Yellow Jacket

If it hadn't been for the sweeping changes to Mara, Wren would never have been ready for what awaited inside the house. The amenities were not simply comforts; they were living extensions of Legion technology, each one designed to remove inconvenience, to predict need before a human could think to voice it. The premium luxuries and the integrated childcare systems made it so that she almost didn't have to lift a finger to care for Belthea. Meals arrived warm the moment she thought of them. The walls shifted temperature automatically to soothe a restless child. The crib rocked itself in rhythmic silence, guided by sensors that mapped Belthea's breathing. Everything was automated, intuitive, and borderline supernatural.

There wasn't just one device keeping watch, but several, five, by her count. The first was the language translator, mounted near the nursery door, that interpreted Belthea's babbling into meaning. Not words exactly, but simple signals. A high-pitched sound meant hungry. A low grumble meant tired. A sharp squeal translated to needing a diaper change. It even used color cues that matched her emotional state: yellow for joy, blue for discomfort, red for distress.

The second was a bio-metric monitor integrated into the crib's framework. It tracked everything, heartbeat, temperature, nutrient absorption, and the faint shifts in breathing that might signal a coming cry. The third was a sanitation sensor that detected any change in scent or waste and immediately dispatched a cleaning drone before Wren could even react. The fourth was a dietary algorithm that calculated feeding needs based on metabolic activity and nanite digestion patterns, making sure Belthea's formula was perfectly balanced every time. And the fifth, the most unnerving of all, was a behavioral predictor, a quiet system that learned her child's patterns, forecasting when she would wake, when she would cry, and when she would laugh.

Together, they formed an invisible circle of guardianship, a suite of miracles wrapped in circuitry. It wasn't perfect, but it was close enough to make Wren uneasy. It was miraculous, but in the way that made her skin crawl. It was a miracle that knew her child too well.

Everywhere she looked, there were literal godsends. Machines that cleaned, folded, soothed, and anticipated needs before she even understood she had them. A drone followed her silently, adjusting air quality and lighting. The floors absorbed spills and retextured themselves after footsteps. Even the air seemed curated, filtered through scent algorithms that matched emotional states and lowered stress hormones. Wren could not deny the brilliance of it all, but she could not relax either. It felt too easy, too hands-free, as if the house itself were raising her child.

And for the first time in her life, surrounded by wealth and convenience beyond comprehension, Wren felt something she hadn't expected: genuine fear. She worried that Belthea wouldn't need her, that the Green Zone's miracles might raise her daughter better than she could. Every sound Belthea made was cataloged, analyzed, and understood by machines. What place was there for a mother in that equation? She found herself pacing the nursery at night, watching the monitors interpret her baby's life, wondering if love could compete with efficiency. In a world that no longer required effort, Wren feared she might become obsolete, not as a woman, but as a mother, replaced by the soft hum of perfection and maintenance.

Wren turned to Vaeliyan and said, "This is all so nice, but it scares me. The house is going to be more like a mother to Belthea than I am." Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke, not from weakness, but from the kind of quiet fear that hides behind love. Her eyes flicked to the glowing monitors on the nursery wall, the soft pulse of data streams, the subtle rhythm of the machines breathing in sync with her daughter's sleep cycle. "She won't even need me. Everything she could ever want, the house already knows before she does."

Vaeliyan looked at her, half-smiling in that uncertain way he did when trying to balance honesty and comfort. "That's not what the manual said," he replied gently. "Elian told me this was how he was raised, and he does actually seem pretty well-adjusted, for a psychotic killer like the rest of us, at least." His tone was teasing, but his eyes softened as he added, "House, are there any studies showing that children raised under these conditions see the home as a parent more than their actual parents?"

House's voice filled the room, calm and melodic, like the steady rhythm of logic made kind. "Research indicates that a child cared for in a proper environment, a kind, consistent, and emotionally safe one, will develop healthy attachments as long as the parents remain active and present. There is no evidence to suggest that unsentient caretaking systems are misinterpreted as parental figures." The pause that followed carried the faint hum of processing before House continued, "However, it should be noted that these studies are under scrutiny. Many were funded by the corporations producing such amenities. Independent research, though limited, does corroborate most of these conclusions."

Wren latched onto that instantly. "See?" she said, her tone sharp. "They're writing their own reviews. They're paying people to make them look good. That's not science, that's marketing."

Vaeliyan shrugged lightly, folding his arms. "She said there's scrutiny, not fabrication. The external researchers confirmed a lot of it. It's not perfect, but it sounds like the system's a helper, not a replacement."

Wren shook her head, her tone soft but strained. "You don't get it yet. She's your daughter, yes, but you haven't been raising her. You don't know what it's like to watch something else look after your child, and do a better job at it than you can. And that someone else isn't even a person, it's a machine. So, it's twice as bad. It's like being told you're unnecessary, and the proof comes wrapped in chrome and comfort."

The air fell still. Belthea's faint cooing filled the silence like a heartbeat, syncing with the quiet hum of the machines. Vaeliyan turned toward her, his expression caught between pride and guilt. For once, he didn't have an answer. He only watched his daughter sleep beneath a veil of soft lights, knowing that the world had made itself too perfect for human hands to keep up.

Florence walked in then, her presence breaking the heaviness like a sudden gust of fresh air. "Child," she said, exasperated but fond, "you're being ridiculous. These machines are absolutely made to take care of her, but that doesn't mean she'll grow attached to them. They're tools, not family. They're not living constructs like House, or even that weird floating disc of bot you keep around. What's it called again? Roundy? That thing is terrifying, Vaeliyan."

Vaeliyan grinned, unable to help himself. "I thought you'd like it."

"I do," Florence said with a dismissive wave, though her smirk betrayed her amusement. "It's horrifying and efficient. My favorite combination. Like a hedge-trimmer that dreams of violence."

Wren crossed her arms, not smiling. "Florence, can you tell me what the machines are thinking?"

Florence tilted her head, her sharp eyes glinting with equal parts curiosity and empathy. "I could," she said, her voice quieter now. "But I don't think this is about what they're thinking. It's more about what you're thinking." She stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on Wren's shoulder. "You're afraid that all this..." she gestured at the walls, the soft glow of monitors, the hum of life disguised as code... "means you're being replaced. But it's not that simple. The machines can care for her body. Only you can care for her soul."

The words lingered in the air, soft and final. Wren looked down, the worry still there but dulled, smoothed by the truth in Florence's tone. Vaeliyan exhaled slowly, one hand brushing the crib's edge, and for a moment, the three of them stood there together watching a small miracle sleep beneath the watchful eyes of gods and machines alike.

As they stood there looking at the most beautiful creature in the world, Belthea slept soundly in her cradle. Her tiny breaths came in soft, rhythmic patterns, each one a small reminder of life's gentlest miracle. The faint light of the nursery glinted off the curve of her cheek, painting her in warm gold and shadow. Both her parents and her pseudo-grandmother stood together in reverent silence, watching over her like worshipers before a sacred flame. The hum of the room's systems was low, like the purr of contentment, as if the house itself shared in their awe.

Wren leaned forward slightly, brushing a fingertip over Belthea's downy hair. "She's perfect," she whispered. "She doesn't even know how loved she is." Her voice trembled, not with sadness, but with the unbearable tenderness of the moment. Florence placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, the gesture soft but grounding.

Vaeliyan's wristband flickered with a soft pulse, breaking the calm like a distant storm on the horizon. He glanced down, the faint blue light reflecting across his face, and a line of coded text appeared across the holo-surface. His eyes scanned the data, his expression falling with quiet resignation. He sighed through his nose, already knowing what it meant before he finished reading it. "That's it," he muttered. "I just got the notification. We've got to report for our briefing."

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Wren turned toward him, her smile fading. "Already?" she asked, her voice small but filled with quiet dread.

He nodded slowly, reluctant to say more. "Yeah. I need to go meet with the rest of the squad, see what the mission is. Hopefully it won't be too long." He tried to sound confident, but his tone carried the fatigue of someone who had seen too many departures and too few returns. "I don't want to leave again. Not for another year."

He looked down at Belthea once more, his hands tightening slightly at his sides. For all his power, all his victories, he looked fragile in that moment. "Apparently High Imperators get some preferential treatment when it comes to missions," he continued, half-speaking to fill the silence. "When we were training under Darun Kasala, the High Imperator we did our Shatterlight trial with, he told us we basically get the right of refusal. If a mission comes down the chain, they ask us first before they can order us to do something we don't wish to do. At least, that's how it's supposed to work."

Florence raised an eyebrow, folding her arms with a skeptical smirk. "That sounds civilized. Almost like they realized you're people, not just weapons."

Vaeliyan gave a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah, that's the theory anyway. Except last time, they didn't ask him last time. They just dropped us straight into it without warning. One minute we were debriefing, the next we were knee-deep in hells."

He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing toward the door as if expecting it to open and drag him away. "I just hope this time, they actually mean what they say."

Wren stepped closer and reached out, her hand resting gently against his arm. Her fingers traced along the seams of his sleeve like she was memorizing him, afraid the texture might fade from her memory. "Come back quickly," she said softly. "She's going to miss you. We both are."

He smiled faintly, pressing his hand over hers. "Yeah. I'll make sure she remembers who her father is."

Florence snorted, her voice a dry, affectionate rasp. "Oh, she'll remember. You're the one everyone talks about. The one they whisper about, the Ghost in the Mist. She won't forget that. You could disappear for a century, and someone would still be telling stories about you to her."

Vaeliyan chuckled, shaking his head. "That's fair." His eyes softened as they returned to Belthea, and then to the two women who had become his anchor. "Alright," he said quietly. "I'll go see what this is about. Don't let House adopt her while I'm gone."

House's voice came through the ceiling, perfectly deadpan. "No promises. She is rather endearing."

"Great," Vaeliyan muttered, walking toward the door. "Even the walls are comedians now."

Florence called after him, "You're the one who added a comedy protocol."

He waved a hand behind him without turning back, his voice light but his shoulders heavy. "Yeah… no, that was Roundy."

"Of course it was," Florence said with a long sigh. "Only you would let that homicidal weed whacker have access to your house's algorithms."

The door closed behind him. Wren and Florence were left in the quiet hum of the nursery, surrounded by the glow of gentle lights and the whisper of machines tending to their small world. Florence exhaled, the weight of the moment settling into her posture. "He'll be fine," she said finally, though her voice carried the tone of someone trying to convince herself as much as anyone else.

Wren nodded slowly, her gaze still fixed on Belthea. "I know," she said. "But fine doesn't mean here." She brushed her daughter's cheek again, the soft touch steadying her as the hum of the house filled the silence between them.

Vaeliyan and the Complaints Department hadn't had many reasons to use their briefing room until now. This was their first mission as a full squad, their first official run since Mara became home and the Boltfire cut its engines. The space smelled faintly of solder and old coffee, a real room that had finally earned its purpose. It made the whole thing feel official in a way that credits and endorsements never could. They were excited, nervous in the same breath, and oddly domestic about it, like a family standing around a table to divide up chores.

Money was part of the calculus, sure. The payout on this op wouldn't match what they'd pulled from that ship sale, but it would be solid for most of them. Vaeliyan knew that credits were not the reason they were here. They wanted rank. They wanted reputation. They wanted the sort of quiet, bureaucratic power that made other people stop and listen when their name came up in a council. A squad of High Imperators was rare.

There was another pressure in the room, subtler and colder. High Imperators were usually solo instruments. Soldiers who boiled down to one unstoppable point of force. Squads existed, but they were anomalies, odd, dangerous, and therefore prized. To be recognized as a full squad meant everything they had done, everything they would do, would be measured against the standards of legend. Failure would not just cost credits or lives. Failure would cost standing, and in that world, standing was everything.

Jurpat walked to the front with a casual arrogance that masked the nerves underneath, and pulled up the briefing on the wall. A list of assets and coordinates, a shadowed images that refused to show a face. He tapped the display once and said, "Helen sent us the dossier. We're extracting a Black Sight asset from a Princedom facility."

The words landed like a weight. Black Sight was a name that carried its own gravity, classified, dangerous, and whispered in corridors where men who refused to look their governments in the eye still traded favors. No one on the squad smiled. Eyes focused, a dozen small mercies and private calculations flickering across the room: risk, insertion points, what to bring, what to deny.

Vaeliyan felt the chair under him like the edge of a precipice. The mission was clean on paper: infiltrate, secure, exfil. The moral lines were not. A Princedom facility meant foreign jurisdiction, political fallout, and the possibility that the asset was protected under laws Vaeliyan no longer respected but which others still honored. Extracting a Black Sight could mean saving someone, or it could mean pulling a weapon off a shelf and carrying it home. Either way, the Complaints Department had been chosen because they could make the choice and survive the consequences.

Jurpat looked up, his face finally matching the seriousness of his tone. "We'll review feeds, plan insertion, and vote on refusal if it comes to it. Remember, they ask us first. We either take the shot because it matters, or we say no. But if we say yes, we carry it through."

Silence filled the room for a heartbeat, thick and expectant. Then the team bent to work, the hum of the holo images turning their anxiety into angles, plans, and the small, brutal poetry of readiness.

The Complaints Department argued until their voices threaded into the same tired question: was this even a choice? This was their first mission as a full squad; the moment felt like a gateway rather than a request. How could anyone turn down a call like this and still expect to keep standing? On paper, the job did not read like a moral abomination. It read like a retrieval. Yet the air in the briefing room tasted of uncertainty. Details were missing in ways that made professional soldiers itchy.

No one could say for sure what the asset actually was. A person felt plausible, and a person carried certain obligations. An object meant different rules. A blueprint meant danger beyond measure. Each possibility sketched a different kind of guilt. None of them liked the blank spots. The Princedom's provenance for the asset was another unknown: had they taken it by force, purchased it legitimately, or been given it? Any of those answers shifted the mission from clean to ugly. They also kept returning to a darker possibility: what if it had never been a Green Zone asset at all, but a Princedom asset from the start, masked and misfiled to bait the Legion into acting. That thought made people quiet in a way facts could not. And the aftercare question was worse, where did the Legion want the asset taken? If they recovered it, would they hand it to High Commander Ruka, bury it, sell it, or use it? The team could not know; the only certainty was that those answers would be revealed by the job itself.

They agreed to take the mission for one practical reason: High Commander Ruka wanted it done now. The timing forced the issue. There would be no slow pushing, no careful mapping over weeks. Immediate insertion meant abandoning nuance. The Boltfire could place them close, but this was not a reconnaissance drop. Sixteen High Imperators and three Bonds, two of which were hulking war beasts that ate terrain for breakfast, could not vanish into shadow. If they went, they would go with noise, with fire, with intent. A loud insertion would burn choices away and leave only consequences.

That was the tactical calculus. The moral calculus was another thing entirely. Going loud changed the rules for the people who lived nearby. It would ripple through the Wilds and touch traders, scavengers, and settlements that preferred not to be noticed. Loud meant collateral, and collateral meant questions that could not be answered with credits or medals.

There was one small mercy in the dossier: the site was not inside a Princedom's governed ring but out in the Wilds, in a place where maps frayed and jurisdiction bled into rumor. Hidden assets were kept there to avoid scrutiny, to place shame in a place no one frequently visited. That made the facility itself a statement: the Princedom had wanted this out of sight. That might have been why High Commander Ruka cared enough to move quickly. It also meant the Complaints Department would be expected to move like a blunt instrument, punctual, decisive, and unflinching.

In the end the room settled into a strange, focused calm. Gear lists began to form around the edges of conversation. Names were assigned to tasks, and someone joked about toasting the Princedom's hospitality after. The squad did not romanticize their choice. They knew the first mission set the tone. They knew the first step could mark them as heroes or brand them and the Legion as something darker. They readied themselves anyway. It was what they trained for; it was what they had chosen. The silence after their agreement was not empty. It was full of the weight of consequence.

They were about to leave, preparing everything for the mission and saying goodbye to those they needed to, Vaeliyan knew that he would have to speak to Grix, Cassian, and Nanuk later. There wasn't time now. If they wanted to complete this mission and get back as quickly as possible, they would have to move immediately. Every minute wasted was another chance for the Princedom to reinforce the facility or the asset to be lost.

He paused at the door as a call came through the comms that none of them could ignore, but this wasn't about the mission. Every head turned when the signal hit. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Vaeliyan's pulse jumped; if their suspicions were correct, this mattered more than any operation on the board. This wasn't an order. But it was far more dangerous.