The Iron Kettle grew louder as the evening wore on, other patrons filing in after their shifts. Arthur's table had accumulated several empty bottles, the beer proving stronger than its modest appearance suggested. Nyx was holding forth about some mishap during a previous mission, her usual restraint loosened by alcohol, while Lyra laughed—actually laughed—at the punchline.
Scarlet sat close enough that Arthur could feel the warmth radiating from her synthetic body, her shoulder pressed against his. She'd been quiet for the last few minutes, nursing her drink while watching the others with an expression that might have been contentment.
"You okay?" Arthur asked, his own words slightly fuzzy at the edges.
Scarlet turned those crimson eyes on him, mechanical irises adjusting in the low light. "Better than I've been in a long time," she admitted. "This feels... normal. Like we're people instead of equipment."
"You are people."
"Not according to Central Command." She took another drink. "But according to you, apparently. Why is that, Arthur? Really?"
The alcohol made honesty easier. "Because I've seen what happens when you treat people as disposable. The Outer Rim runs on that philosophy, and it creates monsters. I watched good people get chewed up by a system that didn't value them. Watched Moran fight to keep her territory stable because she understood that loyalty goes both ways." He met her gaze steadily. "You three deserve better than what you've gotten. It's that simple."
Scarlet's hand found his thigh under the table, synthetic fingers warm through the fabric of his pants. "Nothing's that simple."
"Maybe not. But it's a start."
Across the table, Nyx caught the exchange and smirked. "Hey, you two want to get a room, or are we continuing this party?"
"Don't be crude," Lyra chided, but her smile suggested she wasn't entirely serious.
Arthur checked his internal chronometer—a useful feature of his prosthetics. "It's getting late. We should probably call it."
They settled the bill—Arthur covering it as promised despite Nyx's half-hearted protests—and spilled out into the corridor. The Ark's lighting had dimmed to simulate night cycles, and the commercial district had quieted considerably.
"Maintenance quarters for us," Nyx said, steadying Lyra who'd had perhaps one drink too many. "You good, Commander?"
"Arthur," he corrected again. "And yeah. I know the way to the barracks."
Scarlet hadn't moved from his side. "Actually, I'll make sure he gets there safely. Man's got two days' worth of combat and half a brewery in him."
Nyx's golden eyes sparkled with understanding and something like approval. "Right. Sure. You two be safe."
They departed, Nyx supporting Lyra with one arm while waving with the other. Arthur and Scarlet stood in the quiet corridor, suddenly very aware of each other's proximity.
"I don't actually need an escort," Arthur said.
"I know." Scarlet stepped closer, her hand sliding into his prosthetic one. "But I want to stay with you tonight. If that's acceptable to the Commander."
Arthur's pulse quickened despite the alcohol dulling his senses. "More than acceptable."
The walk to his quarters felt both too long and too short. Arthur's room was standard junior commander allocation—small, functional, barely personalized beyond some equipment maintenance gear and a few changes of clothes. The bed dominated the space, military-issue but reasonably comfortable.
Scarlet closed the door behind them, leaning against it while studying him with an intensity that had nothing to do with tactical assessment. "Last chance to change your mind," she said quietly. "Once we cross this line, there's no going back. Command already thinks we're problems. This would be... complicated."
"Everything about us is complicated," Arthur replied, crossing the distance between them. His goddesium hands found her waist, feeling the synthetic warmth of her body through thin fabric. "Might as well make it worthwhile."
Scarlet's kiss was fierce and hungry, months or years of isolation and dehumanization channeling into desperate need. Arthur responded in kind, his prosthetic hands finding the fastenings of her jacket while her fingers worked at his shirt. They shed layers between kisses, mapping each other's bodies with growing urgency.
Her synthetic skin was warmer than he'd expected, textured enough to feel real but smooth in ways that spoke to advanced manufacturing. The exposed mechanical joints at her neck and wrists were cool metal that contrasted beautifully with the warmth everywhere else. Arthur traced the seam where synthetic skin met machinery, fascinated by the engineering even as arousal clouded his thoughts.
"I'm not fragile," Scarlet breathed against his ear. "You don't have to be gentle."
"Good," Arthur growled, lifting her easily—his prosthetic limbs providing strength beyond his original biological limits. "Because I don't intend to be."
They fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and desperate need. Scarlet's body responded to his touch with reactions that seemed entirely human—quick breaths, flushed skin, soft sounds of pleasure that drove him wild. He explored her with hands and mouth, learning what made her gasp, what made her arch into him.
When he finally entered her, the sensation was exquisite—tight heat and slick pressure that felt biological despite her artificial nature. Scarlet wrapped her legs around his waist, synthetic muscles powerful enough to break bones applied with careful control, and met his thrusts with equal intensity.
They moved together with the same synchronization they'd shown in combat, anticipating each other's rhythms, building toward mutual completion. Arthur felt the tension coiling tighter, his prosthetic hands gripping Scarlet's hips hard enough to leave marks on her synthetic skin. She didn't complain—instead she urged him harder, faster, meeting him with fierce enthusiasm.
Release hit like a combat stim crash, overwhelming and complete. Arthur collapsed beside Scarlet, both of them breathing hard despite her limited need for oxygen. The room smelled of sex and sweat, and Arthur felt more satisfied than he had in months.
Scarlet curled against him, her head resting on his shoulder while one hand traced patterns across his chest. "That was..." she started, then laughed quietly. "I'd forgotten it could be like that. Most interactions with humans are clinical at best, hostile at worst."
"That was definitely not clinical," Arthur agreed, still catching his breath.
They lay in comfortable silence for several minutes, the post-coital haze settling over them like a warm blanket. Finally, Scarlet spoke again, her voice thoughtful.
"I want to talk about something. While we're both being honest."
Arthur shifted to look at her. "Okay."
"You're involved with Moran. One of the Underworld Queens." Scarlet met his gaze calmly. "I know because Nyx has connections to the Outer Rim, and because it's pretty much an open secret among people who pay attention. I'm not asking you to end that relationship."
"Oh?" Arthur wasn't sure where this was going.
"Nobody practices monogamy anymore, Arthur. Not in the Ark, and certainly not among soldiers. The war killed most romantic idealism along with half the population. People form connections where they can, take comfort where they find it, and don't ask for exclusive commitment when every mission might be the last one." She propped herself up on one elbow. "What I'm saying is, I want this. You and me. But I'm not asking you to give up what you have with Moran. I'm asking to join it. To be part of whatever you're building."
Arthur processed that, his mind still slightly fuzzy with alcohol and satisfaction. "You want a polyamorous relationship."
"I want you," Scarlet corrected. "However that works with your other commitments. Because we're soldiers in a post-apocalyptic hellscape, and tomorrow isn't guaranteed. I'd rather have part of you than none of you."
The honesty was breathtaking in its simplicity. Arthur reached up, cupping her face with one goddesium hand. "Then you have me. Whatever form that takes, however complicated it gets. You're mine, and I'm yours."
Scarlet's smile could have powered the Ark's lighting systems. She kissed him again, slower this time, less desperate and more tender. They made love twice more before exhaustion finally claimed them, falling asleep tangled together in Arthur's narrow bed.
---
Two days later and several levels above the junior commander barracks, CEO Ingrid of Elysion stood in Deputy Chief Andersen's office, her tall frame silhouetted against the window overlooking the Ark's central sector. She cut an imposing figure—sharp features, platinum blonde hair pulled into a severe bun, ice-blue eyes that missed nothing. Her business attire was immaculate, tailored to emphasize competence rather than femininity, though she was objectively attractive in a cold, professional way.
Andersen sat behind his desk reviewing documents on a holographic display, his weathered face creased with years of military service. He'd been a commander himself before his promotion to Deputy Chief, and still carried himself with a soldier's bearing despite the administrative role.
"This is highly irregular," he said without looking up from the files. "Nikkes don't request specific commander assignments. They accept rotation protocols and make the best of it."
"And yet two of my girls have done exactly that," Ingrid replied, her voice cool and measured. "Product 08—Lyra—and Soldier EG—Nyx—both submitted formal requests through their maintenance supervisor to be permanently assigned to Commander Arthur Cousland and Squad Thirteen. I wanted to discuss this anomaly with you directly."
Andersen finally looked up, studying the CEO with calculating interest. "Your girls. You take personal interest in every Nikke that comes off Elysion production lines?"
"I take personal interest in exceptional situations," Ingrid corrected. "Most mass-production Nikkes accept their assignments without comment, content to follow protocols and complete missions. When two of them specifically request a commander—especially a problematic commander from the Outer Rim with augmented limbs—that warrants attention."
"Cousland's first mission was exemplary," Andersen admitted, pulling up the mission report. "Squad Thirteen recovered all five resource caches, eliminated a master-class Rapture, and returned with zero casualties. Performance was well above projections for a problem unit."
"The question is whether that performance was legitimate teamwork or Commander Cousland getting lucky on his first deployment." Ingrid moved to the desk, examining the data with professional interest. "He's got an unusual background. Outer Rim mercenary, sponsored into the Academy through channels that remain classified even to me, prosthetic augmentation using Nikke-grade components. Either he's genuinely different from standard commanders, or he's very good at manipulation."
"You think he's manipulating your Nikkes?"
"I think I need more data before I authorize permanent assignment changes." Ingrid's expression remained neutral, but something flickered in those ice-blue eyes. "Despite what Central Command prefers to believe, I do care about my girls. Elysion manufactures them, but they're still people. If Commander Cousland offers them better treatment than rotation protocols provide, I'm inclined to support that. But I won't authorize changes based on one successful mission."
Andersen leaned back in his chair, a slight smile touching his scarred face. "You and I might be the only senior officials in this building who remember that Nikkes were human once."
"You were a field commander. You fought alongside them when the war was still active."
"Watched good soldiers—human and Nikke both—die because bureaucrats made tactical decisions from safe bunkers," Andersen confirmed. "If Cousland actually treats his squad with respect, that makes him rare and valuable. But you're right. We need confirmation that his performance with Squad Thirteen wasn't an isolated incident."
"So what do you propose?" Ingrid asked.
"Rotation proceeds as scheduled. Cousland takes command of Squad Seven for their next deployment, gets assigned a different operator, works with unfamiliar Nikkes under normal protocols. If he maintains his performance standards and treats them with the same apparent respect he showed Squad Thirteen, then we have evidence that his approach is genuine rather than circumstantial." Andersen pulled up scheduling data. "Squad Seven is due for a retrieval mission in forty-eight hours. Combat probability is moderate. Good test conditions."
"And if he fails? If Squad Seven reports abuse or incompetence?"
"Then rotation protocols continue as normal, and I'll deny the permanent assignment requests from Lyra and Nyx." Andersen's expression hardened. "But if he succeeds, I want to explore why he's effective where other commanders fail. The Ark's losing too many good soldiers to incompetent leadership and systematic dehumanization. If Cousland represents a better approach, I intend to identify and replicate it."
Ingrid studied the Deputy Chief with new appreciation. "You actually care about improving Nikke survival rates."
"I care about winning this war," Andersen corrected. "And we won't win it by treating half our fighting force as expendable equipment. The math doesn't work, and the morale problems are becoming critical." He met her gaze directly. "So yes, CEO Ingrid. I care about your girls, because they're soldiers under my ultimate command, and I don't waste soldiers casually."
"Then we're in agreement. Commander Cousland gets his test assignment. If he passes, we discuss permanent squad assignments and potentially using him as a model for commander training reforms." Ingrid straightened, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from her suit. "I'll be monitoring the situation personally."
"As will I," Andersen confirmed. "Let's hope Cousland is as good as his first mission suggests. The Ark needs more commanders like that and fewer bureaucratic sadists who treat Nikkes like target practice for their egos."
Ingrid allowed herself a small, cold smile. "Agreed. I'll expect your report after Squad Seven's deployment."
She departed with efficient grace, leaving Andersen alone with his thoughts and holographic displays. He pulled up Commander Cousland's personnel file again, studying the young man's face and heavily redacted background.
"Don't disappoint me, son," he murmured to the image. "We need people who remember that winning requires treating soldiers like people, not equipment. Show me you're one of them."