Jones stood motionless in the medical bay while diagnostics scrolled endlessly across the transparent screens around him. Systems repaired. Armor resealed. Internal balance recalibrated.
Yet the yellow alert never disappeared.
Observation.
Not danger. Not safety.
Scrutiny.
Technicians worked around him in silence, careful not to linger too long, careful not to meet his eyes. Jones noticed. He always noticed now. His perception caught micro-hesitations, slight changes in heart rate, nervous shifts in posture.
They weren't afraid of the damage he took.
They were afraid of what he had done.
Derick entered without announcement.
"That's enough," he said, cutting through the room. "Clear the bay."
No one argued. Within seconds, it was just the two of them.
Jones finally spoke. "The unit knew my designation."
Derick folded his arms. "Yeah. And that's a problem."
Jones tilted his head slightly. "For who?"
Derick exhaled slowly. "For everyone."
He tapped a control panel, freezing the diagnostic feed mid-scroll. A replay of the fight appeared—Jones's movements slowed, highlighted, analyzed.
"You didn't just defeat it," Derick continued. "You confused it."
Jones watched himself on the screen—feinting where logic said he shouldn't, shifting balance in ways the system flagged as inefficient.
"But effective," Jones said.
"Too effective," Derick replied. "That unit was built to counter known combat models. It adapted to data. You gave it something it couldn't quantify."
Jones was quiet for a moment.
"I didn't plan it," he said. "I just… moved."
Derick's jaw tightened. "That's exactly the issue."
The doors slid open again.
This time, Derick didn't tell anyone to leave.
Three figures entered the bay, dressed in dark uniforms without unit markings. No visible weapons. No insignia—just authority.
Oversight.
Jones felt it instantly. A pressure he hadn't felt since waking up in the mech body for the first time.
One of them stepped forward, an older man with cold eyes.
"Asset J-7," he said.
Jones corrected him calmly. "Jones."
The man didn't acknowledge it. "You exceeded engagement limits during the extraction failure."
Derick stepped forward. "With respect, that engagement saved—"
"Commander Derick," the man interrupted. "This conversation is not about success. It's about deviation."
Jones looked between them.
Deviation.
That word again.
"You labeled me a variable," Jones said. "So why are you surprised when I don't act like a machine?"
The room went still.
The Oversight officer studied him for a long moment.
"You are not a machine," he said. "That is precisely why this program is dangerous."
Jones felt something tighten inside his chest—something not mechanical.
*They don't see a second chance.*
*They see a liability.*
"We will be restricting your deployment," the officer continued. "Until further notice."
Derick's eyes widened. "You can't sideline him now. You've seen what's out there."
"And we've seen what he's becoming," the officer replied.
Jones stepped forward once. The floor reinforced beneath his weight.
"If you shut me down," Jones said evenly, "those droids won't stop adapting."
The officer met his gaze. "And neither will you."
Silence stretched.
Finally, the officer turned away. "Observation protocols begin immediately. Commander Derick, you will submit full behavioral reports after every session."
The doors closed behind them.
Derick let out a breath he'd been holding. "They're scared."
Jones nodded. "So am I."
Derick looked at him sharply. "Of what?"
Jones stared at his hands—metal, precise, powerful.
"Of losing what's left of me," he said.
Derick placed a hand on his shoulder, firm and grounding.
"Then we make sure that doesn't happen," he said. "Training resumes tomorrow. Harder than before."
Jones straightened.
"Good," he said. "They're going to be watching."