Arthur crossed the reconstruction bay in three strides, stopping just short of Scarlet's examination table. She sat with her legs dangling over the edge—new legs, perfectly reconstructed, synthetic skin gleaming under the clinical lights. Her crimson eyes tracked his approach with warmth and something deeper.
"Hey, Commander," she said again, softer this time. "You look like hell."
"Could say the same about you a few hours ago." Arthur's voice came out rougher than intended. The memory of her bisected torso strapped to his back was still too fresh, too visceral.
Scarlet reached out, catching his goddesium hand in hers. "I'm fine. Better than fine, actually—Martinez did excellent work." She flexed her toes experimentally, then rotated her ankle. "Full range of motion, all systems optimal. Even fixed some minor calibration issues I'd been ignoring."
Martinez cleared her throat from the doorway. "I'll give you some privacy. Scarlet, you're cleared for normal activity, but take it easy for the first twenty-four hours. Let everything settle."
"Understood. Thank you, Martinez."
The engineer departed, leaving them alone in the bay. Arthur studied Scarlet's new lower body—identical to what she'd had before, down to the placement of armor plating and the subtle panel lines where synthetic skin met reinforced components.
"You can touch," Scarlet said, reading his hesitation. "I'm not going to break."
Arthur ran his hand along her shin, feeling the familiar texture, the slight warmth of active synthetic tissue. "It's exactly the same."
"Told you Martinez was good." Scarlet pulled him closer, until he stood between her knees. "Arthur, I'm okay. We all are. We survived."
"You took a blade meant for me."
"And I'd do it again." Her expression turned fierce. "You're our commander. More than that—you're... everything we talked about. Everything we hoped for. If keeping you alive means taking hits, that's the job."
"That's not—"
"It is." Scarlet cupped his face with both hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. "This is what we are, Arthur. Soldiers. Weapons. People. All of it at once. You taught me that balance matters. Well, this is the balance—we fight, we protect each other, we survive."
Arthur closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. The phantom weight of her severed torso still pressed against his back, a ghost he couldn't shake. "I thought I'd lost you."
"You didn't. I'm right here." She kissed him then, soft and reassuring, her lips warm against his. "And I have a favor to ask."
"Anything."
Scarlet's smile turned wicked. "Help me christen this new body properly. Back in your quarters. With Nyx."
Heat flooded through Arthur despite his exhaustion. "You sure you're up for that?"
"Martinez said normal activity. I'd say that qualifies." Scarlet slid off the table, testing her weight on her new legs. Perfect balance, no hesitation. "Besides, we've got two weeks of leave. Might as well start it right."
They collected Lyra and Nyx from recovery bay three. Lyra took one look at Arthur's expression and Scarlet's satisfied smile, then diplomatically announced she'd spend the night in her own quarters—something about wanting to recalibrate her systems in peace. Nyx, however, grinned with predatory interest.
"Someone's feeling confident," she observed, eyeing Scarlet's new lower body.
"Someone wants to make sure everything works properly," Scarlet replied. "You interested in helping?"
Nyx's golden eyes flicked to Arthur, who managed a tired but genuine smile. "I'm not saying no."
"Then let's get out of this medical bay," Nyx said. "Arthur looks like he's about to collapse, and I'd prefer he do that somewhere with a bed."
The walk back to Arthur's quarters felt surreal—four days of tension and terror condensing into this strange, liminal moment of safety and anticipation. Scarlet walked between them, her gait steady and assured, no trace of the catastrophic damage she'd sustained hours before.
Inside his modest quarters, Arthur barely had time to remove his armor before Scarlet pushed him toward the bed. Nyx sealed the door behind them, privacy locks engaging with a soft click.
"Ground rules," Scarlet said, her voice taking on that commander's edge she used when establishing tactical parameters. "We take care of Arthur first. He's been running on adrenaline and stubbornness for four days straight."
"Agreed," Nyx said, already stripping out of her combat suit with efficient movements. "He looks half-dead."
"I'm right here," Arthur pointed out, but his protest lacked conviction as Scarlet began removing his remaining armor pieces with practiced hands.
"And you're exhausted," Scarlet murmured, her fingers working the clasps of his chest plate. "Let us take care of you. You've earned it."
What followed was a slow, deliberate exploration—Scarlet testing the responsiveness of her reconstructed body, Nyx's strength tempered with surprising gentleness, Arthur caught between them in a haze of pleasure and relief. They moved together with the same coordination they'd shown in combat, each reading the others' responses, adjusting, adapting.
Scarlet straddled him first, her movements careful and experimental as she tested her new range of motion. "Everything feels... perfect," she breathed, her voice catching as Arthur's hands gripped her thighs. "Better than before, maybe."
Nyx positioned herself beside them, her lips finding Arthur's neck while her hands roamed across Scarlet's back, tracing the exposed mechanical joints where synthetic skin gave way to reinforced plating. "You look good put back together," she told Scarlet. "But then, you always did."
The tension of four days bled away in sweat and shared breath, in the affirmation of bodies still functioning, still alive, still capable of pleasure despite—or because of—everything they'd endured. Arthur let himself get lost in it, in them, trusting Scarlet and Nyx to pull him under and keep him safe.
When they finally collapsed together in a tangle of limbs and satisfied exhaustion, Arthur felt more human than he had in days. Scarlet curled against his left side, her new legs intertwined with his prosthetic ones. Nyx claimed his right, her bronze-toned skin warm against his ribs.
"Two weeks," Scarlet murmured sleepily. "What are we going to do with two whole weeks?"
"This," Nyx suggested. "Repeatedly."
Arthur huffed a quiet laugh, his eyes already closing. "Works for me."
They drifted into sleep, three soldiers finding temporary peace in each other's presence.
---
Far above Arthur's quarters, in a secured conference room on the command level, Deputy Chief Andersen sat across from two of the most powerful people in the Ark's corporate hierarchy.
Jack Harper, CEO of Cerberus Corporation, looked like a man who'd spent his life making difficult decisions and sleeping well afterward. Sharp-featured, iron-gray hair, eyes that missed nothing. He leaned back in his chair with deceptive casualness, a glass of expensive whiskey in hand.
Beside him, Ingrid—CEO of Elysion Corporation and technically Harper's rival—presented a stark contrast. Elegant where Harper was brutal, her platinum blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun, her expression carefully neutral. She drank water, not whiskey, and her posture suggested coiled readiness.
"So," Harper said without preamble, "our investment is paying dividends."
Andersen nodded slowly. "Commander Cousland killed a Tyrant-class Rapture with four Nikkes and small arms. The Reaper, no less. That's not just impressive—it's unprecedented."
"Which is exactly the problem," Ingrid interjected, her voice cool and precise. "Unprecedented draws attention. Attention from Central Government, from other corporate interests, from people who would rather the status quo remain unchallenged."
"Two of his squad are Elysion products," Harper observed. "Mass-produced units, labeled defective and insubordinate. Now they're confirmed Tyrant killers. I imagine that complicates your internal politics."
Ingrid's expression tightened fractionally. "Scarlet and Lyra were written off by my predecessors as failures. Proving they're not failures under the right leadership raises uncomfortable questions about how many other 'defective' Nikkes are simply victims of poor command."
"Which supports exactly what we wanted," Harper said. "Arthur was supposed to demonstrate that treating Nikkes as soldiers instead of equipment produces better results. He's done that. Spectacularly."
"Too spectacularly," Andersen said quietly. "Central Government is already asking questions. Commander General Hawthorne wants Arthur's methods studied—which sounds positive until you realize he wants to find ways to discredit them. Others in Command want Arthur transferred to elite units, which would separate him from his squad and undermine everything we've proven."
Harper's eyes narrowed. "The whole point of sponsoring him was to create systemic change. One success story isn't enough."
"No," Andersen agreed. "Which is why I've granted him two weeks mandatory leave. Let the political noise die down. Let his squad recover. Give me time to position things properly."
"Position things how?" Ingrid asked.
Andersen smiled slightly, a predatory expression that reminded both CEOs why he'd risen to Deputy Chief despite lacking corporate sponsorship. "I have plans for Commander Cousland. Long-term plans. But they require careful timing and the right circumstances."
"Care to elaborate?" Harper pressed.
"Not yet. Too many variables still in play." Andersen stood, moving to the window overlooking the Ark's central shaft. "What I need from both of you is patience and continued support. Arthur is valuable precisely because he's genuine—he actually believes Nikkes deserve dignity and proper treatment. That authenticity can't be faked or rushed."
"And if Central Government moves against him before you're ready?" Ingrid asked.
"They won't. The Shepard recovery bought us goodwill—Cerberus gets their commander back, potentially with critical intelligence intact. The Tyrant kill demonstrates tactical value. Arthur's too useful to sideline right now." Andersen turned back to face them. "But we need to be smart. No more missions that draw this level of attention for a while. Let him fade from the spotlight, at least publicly."
Harper swirled his whiskey thoughtfully. "Two weeks, then what?"
"Then we see how Commander Jane Shepard's conversion progresses," Andersen said. "And we start building the framework for real reform. Slowly. Carefully. With Arthur as the proof of concept."
Ingrid studied Andersen with cool assessment. "You're gambling a lot on one commander and one squad."
"I'm gambling on what they represent," Andersen corrected. "Change is coming whether we manage it or not. I'd rather we control how it happens."
Harper raised his glass in a sardonic toast. "To controlled change, then. And to Arthur Cousland—may he survive being our unwitting champion."
Ingrid didn't join the toast, but she didn't object either. "Keep us informed, Deputy Chief. If the political situation shifts, we need to know immediately."
"Agreed." Andersen showed them to the door. "And gentlemen, lady—thank you. For taking the risk on Arthur in the first place. Whatever happens next, we've already proven more than most thought possible."
When they'd gone, Andersen returned to the window, looking down at the Ark's endless levels, at the humanity huddled underground while machines ruled the surface above. Somewhere far below, Arthur Cousland slept, unaware of the forces moving around him, the expectations and agendas pinned to his success.
Andersen hoped the young commander was strong enough for what was coming. Because ready or not, Arthur was about to become the face of a revolution he hadn't asked for.
And revolutions, Andersen knew from long experience, always consumed someone before they were through.