In the background the broadcast droned away. Everyone in the Federation was watching this trial, probably the biggest capture of the rebels in living memory. Travis didn’t gloat, but seeing Blake in the dock, glassy-eyed and clearly in the thrall of the modifiers’ drugs gave him a sense of vindication. His new arm’s fingers didn’t curl well and getting his arm in the jacket sleeve was tricky, the lazeron gun catching and audibly ripping the slippery lining. He buttoned it right-handed and fumbled with the black leather glove he’d affected so that his flesh and artificial hands matched. It was the solution the regulations laid out. Tall boots, shiny like dark mirrors presented the least difficulty, leather encasing his calves. They were the only familiar part of this alien uniform, the only proper military item amidst the colour and frogging of his impractical, antiquated dress.

 

At last he stood and brushed himself off, straightening the irksome uniform and making sure he passed muster. His uniform at least was immaculate. He himself looked about as at ease in it as dog in a suit and felt about as ridiculous. He was definitely not one of Servalan’s decorative bridge officers.

((Sorry for the abandonment of the cut, but it's all broken....))