Yellow Jacket

Imujin sat at his desk, staring at a file the size of a mountain. Reports, complaints, warnings, and thinly veiled threats from sub-instructors had stacked so high that the paperwork itself seemed to loom like a siege tower over his desk. Legion logs stamped with High Commander Ruka's seal only made it worse, each one more insistent than the last, hammering the same demand:

The 90th will be up to standard by the Shatterlight Trials. No excuses.

The other instructors stood in a ragged semicircle before him, the weight of the Citadel on their shoulders and the smell of ink, sweat, and frustration filling the office. The walls of the chamber, usually imposing, felt smaller than ever with so much tension inside. Even the faint hum of the Citadel's old ventilation system sounded loud, as if it were straining to breathe with them. Imujin pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaled slowly, then finally muttered the only honest thing left to say:

"I have no idea. Not a single gods damned clue. I'm happy with the outcome, sure, but this is chaos. This is not something I was prepared for."

His words hung heavy, filling the office like smoke. No one argued at first, but everyone exchanged quick glances. Gwen finally leaned forward on the desk, her voice sharp and unflinching. "What if we bring back night testing? We've done it before. We could double the load until they either adapt or break."

Isol groaned and dragged a hand down his face. "No. I'd rather get sleep. We proved that method was terrible. Hilarious, yes. Effective? Maybe for the sadists in the room. But still terrible."

Josaphine shifted her weight, crossing her arms even tighter. Her voice carried the clipped edge of someone who had spent too many nights fighting for order in the chaos. "We can't spend an entire year babysitting one class. If we burn ourselves out chasing the 90th, the rest of the Citadel will fall behind. They can't be allowed to cost us everyone else."

Dr. Lambert cleared her throat but didn't add much more than a faint shake of the head. Even she looked uneasy, as if trying to calculate how much physical strain the cadets could survive before they stopped being useful as students altogether. Jim muttered something about letting them run laps until their legs fell off, but he didn't press it, knowing the others weren't in the mood for jokes.

No one offered a real solution. The silence stretched until Alorna, silent as ever, reached into her coat and tugged free a fat wad of sticky notes. Without a word, she began flipping through them, her expression calm, her pen scratches brutal. Everyone leaned in despite themselves, their eyes narrowing as the images came into focus.

The first sketch: Alorna, Gwen, Jim, and Deck chasing the new 90th through a forest, each figure drawn mid-torment, one with a lance, one with a pipe, another with fire at their heels. The cadets were stick figures running blind, mouths open in terrified screams, sweat lines streaking their cartoon faces.

The second sketch: Imujin, Lisa, and Dr. Lambert looming over cadets in a sparring pit. Cadets collapsed on the ground while Velrock sat calmly nearby, drawn with a dark, looming shape but a gentle smile. His presence was steadying, a figure watching over them to keep the cadets from fracturing entirely. The others in the room knew the depiction was true: Velrock looked like a nightmare, but his voice and presence kept people from breaking. More than one of them silently admitted they were grateful for him.

The third sketch: Dr. Wirk and Josaphine handing jagged, impossible evolutions to cadets, drawn as oversized boxes with cruel shapes inside. Above them, a speech bubble in Alorna's stick figure sign: Make it worse. The cadets were sketched as clutching the boxes with wide, horrified eyes, some dropping them, others trying to force them into use.

The fourth sketch: Isol and Theramoor dragging exhausted cadets through a battlefield. Arrows, fire, and collapsing walls rained down, while speech bubbles of historical dates and names floated above the chaos. Some cadets ran, others stumbled, one lay dead flat on the ground with Xs for eyes, another drawn face-first in the mud.

Alorna snapped the pad closed, raised one brow, and held it aloft as if to say: This is the way.

The room went completely silent. Even Dr. Lambert, normally quick to balk, had nothing to add. Josaphine muttered under her breath, "Of course she came prepared." Isol sighed and looked like he wanted to throw himself out the nearest window. Gwen smiled, the kind of knowing look that said she trusted Alorna's instincts more than any spoken argument. Jim grunted and rubbed the back of his neck. He wanted to disagree, but if it meant spending more time with Alorna, he would more than happily give up pretty much anything.

Velrock, calm as ever, folded his hands and gave the smallest nod. His voice, when it came, was steady, almost soothing. "It will be brutal, but they won't shatter if we guide them through it. They can endure more than they think. Sometimes they only need someone to remind them. We're not just testing what they know, we're testing whether they can survive themselves." For a moment, the tension in the room eased, the other instructors catching themselves almost believing they could pull this off.

Dr. Lambert allowed herself a small exhale. Even Josaphine's posture eased just slightly. Gwen, who rarely softened, gave Velrock the faintest nod, acknowledging that his words had steadied more than just the cadets in question.

Imujin leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable, eyes flicking between each of them as though measuring their will against the impossible task. The silence dragged, filled only by the faint rustle of paper and the steady hum of the Citadel around them. Finally, he said, his voice low and firm: "So… we fuse the classes."

The words landed like a hammer blow. Every instructor in the room knew what that meant. Fewer hours of theory. More hours of survival. A curriculum stitched together like a weapon, designed to break the 90th into something usable or kill them trying. There was no other way forward, no path that allowed them to both protect their other classes and satisfy High Commander Ruka.

No one disagreed. Not a single voice rose against it. For a moment, their silence was agreement enough, and in that silence, the new 90th's future was sealed.

Vaeliyan woke with a pounding headache, his house still in shambles from the night before. Roundy was violently shaking the Freds by their collars, dragging them back and forth like misbehaving children who had crossed a line one too many times. The metallic hum of Roundy's servos filled the room as he growled in his strange, coded language, the sound sharp and grating as it echoed off the walls.

When Vaeliyan asked House what had happened, the polite yet cold voice replied without hesitation: Fred T and Fred R had been violently ill during the night. After Roundy had powered down, the Freds had stumbled outside and vomited directly into the hedges Roundy prided himself on maintaining.

Vaeliyan only nodded, full of understanding. They had asked for it. Roundy's wrath was deserved. The Freds would be lucky if the little disk bot let them live it down anytime soon. Roundy had been patient, perhaps more patient than they deserved, but when it came to his hedges there was no forgiveness.

He rubbed his temples and surveyed the scene around him. The structure of his manor was still immaculate, every polished surface gleaming with the careful perfection of design, but the living spaces told a different story altogether. Chairs were overturned, glasses left half full, scraps of food littered the low tables, and more than one rug bore stains that made him wonder whether it was drink, blood, or something else entirely.

Cadets were sprawled across couches, rugs, and even the marble floor, tangled in awkward, exhausted heaps. Boots hung off the backs of chairs, one of the upper windows was left wide open to the night air, letting in the faint morning chill. Someone had scrawled an insult in chalk across one wall that Roundy had already half-erased, leaving a ghostly smear of the word lingering in the light. The house was still beautiful, still pristine in its core design, but this morning it looked more like a battlefield than an estate. They had classes in only a few hours, yet it didn't matter. Most of the cadets wouldn't make it on time, and those who did would be barely functional.

Vaeliyan didn't have time to worry about them. He had somewhere else to be, and this morning was for damage control. He dressed quickly, ignoring the ache in his skull, and moved through the front hall with a quiet determination. The cadets didn't stir as he stepped past the porch, boots crunching lightly on gravel as he followed the path across the estate line.

His stride was steady, deliberate, carrying him toward Deic's mansion. It was the first time he had come this close to her estate, and the building itself was nothing short of spectacular. Every line was elegant, every surface polished to perfection, a monument to the resources poured into the rank one estates. Unlike the chaos of his own home, hers looked untouched, immaculate even in the early hours of the morning, as though fury and grief could not disturb the order of its walls.

He reached the landing zone and pressed the buzzer mounted beside the front wall. It wasn't much more than a doorbell, but in estates like these, the sound carried weight. It wasn't a request; it was an intrusion, a summons, a demand to be acknowledged.

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The panel flickered to life, and after a long pause, Deic's face filled the screen. Her features were a wreck, tired, hollow-eyed, her cheeks flushed from tears that hadn't fully dried. She looked as though she hadn't slept at all, and fury instantly lit across her expression the moment she saw him. Rage and exhaustion mingled into something brittle and sharp. Vaeliyan felt it like heat through the monitor. After all they had lost, after the humiliation he had delivered, after the way he had left her class broken and stripped of their position, she had every reason to despise him.

She had played civil at the end, when they parted in the pit, even offering clipped words that sounded almost like courtesy. But there was no civility left in her now. The mask had shattered the instant his face appeared, leaving only the raw wound beneath.

The monitor went black before he could speak. He pressed the buzzer again. Once. Twice. Three times. She ignored each one.

By the fourth he exhaled sharply through his nose, the headache pounding harder. By the fifth the weight behind his eyes grew sharper, irritation creeping in. By the sixth he began to consider leaving, calculating whether forcing this meeting was worth the effort. Finally, on the seventh attempt, the panel blinked back to life. Her voice came sharp, raw, and tired: "What?"

"Peace, peace," Vaeliyan said, raising his hands slightly, palms outward. His tone was steady, though his body begged for sleep. "I came with a suggestion. One that might help you get back into a position more befitting where you should be. I took the opportunity I needed because we're Legion. That's what we do. We learn how to cheat. Honestly, I don't even consider it cheating, it's a lack of rules. Just… let me in, and I'll tell you what I've got planned. You'll see. I'm exhausted, but I wouldn't have come if it wasn't worth your time. Give me pad access, and if you don't like what I have to say, I'll walk straight back to my house without complaint."

Deic stared at him from the other side of the screen. Her silence dragged, her eyes narrowing with scorn. He could see the fury there, clear as flame, but behind it all was calculation. She hated him. That much was obvious. Yet she wasn't foolish enough to dismiss him outright. She knew he wouldn't be standing there unless he had something worth saying.

Finally, she said, her voice edged but resigned, "Fine. Take the pad. Cause I'm not landing for you."

The panel went dark again. Vaeliyan turned and walked back across the path toward his estate, his stride steady, his thoughts sharper than his aching skull would allow. The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of iron from the city's ever-present machinery.

He stepped onto his pad, and with a blink of light and the sudden lurch of disorientation, the world blurred around him. His stomach flipped, then settled as his vision cleared. He now stood in Deic's estate. The grounds stretched around him in quiet symmetry, every garden trimmed, every stone path clean, every detail sharp with care and wealth. It was as spectacular as any in the rank one district, but here, silence ruled. The beauty was undeniable, yet the weight of her fury hung in the air like a storm cloud, pressing down on everything around him.

Vaeliyan let out a slow breath. Whatever came next, he knew it would shape the uneasy path they would walk together.

Contrary to what Vaeliyan was expecting, Marigold's house had been warm and bright, but Deic's home was cold. Not utilitarian exactly, but cold in its atmosphere, in the way the air seemed to press against him. Snow drifted across the grounds, not real snow, but something designed to look and feel like the idea of snow. Artificial, yet perfect, like the Green itself had reimagined what winter should be and then imposed that ideal on the world. It glittered faintly under the morning light, every flake flawless, every drift sculpted with symmetry that nature itself could never replicate. And unlike real snow, this was warm. It wrapped the skin in comfort rather than stealing its heat, carrying a faint, clean chill in the air that was perfectly balanced. This wasn't weather. This was curated serenity. It was Deic's ideal made physical.

Her mansion stood just as spectacular as the others, but it felt different. Where Vaeliyan's estate projected exactly what he wanted it to classic mansion vibes with killing intent, and Marigold's beamed splendor, Deic's chalet was quiet, calm, pristine. Yet to him it felt almost angry, as though her perfect environment itself rejected him. Not because the house was hostile, but because he had humiliated her. Here, in her element, the perfection seemed to glare at him, reminding him of the wound he had inflicted.

He walked up the long stone steps to the doorway, his hand half-raised to knock, when the door swung open before he touched it. Deic stood there, fuzzy bunny slippers on her feet, a thick robe wrapped around her shoulders, her hair disheveled from lack of sleep. She looked at him with heavy eyes, the kind that had cried too much and rested too little. Her voice was flat, stripped of pretense, tired but cutting: "We're going to speak out here. I don't want you in my house."

Vaeliyan sighed, rubbing at his temple. "Alright. Here's the deal. There are practically no rules when it comes to challenges, as I demonstrated against you. You can punch up. You can move across. The only rule is you can't challenge the same person who beat you. That's it. You can't reclaim your old spot, but you can take someone else's fourth year slot."

She glared at him, and the weight of her stare broke his rhythm. He faltered, cutting himself off mid-sentence, and dropped his hand. "Sorry. I'm tired. Head's pounding. Last night was… forget it." He cleared his throat, tried again with more focus. "Listen. There are other Citadels. Other Class Ones. You could challenge one of them. From what I've heard, not every Citadel is built the same. That could be your path. You don't have to rot here under this loss. I have seen how strong you are and I know you can do better just not against me."

Deic slammed the door in his face. The sound cracked like a whip, echoing in his skull. Vaeliyan stood there for a long moment, the echo ringing in his ears. He let his hand drop to his side and threw both hands up in exasperation, muttering curses under his breath. He turned back toward the pad, head still pounding, muttering about how this was a wasted trip.

A muffled voice followed him through the door: "Gods dammit. I want to punch you so hard in the face right now. But you didn't come all this way just to gloat. You're actually trying to help."

The door cracked back open, just enough for her voice to carry. Her words were raw, frayed by exhaustion and pride clashing. "But how? I can't just leave. I'm one of Imujin's apprentices. How would that even work? How could I abandon that?"

"You could always take an apprenticeship elsewhere," he said, watching her through the narrow opening. His tone was calm but insistent, the words clipped with conviction. "Challenges are unbelievably open-ended. That's the point. If you can win, the Legion wants you to win. If you can beat someone everyone assumes is untouchable, then they're not untouchable. That's the Legion. You know it as well as I do. If you can take it, it's yours. The only thing stopping you is deciding it's impossible."

She stared at him, conflicted, her grip tightening on the edge of the doorframe. Her face said she wanted to argue, her jaw tensed with the effort of holding back the words, but her silence admitted she couldn't. Her robe slipped slightly off one shoulder, her exhaustion laid bare, and for the first time Vaeliyan could see that behind her fury was someone broken by circumstance, not weakness.

Vaeliyan gave her a tired half-smile, more grimace than comfort. "Anyways, I'm going to check on my guests before my cleaner bot decides to finish what it started. Just… don't go after Marigold. It's not worth it. You've got better options. You know it, even if you don't want to hear it from me."

For a moment, her eyes softened, the hard lines of her expression loosening, almost vulnerable. Then Deic gave the smallest of nods, not willing to admit agreement but not rejecting him either. She shut the door quietly, the sound almost gentle compared to before, and left him standing in the warm snow.

Vaeliyan lingered for a moment, the flakes drifting soundlessly around him. The estate was perfect, comforting in its chill, designed for her and her alone. But to him it carried weight, not hostile, but heavy, like the quiet judgment of someone who refused to forget. He turned back to the pad and stepped onto it, the world blurring around him, the curated cold still wrapped around his shoulders like a rejection he couldn't quite shake.

Vaeliyan walked into his house, his voice slicing through the haze of exhaustion that clung to every corner. "Alright, everyone from my class, get up. Everybody up. People from Marigold's class, get the fuck out. You need to find somewhere else. Roundy's going to murder the Freds if you don't get them out of here. Save them before he decides to redecorate with their corpses. And I don't want that on my floor. My floor." His tone cracked with irritation, tired but sharp enough to cut.

Several cadets groaned, dragging themselves upright, confused and still half-drunk. The Freds were already cornered near the hedges, Roundy circling them like a predator, tiny chassis humming with fury. One of the Freds whimpered. Vaeliyan ignored it. He jabbed a finger toward the group sprawled across his couches and rugs. "They fucked up. They ruined Roundy's hedges. And I told everyone, stay away from Roundy. Don't fuck with Roundy. He's a dangerous motherfucker. He will stab you. He absolutely will. And Roundy, I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. Would you like me to build another… bot? A companion?"

Roundy froze mid-throttle, sensors swiveling toward him with predatory precision. The bot's rage fixed on Vaeliyan instantly, and the air seemed to chill as though even the house waited for violence. Vaeliyan threw his hands up, backpedaling quickly. "No? Alright, never mind. Forget I said anything."

He turned back to the room at large, his gaze sweeping the mess of bodies, cups, and half-eaten food. "Everyone, get the fuck out of this house. My class, get your asses up. We're going somewhere. You're going to follow me. We need to talk."

The cadets shifted uneasily, some already stumbling toward the door while others lingered with bleary confusion. Vaeliyan's eyes cut across them all, sharp even through the weight of fatigue dragging on his limbs. "We have a plan to make. This is the deal. We're going to figure out where we go from here. And we're going to do it together."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping low, more dangerous than loud. "If you want to reach High Imperator, then you need to know some things. Because you'll be following me into a fight that won't stop at the Citadel. It won't stop at the Shatterlight Trials. It may never stop at all. So come with me, and let's talk."

A few cadets straightened at that, their exhaustion cracking beneath the weight of his words. The room, still chaotic only a moment before, began to still as the truth of his tone sank in. Even the tired, the hungover, and the disbelieving knew he meant it. Whatever came next, they would not be able to claim ignorance. Vaeliyan had drawn the line, and they would have to decide whether to follow him across it.

"Styll, Bastard, you're coming too," Vaeliyan added sharply. He looked up toward the ceiling. "House, lock up. Don't let anyone in. No guest protocols."

House's polite chime answered immediately: "Armageddon protocol engaged. Have a good day, Master Vaeliyan."

A harsher, metallic screech followed, House's voice amplified through every speaker. "This is your one-minute warning. Get the fuck off my lawn."

That was enough. Cadets from both classes bolted upright, tripping over each other in a frantic race to the doors. The hall filled with shouts, curses, and scrambling feet as they fought to see who could escape Vaeliyan's house the fastest before House's threat became reality.