Yellow Jacket

The sun rose gentle over the rim of the sector wall, warm and gold, diffused through clean morning air that didn't sting the lungs. For once, no smog. No rain. Just light. Just heat. It painted the street outside Car's shop in dappled amber, touched the vines above the entrance with a shine so rich they looked almost lacquered.

Wren stepped out next, coat cinched and hair damp from a morning wash, her eyes still adjusting to the brightness. Warren followed at her shoulder, truncheon sheathed against his spine, one hand on Styll's scruff to keep the ferret from diving into a puddle. Both were geared light but ready, packs loaded, eyes sharp.

Car followed close behind, two fingers tucked into the strap of his old messenger bag. Coat. Full armor, layered and reinforced beneath a casual outer shirt, thick plates fitted under woven mesh. He looked like a walking arsenal disguised in civvies, his gear lacquered and burnished to an artisan sheen. A knife rode at his hip, and a collapsible lance slung across his back, custom-built, short-barrel, tuned for tight arc shots with a reinforced coil. Another heavier lance was strapped along his back, and something flat and ugly rode behind his hip: backup power cell or sidearm, hard to tell.

They talked and laughed as they walked, all four of them moving like a unit that hadn't found its rhythm overnight but had earned it through ash and argument. Car and Florence traded barbs, Wren tossed in quick, playful jabs that kept Car on edge and Florence grinning, and Warren, though quieter, smiled more than he used to, his eyes flicking between them like he was cataloging happiness by pattern. Even Styll kept pace like she understood the tempo. Behind them padded three feline shadows: Whisper, silent and watchful; Gunner, moving with deliberate heft; and Wires, weaving between ankles like mischief with claws. They followed without leash or command, as if they'd simply decided the mission was theirs too. It was the kind of walk where weapons stayed holstered because, for once, the threat wasn't out here. Not yet. Not today.

The Bazaar was always easy to reach by foot, but today the walk felt like a gift. Sun-warmed stone. Chalk symbols drawn in kid hands. Flower boxes that hadn't been raided. A stray cat with a half a tail eyed them lazily from a rooftop drain. Car made a clicking noise at it. The cat flicked its tail but didn't move.

Florence snorted. "Even the cats think you're full of it."

"That one's named Bastard. We have an understanding."

"Sure you do," Wren said, eyeing the cat. "So that whole thing about cats; that's just cats. Not you, huh?"

Warren was already holding Bastard, the cat curled in his arms like it had known him forever. One paw flexed softly against his coat, claws retracted. It wasn't just comfortable. It was devotion. Bastard purred with a low, strange rhythm, something halfway between contentment and command code. His eyes tracked Warren's face like it held secrets worth guarding. It was Wires all over again. Not just trust, not just ease. It was bonding. Immediate. Absolute.

Florence stared. "I think he's in love."

Car rubbed the back of his neck. "That's two. I'm starting to think you speak a language I don't."

Car muttered something under his breath, too soft to catch. He watched Bastard melt into Warren's arms like the cat had been waiting its whole life for him, then looked down at his own hand with a slow, exaggerated frown. "I just wanted to pet the kitty," he mumbled, almost childlike. "Why's it always Warren?" The words weren't angry. Just heavy. A big man in full armor looking like someone took his favorite toy and gave it to the new kid. He sighed once and fell quiet, letting the moment pass like it owed him nothing.

The Bazaar came into view around the next corner. No raised voices. Just bustle. Honest movement. Stalls being lifted open like blooming flowers. Smoke curling from fry-stands. Someone shouting prices too early for anyone to care.

The Bazaar was still waking. Stalls creaked open like stretching limbs. Bright cloth canopies unfurled slow and heavy with dew, ropes tugged into place by sleepy hands. The scent of fry oil and sweet yeast began to thread the air. Steam whistled from copper samovars, and someone hammered a loose board back into place with rhythmic frustration. A few shopkeepers nodded in greeting. One waved with a spoon.

Grix was already waiting.

She stood dead center of the clearing with her arms crossed, framed by the rising shade of the awning she hadn't even finished unfurling. A clean scar split her cheek. Sharp, surgical, like everything else about her. Her braid was coiled tight against the back of her head. More threat than fashion. She wore a half-rig of armor over plain clothes, the kind of setup that said she only dressed up when violence was involved.

She looked lazy at first glance: stance casual, weight shifted to one leg like she might yawn. But the guards across the plaza didn't miss the shift in posture. They stiffened. One subtly stepped back. Grix wasn't just second-in-command. She was the disciplinary system. When she got bored, someone usually bled.

Pretty, sure. But hard. Everything about her looked deliberate. Like she'd calculated just how much effort each word or step was worth. She refused to waste a single one.

"You're late," she said.

"We're early," Car replied.

"Which means you're not early enough."

Florence grinned. "Good morning to you too, Grix."

Grix flicked her eyes toward Warren, then back to Florence. "He can call me Grixalia."

"You bring the samples?"

Florence held up her pack.

Grix nodded once. "Then we're even."

"Even?"

"You get to abandon your stall for a vacation. I get to babysit forty adrenaline junkies and a price sheet."

"You love it and you know it."

Grix didn't smile. But her stance shifted, just enough to let the guards relax again. Her eyes flicked to the cats, three of them now circling the group like lazy sentries. Whisper glided past her like smoke. Wires let her tail brush Grix's shin. Gunner didn't bother acknowledging her.

Grix arched a brow. "So you're going to war now."

Car sighed. "They follow Warren. We're just trying not to get in the way."

Grix gave Warren a long look. Too long. Then at Bastard, still slung across Warren's shoulder like he'd claimed territory. Her expression shifted. Just slightly. Like something soft cracked under the surface.

"You got Bastard? Seriously?" she said, but it lacked her usual edge. Almost... impressed.

She stepped closer without thinking, just a half pace, nose twitching like she was scenting something that didn't quite make sense. Then, before anyone could process it, she reached out and flicked a bit of lint from Warren's collar. Clean. Quick. Like grooming.

Florence blinked. "Okay. What the hell. She doesn't like anyone."

Wren was already watching Grix with her head tilted, expression unreadable. She'd seen cats do this, slow acceptance, half-testing. But this wasn't just tolerance. It was instinct. Recognition. And Grix didn't even seem to notice she was doing it.

Wren nudged Warren with an elbow and murmured, "You're like catnip. This is getting weird." Her voice wasn't jealous, just amused, like watching a trick you didn't understand but secretly enjoyed. She leaned slightly closer, eyes still on Grix. "I think she'd kill someone for you already. That's kind of adorable."

Grix didn't turn, but one ear twitched. "Only if he asked nicely."

Florence blinked again, slower this time. "That's the nicest thing I've ever heard her say. Gods. She really does like him."

Grix didn't look back. "He smells right."

Car stared. "Like... does that make three?"

"Don't ruin it," Grix muttered.

Florence shrugged. "He's collecting them."

Car muttered, "I just wanted to pet one. Just one."

Wren leaned toward Grix, stage-whispering, "He's been big sad about it all morning."

Grix actually smirked. Barely. Then turned on her heel and started walking.

"Don't burn the place down," Florence called after her.

"I'm not you," Grix shot back.

Car laughed under his breath. "She'll be fine."

Florence adjusted her strap. "She better be. If I come back and she's reorganized my back wall again, I'm swapping out every bolt in her chair with ones that are just a bit to small."

Car looked toward the road. "We really doing this?"

Florence nodded once. "She needs that chip. And I want to pick it myself. Not scrap. Not stolen. A real one."

"Then we'd better move. It's a long ride to Sector G."

The path to Sector H narrowed as the buildings closed in, industrial ghosts leaning on each other like they'd given up collapsing. Rust-stained runoff pooled along the walk, and old signage hung sideways above corroded doorframes. But Warren didn't hesitate. He knew the turns, the silent signals in bent pipework and colored ties wrapped around drain grates. This was his zone. His home.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

The pharmacy door still bore its original lettering, faded to the bones, flanked by two concrete pillars and a rail half-rusted through. Warren reached out, tapped twice low on the right side. A metal clack answered. A trap resetting. He disarmed it without speaking, shifted aside a panel, and keyed the door open.

It hummed gently as the lock disengaged. Inside, the light strips warmed to life, soft yellow blooming across the floor like sunrise caught in glass.

Car stepped in first.

"Holy shit," he muttered.

Florence followed, slower. Her eyes moved fast. She didn't touch anything. Not yet.

Wren brushed past both of them, peeled off her coat, and hung it on the hook just inside the entry. The scent hit first: antiseptic and warm dust. Then the silence. Not dead. Not stale. Just still. Safe.

"This is..." Car walked to the forge bench, laid one hand flat on its surface. "You built this."

Warren nodded. "Mostly from the bones of old irrigation steel. Reinforced with scav plate. Power runs off the waterwheel."

Florence moved toward the clinic. Every drawer was labeled. Every shelf stocked. She traced her fingers along one label. "Trauma clamps."

"You organized this?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

Wren answered instead. "He did. Every bracket. Every shelf. That sink over there filters water better than most could ever dream. We sleep here. We work here. This is ours."

Styll leapt up onto her bench perch like she'd been waiting to reclaim it. Her blanket nest still smelled like home.

Florence stepped back, folded her arms, and nodded once. "You reopen this. Make it real. We'll send you guards. Real ones. Iron-tagged. The kind that don't sell out when a payday whispers."

Car looked toward the corner where the generator hum echoed faintly. Then his gaze caught on the nano forge setup bolted into the far workbench.

He stepped closer. Stared. Ran one hand over the casing.

"You got this running? This was a scrap kit when I sold it to you. Half the housing was warped and the coil feed was fused. I figured you'd strip it for parts."

Warren shrugged. "I rebuilt the channel system. Ground out the housing edge. Re-threaded the vent core."

Car let out a long, low whistle. "Shit. I've seen corps with full work crews who couldn't get a forge like this up again. You're wasted on salvage, kid."

He turned, eyes scanning the rest of the space again like he was seeing it differently now. "We could run signal through here too. Fortify the west wall. You've already got half the work done. Damn."

Wren watched them both, then looked at Warren.

"You believe them?" she asked.

Warren didn't answer right away. He moved to the window, checked the external tripwire, reset the failsafe lever, and turned slowly.

"They didn't lie. Not yet. That's enough."

Florence leaned back against the edge of the medical cart. "You know what'd help? Killing Lucas."

Car snorted. "Tried. Would've. But the boy claimed him."

Florence blinked. "Claimed him?"

Warren spoke low. "I owe him a death. Maybe two."

The room held it. The silence. The meaning. No flair. Just truth.

Car gave a single nod. "Then we'll hold it when the time comes. Not now. When the storm clears, this place deserves to stand."

Wren walked to the sink, turned the valve, and let clean water run. She cupped it. Drank. Then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Then we'll make it ready."

The pharmacy wasn't just a shelter anymore.

It was a fortress in waiting.

Florence found the coat tucked deep behind a panel in the supply wall. Wrapped in a sealed bundle Warren hadn't touched in days. He didn't look up when she pulled it out, didn't move when she peeled back the cloth and unfolded the yellow synthetic in her hands.

The room was quiet. Wren watched from the corner near the clinic. Car leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed but unspeaking.

Florence didn't say anything right away. She just held the jacket up to the light, turning it slowly. Her fingers brushed the collar, the seams, the old patchwork repairs still clean despite age.

Then she smiled. Soft. Wistful. Like she could see someone else behind her eyes.

"I can see her smile in it," she murmured. "Clear as anything. Gods, she'd laugh if she saw you now."

Warren finally looked over. His expression didn't shift. But he nodded once.

Florence stepped closer and draped the jacket over his shoulders, not like dressing him, but like marking him. The coat settled with weight. Familiar. Final.

Then she pulled a small set of shears from her side pouch.

Warren blinked. "No."

"Yes," she said. "You want to wear it right, you don't get to look like a rat pulled you out of a drainpipe. Sit."

He hesitated.

Wren tilted her head. "Might be good for morale."

Car raised an eyebrow. "Or hygiene."

Florence gave him a shove toward the clinic stool. "Sit down. You're not getting beheaded. You're getting finished."

Warren sat.

Styll hopped onto the bench and chirped low, pacing once before settling with her head low and ears flat. She didn't trust the scissors.

Florence moved with focus. She didn't ask what he wanted. She just cut. Sharp motions. Clean angles. A slow rhythm of snip and sweep as coarse strands dropped to the floor. Wren winced once. Car nodded slowly, arms still crossed.

It didn't take long. She wasn't styling him. She was uncovering him.

When she stepped back, Warren looked different. Not older. Not new. Just right. Like a gem that had finally been cut. The same boy. Just clear.

The jacket sat better now. No longer oversized. No longer borrowed. Like it had been made for him.

Wren stared.

"You look like someone finally gave a damn," she said quietly.

Warren didn't reply.

Car finally spoke. "I used to think the jacket made you hers. But no. You wear it like it's yours. Like it always was meant to be."

He shook his head, just once. "You don't look dangerous. That's the worst part. You look like the world was made just for you"

Wren didn't stop staring. Her voice was quieter this time. "You're still you. Just... easier to see now."

Florence stepped around him, brushing the last strands from his shoulders. "You always looked like someone the world forgot to finish. Now? Now you look like you were never meant to be small."

Styll sniffed his boot and chirped again. This time, she didn't back away.

The sun was gentle, clear through the clouds, and the air didn't bite. The kind of weather Wren liked. Light on the shoulders. No wind. Just warmth and the sharp edge of motion waiting in it.

Florence walked arm in arm with Car, a casual link that felt more like habit than affection. Her arms were relaxed, his pace easy, the weight of his lance slung across his back as he chewed on a dried stem like he didn't have a care in the world.

Wren stayed close to Warren. She didn't speak. Didn't need to. He was humming.

Car flicked the stem from his teeth. "He's in a good mood."

Florence snorted. "That's what worries me."

They were halfway down the overgrown service lane behind a collapsed shipment depot when the ambush tried to happen.

Eight mercs. Spread wide. Too clean. Too casual. Gear polished like someone wanted to look official. One stepped out first, helmet off, scarred chin lifted.

"Give up The Yellow Jacket," he said. "No one else has to get hurt."

Wren didn't even look at Warren. She just stepped to the side.

Florence raised an eyebrow. "Oh dear."

Warren was already gone.

Not gone like he ran. Gone like the world blinked and forgot to put him back. Then one of the mercs screamed.

He hit the ground face-first, arm twisted backward, bone protruding. The wet sound of it folding against the weight of Warren's truncheon echoed off the alley walls. Warren stood over him grinning, almost joyful, as if someone had just handed him a gift. One hand flipped a lance into ready position, the other adjusted his grip on the truncheon like he was tuning an instrument.

He didn't speak. Not yet.

The second merc fired. Too slow. The shot went wide. Warren vanished again, then reappeared behind the shooter, pressed close, smiling. A snap of his elbow knocked the lance aside. The truncheon came up and folded the man's spine over the edge of a crate.

Blood hit the wall. Warren stepped forward. Still untouched.

Car didn't move. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

Florence tilted her head. "Mm. Bright light. Good visibility."

Another merc tried to rush him. Warren dropped low, slid under the attack, and let his truncheon drag across the back of the man's knee. Tendons snapped. He rolled, came up on one knee, and fired his hand lance into the man's thigh at point-blank range, not to kill, just to hurt. That was the point.

Wren didn't blink. She just muttered, "That's not even him trying."

Warren rose in a whirl of motion, turned, and took two steps toward the next one. This one managed a scream before Warren slammed the truncheon into his skull. There was a crack. Then silence.

Another tried to run. Warren let him.

For two steps.

Then he vaulted forward, caught the man by the back of the neck, and twisted. Not enough to kill. Just enough to make him beg to be.

"I don't think Mara was ever this scary," Florence said, watching the movement like she was studying a test subject.

Wren smiled faintly. "He's just playing. When he performs? It's like an art or something."

One of the last mercs fired again. Panic in the motion. Warren didn't dodge. He moved past the shot. Close enough to touch. His hand lance came up and popped a shot into the man's side just as the truncheon rose. The scream was brief. The follow-up strike clipped the jaw and dropped him.

The final merc was a woman with clean armor and shaking hands. She backed up slowly, Lance half-raised.

Warren stepped toward her like a question.

She fired.

The shot missed.

Warren didn't.

He was on her before she could recover, catching the barrel of her weapon and spinning it wide. His knee hit her gut. She bent. He stepped around her,the truncheon's spike hooking behind her ankle, and dropped her to the ground without ceremony.

Then he crouched. Said something only she heard. And stood again.

All eight were down. Some twitching. Some silent. Most dying.

Warren turned back to the group, calm and still smiling.

Car clapped once. "A bit of flair, but I'll allow it."

Florence was watching him carefully. "He's surgical. The blood never touches him. Not by accident. He like chooses not to wear it. That's... impressive."

Wren stepped forward and gave Warren a quick visual once-over. Then smiled. "Didn't even scuff your boots."

Styll climbed out from a broken vent and sniffed the nearest merc. Chirped. Then darted back to Florence's shoulder.

Car looked over the carnage. "Youth these days. So full of energy."

Florence nodded. "And sharp. Gods, are they sharp."

Car tilted his head, watching the alley fade quiet. Then he frowned. "That one's getting away."

Warren didn't turn to look. "I let her go."

"Why?"

"Message delivery."

She ran until her legs gave out, armor biting into her shoulders, blood in her mouth. She didn't stop until the sector gates came into view, far, cracked, familiar.

She collapsed near a rusted sign and fumbled her comms unit to life.

His voice still rang in her ears:

"Tell Lucas I'm coming for him. And there is no corner he can run to that I won't find."

Her hands shook. Those eyes hadn't belonged to a man. It was like staring into the myth of something that shouldn't exist anymore. She could almost see data scrolling across the backs of them, unnatural, glowing. But that wasn't what had frightened her. It was the way it moved beneath the surface, like a demon pretending to be human. Like legend, dressed in skin and smiling.

She would deliver his message, and then she would run. That creature wasn't something a moral man could survive.

They didn't linger long after the fight. Florence kicked a spent cartridge into the gutter and checked the time. "We should move. We've got ground to cover before the next light shift."

Wren adjusted her bag, still watching Warren with quiet awe. "Where are we headed?"

"Sector G," Florence said. "Old corporate node. One of the original labs before they shifted their inventory to the Green Zone."

Car gave a low whistle. "You sure it's still intact?"

"Mostly," Florence said. "The structure holds. Power flickers on a rotational backup. It's locked down. Hard. That's why no one scavenges it."

"Because it's guarded," Warren said. Not a question.

Florence nodded. "Drones. Automated sentinels. Still loyal to the owners. They don't respond to tags or override codes anymore. They just kill."

Wren glanced toward the empty street behind them. "And you think there's a chip there?"

"I don't think," Florence said. "I know. I used to work there, still got a keycard and everything."

"You used to work there?" Wren asked, surprise edging her voice.

"Wasn't always the owner of the Bazaar," Car said. "We used to be corp ourselves. Back before the war. Mara convinced us to turn coat to the Empire. Wasn't really a hard sell."

"Didn't work out the way we wanted it to," Florence added. "But this location went down before the war, so the logs don't flag me as revoked access."

She glanced ahead. "So we're just going to waltz right in and pick you out a brand-new chip."

Warren said nothing. He adjusted his coat, shifted the truncheon into place, and started walking.

Car smiled and followed.

Florence checked her lances. "Just don't get cocky. That place doesn't care how fast you are. You blink wrong in there, and you'll lose a limb."

They moved out.

Toward the corpse of a company that still hadn't learned how to stay dead.