Yellow Jacket

The rain hadn't followed them inside. Not exactly. But it lingered in the way the warmth hit too slow, the way wet clothes clung to shoulders that hadn't relaxed in days.

Car keyed in a pattern on the console by the door. The lock responded with a soft thunk, bolts sliding open in mechanical sequence. The door itself was steel-framed, overgrown at the top with thick vines that snuck down from the second floor like curious hands.

Wren stepped through first. She paused just inside.

Warmth. Low light. The air smelled like metal and herbs, not the sterile bite of synth spice but actual dried herbs. Something earthy and bitter boiled in the back room.

Old-world monitors lit one corner. Repurposed medical beds lined the other, stripped down and converted into adjustable benches. A schematic glowed softly on a cluttered table. Tools lay scattered beside it, some clean, others stained. A half-assembled modkit gleamed with polished copper edges.

And cats.

Three of them.

"Don't mind the family."

Car glanced over his shoulder. "They're all modified. Trained up, tuned in, and smarter than half the scavver clans out there. You'll want to stay on their good side."

He didn't wait for a response. Just kept walking deeper inside.

The first, small and wiry, had a metal front leg and one side of its face replaced by a targeting array. It stared at Warren, hissed once, then chirped and turned away to resume grooming.

The second sprawled across the back of a couch, long-bodied and sleek, with an exoskeletal spine running along its back. One glowing blue eye tracked their every move.

The third wasn't visible at first. Until it moved. Then its fur caught the light, shifting from black to shadow-grey. Its ears weren't ears; they were panels, thin and triangular, twitching toward sound.

Wren blinked. "You weren't kidding."

Car grunted. "I never do. Whisper's the shy one. Gunner's the tank. Wires will steal your food, strip your weapon, and sleep on your chest like she owns the world. Don't pet them unless they ask. And they don't ask."

He turned around. Then stopped.

Warren was already holding Wires in his arms. She was curled there like she'd lived her whole life in that exact place, her metal leg resting against the crook of his elbow, servo-joints purring soft against his coat. One of her ears twitched, but her body stayed relaxed, completely at ease.

Car blinked. "Well, shit. She doesn't even like me like that."

Something clattered deeper in the house. Then a voice.

"Car, if you brought in another wet stray without warning me, I swear I'll shoot you and call it an annulment."

Wren stiffened.

Warren didn't move.

The voice came closer, footsteps even, deliberate. Then the curtain parted.

Florence stepped into view. Brown skin, streaked with weld-smoke. Her hair was tied back in a tight coil, goggles pushed to her forehead, gloves still on. Her eyes didn't widen. Didn't shift. They just calculated.

She didn't speak.

She looked at Wren first, wet, tired, carrying a pipe like it meant something. Then at Warren.

Her gaze caught for half a second too long.

Then she looked at Car.

"And you just let them in?"

Car shrugged. "They earned it."

"That what we do now? Let anyone who looks tired sit on our good couch?"

"I thought you might want to meet them."

Florence didn't answer right away. Her eyes returned to Warren. Not impressed. Not hostile. Just... measuring.

She walked past them, peeled off her gloves, tossed them onto the bench.

"I'm not running a charity. You want something, you say it now."

Wren opened her mouth, but Florence waved her off.

"Not you. Him."

Warren met her stare.

"I'm not sure why I'm here. Car just picked me up and brought me here," Warren said. His voice was even, unreadable. "But we need a chip."

Florence blinked slowly. "You're not chipped."

"I am. She's not."

Florence turned to Wren. "You know what that means, right? Once it's in, you don't get to unknow it. System starts counting. Watching."

Wren nodded. "I know."

Florence studied her a second longer, then looked back to Warren.

"And you're just... walking her in? Like you know what you're doing?"

Warren didn't reply.

Florence snorted. "Yeah. Thought so."

She turned away again, crossing the room, muttering something under her breath. The cats scattered. Whisper vanished into the walls.

Then she paused.

Her eyes landed on Warren's hip.

Her posture changed.

Her boots barely made a sound on the floor, but everything in the space seemed to recoil from the weight she carried. Not anger. Not yet. But purpose.

Warren didn't move.

"Where did you get that," she asked, voice flat.

Car looked up. Wren shifted, confused. Warren stayed still.

Florence pointed to the knife clipped at his belt.

"That blade belonged to my father."

No one answered.

Florence stepped in close. Too close.

"You think that's scrap? You think that's a collectible? Who did you kill to take it?"

The slap came without warning. Flesh against flesh. A sharp crack that echoed through the room like a gunshot.

Wren flinched. Car froze.

Florence snatched the knife from Warren's belt like it was hers by birthright. Because it was.

She backed away two steps, holding it between them, breathing sharp and shallow.

Warren didn't raise a hand. Didn't defend himself.

"Don't...." Wren started.

"Don't you defend him," Florence snapped, her voice splintering mid-sentence. Not a scream. A crack in the steel.

She turned to Car. Her hands were trembling now, but her words sharpened. "You let someone walk into our home wearing my father's knife and didn't even ask where the body was?"

"Florence," Car said, quiet.

"You think this is just some toy? Some trinket from a story you weren't part of? You don't get to carry this," she hissed. "You don't get to wear her ghost."

She stepped toward Warren again, knife clutched tight. Her face was drawn tight with fury and heartbreak.

"If you think you knew her, if you want me to think she gave you the right to carry this. Then where is her coat?"

Warren met her eyes. "Safe."

"Don't lie to me," she said, barely above a whisper. Her hands were shaking so hard the blade vibrated in her grip.

"She gave it to me," Warren said. "When.... when she died."

Florence surged forward.

Car caught her mid-lunge.

She fought. Gods, she fought.

Car wrapped his arms around her from behind, but she thrashed like an animal, every ounce of grief finding form in violence. She slammed an elbow into his ribs, clawed at the air, tried to wrench herself free.

"Let go of me!" she howled. "Let me go! He killed her!"

Wren flinched. Warren stayed still, watching every movement like it was sacred.

Car held on tighter. "Florence, stop."

"He killed her car and he stole my father's knife!" she screamed, the words shredding her throat. "You should've stopped him. You should've known."

Tears hit the floor before her knees did. She sagged in Car's grip, still trying to fight even as her legs gave out.

"Let me kill him," she whispered, broken. "Please, just let me..."

Her fists pounded once against Car's arms, weak now, and then stopped. Her body convulsed, all breath and sobs.

And finally, she shattered.

She wept into Car like he was the last wall holding back a flood.

She sobbed once, then again. The sound was raw. Wet. Shattered.

The knife slipped from Florence's grasp, but before it could hit the ground, Warren caught it mid-fall. His fingers closed around the handle like it was something sacred. Something that couldn't be allowed to touch the floor. Not that knife. Not ever.

Wren stood frozen. Warren's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes flickered.

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Florence clutched at Car like he was the only thing keeping her from collapsing. Her face was buried in his shoulder. Her whole frame trembled.

Silence lingered. Heavy. Drenched in breath and old grief.

Warren stood.

His voice came low at first, hoarse around the edges.

"You think you're the only one who gets to miss her?"

Florence looked up, startled. Car's hand still rested lightly on her shoulder. Wren didn't move.

Warren's breath came rough and ragged.

"She was my whole world," he said. His voice cracked. Then surged. "I was nothing before she called me her Rabbit. Just another thing meant to die."

He took a step forward, then another, his boots dragging like every inch of movement hurt.

"She saved me," he growled. "I was four, maybe five, when she found me. Half-starved. Fully feral. Probably going to die any day. The first thing I did when she tried to feed me was bite her. I bit her!"

His fists trembled at his sides. His chest heaved like he was choking on the air.

"You know what she did?"

No one spoke.

"She held me," Warren shouted. "I tried to get away, tried to claw free, but she just held me. Like I mattered. Like I was more than bones and hunger. And I remember how warm she was. And how cold the world felt before her."

His eyes were wet now. His voice fractured.

"You think you knew her? You think you're the only one who got to love her? She gave me a name. She gave me a reason to breathe. I had no one. Nothing. Not a single ounce of hope. I was going to eat a corpse to stay alive. That was my life."

His voice rose until it was nearly a scream.

"She saw something in me when there was nothing left to see."

He shook, furious, broken, unraveling.

"I buried her with my own hands," he said, voice crashing back to a whisper. "She bled for me. She died because I wasn't good enough. Because I fucked up."

He couldn't look at anyone.

"She died because I fucked up," he repeated, slower, each word like glass in his mouth. "I was supposed to watch our flanks. I got distracted. And they came for us."

Florence stepped forward.

Warren's hand went to the truncheon at his side like instinct. He didn't raise it. Just clutched it like it could hold him together.

"It was my fault," he whispered. "I didn't kill her. But she died because she loved me."

His legs gave out. He dropped to his knees.

"My love kills the ones I love."

He gasped. A dry sob twisted out of him like it had been buried too long.

"Like the man without a face."

She didn't want to believe it. But her hands moved anyway

Florence moved on instinct. But this time, she didn't just step. She stumbled. Collapsed to the floor beside him.

Warren didn't stop. He slammed a fist into the ground.

"She called me hers. I was hers. And now she's gone. And all I can do is scream at the dark like it owes me something."

His voice cracked into a wail. Not rage. Not threat. Just grief ripped out of a boy who never learned how to cry.

Florence reached for him.

He didn't pull away.

She wrapped her arms around him. Tight. Desperate. Not for Mara.

But for him.

For the boy her sister raised. For the pain she'd helped rip open.

He sobbed against her shoulder.

She wept into his hair.

They didn't speak. There weren't words left big enough.

The knife was still in his hand. His grip white-knuckled, refusing to let go.

Because he couldn't lose one more thing.

And she didn't ask him to.

Not this time.

They cried together.

Not clean.

Not pretty.

But true.

They got up slow. Sniveling. Broken at the edges, but holding.

Florence wiped her face with the heel of her hand. It didn't help. Her nose was running. Her eyes were red. Her whole face was streaked with grief and salt and something too human to name.

Car looked between them, then scratched the back of his neck. "I was going to tell you. Eventually. Remember that time I told you Mara showed up to the stall with a kid? All sharp eyes and silence?"

Florence punched him in the shoulder, hard enough that he staggered back a step. "You absolute idiot! You should've said something sooner!"

Car winced, rubbing his arm. "Yeah... probably."

Florence blinked, still dazed. Car nodded toward Warren. "Well. That's our nephew."

Florence made a sound between a laugh and a sob. She wiped her nose on her sleeve with no dignity whatsoever and looked at Warren like she'd never really seen him until now.

"Nephew," she said, soft. Then again, this time with something like awe. "My nephew."

Warren stepped forward. He was calm now. Hollowed out, but clearer for it.

"Will you tell me about her?" he asked. "Please. I want to know."

Florence blinked hard. Then nodded. "Oh honey. I'm sorry. That's the least I can do. We'll talk about it. Over dinner. You two have to stay the night."

She added something under her breath then, too quiet for anyone to catch. Maybe not meant for anyone at all.

Something with a trace of madness in it. A thread pulled too tight. The kind of thing you say when grief cracks a little sideways.

"Maybe forever."

She looked between them and frowned suddenly. "Oh my goodness. I don't think I even asked your names."

Car smirked. "That's Wren. And he's Wasp."

Warren stepped closer, voice soft but firm. "No. My name is Warren."

Wren moved beside him and gave a small nod. "And mine's Azolde."

Florence stared at them both, then down.

Styll was playing with the cats. Rolling between Gunner's massive paws like she'd always belonged there. Whisper watched from the corner. Wires had already started grooming her like one of their own.

Warren pointed. "That's Styll."

Florence smiled, slow and wide, even through the blotches on her face.

"Well. It's good to finally meet you, Warren. And I'm so sorry I was so rude. We're going to help you. However we can."

Car clapped Warren on the shoulder. "Anything for my favorite nephew. And my niece-in-law."

Wren turned beet red. Warren's ears flushed too. Neither of them denied it.

Florence laughed, a little rough. "Alright then. Dinner. I think I'm going to have to break out something special. Maybe even the good salt."

Dinner was real.

Not synth. Not dust-flaked cans or rehydrated protein blocks. Real vegetables, cut with a knife that had never known rust. Roasted meats with seared edges, crisped skins and rich steam rising. A broth that clung to the sides of the bowl, dark with root and marrow. The bread was warm. Not heated. Not flash-thawed. Warm. Soft, torn by hand, flecked with herbs and actual flour ground by someone's hands.

Wren went silent the second she caught the scent. Her mouth parted like she was about to say something, but it never came. Just air. Just disbelief.

Warren didn't even sit. He stood for a long moment with his hand on the back of the chair, staring like the table might vanish if he blinked. Like it was a dream too solid to trust.

Then they sat. And they ate.

They didn't speak. Didn't thank. Didn't question. They just consumed it. Slow and quiet, like they didn't want the food to hear them and change its mind.

Wren finally leaned back and let out a slow, reverent sigh. "I thought the Cult of Iron had good food," she murmured. "But this? I think I could die right here."

Florence chuckled, wiping her hands on a cloth napkin. "The cult does the best it can with what it's got. But this? This comes from my own grow plots. Controlled soil, filtered rain, dedicated light. It's better for you than anything you'll find out there. Grown slow. On purpose."

Warren chewed slower, gaze distant.

His mind flashed unbidden to the Ark, to the tools and relics hidden in the dark. Cultivation chambers. Seed vaults. Equipment meant to build not just survival, but something better. Something permanent.

He looked down at the bread in his hand like it was a relic. Like it belonged in the future.

He didn't say anything. Just took another bite. Slower this time.

Savoring.

Styll vaulted onto the bench like she belonged there. Her nose twitched, tail high, paws inching toward the plate. Whisper growled low. Wires gave a soft flick of her tail like a warning shot. Gunner barely raised his head.

Florence just watched. Her eyes lingered on Styll longer than anyone except maybe Warren. A different kind of calculation behind them. Not threat. Not curiosity. Something deeper.

Interest.

Recognition, maybe. But she didn't say a word.

Her smile was tired, but real. There was something held in it, something deep and old and maybe healing.

"Mara was a terrible cook," she said.

Warren froze mid-bite, then barked out a laugh that startled even the cats. "Yeah, she was. Gods, she was awful. I had to learn just to survive. Used to hang around the camp kitchens, watch the other scavs. Steal tricks. Smells. Timing. By seven, I was doing all our meals myself. I think if I didn't, she would've accidentally poisoned me."

He shook his head, grin wild now. "I'm pretty sure she would've burned water if she didn't have a filter pack."

Car let out a snort that turned into a full-on choking fit. He coughed into his sleeve, wheezing. "She did. Burned it so bad she special ordered that damn filter from me. Custom ordered. I thought she was joking."

Wren was laughing now, soft but breathless. Styll batted at a carrot like it was alive.

Florence chuckled too, pressing her knuckles to her mouth. Her eyes were wet again, but not from grief this time.

Warren looked down at the bread in his hand.

"I really wish she got to meet you, Azolde," he said.

The words were quiet. Reverent.

Wren's expression shifted. She looked down, then back up with a soft smile. "I wish I got to meet her too. She sounds like a ray of sunshine."

Florence choked on her drink and smacked the table. "That's a first."

Warren laughed again, the sound quieter now. Warmer. "She really wasn't. But she was... steady. Like gravity."

Florence nodded slowly, her smile curling with memory. "Yeah. She was. You didn't always like where she pulled you. But she never let go."

Warren studied her. The way Florence sat. The way she handled her knife. The way her eyes drifted sideways when she remembered something she hadn't said yet.

Mara had done all of that.

She'd sat like that. Held things like that. Shifted her weight in the same rhythm.

It wasn't obvious. But it was there.

They were sisters.

He felt it now. Not just in blood. In motion.

They sat quiet for a moment.

Then Florence looked at Wren.

"So," she said, tone sharpening just a little. "You really want a chip?"

Florence folded her arms and gave Wren a long, quiet look. "So tell me the truth. Why do you want a chip?"

Her voice wasn't cruel. Just heavy. Serious. The room stilled again.

"They're more trouble than they're worth. Chips make you a target. Every knife out there, every coward with a dream, they'll come for it if they get the chance."

Warren leaned forward and reached into his pouch. He pulled out a folded, rain-stained sheet of synth paper and set it on the table.

"That's the problem," he said. "They already are."

Florence picked it up and started reading. Her brow furrowed fast. The more she read, the more her face twisted.

Then she gasped, sharp and horrified.

"You did what to a caravan of orphan puppies?!"

Car snorted into his cup. "I said the same thing. That contract's a scam. A propaganda flier dressed up as a bounty, Lucas put it out to get mercs chasing ghosts. Our ghosts. The kiddies."

Wren looked down. Warren stayed still.

"She needs a chip," he said, quieter. "So she can grow strong enough not to be a victim."

Florence exhaled through her nose and nodded slowly. "I can install one. That's not the issue. I can do it clean, quiet. No system bleed. But we don't have one."

She looked to Car. Her tone shifted.

"We're going to have to get one."

Car raised an eyebrow. "You mean go there?"

Florence gave him a look.

He groaned. "Which means I'm going to have to leave Grix running the Bazaar."

"Just for a few days. You trust her."

"Yeah, I trust her. I also know what the lads are like when she's in charge. They'll be pissing blood before she's done organizing inventory."

Florence shrugged. "They'll be fine. This is for family. I'll make them a candied witch's butter pie

."

Car's eyes glazed for a second. He swallowed. "Okay, yeah. That buys a lot of forgiveness."

Warren blinked. "Mara mentioned that once. Never had any myself."

Florence stood, wiping her hands. "Well, in that case, I think it's time for dessert."

Warren stood with her. "Can I help? I always liked learning new recipes."

Florence glanced over her shoulder, a faint grin breaking through the last of the tension. "Absolutely, hun. I would love your help."

Car glanced over at Wren. "We can go fire some lances on the range if you want."

Wren nodded. "Sure."

Florence stopped mid-step. "None of the big ones. I don't want the foundation shaking while I'm baking."

Car held up a hand. "By my honour."

Warren and Wren both looked at him.

Then at Florence.

"What kind of lances shake the foundation?" Warren asked.

Car and Florence exchanged a grin.

"The good kind," they said in unison.

The kitchen wasn't large, but it was precise.

Every surface gleamed from careful use. Jars were labeled in Florence's looping script, chalk-white ink on slate-black stone. Every drawer had a place. Every tool hung with surgical spacing. Even the flour was stored in heat-sealed packs marked with the harvest date and exact moisture content.

Warren whistled low under his breath. "This is cleaner than some clinics."

Florence smirked. "You want good food, you respect your tools."

She moved like she'd done this a thousand times, grabbing a knife without looking, brushing aside herbs with the back of her wrist, snapping measurements from memory. And Warren, somehow, kept up, not just matching her steps, but anticipating them.

He stirred before she asked. He handed her a spatula without a word. They didn't speak for long stretches, and they didn't need to.

It was rhythm. Discipline. A silent music of motion and memory.

Florence pulled down a sealed jar from the highest shelf and cracked it open with a pop.

"Witch butter jelly," she said. "Harvested last fall. A little tart, a little sweet, but when it bakes down, gods. You'll see."

Warren leaned in to sniff. "Smells like rain and citrus."

"Exactly right."

They prepped the crust in near silence. Her hands were fast and sure. His were strong, steady, practiced. The dough came together clean and smooth.

When it came time to fold in the filling, Florence let him do it.

"You've got good hands," she said. "Not just strong, deliberate ."

Warren didn't answer right away. He just kept mixing.

"She said that once," he murmured finally. "Mara. When I stitched up her leg."

Florence's hands slowed. But she didn't stop.

"She was right."

They slid the pie into the oven and both exhaled together.

Within minutes, the air changed.

It started as a low sweetness, ripe and sharp, like candied peel or crushed gooseberries. Then came the warmth: baked root, brown sugar, that subtle citrus note from the witch butter blooming and softening as it thickened. The scent wrapped around the kitchen like memory, like warmth after cold. Like something worth staying for.

Florence cracked the oven once to check, and a wave of heat carried the smell with it. Warren leaned back and closed his eyes.

"That smells like a lie," he said.

Florence grinned. "It tastes like forgiveness."

Warren laughed, quiet and real.

"You'll see. First bite always hits the heart."

It wasn't just baking.

It was communion.

They let it cool on the windowsill, steam curling from the golden crust, the scent laced with the caramelized tang of sugar and citrus. No one rushed it. The wait felt earned.

When it was time, Florence didn't slice it like a scav. She plated it like ritual.

She passed Warren the first piece herself.

He took it, held the fork still for a moment, then let the bite melt on his tongue.

Flavor bloomed.

Sweet, not just sugar but depth: roasted fig and soft baked pear. Lemon zest layered with a wash of bergamot. The witch butter brought a light, strange silkiness, like sugared linden flower or elderflower steeped in rainwater. Cinnamon bark followed, slow and dark, grounding the high notes. A faint whisper of black pepper and ginger curled underneath, like a story finishing itself in heat.

Warren didn't speak. He just exhaled like he'd been holding the world in his lungs.

Florence smiled. "Worth the wait, huh?"

He nodded.

Then took another bite, slower this time.

"You were right," he said. "This... this hits the heart."