Dorian’s formal punishment arrived bolted to the stairwell he had damaged.
A metal plate had been fixed beside the replacement railing.
DISCIPLINARY ORDER — DORIAN ASHGROVE.
The facilities crew had covered it with cloth until he arrived.
Dorian removed the cloth with his left hand.
His grey right arm rested inside the new nail-supported brace. The gold scar remained exposed at the palm. His little finger sat slightly away from the others, its nail bed wrapped in plain cloth.
He read the order.
Thirty days of field suspension after medical clearance.
Weapon certification revoked pending full reassessment.
Two-person escort outside medical and assigned work areas.
One hundred and twenty hours of facilities restitution.
Loss of independent training access.
Officer Ivo Pell permanently reassigned from his escort detail.
Review after any further involuntary cutting event.
Dorian looked at the discipline officer.
"One hundred and twenty?"
"The railing, two braces, medical equipment, ceiling, and wall."
"The wall was poorly repaired."
"You repaired it."
"Exactly."
The discipline officer handed him a wrench.
"Install the final three bolts."
Dorian crouched beside the rail.
The first bolt required him to hold the nut beneath the bracket while turning from above.
A two-handed task.
He placed the nut in his grey palm.
The hand did not feel it.
His eyes tracked the metal as he raised the arm.
The fingers closed late.
The nut fell.
It bounced down two steps.
One escort retrieved it.
Dorian held out his left hand.
The officer placed the nut there without comment.
Dorian tried again, pinning it against the bracket with the heel of the grey palm while turning the wrench left-handed.
The brace clicked.
No cut formed.
He tightened the bolt.
The absence should have been good.
His shoulders stayed tense.
Second bolt.
The brace clicked twice.
Nothing.
Dorian stopped.
The discipline officer asked, "Medical event?"
"No."
"Continue."
"I heard you."
Ivo Pell stood at the upper landing.
No uniform coat. His ribs remained wrapped beneath a plain shirt. He carried a reassignment packet.
Dorian returned to the bolt.
"You did not need to come."
"I need your signature."
"For what?"
"Acceptance of escort separation."
"Accepted."
"On the form."
Dorian looked at the chained stylus attached to the wall plate.
Facilities had anticipated the problem.
He finished the second bolt and stood.
The grey hand remained open.
No invisible edge.
Ivo placed the form on the rail.
Dorian signed with his left hand.
His surname slanted downward.
Ivo took the form.
Dorian said, "You requested permanent reassignment."
"Yes."
"Because I hit you?"
"Because I do not want to spend every alarm deciding whether you see me as a person or a locked door."
The discipline officer looked away.
Dorian did not.
"That is fair."
Ivo’s mouth tightened.
"Do not make it sound generous."
"I wasn’t."
Ivo folded the form.
He started toward the lower corridor.
Dorian said, "The train did not justify it."
"I know."
"I filed that."
"I know."
"Then why are you still angry?"
Ivo turned.
"You think accurate paperwork is the final step."
Dorian looked at the new rail.
Ivo left.
The third bolt resisted.
Dorian worked at it until his left wrist cramped.
The brace remained silent.
No click.
No cut.
Nothing from the gold scar.
Dorian stopped turning.
The discipline officer checked the brace.
"Stable."
Dorian looked at him.
"Do not call it that."
"No involuntary movement."
"That is not the same."
"It is what I can record."
Dorian put the wrench down.
"What if it stopped?"
"The cut?"
"Yes."
"Medical considers that preferable."
"They consider everything preferable if it fits a form."
The discipline officer crouched beside him.
"Do you want it to happen?"
"No."
The answer came fast.
"Do you want to know you still can?"
Dorian stared at the bolt.
"That is not your job."
"No."
The officer stood.
"Finish the rail."
Dorian tightened the final bolt.
Facilities tested it with twice the load that had broken the original.
It held.
The crew packed their tools.
Dorian remained on the landing.
The escorts waited.
The brace had not clicked for forty-three minutes.
At medical, technicians removed it beneath a plain steel shield.
"Attempt extension," one said.
Dorian moved the fingers.
The index answered late.
The middle finger moved.
The little finger did not.
"Attempt grip."
"No."
"This is not blade testing."
"No."
The technician looked toward the escort.
Dorian’s jaw hardened.
"Fine."
He tried to close the grey hand.
The fingers moved halfway.
No gold light.
No cut.
No pressure.
The hand stopped.
"Again."
Dorian tried.
Nothing.
The technician recorded reduced response.
Dorian looked at the open palm.
A week earlier he had wanted the movement gone.
Now it had failed, and he could not tell whether the danger had ended or simply moved somewhere he could not observe.
That night, he slept with the brace locked open.
He woke three times because he thought he had heard it click.
Each time the hand remained still.
By morning, Dorian was afraid to relax.
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