Warren motioned once, a flick of two fingers toward the ladder bolted beneath the catwalk's edge. Wren nodded. Stick in her right hand. Body low. Focused.
Below them, the vault chamber sprawled wide. Industrial support pillars framed the room like the ribs of a long-dead beast. A half-collapsed scaffolding lined the southern arc, casting fractured shadows over the broken stone floor. In the center stood the Vault: massive, seamless, wrong. The kind of structure that swallowed meaning the longer you looked at it. All alloy and silence. No lights. No access point. Just presence.
They were above it, high on a crosswalk of bolted grating that cut across the northern third of the chamber. The space was cavernous. Half-forgotten. Vents groaned with distant pressure. Pipes along the walls ran with condensation and hum. But the sound that carried clearest wasn't mechanical.
It was rhythmic.
Warren paused. Listened.
Below, in a shallow alcove tucked against the left flank of the Vault's base, lay two bodies. Moving. Intertwined. One kneeling. One braced forward. Breathing sharp. Pulse loud. The cadence was unmistakable. Flesh against flesh. Flesh against stone. Low moans, half-choked, murmured names. Not alert. Not even vaguely aware.
Wren gave him a look. Not disgust at the act, but at the lack of survival instinct. They weren't just careless. They were liabilities to their own mission. And now they'd be useful to someone else's.
He nodded once.
The rhythm increased. So did the volume. Bodies shifted. A boot fell from a makeshift pile of discarded rags.
They moved.
Warren went first. Each rung of the ladder met his weight in silence. He landed low. Not a sound.
Wren followed. Styll remained above, her eyes fixed, tail flicking once.
The space around the pair was a mess of carelessness. Armor half-folded near a crate. Pouches strewn open. Two hand lances set down nearby, one resting lazily against a thermal pack, the other dropped on its side beside a canteen. No discipline.
Wren reached them first. She scooped both lances and slid them to Warren with a flick. Then bent low and gathered the zipties from a discarded rig harness. Her movements were fluid. Tension rippling beneath precision.
The sound below had shifted again. Faster now. Near climax.
Warren stepped forward. Silent. Clean.
Valk never saw him. Never sensed it.
The cold mouth of the hand lance pressed against the back of his skull as his breath caught, body tensing for reasons that had nothing to do with fear. Until it did.
He froze.
The woman, Rusk, froze a heartbeat later. Her eyes went wide as she inhaled to scream.
"Shut up or I make you shut up," Wren said, her voice flat, the lance pointed at her face.
The scream died stillborn.
Rusk's body trembled, then curled inward. Her hands slowly moved toward the discarded fabric nearby.
"No," Wren said. "You don't FUCKING move a muscle."
She stepped forward. Zipties cinched tight. Ankles bound to wrists. Fast. Brutal. Clean.
Warren had already done the same. Valk's hands and legs bent behind him, locked down with practiced speed.
No sound or resistance. Just two operatives, stripped of their illusion of control. Naked in every way that mattered.
The Vault loomed behind them. Silent. Uninterested.
But the mistake had already been made.
They hadn't been alert.
And now, they were exactly what Warren and Wren needed them to be.
Controlled.
They woke bound, wrists to ankles, backs pressed to the cold wall under dim, flickering light. Warren crouched in front of Valk, truncheon resting against his knee.
"Names," Warren said flatly.
Valk sneered, then flinched as Warren raised the truncheon an inch.
"Valk Renn," he muttered.
Wren looked down at Rusk. "You too."
"Rusk Fen," she said, voice tight.
"Look, we're not even the ones you want," Valk said quickly, tone shifting. "We were just sent to scout ahead. Prep the entry. We're not here to fight."
"You kill us, you're making enemies you don't want," Rusk added, her voice shaky but trying to sound firm.
Warren stared flatly at them. "You're stalling."
Valk tried to smile, but it curled wrong. "No. We're just... trying to make sure you understand."
Warren tilted his head. "Your squad already figured you were fucking instead of doing your job. That was the last thing your comms reported before you dropped signal. They were right."
Valk's mouth opened, closed.
"You want to blame us?" Warren continued. "But this isn't about us. This is about your own incompetence. Your own complacency. You put yourself here."
Rusk began crying harder.
Warren searched Valk's belt pouches. Found a thin, coiled wire rigged with reinforced handles, a garrote. He held it up, inspected it. Quiet tool. Surgical. "I like this," he said, voice even.
Valk grunted. "That's mine. You going through our gear now? At least let us put some gods damned clothes on."
Warren didn't look at him. "That would be a waste."
He pocketed the garrote.
Rusk whimpered, voice cracking, already spiraling into ugly, hiccuping sobs. "You don't have to do this."
Wren stepped forward and without hesitation pressed the tip of the hand lance against Rusk's kneecap.
"Stop that," she said, voice low and sharp. "This could be over quick and painless: or we could add a lot of excruciating pain, the kind that people will have to invent new names for the screams you'll make."
Rusk went still. The tears didn't stop, but the sound did.
Wren checked Rusk's kit. Found compact demo tools: a signal wedge, a fiber-line cutter, a micro-bore charge. She raised a brow.
"You were planning to breach something. Or collapse it."
Rusk didn't answer.
"You won't get the Vault open," Valk said.
Warren leaned in. "Good. You can tell your friends that when they come back."
Valk went still.
Wren's eyes narrowed as she looked at their faces. Something tugged at her memory.
"I've seen you before," she said quietly.
Valk said nothing.
"Years ago. You were younger. You were with him. With the Warlord."
Rusk looked away.
Wren stepped back. "You were one of his High Guard."
Warren stood. He didn't need more. These two weren't going to talk. And they weren't the target.
The rest of the squad would return.
And when they did, Warren and Wren would be ready.
The corridor reeked of rot and condensation. The air was thick with tension and the wet stench of ancient metal. Four figures moved through the dark in tight formation. Their boots were silent but sure. They raised lances, sleek weapons humming with the promise of flechettes, razor-sharp darts that could shred flesh and steel alike. Their eyes were sharp, scanning every shadow.
They were the Warlord's Recovery Squad, a containment team, not brute-force enforcers. They were designed for lockdowns, not heroics. Their mission was not glory. It was denial.
Not to fight. To prevent.
To ensure no one reached the Vault unless the Warlord said so.
"Still no ping from Valk," said Dray. His bulk shifted as he scanned the flickering message band on his wrist. It was blank. There was no uplink, no pulse.
"Could be signal fog," muttered Neris. She adjusted the stabilizer rig on her back. "Could be he's off-task. Again."
Mira snorted. "He was always off-task. That's why we're cleaning up."
Thatch, at the rear, raised two fingers. They slowed.
The Vault chamber opened up before them, massive and echoing. Vapor clung to the floor like breath, thin and cold. Old scaffolds loomed like ribs. The Vault stood at the center. It was seamless, silent, watching.
At its base, two shapes sat folded and bound. Their knees were drawn. Their arms were tied behind. Their faces were obscured by hoods fashioned from torn cloth. There was no blood, no burns, no obvious wounds.
"Could be intruders," Mira said. She narrowed her eyes. "Maybe Valk and Rusk caught them."
"Would explain the silence," Dray muttered. "Valk probably showing off."
"That idiot," Neris said. "Hope he at least tagged them before tying them up."
"We verify, then sweep," Dray ordered. He stepped forward. "No assumptions. Eyes open."
They moved.
Thatch's grip tightened on his lance. The silence didn't feel like peace. It felt like being watched by something that had already decided to kill you.
Then Valk's comms pinged.
Static crackled. A voice followed, low, deliberate, unnaturally calm. It was not shouting, just loud enough to reach them, yet it felt too close.
"He's not coming back. Neither are you."
The voice was low. Measured. But it hit like prophecy.
Dray took half a step back without meaning to.
Mira's fingers trembled on her weapon. "That's not..."
Silence followed. It lasted just long enough for the chill to settle. The Vault's reflection glinted faintly in the low light.
Neris whispered, "That wasn't Valk's voice."
Then chaos erupted.
The lights did not flicker. They failed, hard. The emergency system buckled. Total dark swallowed them for half a second, just enough.
A shadow moved in the gloom, too fast. Thatch's body convulsed with a sickening crunch as a strike landed. Bone shattered. Blood sprayed in sudden, violent fountains. Vapor caught crimson in the low light. He went down thrashing. A scream half-formed, drowned in gore.
Something moved again, too fast, too silent. It wasn't a fight. It was a performance.
Neris saw nothing. But in the blur between impacts, she felt it: whoever was doing this wasn't just strong. They were enjoying this.
Dray triggered his lance. Flechettes firing blindly into the dark. Sparks flashed in the haze, metal on metal, metal on stone. Nothing hit.
Neris slipped. Her boot hit blood. She hit the ground hard. Her shoulder cracked on steel. A figure burst from the side corridor, fast, low, silent. A pipe slammed into her ribs, once, twice. The third blow struck her shoulder. She screamed, raw and loud. The sound echoed off the cold Vault.
Mira turned to run. She slipped on Dray's blood, hit a pipe, spun, dazed. A small predator leapt from the dark, a lithe animal form, vicious and sharp. Its fur was slick with menace. Claws raked her spine. Teeth sank into her ear. Flesh tore. She shrieked.
Another shadow moved like consequence, slow between strikes, a blur when pain landed. It stepped on Dray's hand as he reached for his knife.
"You made this choice the moment you followed orders," it rasped.
Fingers crushed, clean. A garrote slipped around Dray's throat. It tightened slowly, letting him feel breath become memory.
Thatch tried to crawl. A boot came down, fast, precise, to the spine. "You do not get to die with a weapon," a voice said. It kicked his lance into the mist. A pipe struck his mouth. Teeth scattered.
Neris lunged, blood down her chin. She screamed, a curse, a plea. A hand caught her hair. A pipe cracked her nose flat. She dropped.
Mira crawled, bleeding, blind in one eye, ear gone. The small predator leapt again. Its teeth sank into her shoulder. She screamed anew.
She thought she saw yellow. Not light, just color. Streaked across the mist like a wound in the dark.
It couldn't be real. But her body knew it was, and that was worse*.*
A figure approached, calm, deliberate. "You should blame your leader for this," it said. A pipe came down. Bone crunched. Silence fell.
The Vault watched, still and seamless.
The silence that followed was not the end. It was the prelude to a meticulous unmaking, a slow unraveling of the squad's last sparks of defiance.
The squad lay in a broken heap at the Vault's base. Their bodies were arranged in a grim tableau beside the bound forms of Valk and Rusk. Valk, their leader, sat slumped. His hood was loosened, revealing a face pale as ash. His eyes were open but vacant. A faint twitch in his jaw was the only sign he still clung to life. Rusk moaned softly. The sound was choked by the blood-soaked cloth over their mouth. The squad's defeat was absolute. Their training and resolve were shattered. Their tormentors' work was far from done.
A woman moved among the fallen. Her silhouette was sharp in the mist. A pipe dangled loosely in one hand. Her movements were precise, almost clinical. She knelt beside Thatch. His chest heaved with shallow, gurgling breaths. Blood pooled beneath his crushed spine. She pulled zip-ties from a pouch, binding his wrists to his ankles with a swift, practiced motion. The plastic bit deep into swollen flesh. A hood was forced over his head. The fabric reeked of sweat and decay, muffling his labored breathing. Thatch's fingers twitched, a fleeting attempt to resist. The weight of his failure was heavier than the ties. His mind churned. He replayed Valk's orders, the mission he had trusted, now a trap that had crushed them all. He tried to whisper a curse. He wasn't afraid of pain. He wasn't even afraid of death. He was afraid that whoever did this wasn't angry. They were calm. Like it was practice.
Only blood bubbled from his lips. Despair sank deeper than the pain.
The small predator skittered among the bodies. Its lithe, animal form was a blur of vicious intent. Its fur was slick with blood. Its eyes glinted like shards of glass. It tore at Dray's armor. Claws ripped straps. Teeth gnawed at buckles. Plates scattered into the dark with a clatter that echoed faintly. Dray's massive frame trembled. His crushed hand was a mangled ruin of blood and bone. His mouth was a jagged mess of broken teeth and torn lips. The woman with the pipe bound him. Zip-ties cut into his skin. She stuffed a gag into his mouth. The cloth was thick with the coppery tang of his own blood. Dray's eyes, clouded with pain, searched her shadowed face for something to fight, something to hate. He found only a cold focus. "You are not ghosts," he rasped. His voice was barely audible, a desperate bid to assert control. She tilted her head, almost curious, then drove a fist into his chest, silencing him. "Shut the hell up." she said. Her voice was a cold command. Dray's body shook, not from pain but from the crushing realization that his strength, his pride, was nothing here. He thought of the outpost, of comrades who would never know his fate. Despair was a weight that pinned him as surely as the ties.
The small predator moved to Neris. Its teeth grazed her skin, leaving shallow, stinging cuts that burned like fire. The woman bound her wrists and ankles with zip-ties. Her fingers were deft. She forced a hood over Neris's head. The fabric was suffocating, reeking of iron and fear. Neris kicked weakly, a final act of defiance. The predator lunged. Its weight pinned her leg. Its hiss was sharp and menacing, a sound that crawled into her bones. Neris's mind clawed at the last flames of hope, her training, her tools. Each thought crumbled under the reality of her pain. Her shoulder throbbed. Her ribs screamed with every breath. The blood on her face felt like a mask of defeat. She bit her lip, refusing to sob. Despair was a tide, pulling her under.
Mira was the last. Her body was curled on the cold floor. Her sobs were muffled by the hood already forced over her head. Her ear was a jagged wound. Blood and cartilage mingled with the dirt. Her shoulder oozed where the predator's teeth had torn deep. Her broken wrist lay limp. Her trembling frame barely held consciousness. The woman knelt beside her. She removed Mira's lance with unhurried care, inspecting it briefly before tossing it into the mist. She stripped Mira's armor. Her fingers were deft and precise. She bound Mira's wrists with zip-ties. The plastic bit deep. Mira's breath hitched. Her whimpers rose to a keening wail. The woman leaned close. Her breath was warm against the hood. "You should blame your leader for this," she said. Her voice was soft but venomous. "He brought you here. He left you to us." The words were poison. Mira's sobs broke into ragged gasps. Her body shook with betrayal. She thought of Valk's orders, his unshakable confidence, the trap that had swallowed them all. Her hope shattered. She whispered, "The Yellow Jacket." Her voice was a broken prayer, as if naming the legend could undo the nightmare.
There he was, like a ghost in the mist. His bright yellow raincoat caught the faint light, a specter born from the Red. The Yellow Jacket stood over Mira, not tall but commanding. His presence was a weight that pressed the air from the chamber. His silence was louder than her cries. He surveyed the scene. The squad was arranged in a neat row beside Valk and Rusk. Their bodies were bound with zip-ties, gagged, hooded. Their lances and gear were scattered into the dark. The woman with the pipe and the small predator stilled. Their eyes flicked to him, as if awaiting a command. Their roles in the ambush were now secondary to his dominion.
The Yellow Jacket moved with a conductor's grace. His methodical process was a chilling contrast to the chaos of the ambush. He checked each zip-tie, each gag. His hands lingered as if savoring the act. He adjusted Thatch's hood, ensuring it smothered his face. He tugged the zip-ties tighter, drawing a muffled groan. Thatch's breaths grew fainter. His body slumped as shock claimed him. His mind was trapped in a loop of guilt, Valk's orders, the mission he had followed, now a noose tighter than the garrote. The Yellow Jacket paused, tilting his head. He pressed a boot against Thatch's crushed spine, not to kill but to remind. The pressure elicited a choked whimper that faded into silence.
He moved to Neris. His fingers traced the zip-ties around her wrists and ankles, testing their bite. He tightened them until she gasped. Her muffled curse was lost in the hood. Neris clenched her fists. Her nails dug into her palms. She willed herself to memorize his voice, his rhythm, anything to carry into the dark. The futility of it crushed her. She thought of her sister, of promises unkept. Despair was a blade, sharper than the predator's claws. The Yellow Jacket leaned close. His breath was a whisper against the hood. "You are still alive," he said. His voice was a mockery of mercy. "That is more than you deserve." Neris's body shook. Her defiance crumbled. Her hope drowned in the weight of her pain.
Dray was next. His massive frame was a trembling heap. His crushed hand oozed. His mouth was a ruin. The Yellow Jacket stripped the last of his gear, a knife, spare flechettes. He tossed them into the mist with a flick of his wrist. He bound Dray's gag tighter. The cloth cut into his lips. He pressed a hand against Dray's chest, feeling the ragged heartbeat beneath. Dray's eyes, clouded with pain, locked onto the raincoat. They searched for meaning, for weakness, but found only a blank calm. The Yellow Jacket's voice was soft, almost gentle. This is you leader's fault" he said. He echoed the woman's earlier words. Dray's pride, his strength, lay shattered. He thought of the outpost, of comrades who would never know his end. Despair was a void, swallowing him whole.
The Yellow Jacket returned to Mira. He lifted her chin through the hood, forcing her to face him though she could not see. Her sobs were faint now. Her spirit was broken. Her mind replayed his name, the legend she had feared, now real and inescapable. He checked her zip-ties, tightening them until her wrists bled. He leaned close. His raincoat rustled softly. "You should have stayed away," he said. His voice was a final nail in her hope. Mira's body trembled. Her thoughts were a jumble of Valk's betrayal, her own failure, the Yellow Jacket's shadow, looming larger than the Vault itself.
The woman with the pipe and the small predator worked in tandem. Their roles were clear under the Yellow Jacket's silent command. The woman gathered the last of the gear. She tossed lances and knives into the mist, ensuring the weapons and gear were out of reach. The predator circled the bodies. Its claws clicked on the stone floor, checking for any spark of resistance. The squad was reduced to trophies. They were arranged before the Vault like offerings. Their lances were gone. Their hope was extinguished.
The Vault loomed, unopened. Its seamless surface reflected the carnage at its base. It was a silent witness to the Yellow Jacket's triumph. The silence that followed was heavy, a warning laced with the air of violence. It was not peace. It was the promise of something worse, a shadow cast by the squad's despair and the Yellow Jacket's methodical dominion.
Wren stood near the line of captives, her pipe dangling low, shoulders tense but eyes steady.
Instead, she checked for pulse, breath, signs of consciousness. Mira was still alive. Barely. The others were worse off. Bleeding in places. Breathing shallow. None strong enough to fight.
Warren moved through the gear with cold precision, stripping it methodically into his pack. Lances, knives, pouches, tools. He took everything. Nothing useful was left behind. No dramatics. No message. Just extraction.
"The big one's rig had a tracker," Wren said quietly.
Warren glanced over. "It's not pinging. Don't think anyone's looking. Yet."
Styll paced along the edge of the mist, tense. Alert. She stopped once to sniff the air near a collapsed duct, then circled back, silent.
"We kill them?" Wren asked. Not emotion. Not mercy. Just an option. "No gear. No traces. No questions."
Warren didn't answer immediately. He knelt beside Thatch, adjusting the hood. His fingers were slow, deliberate. He could feel the man's breath against his hand, ragged, shallow, desperate. Then he stood again and looked across the dark.
"Not yet."
Wren waited.
"We still don't know if this was the whole squad," Warren said. "Six total. Valk's team fits. But what if they're just the first layer?"
"You think there's more?"
Wren didn't blink. "I know there could be. He always kept backup in reserve, second squads to shadow the first, even if they didn't have full access. Just rough coordinates and vague direction. Enough to circle close. Not enough to reach the Vault unless they got insanely lucky. And they sabotaged every visible route. We had a map and we barely made it. They'd be going in blind."
Warren's eyes narrowed. "Then we don't make it look clean. We make it look uncertain. I want anyone following to feel like they already failed before they even start."
He turned to the line of captives. Broken. Bound. Their gear already stripped. Every useful weapon gone. Their strength erased.
"We wait until they wake," Warren said. "We offer them a choice: pain and time or answers and a cleaner end," Wren finished.
"They'll lie at first," he added. "They'll beg. Blame each other. It won't matter. All I need is the shape of the truth. I'll find it in the cracks."
He stared at the nearest figure. His mouth was a torn ruin beneath the gag. Eyes fluttering under the hood. Warren tilted his head slightly.
"Doesn't matter what they choose. I'll get what I need either way."
He moved back to the wall near the Vault and crouched. One last check of the tools, the gear, the weight of his pack. He tightened the straps, slid the last blade into the sheath. Then stood.
"We take everything."
"And leave them nothing," Wren said.
Warren's eyes stayed on the captives.
"When they talk, they won't say the Vault killed them. They'll say something worse waits down here. Something patient. Something smart."
Styll growled again. Low. Warning.
Wren looked at the corridor's mouth. Still empty. Still watching.
"We wait."
Warren nodded once.
Behind them, the half a dozen shattered forms twitched in half-consciousness. No weapons. No chance. Just time.
The Vault loomed, watching.
And Warren watched it back. He could wait longer than any of them.