prepped for thirty years. Thirty. And not once have I been able to give it on the first day. Usually, I have to wait until you lot hit your level 25 evolution points. But not this time. This class... this class is different."

He walked over to the whiteboard, pressed a button, and the panel flipped with a mechanical click to reveal a second surface. This side was bold, colorful, and almost aggressively cheerful. The lettering was massive, the colors wildly saturated. Everything was laminated in that plasticky sheen of reverence. At the top, in a proud, handwritten scrawl: My Very First Lecture.

No one commented. They were too stunned.

Dr. Wirk turned back to them, and somehow the glare from his bald head had intensified. It was nearly blinding. Had the lighting changed? The man looked younger, like he'd peeled a decade off by sheer force of excitement. His eyes gleamed with manic focus.

"Now. Skill evolution itself is simple in theory: pick a skill, evolve it. Sounds easy, doesn't it? But here's where it gets interesting. Did you know how you use the skill and what you imagine it becoming actually matters?"

He tapped the base of his neck with one finger. "Your chips read intent. They're not just feeding you interface data, they're observing. Reporting. They tell the System what your skills are doing, how their edges are being pushed, and where the strain's building up. That's how evolution is shaped."

He turned, started sketching wildly on the board. A circular diagram. Skill at the center. Arrows pressing against the edges. Points of tension. Labeled strain vectors. He underlined half of it three times.

"Let's say you've got a trash skill. Examine. Utter garbage, right? Just pings something with surface-level data. But let's say you use it creatively, start focusing it toward scanning value: prices, material worth, item rarity. If you keep doing that, build your interface around that function, push that angle every time, it can evolve into a value appraisal skill. Still basic, sure, but now it's useful in trade."

He spun back toward them and pointed the marker like it was a dagger.

"But! Same trash skill. Instead of prices, you use it to analyze bodies. Injuries. Circulation. Muscle tears. Healing patterns. You keep pushing. You refine the interface. And then? It might evolve into a weak-point identifier. Now you're talking battlefield intel. That's what I mean by pressure at the right angle."

Wirk leaned on the edge of his desk like a man preparing to pounce.

"Nanites learn. They watch you. They adapt. Over time, the programming of a skill will start to mirror how you use it. That's why two people with the same skill can evolve it in completely different ways. One gets a surgeon's tool. The other gets a sniper scope. It's not about what the skill is. It's about what you're making it be."

He held up a single finger.

"Now, when you spend a skill evolution point, you're not just selecting from a menu. You're forcing the issue. You're hammering your intent into the system and telling it to change now. But here's the twist, it doesn't always give you what you want."

He turned back to the board and wrote in giant letters:

INTENT ≠ OUTCOME.

"Let's revisit that Examine skill. Let's say you've been using it to scan for value, right? But for some reason, now you decide you want it to evolve into a weak-point detector. You press the evolution point. You demand the change. But your use history and your interface tell a different story. The system might respond with... a hybrid. Something like a body-part valuation model. What does that even mean? It means trash. It means it identifies how valuable each part of a body is. Useless, unless you're a butcher, or worse."

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

He let that sink in.

"That's why pressure matters. Direction matters. Consistency matters. The more clearly and consistently you push against the edges of a skill, the more likely it is to evolve into something useful. Or at least something you define as useful. That's the difference between system evolution and intentional evolution."

Wirk walked back to the front, tapping the laminated board again.

"This," he said, eyes sharp, "is how you stop being a product of the System... and start using the System as a product of you. It listens. It learns. So speak to it with your actions. Push your tools into new shapes."

After the room had absorbed the last of the diagram's chaos, Dr. Wirk looked around. His eyes settled back on Vaeliyan. "You," he said, gesturing with the marker. "I highly recommend that you start pushing the skill you want to evolve in the way you wish to evolve it, as soon as possible. Don't wait. Let it grow toward the direction you want it to lean. Give it at least two weeks under pressure before you actually spend that evolution point."

Vaeliyan raised a hand again. "Is it possible to turn an active skill into a passive one? Or vice versa?"

Wirk's grin widened like a sawblade. "Excellent question. The answer is... yes. But not easily. The classification of a skill is part of its behavioral profile, its baseline programming, if you like. But that profile is shaped by use. If you consistently use an active skill in passive contexts, say, using a detection pulse not in bursts, but as a constant monitoring stream, the chip may start treating it as a passive behavior. Enough repetition, enough pressure in that direction, and yes: you can push that skill to evolve into a passive form. And the reverse is true. Passive skills that you manually amplify, focus, or weaponize? They can become actives. It's rare. It's hard. But this class isn't about easy. It's about deliberate design. So yes. But it has to be earned."

Then added, "Most cadets never even consider it. But you're not most cadets."

He paused dramatically, then muttered, "Next slide," and hit another button. The whiteboard flipped again, revealing another vivid, almost childishly enthusiastic diagram.

And with that, the real lecture began.

Dr. Wirk clapped his hands again, but this time it was more controlled, more focused. "Now," he said, voice steady but still brimming with anticipation, "let's talk about classes. And their effect on skills."

He walked toward the whiteboard, flipped it once more, and began drawing a flow diagram as he spoke, the motion practiced and efficient, like a performance he'd waited decades to give.

"As I've noted before, skill evolution is intent-based. You all understand that by now, or you should. But what many of you might not realize is this: a class is intent. It's not just a label. It's a design, a framework that the System forms for you based on what you have chosen, what you've done, and who you're becoming. Your class becomes a modifier for every skill you use to evolve it. Skills and class shape one another over time. They're in a kind of conversation, constantly echoing back and forth."

He tapped a diagram of a skill ring, arrows radiating toward a class icon. Then reversed the flow with a few strokes. "Yes, classes provide tailored stat bonuses. But that's not the point. That's just a byproduct of leveling. Your body can only hold so many nanites. That's what a threshold restricts. But your class... your class is like the most efficient factory ever built."

He picked up a new marker and drew a factory schematic over the flow diagram. "When you reach maximum nanite capacity, when you hit a threshold, it doesn't just shut down. It stops producing more and starts replacing loss. It locks in at that capacity. Stabilizes. That's why hitting threshold isn't the end, it's the signal for structural optimization."

He paused, drew a heavy horizontal line, then another above it. "Class upgrades increase your factory's capacity to the next threshold. That's how you continue to grow. How you keep expanding without overloading. Your internal system stays efficient, even when the pressure mounts."

He took a breath and smiled, a little wistfully. "Anyway, you'll learn more about that in Finding Your Inner Monster. Not my field. What I'm here to teach you is how to make that factory upgrade work best for you. Think of it as fine-tuning a precision engine, every detail matters."

He circled back to the topic with renewed energy. "You all know there are six base classes available at level 5. And after that? An unknowable amount of upgrade paths at level 10 and beyond. But here's the kicker: once you pass level 10, you don't get another selection. The only thing that influences your next upgrade is your skills. The ones you pick. The ones you evolve with it. The intent you've put into them. And the intent you hold when you upgrade the class. That moment of fusion is more than choice, it's declaration."

He pointed at them with his marker. "Intent matters. The intent of the class you started with. The intent you've placed in your skills. The intent you bring into the class evolution process. The System watches your direction, not your wishes."

He changed slides again. This time it showed a branching tree with different icons labeled with obscure class names, some crossed out, others highlighted with strange symbols.

"Now, let's talk about one of the more interesting interactions between classes and skill fragments. Let's say you take a handful of skill fragments and absorb them raw. You get a random skill, right? Feels chaotic. But it isn't, not entirely. Because those fragments are weighted toward your class. That factory we talked about? It has preferences."

He grinned. "Isn't that fun? If you've got a class like... I don't know... Delivery Boy, you might randomly pick up a navigation skill. Or an identification skill. Or even, gods bless it, a Power Nap skill. Which, in my personal opinion, is one of the best skills ever discovered. I'm not joking. Power Nap carried an entire warfront logistics line once."

He let that linger, then pivoted again. "Your class affects the random nature of bodily skill absorption. The Legion doesn't see this as a flaw. But from a resource standpoint? It's a massive waste of fragments. That's why we craft them instead. You can modify them directly. Fuse them with precision. Use fewer fragments. Get exactly what you want."

He walked behind his desk and retrieved a sealed box filled with base fragments. He held it up like a treasure chest. "Let's also talk about skill removal. Yes, it can be done. But listen closely: never, and I repeat, never, remove a skill that has been used in any class formation. If you do, the System will lock you at your current threshold. You will not be able to progress further. Not unless you re-add that exact same skill. And trust me, fragments aren't that consistent."

He raised a finger, the energy in him still crackling. "However... skills you've not used in class formation? Those you can swap out fairly easily. And that, cadets, is how we'll be testing your final products. You'll evolve Flash into something new. You'll craft your first combat skill from fragments. Then we'll test both by temporarily slotting them in and seeing how they behave."

He smiled wider. "Welcome to Skill Adaptation. This is not just theory. This is design. This is control. And if you do this right... this is freedom. This is the beginning of your own language of violence. Learn to write fluently."

The pad hummed underfoot, and then they stepped from the sterile white of Dr. Wirk's classroom into the roaring sprawl of the Cadet Lounge.

It was massive.

Multi-leveled, ceiling lost to height, with walkways that curved like arteries through a hive of noise and motion. Hundreds of cadets, maybe more, filled the space. Every table was occupied. Every ledge, every stairwell. It was a city of motion, of chaos structured around routine, and everyone moved like they belonged, even if barely.

And some were eating bug bars.

Barely surviving them. Swallowing like it hurt their soul a little, like each chew was a small act of rebellion against hope. The wrappers crinkled with the sound of quiet despair.

"That's tragic," Jurpat muttered, nudging a cadet who'd half-fallen asleep mid-bite. The cadet blinked blearily, muttered something incomprehensible, and went back to gnawing like a prisoner.

No one looked happy. Even the loudest groups, the ones laughing and yelling over each other, carried that same slackness in their posture… like joy had been cauterized around the edges. They shouted, but with hollow lungs. They smiled, but with tired eyes.

But there was still joy. And it came from the pits.

Clusters of cadets formed around pits in the center of the lounge, shallow depressions ringed with pods, the simulated dueling rigs that plugged directly into the miniature pits. The fights were real to them. Pain, pressure, victory. Even if their bodies stayed intact, the experience was immersive to the edge of trauma.

Around the pits, others watched, studied, or bet, hurling credit chits or tags or straight wagers with practiced hands. One group had even rigged a display screen to show slow-motion replays of previous fights with commentary pulled from archived match data. Another group near the far wall wasn't talking at all, just syncing study tabs, comparing loadouts, and silently modeling projected counters.

There was a clear hierarchy to where cadets sat. Lower levels were louder, rowdier, territorial. Upper tiers were quieter, reserved, more dangerous in the way still water was dangerous, when it looked calm but promised depth and drowning.

Class One stepped in together, and the room didn't notice.

But a few cadets did. A group of older cadets on an upper landing glanced over, whispering with narrowed eyes.

One of them, mean mug, sharp stride, narrow shoulders and confident posture, broke from the pack and walked straight toward them. A tension stirred through the group, like everyone expected something to crack.

"Hey, you lot. You're the new Class One, right?"

Vaeliyan didn't even blink. "Yeah. What of it?"

The cadet grinned. Not smug. Genuine. "Can I get your autographs? I'm a huge fan of those on the Imperator tracks. You lot are next level. I saw the finals, and damn, brother, that was cold. I've never seen anyone take a kill shot to the heart and still manage to win. Most people just stop when they don't have a heart anymore."

He stuck out a hand without hesitation. "Where are my manners? Julian Colphish. Wonderful to meet you all."

Slyen leaned over to Xera and whispered, "I don't think we can use him for homework. I'd feel too bad."

Xera nodded. "I'm looking for some asshole, but this guy seems sweet. Also, he's kinda hot… in a nerdy sorta way. Maybe we look for someone to fuck up in the upper landings."

"I have a feeling that's going to be hard," Slyen said. "How much you wanna bet it's impossible?"

Jurpat shrugged. "Don't you think everyone knows about the first-year homework? It's a class on cheating, and Deck's…" He cut himself off, glancing around. "Deck's probably listening."

Rokhan cracked his knuckles, his grin all bone. "You're probably right. There's no way he expects us to actually complete it. No one's dumb enough to forget Class One always has to get into a fight."

Lessa laughed under her breath, brushing lint off her sleeve. "Who knows. Maybe it's one of those things only Class One knows, and none of the standard cadets do. Maybe they all watched but didn't get it."

Ramis raised a brow, nodding slowly. "And maybe some of the nobles who transferred in don't know the assignment."

The twins spoke in eerie sync, voices flat and exact. "Hopefully they're as much asshats as they were at the mixer."

Ramis looked at them, then back at the rest, mildly unsettled. "Still super weird."

Vaeliyan, ever the smart cookie, tilted his head and asked with a grin, "Julian, my friend… is there a group of assholes who you think would challenge a bunch of year one cadets to a pit fight just to make themselves look good? There has to be someone, right? Some noble sons of bitches?" He mock-bowed. "No offense, Lord Sarn."

Elian snorted. "None taken. There really are a bunch like that."

Julian's eyes lit up. "Oh, absolutely. You want names? Faces? Pit history? I can show you. Thinking about getting your homework done early, I see."

Jurpat muttered, "I knew it. Everyone has to know."

"Not everyone," Julian said, "but I study the Imperator track. I'm on the command track myself, and rule one of command: know your assets, know their tasks, and know how to accomplish those tasks."

Xera cocked a hip and grinned. "Are you single by any chance?"

Julian blinked. "No… why do you ask?"

Slyen waved her off. "Don't bother with her. Just tell us where these fools we get to fuck up are hiding, and how best to go about said fuck-upping."