Yellow Jacket

Car watched Lucas like you'd watch a snake in a shallow pool, aware it couldn't reach you yet, but knowing damn well it would try.

Lucas stood just beyond the edge of the fire-blackened Bazaar gate, all smiles and silk voice, hands raised like he was offering peace instead of provocation.

Then he stepped up onto a broken crate, as if the gods themselves had provided a stage, and his voice lifted with the air of a man rehearsed.

"Members of the Bazaar," he began, his tone rich with solemnity and warmth, "what we've witnessed here is tragedy, but not defeat."

He gestured behind him to the crates, to the uniforms, to the gathered muscle and medics. "This city is more than its stone, more than its scrap and salvage. It is its people. Its trade. Its future. And I, like you, am invested in that future, not with hollow speeches, but through meaningful action."

He paced the edge of his stage like a man in full command of a loyal army.

"Too long have accidents and mismanagement risked the fragile peace we've all built. Too long have those sworn to protect us stood silent while lives and livelihoods burned."

He raised a fist, not clenched, but open-palmed, an offering. "But it does not have to be this way. We can rebuild. We can prevent. We can rise stronger than before."

Car didn't move. Didn't blink. He just let the words land.

It was bait. Too clean. Too prepared. Like Lucas had been waiting for a disaster. Or worse, had planted it.

Grix hadn't said a word yet. Her silence was thunderous.

Warren, beside him, hadn't spoken either. But Car could see it in the way his jaw was set: that calm just before something broke.

Florence leaned forward slightly, her eyes flicking from Lucas to the crowd.

Car didn't look at the others. He watched the people.

They were scared. Tired. Smoke-streaked and dirty. Easy pickings for a man with clean boots and free food.

Lucas gestured to the enforcers behind him. A cart rolled forward, water barrels, clean bandages, even a stack of sealed ration boxes.

Car felt the tension thrum in the air.

Lucas wasn't just playing politics. He was staging theater. Every crate was angled for maximum visibility. The clean uniforms on his crew were deliberate. The way he stood, backlit by smoke haze, slightly elevated, just enough for his voice to carry, was too perfect.

It was almost laughable. Almost.

Because it was working.

The crowd was eating it up. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed, but not at Lucas. At the guards.

Someone near the front muttered, loud enough to carry, "Where the hell were the gate shifts when it happened?"

Another voice answered, sharper, angrier: "What do we even pay them for if they can't stop one damn fire?"

The murmurs picked up momentum, jagged and hot. Not panicked, angry.

A scav woman with a bandaged arm raised her voice. "My stall's gone. All of it. And you're telling me no one saw who lit it?"

Lucas smiled wider like he hadn't heard anything sweeter in his life.

It was almost too obvious.

He'd set this up. Car would bet his boots on it. The only question left was whether Lucas was cocky enough to believe no one would say it out loud.

Lucas was making a move. Not a hard one. A soft one. Smiling, generous, poisonous.

Car stepped forward. Just enough to be seen. Not to speak. Not yet.

Let the man talk.

Let him dig.

Let him show them all just how much rope he'd brought to hang himself with.

For a heartbeat, Lucas stood on his crate like a man who had already won.

The smoke-framed crowd shifted. Murmurs faded. People stared, uncertain, waiting for someone to speak next.

It was Car.

He stepped forward. Not loud. Not fast. But when he spoke, it cut through the air like a blade.

"You think the Bazaar's a public market? Some open playground anyone can stroll into and claim when the wind shifts? You think you can just show up with boxes and grins and rewrite the rules?"

He moved closer to the front of the crowd, slow and precise.

"You want to know what this place is? It's not a collection of tents and fire barrels. It's not a name. It's not a logo on trade goods. It's a damn oath. And it was forged in bone and blood before you ever knew where to stand."

Car's voice dropped just slightly, but the intensity in it only rose.

"You think tossing a few rations into a burned crowd makes you a savior? You think offering us safety with one hand while the other's still holding a match earns you a seat? You don't even understand what you're trying to take."

Lucas blinked, visibly thrown for the first time.

And Car didn't stop.

"You're not here to help. You're here to claim. You're here to twist need into debt. But we remember who stood in the rain when the Broken came. We remember who patched walls and dragged wounded traders out of collapsed roofs while the enforcers were still debating budget allocations."

He raised a hand, not in anger, but as a point of clarity.

"This isn't a democracy. It's a trust. Built by the people who showed up when no one else did. Built by those who gave more than they took. And you? You're not in it. You never were."

That's when Car turned and raised his voice to the Wilds.

"Brothers of the Wilds," he called, strong enough for every scout, every painted rig, every clan crest to hear. "I ask you plain. Who do you stand for?"

"You think the Bazaar's a public market? Some open playground anyone can stroll into and claim when the wind shifts?"

Lucas blinked. "I think the people deserve options."

Car's voice sharpened. "It's not public. It never was. This is a members' network. A closed loop. You want in, you ask. You don't set a fire and toss free bread."

Lucas opened his mouth, but Car turned from him, lifted his voice to the caravan line forming along the smoke-wrapped road.

"Brothers of the Wilds," he called, strong enough for every scout, every painted rig, every clan crest to hear. "I ask you plain. Who do you stand for?"

The Wild caravans didn't hesitate.

The lead banners pushed forward. First came the Redhook crest, then the Bluecoils, then the unmistakable antlered helm of the Boneway Nomads. Not one of them walked with weapons drawn, but each step carried the weight of decision already made.

A unified voice rose from their line.

"We stand with you."

Lucas's smile twitched, but he tried to rally. "I can offer more than he can. Better trade routes. More protection."

The caravan leaders stepped forward together, not in rage, but with the deadly calm of people who knew how far loyalty truly stretched.

The Boneway elder stopped only a few feet from Lucas's crate. He didn't say a word. Just spat on the ground at Lucas's feet.

Another caravan voice joined him. "You think we follow coin? You think we kneel for convenience? We follow those who bled beside us. You've never bled for anything but your pride."

Lucas shifted, his confidence wobbling for the first time.

"I just want to support the Bazaar," he said quickly. "Make it more secure. More profitable."

And that was when Grix moved.

She didn't shout. She didn't rush. She stepped forward like she'd been waiting all morning for this.

"Profitable?" she said, her voice dry and cutting. "You think this is about profit?"

She turned to the crowd now, not to Lucas.

"You ever wonder who pays the guards? Who keeps the outer wards stocked? Who makes sure we have enough medkits for the next broken wave? You think it's the Bazaar council? You think there's some magic tax fund keeping this place from falling apart?"

She pointed across the gathering, first at Car, then at Florence.

"It's them. Has been for years. They fund the Yellow. Out of pocket. Out of effort. You want to know why the traders stay in line? Why they keep their prices fair? It's because they weren't charged to be here in the first place."

Lucas tried to interject. "That's not..."

"No," Grix snapped. "Don't. You don't get to rewrite this. You think you understand power. But all you know is ownership. Control."

Then the crowd started speaking up.

"She's right," one trader shouted. "I've been here four years. Not a single rent slip. Not once."

"They patch roofs, they repair rigs," another added. "Hell, they helped bury my sister when the walls failed."

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"If that's not leadership, what is?"

Lucas opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Because what he'd lit on fire wasn't just the edge of the Bazaar.

It was the illusion he mattered here.

Lucas took a single step forward, hands still raised, but the polish was cracking.

"I'm not your enemy," he said, voice lower now, almost pleading. "You think I don't care about this place? About these people? I've brought aid. I've brought stability."

No one answered.

He turned slightly, trying to find one face, any face, in the crowd that still looked at him with something other than contempt.

"I didn't light the fire," he said, louder now, more force behind it. "All I've done is offer support where leadership has failed. All I want is to protect what we've built. To grow it."

The Wilds remained still.

Grix said nothing.

Warren didn't move.

Lucas's mask cracked further.

"You need people like me," he snapped. "You can't keep relying on handouts from scavengers and idealists. One day they'll run dry. Then what? You think kindness pays for security? You think loyalty keeps the gates closed when the real monsters come through? Monsters like him?"

He pointed directly at Warren.

"You allow monsters like him into this sacred place," Lucas went on, louder now. "Into a place meant for people. What is he really? A killer with a coat. A shadow that stalks your edges. Don't pretend he's one of you. He doesn't bleed for this place. He haunts it. You think loyalty keeps you safe? You're walking beside a creature that doesn't even understand what safety means."

He took another step, voice rising.

"You let him live among you. Feed off your silence. You think that won't bite you the second his interest fades? That's not community. That's fear dressed in yellow fabric. That's what you've let in. And one day, when something snaps and he burns this place down himself, you'll remember I tried to warn you."

Car's expression didn't change.

Florence watched him like someone watching a broken device still trying to speak.

Lucas drew a breath and forced a smile, broken and bright.

"I'm offering a future," he said. "You just have to stop clinging to the past."

And somewhere behind him, a trader laughed. One sharp bark of disbelief.

Then another joined. Then two.

And in moments, the crowd was laughing. Not loud. Not cruel. But clean

Warren stepped forward. Slowly. Not with anger, but with gravity.

"You offering safety?" Warren asked, voice low and lethal. "You're offering protection? Just like you protected your recruits, Lucas?"

Lucas opened his mouth, but Warren cut through him.

"Do you want to tell them, or should I?" He turned slightly, addressing the crowd. "He's not here because he wants to protect you. He's here because I didn't die. Because when he tried to feed me to Reggie, I lived. Because I didn't think it was acceptable that he wanted to give Reggie a nine-year-old girl."

A ripple passed through the crowd.

"You think no one noticed? That Lucas loses more recruits than any other clan lately? Ask around. Anyone here get a recruit who left Lucas's clan while Reggie was around? Anyone?"

Silence.

Warren turned back to him. "No. Not a single one. Because they didn't leave. They didn't make it out."

Lucas visibly paled.

Warren's voice sharpened. "Now he's got no monster of his own, so he's trying to seize power from the only people who offer real safety."

He raised his hand.

"You call me a monster because I killed Zatha? Fine. I killed them all. I cut out their eyes, because pieces of shit like that, pieces of shit like you, don't deserve for the world to remember them."

The crowd was frozen.

Warren stepped close now. Final. Inevitable.

"And just so you know, I'm going to end you. One way or another. So run. Hide. Do what cowards do. But know this, Lucas: I don't have time to waste on an insignificant piece of trash like you."

And the only sound was the wind pushing through the edge of the Bazaar.

Lucas didn't move for a long moment. The crowd watched him like a fuse that hadn't yet burned out. The laughter was still echoing when his lips parted into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Fine," Lucas said, and the word hit the dirt like a dropped weapon. He took a breath that shook at the edges. "I tried to do this the easy way. You leave me no choice."

Not retreat. Not defeat.

Something colder. Sharper. A performance rehearsed in private mirrors.

He straightened. Tilted his head like someone about to reveal the last card in his hand.

"You think I came alone?"

The question came soft. But it landed like thunder.

A sharp whistle rang out behind the smoke.

Then came the sound: not the heavy march of guards, but the rhythmic clank of precision. Military. Too tight. Too clean. Feet striking ruin with the confidence of sanctioned violence.

Figures emerged from the haze. Six. Then ten. Then more.

White armor, gleaming beneath the mist. Marked with green-stripe sigils no one in the Yellow dared wear.

Car froze. Grix's hand dropped near her weapon.

The crowd instinctively stepped back, those closest pressing inward toward Warren and Car's line.

The soldiers formed up in two straight flanks behind Lucas. Then they parted with rehearsed discipline.

At their head walked Calra.

Lucas lit up like a man catching sight of salvation. "There she is. My ally in this. The Warlord's will."

Calra walked with calm precision, her gaze scanning the crowd. Her expression shifted the instant she saw Wren, tightening into something sharp and unresolved. When her eyes met Warren, it hardened further, stone over steel. But she didn't break stride.

She came to stand beside Lucas, not behind him, not as a challenger, but as his equal. Her presence steadied the line like a weight snapping a cord into place.

"I am here as the Warlord's representative," Calra said, her voice cutting clean through the air. "This alliance is confirmed. Our troops are here in support of Lucas's leadership of the Bazaar. We move forward as one."

Lucas nodded, emboldened. "Together, we're going to bring security, structure, and strength to this place. Enough of this chaos. Enough of this weakness."

Calra didn't interrupt. She simply stood beside him and stared at Warren.

"But don't mistake our unity for mercy," she said. "We are not here to forget."

Lucas stood tall. The soldiers held formation, silent and sharp.

And still, the crowd didn't cheer. Didn't shout.

They just watched.

Some stared at the soldiers in awe, others with a growing sense of disgust. Mutters rippled from caravaners and traders alike.

"Uniforms. Gear. Flash, not loyalty."

"You see that line? All show. They don't protect us."

"He's wearing power like it fits. But it doesn't."

Then Warren stepped forward. Not fast. Not loud. Just a single measured step.

And everything stilled.

The moment his boot touched the ground, Calra's jaw locked. Her shoulders twitched.

It wasn't big. But it was real.

Lucas saw it.

And started to sweat.

He straightened too quickly, trying to keep control of the moment. Trying to deny what everyone just witnessed.

But it was already slipping. One heartbeat. One breath. One flinch at a time.

And the crowd? Still watching.

Not convinced.

But now?

They were beginning to choose.

The moment cracked like glass under too much pressure.

Tension rippled through the air, louder than any words. Traders stepped back. Wild caravaners gripped the hilts of knives and lances. Guards shifted their weight. Someone's breath caught loud enough to break the silence.

One man in the crowd shouted, "You think we'll kneel to that?" pointing at Lucas.

Another barked, "Yellow's not yours to claim!"

Lucas raised his hand, but his voice didn't come fast enough. Calra's grip tightened near her hip. Warren stepped forward again, and a pair of soldiers behind her moved subtly in response.

It was about to break. Sharp. Fast. Final.

And then the sound came.

A low hum. Not from the crowd. Not from the soldiers.

From the sky.

It started as a whisper and rose in harmonic steps, the clean whine of powered flight. Then the ground trembled. Just once. Controlled. Deliberate.

And from the northern edge of the Bazaar ruins, they arrived.

White.

Flawless.

Green Zone enforcers.

A full squad moved in precision, boots silent despite the ruined ground. Their armor was smooth, clean, sealed. Their visors black as oil. No unit markings. No names. Just a single universal sigil stamped into the plating: Authority.

Each one carried a Service Lance. Modular. Upgraded. Primed.

They did not speak. They did not stop.

They walked directly into the Bazaar square, right through the crowd. Not shoving. Not threatening. Just moving with such complete disregard for resistance that the space made room for them.

Calra went still.

Warren didn't move. Neither did Grix.

Car's fingers hovered near his coat.

The crowd bent. Not broken. But wary. Shocked.

No one knew why they were here.

No one had ever seen them come in this far.

Not without reason.

The squad split. One to the left. One to the right. Two at the center, scanning. Their heads moved, slow, mechanical, aligning.

Then the lead figure lifted a single hand.

Everything stopped.

And a voice, clipped and professional, spoke through a filtered respirator.

"Clearance received. Situation recognized as unstable. Green Zone presence authorized for stabilization."

The words hit like lead.

Lucas blinked.

Calra turned.

Warren narrowed his eyes.

Whatever was about to happen next was no longer in anyone's hands.

The enforcers stood motionless for several long breaths.

Then the lead officer stepped forward.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just assured, like someone who had never once been told no.

Their voice came through a filtered respirator, calm and deliberate.

"By Green Zone directive L-17, subsection two, the Bazaar remains under recognized civilian stewardship. Current primary authority of this location is registered under identifier: Carmine, designation approved."

The words dropped like stones into a pool, silent at first, then rippling.

Car blinked. Once. Twice.

Lucas turned toward the enforcer, mouth parting in disbelief. "What? That's not possible. He's, he's a scav. He has no system charter. No political ties."

The enforcer didn't look at him. Didn't acknowledge him at all.

"Unauthorized claimants to this location will vacate. Interference with recognized jurisdiction will be treated as destabilization."

Calra stiffened.

Warren didn't speak, but the corner of his mouth twitched, just enough for Wren to see it. Not amusement. Not victory.

Suspicion.

Car took a half-step forward, but didn't say anything. Not yet.

The enforcer continued.

"This settlement is not to be disrupted. Supply lines remain protected under auxiliary pact."

That word, pact, landed harder than the rest. A contract. A leash.

And for the first time, Car didn't look certain.

Because this wasn't loyalty.

This was control disguised as permission.

And the crowd? Confused. Relieved. Uneasy.

Because the Green Zone hadn't come to protect anyone.

They'd come to remind the Bazaar: even your freedom is theirs to give.

The Green Zone enforcers didn't linger. They made their statement, turned with machine-perfect coordination, and marched back into the mist like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

For a long time, no one moved. The square held its breath. Not even the wind stirred.

Then someone exhaled. A single sharp breath from one of the traders. And that was enough.

The crowd began to break apart slowly, like a wave retreating from a cliff. Traders backed off. Caravaners returned to their rigs. Even the guards looked unsure of what to do.

A few stared at Car like they didn't recognize him. Others gave him a wide berth, as if he were suddenly radioactive.

Lucas didn't move at first. He just stood there, jaw clenched, fists trembling. He stared into the haze where the enforcers had vanished, his eyes hollow.

Calra didn't speak to him. Didn't even glance his way. When she turned, it was slow and mechanical, the motion of someone re-evaluating every decision in real time.

Lucas muttered something under his breath, too soft to carry, but it vibrated with hatred.

Then he left.

Because to stay, to challenge what had just happened, would mean defying the Green Zone. And that didn't just mean exile.

It meant erasure.

The team gathered in the hollow center of the square. Car. Florence. Warren. Wren. Grix. A cluster of trusted guards. Even a few Wild clan reps hovered nearby, like animals after a lightning strike, waiting to see if the air would catch fire.

No one spoke at first.

Everyone was tense.

Florence finally broke the silence.

"What the hell just happened?"

She wasn't loud. But her voice cracked on the last word, like it was dragging something heavy.

Car didn't answer right away. He was staring at the ground, specifically at the place where the enforcer had stood, like he expected a scorch mark, or a crater.

He slowly turned his palms upward and stared at them. As if some mark should've been left behind.

"They said my name," he muttered. "Out loud. In public."

Grix stepped up beside him. Not touching. Just close enough to let him know she was there.

"With authority," she said quietly. "That wasn't a mistake."

Warren hadn't moved. He stood off to the side, arms folded, unreadable. But Wren noticed his eyes, they hadn't left the direction the enforcers vanished.

"That wasn't a favor," Warren said finally. "That was leverage."

Florence turned to him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Warren said, "They just named Car as the face of the Bazaar. In front of the entire Yellow. And they did it knowing full well he never asked for it."

Car blinked. "It's like they... picked me?"

Wren was shaking her head. "They didn't pick you. They cornered you."

Car looked over at her.

"This wasn't a gift," Wren said. "It was a brand."

That landed hard.

One of the Wilds, a woman in patch armor and bone jewelry, stepped forward. "Do you serve the Green now, Car?"

Car recoiled. "No. I didn't even know..."

"But they named you," another Wild added. "They only name what they own."

Florence put a hand on Car's shoulder, gently.

"We don't even know what they want," she said.

"No," Warren replied. "We know."

They all turned to him.

Warren's voice was low. Focused. Like he'd already mapped out the next ten steps.

"They want peace. Controlled peace. Tidy. Profitable. They saw Lucas trying to take the Bazaar and decided to install their own pressure valve."

"Me," Car said.

Warren nodded. "You're respected. Local. And most important: not them. That gives them plausible deniability. You'll be the icon. They'll be the architects."

Car looked sick.

Florence whispered, "They used us."

Grix snorted. "They always do."

Wren folded her arms. "So what now? They declared him leader. If we push back, we look like the ones breaking order."

Warren's gaze never moved. "We don't push back. Not yet."

"Then what?" Florence asked.

"We build. We watch. And when they move again, we're ready."

The silence that followed was heavier than anything the enforcers brought with them.

Because the Green Zone hadn't offered power.

They'd handed them a noose.

And smiled while doing it.