Yellow Jacket

Wren turned. The figure behind her stepped into the corridor, not fast, not loud. Just there.

But it wasn't a man.

It was Calra.

Wren froze. Rain clung to her hair, her coat, her breath. She hadn't seen Calra in weeks. Months. Not since the day she'd vanished with Lucas's second wave. Not since the ambush.

Calra lifted her hands, palms out. "Zoldy, they're coming. We need to run."

Wren didn't move. "Cal, what... what are you doing here?" Her voice was sharp, held low. A knife's edge of confusion and suspicion. "You were with him."

"I know." Calra took one step closer. "And I'm sorry. But we don't have time for that now. They're setting a trap. For you. I didn't know you'd be here. We have to go."

Wren's grip tightened on Stick. Her weight shifted, barely perceptible. She didn't trust easily. Not anymore. "Why should I believe you, Cal?"

Calra's face cracked, a small expression that looked like pain. "Because we're sisters. Not by blood, but by every other damn thing that matters. And I'm trying to fix what I broke. I'm just, late. I'm so sorry... I didn't know. "

That hesitation almost cost them. A shout echoed two blocks down. Boots sloshing in the water. Wren made her choice.

"Fine. But if you're lying,"

"I promise I'm not."

She reached down without hesitation, grabbed a silver knife from her belt, and dragged it across her palm. The cut wasn't deep, but it bled instantly. Calra held the bleeding hand out palm toward Wren.

Wren stared at her, rain dripping down her face, her grip still tight on Stick. Then, slowly, she nodded.

They ran.

Calra moved with purpose, guiding them through back alleys, ducking under leaning walls and shifting rubble piles. She pointed as they ran. "Two-man patrol, northeast side. We cut around the waste tanks and climb the old drain chute."

They passed an old vending hub, now a shattered ruin, only to duck behind it as flashlights swept across the adjoining lot. Voices followed. Laughter. Then silence.

"Another squad," Calra muttered. "Four of them. Looping. We move when they turn."

They pressed tight into a shadowed recess. The patrol passed ten feet from them, one of the guards dragging a broken sign across the ground. Wren held her breath. One wrong blink, and it was over.

The noise faded. Calra tugged her sleeve. They moved again.

"Down here," she said, pointing to a split in the floor, barely wide enough to crawl through. "Old delivery route."

They squeezed through, emerging behind a derelict loading dock. More voices. Another two guards at the far end, talking too loudly, distracted by a flickering screen.

"We can't fight that many, Cal," Wren whispered.

"We won't," Calra replied. "We wait."

A distant sound, a shriek or a collapsing beam, pulled the guards' attention. They moved to investigate.

"Now."

They ran low across the open space, boots splashing through pooled rain. Wren almost slipped but caught herself. Calra caught a shard of metal and used it to lever open a maintenance grate. They vanished inside.

"And the entrance?" Wren asked, breath ragged.

"One guard. We take him out, we're clear. But he's good. Better than the rest."

They moved fast. The rain helped. Masked their sound, muffled their steps. Wren's heart pounded, not from fear, but from the weight of choices. Of who to trust. Of what this all meant.

They neared the checkpoint. A single figure stood near a collapsed archway, armored in standard green, pulse-lance slung low. He looked bored. That wouldn't save him.

Calra pointed to a ledge. "You go up. I'll draw him."

Wren nodded. Climbed. Waited.

Calra stepped into view, quiet but not hidden. Just enough to catch his eye.

He turned.

That's all Wren needed.

She dropped from above, Stick in both hands. One clean arc. The sound was soft, a thud, a crack, a slump.

He never saw her coming.

She landed hard, rolled through the mud, then rose and looked back at Calra. "Let's move."

They ran until the checkpoint was far behind, the guard's body already vanishing beneath the rain.

Calra led them through a broken archway and down into a narrow corridor choked with debris. They didn't stop until they were three turns deep and crouched behind the rusted frame of an old emergency stairwell.

Wren caught her breath, braced a hand on her knee. Her voice was low but urgent. "We need to find Warren and Grix. Let them know what's going on."

Calra shook her head immediately. "We can't. Zoldy, we have to keep moving."

"We said we'd meet..."

"They're probably already caught in the trap," Calra cut in, her tone sharp but not cruel. "I saw the squads move. It wasn't just a patrol sweep. Lucas set it up. Bait, routes, fallback lines. He knew someone would come looking."

Wren straightened. "Then we definitely have to warn them."

"And do what?" Calra asked, voice rising. "Charge in blind? Lead more of them to us?"

"We're not just going to leave them."

"We're not leaving them," Calra said, firmer now. "You trusting them don't you. Do you really think that monster wont survive? after everything I have seen I don't think anything in this world could stop him."

Wren's mouth opened, then shut. Her knuckles were white on the haft of Stick. "I don't like it. It feels like,"

"Like survival," Calra interrupted. "Zoldy, you don't know what he has. I've seen it. Those things in the crates? Prototypes. those were fucking civvies. They moved on to real Broken. Modified them. Did shit to them I can't explain for the life of me. They're way worse than anything you fought when we hit your team at that house. I know what that monster is capable of. If we go back now, we're not saving anyone, we're just walking into his net."

How did Lucas even get his hands on those things?"

Calra's eyes narrowed. "A gift from Gregor. But I think it was more like insurance."

Wren frowned. "Why would he need insurance like that?"

"I'm not sure," Calra said, voice dropping. "But one night, when Lucas was passed out, I slipped into his quarters. I found a letter with Gregor's seal. It said he had a team searching for something. And if they didn't make contact, Lucas was to hold the Yellow until Gregor could come and search for it himself."

Wren's grip tightened. "You think it's tied to the map?"

"I do," Calra said. "I think that's exactly what it's about."

Wren turned away, ran a hand through her wet hair. The rain felt colder suddenly. Every instinct screamed to turn around. To fight her way back. To do something.

But she wasn't alone.

Calra stepped beside her, voice gentler now. "We find somewhere to hide. Just for a while. Long enough to regroup. Then we move. Together."

Wren looked back once. Toward the path they'd come from. Then nodded. Once.

"Alright. But this isn't running."

"No," Calra said. "It's repositioning."

They slipped deeper into the ruins, away from the rendezvous point. Rain closed behind them, soft as breath.

They thought they made it.

The alleys behind them were empty. The rain had thinned. The city's silence returned. Wren and Calra slowed, breathing hard, slipping between the half-collapsed ruins of a structure that might've once been a storefront.

And then the sound of footsteps.

Not one. Several. From around the corner.

Figures emerged. Women. Not in armor, at least not uniformed. They moved like they didn't need it. Fast. Confident. Controlled. A kind of terrible calm.

Calra froze. Fear flickered in her eyes. Not confusion. Recognition.

Wren's grip tightened on Stick. She stepped slightly in front of Calra, shoulders angled, ready to strike.

Then, a voice from above.

"Forget it, girls."

Lucas stood on a rooftop overhead, one hand in his coat pocket, the other resting lightly on the railing. His smile was effortless, cruel. Like this was a show he'd been watching unfold exactly to script.

"There's nowhere you can run," he said.

Two figures flanked him.

Not human.

Broken.

The one on his left was massive, pure muscle packed into a humanoid frame, every step it took eerily smooth. It moved like a man, not a broken. Silent. Controlled. But electricity crackled along its skin in faint, rhythmic pulses, dancing over its flesh like warning signs. There was no groan of hydraulics. No wheeze of pressure. Only the low buzz of charged air as it stared down with inhuman calm.. Each breath came with a faint hum, like a failing engine refusing to die.

The other was smaller, but not small. It shimmered at the edges, like the world couldn't decide where it was. Looking at it made Wren's head hurt, like static in the mind.

Calra's face went pale. Paler than Wren had ever seen.

Like she'd seen death before, but this was its final form.

She turned to Wren. "Zoldy, I...."

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Wren didn't let her finish.

"It's okay, Cal."

She leaned in. Whispered something just for her.

Calra blinked. Confused. But then nodded, slowly.

Lucas leaned forward, his smile widening.

"Deana," he called, eyes never leaving them, "take them. Clean them up. They'll be my guests tonight."

Deana, the woman in front, gave the smallest of nods. No hesitation. No sympathy.

Lucas spoke again, now directly to Calra. His voice didn't rise, but it filled the space. Calm. Grand. Like a sermon built from poison.

"My dear Calra. You stood beside me. You knew the weight we carried. You knew what we were building. And Gregor, that soft-eyed prophet, he believed in you. He thought you'd carry the flame."

Lucas stepped closer to the ledge, his coat shifting in the wind. His eyes burned with a noble, terrible light.

"But I am not Gregor. I do not traffic in belief. I deal in outcomes. In proof. Hope is a myth, peddled by those too frightened to open the door and face what crawls behind it. I opened that door. I welcomed it. I built something from it."

He lifted one hand, gesturing to the two Broken flanking him.

"These aren't monsters. They are the future. Stripped of illusion. Made honest by pain. These were not built for war, they were born in its aftermath. One sparked by steel. The other tuned to vanish between realities. What you see beside me, ladies, are truths too strong to lie."

He fixed his eyes on her.

"And you, you were meant to deliver that truth. But instead, you ran."

He paused, smile sharpening like glass.

"Still, mercy remains. Deana, take them. Let them be cleaned. Let them rest. Tonight, they dine as my guests."

His gaze swept back to Calra.

"You disappoint me. Gregor's faith was touching. But mine was never in people. It was in certainty. And you've shown me the certainty of betrayal."

Finally, his attention turned to Wren.

"You know Warren is coming for you."

Wren smiled.

Lucas smiled back, calm, cruel, and sure.

"I'm counting on it, my dear."

They arrived at the fortress just before dark.

It wasn't a fortress by design. It had once been a prison. You could still see the bones of it, concrete towers capped in rust, spotlight mounts converted into shoddy sensor rigs, old floodlights wrapped in barbed wire. Lucas hadn't rebuilt it. He'd repurposed it. Turned a cage into a kingdom.

The front gates were massive, welded from scavenged highway barriers and scarred transport shutters. They opened slowly, revealing ranks of mercs and warlord troops. But it was the ones waiting inside who made Wren's blood chill.

Women. Dozens of them. Dressed in gauze and steel. Faces painted. Weapons dangling from hips that swayed too confidently for slaves. They were Lucas's harem, but there was no submission in them. Only cruelty.

Wren and Calra were dragged in, no ceremony, just force. Stripped of weapons. Then clothes. Then dignity. Every layer gone under the pretense of processing. The guards, women all, watched, smirking, laughing, tossing cruel jabs like coins.

"Thought the Yellow Jacket's girl would be taller."

"She's going to break easy."

"That one was all high and might when she first walked in here. Now look at her cry. Pathetic."

Calra didn't make a sound, but her body shook. Her eyes leaked silent, constant grief. Wren didn't cry. Didn't blink. Just watched.

They were herded through narrow halls stinking of oil and perfume. One woman in heels scraped her nails down Wren's back and whispered, "You're going to remember your first time with him. That's the only one that matters."

Another blew a kiss to Calra and said, "He'll split you open before you know what's happening. I promise you will enjoy every single moment of it."

The laughter rolled like a wave behind them.

They were taken through a room with mirrors on all sides. Lit like a showroom. The walls were lined with hooks. Makeup kits. Racks of ornamental restraints. One of the women shoved Wren against the vanity.

"Look at you," she said. "Not even scared yet. That's cute."

They poured perfume on them. Scrubbed dirt from skin with rough cloths, bruising in the process. Redressed them in silk and chain, barely covering anything. Paraded.

One woman whispered to another, "It's always better when they still have hope. The break's more satisfying."

"I want the quiet one," said a tall woman with razor-line tattoos across her neck. "I like the ones who still pray."

"She's already praying," someone replied, nodding at Calra. "You can see it in her mouth. She just hasn't realized no one's listening."

Deana approached like a queen in a parade. Her armor was ceremonial, half-useless, polished to gleam against the wet floodlight. Her face was a mask of predatory charm.

She circled them. "Pretty things. Shame you came this far just to end up like this."

Wren's voice was steady. "When he comes… I'll remember your face. Every last detail. As you die screaming."

Deana slapped her so hard Wren's head snapped sideways. Blood touched her lip.

"No one is coming for you, filth." Deana spat, close now, inches from Wren's face. "Lucas has already won. You just don't know it. But you will. You will beg. And when you do, I want you to remember this night."

She turned to the others watching. Her voice rose, theatrical now. "These two, these treasures, will serve him tonight. And if they learn well, maybe they'll last more than a day."

Calra made a sound then. A small, broken thing. She curled slightly, like her body was folding in on itself.

Deana crouched to meet her eye.

"Do your best to please him," she sneered. "Because once he's done using your mouth, your cunt, your tears, he'll toss you to the rest. They'll fuck the fight out of you until you bleed dry. And if you're lucky, you'll scream enough to keep them entertained."

She grinned, cruel and vulgar. "Maybe I'll be there, watching when your hair gets torn out in clumps. When hit you so hard your teeth start cracking. When your voice gives out and you start begging without sound. That's when it gets beautiful. That's when you finally know you're nothing but a hole to be used."

She looked up at the other women. "This one's gonna scream early. The other, she'll hold out. But not for long."

More voices joined in now.

"You think you're better than us?" one hissed at Calra. "We chose this. We survive this. You're just fresh meat with a sob story."

"You're going to wish you'd died on the street," another said, flicking a broken fingernail across Wren's cheek.

Someone grabbed Calra's hair. Not hard, yet. Just enough to make her flinch. "How long until she begs for me to kill her?" the woman asked with a tilt of her head.

"I give her an hour," came the answer. "Two, if she bites."

A different woman leaned close to Wren and whispered, "You'll be tasting blood and regret before morning."

One smeared bright red across Wren's lips with a shaking hand. "He likes it to look like love," she said.

They pressed close, breathing over them like predators, savoring the moment. Calra began to tremble again. Her knees buckled. Someone laughed and shoved her back up.

"None of that. He doesn't like them limp."

The door opened behind them. The air changed.

Someone wheeled in a tray. Bottles, restraints, rags, rope.

The women clapped.

"It's starting."

Another door creaked

A woman stepped in, older than the others, her face lined with cracks hidden beneath powdered makeup. Her eyes were glassy. Gone.

"She used to be like us," one muttered, smirking. "Now she trains the ones who forget how to smile."

The older woman didn't speak. She just looked at Wren. Then Calra. And then the tray.

She picked up a collar. Leather and metal. Buckled it in her hands once, tight. Measured.

"Which one first?" someone asked.

Deana looked at Wren.

"That one."

The older woman moved forward.

Wren didn't look at Calra. She didn't look at Deana. She looked at the ceiling, at the dark beams and the cameras and the hooks. She memorized every face in the room.

And she smiled.

It wasn't defiance. Not really. It was memory.

It was the beginning of a list.

And one day, every one of them would pay.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the monsters feasted.

And Wren watched. Not because she was broken. But because she refused to blink.

The door closed behind them. The hall fell silent.

Somewhere deep in the belly of the fortress, Lucas waited.

And the nightmare began.

But nightmares were nothing new.

Wren didn't scream. She didn't sob. She didn't flinch.

The collar clicked into place. The metal was cold, but she didn't shudder. The older woman looked for the reaction, a flinch, a breath, a twitch, there was none.

Someone leaned close and whispered, "Poor thing's still in shock."

But Wren wasn't in shock.

She'd just seen worse.

Gregor Halik had done worse. The warlord had torn her voice out once already. The pain had been sharper, colder, more precise. These women didn't know cruelty. They wore it like jewelry. They flirted with it. But Wren had lived inside it. Slept beside it.

This was just another room.

She moved when they told her to. Not stiffly. Not compliant. Just... efficient. And quiet. Too quiet.

Deana's smirk began to fade.

"You're not afraid?" she asked, voice casual, but eyes narrowing.

Wren said nothing.

Deana crouched in front of her. "You know what happens next, don't you?"

Wren looked her in the eyes.

"I've already survived it."

Deana blinked.

One of the others laughed, too loud. "She's bluffing."

But the room had shifted.

Calra had curled in the corner, arms wrapped around herself. Her shoulders trembled. Her nails dug into her own skin. But she looked at Wren now, not with pity, not with fear. With something closer to awe.

Wren stood like she'd done this before. Like she was somewhere else already. Not detached. Just prepared.

"You think he's still coming for you?" Deana whispered. "You think he's still alive?"

Wren finally nodded. "He's already inside the walls."

A few of the women shifted, glancing toward the door. One rolled her eyes, but the moment cracked.

The older woman tightened the collar and stepped back.

"She's waiting," she said, her voice hoarse.

Deana didn't speak right away.

Wren smiled again.

"Go ahead," she said softly. "Do your worst. Just know I'll remember it. Every breath. Every bruise. And when it's your turn,"

She leaned forward, voice dropping to something so calm it made the room colder.

"I won't blink then either."

The air went still.

Then Wren laughed.

It wasn't mocking. It wasn't loud. But it cut through the silence like a blade dipped in ice.

She looked at Deana, at all of them, and shook her head slowly. "You think this is cruelty?"

Her smile deepened, sharpened. "You don't understand cruelty. You dress it up in silk and pretend it makes you strong. But you've never seen real monsters. You've never begged with a broken jaw. You've never watched someone you loved become less than a name."

She took a step forward. They let her. None of them moved.

"Warren is coming," Wren said, her voice a razor wrapped in calm. "And if you think anything you do here will stop him, you're already dead. You just don't know it yet."

Someone made a sound, a protest, but no words followed.

"I won't fight this," Wren said, louder now. "I don't need to. I'll give myself to him. Fully. Freely."

She looked directly at Deana.

"It will be the last kindness he ever receives."

The room held its breath.

"And after?" Wren's voice dropped again. "I will make sure he understands that agony is not just a word. It will become a way of life. For every moment he has left."

Deana opened her mouth. Then closed it.

Someone behind her whispered, "She's not bluffing."

Another muttered, "She's smiling too easy."

Calra, still curled on the floor, stared like she was seeing Wren for the first time.

"She's not breaking," someone said. "She's not even bending."

A silence began to stretch too long.

The room that once echoed with laughter now pulsed with unease.

"Should we....?" someone asked, but no one finished the question.

Wren looked around at them. Her voice, when she spoke again, was calm. Honest.

"You think you're wolves because you feed on the weak. You think pain makes you powerful. But you've never met a storm that learned to stand still. I'm not fighting because I've already won."

And somehow, they believed her.

The air went still.

And somewhere down in the depths of the fortress, a tremor ran through the halls.

Not fear.

But the first hint of something worse.

Doubt.

Lucas stood in front of the mirror, hands clasped behind his back. The reflection stared back, poised and perfect. But the sneer in his lip betrayed something deeper.

"That boy," he muttered, his fingers tightening. "That gutterborn mongrel."

He adjusted his collar, fingers trembling just slightly.

"Warren. Filthy name. Filthy posture. Filthy blood. I gave him a way out. I gave him a seat at my table. And he spat on it. Thought he could just glare and growl his way through this world like an animal. Thought he could walk into my city and walk out without paying his toll."

His hand lashed out, striking a silver tray from the counter. It clanged across the floor.

"He should have died choking on his own tongue. Should've died grateful. But no. No, he gets to wear that coat. That smile. Like he's something better."

He stared at the mirror again, breathing slower, but deeper.

"I wish Reggie were still here," he said, voice dipping softer, almost fond. "He would've made art out of that pair. Azolde especially. He had a gift, that one. There was such grace in his cruelty. And that smile, gods..."

He smiled faintly at the memory. "The way his eyes lit up when they finally broke. When they understood what they were. He didn't just hurt people. He rewrote them."

Then his tone dropped again, sour and bitter. "That brute ruined it. That thing, snapped him in half like he was nothing. Like a wild animal. Took him from me."

Lucas turned to his guard, jaw clenched.

"He would've known what to do with Warren. With her. He would've made them sing."

"How dare he speak to me like that? How dare he not understand his place?" Lucas's tone twisted, not loud but venomous. "He was supposed to pay for my time, my effort, and die like the dog he is. But no, he had to make a scene. He had to posture. Pretend."

He stepped toward the door of the chamber, then turned to his personal guard, who stood at attention in polished armor, silent as the walls.

"How do I look?"

The guard didn't hesitate. "Very handsome, sir. Distinguished."

Lucas nodded. "Perfect. I will be entertaining my guests in private. Have them send up the Azolde girl first. I must have her."

He adjusted his cuff, admiring the lace. "Make sure I'm not disturbed. If you must,use the beasts. He might still be out there. And if he is..."

Lucas paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Give him my warmest regards."

He left without another word.

But as he walked, his tone sharpened again, muttering under his breath.

"After we're done with this little mess with the Green, we'll go take back my Bazaar from that bastard Car. Who does he think he can kick my men out like they don't belong? Like my name didn't build that tiny trading post into something worth holding."

He turned a corner, still speaking aloud to no one, his voice rising with each sentence.

"Put his lance in my face. Me. Like the people wouldn't tear that place apart in my honor if I gave the word. They act like that fire wasn't going to happen anyway. Like it wasn't already burning before I gave it the little nudge it needed."

He laughed, bitter and cold. "So what if it was now or later? Those guards were incompetent. All I did was show the cracks. We could've worked together. We could've made the Yellow something better, stronger. Prosperous. Unified."

His footsteps slowed as he reached the chamber door.

"But no," he said, bitterly. "They spit in my face. And even when we had the upper hand, they used some dirty little trick to drag the Green in."

The guard waited until the door had fully shut.

Then he exhaled.

The corridor seemed colder now. He motioned to a second in command, voice low but firm.

"Triple the interior rotation. Check the tunnels again. I want four eyes on every stairwell."

"Sir?" the second asked. "You think he's actually....?"

The guard shook his head. "Doesn't matter what I think. We plan for if he is."

He reached for his comm and activated the alert band.

"Release the smaller one," he added after a pause. "Let it patrol the outer sections. If he's moving, that thing will smell him before our men do."

The second in command swallowed hard. "Understood, sir. I'll see to it personally."

"All units. Level five patrol. Authorize deployment of creatures. If the Yellow Jacket's out there, we're going to make damn sure he doesn't get in without bleeding."