Yellow Jacket

The flechettes had stopped flying.

Smoke drifted through the upper rafters of the outer yard. The air reeked of melted synthmetal and ruptured bloodpacks. Bodies littered the broken ground, scorched armor still twitching. Calra stood at the city's edge, one hand resting on the bloodstained ridge of her helmet, eyes locked on the ruin that used to be a fortress.

It wasn't supposed to go this way.

She had routed civilian enclaves. Crushed riot cells. Led full-scale burns through Wilds that screamed the whole time. She had walked through walls of fire and never looked back.

But this wasn't a riot.

This was something else.

Her comms buzzed static, a dead tone on all squad channels. She didn't bother rechecking them.

The house, if you could still call it that, was cracked open like a corpse mid-autopsy. Entry wounds on all sides. No survivors where the breach started. Some of the outer units were missing entire limbs, but none of them had time to scream.

She counted bodies.

Then stopped. Because counting didn't matter. They were gone. And she had no interest in joining them.

She spat into the dirt.

"Pull back. Now."

No one argued. Even the hardcases, the two boys from the Enforcer Culls, didn't try to act tough. One of them limped with a hand clutched to a shattered gut plate. Another was missing his visor and half his face.

They moved like ghosts. Quiet. Fast. Gone.

She didn't move right away.

Her eyes lingered on the broken entry. The walls had been repainted in something fresh and arterial. Someone's arm hung from a shattered support beam. She didn't want to know whose.

They had thought it would be chaos in there.

It wasn't chaos.

It was controlled. Surgical. Like the house itself had teeth.

She'd seen Florence's data. Knew the woman had a record. Medical tech background. Access to restricted augments. But this wasn't a surgeon's work.

This was execution.

And the others,Warren in that yellow coat, Grix like a demon carved from chaos, even the damned cat,but it was Wren who carved the deepest mark. Not just some girl with claws. Not some System mutant. Family. Her cousin. Her only real one. Raised under the same roof. Fed from the same hand.

Wren's father had been as close to a father as Calra had ever known. Seeing Wren now,what she had become,was like watching the dead get back up with a weapon in hand.

That wasn't rebellion. That was something new.

And Calra had turned her back on it.

Back in that office building, when she'd first crossed paths with Warren and Wren, she'd told herself it was luck. Surprise. A tactical misstep that cost her the day. But now she knew better. The fear she'd felt then, that tightening in her chest, that voice in her head telling her to run, it hadn't been instinct. It had been prophecy.

Warren wasn't a threat. He was an ending waiting to happen. A thing with patience and purpose. If she had stayed too long in that room, he would have taken her soul piece by piece. Not out of malice, just by being.

And Wren… Wren had made her choice.

Calra didn't know what scared her more: the fact that Wren had survived, or that she had done it next to him. She wondered, with bile rising in her throat, if her cousin had chosen something worse than what the warlord gave her. And she knew what the warlord gave. She lived it.

All she knew was the look Wren had worn when they crossed paths again. Like something had been carved out of her and replaced with steel. And if Warren was the blade, Wren had let it in willingly.

Her helmet's inner HUD flickered, then died. It was overheating. She let it hang from her side as she stared at the crumbling stronghold.

A merc next to her spoke. Voice shaking. "What the hell even were they?"

Calra didn't answer right away.

She glanced at the street behind her. Civilian pathways. Infrastructure long-dead. No backup coming. Not from Lucas. Not from the warlord. This was supposed to be clean. Fast. Dominating.

Instead, it was a warning.

She finally answered without turning her head.

"Whatever's in there," she said, "doesn't care about survival. It cares about message."

The merc stared at her.

She nodded toward the building.

"That message is bleeding in six languages right now."

And then she turned.

No more words. Just steps.

She moved at a walk, helmet swinging in one hand, boots thudding through ash. Her squad fell in behind her, just a handful of what she'd brought. Of the nearly hundred she had led in, only six walked back out of that slaughterhouse of a home.

She didn't look back.

Because she didn't want to see who or what might be watching.

Wren opened her mouth to speak, probably to ask if Warren was hurt, or if it was over, or what they were supposed to do next.

Then she saw Bastard.

He was curled on the floor near the wall. Still. Quiet. Blood had soaked through the fur along his side and pooled beneath his paws. One eye was open, glassy. He was breathing, barely.

Too much blood. More than a body that small should hold. It was still spreading, slow and steady, like he was trying to let it all go before someone could stop him.

"Bastard?"

She dropped beside him before anyone else moved.

Her knees hit the floor hard. She didn't care.

Her hands hovered over him. Shaking. She didn't know where to touch. Everything looked wrong.

He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just stared forward with that single open eye.

"Bastard, hey,hey, c'mon."

No response.

She pressed her fingers lightly to his side. They came back wet. Her stomach twisted.

The blood was warm. Too warm.

He made a sound. Soft. The kind of noise that didn't belong in something so fierce. Like a breath falling apart.

"Don't you dare die," she whispered.

She looked back over her shoulder. "Florence," but her voice broke.

No one moved.

Bastard twitched once. Not a full-body movement. Just the smallest flick of his ear. Like he was still trying to listen.

"You stubborn little thing."

Her fingers searched his fur for the source. It wasn't just one wound. It was several. A blast had torn open his side, and something sharp had punctured near his ribs. There was bruising under the blood. Patches of fur already matted and dark.

He'd taken a round meant for Warren. That much she understood. He hadn't even hesitated.

"Why would you do that?" she asked. Her voice cracked around the edges.

Her hands pressed against the wound. She didn't know if that was right. She didn't know anything. There was too much blood.

And yet,

Somewhere inside, something stilled.

Not peace. Not calm. Just clarity. Like the panic stopped fighting her for one breath. And in that breath, she saw it.

The angle of the wound. The depth. Where the tissue was swelling. Where the blood needed to be pressed. Where it didn't.

She repositioned without thinking. One hand under his body, lifting gently. One hand guiding the pressure just off-center, relieving the worst of it. She didn't know how she knew. She just did.

And in that moment, something inside her shifted.

Bastard's breathing hitched again. Sharper. Realer.

She was too focused on the rhythm of his ribs, the way he leaned into her palm.

Blood still pooled, but slower now. Thicker. Contained.

Her hands didn't stop. She adjusted again, applying pressure where it counted, shifting his body just slightly so he could breathe easier. Every move felt like instinct fused with urgency, raw purpose. Like she was willing him to live with every breath she drew.

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"Good boy," she whispered. "You're not done yet."

He made a sound again. This one was different. Still weak. But clearer.

She smiled, just barely. Then pressed harder.

"Stay with me. You hear me? Stay with me."

Behind her, the others stood still. Watching. Silent. Not from detachment, but reverence.

She didn't know what they saw. She didn't care.

Bastard wasn't going to die today. Not if she had anything to say about it.

Wren didn't know what she was doing.

She just knew she had to do something. Her hands pressed to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Pressure. Warmth. Focus.

But he was so small. And there was so much blood.

"Stay with me," she whispered. "You dumb, brave little bastard, stay with me."

Her hands worked fast. Desperate. She ripped the hem of her own shirt and packed the deepest wound, pressed hard, then softer. She had no tools. Just cloth, instinct, and her body between him and death.

Bastard didn't even twitch. Just breathed shallow, uneven, like he was waiting for permission to go.

"No," she whispered. "You don't get to go. Not you."

She was crying openly now. Silent, trembling sobs that blurred her vision. She didn't wipe them away.

She peeled back another layer of fur, exposing a jagged tear near his ribs. Carefully, she reached under, felt heat and pressure and something slick.

It should've made her gag. It didn't.

She kept working.

She pressed again. Slower this time. Her fingers learned from failure. Found purchase. Stopped the worst of it.

"He saved Warren," she said aloud, to no one. "He ran into a fire for someone else."

More tears hit the floor.

"He's a cat. He's just a godsdamned cat."

And yet he'd done what people wouldn't. What soldiers failed to do. He'd chosen someone else over himself. And he was small. So small.

But inside that body was the heart of a lion.

She cleaned around the wound. Tore her sleeve again. Packed the side. Shifted his body, elevated his legs. Everything she remembered from half-learned lessons, overheard survival talks, fragments of advice from Florence.

"He's so much stronger than this world wanted him to be," she muttered.

She gritted her teeth and adjusted his neck. Airway. It mattered. She adjusted again.

She whispered his name in a loop. Not for him. For her.

"Bastard. Bastard. Bastard."

He let out a sound. Like he was trying to tell her to shut up.

She laughed through the tears. Just once.

Then got back to work.

His side pulsed. She pressed again. Her hands were red now. Stained. She didn't care.

"I'm not letting you die," she said. "Not you. Not after all this."

She tilted his head, cleared his mouth, pressed low on his abdomen to check if something ruptured.

It hadn't. Not yet.

She clamped the worst wound. Her fingers cramped. She didn't stop.

"Florence, I need alcohol. Or thread. Anything," she called out.

No answer. No movement.

Because they were watching.

And she wasn't asking.

She was doing.

She could see it now. The pattern of the damage. Where the bleeding stemmed. Where it had already clotted. Her body started to respond, piece by piece, like it was learning on the fly.

She knew how to save him.

She didn't know how. She just did.

A pulse ran through her chip. Not pain. Not heat.

[SKILL CREATED: MERCY'S CRY]

The notification slid across everyone's vision. No one spoke.

But Wren didn't even see it.

She was too busy saving him.

And crying the entire time.

Florence was the first to move.

Warren hadn't moved. Not since the moment Wren dropped to the floor. He stood where he'd been standing during the fight, truncheon loose in his grip, blood drying along the edge of his sleeve. His eyes were locked on her,not just her hands or the blood or the tiny, broken shape in her lap. Her. All of her.

It wasn't the blood that froze him. Or the fear. It was the sight of someone fighting just as hard to save something as he would have. No strategy. No hesitation. Just raw, unrelenting intent.

He watched her hold Bastard together with nothing but cloth, pressure, and sheer will. Watched her take a death sentence and fight it like it had dared insult her. It reminded him of a kind of violence. Not the kind you use to hurt. The kind you use to hold on.

And when it worked,when Bastard breathed, when his tail twitched, when Wren broke into sobs and refused to let go,Warren exhaled.

He hadn't known he'd been holding his breath.

He stepped forward only when he was sure Bastard wasn't going to die. And even then, he didn't get too close. Not yet. Just stood a little closer. Watched. Let himself feel something behind the silence.

He didn't cry. He didn't speak.

But when Wren finally looked up at him, he nodded once. Small. Sharp.

And she knew exactly what it meant.

She stepped forward slowly, eyes wide, mouth trembling in a way that looked more like laughter than grief. When she reached them, she dropped to one knee, stared at Bastard, then at Wren, then at the blood-stained cloths and trembling hands that had kept him alive.

She laughed. It wasn't loud. It was quiet and broken and beautiful. She laughed and covered her mouth and cried into her fingers.

Wren didn't say anything.

She was still crouched beside Bastard, her hands cradling him, her body shaking with quiet relief. He wasn't out of danger, not entirely, but his breathing was no longer shallow. It was steady.

He was going to live.

Car stepped forward next.

He didn't say anything either, just crouched nearby, blinking slowly, eyes red from smoke and dust and something else. He watched Bastard lift his head just enough to nuzzle against Wren's palm.

The cat tried to stand. Failed.

Then turned, very slowly, and dragged himself three steps forward.

Toward Car.

The big man froze.

Bastard climbed onto him. Not with force. Not even with strength. Just a little crawl, a shake, a stagger.

Car didn't move until the cat settled against his chest. Then he wrapped both arms around him and sat there. Still. Silent.

And started crying.

Not loud. Not desperate. Just tears, hot and constant, dripping into Bastard's fur.

Florence turned her face away. Wren didn't. She watched it all and cried with them.

Grix approached next. She didn't kneel. She flopped down beside them like someone who'd finished a marathon.

"Well damn," she muttered. "That's one stubborn little freak."

She didn't say it with disrespect. She said it with awe.

She reached out, scratched gently behind Bastard's ear, and winced when he flinched.

"Sorry," she whispered. "You just earned ten lifetimes, you know that?"

She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and laughed under her breath.

"I swear, if he dies now, I'm dragging his ass back just to kill him myself."

Wren chuckled through her tears.

Florence looked at her. "You did that."

"I didn't," Wren whispered.

Florence touched her shoulder. "Yes. You did."

The silence held.

Then the System chimed again.

[Skill Notification: Mercy's Cry Unique Skill Created.]

Wren blinked. Looked up. "Wait,what?"

Car sniffled, gently rubbing Bastard's back. "You got a Skill."

"I didn't do anything."

"You rewrote a death sentence," Florence said.

"I just…" she hesitated. "He needed help."

"And you helped," Car said. "The System saw it. We all did."

Grix leaned her head toward Wren. "Gotta say, not bad for a field job. Hell, wasn't even your first surgery, huh?" She grinned. "Still, remind me not to piss you off. Or maybe do. I wouldn't mind you patching me up if I get too cocky."

Wren flushed. "I'm not a surgeon."

"You are now," Florence said.

The System chimed again, quieter this time, but clear in her vision.

[Level Up: 5] [Class Assigned: Surgeon]

Wren stared at the glowing text. "Wait, what?"

Florence smiled gently. "You created your Skill at level zero. The System had to level you up just to let you hold it."

Wren looked down at Bastard again.

He was curled in Car's lap, eyes half-shut. Breathing.

Alive.

"Why would the System share it with you?" she asked.

Car smiled, tired and honest. "Even a demigod needs a herald."

Warren's brow furrowed. "What does that mean?"

Florence laughed again. "Ignore him. He just likes the sound of his own metaphors."

Grix stretched, joints popping. "Still," she said, "it's not wrong."

She looked at Wren. "You know what this means, right?"

Wren looked between them. "No. I really don't."

"It means you're one of us," Florence said.

Car nodded. "More than that. You saved one of us."

"I just,"

"You chose," Florence cut in. "You didn't run. You didn't freeze. You chose to save him. And the System saw you."

Wren blinked hard.

Bastard let out a low, soft sound. His paw shifted slightly, and his head nudged against Car's chest again.

Car laughed through another tear. "You dumb little monster," he whispered. "You're too small for the world, but you keep making space for yourself anyway."

Grix leaned closer. "If anyone ever touches him again," she said, "I will skin them. Literally. Not as a threat. Just a fact."

"Fair," Car said.

Florence nodded. "Absolutely fair."

Wren reached over and touched Bastard's ear. He didn't flinch this time.

He just looked at her. Quiet. Tired.

But alive.

The room froze.

It started with a sound. That sharp, synthetic tone the System only used when it had something catastrophic to say.

ZONE-WIDE ALERT ABERRANT DETECTED BOUNTY INITIATED

Warren's vision narrowed.

He wasn't reading the words. He was feeling them. They dropped into his skull like weights tied to a slow fuse. His breath caught and didn't come back. His grip tightened around the truncheon still at his hip. Every line on that message burned.

10,000,000 Credits Green Zone Citizenship for Claimant and Family All Past Actions Forgiven

He didn't blink.

The weight of it wasn't in the credits. It wasn't even in the promise of clemency or a better life. It was in the way the System said Aberrant. Not just deviant. Not dangerous. Something else.

Something that didn't belong.

The word crawled under his skin like acid. It saw him. Not what he did. What he was.

He turned, slow. Looked at the others. Not a word passed between them.

Car's jaw was clenched. Grix's eyes had narrowed. Florence hadn't moved at all. Wren's hand was still on Bastard, but her eyes were on him now, searching for something.

No one spoke.

The silence stretched.

And stretched.

Warren might have imagined it: a flicker in one of their expressions. A shift in weight. A hand moving just a little too close to a weapon.

He thought about how fast he could react. How many he could drop before they overwhelmed him. Not because he wanted to fight. But because part of him already expected to.

They had seen what he was capable of.

Now they knew what he was.

The bounty didn't just paint a target. It declared him a monster. Publicly. Irrevocably.

He could feel it crawling through the air. That temptation. Ten million credits,not that he understood what a credit was worth. Citizenship. A second chance at a real life. For any of them.

He didn't look at Wren.

Because if she was considering it, he wouldn't want to know.

The silence became unbearable.

Then Car exhaled. Shook his head. And let out a whistle.

"Hot damn," he said. "That's a lot of creds."

The tension snapped.

Wren stood up. Walked directly to Warren. Took his hand.

"I'm not letting you go," she said.

Florence smiled, tired and sincere. "I knew you were something special. I just didn't know how special."

Warren's voice was quiet. "You're not going to take the bounty?"

Grix raised her brows. "I might. That's a ticket to the good life."

Both Car and Florence slapped her in unison.

Grix winced. "I was kidding."

Florence said, "You walked through hell for her."

"I'd do it again," Warren said.

Car nodded. "We know. That's why we're with you."

Grix grinned. "Also, Mara's ghost would come back and kill us all if we turned in her kid to the corps."

The aftermath wasn't quiet. It was work.

Bodies had to be moved. Gear stripped. Weapons checked. IDs burned. There were nearly a hundred mercs to account for. Some of them were little more than smears along the floor, others had to be pulled in chunks from walls. And the five things that looked like Broken but weren't,those took longer.

They were tall. Ragged. Armor-plated with irregular paneling like someone had bolted scrap metal directly to their bones. Their mouths were sewn shut. Their eyes blindfolded with black tape melted into the skin. And even though they were dead, no one wanted to be the one to get too close first.

Florence kept watching them with something close to dread. "These aren't System-born. Someone did this."

No one argued.

Outside, the front wall was just gone. Not damaged. Gone. Blown outward like the breath of a giant. Rubble was scattered across the yard, concrete chunks buried in the dirt like fallen teeth. Whatever had breached the house had done it with more force than the structure should've been able to absorb.

The air still smelled like ash and hot metal.

Grix yawned mid-crawl across the living room floor, eyes half-lidded. "I'm officially off duty. Car, you're up. Go to the Bazaar. Find the guards. They should be done cleaning up the fire Lucas started."

Car grunted. "You sure? You look very capable of ordering people around."

"Nope," Grix said. "You're the boss, I'm taking a nap right here next to this corpse. It's still warm."

Car looked to Warren and shook his head. "She's actually serious."

Then he knelt down, reached into the folds of his jacket, and pulled out Bastard. Carefully. Like the little monster was made of glass.

He handed the cat to Warren. "He's yours."

Warren took him. Quiet. Held Bastard against his chest, one hand curved gently along his back. The cat didn't move much, but his breathing was solid. Steady.

Styll popped up a second later, launched herself into Warren's lap, and curled up immediately next to Bastard.

Then the other three cats followed. One by one. Climbing. Curling.

Even the chonky one, the fat ghost from the pharmacy that no one had seen in days,appeared like a mirage, yawned, and flopped across Warren's boots.

He stared at them. All of them.

"This is too many cats," he muttered, frozen.

No one responded.

Florence was already halfway through the wreckage, whistling low.

Car slung his Betty over his shoulder and walked toward the outer yard like it wasn't his problem.

Grix snored audibly, already asleep next to an actual corpse.

Wren passed by, patted him on the head like it might help.

Warren just sat there, arms full of chaos.

And no one listened to his cries for help.