CHAPTER FOURTEEN: UNDER OBSERVATION

A PRT trooper—tactical armor pristine, visor reflective, no personal nameplate or insignia; just a faceless cog in the machine—waited when Greg

A PRT trooper—tactical armor pristine, visor reflective, no personal nameplate or insignia; just a faceless cog in the machine—waited when Greg forced himself off the training mat, still winded, with sweat sticking his shirt to bruised ribs. The trooper didn't speak. Just jerked his chin toward the door.

Greg followed, every step jarring pain through his side. The corridor beyond was too bright, all antiseptic white and humming lights. The only other sound was the echo of boots on linoleum, the trooper's were even, and Greg tried to match the rhythm. He couldn't. His steps stuttered.

Team RWBY were silent. That wasn't better. Absence was its own kind of noise, after all.

Weiss would have scolded him for slouching, tone clipped and disapproving.

Blake would have noted the security cameras tucked into ceiling corners.

Yang would have shown concern about his injury, but still told him to stop limping, that showing pain was weakness.

Ruby… Ruby would have laughed about the smell: "Like a hospital and a janitor closet had a baby."

Greg swallowed hard. Those voices weren't their voices. They were mostly hisa.

Eventually, they reached a door marked in bold stencil:

MEDIC BAY– AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

The trooper scanned his ID. The lock hissed, then slid open, but he didn't enter. Instead, he stood at the entrance.

Inside, the room was sterile and cold, more lab than infirmary with its steel counters, sealed drawers, and a padded exam table. Machines beeped intermittently in the dim light.

A woman in a white coat stood with her back to him, tapping at a terminal. She turned at the sound of the door.

"Arknight," she said without inflection. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "I'm Dr. Rosenthal, PRT Medical and Parahuman Liaison. Sit."

He did, wincing slightly.

She moved without wasted motion, affixing electrodes to his temples, exposed chest, and wrists. One of the machines began to beep softly, tracing jagged lines on a screen like seismograph readings.

"You're aware," she said as she adjusted a dial, "that independent registration with the PRT requires full disclosure of all powers and trigger conditions."

Greg's heart rate spiked, and the monitor betrayed him immediately. Beep. Beep. Beep-beep.

"I did that," he said quickly. "High-speed movement. Glyphs. Shadow clones. Kinetic absorption."

"Mmm." She tapped the screen with a manicured nail, indicating four distinct spikes in the power signature graph. "Yet you were unable to display any during the test."

The guard shifted subtly at the door.

Greg kept his voice level. "I'm versatile."

"Versatility implies control," she replied, circling behind him. "Your sparring session showed fluctuating wavelengths. Inconsistencies. Multiple layers of output, like overlapping radio signals. Unusual for capes, almost as if you have more than one power, rather than one power expressing itself in four different ways."

She leaned in.

"Tell me, Greg. Do the voices interfere often?"

He froze. The world tilted slightly, like gravity had forgotten where to pull.

How does she know?

Armsmaster appeared in the entrance, blue optics pulsing faintly behind his visor. He didn't enter.

"Doctor. A word."

Dr. Rosenthal straightened. "We're mid-evaluation."

"I'm suspending it."

She frowned. "You can't—"

"I can." His tone didn't shift. His visor locked onto Greg. "Your probationary status is active. You're with me now."

Greg didn't argue. He slid off the table, sensors pulling free with little pops. The machines beeped in protest.

The guard fell in behind them as they walked, a silent shadow.

"You lied," Armsmaster said, not breaking stride.

Greg kept his eyes forward. "I omitted."

"Omission is still a violation. Especially when it concerns potential mental instability and power volatility." A pause. "You have four distinct powers. That shouldn't be possible. Not outside special cases."

Greg said nothing.

"You were experiencing auditory hallucinations. Possibly reactive thoughts coinciding with each power expression. That makes you a potential M/S risk."

Greg's stomach dropped. M/S: Master/Stranger. The classification few wanted to be tacked on to them.

They reached the elevator. Armsmaster pressed the 'up' button, and the doors opened with a chime.

"You have two options," he said flatly. "Submit to full testing. Neurological scans. Power profiling. Some protocol clearance. Or walk away. But if you walk…" His visor turned toward him. "We willbe watching. Your file's already been flagged. From now on, you'll be monitored as a potential threat until proven otherwise."

Greg stared at the floor.

Team RWBY still weren't speaking.

Inside the elevator, the trooper looked to Armsmaster and spoke for the first time since they met. "Orders, sir?"

Armsmaster didn't even glance back. "Escort him out."