Yellow Jacket

The pods hissed open with a metallic sigh.

Vaeliyan stepped out first, posture loose and relaxed, like the slaughter inside hadn't been anything more than a stroll in the park. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the crowd without urgency. Victor and Wallace followed after, staggering like drunks into the bright Citadel lounge. Sweat, confusion, and humiliation clung to them like oil. The murmur in the lounge grew louder, cadets leaning in, eyes wide. Whispers climbed the walls, spider-slick and multiplying.

"He cheated," Wallace snapped, voice fraying around the edges. "No one loads that fast. No one. That wasn't a fair fight."

Victor wobbled beside him, temple rung from a phantom wound. "There's something wrong with his pod. Or his connection. Or the fucking pit AI..."

"If you two morons had actually paid attention to the entrance tournament instead of partying the whole night," a girl's voice cut in, slicing through their bullshit with surgical precision, "you would've known about the champion of the tournament and his weird-ass ability to load faster than anyone in Citadel history. Maybe you would've even stood a chance."

All eyes turned to the speaker: a tall, sharp-faced girl with dyed copper-red hair and the air of someone perpetually done with everyone else's incompetence. She was pretty, but not in the Green Zone standard of pretty. Not polished or plasticked, not surgically smoothed. She looked like a real person, with flaws, and the ability to understand those flaws were what made her beautiful. A purplish birthmark crept along the left side of her neck like spilled ink, and her eyes might've been a little too big for her face. But her grin said: fuck yeah, I know I'm pretty. Her uniform was perfect, her stance confident. Arms crossed, hip cocked, she didn't blink.

Victor blinked instead. "What? This runt? The rank one? You've got to be kidding, Merigold. There's no way this whelp was the champion. He's too small."

Vaeliyan didn't respond with words.

He stepped forward and popped Victor in the mouth.

It was a clean strike. A straight punch to the mouth that cracked with a wet, satisfying sound. Victor reeled backward, eyes wide, clutching his lips as if he'd been hit with a brick.

Vaeliyan's voice was casual, flat and cutting. "Bitch, I just kicked your ass so hard your own brother had to put you out of my misery. The only real injury I took was one I gave myself. And I wasn't even using Skills until he cheated. Now get your bird-shit-suit ass out of my face before I turn this hallway into a sequel."

Wallace bristled. "Is that a threat?"

Vaeliyan turned to him, slow and deliberate. "Yes, you fucking moron. That's a fucking threat. You think I can't kill you before you twitch? Get the fuck out of my face, you crusty-towel-wearing motherfucker. If I see either of your faces again, I'll fuck you up so hard the ugly stick will form a support group in your honor."

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. His words dropped like blades, and his glare did the rest.

The Stone brothers stared. Then backpedaled. Then turned. And then, like the cowards they were, they scurried.

The lounge watched in silence.

A few cadets tried to stifle laughter. Others failed. Whispers turned to snorts. Snorts to cackles. Whatever reputation the Stones had left shattered with every step they took toward the exit pads.

Vaeliyan turned slowly back toward Class One. Ramis was still sprawled on the lounge couch, one arm flung dramatically across his eyes like a dying aristocrat.

A new laugh cut in from the side.

"That was hilarious," Merigold said, stepping closer, her smirk wide and easy. "Those two weasels usually put up a decent fight. You tore them apart like a wet paper bag. Honestly, I've never seen Victor look so confused."

Vaeliyan frowned. "Who are you, and why are you talking to me?"

Merigold raised a brow. "That's a bit rude, don't you think?"

"You're the one who randomly decided to start a conversation."

"Merigold Wither," she said, unbothered. "You'll want to remember it."

He didn't answer.

"So?" she prompted.

He sighed. "Did you actually have something to say or ask? Because right now I'm still riding a high from obliterating those walking colostomy bags and I'm not in the mood for chitchat."

"Deck's probably going to be proud of you for this," she said, folding her arms. "But just so you know, when Deck's proud of a cadet, Lisa usually gets pissed. They're a fun pair like that. Super odd couple. Like putting a blowtorch and a calculator in the same room."

He stopped walking. Turned. Finally looked at her.

"Who are you really?"

She smiled. "Like I said. Merigold Wither. Class One of the 91st. First place for my year."

Vaeliyan's gaze shifted, just slightly. Less hostile. More… interested.

"So you're someone I'll actually want to talk to. But not right now. I've got some things I need to do."

"No problem," she said. "Send me your AI link. I want to rewatch that fight anyway. That trip you pulled? Fucking genius."

He winced slightly. "Yeah… about that. Didn't have time to install my AI yet. Kinda behind on setup."

She blinked. "Seriously?"

He shrugged.

"Fair enough," she added. "Guess I'll catch you around."

He hesitated, then asked, "What's the Tier Zero AI like, if you don't mind? I haven't met anyone who had an AI installed before coming here. Kinda worried it'll start whispering to me in my sleep or something."

"It does talk to you," she admitted, "but not like a person. More like a HUD overlay that thinks. It maps your vision, sends images, voice clips, holos, requests… all of it intuitive. It doesn't interrupt unless you allow it to. It's not just combat stats either. Ours come with support memory layers. Think of it like a second brain that remembers everything you don't want to forget."

Vaeliyan nodded slowly. The fire was still there behind his eyes, but the edges softened just enough.

"Sounds useful."

"It is. Especially if you're already terrifying without one."

She smiled. Then turned and strolled off, hands tucked in her pockets, whistling low.

Vaeliyan stood there for a moment longer, watching her leave like he was still waiting to decide whether she was a threat, a curiosity, or both.

Finally, he turned back toward the couches, rolling his shoulders. He muttered, loud enough for Ramis to hear, "If you're gonna keep pretending to be unconscious, try not to smile like an idiot."

Ramis groaned dramatically and let his head roll to the side. "My spirit is broken. My head is cracked. The fight was brutal, the trauma real."

Jurpat kicked the leg of the couch. "You flopped like a champ, though."

Class One laughed. The sound was jagged and raw and a little too close to real.

The lounge never fully settled again after that. Not that day.

Because from now on, everyone remembered exactly what happened when you picked a fight with Vaeliyan and forgot to finish the job.

Vaeliyan didn't head for the tech bay or the med wing like a normal person. He didn't ask for assistance. He didn't file a request. He didn't wait for one of the instructors to supervise the AI installation.

No, he headed for the nearest bathroom.

Not one of the sleek upper-level restrooms with synth-stone counters and auto-clean floors. No, he went straight for the closest one,the one tucked behind the edge of the Cadet Lounge. The one cadets avoided like they owed it money and definitely carried diseases. No one used it unless they were desperate. Not because it was haunted or cursed, though that rumor circulated too, but because it smelled wrong, felt wrong. The kind of place that made people choose pain over proximity.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

People were gross. But Vaeliyan didn't care.

He just wanted to get it done.

The moment he stepped inside, the smell hit him. Hard.

It wasn't just bad, it was offensive. Like rotted meat mixed with burnt rubber and moldy milk. It stung his eyes instantly. Made him gag. He coughed and choked, waving a hand in front of his face like it would help.

And Vaeliyan had smelled things. He had once walked past a month-old corpse that had bloated, ruptured, and exploded after being soaked too long in stagnant runoff. That had been memorable.

This was worse.

Not the worst thing he'd ever smelled, there had been a sewer pit in southern Mara that could have killed gods, but this ranked close. Bad enough to make his stomach churn. Bad enough to make his eyes water. Bad enough to make him question his own decision-making.

He made it halfway into the stall, saw the inside, and backed out like it had just spoken to him.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

So he did what any emotionally unhinged genius would do. He planted himself right in the middle of the room, filthy tiles, flickering light, and all, and did it there.

It wasn't about privacy. He didn't give a shit who saw. It was the Veil. He didn't want to risk that part of himself slipping loose in a open space if something went wrong. This bathroom was big enough to fall over in. That was enough.

He locked the door behind him with a flick, ignored the smear of something brown on the wall by the handle, and sat on the closed lid of a toilet like it was a throne made of bad life choices and sanitation violations. There, just above the handle, he spotted something scribbled on the tile in dark ink, half-faded but legible:

Looking to make some real creds or just show off? Come find me on The Ninth Layer — Lord B.

He snorted. Of course even the nightmare bathroom had recruitment graffiti.

From his coat pocket, he pulled the AI core.

Sleek. Black. About the size of a marble. Smooth and featureless, except for the faint pulse of internal power, a slow heartbeat of light under glass.

He turned it over in his fingers once. Twice. Then pressed it to the back of his neck, just above the base of his spine, where the chip sat embedded in bone.

The core reacted immediately.

It melted.

Not in a normal way. Not with heat. More like it dissolved into motion. Nanite slurry peeled off the surface and soaked into his skin like liquid thought. A chill that slid through nerve and spine like ice with intention. A crawling awareness.

Something new. Something sharp. Something not quite alive.

It uncoiled in his mind like a chick breaking free in that exact moment. A newborn. Hungry. Already learning him from the inside out.

A faint tone vibrated through his skull, like a glass windchime in another room.

Then a display appeared.

White text. Transparent overlay. Clean, utilitarian.

[ZX 42-50 Tier Zero AI Core Initialized. Hello, user. Please stand by as systems adjust.]

He blinked.

The bathroom seemed different. Not less disgusting, but outlined. Tagged. Marked. His vision filled with subtle indicators: pressure zones, material readings, biohazard alerts. Text curled into the corners of his perception like annotations in a journal only he could see.

[Calibration in Progress... Baseline Neural Pattern Detected... Sync at 67%... Please Remain Still.]

He leaned back instinctively, aiming to rest against the cracked stall wall.

And then he heard it.

A slopping noise.

Wet. Organic. Moving.

His spine straightened like a whip. He bolted to his feet instantly.

Vaeliyan was a lot of things, murderous, calculating, occasionally theatrical.

Scared wasn't usually one of them.

But whatever was in that stall… whatever had made that sound…

It would haunt his nightmares for years.

He backed away slowly, watching the stall door like it might open on its own. Nothing moved. The AI overlay pinged a contamination warning, then politely dimmed.

He exhaled hard. Ran a hand through his hair.

"You know what," he muttered, "this might be the most on-brand moment of my entire life."

The overlay didn't answer.

It just pulsed quietly in the corner of his vision, logging his biometrics and logging the trauma event as its very first failure point. It was made to help, and this, this was its first mission. It would help him. It would show him how his fears would lead to future failures. It would make sure to highlight moments like this whenever he needed to learn. As this was the first point of note with its new user, it logged the fear. And it would help break that weakness in any way it could.

In the background, it quietly queued up a few test simulations to run during sleep. Subliminal neural remeshing had been shown to work 12% of the time in relevant studies. That would be enough, for now.

Ramis was busy. And not in the studying-for-class kind of way.

By the time Vaeliyan caught up with the others, Ramis had somehow wound up in a corner of the lounge, tangled up between Vexa and Leron. There were hands involved. Tongues. Maybe teeth. It was a full-on entanglement of limbs and whispered murmurs that left nothing to the imagination. One that several passing cadets had already slowed down to observe, some even pretending to tie their boots just to stay longer.

Jurpat grinned and threw an arm around Vaeliyan's shoulder like they were longtime war buddies. "You missed so much while you were gone."

Vaeliyan's eyes flicked to the pile of limbs and synchronized moaning. "I can see that. Should I be jealous? He's supposed to be my lover and all."

He cocked his head, then turned slightly with a deadpan stare. "Also, Sylen, what the fuck? Why did you say that earlier? I'm pretty sure I saw a girl in the corner drawing art of me and Ramis. It was good, but definitely not safe for work. Like, gallery-tier smut."

Sylen burst into laughter so sharp it made one of the onlookers flinch. "It was for your own good. You know the situation you've got at home and all. But I think our boy Ramis might've screwed that one for us."

"Yeah, I thought he was scared of the twins," Vaeliyan muttered, still watching with a squint like he couldn't decide whether to be impressed or horrified.

"Still am," Ramis said, voice muffled, one hand shooting out blindly to brace against the wall. "This is weird. Really, really weird."

The twins pushed him back onto the bench again with identical, effortless grace. He didn't resist. He might've even sighed like someone finally accepting their fate.

"I mean, scared and turned on aren't always exclusive," Lessa said lazily from the floor, sketchbook propped on her knees. She wasn't looking at them directly, but her pen was moving fast.

"I think we should head to class," Varnai said, squinting at the scene like she'd been forced to stare at a car crash in slow motion. "I really don't want to keep watching this, but it's so hard to look away. Like performance art gone rogue."

"Do their tongues move like one person, Ram?" Fenn asked, eyes wide and filled with unfiltered curiosity.

The entire group stopped and stared at him, the way people stare at someone who's just asked if knives taste different depending on their sharpness.

Fenn shrugged, defensive. "What? I wanted to know. You can't tell me you're not curious. It's science."

"He's got a point," Elian admitted with a slow nod, looking entirely too serious.

"Well?" Roan asked, arms crossed. "Do they?"

Vexa, maybe Leron, it was hard to tell ever let alone mid-session, turned to glare. "Can't you see he's busy?"

"Yeah, trying to get busy," Wesley quipped with a grin that earned a collective groan.

"Let's just go," Sylen said, already turning away with a hand over his eyes like it could somehow erase what he'd seen.

Vaeliyan nodded, raising a finger. "You three better be right behind us, or I'm telling. I will weaponize an instructor don't test me."

Ramis groaned again, but this time it wasn't from the twins, it was the long, regretful kind that meant he knew exactly how weird his life had become.

Class One peeled off as a loose pack, half-marching, half-drifting toward the exit pads with all the subtlety of a drunk parade no one had scheduled. One or all of them glanced back. No one admitted why.

They stepped onto the pad and vanished into the next classroom, an instant shift that dropped them into a forest with no warning. It was summer, but this forest looked like the middle of fall, leaves fucking everywhere. Orange, brown, brittle, thick enough to hide both danger and deception. Still clinging to branches just enough to conceal anything watching from above, while dense on the ground to mask broken roots, warped earth, and jagged sticks waiting to twist ankles. The trees stretched high, wide-trunked and ancient, their branches snarled together into a lattice that filtered light into fractured, chaotic shards. The air felt damp, not like summer heat, but like runoff-soaked earth that had never dried, with a heavy scent of mold and stagnant growth.

"What class is this again?" Wesley asked as they took cautious steps into the woods, brushing branches aside that recoiled as if alive.
"Group tactics," Elian replied, his tone hesitant.

The main group had arrived together, clustered and wary. Each of them on edge, eyes scanning between tree trunks. Then came the twins, clean, composed, and somehow untouched by the chaos they'd just left behind. Their uniforms looked pressed. Their hair was flawless. It was unnerving. A beat later, Ramis stumbled in like a man who had lost a war with gravity, hair wild, shirt only half-buttoned, one sleeve turned inside out, and a shoe barely clinging to his foot. He looked like he'd been flung through a hurricane. Twice.

Looking at the twins, it was disturbingly easy to imagine that hurricane would have been easier to survive.

They stood waiting. But no instructor came. Not even a hint of oversight. Just silence. Thick, oppressive, and unnatural. The kind that made even breathing feel like a mistake.

Then came the rustle. A shiver of leaves. A snap of twigs. They all turned toward the sound...

And Varnai screamed.

When they turned, she was gone. No flash, no struggle. Just... Gone.

Then Xera screamed.

Vaeliyan didn't turn this time. He listened. Listened for air displacement, the echo of motion, the tiny shift in weight behind the noise. But it was already too late.

He looked down just as the rope snapped tight around his ankles. "Fuuccckkk!" he screamed, but it was already done. His body jerked upward, yanked into the air like a fish on a line.

Next to him: Varnai. Then Xera. Then Roan. It didn't stop. One by one, the entire class was yanked skyward by well-hidden snares, expertly rigged and timed with disturbing precision. The ropes hadn't come out of nowhere, they had been there the whole time, cleverly concealed beneath the detritus of the forest, buried in moldy leaves and camouflaged under layers of mud-caked twine. No glint, no shine, no sound until it was far too late. Each cadet was pulled into the air in a chaotic chorus of yelps, curses, and sheer disbelief. They hung like broken marionettes among the branches, swaying and twisting, some upside down, some spinning slowly, their uniforms catching on bark and twigs, their dignity unraveling by the second. Panic spread like fire. And yet the forest stayed silent, untouched by their suffering, as if it had seen this happen a thousand times before.

Then a figure emerged from below. Silent. Deliberate. She looked like she had crawled from the roots themselves, but not in the sense of stealth, more like the earth had given birth to her. Her body was smeared with mud, layered in leaves, bark, and earth, camouflaged so perfectly she seemed grown, not made. With every blink, she flickered into and out of visibility as she moved, not because she was invisible, but because she was that damn well camouflaged. A tribal warrior sculpted by raw wilderness, a creature of purpose and control. She didn't posture. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. If she had wanted to, she could've killed them all, every last one of them, and nothing they had, nothing they'd trained, no instinct or warning or tool would've saved them. She didn't look at them, just walked to the knot of rope, knelt beside it, then pulled a single rope, causing the entire setup to unravel instantly.

The class didn't fall with dignity. They screamed like idiots and dropped like sacks of meat, colliding mid-air, tumbling into one another, until they all hit the forest floor in a tangled, aching, groaning pile of limbs, sweat, and bruised pride.