Arthur's quarters were in the lower-mid residential section, a modest space afforded to probationary commanders—functional rather than comfortable, with a bunk, storage locker, small desk, and attached bathroom. The door's lock disengaged with his biometric scan, and he stepped inside expecting solitude and maybe a chance to process the day's revelations.
Instead, he found Crow sprawling across his bunk like she owned it.
"Took you long enough," she said, her emerald eyes tracking him with predatory interest. "Heard you pissed off Hawthorne. That's practically foreplay."
Arthur closed the door, engaging the privacy lock out of habit. Crow hadn't changed since he'd left the Outer Rim—still wearing that cropped shirt that showed off her toned midriff and the intricate tattoos covering her synthetic skin, still radiating that dangerous mix of sexuality and violence that had drawn him in years ago. Her short black hair was artfully messy, her black lipstick perfectly applied despite the journey from the Outer Rim posting.
"Crow," he said, unsurprised but wary. "How did you even get in here?"
"Please. Outer Rim Nikke assigned to law enforcement? I can get into anywhere in this sterile shithole." She sat up, her movements fluid and deliberate. "Besides, when I heard my favorite mercenary graduated the Academy and started making waves, I had to check if you'd gone soft. Traded your edge for a fancy uniform and command authority."
"Just following orders and trying not to get killed," Arthur said, moving to his locker to remove his tactical vest. The damaged shoulder joint of his prosthetic ached, a dull throb that matched his headache. "Long day. Lord-class Rapture, political bullshit, mysterious sponsors revealing themselves—"
"Sounds exhausting." Crow's voice dropped into that purr she used when she wanted something. "Good thing I came all this way to help you... decompress."
Arthur turned to find her standing behind him, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something dark and expensive that shouldn't exist in the resource-scarce Ark. Her hand traced the edge of his prosthetic arm, fingers following the goddesium plating.
"Still as direct as ever," he said.
"Life's too short for games. Well, *your* life is." She smiled, sharp and unapologetic. "Mine's functionally indefinite as long as my core stays intact. Might as well enjoy the time we've got."
It was the most nihilistic proposition Arthur had heard all day, which somehow made it exactly what he needed. No politics, no grand plans, no expectations beyond physical release and temporary oblivion. Crow had always been good at providing that—no illusions, no pretense of deeper connection. Just raw need and mutual satisfaction.
"Moran know you're here?" he asked, even as his hands found her waist.
"Probably. Don't care." Crow's fingers worked at his uniform fastenings with practiced efficiency. "The Queen and I have an understanding. She gets your loyalty and your ridiculous hero complex. I get you when you need to forget you're trying to save the world."
She wasn't wrong. Arthur pulled her closer, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was more collision than romance. Crow responded with enthusiasm, her enhanced strength evident as she pushed him back toward the bunk. They fell together in a tangle of limbs and discarded clothing, Arthur's exhaustion temporarily forgotten in the rush of adrenaline and desire.
Crow's synthetic skin was warm under his touch, her body responding with programmed perfection to every caress. She moved above him with aggressive confidence, taking what she wanted while giving exactly enough to keep him engaged. There was no tenderness in it, no vulnerability—just two people using each other for temporary escape.
Afterward, they lay tangled in his narrow bunk, Crow's head resting on his chest while she traced idle patterns across his prosthetic arm.
"You're different," she said finally. "Not softer. Sharper, maybe. More focused."
"I have a purpose now," Arthur replied, staring at the ceiling. "Something beyond just surviving to the next job."
"That's what worries me." Crow propped herself up on one elbow, her emerald eyes serious for once. "Purpose gets people killed, Arthur. Especially people who care too much. Central Command doesn't want reformers. They want obedient commanders who follow doctrine and don't ask uncomfortable questions."
"Then they shouldn't have let me graduate."
"They let you graduate because someone powerful wanted you here. That Director who saved your ass today? She's using you for something. Everyone's using you for something." Crow's expression hardened. "Just make sure you're using them back."
Arthur caught her hand, stilling its movement. "Is that what we're doing? Using each other?"
"Obviously." She said it without hesitation or apology. "I use you for decent sex and a reminder that some humans aren't complete trash. You use me to forget about all the weight you're carrying. It's honest, which is more than most relationships in this fucked-up world."
She wasn't wrong, and Arthur found he couldn't argue. Crow had always been brutally honest about her motives, her nature, her complete lack of illusions. He'd thought once he could fix her, help her find something beyond nihilistic hedonism. That hope had died somewhere in the Outer Rim's darkness.
But she was right about one thing: honesty mattered. And right now, in this moment, her presence was exactly what he needed.
"Stay tonight?" he asked.
"Can't. Duty shift starts in four hours." Crow extracted herself from the bunk, moving with casual unselfconsciousness as she gathered her scattered clothing. "But I'll be around. Outer Rim enforcers get rotated through central Ark sometimes for 'cultural integration' training. Which is bullshit, but it means I can visit my favorite commander when he needs reminding that he's still human."
She dressed quickly, restoring her punk aesthetic with practiced ease. At the door, she paused.
"Arthur? Don't die trying to save everyone. Some things can't be fixed, no matter how hard you try." Her smile was sad and knowing. "But I hope you prove me wrong."
Then she was gone, leaving only her perfume and the memory of temporary oblivion.
Arthur lay alone in his bunk, processing the evening's contradictions. Crow's nihilism versus his own idealism, physical satisfaction without emotional connection, honest mutual use versus deeper bonds forming with his squads.
Eventually exhaustion claimed him, dragging him into dreamless sleep.
---
Miranda entered the Cerberus executive offices exactly on schedule, her synthetic systems automatically adjusting to the climate-controlled environment and soft lighting designed for human comfort. The top floor of the Cerberus headquarters section represented everything mass-produced Nikkes rarely saw—luxury materials, space, resources allocated for aesthetics rather than pure function.
She'd been summoned for debriefing immediately after Squad Seven's dismissal, which suggested importance beyond standard after-action reporting.
The CEO's office door opened at her approach, revealing a space that managed to feel both powerful and understated. Jack Harper sat behind an elegant desk, his appearance carefully maintained despite being in his late fifties—gray threading his dark hair, sharp eyes that missed nothing, the bearing of someone accustomed to absolute authority within his domain. Beside him stood Director Sarah Caldwell, her silver hair and severe suit as impeccable as during her dramatic entrance at Arthur's debriefing.
"Miranda," Harper said, gesturing to a chair. "Thank you for coming. Please, sit. This won't take long."
Miranda sat, her tactical systems automatically cataloging exits and threat vectors despite the absurdity of viewing her CEO as hostile. Harper had always treated Cerberus Nikkes well—better than most manufacturers, certainly better than Central Command. His reputation for viewing custom-built Nikkes as valuable assets rather than expendable equipment was well-earned.
"Sir," she acknowledged. "Director Caldwell."
"Miranda." Caldwell's expression was professionally warm. "I wanted to hear your assessment of Commander Cousland directly. The telemetry and reports tell part of the story, but I value firsthand perspective from someone who worked with him in combat."
"The Commander is exceptional," Miranda said without hesitation. "His tactical thinking is sound, his leadership style effective, and his treatment of Nikkes markedly different from standard doctrine. He treats us as soldiers and equals rather than equipment. That alone would distinguish him, but combined with his combat capability—those prosthetics let him fight alongside us rather than directing from safety—he inspires genuine loyalty."
"Loyalty," Harper repeated thoughtfully. "That's the critical element, isn't it? Not just obedience, but genuine commitment to mission success and unit cohesion."
"Yes, sir. Squad Seven functioned better in six hours under his command than we have in months under rotation protocol. We trusted his judgment, trusted he valued our survival. That trust translated directly to combat effectiveness against the Lord-class Rapture."
Caldwell and Harper exchanged glances, some unspoken communication passing between them.
"Miranda," Harper said carefully, "what I'm about to discuss is classified above your clearance level. But given your performance and potential involvement in future operations, I'm authorizing disclosure. Director Caldwell and I are part of a... coordination effort, let's call it. Multiple parties concerned about Central Command's current trajectory."
"The doctrine of Nikke expendability," Miranda said. "The rotation protocol designed to prevent emotional attachment. The systematic dehumanization that wastes combat potential and lives."
"Precisely." Caldwell leaned forward. "Commander Cousland represents a test case. His background—Outer Rim mercenary, augmented specifically to fight alongside Nikkes, no institutional indoctrination before Academy admission—makes him ideal for demonstrating alternative command approaches. If he succeeds, if his methods prove consistently superior, we have justification for broader doctrinal reform."
"And if Central Command destroys him first?" Miranda asked quietly. "The way they destroyed other reformers?"
Harper's expression darkened. "You know about Commander Johan."
"Every Nikke knows about Commander Johan," Miranda replied. "The one commander who treated us as people, who achieved unprecedented success rates, who advocated for our rights. Central Command framed him for treason and had him executed. They made sure we all knew, to discourage hope."
"Johan was brilliant but lacked protection," Caldwell said. "No sponsor, no institutional backing. He was isolated and vulnerable. Commander Cousland has advantages Johan didn't—multiple powerful sponsors including myself, Harper, and others I can't name. We're invested in his success."
"But you're using him," Miranda observed. "As a pawn to change the system."
"We're *supporting* him," Harper corrected. "There's a difference. Commander Cousland's goals align with ours—better treatment for Nikkes, more effective combat doctrine, actual progress toward reclaiming the surface. We're providing protection and resources to help him achieve those goals. Yes, we benefit from his success. But so does he, and so do all Nikkes."
Miranda considered this carefully. Everything they said made logical sense, and Harper's reputation for straight dealing was solid. But something about being a piece in someone else's strategy felt uncomfortable.
"What do you need from me?" she asked.
"Continue performing as you have," Caldwell said. "If you're assigned to Commander Cousland again, serve with the same excellence you showed in Sector Twelve. Your success reflects well on him, strengthens the argument for reform. Beyond that, simply be aware that his enemies within Central Command will look for any excuse to remove him. Anything you observe that might threaten his position, report through secure channels directly to me."
"You want me to spy on other commanders," Miranda said flatly.
"I want you to help protect someone trying to make things better," Harper corrected. "For all Nikkes, not just custom-built models like yourself. Commander Cousland fights for mass-produced units, for the Outer Rim rejects, for everyone Central Command has written off as acceptable losses. That's rare enough to be worth protecting."
Miranda thought of Flower's forgotten name, Ocean's quiet dignity despite systemic dehumanization, the countless mass-produced Nikkes treated as disposable machinery. Then she thought of Arthur's steady leadership, his genuine respect, his willingness to risk himself rather than spend their lives carelessly.
"Understood, sir," she said. "I'll do whatever's necessary to support the Commander's mission."
"Excellent." Harper smiled, genuine warmth breaking through his executive reserve. "That's all, Miranda. Excellent work in Sector Twelve. Truly exceptional."
Miranda stood, saluted, and departed, her mind racing with new understanding. Arthur Cousland wasn't just a reformist commander. He was the centerpiece of a conspiracy involving multiple manufacturers and high-level officials, all working to reshape Central Command's doctrine.
The stakes were far higher than she'd realized. And if Arthur failed, if Central Command crushed him the way they'd crushed Johan, the consequences would extend far beyond one man's career.
She would have to be very careful about how she proceeded. Arthur had earned her loyalty honestly, through respect and competence. But now that loyalty served larger purposes, caught up in political machinations she barely understood.
Miranda headed back toward the Cerberus barracks, wondering if Arthur knew how many powerful people had invested in his success—and how many others were undoubtedly working to ensure his failure.