The shuttle's interior was utilitarian gray metal, reinforced plating designed to withstand surface conditions and occasional Rapture fire. Arthur sat across from his temporary squad, watching the bay doors seal with hydraulic finality. The engines hummed to life, vibration traveling through the deck plates as the craft lifted from its berth.
"Sector Twelve is forty kilometers northeast," 6O's voice came through the comm system, bright and encouraging. "Flight time approximately eighteen minutes. Try to relax! Well, not too relaxed because you need to stay alert for combat readiness, but also not too tense because that affects reaction time and—"
"We understand, 6O," Miranda said gently, settling into her crash seat with fluid grace. Her eyes remained fixed on Arthur, assessing him with the same calculating intelligence he'd noticed in the bay.
Flower sat rigid in her harness, hands gripping her rocket launcher like a lifeline. She stared at the deck, green eyes unfocused, lost in thoughts Arthur couldn't read.
Ocean noticed her companion's tension and leaned closer. "Hey. You okay?"
"I don't know what to call myself," Flower said quietly. "The Commander said I should have a name, but I can't remember mine from before conversion. Everything's fragmented. I see pieces—a classroom maybe, or a park—but nothing connects. Nothing makes sense."
Ocean's expression softened with understanding. "That's normal. Memory fragmentation happens to most mass-produced Nikkes. The conversion process damages organic neural tissue, especially long-term memories." She paused, considering her words carefully. "After I was converted, I couldn't remember my original name either. So I chose Ocean because I remembered loving the water. Not specific memories, just... the feeling of it. The concept."
"You picked your own name?" Flower looked up, hope flickering across her features.
"Lots of Nikkes do," Ocean confirmed. "Especially when the old ones don't fit anymore. We're different people after conversion—literally different. New bodies, new capabilities, new purposes. Sometimes a new name helps bridge the gap between who we were and who we are."
Flower absorbed this, processing. "I remember red. Flowers, specifically. Roses, I think. They meant something to me before, but I don't know what."
"Then Flower is a good name," Ocean said firmly. "It connects you to your past even if you can't remember the details. That matters."
Arthur watched the exchange with approval. Ocean was showing the kind of squad cohesion that made soldiers effective—building up a teammate's confidence before combat. It reminded him of how Scarlet had supported Lyra during their first mission.
Miranda shifted in her seat, crossing one perfect leg over the other. "Commander Cousland. May I ask you something personal?"
"Arthur. And go ahead."
"Your prosthetics. You said you had them installed in the Outer Rim before joining the Academy." Her blue eyes glinted with curiosity. "That's expensive surgery. Goddesium components, Nikke-grade modifications—that's not something a mercenary could typically afford. Who paid for it?"
Arthur had expected this question eventually. Miranda was clearly intelligent, probably accustomed to analyzing situations and identifying inconsistencies. "Same person who sponsored my Academy admission. I don't know their identity."
"You don't know?" Miranda's skepticism was polite but evident. "Someone invests that heavily in you and remains anonymous?"
"The Outer Rim runs on anonymous transactions," Arthur said. "I received an offer through an intermediary—full Academy sponsorship plus funds for augmentation surgery. The terms were simple: graduate, become a commander, lead Nikke squads effectively. I accepted."
"Why?" Miranda leaned forward, genuinely interested. "You were surviving in the Outer Rim, working as a mercenary. Why accept an offer that would move you into the Ark's military structure? Most people would see that as trading one dangerous life for another."
Arthur considered his answer carefully. He couldn't mention Moran directly—their relationship was supposed to remain secret—but he could offer partial truth. "Because I was tired of watching Nikkes get treated like disposable equipment. In the Outer Rim, the Underworld Queens run their territories efficiently because they understand that strength comes from loyalty and competent leadership. But up here in the Ark, Command treats you like machines. That needs to change."
"And you think one commander can change it?" Ocean asked, though her tone suggested hope rather than doubt.
"I think enough commanders could. If I can prove that treating Nikkes as soldiers instead of equipment produces better results, maybe that shifts policy. Or at least shifts how individual squads operate."
Flower was watching him now with something approaching reverence. "You really believe that. You actually want to help us."
"I believe soldiers deserve respect," Arthur said simply. "All soldiers."
Miranda smiled, seemingly satisfied with his answer. "Cerberus manufactured me as a custom unit. I'm supposed to be superior to mass-produced models—stronger, faster, more intelligent. Command treats me accordingly. Better equipment, actual maintenance, assignments to competent commanders." She gestured to Ocean and Flower. "But they're just as capable as I am. The only difference is circumstances of creation. I've always found that arbitrary distinction offensive."
"Because it is," Arthur said.
"Approaching drop zone," 6O announced. "Surface conditions are stable. Temperature twenty-two degrees, wind minimal, visibility excellent. No Rapture signatures detected within immediate landing area, but remember they could be hiding! Or sleeping! Do Raptures sleep? I should research that—"
The shuttle descended smoothly, landing gear deploying with mechanical precision. Through the viewport, Arthur could see Sector Twelve's warehouse complex—massive industrial buildings connected by covered loading corridors, surrounded by cracked pavement and aggressive vegetation. Nature had reclaimed much of the territory in the century since humanity retreated underground.
The loading ramp descended with a hydraulic hiss. Arthur stood, checking his weapons one final time. "Standard formation. Ocean, you're on point with sensors. Flower, cover our six. Miranda, you're with me in the middle. Watch your corners and maintain comm discipline."
"Acknowledged," they responded in near-unison, professional discipline overriding earlier conversation.
They moved down the ramp into gray afternoon light. The sky was overcast, casting everything in muted tones. Arthur's prosthetic legs adjusted automatically to the uneven terrain, sensors providing enhanced proprioception that made movement smooth despite debris.
The warehouse complex loomed ahead, silent and seemingly abandoned. Too silent.
"6O, confirm intel on Rapture presence," Arthur said quietly.
"Sensors show... wait, that's odd. I'm reading multiple Ant-types throughout the complex. Maybe fifteen, possibly twenty. But the energy signatures are wrong—they're not moving in standard patrol patterns."
"Define wrong," Miranda said, her force shield generator humming to standby status.
"They're clustered in specific locations. Almost like they're guarding something. But there's no master-class signature coordinating them. Ants don't demonstrate that kind of tactical behavior without a master-class unit directing them."
Arthur processed this quickly. "Could the master-class be shielded? Hiding its signature somehow?"
"Possible but unlikely," 6O said, uncertainty creeping into her usually cheerful voice. "I'll keep scanning. Be careful in there!"
They approached the first warehouse, a massive structure with collapsed sections of roof and shattered windows. Ocean moved ahead, her sensors sweeping the interior. "Clear immediate area. Detecting movement deeper inside—multiple contacts."
"Ant-types?" Arthur asked.
"Affirmative. Three signatures, approximately forty meters northeast."
Arthur signaled the squad forward. They entered through a damaged loading bay, stepping over twisted metal and shattered concrete. The interior was vast, filled with industrial shelving that had collapsed into chaotic debris fields. Shadows pooled in corners where afternoon light couldn't penetrate.
The first Ant-type appeared from behind a support column, its arachnid form moving with mechanical precision. Lyra wasn't here to provide sniper support, so Arthur raised his rifle and fired a controlled burst. The rounds sparked off the Rapture's armored carapace but didn't penetrate.
"Core shots only," Miranda said calmly, her SMG chattering to life. She fired with surgical precision, rounds punching through the joint where the Ant's head connected to its thorax. The Rapture's red core flared and died, the machine collapsing into an inert heap.
Two more emerged from different angles. Flower's rocket launcher roared, the explosive round catching one Ant center-mass and reducing it to scattered components. Ocean flanked the third, her lighter weapon hammering its legs until it stumbled, then delivering the killing shot to its exposed core.
"Contact eliminated," Arthur reported. "6O, updating position. Moving to first objective marker."
"Copy that! You're doing great! Well, except for the part where you're getting shot at, that's not great, but you're handling it great!"
They pressed deeper into the warehouse complex, methodically clearing rooms and corridors. The industrial components they'd been sent to recover were scattered throughout—hydraulic cylinders, power regulators, intact circuit boards. Ocean and Miranda collected items systematically, loading them into tactical packs.
More Ants appeared as they progressed, always in small groups, always positioned near resource caches. Arthur's squad fell into efficient rhythm—suppressing fire, flanking maneuvers, precision core shots. Flower's heavy ordinance proved especially effective, her rocket launcher reducing Raptures to component parts with devastating efficiency.
But something nagged at Arthur's tactical instincts. The Ants were present in significant numbers, yet they showed none of the coordination he'd expect. They attacked in small groups without supporting each other, defended locations without strategic value, demonstrated no learning or adaptation.
"This doesn't make sense," he said after they cleared the third warehouse section. "These Ants are acting like individual units. No coordination, no tactical doctrine. It's like they're running pre-programmed defense patterns instead of adaptive responses."
Miranda checked her ammunition count. "Ants normally operate under master-class supervision. Without it, they default to basic programming—patrol routes, territorial defense, attack-on-sight protocols."
"So where's the master-class?" Ocean asked. "Intel suggested one or two soldier-class units at most, but we've encountered twenty Ants. That concentration should definitely have master-class oversight."
"Unless the master-class was removed," Arthur said slowly, tactical implications forming. "Or never existed in the first place."
"Commander," 6O interrupted, her voice unusually serious. "I'm detecting an energy signature in the fourth warehouse, center structure. It's not Rapture technology. It's... human. Old military hardware, pre-war encryption. I think there's something in there that Command didn't tell us about."
Arthur exchanged glances with his squad. Flower looked nervous, Ocean calculating, Miranda intrigued.
"Redirect to fourth warehouse," Arthur decided. "Maintain combat spacing. If someone didn't want us knowing about that signature, they might've seeded the area with Ants as deterrent."
They moved through connecting corridors, clearing Raptures as they went. The fourth warehouse was larger than the others, its structure more intact. Through cracked windows, Arthur could see something inside—equipment, maybe, or containers.
Something Command hadn't mentioned in their briefing.
Something someone wanted to stay hidden.