WORLD OF FICTION (WOF)

Pavel’s rain reached the ceiling at the same time the kitchen doors locked.

He stood beneath the ventilation hood holding a basket of onions.

Water climbed from his sleeves in thin streams and spread across the plaster overhead.

The cook looked up.

"Is that normal?"

"For me," Pavel said.

The first claims instruction printed above the main door.

KEEP ALL RESIDENTS INSIDE UNTIL PERSONHOOD REVIEW CONCLUDES.

The second appeared above the service exit.

EVACUATE ALL UNREGISTERED PERSONS FROM CLAIM-AFFECTED AREAS.

Pavel read both.

"I am provisional."

The cook checked his plate.

PAVEL.

PROVISIONAL PERSON.

SOURCE RELATION: UNRESOLVED.

"Registered enough for soup," she said.

A third instruction formed above the pantry.

PRESERVE EVERY POSSIBLE SAFE LOCATION.

The fourth appeared across the floor.

DO NOT MOVE CLAIM-AFFECTED MATERIAL.

Dorian sat at a neutral worktable sorting unused fasteners.

No role plates.

No old clothing.

No cast strips.

His brace held the grey hand open.

The little finger moved when the fourth instruction reached his chair.

"Everyone away from the words," he said.

The cook looked at him.

"Why?"

"My arm reacts to roles."

"Those are instructions."

"They are trying to decide what people are."

That was enough.

Kitchen staff backed away.

The Preserving Function’s adverse personhood hearing had not started.

Its petition had already connected neutral containment to every office housing potential witnesses.

The Function was receiving claimant-submitted safety procedures.

It was preserving all of them.

The main door locked.

The service exit opened.

Then locked.

Then opened halfway.

Pavel’s upward rain entered the ventilation shaft.

Steam from the boiling pots followed it.

The ceiling began filling with hot water.

"Turn off heat," Dorian said.

The cook reached for the burners.

A new instruction appeared.

MAINTAIN FOOD SERVICE FOR CONTAINED RESIDENTS.

The burners resisted.

Physical valves remained manual.

The cook used both hands.

They would not turn.

"Wrench," Dorian said.

"Knife drawer."

"No."

The cook understood and kicked a toolbox from beneath the counter.

Dorian caught it with his left foot.

He took a plain wrench.

No role.

No light.

He crossed the kitchen while keeping the grey arm away from the printed instructions.

The floor words shifted to follow him.

DO NOT MOVE CLAIM-AFFECTED MATERIAL.

The invisible cut formed near his open palm.

A white line travelled toward the instruction.

Dorian stopped.

The cut continued without him.

"Clear the centre."

Pavel dropped the onion basket and pulled the nearest kitchen worker behind a steel counter.

Dorian stepped sideways.

The cut changed direction, still targeting the words.

If it reached the floor instruction, it might erase the procedure.

Or attach more strongly.

He refused to test it.

"Cover the letters."

The cook threw a sack of flour over the floor.

White powder buried the instruction.

The cut halted.

Dorian reached the burner valves and forced them closed with the wrench.

The flames died.

Steam continued collecting on the ceiling.

Pavel looked up.

"My rain won’t come down."

"Can you stop it?" the cook asked.

"No."

"Can you send it somewhere?"

"Sometimes it follows drainage."

Dorian pointed to the floor drain.

"Open it."

"It already is."

"Ceiling drain."

"There isn’t one."

"Make one."

The cook stared at his grey arm.

Dorian lifted the wrench.

"With this."

He climbed onto the preparation counter.

His escorts moved to help.

"Hold the table," he said.

They did.

Dorian struck the plaster once.

Pain ran through his left shoulder.

The ceiling cracked.

Hot water poured through the opening.

It hit his back and ran upward again.

Pavel’s rain refused gravity.

"Wrong water," Dorian said.

Pavel climbed beside him.

He placed both palms against the wet ceiling.

The upward streams gathered around his arms.

His face tightened.

"I can pull it toward me."

"Then pull."

"It will cover me."

"Can you breathe?"

"Yes."

"Do it."

Pavel drew the rain into his coat.

The fabric darkened.

Water bulged beneath it, moving toward his shoulders instead of the ventilation shaft.

The ceiling cleared enough for steam to escape through Dorian’s hole.

The kitchen temperature fell.

The main door remained locked.

The service exit kept opening and closing.

The claimant’s safety instructions spread onto the walls.

KEEP EVERY WITNESS AVAILABLE.

PROTECT ALL DEVELOPMENT MATERIAL.

PREVENT UNAUTHORISED DEPARTURE.

Pavel looked at his plate.

"Am I development material?"

"No," Dorian said.

"The system may disagree."

"Then the system is wrong."

The words above the door changed.

PAVEL — CLAIM-AFFECTED SOURCE WITNESS.

Dorian’s little finger bent.

The gold scar lit.

The invisible cut moved from the buried floor instruction toward Pavel’s new role.

Dorian saw it.

"Take off the plate."

Pavel unclipped his name.

The role remained on the wall.

The cut continued.

Pavel backed toward the service exit.

It slammed shut.

Dorian jumped from the counter.

His left knee struck the floor.

He grabbed the flour sack and threw it against the wall.

The powder covered Pavel’s role.

The cut stopped inches from his chest.

Dorian remained kneeling.

The grey hand had not moved.

The danger had.

The cook used the wrench to smash the physical latch on the service exit.

The door opened.

Kitchen staff evacuated through the corridor.

Pavel stayed.

"Go," Dorian said.

"You?"

"My arm is following the instructions."

"That is why I’m staying."

Dorian looked at him.

Pavel’s coat sloshed with upward rain.

"You carried an injured Editor without registration," Dorian said.

"Yes."

"Bad habit."

"Yes."

They worked together.

Dorian physically covered every new role with flour, cloth, or overturned tables.

Pavel redirected the rain into empty cooking pots so it would not enter the ventilation system.

The claimant’s procedures ran out of visible surfaces.

The Preserving Function began printing on the steam.

SAFE ROOM ONE.

SAFE ROOM TWO.

SAFE ROOM THREE.

The labels pointed toward different doors.

The entire kitchen stretched.

Three exits became nine.

Each led to a version of the repaired headquarters.

In one, the corridor was intact.

In another, dragon damage remained.

In a third, the Strip Floor gate stood open.

Dorian looked at the branching doors.

"Do not enter any of them."

"How do we leave?" Pavel asked.

Dorian picked up the rough wooden sign used to mark kitchen deliveries.

No words.

No role.

He drove it through the real service-door hinge.

Physical wood.

Physical metal.

The door could not close.

"This one has a broken latch," he said. "That happened before the alternatives."

Pavel understood.

They crossed through the damaged real door.

The other safe routes remained behind them.

As soon as both men entered the corridor, the kitchen folded into four overlapping versions.

A claims alarm finally sounded.

Not a breach.

A hearing notice.

ADVERSE PERSONHOOD REVIEW COMMENCING EARLY.

The Preserving Function had preserved every safe choice submitted by the claimant.

Now headquarters contained all of them.