Arthur sat in his penthouse office, the glow of his terminal casting pale light across his features as he scrolled through Delta's personnel file. He'd requisitioned it through Andersen's office with minimal explanation—just enough to avoid questions.
The file opened with standard deployment records, mission success rates, and tactical assessments. All exemplary. Delta was exactly what her reputation suggested: precise, reliable, devastatingly effective.
Then he reached the earlier sections.
*Subject: Delta (formerly Corporal Adrianne Cross, A.C.P.U. Urban Response Unit)*
*Cause of Death: Terrorist bombing incident, Commercial District Seven, Central Ark. Explosive device detonated during morning commute rush. Seventeen fatalities. Subject expired from catastrophic trauma before emergency response arrival.*
*Perpetrator: Unknown. Investigation ongoing. No arrests.*
Arthur's jaw tightened. The file continued with clinical detachment, detailing Delta's conversion to Nikke, her psychological evaluations, her return to active duty. But buried in the supplementary notes, he found what he was looking for.
*Subject requested assignment to A.C.P.U. counterterrorism task force. Request approved contingent on operational performance review.*
*Note: Subject demonstrated exceptional investigative capability and tactical coordination during preliminary operations. Integration with human personnel proceeded without incident.*
*Incident Report, Operation Nightfall: Subject's cover identity compromised during undercover infiltration of suspected terrorist cell. Hostile elements identified Subject via behavioral patterns inconsistent with civilian norms. Target escaped. Three operatives injured in subsequent firefight.*
*Recommendation: Subject removed from undercover operations. Reassigned to standard reconnaissance duties.*
Arthur leaned back, pieces clicking into place. Delta wasn't just trying to improve her social skills for tactical flexibility. She was hunting the person who'd killed her. And she'd failed once because she couldn't blend in.
He closed the file and checked his watch. Fifteen minutes until their next meeting.
---
Delta was already seated when Arthur arrived at Moonbucks, her posture fractionally more relaxed than their previous session. She'd even ordered her own coffee this time—black, untouched.
"Good afternoon," she greeted him, the words only slightly stilted.
"Afternoon." Arthur sat down, studying her carefully. "Before we continue with the lessons, I need to ask you something."
Delta's expression didn't change, but her shoulders tensed microscopically. "Proceed."
"The terrorist who killed you. You're still looking for him."
Silence stretched between them. Delta's fingers tightened around her cup, synthetic muscles flexing beneath skin.
"I accessed your file," Arthur continued quietly. "I know about Operation Nightfall. I know why you need to learn this."
For a long moment, Delta said nothing. Then, carefully, she set down her coffee. "That information was classified."
"Andersen owed me a favor." Arthur met her eyes. "I want to help you find him."
"No." The word came out flat, absolute.
"Delta—"
"You have already provided significant assistance with the training," she interrupted. "I cannot ask for more. What I intend to undertake is extremely dangerous. The risk to your safety is unacceptable."
"That's not your decision to make."
"With respect, Commander, it is." Delta's voice remained level, but something fierce flickered behind her eyes. "You have responsibilities. A squad. People who depend on you. I will not jeopardize that for personal vengeance."
"This isn't vengeance," Arthur said. "This is justice. And training alone won't help you find him."
He pulled out his phone before she could protest further and scrolled through his contacts. Found the number he wanted.
Two rings, then a crisp voice answered. "Poli speaking."
"It's Arthur Cousland. I need your help with something sensitive."
"Commander." Interest sharpened her tone. "What kind of sensitive?"
"Cold case. Terrorist bombing in District Seven, roughly three years ago. Seventeen dead, no arrests. I need you to run down any leads the A.C.P.U. might have missed."
A pause. "That's... an unusual request. May I ask why?"
"Someone I know needs closure. And I think you're good enough to find what others couldn't."
Another pause, longer this time. Then: "Send me everything you have. I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you."
Arthur ended the call and looked back at Delta, who was staring at him with something approaching shock.
"Poli is one of the best investigators in the Ark," Arthur said. "If there's a trail, she'll find it."
"I..." Delta's voice faltered, then steadied. "I underestimated your connections. And your commitment." She stood abruptly and bowed her head. "I apologize for my presumption."
"Don't apologize. Just let me help." Arthur gestured for her to sit. "You're the brawn. I'll be the brains. We'll find this bastard together."
Delta lowered herself back into her chair, her expression cycling through several emotions before settling on determination. "Then I formally request your assistance with this operation."
"Granted. We make a good team."
For the first time since he'd met her, Delta smiled—small, hesitant, but genuine. "Yes. We do."
---
Poli's report came through just after noon the following day, dense with cross-referenced data and investigative analysis. Arthur skimmed the technical sections and focused on the conclusion.
*Subject identified: Yuri Petrov, age 34, formerly employed as maintenance technician in District Seven. Current location: District Twelve, sublevel three, residential block 47-C. Surveillance suggests subject maintains irregular schedule consistent with evasion behavior. Recommend immediate action.*
Arthur forwarded the file to Delta and met her at the Outpost's armory twenty minutes later.
"This is him," Delta confirmed, studying a grainy surveillance photo. "Yuri Petrov. He was present at three separate bombing sites before disappearing."
"Then let's go get him."
They took the train to District Twelve, both dressed in civilian attire—Arthur in a simple jacket and pants, Delta in cargo pants and a fitted shirt that still screamed military to anyone paying attention. They'd work on that later.
The building was a nondescript residential tower, thousands like it scattered throughout the Ark. Arthur scanned the exterior, noting fire exits and security cameras.
"We could breach now," Delta said quietly. "Second floor, eastern apartment. He's alone."
"Not yet." Arthur guided her away from the building toward a small park across the street. "We wait. Confirm his patterns, make sure he doesn't have backup or escape routes we're missing."
Delta frowned but nodded. "Understood. What's our cover?"
Arthur glanced around the park—families with children, elderly couples on benches, a few teenagers clustered near a fountain. "We're military enthusiasts. Take out your phone. We're going to pretend we're documenting historical sites."
"There are no historical sites here."
"Doesn't matter. Act interested in the architecture. Take photos. Look like tourists."
Delta produced her phone with visible reluctance and began photographing the buildings. Her movements were stiff, mechanical, but Arthur stood beside her and pointed out imaginary details, keeping up a stream of casual commentary.
A small child wandered over, watching them with open curiosity. "What are you doing?"
"Taking pictures," Arthur said with an easy smile.
"Why?"
"Because we like learning about how things are built."
The child's mother appeared, gently pulling him back. "Sorry about that. He's curious about everything."
"No problem," Arthur assured her.
The woman glanced at Delta, then back to Arthur with understanding. "Military history buffs?"
"Something like that."
She smiled. "My brother was the same way. Spent hours photographing bunkers and defense installations." She steered her son away. "Good luck with your project."
As they walked off, Delta lowered her phone. "I do not understand the purpose of that interaction."
"Building a cover story," Arthur explained. "Now if anyone asks, we're just enthusiasts documenting architecture. Nothing suspicious."
"Deception through social engineering."
"Exactly."
They maintained their cover for another two hours, taking periodic photos while keeping the apartment building under discrete surveillance. Arthur taught Delta how to look interested without looking focused, how to chat idly while tracking movement in her peripheral vision.
As the sun began its descent toward the artificial horizon, Delta tensed fractionally. "Movement. Target exiting the building. Eastern entrance."
Arthur spotted him—a thin man with nervous eyes and a jacket pulled tight despite the moderate temperature. Yuri Petrov, looking exactly like someone with something to hide.
"Let him get clear of the building," Arthur murmured. "We take him in the alley two blocks east. Less witnesses."
Delta nodded, her training taking over. They followed at a distance, two civilians among dozens, nothing remarkable. Petrov never looked back.
The alley was narrow, shadowed, perfect. Arthur gave Delta the signal.
She moved with devastating speed, producing a smoke grenade from her jacket and lobbing it through the alley entrance. Grey smoke billowed instantly. Petrov's startled shout cut off as Delta entered the cloud.
Ten seconds later, she emerged dragging him by the collar, one arm twisted behind his back. Petrov was gasping, eyes wide with panic.
"Yuri Petrov," Delta said flatly. "You are under arrest for seventeen counts of murder via terrorist bombing."
"I didn't—I was forced—" Petrov babbled, struggling weakly against Delta's grip.
Arthur stepped forward. "Then you're going to tell us everything. Right now."
They relocated to an abandoned storage unit Delta had scouted earlier—private, secure, soundproofed. Arthur zip-tied Petrov to a chair while Delta stood guard at the door.
"Please," Petrov begged. "You don't understand. I didn't want to kill anyone. He made me—"
"Who made you?" Arthur demanded.
"I don't know his name! He just called himself 'The Broker.' He said if I didn't do what he wanted, he'd kill my family. My wife, my daughter—he took them. He still has them!"
Delta stepped forward, her expression unreadable. "You killed seventeen people to save two."
"What would you have done?" Petrov's voice cracked. "What would any of you have done?"
Arthur studied him—the desperation, the guilt, the exhaustion of a man living in constant fear. "Where is this Broker?"
"I don't know. He only contacts me. Gives me instructions, locations, devices. I build them, plant them, and pray he keeps his word."
"Where is he from?"
Petrov swallowed hard. "Outer Rim. He mentioned it once. Said the Ark was weak, that someone needed to remind people what real survival looked like."
Arthur's blood ran cold. The Outer Rim. His territory, in more ways than one.
He pulled out his phone again, scrolling to a different contact. This one he'd hoped never to use for something like this.
Two rings. A sultry voice answered, layered with synthetic modulation. "Well, well. Arthur Cousland. Didn't expect to hear from you so soon."
"Crow. I need your help."
"I'm listening."
"Someone from the Outer Rim has been running terrorist operations in the Ark. Calls himself 'The Broker.' I need you to find him."
A long pause. Then Crow's voice came back, all business. "That's going to cost you."
"Name your price."
"Not credits. Information. You tell me everything about your new position, your squad, and what really happened with the Blacksmith."
Arthur glanced at Delta, who was watching him with sharp attention. "Deal. But I need results fast."
"You'll have them within forty-eight hours. And Arthur?" Crow's voice softened fractionally. "Don't die."
The call ended. Arthur looked at Delta, then at Petrov.
"We're going to find your family," Arthur said. "And we're going to end this. But you're going to tell us everything you know first."
Petrov nodded frantically. "Anything. I'll tell you anything."
Delta stepped beside Arthur, her expression grim but determined. "What are our next steps?"
"We wait for Crow's intel. Then we hunt."