Arthur's quarters were modest by command standards, but the space felt smaller with three people tangled together on the narrow bed. Scarlet lay against his left side, her red hair splayed across his chest, while Nyx pressed against his right, her bronze-toned hand resting on his abdomen. The goddesium of his prosthetic arms was cool against their synthetic skin, a reminder of the blurred lines between flesh and metal that defined all of them.
"You're thinking too loud," Nyx murmured, her golden eyes half-open.
Arthur traced idle patterns along Scarlet's shoulder. "Just processing the conversation from earlier."
Scarlet shifted, propping herself up to look at him. Her crimson eyes held a mix of concern and understanding. "About what Andersen said?"
"About all of it." Arthur's jaw tightened. "The idea that I should push you harder because you can survive more damage. That caring about your wellbeing makes me a liability."
"He's not entirely wrong," Scarlet said carefully. "We are built to withstand more than baseline humans."
"Doesn't mean you should have to." Arthur's prosthetic hand clenched briefly before relaxing. "Doesn't mean I should treat you like equipment that can be run until it breaks."
Nyx laughed, low and rough. "You're such a bleeding heart, Cousland. It's almost annoying how much you actually give a damn."
"Almost?" Arthur asked with a slight smile.
"Almost," Nyx confirmed, then kissed him slowly. When she pulled back, her expression was serious. "But you need to trust us. We know our limits. We'll tell you if we're truly compromised. Until then, we're soldiers. Let us do our job."
Scarlet's fingers traced the seam where Arthur's prosthetic met flesh at his shoulder. "We're not asking you to stop caring. We're asking you to trust that we can handle what we were designed to handle."
"And if I can't separate those things?" Arthur asked quietly.
"Then you'll figure it out," Scarlet said, "because the alternative is losing us to another commander who won't care at all."
The words settled between them like a shared burden. Arthur pulled both women closer, feeling the warmth of their bodies despite knowing that warmth was engineered, maintained by internal systems rather than organic processes. It didn't matter. They were real to him in every way that counted.
"I'll do better," he said finally. "I'll trust you to know yourselves."
"Good," Nyx said, her hand sliding lower. "Now stop overthinking and pay attention to what's actually happening."
Arthur did.
The Ark's command level was unusually quiet at 0800 hours. Deputy Chief Andersen stood in his office, reviewing operational reports when his door chimed.
"Come," he said without looking up.
Jack Harper entered with the confident stride of someone accustomed to authority. The Cerberus CEO was in his early fifties, dark hair graying at the temples, wearing civilian business attire rather than military dress. Everything about him spoke of calculated precision.
"Deputy Chief," Harper said. "Thank you for seeing me on short notice."
Andersen gestured to a chair. "Your message indicated urgency. What can Central Command do for Cerberus?"
Harper sat, producing a datapad which he placed on the desk between them. "I need to request a specific squad for a retrieval operation. Time-sensitive, high-priority, significant strategic value."
"Which squad?"
"Monarks. Commander Arthur Cousland's unit."
Andersen's expression remained neutral, but his eyes sharpened. "Cousland's squad has been permanently assigned less than a week. Why them specifically?"
"Because they've proven effective in contested territory, they can operate independently without constant oversight, and frankly, they're expendable enough that if this goes wrong, Central Command won't face significant political backlash." Harper's tone was matter-of-fact. "They're also the only squad currently available with the necessary skill balance for this operation."
"What's the operation?"
Harper activated the datapad, projecting a tactical map. "Sector Eighteen, approximately one hundred sixteen kilometers northeast of the Ark. Three days ago, we lost contact with Commander Jane Shepard during a long-range reconnaissance mission. Her biometrics went flatline six hours after last contact."
Andersen leaned forward. "Shepard? The N7 graduate?"
"Yes. One of our most capable field operatives." Harper's voice held genuine regret. "She was investigating reports of unusual Rapture activity in the area when her squad was overwhelmed. We recovered her squad's Nikkes, but Shepard's body remained at the crash site."
"You want to retrieve a corpse."
"I want to retrieve a candidate for conversion," Harper corrected. "Shepard has been flatline for seventy-two hours. We're approaching the outer limit of viable conversion window, but if we can recover her body within the next fast enough, Cerberus can perform the procedure. Her neural tissue should still be intact enough."
Andersen sat back, processing the implications. "You want to convert a dead commander into a Nikke."
"I want to preserve one of humanity's best tactical minds," Harper said. "Shepard was exceptional. Her combat record, her strategic analysis, her leadership capability—all of that could be maintained through conversion. She would be an invaluable asset."
"Assuming the conversion works after so much time." Andersen's tone was skeptical. "You're asking me to risk a full squad on a significant probability of failure."
"Yes," Harper said bluntly. "But consider the potential gain. A commander-grade Nikke with Shepard's experience would be unprecedented. The intelligence value alone justifies the risk."
Andersen studied the map. "Why can't you use aerial extraction? Cerberus has its own transport assets."
"Sector Eighteen is swarming with aerial-type Raptures. We've lost two drones and one manned shuttle attempting reconnaissance. Anything in the air for more than thirty seconds gets shredded." Harper zoomed in on the tactical display. "Ground approach is the only viable option. The team would need to move fast, travel light, and operate without extraction for the entire duration."
"How long are we talking?"
"Three days minimum, possibly four depending on Rapture activity. Two days travel to the site, six to eight hours for recovery and stabilization of the body, two days return." Harper highlighted waypoints along a proposed route. "I'm assigning Ashley Williams, one of our Nikke operatives who served under Shepard, as guide and additional firepower. She knows the terrain and has personal investment in the mission's success."
Andersen pulled up personnel files. "Commander Cousland just had a counseling session yesterday regarding his tendency to prioritize squad welfare over mission completion. You're asking me to send him on a multi-day operation with no extraction and a narrow success window."
"I'm aware of the timing," Harper said. "I'm also aware that Cousland treats his Nikkes as people rather than equipment, which means they'll fight harder for him than they would for most commanders. Ashley will follow orders regardless, but Cousland's squad will perform better if they trust their commander's judgment."
"Or he'll abort the mission at the first sign of trouble."
"Then he'll fail, and you'll have confirmation that he's not ready for command." Harper's expression was calculating. "This mission tests everything—his tactical capability, his ability to operate independently, his willingness to push his squad when necessary, his judgment under extended pressure. If he succeeds, you have proof he can handle difficult assignments. If he fails, you reassign him before he becomes a larger problem."
Andersen was quiet for a long moment, reviewing the mission parameters. "What's the real reason you want Shepard converted?"
Harper didn't hesitate. "Because before she died, she transmitted a partial report about what she found in Sector Eighteen. Raptures using coordinated tactics beyond normal parameters. Wreckage that appeared to be Nikke components integrated into Rapture bodies. Evidence of deliberate technological hybridization." He met Andersen's gaze steadily. "If Shepard is successfully converted into Nikke, her memories might contain critical intelligence about what's happening out there. Intelligence that could change our understanding of the Raptures."
The words hung in the air like a threat.
"That information is classified," Andersen said carefully.
"And it should remain so until we understand it better," Harper agreed. "Which is why Monarks is ideal. They're effective, they're discreet, and they already have a reputation for being outside normal command structure. If they report anomalies, it won't raise the same flags as a standard unit making the same claims."
Andersen considered the proposal from every angle. The risks were substantial—a four-day operation deep in hostile territory, narrow time window, questionable chance of success. But the potential intelligence value was significant, and Harper was right about one thing: this would definitively test whether Arthur Cousland could function as a field commander under real pressure.
"I'll approve the mission," Andersen said finally. "But I'm adding conditions. Cousland gets full tactical autonomy—no micromanagement from Cerberus or Central Command once he's deployed. If he judges the mission is unviable, he has authority to abort. And if he brings back Shepard's body successfully, he gets first choice of assignments for the next month."
Harper nodded. "Acceptable."
"When do you want them deployed?"
"Eighteen hundred hours today. Every hour we delay reduces conversion viability."
Andersen pulled up Cousland's current status. Off-duty, listed as in-quarters. "I'll have him briefed within two hours. Your Nikke, Ashley, should report to Bay Twenty-Three for integration with Monarks at fourteen hundred hours."
"Understood." Harper stood, retrieving his datapad. "Thank you, Deputy Chief."
"Don't thank me yet," Andersen said. "If this operation goes wrong, Cerberus will be explaining to Central Government why we lost a squad trying to recover a corpse."
"If this operation goes wrong," Harper said calmly, "we'll have larger problems than political explanations."
He left, and Andersen sat alone with the mission file, wondering if he was making the right decision or signing four people's death warrants.
Finally, he activated his comm. "Get me Commander Cousland. Priority briefing, conference room twelve, one hour."