Lyra's blue eyes focused on Arthur's prosthetic hands with the intensity of a targeting system locking on. Her head tilted slightly, processing something that clearly didn't compute with her expectations.
"Why did you do it?" she asked, voice soft but direct. "Replace your arms. Your legs too, according to your file."
Arthur flexed his goddesium fingers, watching the black metal catch the bay's dim lighting. The question was reasonable. Most commanders kept their original bodies, stayed safe in the rear coordinating from a distance. That was the doctrine, the proper way. It was also why so many of them died when situations went sideways.
"Because I wasn't about to be as useless as every other commander in a fight," he said, meeting her gaze. "You three know the reality better than anyone. What happens when a squad gets in trouble and their commander can't actually fight?"
"They die," Scarlet said flatly. "We adapt, survive if we're lucky. Commanders break easy."
"Exactly." Arthur rolled up his sleeve, revealing where synthetic met flesh at his shoulder. The integration points were cleaner than most Outer Rim work, but still obviously augmented. "Raptures are too tough for regular weapons. Standard military rifles might as well be throwing rocks at them. To put them down, you need real firepower. Nikke-grade weapons."
Nyx straightened from her casual lean, golden eyes sharpening with interest. "And a regular human fires Nikke-grade weapons, the recoil breaks every bone in their arm. Seen it happen. Commander tried to play hero with one of our rifles. Shattered his shoulder, three ribs, and his collarbone. Screamed for ten minutes before he passed out."
"Ripper Doc Sal told me the same story," Arthur said. "Probably the same incident. That's when I made the decision. I paid him to replace my arms first, then my legs. Some of my skeletal structure too, reinforced with lighter Nikke components. Enough that I can handle the weapons without turning myself into a medical emergency."
Scarlet moved closer, her scrutiny more calculating now than hostile. "That's not Academy standard. Command would never approve that level of augmentation."
"Command didn't know," Arthur admitted. "I got the work done before I applied, kept it hidden during the physical evaluations. By the time they discovered the extent of it, I was already a year into the program. My mysterious sponsor made sure they couldn't expel me for it."
"So you voluntarily became part machine." Lyra's expression was difficult to read, somewhere between confusion and something that might have been hope. "To fight alongside us."
"To not be deadweight," Arthur corrected. "I'm not trying to be some kind of hero. I just refuse to be another commander who sends his squad into hell while staying safe in the rear. If we're going topside, I'm fighting. And to fight Raptures, you need the tools that can actually hurt them."
The silence that followed felt different from before. Nyx's smile had become genuine, showing teeth. Scarlet's crimson eyes held a new assessment, recalculating her initial judgment. Lyra simply stared, processing this deviation from everything she'd experienced with previous commanders.
"Armory's on sublevel six," Nyx said finally. "We've got four hours left before deployment. Should gear up, do weapon checks."
Arthur nodded, grabbing his uniform jacket from where he'd draped it over a crate. The squad moved together through the bay's exit, falling into a loose formation that spoke of long experience working as a unit. The Ark's corridors stretched ahead, sterile and cold, lights flickering occasionally in sections where maintenance had been deferred for more critical systems.
They passed other squads preparing for deployment, and Arthur noticed the looks directed at his Nikkes. Not respect or camaraderie, but disdain and disgust barely concealed. One commander actually stepped aside, pulling his squad away as if Scarlet's team carried contamination.
"Careful," the man muttered to his Nikkes, loud enough to be heard. "Don't want you catching defective."
Arthur felt his jaw tighten, but Scarlet's hand on his arm stopped him from responding. Her touch was light, warning.
"Not worth it," she said quietly. "We're used to it."
"Doesn't make it right."
"No," Scarlet agreed. "But fighting every asshole in the Ark won't change anything. Save your energy for the surface."
They continued in silence until Lyra spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper. "We're mass-produced models. That's why they treat us differently."
Arthur glanced at her. "What's the difference?"
"Custom models are rare," Nyx explained, her tone matter-of-fact about something that clearly bothered her. "Built from the ground up for specific roles, optimized bodies, better components. Expensive. Reserved for special operations or political showcase units. The rest of us? We're assembly line. Cheap, replaceable, expendable even by Nikke standards."
"Soldier OW," Scarlet said, tapping her chest. "That's my designation. Mass-produced combat model. They've made thousands of us. Most don't last six months. When one breaks, they just activate another."
"Product 08 for me," Lyra added. "Sniper variant. My body is identical to at least two hundred other units. Sometimes I see one in the maintenance bays and wonder if we share the same base memories, the same fragments of whoever we used to be."
"Soldier EG," Nyx finished. "Heavy assault model. Built tough, built cheap, built to take damage so the expensive units don't have to. They tell us if we prove ourselves, if we accomplish something significant, maybe we'll get transferred to a custom body. Better systems, individual identity. It's the carrot they dangle to keep us obedient."
Arthur absorbed this information, another piece of the Ark's systematic cruelty falling into place. They'd industrialized the creation of Nikkes, turned desperate women into interchangeable parts, then blamed them when the war was lost. The efficiency was brilliant. The humanity was nonexistent.
"Has anyone actually gotten that transfer?" he asked.
"Rumors," Scarlet said. "Stories of legendary mass-produced units that became heroes, earned custom bodies and real names instead of designations. Might be true. Might be propaganda to give us false hope. Either way, it's rare enough to be meaningless for most of us."
The armory entrance appeared ahead, guarded by two bored-looking soldiers who barely glanced at their credentials before waving them through. Inside, racks of weapons lined the walls in organized rows, everything from standard rifles to heavy ordnance designed to crack Rapture armor. A supply officer looked up from his terminal, saw Arthur's squad, and his expression soured.
"Squad Thirteen," Arthur announced. "Requisitioning weapons for surface deployment."
The officer checked his screen with obvious reluctance. "Mass-produced units get standard loadouts. Nothing special, nothing custom."
"Fine," Arthur said. "We'll take what's allocated."
Scarlet moved to the SMG section, selecting a compact weapon with practiced efficiency. The black kevlar armor she wore was standard issue, designed for mobility rather than heavy protection. She checked the weapon's action, tested the weight, loaded a magazine with movements that spoke of muscle memory refined through countless missions.
"Soldier OW specifications," she said, noticing Arthur watching. "SMG for close-quarters, armor light enough for fast response. We're designed to be first in, aggressive assault doctrine. High casualty rate, but effective when we survive."
Lyra claimed a sniper rifle from the long-range section, the weapon nearly as tall as she was. Her black kevlar armor was similar to Scarlet's, optimized for the prone positions and mobility snipers required. She checked the scope's calibration, made minor adjustments with delicate precision.
"Product 08 builds are accuracy-focused," she explained quietly. "Enhanced targeting systems, steadier synthetic muscles, rifles calibrated to our specific ballistic calculations. They put us on overwatch, expect us to thin enemy numbers before engagement."
Nyx grabbed a rocket launcher like it weighed nothing, slinging it over her shoulder with casual strength. Her green kevlar armor was heavier than the others, reinforced at critical points to handle the explosive backblast and incoming fire her role attracted.
"Soldier EG is the hammer," she said with satisfaction. "Heavy weapons, heavy armor, heavy targets. When something big needs to die, they send us. The armor's designed to keep us functional long enough to complete the mission. Whether we survive after is optional."
Arthur selected his own weapons, feeling the balance of Nikke-grade firearms in his prosthetic hands. A sidearm first, compact but powerful enough to hurt Raptures at close range. Then an assault rifle, heavier than human weapons but manageable with his augmented arms. The supply officer watched with barely concealed disapproval as Arthur loaded magazines, checked safeties, adjusted straps for his frame.
"You planning to fight personally, Commander?" the officer asked, making it sound like criticism.
"That's the idea."
"Unorthodox. Dangerous. Command won't approve."
"Command assigned me to Squad Thirteen," Arthur replied. "I don't think they're too concerned about my safety."
The officer had no response to that truth. Arthur finished his preparations, noting how his squad had relaxed slightly seeing him handle the weapons with competence. The prosthetics weren't just for show. He'd spent months training with them, learning to compensate for their different weight and response, pushing until firing Nikke-grade weapons felt natural.
"Two hours until deployment," Scarlet said, checking an internal chronometer. "We should review mission parameters, establish tactical protocols."
"Briefing room near Bay Twenty-Three," Arthur agreed. "Let's see what fresh hell they're sending us into."
They left the armory together, weapons secured, armor checked, the weight of upcoming combat settling over them. Arthur noticed how his squad moved differently now, still cautious but no longer actively hostile. He'd given them something they hadn't expected: honesty about his limitations and genuine effort to overcome them.
It wasn't trust yet, not really. But it was progress.
As they walked, Lyra fell into step beside him. "The augmentation," she said quietly. "Does it hurt? The places where machine meets flesh?"
"Sometimes," Arthur admitted. "Phantom sensations, nerve confusion. The integration isn't perfect. But it's worth it."
"Because you can fight."
"Because I'm not helpless." He looked at her, saw the question behind her question. "You're asking if I regret becoming partially machine."
"Are you?"
"No," Arthur said. "I chose this. Made the decision with full knowledge of the cost. That's the difference, isn't it? Choice."
Lyra's expression flickered with something painful, something that might have been memory or loss. "Yes," she whispered. "That's the difference."
Ahead, the briefing room waited. Beyond that, the surface and whatever waited in the ruins of the old world. Arthur felt his prosthetic fingers flex, ready for the weight of weapons, ready for combat. His squad walked with him, mass-produced and expendable in the eyes of the Ark, but soldiers nonetheless.
If they were going to die topside, Arthur decided again, they'd die fighting together. Not as equipment and handler, but as a squad.
The first test of that promise was two hours away.