Colomban Couderc

Colomban Couderc entered the hall, and the hubbub died down. His closely cropped hair revealed ears glittering with a dozen steel rings. This was armor, not rebellion.

The active member, accustomed to easy prey, froze. "Couderk, what is this? A gypsy bazaar on our ears?" he asked, but his voice was confused.

"P-piercing," Colomban answered quietly. "Surgical steel." And he walked past.

He sat in the cafeteria all day, unhidden, the metal in his ears gleaming coldly. No one approached—his unpredictability had broken the usual pattern of harassment.

After class, a boy blocked his path. "You think metal makes you cool? You're still pathetic..." He instinctively reached out to nudge her, but froze a centimeter from the cold labret. Touching it would have been acknowledging the change.

Colomban slowly raised his eyes to him with tired detachment. “Let me pass, please,” he said politely.

And the boy stepped back. He watched the straight, unhurried silhouette depart, and saw only the ship's signal lights flickering in his ears, drifting away into a reality where he no longer set the rules.