Dawn put a low shine on metal and promises.
The vent stack breathed a polite warmth. Filter frames clicked home with the hush of porcelain set carefully on a table. The tank—once a varnish vat—sat in its cradle and decided to be a room that kept its word. Juno wrote AIR LOGS in grease pencil on the casing and underlined it once, penance and procedure.
Oren's palm rested on the new balancer like a man holding a dog who wants to bolt and doesn't deserve to fail. He tilted his head; the panel hummed in a key he trusted and went flat for a heartbeat.
"Widow latency's down," he said. "She's nosing the grid like it owes her a compliment."
He hummed wrong—country in a city mouth—through two fingers on a copper lug. The balancer forgave him. The note went sour for anything that hunted by arrogance.
[Hands Channel — Live (Ambient)]
– Hands chalking corridor arrows: bowls here, here.
– Hands easing a gasket into place.
– Hands tying a ribbon to the Ombuds pole.
[Air Log #007 (Public)]
Flow: steady
Odor: negligible
Particulate: below threshold
Events: Latency spike (detuned), scouts ↑ (Sluice pulse)
Leon set the Civic Ledger on a pallet and tapped the cover once to steady himself, twice to tell his appetite for applause to sit down. He wrote:
Lament March (Cathedral)
– Exception: no kneel at Candle Alley
– Bowls as standards; whisper rule; no backward steps on lit tiles
– Detune before rescue; garlands bind edges
Foundry—Phase 5
– Splints/mesh (first prints)
Quiet Protocol v0.1
– Publish citywide; Ombuds reading
– Anchors: Unseen Work (✓), Foundry First Splint (sched? no faces)
Nyx slid in on satin over wire, pleased against her job description. "Cathedral posted the Lament March route," she said. "Rule bundle: whisper only; stop at Saint Blaise corner; kneel at Candle Alley. Exception requests open for 'medical corridors and recognized standards.' They put a chalice emoji next to Blue Lamps."
"Map," Leon said.
He drew on wet paper: the bell's radius like sugar dust; Rue Mercy in pale gold; Candle Alley narrowing like memory. Three rectangles where bowls would stand. Dotted line for a corridor that would pretend to be holy for an hour without kneeling to spectacle.
"Exception hearing in 00:28:00," Nyx added. "Ambient permitted. No faces. Censor Office wants you to say 'dullness' out loud."
"Bowls say it better," Sister Irena said. She lifted the Blue Lamp the way some people lift a chalice. "We will walk under law, not kneel for an edit."
Juno checked the tank's temperature with a finger the metal trusted. "Splints first," she said. "Mesh that obeys a limb without punishing it. Human tissue when my sleep owes no interest."
She held up a card laminated in tape like a field guide; under the bowl, it became policy.
[Recipe Card: CHITIN SPLINT (Mesh‑Wrap)]
Tier: D
Function: Moldable mesh splint; sets with vent warmth; water‑resistant
Inputs: Chitin pulp 4kg; Binder (enzyme v.2) 1L; Fiber 0.5kg; Ether 25
Output: 12 mesh wraps (forearm/ankle)
Time: 00:16:00
Notes: cure under vent; hands‑only fitting; no faces; bowls
Oren toggled the agitator; the tank stirred. The room smelled like mint and wet shell and something useful finding its shape. He rested his palm on the balancer and kept humming wrong in case the Widow had opinions.
[Build: Splints — Phase start]
[Hands Channel — Retention +]
They didn't get to baby the tank.
A bell note moved through the street like a hand on a tablecloth—gong, low, beautiful, wrong. Nyx's overlay pinned pale tiles along Rue Mercy; Candle Alley brightened to a gold that looked like the kind of reverence that breaks knees.
"Exception table," Nyx said. "Live in 00:05:00. Ambient; no faces. Bowls may be placed."
Leon set the Blue Lamp on the crate where a face would have gone. He slid the Quiet Protocol card and the route under the ring. He put his pen where impatience would have put his jaw.
[Cathedral Exception — Lament March (Candle Alley kneel)]
Panel: Mercy Conclave (Moderator); Cathedral Wardens; Citizen Councils (Observer)
Rule: Hands/standards visible; no faces; audio required
"Last City," the Moderator said, a voice made of cool stone and tea. "Your request: allow bowls as standards; no kneel at Candle Alley; whisper only; no backward step on lit tiles. Grounds?"
Leon kept his voice level. "We move grief under bowls without making it content," he said. "We have the receipts."
Mae slid corridor metrics under the lamp's ring: clinic throughput ↑; riot triggers ↓ when corridors are dark. Murmur placed the Quiet Protocol card in the light; Sister Irena set the organ‑donation consent beside it like a hand you could hold without making a show.
"Candle Alley kneel is a courtesy to the bell," a Warden's voice said, patient and iron. "It anchors humility."
Sister Irena touched the bowl's rim with two fingers. "We will stop," she said. "We will not kneel. We will place a hand on the bowl and bow our heads. Humility without spectacle. Kneeling confuses surrender with prayer."
"Garlands bind consecration edges," Juno cut in gently. She tilted a small bundle of vine in the frame. "We can show people where they may stand without asking a knee to solve what a ribbon and a lamp can."
"Detune before rescue," Oren said, wrist on the hot stick. "If a Widow hums, we make her consider shame."
Tarek opened his gray notebook; tabs of medical tape shone like honest scars. "Duty to retreat to bowls; duty to write; publish stats," he read. "We accept discipline."
Mercy Conclave let the silence be a kind of thinking. "Allowed," the Moderator said after three beats. "Bowls as standards; no kneel; hands on bowls at Candle Alley; whisper. We will walk with you to witness obedience without theater. If you turn this into a show, we revoke your quiet."
[Exception Granted: Bowls as standards; no kneel at Candle Alley; whisper; hands on bowls]
[Trust: +3 (Cathedral district)]
[Hands Channel — Retention +]
[Glass Saint tipped +200 Favor: "Elegance under doctrine."]
War House typed "BORING" somewhere Nyx didn't let anyone see.
Dawnshield drifted like a weather pattern that had failed its audition and wanted a second try. Kade lifted a halo toward Candle Alley as if he could catch reverence from behind glass.
"Dignity zone," Leon said to the air. The lamplighter lifted the bowl. The halo learned to be shy.
They staged.
Garlands went up at Candle Alley—vines bound at wrist height with blue ribbon that made light think about where it belonged. Lamplighters formed pairs, bowls between. Brutus stood on Rue Mercy like a door rephrased as a man.
The Foundry exhaled a tray of mesh wraps. Juno carried them under the vent's breath like warm linen. She set a tray under the Blue Lamp and wrote HANDS‑ONLY on a card because she didn't trust anyone else's handwriting with that law.
Matron Feroce arrived under teal with her ledger and a stare. She touched the rim of the bowl with two fingers like blessing or audit. "Your plant still does not flirt with my nose," she said. "Bring a guard to the hospice cart."
"We did," Brutus said, and he had.
The Lament March began like prayer compiled by traffic. The bell's breath laid a hush on Rue Mercy; tiles glowed pale. People stepped into quiet the way you step into warm water when your bones hurt. The bowls taught the steps.
At Candle Alley, the bell asked for a knee and received a hand.
Sister Irena stopped; she set her palm on the bowl and bowed her head. Lamplighters mirrored. People copied because copying felt like slicing bread. No faces. No halo. No kneel.
A shade at the seam lifted—a Warden's sigil testing whether law still meant kneeling. Juno's garland touched its edge. The light softened to gold that looked like humility without surrender. The shade sank, undecided and unhungry.
[Merit: +15 (Procession corridor — obedience without kneel)]
[Trust: +4 (Clinic/Cathedral)]
[Hands Channel — Retention +]
Something big and opinionated rolled under Iron & Sixth and changed its mind. Oren flattened his note half a finger width. The Widow went elsewhere to be clever.
The hospice at Saint Blaise came into view with a gurney and a tank and a dozen hands that wanted to be told where to go.
Brutus lifted both palms. "Hands where the bowl can see them," he said. He didn't touch a shoulder. He made space with grammar. Sister Irena took the tank handle. Oren apologized to a valve. They moved under a rule that had learned to be kind. Dawnshield's halo drifted and found a bowl. It learned the word unhelpful.
When the gurney swallowed the hospice door, the bell let itself be quiet for one beat longer than it needed to be.
Kade made a small stage at the square without asking permission. A folding table. A neat stack of gloves. A smile trained to catch mercy as if it were light. "A moment of kneeling can teach—" he began.
The lamplighter lifted the bowl.
The moment remained unlearned.
[Editor's Cut: Applied — Halo trim; Dignity Zone enforced]
[Trickster Insert: Pie → Neutralized; "Filters fund."]
[Public: +Goodwill]
By late morning, the march had passed and managed to leave the tiles with their rules and the street with its dignity. The garlands came down; ribbon folded; bowls went home like standards.
[Exception Compliance: ✔]
[Hands Channel — Stable]
[Air Log #008 — Posted]
They took the alley back.
The Sluice gave a timed pulse; scouts came, found wrong notes, decided not to be interesting. Juno laid two hoops; Tamsin slid a mesh under a splashing forearm without showing a face.
The clinic corridor stayed dark; the Blue Lamp made law where doors used to be excuses.
Leon carried a tray of mesh wraps under the bowl and set it on a counter where hands would be. "Hands‑only," he said, as if the word needed to hear itself to stay obedient.
A nurse's wrists—calloused, steady—fitted a splint around a swelling ankle; another hand cut tape; a third hand wrote a name (initials only) on a card under the lamp. Not a show. A verb.
[Merit: +10 (Clinic care ↑)]
[Trust: +3 (Clinic)]
Greed's filters arrived the way obligations do: two workers with honest shoulders and a tool bag that contained no telemetry because Oren was watching. He cut the strap, checked for wires, and showed the bowl he was doing it.
"Thank you," Mae said, pen even. "No plaque."
The workers looked relieved not to have to pretend. "My sister eats your loaf," one said, hands only. "I hate it and I love it."
"Good," Juno said, almost smiling. "Next batch will be less honest with your tongue."
Murmur pinned QUIET PROTOCOL (v0.1) on the Foundry wall and in the Night Market and by the clinic door. They read it aloud under a bowl with the voice they used for gossip they wanted to become law.
Quiet Protocol v0.1 (Public)
– Corridors dark; Hands Channel anchors (2/wk)
– No minors; no faces; bowls mandatory at doors
– Dignity Zones (hazards): Editor's Cut armed; detune before rescue
– Duty: retreat to bowls; intervene; write (public stats)
– Logs: air/odor/grid public; Ombuds read; Thanks/Complaints weekly
[Quiet Protocol v0.1 — Published (Citywide)]
[Trust: +5]
[Hands Channel — Retention +]
[Producer Note (quiet): "Observe for model."]
War House scrawled a brick emoji somewhere and forgot it.
At noon, Kite climbed his milk crate and tapped HANDS AT THE X. He set a ribbon there and a jar of buttons. Sister Irena put a list under the bowl and read names; hands tied ribbons. The camera was not invited.
Leon watched the tank breathe and the ledger accrue commas that saved lives. He smelled cumin added to a loaf and remembered that utility could be a kindness if you refused to make it content.
Nyx slid a new timer into his eye like a second spine. [Quiet Protocol Roundtable: +46:12:09.] [Censor Office: "Questions re: dullness credit."] [Saint House RSVPd "with tea."]
"They'll try to sell bowls," she said. "We'll bring policy."
"We'll bring Irena," Leon said. "And receipts."
A tremor wrote a bass note under the street—stone on stone, patient. Oren's wrist before his ear. "Bell plans a Lament tomorrow," he said, accurate as weather. "They'll ask for kneeling again, somewhere else."
"We'll file another route," Sister Irena said, already turning pages. "Bowls as standards. Hands on bowls. We will not teach grief to perform."
Dawnshield's van passed like weather that had learned to be polite. Kade nodded at the bowl because nods had been put into his spine and this one fit better than any he had practiced.
Matron Feroce wheeled a cart with a new guard around a sharp corner and smiled with one side of her mouth. It hummed. Her stare booked a week of glares for anyone who said brand in her aisle.
Oren laid his palm on the balancer. "We can print a mesh guard for Saint Blaise's cart by evening," he said. "Splints before heroics. Mops before miracles."
"Unseen Work tonight," Murmur said. "Make it dull. Make it matter."
Leon tapped the Ledger once. He didn't need the second tap. "We pass laws," he said, to the bowl, to the vent, to the wrong note, "and then we walk them."
The lamppost blinked honest—blink, two, three, four, blink. The tank exhaled warmth that didn't flirt with any nose it hadn't been introduced to. The bell across town forgot itself for an hour.
Hands moved. The Hands Channel told the verbs. The city counted, under bowls, in public.
Nyx cleared her throat into the wire like porcelain cooling. "Heads up," she said. "Producer Court scheduled a coda: 'Dignity vs. Drama'—panel invites you, Mercy Conclave, and a sponsor with opinions. Tricks will bring pie. War will bring a brick."
"Bring bowls," Leon said. "And Etta's wrong note."
He put the Ledger under his arm, lifted the bowl, and made the ring polite again. The Foundry hummed. The Sluice purred. The bell learned what a hand on a lamp could mean.
[Cliff: Quiet Protocol Roundtable in +46h; Cathedral files second Lament route with new kneel point; Foundry First Mesh Guard queued; Widow latency eased, but grid event likely at dawn]