Yellow Jacket

The lounge swallowed them whole. A space meant for thousands felt wrong with only the 90th inside it, their bruised bodies sprawled across couches, tables, and the cold tile. The light from the high glass windows fell clean and steady, but it only made the emptiness worse. Every sound they made dragged out thin, then came crawling back a beat late, as though the room itself wanted to remind them of their isolation. The vastness pressed on them, oppressive in its order, a chamber built for noise and heat that now mocked them with silence. It wasn't just empty, it was accusatory, as though the lounge demanded to know why they were the only ones left to fill it.

Chime muttered something under her breath, and the word came back smaller, weaker, fraying around the edges as though the room chewed it up before handing it back. Wesley tried to laugh but coughed instead, the echo carrying his rasp across the hall until it sounded like a stranger mocking him from somewhere unseen. Lessa flicked a spoon toward the wall. The clang rang out sharp, then returned to them dulled, hollow, as though swallowed by distance that should not exist. Nothing else followed it. The sound seemed to prove their isolation, stamping a seal on the fact that they were alone.

A few of them tested the quiet further. Sylen clapped her hands once, a single sharp crack that came back blurred, like it had to fight through molasses to return. Ramis dragged a chair across the floor, the screech spiraling out before returning thin and metallic. Xera tapped her knuckles on the edge of a table, counting the beats it took for the sound to return, her frown deepening with each delayed answer. Every attempt only proved the same thing: the lounge was not just empty, it was dead. The echoes felt less like sound and more like afterimages of their own desperation. Even their breaths seemed to come back to them late, shallow, faded.

Jurpat leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the vast clean stretch of tables and empty chairs. "Feels like a grave," he said. The word grave drifted back at them faint and late, making a few of them shiver. His knuckles tightened until they went white, the silence gnawing at even his steady posture. He looked like he wanted to move, to lash out, but the lounge left him with nothing to strike but emptiness.

Xera wandered between couches, her boots too loud against the floor. She trailed a hand across the backs of the seats, fingers leaving faint streaks of sweat on the pristine surface. Her thin smile did nothing to hide the tension in her jaw. "I keep expecting someone else to walk in. But no one ever does. Feels like we've been left behind." The word behind echoed late, a whisper that turned her comment into a taunt. The thought lingered uncomfortably, digging under skin and refusing to let go.

Ramis muttered something about the Citadel watching them through the glass, that maybe this was just another test. "Wouldn't put it past them," Wesley said bitterly, rubbing his ribs. "They'd probably call this character building."

"That or breaking," Lessa added, picking at the bruise on her arm. "Not sure they care which."

"Breaking first," Sylen said quietly. "Then maybe building if there's anything left."

Fenn snorted and shook his head. "I'd kill for a real lounge. One with noise. Music. Even shitty food lines. Anything but this."

"Don't say kill," Chime muttered, hugging her knees. "Feels too close right now."

Vaeliyan rose without a word. His face was pale, his eyes tight, but his movements carried the edge of decision. The others watched him, waiting, until he finally spoke. "I'm not sitting here. If this is what waiting looks like, I'd rather see what's next." His words didn't echo right either, coming back clipped, like even the lounge refused to carry them properly.

Xera gave a thin smile, sharper this time. "So, we'd rather walk into another nightmare than sit in this tomb?"

"No contest," Ramis said. "I'll take getting shot at over listening to myself breathe in here."

"Same," Lessa said, rising with a groan. "At least out there we can scream without hearing it twice."

No one argued. Fenn rubbed his ribs again and said nothing, but he stood with the others anyway. One by one, they pulled themselves up, groaning as bruises protested, shoulders leaning into straps, boots scraping against the clean tile. The silence pressed on them harder with every movement, until the choice stopped feeling like one at all. Even breathing felt too loud in that place, as if their lungs were trespassing, and every heartbeat felt stolen.

They gathered around the pad. For a moment, the hall loomed behind them: pristine, sterile, vast, and utterly lifeless. Every chair straight, every surface untouched, every line too clean. It felt less like a lounge and more like a stage abandoned after the actors had died. The empty perfection threatened to swallow them whole if they lingered even a second longer. Chime muttered that she hated the place, and a few murmurs of agreement rose before dying instantly in the quiet.

With a quiet hum, the pad came alive beneath their boots. Its glow broke the stillness, casting faint light across their faces, and for once the room offered something other than silence. They looked at each other once, a shared understanding passing in silence, then stepped onto it together. It might have been nice to rest in the quiet sometimes, to let the silence wash over their aches, but not here and not now. The emptiness carried no comfort, only weight. They couldn't stay; staying felt like surrender.

The world shifted, pulling them away. The next horror waited, and they chose it. Better the predator's teeth than the silence that promised to smother them where they sat. They left the lounge behind, its echoes still chasing them, fading only as the pad delivered them into whatever nightmare the instructors had planned next.

They entered Dr. Wirk's classroom. The setup was the same as every other sterile Citadel chamber, steel desks, bright lights, walls too clean to feel real, but at least this one didn't echo the way the lounge had. The quiet here was steadier, less oppressive, almost clinical in its stillness. A few of them muttered their approval. Less echo was something. It was still empty though, no professors, no instructors. Just them and the hum of the ventilation system whispering across the ceiling.

"So, what are we going to do?" Xera asked finally, leaning back in her chair. Her voice carried too clearly in the silence. "Sit here for an hour? Or an hour and a half?"

"I guess so," Jurpat grunted. He jabbed Ramis with his elbow. "You can take a nap if you want."

"I think I'm going to," Ramis muttered. He slumped low in his seat, eyes already closing. His snores started almost instantly, though even those sounded muted in the sterile room.

A few chuckles rolled through the class. Wesley stretched his legs under the desk and muttered, "At least this is better than the lounge. That place felt like it was trying to eat us alive."

"Still doesn't feel right," Lessa whispered back. "Too clean. Too quiet."

Vaeliyan sat down at his table, pressed his head against the cold steel, and let his eyes fall shut. Sleep dragged at him instantly, aches and bruises pulling him under like anchors. It didn't feel like long before the sharp crack of a clap split the air.

The sound was sudden, violent in its precision. Vaeliyan jolted upright, as did half the class. Josaphine Brent and Dr. Wirk stood at the front of the room. Both carried themselves with a severity that filled the sterile emptiness with menace.

"All right, class," Wirk said, his voice sharp, dry, carrying no welcome. "Welcome to Adaptive War Crimes. Instructor Brent and I will be guiding this one."

The title alone hit like a shot of adrenaline. Adaptive War Crimes. The words didn't belong together, but here they were, made into curriculum. Instead of unease, a ripple of energy ran through the 90th. Eyes lit, postures straightened. Someone muttered "finally," under their breath, and a few others grinned. Chime whispered, "Did he really just say war crimes?" but this time it wasn't horror in her voice, it was awe.

"This class," Wirk continued, "will take you down the darkest path of skill evolution. We aren't doing this because it's the right way to teach. We're doing it because it's the most effective way to drag your abilities into places that will not only destroy your enemies, but horrify them, and horrify whatever unlucky bastards come after them. If there is a next generation." He laughed, but it was humorless, a sound like broken glass. The laugh didn't fade so much as it snapped off, leaving a sharp edge in the room.

Josaphine's voice followed, cool and precise. "Yes. Today we will talk about simulating the effects of toxins and natural effects by combining micro-markers deemed too dangerous for you to have. You are all learning how to manipulate the Flash skill as your first-year project. That does not change. What changes is how far we want you to twist it. This is about violent modification."

She looked across the class, her eyes cutting through them like knives. "We will show you evolution paths discovered over the years. We will show you what happens when you force a skill to break itself. How you make light burn deeper than fire. How you make sound shred the inside of lungs. How you make every flicker of energy into something crueler than it was ever meant to be."

Jurpat shifted in his seat, and this time his grin was wide. "Gods, this sounds incredible."

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

"Then you're starting to understand," Josaphine replied without even looking at him. "Fear itself can be shaped. When your enemies see what you can do, they will carry that dread forever. That dread is a weapon."

Wirk paced slowly along the front row, hands clasped behind his back. His tone was clinical, but there was an edge beneath it. "You know of micro-markers. The building blocks embedded in every fragment. Vibration, light, heat, sound, water. On their own, they make sense. And normally, the Legion strictly controls which of you ever touch the more dangerous combinations. They keep fragments sealed away in the vaults because some skills, once built, cross into territory even real legionnaires are scared to touch."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "Normally, you would never be allowed access. You would be kept safe, kept ignorant, your growth capped by rules made generations ago. But this is different. Instructor Brent has access to prohibitive fragments, fragments that the Legion would never approve for first-years, or even second- and third-years. I have seen and catalogued micro-markers that allow for skills considered abominations, skills classified as war crimes. Skills too dangerous for anyone short of a Imperator."

Josaphine's mouth curved into a thin smile. "And yet here you sit, cadets on the path to becoming High Imperators yourselves. Unique circumstances demand unique training. You will learn what has always been hidden from you. We will break the rules, because breaking them is the only way you will survive."

A murmur of approval rippled through the class. Lessa whispered, "Finally something worth it," and Wesley nodded hard beside her. Even Ramis, awake now, leaned forward with interest. The room no longer felt oppressive, it felt like it was holding its breath, waiting to see what weapons they would be handed next.

Wirk inclined his head. "Together, her access to the fragments and my understanding of how to stitch them into functional evolutions will let us craft things no cadet has ever been permitted to wield before. Combinations designed to horrify, to destroy, to scar generations. The kind of power the Legion would stop you from ever touching, until now."

He turned slowly, his eyes sweeping the class. "So, ask yourselves: have you ever wondered what happens if you take a vibration micro-marker, a light micro-marker, and heat… and smash them together? Refined into a weapon that should never exist?" His eyes glinted. "The Vibration micro-marker in particular is one of the most restrictive. It is notorious for pushing skills into abomination territory. A Radiation Blast is no joke. The most horrifying part of it is that it is invisible to the standard light spectrum, at least. When it strikes, the damage blooms long after the initial impact, and your enemies will never know until it is far too late." He let the silence stretch, but this time the air buzzed with eagerness. "Let's just say the enemy won't die quickly. Or quietly. Or even see it coming."

The cadets remained in their seats, the talk of radiation blasts still fresh in their minds. The room carried a tight energy, not fear but a charged anticipation that made every breath feel too shallow. Wirk clasped his hands behind his back and let his voice cut through the noise of their thoughts, measured and cold, every word deliberate and weighted. The kind of voice that made them lean forward, eager to catch every syllable, because they could sense that what he was offering wasn't ordinary instruction but revelation.

"Now you see what micro-markers can become when combined. Some are mundane, some are useful, and some cross into territory the Legion would brand abominations. You are here to learn how to dance on that line." His words lingered like sparks. And instead of recoiling, the cadets' eyes lit up, excitement bubbling under their composure. The idea of abominations was not a warning to them; it was a promise.

He stepped toward the long table at the front of the room, gesturing toward the array of equipment laid out in perfect order, each piece gleaming beneath the harsh glare of the overheads. The polished metal, the lenses, the faint hum of resonance coils carried a sterile menace. To the cadets, though, they looked less like cold tools and more like gifts, each one a key to unlocking something new. They could almost feel their hands twitching to touch, to experiment.

"The oculoscope: a diagnostic lens that reveals the micro-markers inside a fragment, exposing its structure and resonance." The cadets nodded along at this one, already familiar with its glass-blue housing and the way it automatically rotated fragments under its lens. It behaved less like a magnifying glass and more like a precision microscope, aligning markers into clear view on its display. They had all seen the glowing maps of markers projected clean and crisp across the screen, each line of resonance laid bare. It was simple, efficient, and endlessly fascinating to watch a fragment twist and orient itself until the micro-markers were exposed in perfect clarity. That thrill never got old.
"The Resonance Array: a controlled environment where fragments can be merged, two to make a hybrid, three to define something specialized. It will reject what does not fit together." The cadets leaned in here too, grinning faintly. Each of them had already stood before its humming ring of plates, fragments trembling in their hands, and felt the raw exhilaration when the machine accepted their offering. The metallic harmony of a successful fusion had become one of their favorite sounds, as much a reward as a victory shout. Failure was just another attempt waiting to happen.

Wirk let the room hum with their anticipation before shifting to the next device, his hand brushing across its housing like a man unveiling a treasure.

"The Exosversic Inverter: the only way to pull a skill safely from your lattice, producing a fractal, stable and complete, but dormant until reabsorbed." At this, the cadets leaned forward as one, eyes wide, breaths quickening. They had heard of the device, rumors passed in the corners of training halls, but to see it here was like stepping into a myth. The thought of ripping a skill from their own lattice and holding it in their hand as a solid object didn't horrify them, it electrified them. It was the kind of power that tasted of rebellion and limitless possibility.

"Fractals," Wirk continued. "These are not fragments, but entire skills that have been extracted. They are complete, stable, and represent the exact structure of the skill that was removed." The cadets nodded eagerly now, all pretense of restraint gone. They imagined it instantly: a piece of themselves crystallized, stable, manipulable, ready to be slotted back in at their choosing. Unlike fragments, fractals could not be used directly to make something new, but they could be studied, traded, dissected. The cadets whispered fast, hungry, already speculating on which of their weaker skills they might rip out just to see the glitter of a fractal in their palms.

Wirk's hand hovered over the final device, and his voice lowered as though revealing something forbidden. "Bringing us to the next device: Telia's Loom. A machine that tears a fractal back into fragments."

At this, the cadets' eyes widened. None of them had ever even heard of such a thing, but the moment the words left his mouth, they were already captivated. They leaned in, smiling, giddy at the thought. The impossible had just become real. Wirk let their excitement rise before continuing. "There has never been a better method for fragment extraction than Telia's Loom. No other machine has ever come close. This is by far the most efficient method discovered, because the amount of energy required to break down a fractal into its constituent parts is immense, almost impossible to manage. Telia's Loom is the only device that makes it feasible, turning something unthinkable into something achievable."

"Think of it like this: normally, if you cut a fractal directly, the machine has a ninety percent chance of wrecking it. Only ten percent survives. But the Loom doesn't just strike one piece, it releases destructive energy you can steer. And here is the important part: a fractal isn't made from one micro-marker. It is built from many, fused into a larger structure. If you set the Loom to tear it, you can choose which ones will take the brunt. Sacrifice two to shield one, and that protected piece suddenly has a seventy percent chance of survival. Burn five to protect one, and your odds rise toward eighty. Ten makes ninety. The more micro-markers you are willing to lose, the greater the chance the one you value most will endure."

Now the cadets broke into open grins, voices overlapping, unable to contain themselves. The logic wasn't terrifying, it was liberating. They could take useless skills, wasteful constructs, and strip them down for the one fragment worth keeping. They imagined digging through a bad fractal, cutting away trash, and walking away with a single perfect marker that could change everything. Their eagerness filled the room like fire.

This was why they were here, to learn, to fight, and to twist every rule, to weaponize even the failures. To them, This was the sound of doors opening, of futures becoming real, of power finally within reach. And as they sat forward in their seats, every cadet was grinning like a conspirator, ready to burn the world just to see what survived the flames.

Josaphine's voice slid over his words like a blade, sharp and deliberate. "The Legion would never let you touch the last two. They are forbidden for cadets a reason. But you are not like other cadets. You will learn them, and you will use them. That is the difference between you and the rest of the Citadel."

The class went still. Wirk let silence stretch until the sound of shifting boots and the faint hum of ventilation became loud in the cadets' ears. Then he asked, "So. Has anyone identified their fragment's micro-marker without an oculoscope?"

There was hesitation, a ripple of unease, and then four hands rose: Vaeliyan, Rokhan, Jurpat, Chime. The rest shifted in their seats, uncertain and suddenly aware of their own shortcomings.

Josaphine's gaze settled on Chime, her eyes narrowing as though cutting past hesitation itself. "And yours?"

"Heat," Chime said quickly, almost too quickly. Relief flickered across her face when Josaphine gave the smallest nod of approval.

Jurpat straightened his back, his voice level, proud. "Light," he said with certainty. Wirk acknowledged him with a curt nod, and the boy seemed to swell in place. Rokhan muttered his answer with less confidence, earning a fleeting glance but no follow-up. Then all eyes turned to Vaeliyan.

"Smell," Vaeliyan said evenly.

That answer drew murmurs, louder this time. Smell was rare, volatile, unpredictable. Cadets exchanged glances, some amused, some disturbed.

"Interesting," Wirk murmured. He leaned against the desk, his attention fixed on Vaeliyan with patience. "Smell is one of those markers that lives on the edge. At its lowest, it's pathetic, you can craft a fart skill with it and little else. At its middle range, pair smell with sound and motion and you can overload the senses: disorientation, nausea, dizziness. A sanctioned skill, irritating but survivable."

He let the pause stretch, forcing them to consider what lay beyond. Then his voice sharpened into steel. "But this is Adaptive War Crimes. Pair smell with heat and bind, and you create something far different. Something like mustard gas. A cloud that clings. It blisters lungs, suffocates soldiers. Or combine smell with spread and decay, and you poison the very air. Every breath becomes toxic. It lingers, seeps into fabric and stone, and kills slowly, cruelly."

Josaphine added, her tone almost clinical, as if reciting from a medical textbook. "And there are edge cases as well. Pair smell with adrenal and trigger, and you can craft aerosolized boosters. A skill that floods the body with chemical surges. Useful when controlled, catastrophic when not. There are few limits once you commit to exploring what others fear."

The cadets murmured again, more subdued this time. A few chuckled at the idea of fart skills, but most leaned forward, captivated by the thought of poison clouds, chemical weapons, and biological nightmares. Hunger edged their faces, the desire to grasp power no matter how dark.

"Smell," Wirk concluded, his voice cutting through the whispers, "is either worthless, or it is monstrous. What you make of it depends on the micro-markers you are allowed to hold. And in this class, you will be given what others never see. You will craft things forbidden elsewhere. And in the end, you will understand why this new discipline is named what it is."