Yellow Jacket

Acid sprayed in furious arcs as Warren closed the distance, each burst spitting against the sand where he had been a heartbeat before. He weaved low, twisted sideways, ducked beneath the next jet, boots carving trenches in the blood‑soaked grit. Every lunge of the Strider was marked by the burn of its weaponized tail, every dodge a brush with annihilation. The crowd shrieked with every near miss, half of them certain the acid would catch him, the other half screaming for him to close the distance and finish it.

The shield was pitted, heavy, a ruin of scorched metal. Acid smoke curled off its surface. It would drag him down if he kept it. Warren let it fall, metal thudding into the sand, and flexed his freed hand. The broken gladius haft was all he needed now, short, jagged, perfect for work this close.

He flipped the weapon into a dagger grip, steel teeth pointing inward. His breathing was steady; eyes narrowed against the spray that seared past. Then he broke into a sprint. The Strider tried to cut him off, rib‑legs stabbing down like pale spears, but Warren darted between them, momentum carrying him in tight. A rib came down like a pile driver. He rolled, sand spitting across his back, then came up in stride. Another burst of acid passed overhead, droplets burning pits into the stone pillar beside him. Warren didn't slow. He closed.

With a burst of speed, he kicked hard off one of the Strider's rib‑legs. The impact jarred his bones, but it launched him upward. He landed astride its warped torso, knees clamping down on slick flesh. Up close, the truth of it hit him hard: there was no bone to brace against, no frame beneath him. The ribs that should have caged the torso were inverted downward as legs, leaving the upper body a swollen sack of organs stretched under thin skin. The Strider was fast because of those rib‑legs, but its torso was grotesquely soft, swollen, and exposed. When Warren straddled it, it wasn't like mounting a person or even a beast. It was like grappling a ruptured carcass that still moved.

The tail whipped, desperate to fling him off. Warren seized it at the root, hauling it over his shoulder, pinning it across his back so the nozzle could not spit acid onto him. The thing thrashed, but his grip locked like iron. One hand bound the tail; his body braced against the pulsing mass beneath him. His other hand lifted the broken gladius haft.

He smashed it down. The first strike slid through skin far easier than it should have. The second tore into thick, alien organs that writhed and pulsed against the blade. The third ripped a gouge wide, spilling a surge of foul‑smelling fluid that splattered his arms and face. The stench hit him like a hammer: sour, chemical, rot layered with acid. Warren realized as he hacked that there was nothing human here, not bone, not cartilage, not familiar anatomy. Just a sack of wet meat, thrashing parts that shredded far too easily. He chopped and dragged, wrenching backward to widen the wound. Each stroke spilled more fluid until the cavity yawned open, organs squirming and bulging outward as if trying to escape.

The monster shrieked, rib‑legs hammering the ground in a frenzy that shook the pit. Warren held fast, tail locked across his shoulder, gladius haft hacking. He worked a savage line into its torso, each chop met with a wet give, until the cavity split wide. Then he dropped the weapon, let it clatter to the sand below, and shoved his bare hand inside.

Fingers plunged into the mess, clawing through slick, alien shapes that spasmed and twisted around his grip. The stench inside was overwhelming, a choking reek of acid and rot that filled his lungs. His stomach flipped. He gagged hard and vomited inside the cavity, bile spilling over the organs he was tearing apart. The mixture steamed, foul upon foul, and the heat of it nearly stole his breath.

He ripped indiscriminately, tearing handfuls free: chunks of tissue, cords of muscle, organs that pulsed and then went still as he dragged them out one after another. One squeeze popped something swollen and caustic, an acid sack. It burst across his hand in a scalding wash. Fire ripped through his skin, the liquid eating into his flesh as smoke curled from between his knuckles. He snarled through the pain and pushed deeper, the acid now burning both him and the Strider from the inside. Vapors poured up from the wound as the creature shrieked in agony, rib‑legs buckling.

Warren tore again, deeper, ignoring the searing pain as he ripped alien organs loose in frantic handfuls. Each time he wrenched something out the Strider convulsed, shrieking in tones that broke into gargles. Then his hand found it, something heavier, solid, still pounding with rhythm. Different from the rest. He roared and ripped, dragging it free in a shower of blood, acid, and black fluid. It was a heart. Black, slick, unmistakably central, and it still beat against his palm as if refusing to accept its own death.

The creature collapsed, gutted and burning from the inside, robbed of its heart. Its legs splayed wide, its inverted torso slumped into the sand. Warren stood atop it, drenched in gore and acid scorch, his own hand smoking and blistered, the black heart clutched in his fist. He raised it over his head, presenting it to the gallery like an offering as the Strider's convulsions stilled.

The pit thundered. Rails shook, boots stomped, voices tore the air apart in rapture. Ruby's laughter spilled down like wine, sharp and merciless. She gasped between peals of delight, voice cracking into disgust and awe all at once.

"Oh, dear gods, I can taste it with my eyeballs from here! Do you smell it…" she gagged audibly, then forced herself on, "My loves… It reeks, it steams, it clings to the air! He ripped the heart from the beast while the stink makes even me gag from above! Our King wallows in filth and horror, and you cannot turn away!"

The gallery howled in agreement, many gagging and cheering in the same breath, their frenzy a storm that rattled the glass.

Warren stood amidst the wreckage, victorious.

The Strider's body collapsed in a wet, shuddering heap that shook the sand. The pit filled with a stench so vile the gallery lurched as one. Rows of spectators recoiled, hands over mouths, gagging through tears. Others forced themselves to cheer even as they retched between shouts. Staff scrambled to crank open the vents overhead, their robes pulled tight over their noses, while circulation fans roared to life in a desperate attempt to drag the foul air away. It barely helped. The stink clung like a film, a sour-sweet coat of rot that sank into hair and lungs, leaving even hardened soldiers coughing.

Warren hadn't escaped clean. When the Strider buckled, he should have let go and thrown himself clear, but he didn't. He had locked his legs beneath its frame to keep himself astride during the fight, and when it collapsed, he went down with it. It wasn't calculation. It wasn't even hesitation. Warren simply hadn't thought past the kill. He rarely did. He was good at ending lives, not at considering what came after. Headfirst he plunged into the cavity he had torn open, dragged down by his own locked legs with no chance to throw himself clear. Acid still slicked the organs, still burned where it touched. It sprayed across his skin, searing patches raw. By the time he clawed himself out, he was drenched head to toe in gore, bile, and corrosive fluid. The mix steamed as it slid down his armor, leaving streaks of blistered flesh wherever it touched. His burns weren't uniform but blotched and irregular, ugly maps of pain carved across him.

His jacket was ruined. The yellow raincoat he wore was eaten through in jagged holes where acid had run. Fibers curled, seams burst, patches of blackened cloth hung like scabs. He pulled it closed anyway, hiding the worst of the damage, but the weight of it pressed into the raw burns and made his body shudder with every breath. His right hand was blistered and blackened, skin tight and glossy like wax left too near fire. Parts of his face were slick and bare, patches where skin had sloughed off. This was the most punishment he had taken in some time, and the bitter truth was that most of it came not from the Strider's attacks but from the monstrosity's collapse and his own bad choice to hold on until the end.

He bent, ready to grab hold of the corpse and drag it into the ritual that always followed his kills. Blood streamed from the black heart still clenched in his fist, pattering into the sand in uneven drops. His shoulders flexed, preparing for the effort, but before he could lift, a voice rang out from the pit's edge. The pit master stepped forward, nose wrinkled, one hand waving off staff still working the vents, the other flapping his coat like it might clear the stink.

"You don't need to do that," the man called, his voice muffled by the cloth he had pressed to his face. "Not this time. We'll send it to your residence. The crowd's had enough. Gods, we've had enough. Just get yourself to the showers, and then into a med vet." His eyes scanned Warren up and down, and his lip curled. "You look like you lost a knife fight with a meat grinder and then crawled through a vat of blood just to make it worse. I've seen corpses on butcher hooks that looked prettier than you do right now."

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Warren looked up, blood running into his eye, chest still heaving as he steadied his grip on the ruined coat. The pit master grimaced harder and added, "I'm not gonna lie to you. Your nose is gone. Just… gone. Half your lip too. You're a mess. Get checked before you scare someone into fainting."

Warren lifted a hand and touched his face. His fingers came away wet, slick with blood and acid burn. He traced where his nose should have been and found nothing but raw, scorched flesh. His upper lip was a ragged edge. When he blinked, no lids met; the acid had seared them away. He stared at the blood on his hand for a long moment before letting out a low, humorless chuckle that was more cough than laugh.

"No nose. Half a mouth. No eyelids. That's going to be fun." His voice was dry, his tone stripped of anything resembling surprise.

The crowd above still roared, voices echoing in waves that mingled triumph and disgust. Many cheered with fists raised, others gagged into their sleeves, but none looked away. Staff kept the vents going full blast, the air churning with the stink of acid, meat, and charred cloth. And in the center of it stood Warren: burned, broken, the black heart still pulsing faintly in his blistered fist, a living reminder of victory paid in flesh.

Above it all Ruby's voice rang out, sharp but wavering. She coughed, gagged, then forced herself louder over the din. "My loves, we're… we're going to take a brief intermission. Oh dear gods... my eyes are burning even up here. We'll be rethinking the last fights, because that was disgusting, and I swear we may never do that again." Her words broke into another gag, the sound carrying through the gallery as staff and spectators alike pressed cloths to their faces.

Warren staggered out of the pit and into the dim corridor beyond, body smoking, jacket ruined, gore dripping from every fold. Each step left a trail of clotted blood and torn cloth behind him, the synthetic yellow raincoat hanging heavy on his shoulders like a wet tarp. The roar of the gallery dulled as the door sealed, cutting him off from the thunder of boots and screams. What remained was the hum of vents fighting to scrub the stench from the air and the muffled shuffle of staff who gave him wide-eyed stares and an even wider berth.

His legs carried him on instinct, dragging him down the hallway toward the elevators that would lead to the showers. His body felt both too heavy and too hollow, skin tight and burning where acid had scorched through. His hands twitched uselessly at his sides, still streaked with gore and acid burns. What clung to him now was not a trophy, only blood and stench that refused to wash away in thought.

As he reached the lift, a thought cut through the haze of pain. Maybe the blade wasn't such a bad weapon after all. The gladius had been precise, brutal, a tool that did its job well. It hadn't saved his life, but it might one day. But every time he wielded a blade, something bad followed. Broken steel, ruined flesh, blood that wasn't only his enemies'. The weight of it lingered in his palm even now, the memory of steel snapping still ringing in his bones.

He didn't hate the gladius. If anything, he respected it. It had been the right tool for much of the fight. He respected those who lived by the blade, who built their lives around its edge and trusted it to carry them through battle after battle. But he knew it wasn't for him. Every time he held one, something went wrong. The weapon seemed to take as much from him as it gave. He was good with them, his strikes had been clean, efficient, but the truth remained: blades didn't belong in his hands. Not for long.

Maybe one day he'd find the blade that was right for him. Other than the one Mara had given him. For now, all he had was bloodied hands, a broken weapon, and the bitter taste of bile in his mouth.

The elevator doors slid open with a dull chime. He stepped inside, leaned against the wall, and blinked. No lids met his eyes. The air scraped them raw, cold and dry, turning each breath into a burn. They were already drying out, burning with every second he kept them uncovered. He tried not to thinking about blinking at all, tried not to think about how exposed they were, two naked orbs staring out without protection.

The doors slid shut, sealing him in with his reflection in the steel. A ruin looked back at him: nose gone, lip ragged, eyes wide and unblinking. He stared for a long moment, then tilted his head until the reflection blurred. All he knew, in that moment, was that he didn't have eyelids, and the world was going to hurt until he got them back. The thought lingered with him as the lift carried him upward, the silence broken only by the slow drip of blood hitting the floor.

Ruby was waiting when the elevator doors opened. She had a smile poised, lips parting to say hello darling, but the moment her eyes fell on his ruined face she gagged so hard she doubled over, one hand to her mouth. The sound echoed sharp in the quiet hall before she stumbled to the side and vomited onto the floor. The stench of the pit still clung to him, acid and rot clinging to his skin and clothes, and it seemed to rise off him like heat.

She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, dabbed her mouth delicately, and straightened as though nothing had happened, though her eyes watered. Her voice was smooth again, though tight and brittle around the edges. "I'm sorry, but you look worse than some burn victims I've seen. Truly. I'm just going to close my eyes while we talk or I won't keep my stomach. First off, why are you out of class? Secondly, you're going to need to get into a med vet right now because I can't even look at you without wanting to be sick. And I need to talk to you. So follow me, but try not to drip too much on the floor."

She turned sharply on her heel and started down the hall at a brisk run, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. The sound rang down the corridor like punctuation marks, fast, crisp, commanding. Warren followed as best he could, dragging each step, the wet slap of his boots leaving streaks of blood and burned cloth on the tiles. He was slower, far slower, his body stiff with pain and burns. If he'd had eyebrows left, he might have raised them at her pace and the absurdity of being chased through the Citadel by a noblewoman in heels. But with his face scorched raw, the expression was lost. His voice rasped, dry and humorless. "Could you slow down for a second? I didn't get these taken off." He raised his wrists, showing his blackened, blistered hand and the stat suppressors still clamped there like cruel manacles.

Ruby stopped so abruptly her heels squealed against the floor. She looked down, muttered, "Oh, for gods' sake," and crouched without hesitation. With a flick of her fingers she snapped the suppressors free one after the other, as if they were nothing more than brittle twigs. The broken clamps clattered to the floor like discarded bones. The air around him seemed to lighten immediately, his body no longer crushed beneath the invisible weight.

She straightened, brushing her gloves off, and looked at him with something caught between irritation, pity, and genuine concern. "Do you want me to carry you? Because I will. You look like you lost a fight with a kitchen fire and then tried to hug the ashes. I am not sure how you're still breathing. Honestly, I am actually concerned." Her voice softened on the last words, and she glanced away as though it was hard for her to admit.

"That might actually be nice," Warren admitted, his voice faint, cracking on the edges from dryness and smoke. The thought of being carried should have humiliated him, but he barely had the strength to keep moving, and pride was a distant luxury.

Ruby didn't hesitate. She bent with surprising grace, slid an arm under his legs, and swept him up into a princess carry as though he weighed nothing at all. Warren stiffened instinctively at first, then slumped into her arms as the burns screamed across his body. She adjusted her hold without effort, the strength in her arms at odds with her slender frame. "Better," she muttered, and started running again, heels striking the floor with percussive force.

Staff scattered out of her way. Some stared at the sight, Ruby, immaculate even as she carried a half-melted boy in her arms, while others gagged again as the smell of acid and charred flesh rolled with them down the corridor. Ruby kept her eyes squeezed shut as promised, but her stride never faltered. Warren let his head roll against her shoulder, eyelids absent, eyes stinging dry in the air, and thought distantly that this was the first time in a long while he thought he actually might die.

Ruby's heels hammered the corridor, the sound echoing like thunder as she carried Warren toward the med bays. His body was limp against her, head lolling on her shoulder, blood streaking down her side where it leaked from his burns. For a moment she thought he had simply passed out, but then his body twitched and a faint groan rasped out of him.

"I think my heart just stopped," he murmured, voice dry and cracked. His words were flat, almost clinical, but there was no mistaking the truth in them. His eyes stared wide and unblinking, exposed without lids, and for a second there was nothing behind them at all.

Ruby nearly stumbled. "Well, fuck," she hissed, clutching him tighter. Her stride lengthened, speed doubling as she barreled down the hall. "Then we need to get you into the vet now, not later."

Warren coughed hard, blood spraying across her shoulder, hot and metallic. His chest rattled with the sound of something inside tearing. "Think the acid got into my lungs," he rasped. "Yeah. That's… bad."

Ruby's face went pale, though she kept her eyes squeezed shut against the stink of him. "Bad? No shit, darling. You stop talking right now. Save your strength."

He tried to chuckle, but it broke into another cough that wracked his body. The sound was wet, bubbling, like air moving through fluid where it shouldn't. His head slumped against her neck, and for a terrifying moment his weight seemed to grow heavier in her arms.

Ruby adjusted her grip and sprinted faster than before, skirts snapping around her legs, heels pounding like war drums. Her voice was sharp and furious, the only thing keeping the silence at bay. "Don't you dare check out on me, not here, not now. You'll make it to the vet, do you hear me? You'll make it."

Warren wheezed, his mouth working as though he wanted to answer, but only blood came out, thick and red. Ruby clutched him tighter, breath ragged, and kept running. The hall stretched before her, endless, every step a battle against time and the weight of the half-dead boy in her arms.