The Blue Lamp's ring turned the laundromat wall into a dais.
Kite stood on a milk crate with a pencil and a square of cardboard that read SPEAK AT THE X in a neat hand. Mae leaned the Council Minutes board against the window—inked in block letters, rain beading on plastic. Sister Irena set the lamp on a mailbox like a chalice. Brutus took the doorway and made patience look like a post.
Across the block, under a CLEAN TRIBUNAL banner, Kade's halo-cam lit a smile. Leon didn't look. His mask would fog and he needed it clear.
"Live in three," Nyx said, satin over wire. "Ambient stenography only. No faces—your rule. Ad-break at twelve. Land a vote on it and the Saint will purr."
"Noted," Leon said.
He placed the Civic Ledger on a crate, tapped the cover once to steady himself, twice to warn the part of him that liked applause to sit down.
[City Council — Provisional Session: Ward 4, Last City]
[Agenda: 1) Due Rations (Law) 2) Blue Lamps (Exemption & Corridor Protocol) 3) Market Holidays (2/mo tied to Lamp compliance) 4) Ombuds Box 5) Tolls (Public Comment; Tribunal Notice)]
[Feed Mode: Ambient (Hands, Pens, Board only). Minor Filter: Hard.]
Kite tapped the board. "Speak at the X," he said, professional. "Hands only."
Leon lifted his voice just enough to carry. "We pass laws here. We keep receipts. We start with Due Rations."
Mae uncapped the marker with her teeth and wrote: Due Rations — Two per family; One per single; Blue Lamps first; Market fraud punishable by restitution.
"Public comment," Leon said.
A woman with dishwater hair and a neon grocery vest stepped to the X and set both hands on the crate like anchors. "I was a cashier fifteen years," she said to the board, not to any lens. "I can count what's fair. Two is fair. Three if you have a baby in a sling and a kid holding your coat hem. Buy extra with work or trade. Don't take it from the line."
"Record: +1," Mae said quietly. "Hands noted."
A boy in a hoodie that had learned three owners ago set down a jar of buttons on the crate. Blue buttons clicked like rain on tin. "For lamps," he said, solemn. "Two rations feels right."
Sister Irena raised a hand to the board—never to the feed. "Law with mercy," she said. "Due Rations—Yes."
Nyx's voice counted metrics like rosary beads. "Craft House is humming. War House yawns—no blood. The Saint is…warmer than tea."
Leon kept the cadence. "Due Rations to a vote. Hands."
Hands lifted—calloused, clean, shaking, steady. Kite counted out loud, a bright metronome. "Thirty-two aye," he said. "Five nay."
Mae drew a square around the words as if bracketing a ribcage. "Pass."
[Law Passed: Due Rations]
[Trust: +3 (Ward 4)]
[Merit: +15]
[War House: −100 Favor ("Bored.")]
[Glass Saint tipped +300 Favor: "Civics with clean lines."]
"Blue Lamps," Leon said. "Exemption and Corridor Protocol."
Oren Dawes—lineman, foreman, jaw like masonry—stepped to the X and put a palm flat on the board. His hands were nicked and steady. "Hiccup packs blink honest," he said. "We can keep lamp corridors breathing if people stop stealing UPS batteries from traffic lights. You want corridors, you pass protection."
Mae wrote: Blue Lamps = Law. Bowls = Pass. No faces filmed. Lamp theft = clinic betrayal. Lamplighter Oath enforced. Corridor routes published nightly.
"Public comment," Leon said.
Tamsin Quell, runner's coil and a bowl in one hand, lifted the other so Kite could see her fingers, not her face. "Lamp makes doors into laws," she said. "We'll carry the bowl until our wrists hate us."
A janitor with a mop handle sanded smooth stepped up and tapped an inch of wood. "I've cut trespassers off floors thirty years," he said. "Give me a corridor and I'll make it shine."
Matron Feroce moved like a teal lantern walking. She placed two fingers on the board, clean and precise. "If a stall honors a Blue Lamp," she said, "they get Market Holidays first. Two days a month. No stall fees. People need a reason to respect a bowl."
Mae added: Market Holidays tied to Lamp compliance.
Nyx hummed in Leon's ear. "Ad in two," she said. "Land Blue Lamps on twelve."
"Vote," Leon said. "Hands."
Hands rose—firm. Kite counted. "Thirty-six aye. One abstain."
"Pass," Mae said, satisfaction tempered with habit.
[Law Passed: Blue Lamps Exemption & Corridor Protocol]
[Effects: +Trust (Clinic/Shelter/Market), +Prosperity (Night Labor), −Favor (War House)]
[Trust: +4]
[Merit: +20]
[Policy Fine Active (Dead Air): Favor −20% next 2 eps]
[Glass Saint tipped +500 Favor: "Dignity codified."]
[Trickster: −150 Favor ("Where is the pie?")]
"Market Holidays," Leon said. "Two per month; tied to corridor compliance; escrow and ombuds in place."
Feroce touched the board again. "We don't starve saints," she said dry. "We feed the neutral. Holidays make merchants strong enough to say no to angels."
An anchor-tattooed vendor rapped the board with a knuckle. "If a stall gouges," she said, "we should be allowed to hang a copy of the receipt on their pole like a rotten fish."
"Public Receipts posted weekly," Mae said, writing. "Names, prices, thanks, complaints."
"Vote," Leon said.
Kite counted. "Thirty-one aye. Seven nay."
"Pass," Mae said.
[Policy Adopted: Market Holidays (2/mo)]
[Ombuds Box Confirmed: Complaints & Thanks]
[Prosperity: +2 (Stability Prediction)]
[Craft House tipped +200 Favor: "Receipts as ritual."]
Nyx breathed odd amusement. "Trickster just sent a courier with—oh for—"
The kid with the jar of buttons flinched when a pale something drifted at waist-height—a quadcopter the size of a dinner plate with a tin pie cradled in its claws. On its crust, someone had iced a smile. Trickster humor with a marketing budget.
Brutus didn't move fast. He moved true. He raised one open hand and let the drone kiss his palm. He curled his fingers around the tin, took the weight out of the robot's claws, and set the pie on the laundry cart with the gentleness of a man shelving porcelain. The drone, robbed of its script, buzzed, confused, then wandered toward the banner across the way like a moth with entitlement.
Leon lifted the tin. Blueberries bled at the crimp. The crust had been painted with edible glitter. He set it on the crate under the board without ceremony.
"Auction," he said to Kite. "For the clinic supply fund. Pies go to Thanks box."
Kite, solemn, held up the jar of buttons like a gavel. People laughed softly and put caps in a second jar labeled THANKS. The laughter was a relieved sound, not a show.
[Trickster Attempt: Meme Drop — Neutralized]
[Public Reaction: +Goodwill]
[Glass Saint tipped +150 Favor: "Elegance in rejection."]
[Trickster: −100 Favor ("Spoilsport.")]
"Last item: Tolls," Leon said. "Public comment; tribunal at sundown."
Latch walked to the X with a mop. He put both hands on the handle so they shook less. "We painted lines," he said. "We drew a mouth and called it the law. I'll bring who we shook down. We'll sweep. I'll speak."
Hew stood behind him, blocky, hands visible. "We sweep," he said. Not a confession. A statement of ongoing fact.
Sister Irena's voice had flint under velvet. "We forgive what we can name and count," she said. "Tribunal at sundown. Restitution, not theater."
Mae wrote: Tribunal — Evidence & Witness; Restitution Labor; No Ransom; No Minors. "Motion to formalize 'No Ransom' for vote at next session," she added, glancing at Leon.
Leon nodded. "Seconded."
Nyx's metrics ticked. "You hit twelve exactly," she said, pleased despite herself. "Ad rolled on a pie. The Saint is clapping with the rim of a glass."
The feed softened into teal lanterns and rain on copper. The Council kept breathing. People put caps in the Thanks jar. The Complaints box made a companionable clink.
When the ad spit them back, the board had acquired new ink. Murmur—the voice you didn't hear until a sentence needed to be true—had arrived with fingertip microphones and rumor cards and held them like prayer beads.
"I'll cut minutes for people who can't stand through it," Murmur said to the board. "Ambient only. Hands."
"Citizen press council," Leon said. "Not ours."
"Not yours," Murmur agreed, satisfied.
[Citizen Press Council — Seeded]
[Effect: +Trust (Accountability), −Favor (Trickster — "Fewer scandals.")]
Oren cleared his throat without drama. "Maintenance," he said.
Mae drew a quick box on the board: Maintenance Projects: Bloom Trim; Drain Clearing; Lamp Checks; Grid Balancing. "Entropy is at three," she said, practical. "We pay now or we pay during a storm."
"Volunteers?" Leon asked.
Hands lifted. Not as many as for laws. Enough.
"Motion," Sister Irena said. "Name the day."
"Unseen Work," Leon said. "Tomorrow. Two hours after dawn."
Kite wrote UNSEEN WORK in letters so big the lamp made them look baptized. People laughed under their breaths and then a little harder when Matron Feroce clucked and put two teabags in the Thanks jar like an offering.
[Project Scheduled: Unseen Work (Maintenance)]
[Entropy: −1 if completed on time]
[Heat: Bloom 4/5 — Cooling if trimmed]
Leon lifted the Ledger and wrote the simplest lines that told the truth without theater:
– Due Rations: Passed.
– Blue Lamps: Passed.
– Market Holidays: Passed.
– Ombuds: Installed.
– Tolls: Tribunal tonight.
"Announcements," he said. "Wardens recruitment—'Dominance Without Injuries' training with Brutus tomorrow afternoon. Lamplighters briefing after Council. Market Holiday calendar posted at dawn."
Brutus lifted both hands so people could see what he meant by them. "Hands where cameras can see them," he said. "We practice standing rather than hitting."
[Warden Event Scheduled: Dominance Without Injuries]
[War House: −150 Favor ("Paper dojo.")]
[Trust: +1 (Enforcement)]
The ground under Leon's boots gave a slow, indecent shrug.
It wasn't the siren. It wasn't grid. It was the kind of movement a city makes when something large is pushing its back against the bottom of the street to scratch an itch.
Oren looked toward the subway vent. The lamppost hiccup light blinked off-tempo and then recovered.
"Bones," Oren said. Not loud. Not young.
The sound under the Bloom turned from a murmur to a sentence—scritch scratch scritch—that set teeth on edge. The drain grate by the curb trembled. Fine gravel danced in a ring around it like filings around a magnet.
"Not yet," Leon said to Brutus, whose hands had steepened into fists without his consent. "Bowl."
Sister Irena lifted the Blue Lamp. The ring smudged and steadied. The crowd's breath changed. Kite's pencil hovered above the X and forgot to come down.
A courier in a soaked baseball cap slid in under the Bloom seam like a note under a door. He held a dry bag the size of a briefcase in both hands and breathed through his mouth because his nose had decided it was tired of being a person.
"Delivery for the Architect," he said, to the crate, not the feed.
Leon took the bag. It was heavy in a way that added and subtracted minutes. He unzipped. Cold smell—mint tackled by vinegar. Inside, a case with biohazard stickers from a university lab that had tried very hard to pretend the world was not a show. In grease pencil, on the lid: PARK, J.
Mae read the note rubber-banded to the handle. "'Enzyme mix v.2—viscosity stable under rain at 12–18° C. Works on chitin. Keep it breathing. —Juno Park.'"
Oren's eyebrows made a rare high shape. "Your bug glue," he said.
Leon looked at the grate. The scritch answered like a practiced heckler. He closed the bag and set it on the crate next to the Minutes as if policy and glue were adjacent tools. They were.
"Motion," he said. "Adjourn. Tribunal at sundown. Lamplighters, stay. Oren, drains. Brutus—doorway."
"Second," Sister Irena said.
Nyx's voice smiled like a blade she enjoyed the balance of. "You just gave the producers a cliff where nothing bled," she said. "The Saint is buying so many tasteful chairs."
Across the block, under CLEAN TRIBUNAL, applause tried to be meaningful in the rain. The minor filter was still 'broken.' The child behind Kade had been brave for thirteen minutes. Nyx cut Leon's mics so he wouldn't say a name.
[Session Adjourned]
[Trust: +5 (Ward 4)]
[Merit: +20]
[Heat: Bloom 4/5 → Maintenance scheduled to cool]
[Entropy: 3 → 2 (if Unseen Work completes)]
[Audience: 35,880 → 36,402]
[Glass Saint tipped +400 Favor: "Civics as spectacle."]
[War House: −200 Favor ("You are killing me.")]
Leon tucked the Ledger under his arm and felt the weight of the enzyme case in the other hand like a future he might get to edit.
"Nyx," he said. "Reserve ad-break budget for tribunal. Editor's Cut ready. Poll kills if Trickster tries pies again."
"Done," she said. "And Leon—"
"Hm."
"You have earned yourself a boring episode," she said. "The one where you mop your own blood off the floor before you bleed."
"We'll call it Unseen Work," Leon said. "And make it look like a covenant."
"Make it worth the ad," she said, but there was pride under the tease.
He looked at the grate. The scritch made its little sermon and then shut up like something large deciding to save its breath for a better entrance. The lamppost blinked once—hiccup—honest.
"Tonight tribunal," he told Mae. "Tomorrow the mop. Then we go under."
"Juno Park," Mae said, tapping the case. "Bring her to the table. We'll need ethics to go with the glue."
Sister Irena lifted the Blue Lamp and the ring made a small city around the crate and the case and the law.
Brutus set his hands in the clinic doorway and made the space between lamp and door sacred out of stubbornness.
Matron Feroce moved through the crowd with a ledger and a small brass stamp that left teal loops. "Insurance Pool signers," she called. "Bring your names."
Kite tapped the X. People came to speak. The bowl threw its ring. The city picked up a pencil.
Down under the street, something decided to roll over one more time and refrained.
Tonight: receipts. Tomorrow: mops. Soon: bones.
Leon looked at the enzyme case, then at the grate. He felt the mask fog and clear like breath he could control.
"We pass laws," he said, to the board, to the bowl, to the part of him that liked applause, "and then we keep them."
The Blue Lamp's ring didn't answer. It didn't have to. It had become an answer by looking exactly like itself.
[Cliff: Tribunal at sundown; Juno Park inbound; Roach activity intensifies; Unseen Work scheduled to cool Bloom Heat]