Yellow Jacket

The classroom still smelled sterile, as though the walls themselves sweated bleach. Light glared from the ceiling in steady white bands, throwing sharp edges across the steel desks. The 90th sat scattered through the rows, bruised and battered from the forest trial earlier in the day. Their uniforms were torn, dried blood crusted against fabric, skin mottled with purple strikes and burns. They carried exhaustion in their shoulders, yet there was an edge of restless energy in the air, a twitch in their posture that came from knowing the instructors weren't finished with them.

They were right.

Dr. Wirk walked the length of the room, his boots clicking softly against the floor. His hands were folded behind his back, his gaze steady as he spoke. "For the final lesson of the day, we are going to do something… difficult. You are here because you chose to give up three years of instruction. You advanced faster than you should have, and that gave you an opportunity others will never see. But it also means there are lessons you were meant to learn slowly, over time, and all of that is gone. What remains is the need for you all to succeed."

His voice was flat, clinical, but there was a strain beneath it. "The only way you can succeed now is to cram every bit of pain you would have endured over those three years into the shortest time possible. The more pain you take on, the more you understand. The more you understand, the better you will be. There really isn't any other choice I can offer. Either you accept that this is the only process that can teach you in the time you have left, or you step down and walk away. And I'll be honest with you. If it were me in your situation, knowing what I know, I would step down. I could not imagine going through what we are going to put you through."

He paused at the end of the row, turned back toward them, his expression unreadable. "It will be unbearable. It will be so painful that you will wish for death, and it will not come. Because we will throw you into the med-vats, and the med-vats will tear you back together as quickly as possible. And then we will do it again. And again. And again. Until you understand what it means to be broken."

The words hung heavy in the air. A few cadets shifted in their seats. Chime's lips parted as if to speak, then closed again. Lessa gripped her knees tight, knuckles whitening. Even Jurpat leaned back slightly, his grin absent for once.

"You will know what it is to be blind," Wirk continued. "You will know the sickness of radiation. You will feel your insides boiling. You will throw up your own organs, and then we will put you back together, and then we will do it again. And when this class ends, you will hate us for it. That is the only outcome I can see. Because I hate myself for forcing you into this."

His gaze dropped for the briefest moment before he steadied it again. "This is not something we want to do. It is something we must do. We are breaking every rule the Legion ever set. We are breaking laws. We are breaking tradition. And we are breaking you, because if we do not, you will not survive long enough to matter. You will never become High Imperators."

The pad shimmered, and Dr. Lambert appeared. Her sleeves were already rolled, her gloves snapped into place, her eyes sharp with clinical focus. She didn't waste time. "Are we ready for the demonstrations?"

Josaphine inclined her head. "Yes."

Lambert faced the cadets. "You already know the med-vats. You've been in them before. You know how much they hurt. You know they fix you, but you also know they don't make you whole. What you're about to go through will put you back in them again and again, and you will hate every second of it. But you will learn."

The squad fell into silence. They looked at one another, waiting for someone to speak first. Ramis exhaled hard through his nose. Rokhan's eyes flicked toward the pad, then back again. Chime hugged her knees under the desk. No one moved.

Jurpat finally muttered, voice low, "So it's either become monsters or die like idiots."

"That is one way to put it," Josaphine said evenly.

Vaeliyan pushed himself up from his chair. His voice was steady, even though his hands trembled faintly at his sides. "I am going to do this. You don't have to. I will stand first in every trial. I will take every strike they throw at us, every burn, every cut, every sickness. I would rather bleed beside you than see you bleed alone. But the only way to reach what we agreed, the only way to become High Imperators, is to do this together. If we falter now, it ends here."

He hesitated, scanning their faces. "If you want to back out, do it. I won't hate you. I will still stand. But if we're going to do this… then we do it as one."

The silence thickened. One by one, cadets met each other's eyes. Lessa gave a short nod, bruised lips pressed tight. Sylen exhaled sharply but did not look away. Even Wesley, pale and muttering, raised his chin at last. The twins moved together, eerie in their symmetry, their agreement clear without a word.

No one stood to leave.

Wirk inclined his head slightly. "Consensus, then."

Josaphine's smile was thin, humorless. "Good. Because your consent is the only thing you will have left after today."

Wirk stood at the front, hands clasped behind his back. His boots clicked softly against the flooring as he shifted his weight, scanning each cadet in turn. His gaze lingered long enough on every face that none of them could pretend they hadn't been seen. "Pull out your fragments," he said at last, his voice even and without hesitation. "You know the ones. The fragments you were told to hold off from absorbing until now. Take them out. Absorb them. You'll need them for what comes next."

The words hit like a hammer, but no one stalled. Sixteen cadets reached into their uniforms. Fingers brushed over fabric, trembling slightly despite the strength they tried to show. They withdrew the fragments they had carried since the first class, each one plain and featureless, heavy only because of what it meant. They knew that by taking this step, they were accepting what came next. They were agreeing to go through something horrific, and there would be no turning back.

One by one, the cadets pressed their fragments to their skin. The shards sank in without spectacle, disappearing as if they had never existed. Breaths caught, shoulders tensed, eyes narrowed as the System branded them with what they had taken in.

[Skill Acquired: Flash]

The message seared across their vision. Stark. Unforgiving. A truth none could look away from. Each cadet clenched their fists, feeling the skill settle into them. It wasn't dramatic, but it was absolute. The weight of it pressed against their souls, a reminder that they had chosen this path freely, and that they would regret it in ways they couldn't yet imagine.

Lessa let out a ragged exhale. Jurpat rolled his shoulders, as if trying to mask how much it rattled him. Sylen shut her eyes briefly, drawing in the moment before snapping them open again, hard and unblinking. Vaeliyan flexed his hands, not at any surge of power, but at the grim acceptance that this was now part of him. None of them could deny what it meant.

"Good," Wirk said after watching them ride the silence. "Now you will hold this skill while we put you through what comes next. You will not be allowed to let go of it. You will not be allowed to forget it. It will be inside you while you are torn apart and put back together. That is the only way forward." His tone never rose, never softened, simply remained steady, and in its steadiness lay something more unnerving than a shouted order could ever be.

He turned slightly, his gaze flicking toward Josaphine. "Dr. Lambert should be here anytime now, isn't that right?"

Josaphine's eyes narrowed faintly, her jaw tight. She gave a sharp nod. "She's on her way."

The pad shimmered. The air split with faint distortion as Dr. Lambert stepped into place, her arrival seamless, natural, like she had been there all along. Her sleeves were already rolled, gloves snapping against her wrists as she flexed her fingers once. She looked across the squad without blinking, her eyes cool, her presence commanding.

"Has everyone given their consent?" she asked. No wasted words. Just the question.

The squad answered as one, though voices carried different weights. Some cracked, some trembled, some rang out with fierce clarity. "Yes."

Lambert gave the faintest nod. "Then we are ready for the demonstrations." She let the silence linger for a breath before her voice struck like steel. "What are we?"

The cadets straightened. Some wiped sweat from their brows. Some pressed bleeding lips together. Together, their reply rose in unison, a low rumble that gained strength with every voice. "We are Legion."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Lambert's words followed instantly, ironclad, unflinching. "We are not human."

The answer came back with fists slamming into chests, voices hard and resonant. "We are Legion."

The sound filled the room, echoing against steel walls, trembling in their bones. For a heartbeat everything held still. Then Lambert raised her right fist and pressed it to her heart. Slowly, she extended her left hand outward, palm tilted in a gesture of challenge. The Legion salute. Josaphine mirrored it. Wirk followed, his movements stiff but deliberate. Three instructors standing rigid, bound not by authority now but by respect.

Sixteen cadets rose to their feet. Boots scraped. Chairs screeched. Every one of them stood tall and returned the salute, fists to hearts, left hands outthrust in challenge to the world. Tears streaked down faces that refused to falter. Jaws locked so tight that teeth ground. Bodies trembled with exhaustion, with fear, with certainty, but they still stood. The salute was more than ceremony. It was oath. It was the acceptance of torment that waited, the acknowledgment of the bond tying them together.

Even Josaphine's composure cracked as her eyes glistened. Wirk's face was wet with tears, silent and unremarked upon, sliding down cheeks without sound. Lambert, the coldest of them all, stood sharp and steady, but her salute was not perfunctory. It was respect. Respect that she rarely gave. Respect that this squad had earned by standing here and not walking away.

The cadets knew. The instructors knew. This was the last moment before the breaking began. Every one of them could feel it. But they faced it together, standing as strong as they possibly could, united in defiance of what was about to come.

The silence held for a long moment after the salutes fell. Sixteen cadets stood rigid, trying to bury the shaking in their limbs, trying to swallow the dread building in their throats. The weight of the choice they had made pressed down like a physical force. They had said yes. They had accepted. There was no retreat left.

Dr. Lambert broke the stillness. "Follow me." She gestured toward the pad.

The cadets moved as one, boots scraping against the floor as they stepped onto the platform together. The instructors followed, Josaphine silent, Wirk grim, Lambert sharp and certain. The shimmer washed over them, and the classroom was gone.

They arrived in Lambert's lab.

The space was stark, cold, and clinical. Rows of equipment lined the walls, med-vats glowing faintly in the background, teams of medics already waiting with gloves pulled on and instruments at the ready. The air smelled of antiseptic and something metallic that lingered too long on the tongue.

A woman stood apart from the rest, her posture stiff, her eyes unsettled. She wore the uniform of a Legion instructor, but her ring marked her lower rank. Her voice caught slightly when she spoke. "Sub-instructor Rama, reporting as ordered." She gave a sharp salute, but there was tension in the way she held it. "I'll… be assisting with the procedures."

Before Lambert could respond, another figure stepped from the far side of the lab. Sub-instructor Michael. His sudden presence made several cadets freeze, their bodies locking as though instinct demanded they brace for a strike. None of them had expected to see him here.

Michael raised his hands in a placating gesture, his voice smooth, almost contrite. "I owe you all an apology. For how I behaved before. I underestimated you. I doubted your ability to endure what the Legion demanded. But after what I've heard, after watching what you accomplished, I can admit when I've been wrong. You proved me wrong."

His tone was careful, pitched just right, like a man trying to make amends. He even looked toward Vaeliyan as he spoke, his expression solemn. "Especially you. I should have had more faith in what you were capable of. The instructors were right. You are important to the Legion, and I see that now. I want to help. I want to do my part to make sure you succeed."

He said it all with the right cadence, the right intonation, the right body language. It was a script, one he had clearly rehearsed. Michael had practiced this speech, line for line, all night long, preparing for this exact moment. To almost everyone else, it worked. Lambert, Wirk, even Josaphine accepted it enough to let it stand. None of them looked directly at him, their eyes focused on the cadets, and in doing so they missed the tiny fractures in the mask.

But Vaeliyan didn't miss them. He couldn't. The moment Michael stepped into view, his fight-or-flight instincts had kicked in, and Vaeliyan only understood fight. Every twitch of Michael's mouth, every gleam in his eyes when he thought no one was looking, Vaeliyan caught it all. His perception was made for combat, for reading the smallest shifts before an enemy moved, and even here, outside of a fight, it saw through Michael's disguise.

Michael's words were convincing, too convincing. Some of the cadets almost relaxed, their shoulders easing, their breathing slowing. For a moment, it seemed like Michael was sincere. Almost.

But Vaeliyan saw it. He saw the enjoyment Michael couldn't quite hide, the way his lips threatened to curve into a smirk, the way his eyes gleamed at the thought of what was coming. Michael wasn't here to help them. He wasn't here for their growth. He was here for the pain. He wanted to see them suffer, to savor the spectacle.

Vaeliyan's unease rippled outward through the band that tied them all together. The others couldn't see what he saw, couldn't read the cracks in Michael's mask, but they could feel the sharp edge of his distrust. They trusted his instincts without question. He had never misread a situation. If Vaeliyan felt danger, then Michael was danger.

Michael's voice softened, almost warm. "I ask for forgiveness. I was misguided. Let me make this right by standing with you."

Vaeliyan didn't answer. The bond carried the truth. Michael's mask might have fooled the instructors and almost every cadet, but to Vaeliyan it was transparent. Through him, the whole squad understood. This man was not here for them. He was here for the cruelty of what was about to happen, and the cadets felt it like a cold draft running through their bones.

Lambert's gaze snapped toward Michael, unreadable but sharp. She didn't correct him, didn't dismiss him, but the clipped nod she gave was all tolerance, not acceptance. Rama shifted uncomfortably beside her, looking as though she'd rather be anywhere else.

Lambert turned back to the cadets. "Good. You'll observe and support where needed," she said curtly, including Rama and Michael both. Her voice hardened. "We begin with heat. You will know what it means to be cooked alive. Your nerves will learn before your minds can process it. The med-vats will put you back together afterward. You will hate every second of this, but you will understand."

A murmur rippled through the medics, but they steadied themselves quickly. Machines were adjusted, restraints readied. The sharp tang of sterilized steel filled the space.

The cadets stood tall, though some trembled, their hands tightening into fists at their sides. They had chosen this. They would endure it. Together.

Lambert's voice cut through the hum of preparation. "Begin."

"Begin." The word rang out like a sentence.

The medics moved quickly, guiding the cadets into reinforced glass chambers built into the walls of the lab. Each chamber was a modified med-vat, stripped of its healing gel for the moment and retrofitted with emitters, nozzles, and valves. The insides bristled with instruments meant not to preserve life but to test how much agony the body could endure. These were not vats of salvation. They were machines of controlled destruction, designed to inflict everything the instructors required while keeping the cadets alive long enough to learn.

Straps locked across wrists, ankles, and chests, pinning the cadets upright. Hydraulic arms cinched them into place, fixing posture, preventing movement, arranging them in the most efficient positions for torture without losing them to thrashing or self-inflicted injury. The glass sealed shut with hydraulic force, imprisoning each cadet in their private cell.

Lambert's voice carried through the intercom, steady and merciless. "These vats are built to bring you to the edge. They will burn you, blind you, starve you of air, poison you, strip you until you are seconds from death. Only when you are ready to break will the gel be released. It will heal you, but it will not spare you. This will repeat until the lesson is carved into you. There is no escape."

The agony began instantly. All sixteen vats activated together. Jets blasted waves of heat that blistered flesh in seconds. Pores opened, sweat erupted, only to burn away before it could drip. Every cadet screamed as one, except Vaeliyan, who stood locked in silence, his body trembling but his will unbreakable. Pain tore through him as surely as the others, but he refused it voice.

Sylen shrieked, her skin ballooning into blisters that burst wetly against the glass. Jurpat roared curses that broke into raw, broken sobs. Lessa ground her teeth until blood spilled freely from her gums. Chime's nails split against her restraints as she clawed at steel that refused to give. Each chamber was an oven, calibrated torment rising in perfect unison.

Rama turned her head away, unable to watch. Wirk kept his notes steady though his knuckles whitened against the slate. Josaphine's tears fell unchecked, her chest heaving. Lambert stood cold at the console, eyes locked on the gauges.

And beside her, Michael adjusted the controls. To the medics, it looked like an accident. His hand slid just a little too far on one of the dials, his voice rising with sudden alarm. "Oh shit, my finger slipped. Damn it. Are they all still in range?" He sounded flustered, genuinely shaken, even leaning back like the mistake startled him. His words matched the role of a man trying to catch himself.

But Vaeliyan saw through liquefying eyes. His vision blurred, his eyelids burning, yet his perception cut sharper than the pain. He saw the deliberate nudge; the extra push Michael gave Chime's vat. He saw the gleam in Michael's eyes when her monitor screamed yellow. The words were performance, the movements practiced, but the hunger behind his stare gave him away.

Chime convulsed, body arched against the straps as her skin split open in fissures, red liquid boiling underneath. Her vitals spiked then plummeted in jagged bursts. "Critical!" a medic shouted. "She's right on the edge!"

"Hold," Lambert commanded, her voice flat.

The room tightened with unease. Every other cadet burned at the line of endurance, their bodies blackening but still in the acceptable range. Only Chime drifted toward the point of no return. Her brain was seconds from frying. Michael leaned forward, eyes bright, his mask still flawless to anyone who wasn't looking for the cracks.

Vaeliyan did not move, did not scream, but through the band his fury burned like a brand in every mind around him. The squad knew what he knew: Michael had done this.

"Now," Lambert snapped.

The vats flooded, thick blue gel erupting from valves above. It swallowed the cadets in seconds, plunging them into cold so sharp it felt like knives. They thrashed, their screams drowned to bubbling silence as the liquid filled mouths and lungs. Flesh rewove. Blisters collapsed. Organs steadied. It hurt worse than the burning.

Chime sagged limp in her chamber, barely conscious, her blood diffusing into the gel around her, but she lived. Monitors steadied one by one, each cadet dragged back from the brink.

Outside, Rama gripped the railing with bloodied knuckles. Wirk's face was pale but impassive. Josaphine's tears continued to fall. Lambert remained immovable at the console.

And Michael smiled, faint and fleeting, the satisfaction of a man who believed himself unseen. Vaeliyan saw. Through him, the squad knew.

This was only the beginning.