Yellow Jacket

The rain hadn't followed them inside, but the tension had.

Car keyed in the front console, and the lock disengaged with a series of heavy mechanical clicks. The thick steel-framed doors swung open, vines curling down from the upper arch like watching fingers. The old tech store still looked like it shouldn't exist in this world: too wide, too solid, too intact. But it did. And today, it was closed to the public.

They had decided not to open the Bazaar. Not today. Not after what happened. The guards were still cleaning up the mess, reassessing rotations, calming rumors. For once, Car, Florence, and Grix had nothing urgent to oversee. So Grix came with them.

The group entered the threshold, Car, Florence, Warren, Wren, Grix, and behind them, a tangle of movement. Four cats filtered inside: Florence's trio: Wires, Gunner, and Whisper, alongside Bastard, the mottled feral who had attached himself to Warren somewhere between the Bazaar and sanity.

The three trained cats vanished almost immediately. Whisper slipped through the nearest vent without a sound. Gunner lumbered toward the armory wing. Wires was already nosing open a drawer with intent.

Bastard lingered.

Warren crouched and scooped the creature into his arms with the same ease he handled weapons. Bastard didn't resist. Not a twitch. He just looked up, blinked once, and went still. Warren walked to Car and extended the cat toward him.

Bastard stared. Tail flicking.

Car reached out, cautious. Bastard didn't bite. Didn't flinch. Just settled into his arms like it wasn't the worst thing in the world.

"Well I'll be, hot damn!" Car broke into a wide grin, his voice echoing with something close to awe. He clutched Bastard like a man handed a prize he never expected to win.

Florence watched the moment and smiled. "That was a nice thing you did."

Grix snorted. "If I tried that, I think he would've mauled me. That vicious bastard."

Wren tilted her head. "Is that why he's called that?"

Grix grinned. "Got a hold of poor Johanna's hand once. Took three of us and a set of pliers to get him off. All she did was offer him a dried fish. He does a good job keeping the guards on their toes, though. You never want Bastard to catch you slacking, he likes to bite the most inconvenient places."

Florence reached over and scratched Bastard between the ears. "You know this is your cat now, Warren. I ain't taking another one in."

Car looked up, mock-hopeful. "But honey..."

Florence cut him off. "Don't 'honey' me. Three is more than enough. And that one smells a bit too ripe." She laughed. "Besides, he's been following Warren this whole time. You think when he leaves, Bastard's going to stay?"

Car pouted. "Maybe... he might..."

Grix groaned and dropped onto the couch. "Why did I need to work two whole daysssssssssss anyway? What was that about?"

Florence raised an eyebrow. "Just doing some shopping. Before helping out my niece-in-law."

Grix blinked. "Ohhh, that's mighty kind of you... Wait, niece-in-law? Who, her?!" She pointed at Wren. "Then that makes him your nephew?"

Florence nodded.

Grix slumped deeper into the couch. "Damn. And I was hoping to inherit when you two old meat bags kicked the bucket."

Florence smirked. "You think we'd give you our legacy?"

"I did. Until I found out you had blood."

Warren cut in, quiet. "We aren't blood. But she is my mum's sister."

Florence's tone shifted. "We're getting off topic. Wren, we need to prep you for surgery."

Wren straightened. "Alright. Is there anything I need to do?"

Florence gestured. "You need to follow me."

She led her toward one of the interior walls. It looked solid, unbroken and reinforced cross-bracing, but when Florence pressed her hand to a hidden panel, it clicked open. A sliver of light poured from behind it.

A stainless-steel door emerged from the shadows.

"Come on," Florence said. "We've got some tests I need to run first."

Wren paused. Turned back to Warren.

She crossed the space in two steps and threw her arms around him.

"I love you," she whispered. "And just know... you showed me that there can be something worth living for."

Warren held her close. No hesitation. Just strength.

"Show the world who you are," he said. "A... and I love... you."

She kissed him. Deep. Certain.

They stayed like that until Florence cleared her throat, an exaggerated cough that still managed to sound like affection.

She smiled faintly and nodded toward the door.

Wren kissed Warren once more, then stepped through.

The wall closed behind them with a soft hydraulic hiss.

And Warren was left in the quiet.

The room had gone quiet again.

Florence and Wren were gone, sealed behind steel. The hydraulic hum of the hidden lab door had faded into silence, leaving Warren standing near the center of the entry hall with Bastard still curled beside his boot.

Car moved to the kitchen alcove, fiddling with a kettle. Grix lounged across a patched couch like it owed her money, one leg over the backrest, the other bouncing idly off a crate turned table. The soft clink of tea tools was the only sound for a few minutes.

Warren didn't move. He stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by silence and the faint smell of rusted metal and boiled herbs. Then, finally:

"You fought for the Empire."

Car looked up, surprised, but only a little.

"Eventually."

"I was born in a corp city," Warren said. "Chipped. Indexed. Taught the Empire was chaos, rebellion, that it collapsed under its own failure."

Car grunted. "Sounds like corp curriculum."

Grix raised an eyebrow but didn't interrupt.

Warren looked between them. "So what was it really?"

Car poured boiling water over crushed leaf and sealroot. He didn't answer right away. Then, with a sigh:

"The Empire wasn't perfect. But it was alive. Messy. Human."

Grix rolled her eyes. "Here we go."

Car ignored her. "I started on the corp side. Security detail. Thought they were the backbone of the rebuild, research, structure, all that. And for a while, maybe they were. But when the Emperor died, the corps saw their chance. They split. Took tech, labs, and every inch of control they could buy. Called it liberation."

"The crowned princes didn't take that well," Grix said.

"Declared them traitors. Full civil war."

"And you switched sides?" Warren asked.

"Eventually," Car said. "Mara helped me see it. What the corps were really doing. Data cleanses, disappearances, human testing. I was close enough to smell the rot before it surfaced."

"But the corps were winning, right?"

Car shook his head. "No. They were losing. Badly. They only had a handful of cities, spread thin. No real ground force. The Empire had exosuits, biotech infantry, weather control grids. The corps didn't stand a chance. Not until they found Yurimdaal Gleck."

Warren blinked. "Yurimdaal Gleck?"

Car smirked faintly. "Yeah. Florence told me about him. Said he was polite. Quiet. And utterly, unfixably mad."

Grix stretched like a cat. "They say he saw into the void and came back with the System. Chips. Nanites. A whole plan to make supersoldiers out of anyone. He pitched it like salvation."

"Did it work?" Warren asked.

Car's smile vanished. "Perfectly. That was the problem."

Grix nodded, face suddenly serious. "Florence could've been part of it. They offered her a lab. Her own team. Said she could fix the side effects, make it safe."

"But she didn't."

"No," Car said. "Because Mara convinced her the Empire still meant something. That the corps were the ones pushing propaganda. Florence dug into the real data. And the deeper she went, the more she saw it. What Yuri's vision really cost."

Grix turned her head, eyes narrowing. "Wait. So you're Mara's kid? And she never told you any of this?"

Warren didn't look up. "No."

Car set the tea down in front of him.

"Drink," he said. "It helps."

Outside, the rain started up again.

Somewhere deep in the house, the lights flickered.

Just once.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Car was about to say more. His mouth opened, one hand lifting as if to punctuate whatever thought he had lined up next.

But Whisper let out a low, mournful mewl from the far hall.

The sound was subtle. Not a cry. Not panic. But not right either. A tone reserved for something she didn't understand. Something she didn't like.

Car froze.

Grix sat up straight.

Warren looked toward the corridor, a question half-formed on his lips, but the sound from Whisper kept it there, unspoken, heavy, waiting.

Whisper never made noise.

Bastard, curled beside the wall, uncurled. His ears tilted back. He didn't hiss. He simply stood, tail low, and padded toward the sound like something ancient had just knocked once against the bones of the house.

Car reached for the panel under the counter. A low click. A backup screen flickered to life, one of the few old systems he kept hardwired in case of a something like this.

"Something's in the perimeter," he said quietly.

Grix was already opening a weapons locker built into the couch.

Warren didn't speak. He walked to the coat hook beside the door, where his gear hung, and reached for the truncheon. Then, without hesitation, he shrugged into his jacket and slid his hand lance into its holster with the other. The movements were automatic. Measured. Like slipping back into something that had always fit.

The rain outside hadn't stopped.

But inside, something new had started.

And Whisper kept mewling.

Low.

Warning.

Like the air was about to tear.

Car moved fast. He knelt beside Whisper's bedding and pressed a small button hidden beneath the cushion. The house reacted instantly.

Metal shutters slammed down over the exterior windows. Bolts locked. Panels shifted. The whole building hummed with energy, old tech waking like a buried titan. Car's voice came low, clipped.

"Saw forty. Maybe fifty. Armed forces. Old enforcer gear."

Warren's eyes sharpened. "Lucas."

Car shook his head. "Didn't see the fucker. But that girl seems to be out there."

Warren's hand tightened on the truncheon. "Calra," he hissed.

Grix looked sideways at him. "What's up with you and her?"

Warren didn't blink. "Wren asked me not to kill her. She's Wren's cousin. If it comes to a fight… try not to kill her. Don't let her kill you. But if you can help it, don't end her."

Car was already moving. He stopped beside a blank patch of wall where the old grandfather clock used to stand. With a small twist of a key embedded in the molding, the wall clicked and opened inward.

Behind it: an armory.

Rows of racks. Gleaming hardware. Flechette packs. Custom lances. Blades. Hammers. and a variety of other killing implements

Car turned, grinning.

"Well, my kiddies," he said, voice too calm for the storm outside. "Who wants some nice toys?"

The armory door opened with a deep mechanical thunk, and cool recycled air drifted out, sharp with oil, cold metal, and faintly sweet sealant resin. The lighting inside was low but clean, casting long shadows over racks of weapons, crates of shells, and reinforced cases labeled in old-world shorthand.

Car stepped in like it was a chapel. "Don't grab stupid," he said without looking back. "These are all loaded, all real, and all irreplaceable."

Grix was already halfway to a rack. "Define stupid," she muttered, eyes gleaming. She moved like a feral thing sniffing out a nest, trailing fingertips across gear she clearly didn't recognize or didn't care to.

She found her spot.

A wrist-mounted rig gleamed under the second shelf. She grabbed it, twisted the bracer into place, and flexed. Blades snapped out, long, curved, brutal. "Hello, Clatter Fangs," she purred. "Missed you."

Nearby, she picked up a Rattle lance: a short-range burst lance with a vent rattle that shrieked like metal in pain. It was hard to miss with, basically a shotgun, loud and messy. Grix slung it onto her side, not because she planned to aim it well, but because it felt like the kind of weapon made for someone who couldn't be bothered to aim at all.

From a case on the wall, she pulled a trio of Tangler charges, flat, razor-edged discs wrapped in coiled monofilament. "Party starters," she whispered.

Then she slipped on her Laugher Mask. It hissed once as it sealed, the eyes flickering to life with dim amber glow. "Okay. Now I'm ready to commit controlled social sabotage."

Warren entered last, quiet. Car was waiting for him.

"Only made one of these," Car said, pulling a long, matte black weapon from a velvet-lined case. It looked heavier than it should've, but Warren took it like it belonged in his hand.

The Stinger Lance.

Single shot. Thunder recoil. Pinpoint range. Too brutal for anyone without precision.

Warren checked the chamber, nodded once.

Car handed him a compact pouch, Six Shatter Bombs. Dull steel. Thumb-rigged for fast grip. "They'll clear a room. Or a wall."

He paused. Then added with a sigh, "Please don't take down any walls. Florence would be pissed. I'm begging you."

Warren tucked them into his jacket without a word.

Car looked at the racks.

He moved with purpose now, no hesitation. From the deepest shelf, he pulled a massive thunder lance, its frame scarred and heat-warped from past use. The name "Betty" was etched into the housing, the letters blackened but proud. He slung it over his back with a grunt.

Next came Hellion, a Demon lance, belt-fed, designed for suppression fire and devastation. Its grip still wore the indent of his gloves. He checked the drum, snapped it into place, and holstered it across his front.

Then came the armor. Heavy plates. Reinforced joints. A vest woven with shock mesh and old-world Kevflex. He buckled it all on like a second skin, each piece locking into the next with magnetic seals.

After that, his hand lance, compact, reliable. And finally, a pouch of Shatter Bombs. He clipped it to his belt beside a coil of spare fuses and spare packs.

Then did he nod, slow and grim.

"Let's make them regret this."

Grix's mask muffled her voice. "Let's make sure they remember it."

Warren's voice followed, low and final. "No. Let's make sure they won't be remembered."

The storm had settled into a steady rhythm by the time the voice came.

Outside the house, the mud had churned into thick veins from the marching force. Sixty men and women in staggered formation, helmets fogged with breath, boots swallowing water. Their armor was mismatched: tactical vests thrown over scavenged plating, pieces of corporate issue grafted onto old enforcer suits, green sigils of the warlord painted hastily across battered shoulder pauldrons and weather-warped battle standards.

They weren't enforcers. They were worse. They were believers in someone else's paycheck.

The outer lawn, once a mess of wild groundcover and half-buried drainage grates, had been trampled into a swamp. Floodlights cast wide cones across the front of the house, their beams fractured by the curtain of rain. The light caught the ivy that still clung to the second floor's facade, swaying and dripping like it too was waiting.

Car's house stood defiant. Steel-faced, windowed, but armored. It didn't look like a home. It looked like something that had survived too many sieges to pretend to be anything else.

The mercs pressed forward.

One stepped on a decorative paver, shattered it beneath their boot, and kept moving. Another stumbled briefly over a raised planter box bristling with moss and mold-resistant herbs. The ornamental railing along the east side snapped as one of the larger heavies brushed past.

They didn't form ranks. They didn't need to. Their confidence was the wall they marched behind.

One of the lieutenants raised a fist and signaled.

Lances lifted in staggered sync, forming a jagged wave of charge cores and polished barrels across the advancing line.

And behind them, elevated above the others, stood Calra.

She stood where a broken street terminated in what used to be a parking terrace. Asphalt cracked beneath her boots. A crooked chain-link fence leaned just behind her shoulder, bound with scorched caution tape.

She didn't move.

She wasn't hiding. She wasn't leading.

She was watching.

Warren saw her.

Through the slit in the reinforced shutter, he watched her the way you watch a blade you know might still be yours to catch.

Calra tilted her head, slow and curious.

Then she turned her back.

The mercs continued their slow advance.

Rain slapped down harder. The floodlights flickered.

The speaker stepped forward.

Gleaming enforcer armor. Green sigils of the warlord. Measured breath. Calm voice.

"We have you surrounded. This is your only chance. Come out, put your weapons on the ground, and give up the Yellow Jacket and the girl. Do that, and nobody has to die."

The words echoed across the glass, carried by the amplifiers strapped to his back rig.

Then. Before the sound had even settled.

He dropped.

No flash. No scream. No warning.

Just down.

Another moved to react, hand lifting, voice cracking: "What just hap..."

Gone.

Both crumpled where they stood.

The others froze.

The world didn't breathe.

It waited.

They waited in the dark.

Car's house was silent, locked down. The external shutters had been drawn minutes ago, converting windows into steelview slits and doorframes into choke points. Inside, no one moved without reason. The hum of internal systems barely registered beneath the rain's steady percussion.

Warren stood just behind one of the second-floor blind panels, angled toward the outer yard. One hand braced the slit's edge. The other rested on the Stinger's grip, steady, cold.

The cats were ghosts. Whisper curled on a rafter beam above. Gunner crouched behind a bulkhead. Wires had vanished entirely. Styll poked her head out from Warren's collar and blinked like she understood what was coming.

Car stood a few feet away, armored and waiting. Grix perched near the stairwell, tension leaking off her in twitchy foot taps and blade checks.

They'd heard the boots long before they saw them.

Mercs. At least sixty. Green sigils of the warlord splashed across their armor. Floodlights cast jagged silhouettes through the rain, marking their slow approach.

Warren's eye narrowed. He adjusted slightly. The Stinger's long barrel settled into the viewing slit like it belonged there.

"I've got a clear shot," Warren said quietly.

Car didn't blink. "Wait. Make it all dramatic and shit."

Warren smirked. "I can do that."

Below, the mercs stopped. Their lead stepped forward, taller than the others, gear polished, stance confident. A portable amplifier rig was strapped across his back. His voice came through clean, amplified through the storm.

"We have you surrounded. This is your only chance. Come out, put your weapons on the ground, and give up the Yellow Jacket and the girl. Do that, and nobody has to die."

Warren's finger tightened the moment the last syllable landed.

The Stinger kicked once. A sharp, shattering whisper.

The leader dropped.

Before the first body hit the mud, Warren had already adjusted. He scanned, marking the next speaker. A merc stepped forward, mouth parting....

Warren fired.

Another dropped. No scream. No flash. Just motion, then absence.

Grix whispered, "Holy shit."

Car didn't speak.

Warren kept scanning.

No movement went unmeasured.

The rain kept falling.

And death stayed quiet.

The prep room was clean. Not warm, but clean.

Wren sat on the medical bench, legs swinging just above the floor. The cushion was stiff, but not uncomfortable. The lights were too bright for the rest of the house's mood, white, clinical, and unblinking. A narrow rail of old diagnostic monitors buzzed gently overhead, slow pulses blinking across outdated glass.

Florence moved with the precision of someone who hated improvising.

"Vitals stable. Heat's good. Spine's still where it should be." She gave Wren a sidelong look. "We're off to a decent start."

Wren smiled, but it didn't stick. "That was a joke, right?"

Florence raised a brow. "That depends. If your heart rate keeps climbing, I'll know it landed."

The scanner passed along Wren's spine, gentle but deliberate. Florence checked the readings on her wristband, adjusted the probe, and let out a slow breath.

"You ever done this before?" Wren asked.

Florence didn't look up. "Just a few hundred times. Give or take."

"And how many of them walked out fine?"

A pause. Then: "All the ones who listened."

Wren nodded. The room felt tighter. She rubbed her hands together, nerves finding motion.

"I don't want to mess this up," she said. "Not for me. For... everything."

Florence stopped. Turned.

"You won't." Her voice dropped. "You've got the instincts. You just need the nerve to match them. That's what the chip gives you. Direction. Not answers."

Wren swallowed. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes."

Another beat of silence. Then they both laughed. It helped.

Florence set the scanner down and started prepping the surgical module. Her hands moved automatically.

"I hate doing this," she said finally. "But I'm the only one left in the Yellow who can."

The words hit hard. Not bitter. Just true.

Wren looked at her. "Why'd you learn it in the first place?"

Florence didn't answer. Not immediately. Then, without looking up, she said, "It was so that I could help humanity, believe it or not. I thought the corps were trying to help people live better lives. And with what Yuri showed us... I thought maybe we could fix the world."

She paused. Her hands kept moving. "He was so damn calm. Quiet. Like he'd already seen the end of everything and decided to build anyway. That kind of certainty... it's hard not to follow."

Wren said nothing.

Florence finally looked up. "We were wrong, obviously. But I wasn't trying to be a villain. I just thought... maybe we had a way back."

Florence's voice didn't rise. If anything, it softened.

"Back then, we all thought we were the good ones. The ones with tools, with ideas, with something real to offer the world. I wasn't trying to join the corps, I was trying to join progress."

She reached for a sterilized tool tray and paused, eyes distant.

"Yuri wasn't like the others. He didn't want attention, didn't write manifestos, didn't care about rank. He just built. Quietly. Obsessed. He said the world didn't need more leaders. It needed foundations. And he believed the chips could be that."

She wiped the tool head against a cloth, not because it needed it, but because her hands weren't ready to stop moving.

"I saw what he built and thought: this is it. This is the scaffolding we need to climb out. A clean overlay. A system that doesn't care what you look like, where you were born, who your parents were. Just data. Input and growth."

Florence looked down at her hand, flexed it once, then set the cloth aside.

"I didn't realize what kind of growth we were feeding. Or what the corps really wanted it for. By the time I figured it out, they'd already started the human trials."

She glanced at Wren then. Not apologizing. Just showing the scar.

Her hands hovered for a moment, resting on the edge of the tray, fingers tightening, once, then loosening.

"It wasn't my idea to leave," she said quietly. "Mara dragged me out. Kicking. Screaming. Said if I stayed, I'd be part of something I couldn't come back from. I hated her for it at the time."

She looked down. "But she was right. She always was."

A soft thud echoed somewhere above.

It wasn't a breach. Not metal. Not impact. But something changed in the air.

Florence froze.

She tapped a signal node near her belt. Her eyes flicked upward, but she wasn't looking at the ceiling.

She was watching through someone else.

"…It's early," she muttered.

The cats had seen something.

And outside, The silence had begun.