Yellow Jacket

After they had spoken and spent hours catching up and reconnecting, Warren finally broke the rhythm of conversation. His voice was low, almost hesitant, but steady as he told Wren, Car, Florence, and Grix that they needed to visit Mara's grave. He was going regardless, but he wanted them with him. Something inside him pulled at his chest, an insistent weight that told him it was time. He knew what it was, though he wasn't sure if what he hoped for could be real. Trusting it felt strange, but he had learned not to doubt the call of his own soul.

They left Car's home together, the night air damp and heavy with drizzle. The city around them felt quieter than usual, muffled by moisture, as if it too bowed its head. Their footsteps echoed on stone as they wound through narrow alleys slick with runoff, passed over broken causeways where weeds forced their way through cracks, and moved beneath rusting awnings where lantern light flickered against the dark. They passed shuttered windows, silent markets, and doorways where stray cats hunched against the rain. The streets felt abandoned, the world narrowed to their path. None of them spoke for a long time. Each carried their own weight of memory, grief, or curiosity, knowing where they were headed and what waited at the end of the walk.

On the way, Warren had called Rain Dancer. He had learned to isolate the storm so it hovered only above him, a perfect column of falling water that soaked him and him alone. The storm bent itself away from Wren and Belthea, Florence, Car, and Grix, leaving them dry in its ring. Rain sheeted down in a tight circle, and the others marveled at the control he now commanded. Florence, watching him with quiet awe, finally spoke. She said she had never seen him handle it like that before. "You've gotten a lot better," she murmured, her voice catching slightly as though half afraid of what she was witnessing.

"I see it differently now," Warren answered, his voice carrying both strain and conviction. "I'm not alone in it anymore."

Car looked at him sharply. "This Mondenkind? She's with you?"

Warren nodded once, not needing to explain further. Florence frowned in thought, then added, "I've never heard of this Gate of Stars, but I'll search. If there's even a trace of it here in Mara, I'll find what I can."

"That's fine," Warren said, though his eyes stayed forward, shadowed by rain. "I don't expect much here. But if you do find anything… I'm not even sure what it would mean. Still, it would be good to know."

Their voices faded, swallowed by the rain. They walked in silence again, letting the hush of the city and the patter of water carry them. The closer they came, the heavier the air seemed to grow. The alleys twisted into older causeways, bricks broken and moss-slick, until the noise of the city had dropped away completely. Only the rain and the storm's whisper accompanied them. Warren's steps slowed, his shoulders stiffening as if bracing for impact.

They came at last to a small, forgotten courtyard tucked deep in the heart of Mara. A dead tree stood at its center, brittle and bare, its branches thin as bones. And yet, impossibly, a single green leaf clung to one high limb, persevering against decay. There was no marker, no carved stone to declare who lay there. The ground itself was unremarkable except for the way people had chosen not to disturb it. Over time, candles had been left at the base of the tree, their wax melted into pale rivers along the roots. Flowers had been placed and withered away. Ribbons fluttered from branches before rotting away into threads. To the city, Mara had become a figure larger than life, almost a saint. To Warren, she was still only his mother. To Florence, she was a sister. To Wren, she was a mother-in-law she would never truly know. To Car, she was the woman who had shaped Warren and held part of his family together. To Grix, she was an aunt she could never meet but still felt tied to nonetheless.

The storm built in Warren's chest and eyes. Lightning flickered faintly in his irises, and mist rolled off his skin in curling threads. Moisture gathered at the base of the tree, pooling fast as if the earth itself bled water. The puddle spread outward, glimmering with unnatural light. The others stepped back instinctively, giving him space, though none dared leave the circle. Warren stayed rooted, his feet braced as the storm bent to his will.

From that puddle, a figure began to rise. At first it was shapeless, just the vague outline of a body given form by rain and shadow. Then it grew clearer, rain curving into limbs, mist flowing into hair. The silhouette sharpened until there was no mistaking who it was. To those who had known her, she was instantly recognizable. To those who had not, she was no less clear. Even in shifting rainfall, the yellow jacket she wore glowed bright, the same as the one Warren wore now. That single detail made the figure undeniable.

The storm no longer poured over Warren. Instead, it fed into her, shaping her outline, moving her as if the storm itself gave her breath. With each drop, the image grew steadier. Rain curved and flowed like fabric, like skin, until Mara stood before them again, as real as memory could make her. Her features sharpened, hair dark with rain, eyes wide, the faint tilt of her smile. She turned her head as though seeing each of them in turn, though no voice came from her lips.

Florence broke first, weeping openly, her voice cracking as she whispered her sister's name over and over. Mara stepped forward, water shifting like muscle and cloth as she moved. She embraced Florence, pulling her close, arms of rain wrapping around her as if it were flesh. Florence sobbed harder, clutching at the figure, though her hands passed through, and Mara's face turned serene, holding her sister in a comfort that could never last. Over Florence's shoulder, Mara lifted her gaze to Car and gave a single, solemn nod. His throat worked, but he didn't speak, only returned the nod with rigid respect.

She moved next to Grix, the child staring with wide eyes. Mara bent, crouching with impossible grace, and rubbed her hand over the girl's head, fingers of rain slipping like a mother's touch. Grix smiled faintly, overwhelmed, too young to understand but knowing somehow it was kindness.

Then Mara turned to Wren, who clutched Belthea close. The watery figure drew near, her gaze soft as she looked upon a grandchild she would never meet, and a daughter-in-law she could only wish she had known. Mara brushed a lock of hair from Belthea's forehead, leaving behind a single bead of water that sparkled before vanishing, evaporating as if it had never been. Wren's tears fell freely now, her body trembling as she whispered a broken thank you.

At last Mara crossed to Warren. She raised her hand, palm open, and pressed it gently to his cheek. Warren leaned into the touch, eyes squeezed shut, tears running down his face as if trying to merge himself into her hand of rain. His breath shook as if words might come, but none did. Mara's lips parted, as though she might speak, but before sound could come the figure unraveled. Rain fell in sheets, the storm collapsing back into itself, leaving only emptiness in her place.

The rain around Warren ceased, the column dissolving. He opened his eyes, mist still swirling in them, brighter now, glowing faintly like embers carried in fog. The storm had taken something from him, and given something back. Wren and the others stood silent, each of them knowing they had witnessed something that was not resurrection, not trickery, but love and memory made manifest for one fleeting, impossible moment.

Warren wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, the glow still lingering in his eyes, and turned to Florence. His voice was soft but certain. "You spoke about the Ark saying that it needed to be the heart of a forest?"

Florence nodded, still sniffling as her tears ran down her cheeks. "Yes, but I don't know why that would be. It sounded symbolic, but the more I think on it, the more it feels literal. Do you know what it is?"

"I'm not sure," Warren admitted. He lifted his hand, pulling at the ring on his finger, turning it so the light caught the grain of its wood. "But this is made from heartwood. I've heard mention of it." His jaw tightened as he tried to explain further, but the words locked in his throat. The truth of the ring bound itself from being spoken, and he grimaced at the weight of silence pressing against him. He looked back at her, frustrated but steady. "I do think you may want to look into the fungal forest. Maybe send some of the tribes to explore deeper in. From what I've learned, every forest on Hemera is unique. Each holds something different, something hidden. And that means it might hold something I need to claim, before I make it the heart of the new Citadel and my power."

Florence rubbed at her wet eyes, shaking her head as if overwhelmed by the scale of it all. "This is so much work, Warren. I'm proud of you for getting as powerful and strong as you are, but I have so much work to do too. We'll get it done, but there's so much. I don't think I can do it all anytime soon." Her voice cracked on the last word, showing just how tired she truly was.

Car placed a hand on her shoulder, silent support that needed no words. Wren held Belthea tighter, watching Warren closely, as if weighing the cost of every choice he was making. The courtyard, still heavy with the presence of Mara's memory, felt like it had swallowed all other sounds.

Grix stepped forward, grinning despite the heaviness still hanging in the air. "You know what? I'll take care of that. I'll lead an expedition into the fungal forest. We'll find this heart if we can, for you, Warren. I'm not afraid of mud and spores. If it helps you build what needs to be built, then I'm in."

Warren turned to her, his face softening with gratitude. "Thank you, sister. I appreciate your support."

She punched him in the shoulder, snorting as she tried to lighten the mood. "Don't call me that. We're besties. You're stuck with me whether you like it or not."

Warren chuckled, rubbing at the spot she had hit. "Yeah, you're the closest thing to a sister I ever had. And I've realized that choosing who I call family is what matters to me, not what other people think. That includes you, you dumbass."

Grix laughed and punched him back, shaking her head. "Damn right. Family's what we make it. And I'll prove it to you when I come back with whatever the hells this heart thing turns out to be."

Florence managed a small laugh through her tears, the tension breaking for just a moment. Wren smiled faintly, rocking Belthea in her arms, as Warren looked around at them all. The sorrow lingered, but so did the strength in knowing none of them were alone in this work. They had each other, and even in the shadow of loss, that was enough to keep moving forward.

They started walking off, Florence carrying Belthea with Car beside her, the two of them speaking quietly to the baby and keeping their voices soft. Florence hummed as she walked, her face wet with rain and tears that had not yet dried, and Car leaned down to kiss Belthea's cheek, whispering little promises that the world would never keep but he would try to. The city around them was hushed, the alleys slick with water, the glow of scattered lanterns throwing broken reflections across puddles. Warren, Grix, and Wren drifted a little behind, the mood shifting as the night air and the rain wrapped around them, their laughter beginning to creep in at the edges of grief.

"So," Grix said, flashing Warren a sideways grin, "how strong have you gotten since you left us behind?" She nudged him lightly with her elbow, playful and probing at once.

"Pretty fucking strong," Warren answered without hesitation, smirking back as though the weight of everything he carried had lightened for just a moment.

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"Is that so?" Grix teased, her grin stretching wider, daring him. "You want to fight about it? Because I'd love to see if that's true."

"I could spar," Warren said with a shrug, his tone deliberately casual. "That might be fun. I want to see how good you've gotten too, how sharp you are since I've been gone."

"Oh, so we're fighting now," Wren cut in suddenly, her eyebrow arched, her voice carrying both amusement and challenge. The faint smile on her lips promised trouble.

Warren looked at her flatly. "Me and Grix are about to fight."

"No," Wren replied, shaking her head with that crooked smile that he knew all too well. "If you're going to play, I'm coming too. No way you two get to have all the fun without me."

Grix groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Oh, this is gonna suck. Her skill—Warren, you don't even know. It's ridiculous. Last time she trained with me, I thought my lungs were going to collapse."

Warren tilted his head, curious. "You know, I've been thinking about that. Her skill is close to something Isol showed me. I told you about the Neumans, right? The giant pricks from the sky?"

"Yeah, those guys," Grix said, scowling at the memory. "The ones who think they're gods."

"Apparently," Warren continued, "when they gain Soul Skills, they condense a fragment in their heart. It's very similar to the fragment we got Wren's skill from. And those skills are way more powerful than regular fragments. They're like anchors. Like living cores."

"That makes sense," Grix said, nodding slowly as she absorbed it. "Because that skill is fucking nuts. Completely unfair. All right then, we'll fight, but I'm on Wren's side."

Wren smirked at her friend, tilting her chin up. "That's fine. We can both beat on my husband together. I'll enjoy it more that way."

"Okay," Warren said slowly, feigning reluctance, "but then I get Bastard and Styll on my side. They're technically part of me. That evens the odds."

"Fair," Wren allowed, "but if you lose, you need to come home sooner."

Warren's eyes softened at her words, the weight of them hitting him harder than any blade. "Wren, I will come home as fast as I can. I promise."

She smiled faintly, though her eyes betrayed the sadness beneath. "I understand. Don't worry. Just… let me beat your ass a couple times for leaving me. That'll help me breathe again."

"That's fair," Warren said, his voice low but steady. "I won't let you, but you can try."

"Yeah, it's gonna be like that," Wren shot back, her tone sharp but affectionate.

Warren chuckled, shaking his head. "You two don't understand. The level you've been fighting at, it's nowhere near what I can fight at now. You're going to realize that fast."

"Okay," Grix said, her eyes bright with mischief, her grin edging toward wildness. "Then how do we make this more interesting?"

She let the silence stretch for a heartbeat, the rain pattering around them, then added, "I got a really nice rock. Shiniest one in Mara, I swear. Winner gets it."

Wren snorted, Warren barked a laugh, and soon the three of them were bent over with laughter that carried down the street, loud and free. For a moment, the night wasn't heavy. For a moment, they were just family again.

"All right," Warren said when he finally caught his breath, still grinning. "We'll play for the really nice rock. But don't cry when I take it."

Florence called back to them, raising her voice just enough to carry through the damp streets, her tone both commanding and warm. "All right, Wren, Belle's gonna sleep at our place like we discussed before. You guys have a good night. Warren, I love you."

Car added from her side, voice deep and resolute, "Yeah, we both do. Always."

Warren jogged up quickly, his boots splashing through shallow puddles, unable to leave without one last touch. He leaned down and pressed his lips gently to his daughter's forehead, breathing in the faint baby warmth of her skin. Belle's wide eyes blinked up at him, confused and innocent, unknowing of who he was or why his gaze carried so much weight. She reached out with clumsy fingers as though grasping for his chin, and though she could not understand, Warren felt everything in that tiny gesture. The unshakable truth of his love for her hit so hard it threatened to break him. "I promise you I will be back, my love," he whispered, voice trembling. "You have no idea how much you mean to me, and I will carve your name into my heart. As much as the name scares me, and just as much as being a father does, I swear I will be there for you."

Florence's hand found his shoulder then, strong and grounding despite her trembling fingers. Her eyes glistened in the lantern light, her face tight with emotion. "Dear nephew," she said, voice steady though wet with grief, "come back to us. Don't let this city or the Legion take you from us again."

He forced a smile through the ache. "I will try my best. I love you both so much. I love all three of you. Please take care of our family."

Car's expression hardened into something like steel. "We'll be here, Warren. We'll take care of them as long as we need to. But it's your job, not ours. We're only placeholders. Don't forget that."

Warren nodded, throat closing tight. He bent close once more, brushing a tear from Belle's cheek with his thumb, though it was impossible to tell if it was his or hers. "Dad loves you, my dear, dear Belle. Don't ever forget that."

Florence and Car turned away with the baby, heading toward their home, Florence whispering comfort as Belle stirred in her arms. Warren stood a moment longer, watching their silhouettes fade into the fog, letting the promise he had made to his daughter dig itself into his bones like a second skeleton. He wiped at his eyes roughly, forcing himself back into the present, and turned toward Grix and Wren.

"Should we follow them?" Wren asked softly, hesitant but steady. "Should we go get Styll and Bastard too?"

Warren shook his head, the mist in his eyes catching a glint of the lantern light. "No. I've called them since we started talking. They're on their way already. They'll meet us soon enough."

"All right then," Grix said, a sharp grin breaking the heaviness. "Should we start heading over to the park?"

"Yeah, that's a good idea," Warren answered, voice rough but steadier now.

As they walked, Grix began humming, a low, steady sound that reverberated in the narrow street. Warren let his voice join hers, carrying a melody that rose above the rhythm of their steps, echoing off the stone walls slick with rain. Wren joined in, tapping her hands lightly against her thighs, keeping time. Her voice was not shaped for melody, but she carved out a drumbeat steady enough to anchor the others. Together their sounds braided into something rough but beautiful, imperfect harmony forged by closeness rather than training.

The rain shifted as they sang, drops seeming to fall in rhythm, their boots splashing in time. And then Warren noticed shapes at the edges of the street. Movement in the dim light. Figures stepping into the rain's glow. Not enemies. Not strangers. Familiar faces drawn by the song and the storm. Nanuk, Deanna, Cassian, Batu, Anza, even Mel. Tribesmen drifted in behind them, silent at first, then some lifting their voices to match the beat, others clapping in time. Their steps fell in rhythm with the song, their presence weaving into the night as if it had been arranged long before.

Warren glanced sideways at Grix, suspicion tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So you guys planned this, didn't you?"

She smirked, utterly unrepentant. "Oh yeah. Definitely. There was no way we weren't going to see what you could do tonight. You didn't think we'd just let you go fight without half the city following, did you?"

One of the tribesmen called out, voice full of laughter, "Everybody wants to know what Legion training is really like!" Others cheered in agreement, their voices rolling like thunder down the street.

Warren chuckled, shaking his head as he walked. "I guess I can't disappoint then."

Wren's hand brushed his arm, her touch gentle even as her words carried steel. She smiled up at him, eyes fierce with determination. "It's our goal to prove we're better than anything they can teach you. So you don't have to stay there any longer. You belong here with us, not locked away with them."

"My love," Warren said, his voice lowering until it seemed to blend with the rain, "you're worth more than the Legion could ever be. But I won't lie to you. The training I've gotten there is invaluable. What I can do now compared to what I could do before…" He trailed off, his eyes gleaming with something fierce, unshakable, and strange, like the storm itself had taken root inside him. And for the first time that night, he let himself smile, not from grief, but from certainty of what was to come.

Warren's Skill – Rain Dancer

Stage Four

Core Effect – Phase Slip
Environmental moisture, rain, mist, blood, steam, no longer reacts to Warren. It aligns with him. He is not moving through the storm. He is the storm's chosen vector.
Water flows with him, not around him.
Raindrops spiral to his motion.
Mist forms his silhouette before he steps into it.
Visibility itself becomes distorted in his presence.

Passive – Micro-Evasion Boost
Every movement Warren makes is adjusted, not just spatially, but meteorologically.
Wind pressure shifts around his path. Microcurrents redirect trajectories.
Flechettes miss by millimeters.
Melee swings veer away as air density warps.
Objects moving toward him may deflect subtly, as though pushed by sudden wind shear.
To observers, it looks like supernatural instinct.
To the System, it's a behavior it cannot fully explain.

Attack Sync Effect – Kinetic Surge
When Warren strikes mid-motion, the environment becomes a weapon.
A swing of his truncheon may bring a concussive burst of pressure, water, or mist.
Rain compacts and detonates on impact.
Mist lashes like a coiled whip.
Droplets act as accelerants, increasing momentum and range.
His blows land with the violence of hurricanes.
His movement leaves behind impact craters, gouged stone, or collapsing structures, not from strength, but from the mass of motion given form.

Visual Signature
Rain doesn't fall, it follows.
Mist doesn't obscure, it shapes him.

Each movement trails spirals, rings, and pulses of moisture that react before contact.
Lightning sometimes arcs around him, not to strike, but to avoid him.
The storm bends toward him, not in service, but in recognition.

Growth Conditions
Rain Dancer evolves through high-risk engagements in poor visibility conditions.
Rain, smoke, fog, blood mist, steam, any atmosphere with distortion potential increases adaptation.
Direct kills made immediately following an evasion spike increase psychological effect range.
The more he endures, the more the storm learns him.

Known Limitations
Less effective in arid, dry, or open-sky environments.
More moisture decreases its limitations.

Function (Path of Clarity)
Controlled Precipitation: Rainfall within the field thins to preserve sightlines, airflow, and coordination. Peripheral zones retain full density for concealment and misdirection.
Steam Dispersal: Heated mist is redirected outward or downward, creating breathable corridors even in high-temperature vapor zones. Visibility stabilizes.
Pressure Equilibrium: Localized fluctuations in atmospheric pressure are neutralized. This reduces disorientation and strain, allowing full function even in hostile weather environments.

Switch Conditions
The Skill responds without voice or motion.
Intent defines function.
Desire for clarity calms the storm.
Need for sight, for breath, for balance, these shape the field.
There is no surge. Just space to endure.

Resonant Field Memory
Each encounter with distorted air sharpens the field's response.
Areas previously traversed will adapt faster in future returns.
Steam, rain, and fog alter more intuitively in zones where the Skill has learned to listen.

Recall Flow (Blood Reclamation)
Blood that leaves his body never truly leaves.
It lingers in puddles, climbs walls, clings to blades, then returns.
It flows back through the air, through vapor, through veins remade from rainfall.
If his blood is burned or destroyed, the storm fills in the gaps.

Hydrocoagulation (Rain-Sealed Wounds)
Rain doesn't just fall on him. It stitches him.
Wounds don't heal; they close with thin film pressure and liquid structure.
The water becomes vessel and sealant.

Atmospheric Substitution (Rain-is-Blood)
When blood is lost beyond reclamation, the storm itself substitutes for it.
Ambient rain enters his wounds and circulates like blood.
Oxygen exchange, fluid pressure, and temperature regulation are maintained through hydrodynamic mimicry.

Floodbound Body (I-Am-The-Rain)
Organs shift their water balance to maintain function even under extreme trauma.
If flesh fails, moisture repositions to preserve essential flow.
Muscles generate motion through directed water pressure.
Rainwater can fill lost mass. His limbs strike with the weight of whatever storm has entered him.
Torn muscle, pierced gut, open veins, none of it matters if there's enough rain to fill the gap.

Stage Four Upgrades

Awakening – Deluge of Memory

Rain now remembers. Each drop holds imprint of what Warren has lived, what his eyes and body recorded. He can project these memories into form, rain coalescing as silhouettes, echoes, and ghost-armies drawn from his own past.

Projection

: Faces, gestures, movements, and battles he once witnessed become stormborn illusions, as vivid as ghosts. They cannot speak new words, only act within the limits of Warren's memory.

Haunting

: Enemies can be forced to confront their own actions if Warren saw them, he can replay theft, betrayal, violence, and press those memories upon them as if haunted by rain.

Combat Manifestation

: Because these projections are made of rain, they are not intangible. If Warren remembers a punch, a strike, a motion, he can give that ghost weight. A phantom strike lands with storm-pressure, capable of real harm.

Emotional Weight

: The stronger Warren's feeling toward the memory, the more vivid and enduring the projection. Love, grief, rage, these make the rain's ghosts sharper, heavier, harder to ignore.