The auditorium smelled like recycled air and false hope. Arthur Cousland stood in the back row of graduating commanders, his dress uniform stiff and uncomfortable against skin that remembered the looser fabrics of the Outer Rim. Two hundred cadets surrounded him, most born in the proper sections of the Ark, most never having seen the surface except through training simulations. Most would be dead within a year.
The brass loved their speeches. Commander General Hawthorne stood at the podium, his chest heavy with medals that meant nothing to anyone who'd actually fought. Arthur's mechanical fingers flexed inside white gloves that hid the goddesium black beneath. The rare metal had cost him three months of mercenary work and a favor to Moran he still hadn't fully repaid. Worth it, though. Without the prosthetics, he'd never handle Nikke-grade weaponry, never survive topside.
"You represent humanity's finest," Hawthorne droned. "You will lead our Nikke forces to reclaim the surface, to restore our world."
The cadet beside Arthur straightened with pride. Fresh-faced kid, maybe twenty-two. Arthur gave him three weeks.
Nikke forces. Never Nikke soldiers. Never Nikke people. Just forces, like wind or gravity. Arthur had seen how the Ark treated them—the women who'd sacrificed their humanity to become weapons. Saw the segregated maintenance bays, the equipment-grade rations, the casual cruelty of treating thinking beings as expendable tools. The Outer Rim had been brutal, but at least it was honest about its brutality.
His thoughts drifted to Moran, to the last night before he'd left her territory for the Academy. Her black hair spread across silk sheets, synthetic skin warm against his. She'd traced the scars where his original arms had been, where the Ripper Doc had attached the prosthetics.
"You'll forget about us," she'd whispered.
"Never," he'd promised.
Two years later, he still kept that promise. Secret meetings in the sealed-off sections, messages passed through old gang channels. The other cadets would've been horrified—fraternizing with an Underworld Queen, a Nikke who ruled criminals. Arthur just called it loyalty.
"Cadet Cousland."
His name yanked him back. Hawthorne was staring directly at him, thin lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. The other graduates had already received their assignments, moving forward to accept data tablets with their squad information and first mission parameters.
"Report to Assignment Office Seven after dismissal. Your case requires... special handling."
Whispers rippled through the graduating class. Assignment Office Seven. Arthur knew what that meant. Everyone knew. It was where they sent the problems, the washouts, the commanders nobody wanted. His jaw tightened but he kept his expression neutral. *Should've expected this.*
The ceremony ended with mandatory applause. Arthur waited until the auditorium emptied before making his way through the Ark's sterile corridors toward the lower assignment offices. His footsteps echoed off metal walls, past propaganda posters showing heroic commanders and grateful Nikkes working in perfect harmony. Reality never looked like the posters.
Assignment Office Seven sat in a forgotten corner, its door marked only by faded numbers. Inside, a tired-looking administrator glanced up from her terminal.
"Cousland?"
"That's me."
She handed him a tablet without ceremony. "Squad Thirteen. They're waiting in Bay Twenty-Three. Your first deployment is in six hours."
"Six hours?" Arthur took the tablet, scanning the information. "Standard protocol is forty-eight hours for initial integration."
"Standard protocol is for standard squads." The administrator's expression held something like pity. "Good luck, Commander."
Arthur left before he could say something that would get him demoted before his first day. The tablet displayed minimal information about his assigned Nikkes. Three names: Scarlet, Lyra, Nyx. Combat specialist, sniper specialist, heavy weapons specialist. Their service records were heavily redacted, but the disciplinary notes were crystal clear. Insubordination. Questioning orders. Aggressive behavior toward command staff.
*They gave me the problem children,* Arthur thought, making his way to Bay Twenty-Three. *Probably hoping we'll all get killed and solve multiple problems at once.*
The maintenance bay was smaller than the main hangars, dimly lit, equipment older and less maintained. Three figures waited in the shadows, and Arthur felt their eyes tracking him before he even crossed the threshold.
The first stepped into the light, and Arthur understood immediately why the brass might find her threatening. Red hair like fresh blood, crimson eyes that held nothing but contempt, tall and dangerous in every line of her synthetic body. The combat specialist—Scarlet.
"Another lamb for slaughter," she said, voice cold. "How long do you think you'll last, Commander? A week? Three days?"
"Depends on whether you're planning to shoot me in the back," Arthur replied, meeting her gaze. "Which, given your record, seems like a possibility."
Her eyes narrowed. Behind her, a smaller figure shifted—silver hair and blue eyes that calculated trajectories and probabilities. Lyra, the sniper. She looked younger than her file suggested, delicate in a way that probably made people underestimate her. Fatal mistake, Arthur guessed.
The third Nikke simply watched from where she leaned against a weapons rack. Purple hair, golden eyes, built like she could punch through a bulkhead. Nyx, heavy weapons. Something familiar in the way she stood, the casual readiness that came from surviving bad odds.
"You from the Outer Rim," Nyx said. Not a question.
Arthur pulled off his gloves, revealing the black goddesium of his prosthetic hands. "Born and raised. Ripper Doc named Sal gave me these beauties. Probably the same one who supplied some of your parts."
Scarlet's hostility flickered, replaced by something that might have been surprise. "They let Outer Rim trash into the Academy now?"
"Apparently they're desperate." Arthur tossed the tablet onto a nearby crate. "And before you ask, yes, I know I'm probably supposed to die out there with you three. Yes, I know you've been labeled defective or insubordinate or whatever excuse they used. And yes, I know most commanders are bastards who treat Nikkes like animated furniture."
Lyra spoke for the first time, voice soft but clear. "And what makes you different, Commander?"
"Maybe nothing." Arthur met each of their gazes in turn. "But I've worked with Nikkes in the Outer Rim. Fought beside them, bled beside them. One of them is the reason I'm standing here at all. So how about we make a deal—you three keep me alive topside, I'll make sure you're treated like the soldiers you are, not the equipment everyone else thinks you are. We survive together, or we die together. Either way, it'll be honest."
The silence stretched. Scarlet's expression remained hard, but something shifted behind those crimson eyes. Lyra tilted her head, processing. Nyx's mouth curved into something that might have been a smile.
"You got a death wish, Commander?" Nyx asked.
"Every day since I was born," Arthur said. "But I'm too stubborn to die easy. Question is, are you three willing to work with a commander who won't bullshit you?"
Scarlet stepped forward, close enough that Arthur could see the mechanical precision in her irises, smell the synthetic scent of her skin. "First sign you're like the others, first hint you'll throw us away to save your own ass, I'll put a round through that pretty head. Consequences be damned."
"Fair enough." Arthur extended his prosthetic hand. "We have an understanding?"
For a moment, he thought she'd refuse. Then Scarlet's hand gripped his, synthetic strength meeting goddesium metal. Her touch was warm, almost human, and the contact sent an unexpected charge through him. She held on a moment longer than necessary, eyes searching his face.
"We'll see, Commander," she said. "We'll see."
Lyra and Nyx approached, each offering their own handshakes. The sniper's touch was light, curious. The heavy weapons specialist's grip tested his prosthetics, found them acceptable.
"Six hours until deployment," Arthur said, pulling up the mission details on the tablet. "Supply run to an old shopping district, moderate Rapture presence expected. Should be straightforward, which probably means it'll be anything but."
"Surface is never straightforward," Nyx said.
"Then let's make sure we're ready for complicated." Arthur gestured to the equipment racks. "Show me your loadouts. Tell me your capabilities, your limits, what support you need from command. And for God's sake, call me Arthur when it's just us. Commander is for the brass and the reports."
Scarlet's expression finally cracked, a hint of genuine surprise breaking through. "You're serious."
"About staying alive? Always." Arthur's mechanical fingers drummed against the crate. "About treating you three like people? Absolutely. About following every stupid regulation the Academy hammered into us? Not even a little."
This time, Nyx definitely smiled. "Might not want you dead after all, Arthur."
"Give it time," Arthur said. "I'm extremely annoying."
As his new squad began laying out their weapons and gear, explaining their preferred tactics and past mission experiences, Arthur felt the weight of what he'd taken on. These three had been broken by the system, labeled defective, set up to fail. But he'd seen the way they moved, the intelligence behind their eyes, the carefully controlled anger that came from being treated as less than human.
Maybe they'd all die on the surface. The odds certainly suggested it. But if they were going to die, Arthur decided, it would be as a real squad. Not as expendable equipment and a disposable commander.
The clock counted down toward their deployment. Six hours to build trust that should take weeks. Six hours before they faced the Raptures that had destroyed humanity's world. Six hours before Arthur discovered if his defiance of protocol would save them or kill them all.
Scarlet caught his eye across the bay, her expression unreadable. Something passed between them, a recognition of shared outsider status, of understanding what it meant to survive in a system designed to break you.
It wasn't quite trust yet. But it was a beginning.