The room is glass on three sides and reflective on the fourth, which means Hawks can see himself no matter where he looks.
Ceiling lights stripe across the red of his wings like barcode lines. He doesn't move them. Movement gets noted.
Across the table sits a woman with no visible quirk usage and a badge that says _Administrative Liaison, Tier C_. The badge is face-down. It has been face-down the entire time.
"You're late," she says.
Hawks checks the wall clock. Digital. Atomic. Merciless.
"I'm early," he says. "You started before I walked in."
She doesn't blink. "Sign-in timestamp says otherwise."
He leans back in the chair until it creaks just enough to be audible. A little reminder that furniture can complain too.
"Then the clock's wrong."
She slides a tablet across the table. It stops precisely at the line etched into the glass.
On the screen: his name. His hero ID. A time stamp. Red-highlighted.
She taps it once. "The clock is never wrong."
Hawks hums, low and noncommittal. "Sounds lonely."
No reaction. She pulls her hands back, folds them, waits.
Silence stretches. Not awkward. Curated.
Hawks lets it sit for three seconds, then four. On five, he speaks.
"I'm here to file a request."
The woman nods. Not approval. Acknowledgment.
"Specify."
He smiles. It's automatic. It doesn't reach his eyes.
"Operational clearance. Short-term. Solo."
Her fingers move again, already typing. "Duration?"
"Undefined."
She pauses.
"Define undefined."
"Until it's done."
"That is not a duration."
Hawks tilts his head, feathers rustling softly. "Neither is 'pending,' but it comes up a lot."
The tablet chirps. A notification. She doesn't look at it.
"Location?"
"Undisclosed."
"Objective?"
"Preventative."
She finally looks up at him.
Not at his face. At his wings.
"You're requesting authorization without scope."
"Scope exists," Hawks says. "Just not on this table."
She studies him like a diagram missing labels.
"You know the protocol."
"I helped write half of it."
"You _informed_ half of it."
"Semantics," he says lightly. "Deadliest quirk in the building."
Her jaw tightens. One millimeter. He clocks it.
She turns the tablet so he can see.
A form fills the screen. Lines. Boxes. Checkmarks waiting to happen.
**REQUEST FOR PROVISIONAL OPERATIONAL CLEARANCE**
_Applicant:_ Hawks
_Affiliation:_ Hero Public Safety Commission
_Mission Codename:_ [REQUIRED]
_Risk Tier:_ [REQUIRED]
_Oversight Officer:_ [REQUIRED]
The blinking cursor sits in the first empty field, impatient.
"You need a codename," she says.
Hawks squints. "You assign those."
"Only after review."
"Review requires a codename."
"Yes."
"That's circular."
She shrugs. It's practiced. "It's thorough."
Hawks exhales through his nose. A feather twitches. He reins it in.
"Call it 'Clearance,'" he says.
She types it in.
The system accepts it immediately.
Hawks raises an eyebrow. "Huh."
She doesn't comment.
"Risk tier?" she asks.
"Low," he says.
She looks up again. This time, at his face.
He meets her eyes. Doesn't blink.
She changes the field to _High_.
"Hey," Hawks says. "I said—"
"The system evaluates after entry," she replies. "It rarely agrees with applicants."
"That system ever been outside?"
"It doesn't need to be."
Another pause. Another notification chime.
Hawks leans forward, elbows on the table now. The glass is cool through his sleeves.
"Who's overseeing?"
She scrolls. Frowns. Scrolls again.
"That field is locked."
"By who?"
"By the Commission."
"That narrows it down to a building full of ghosts."
She finally sighs. The first real human sound she's made.
"You're pushing for something you don't want documented."
"I want it documented," Hawks says. "I just don't want it narrated."
"That's not how this works."
"That's exactly how it works," he says softly. "You just don't like saying it out loud."
She looks at the glass wall behind him. His reflection stares back, wings spread wider there, distorted.
"There will be observers," she says.
"Always are."
"Active observers."
"Always are."
"Internal."
Hawks's smile thins. "Now we're getting somewhere."
She taps a different screen. Red text overlays the form. Lines vanish. Fields lock.
"Your request is incomplete."
"I answered everything you asked."
"You answered around them."
"That's still answering."
She shakes her head. "You're asking us to trust you."
He laughs. It slips out before he can stop it.
"You already do."
Silence again. Thicker this time.
The room's lights dim by two degrees. Energy-saving protocol. Or mood lighting. Hard to tell.
She speaks carefully now. "Trust is not authorization."
"Neither is control," Hawks says. "But you hand that out like candy."
Her eyes flash. "Watch it."
He spreads his hands. Wings remain still.
"Just saying. You don't let people like me freelance."
"You are not freelance."
"I'm not chained either."
She stands. Smooth. Efficient.
"The request will go to review."
"By when?"
"When it's processed."
"Timeline?"
She gives him a look that says _you know better_.
He stands too. The chair slides back with a quiet protest.
"Then I'll wait," he says.
She nods toward the door. "You'll be contacted."
Hawks takes one step, then stops.
"Hey," he says, glancing back. "Out of curiosity."
She doesn't turn.
"What happens if I move without clearance?"
She answers instantly. "You won't."
He smiles again. This one is sharper.
"Not what I asked."
She turns now. Fully. Face neutral, eyes flat.
"Then this conversation never happened."
Hawks considers that. Then he nods.
"Good talk."
The door opens on its own. Silent. Polite.
He walks out into the corridor. White walls. No windows. Cameras tucked into corners like dust.
As he moves, his communicator buzzes once against his wrist.
No message. Just a vibration.
He doesn't check it.
Behind him, in the glass room, the form updates.
**STATUS:** _Pending_
A second later, smaller text appears beneath it.
_Applicant notified._
Hawks keeps walking.
The file comes back heavier.
Not physically. Digitally. More layers. More weight. Like someone added silence and compressed it.
Hawks opens it mid-stride, hallway lights streaking overhead in clean, repeating panels. The Commission likes straight lines. Curves imply choice.
The first page loads.
His name is there. Hero ID intact. Clearance request title still reads **CLEARANCE**, all caps, bolded like it's proud of itself.
Everything under it is black.
Not grayed out. Not blurred.
Blacked out. Thick bars. Aggressive. Someone wanted to be sure nothing bled through.
Hawks stops walking.
A junior analyst nearly collides with him, swerves at the last second, mutters an apology without eye contact. Keeps moving. Momentum preserved.
Hawks scrolls.
Page two: timestamps. Half of them missing.
Page three: locations replaced with ██████.
Page four: an entire paragraph reduced to a single line.
_Reviewed and acknowledged._
"That's doing a lot of work," Hawks murmurs.
His communicator vibrates again. This time, it doesn't stop.
He taps it.
A call opens. No video. Just audio. Clean signal.
"Hawks," a voice says. Male. Older. Smiling without warmth.
"Didn't know you missed me," Hawks replies. "You never call unless I'm in trouble or about to be."
"Neither," the voice says. "Sit down."
Hawks looks around. No chairs. Just a wall.
He leans against it anyway.
"I got the file," Hawks says. "Either someone spilled ink on it or you're allergic to nouns now."
A chuckle. Brief. Controlled. "Redactions are for your protection."
"From what?"
"From unnecessary context."
"That's my favorite kind," Hawks says. "The kind that keeps you alive."
"Careful."
Hawks closes the file. Opens it again. Different sections load in a different order.
"Oh," he says. "That's cute."
"What?"
"It reshuffles when I look at it. Like it's shy."
Pause.
"It shouldn't do that."
"Well, it does," Hawks says. "Page seven just became page three. Or maybe it always was. Hard to tell with the blackout aesthetic."
Another pause. Longer.
"Hawks," the voice says. "Have you read the acknowledgments?"
He scrolls. Bottom of the file. Small font. Easy to miss.
A list of names.
Some familiar. Some not.
One catches his eye.
He blinks. Scrolls back. Zooms in.
The name is his.
Not Hawks.
Not his hero ID.
His real name.
Listed under _Oversight Acknowledgment_.
Date stamped two days ago.
"I didn't sign this," Hawks says.
"You didn't need to."
"That's not how signatures work."
"That's how precedent works."
He exhales slowly. Keeps his tone light.
"So I approved my own oversight?"
"You acknowledged compliance."
"I didn't read this."
"Neither do most people."
"That's not comforting."
"It's efficient."
Hawks pushes off the wall and starts walking again. Faster now.
"Who else is on oversight?" he asks.
The answer comes too fast. "Redacted."
"Come on."
"Classified."
"I'm literally the asset."
"You're the _subject_."
Hawks laughs. It's sharp. Echoes down the hallway.
"Wow," he says. "That's a demotion."
"Hawks—"
"No, no," he cuts in. "It's fine. I like clarity. Helps me sleep."
"You don't sleep."
"Exactly."
The corridor opens into a wider space. Floor-to-ceiling screens. Live feeds. Data streams. None of them labeled.
He stops in the middle of it.
"Let me guess," he says. "The request isn't denied."
"Correct."
"It's not approved either."
"Correct."
"It's in that fun little limbo where you can blame me either way."
Silence.
"That's a yes," Hawks says.
A notification pings. The file updates again.
New section unlocked.
**CONDITIONS OF OPERATION**
He scrolls.
Condition one: _Subject will adhere to dynamic directives as issued._
Condition two: _Subject will not seek clarification outside authorized channels._
Condition three: _Subject acknowledges post-operation review may precede operation._
He stops.
Reads that last line again.
"Review may precede operation," Hawks says slowly. "That's… impressive."
"We're streamlining."
"You're time traveling."
"Think of it as preparedness."
"Think of it as creepy," Hawks replies. "Who reviewed it?"
The answer doesn't come.
"Huh," he says. "Let me guess. Redacted."
The file closes itself.
A new window opens.
A message. Short. Polite.
_Thank you for your continued cooperation._
Hawks stares at it.
"That's it?" he asks. "That's the note?"
"You've been recognized," the voice says.
"For what?"
Another pause. The longest yet.
"For understanding your role."
Hawks smiles, slow and tired.
"Funny," he says. "I was just thinking I still don't."
The line clicks dead.
Around him, the screens keep moving. Data flows. Decisions happen somewhere else.
His communicator vibrates one last time.
This time, there's text.
_Status update: Pending._
Under it, smaller.
_Please refrain from independent action._
Hawks pockets the device.
He looks up at the screens, at the reflections layered over reflections, at a building that knows him better than he knows it.
"Yeah," he mutters. "We'll see."
The file reopens on its own.
One line, newly visible, right at the top.
_Subject has acknowledged receipt._
Hawks didn't touch anything.
He turns and walks away.
The meeting room is different this time.
Same floor. Same wing. New glass.
This glass doesn't reflect. It absorbs. Hawks can see out, not in. Whoever designed it understood hierarchy.
He's already seated when they arrive. Three of them. No introductions. No badges visible. Chairs glide into place without sound.
One of them smiles.
"Hawks," she says. "Thank you for coming."
He glances at the door behind them. Still open. Still polite.
"I was in the building," he says. "Felt rude not to."
Another one laughs. Soft. Approved.
"We'll keep this brief," the smiling one says. "You've been very cooperative."
"That's one word for it."
She ignores the comment. They all do.
A screen lights up behind the glass. No charts. No graphs. Just a single word.
**RECOGNITION**
Hawks tilts his head. "Is this where I clap for myself?"
"It's where we express appreciation," she says. "You followed protocol."
"I submitted a request."
"And waited."
He blinks. Once.
"Waiting counts now?"
"In your case," she says, "yes."
The second person leans forward. Older. Tired eyes.
"You didn't ask follow-up questions."
Hawks shrugs. "Didn't seem productive."
"You didn't escalate."
"Didn't seem necessary."
"You didn't act independently."
That one hangs there.
Hawks folds his wings tighter. Not defensive. Controlled.
"I haven't acted at all," he says.
The third person nods. "Exactly."
The screen changes. Text scrolls. Clean. Formal.
_The Commission acknowledges Subject's restraint._
Restraint.
Hawks tastes the word. Doesn't like it.
"So," he says, "where does that leave my request?"
The smiling one gestures. The file opens in the air between them. Familiar. Heavy.
The status line updates.
**STATUS:** _Cleared_
No pending. No conditions visible. Just that.
Hawks leans back. "That's fast."
"It's overdue," she says. "You were always going to be cleared."
"Then why—"
"Process," the older one says. "It matters."
"To who?"
"To us."
Hawks looks at the word _Cleared_ again.
"Cleared to do what?" he asks.
A beat.
The third person speaks. "You already know."
He doesn't.
He doesn't say that.
"Do I?" he asks instead.
They exchange a glance. Quick. Efficient.
The smiling one stands. The others follow.
"This concludes the review," she says.
"That's it?"
She nods. "You've been recognized."
"For… waiting."
"For alignment."
The screen goes dark. The glass door opens.
They leave without another word.
Hawks stays seated.
His communicator buzzes. He doesn't check it. The room is quiet in that Commission way, like silence has been scheduled.
After a moment, he stands.
The file pings open again. One final update.
A single line added at the bottom.
_Subject demonstrates continued suitability._
No mission. No objective. No next step.
Just suitability.
Hawks exhales. Slow. Measured.
He steps out into the corridor. Same white walls. Same cameras pretending not to watch.
As he walks, his communicator buzzes again.
This time, he looks.
No message.
Just a notification.
_Thank you for your service._
He pockets the device.
Keeps walking.
Behind him, in the room that doesn't reflect, the word **RECOGNITION** lingers on a dark screen.
No one is there to see it.