The distress beacon pulsed weakly on Drake's sensor display—a faint electromagnetic signature barely distinguishable from background radiation. Squad Matis moved through the ruins with weapons raised, following coordinates that led to a collapsed shopping complex.
"Signal strength increasing," Drake reported, her red eyes scanning the rubble-strewn plaza ahead. "Source should be within fifty meters."
Arthur swept his rifle across potential firing positions, checking sightlines. The area looked abandoned—skeletal buildings, overturned vehicles slowly being consumed by rust, the perpetual gray dust that covered everything. A handful of Ant-type Raptures clustered near what had once been a fountain, their insectoid forms motionless in standby mode.
"I count six hostiles," Maxwell said quietly. "Standard patrol formation. Nothing that suggests they're guarding anything."
"Perhaps the Nikke moved on," Drake suggested, adjusting her sensor parameters. "Or the beacon is malfunctioning."
Laplace frowned, her usual enthusiasm dampened by uncertainty. "But the signal's right here. Where are they?"
Drake's sensors swept the area with increasing intensity, crimson light pulsing from her optical array. After thirty seconds, she lowered her rifle slightly, frustration evident in her posture.
"Nothing," she admitted. "No thermal signatures beyond the Raptures. No bio-mechanical readings. No power sources consistent with Nikke systems."
Maxwell's expression tightened. "Could they have expired already? If the distress beacon is all that's left—"
"Wait." Laplace raised one hand, head tilted as if listening to something only she could hear. Her eyes—normally bright with manufactured heroism—focused with unexpected intensity. "There are Nikkes nearby. I'm sure of it."
"Drake's sensors show nothing," Maxwell pointed out gently.
"I know what the sensors say." Laplace gestured toward the fountain where the Ant-types clustered. "But my hero senses are telling me we need to search there. Something's wrong."
Drake made a show of checking her display again. "My villainous detection capabilities are flawless. If there were Nikkes present, I would—"
"Maybe your batteries are lower than you think," Arthur interrupted. He'd been watching the Raptures carefully. Their positioning seemed random, but something about it nagged at him. "Laplace, what exactly are you sensing?"
She struggled to articulate it, hands moving as she searched for words. "It's like... when you know someone's watching you, even though you can't see them? That feeling. Nikkes are here. They have to be."
Maxwell met Arthur's gaze, clearly weighing the tactical assessment against what might be intuition or wishful thinking. Arthur made the decision.
"We clear the Raptures," he said. "If nothing else, we secure the area and investigate properly."
"Finally!" Laplace's energy weapon came up immediately. "For justice!"
"For villainy!" Drake echoed, relief evident that they were moving to action rather than standing around debating sensor readings.
The Ant-types activated as Squad Matis advanced, their standby protocols triggered by proximity. The engagement was brief and efficient—Laplace's energy blasts scattered the formation while Drake picked off stragglers with precision fire. Maxwell and Arthur provided overlapping coverage, ensuring nothing flanked their position.
Within two minutes, the plaza was clear. Smoke drifted from destroyed Rapture chassis, the acrid smell of burned composites mixing with dust.
"Still nothing on sensors," Drake reported, sounding genuinely puzzled now.
Laplace moved toward the fountain, weapon still raised. "Check again. Please."
Drake's expression shifted from theatrical villainy to something more genuine—concern for her teammate's certainty. She activated her full sensor suite, crimson light intensifying until it bathed the entire plaza in ruby illumination.
The readings changed immediately.
"Contact!" Drake's voice carried shock. "Single Nikke, heavily damaged, grid reference—" She rattled off coordinates that placed the target directly behind the fountain's broken base.
Maxwell was already moving. Arthur followed, his goddesium legs carrying him across rubble with mechanical efficiency. Behind the fountain, partially buried under concrete fragments, they found her.
The mass-produced Nikke was in catastrophic condition. Her left arm ended at the shoulder, cleanly severed. Her right leg was missing below the knee. Dust and dried hydraulic fluid coated what remained of her tactical gear. But her eyes were open, alert, and filled with desperate fear.
She clutched something against her chest with her remaining arm—a cylindrical device roughly the size of a water bottle, its surface marked with biohazard symbols and a glowing status indicator.
Arthur approached slowly, hands visible, movements deliberate. The Nikke's optical sensors tracked him, and she pressed the cylinder tighter against herself.
"Please," she whispered, voice barely audible through damaged vocal systems. "Don't take it. Please. They're still—they need—"
Maxwell knelt beside her, medical instincts overriding everything else. "Easy. We're not taking anything. I need to assess your injuries."
"That's a Brain Shelter," Drake said quietly, recognition dawning. She'd moved up alongside Arthur, sensor array still active. "Portable preservation unit."
Arthur had recognised it—specialized equipment issued to search-and-rescue teams and some mass-produced squads on extended surface operations. When a Nikke suffered catastrophic damage, their brain could be extracted and placed in the shelter's cryogenic system. Seven days of preservation time, enough to get them back to the Ark for revival.
The injured Nikke was still staring at Arthur, her grip on the Brain Shelter absolute. Her remaining hand trembled.
"How many?" Arthur asked gently.
She blinked, confusion mixing with fear.
"How many are in there?" he clarified, gesturing to the cylinder. "How many did you save?"
Understanding dawned in her eyes, followed by something like relief. "Three," she managed. "My squadmates. We were... ambushed. I was the only one who could still move. Had to... had to get them safe."
"You did well," Arthur said. He meant it. She'd lost two limbs protecting her squad's chance at revival, had somehow evaded or hidden from Rapture patrols, had maintained the distress beacon despite her damage. "We're taking you and them home. All of you."
The Nikke's eyes glistened—whether from hydraulic leaks or genuine tears, Arthur couldn't tell. Her death-grip on the Brain Shelter eased fractionally.
Maxwell had been running diagnostic checks throughout the exchange, her hands moving with practiced efficiency over the Nikke's remaining systems. "Structural damage is severe but repairable. Main processing core is intact. Power reserves at eleven percent."
"Can you stabilize her here?" Arthur asked.
"Better than that." Maxwell was already unpacking a compact toolkit from her equipment harness. "I can do field repairs. Get her mobile enough for extraction."
Arthur blinked. "You're doing the repairs yourself?"
Maxwell's smile carried hints of a past she rarely discussed. "I worked as a Missilis scientist before I became a Nikke. Biomechanical engineering, actually. I've rebuilt more damaged systems than I can count."
She caught Arthur's expression and laughed quietly. "You're wondering if it's safe to work here. Laplace and Drake are on sentry duty—if anything approaches, they'll handle it. And honestly, Commander, those two could probably clear half a sector by themselves if sufficiently motivated."
"Heroes never fail!" Laplace called from her position atop a collapsed wall, confirming she'd been listening.
"Villains never surrender!" Drake added from the opposite vantage point.
Maxwell shook her head fondly before focusing on her patient. "This is going to feel strange, but you'll be fine. I promise."
The injured Nikke's gaze shifted to Arthur again, studying his face with sudden intensity. Recognition sparked in her damaged optical systems.
"You're... Commander Cousland," she breathed. "The Monarks. Three Tyrant kills. The Outpost."
Arthur felt the weight of reputation settle across his shoulders. When had he become famous enough that mass-produced Nikkes in the field knew his face?
"That's me," he confirmed.
"Then we're safe." Her voice carried absolute certainty despite her catastrophic injuries. "Commander Cousland doesn't leave Nikkes behind."
Her eyes closed as Maxwell initiated the repair sequence, consciousness fading into standby mode to conserve power. Arthur carefully extracted the Brain Shelter from her now-relaxed grip, checking the status indicator. Green light—all three preserved brains were stable, cryogenic systems functioning normally.
Maxwell worked with impressive speed, her hands moving through the repairs with mechanical precision. She'd come prepared—replacement limb segments, connection cables, diagnostic tools, even hydraulic fluid reserves. Within twenty minutes, she'd reattached a salvaged arm and rigged a temporary leg assembly from spare parts.
"Medical teams at the Ark will need to do complete rebuilds," Maxwell explained as she worked, "but this should let her walk and defend herself if necessary."
Arthur watched the process with growing respect. "How did you get so fast at this?"
Maxwell's expression turned rueful. "Matis gets deployed constantly. We're Missilis's top squad, which means we get the most dangerous assignments. Syuen can't afford to have us out of action for long, so I learned to handle field repairs for myself and my team." She gestured to her own body. "I've rebuilt my own arm three times, both legs twice, Drake's sensor array four times, and Laplace's power coupling more times than I can count."
"That's harsh deployment tempo," Arthur said carefully.
Maxwell shrugged, finishing the last connection. "We're valuable. Which means we're useful. Which means we keep getting sent out." She met his eyes. "The Outpost's different, isn't it? What they say about how you run things."
"I try to treat my squad like people," Arthur said simply.
Maxwell's smile turned wistful. "Must be nice."
The repaired Nikke remained in standby mode, her systems cycling through diagnostic checks as her temporary repairs initialized. Arthur secured the Brain Shelter carefully in his equipment harness while Maxwell packed her tools.
"Four recovered," Maxwell said, standing and surveying the plaza. "Forty-three still missing. We need to keep searching."
Arthur nodded, but something bothered him. "Drake's sensors didn't detect her until after we cleared the Raptures. Why?"
Drake had been listening. She descended from her perch with theatrical grace, landing in a crouch that would have looked villainous if not for the genuine confusion in her expression.
"I don't know," she admitted. "My systems were functioning normally. But she simply... didn't appear until I ran a second scan."
Laplace joined them, still riding high on being proven correct. "My hero senses never fail!"
"The Raptures were clustered around her position," Arthur said slowly, pieces connecting in his mind. "Standby mode, but positioned like a perimeter. And Drake's sensors couldn't detect her until after we destroyed them."
Maxwell's eyes widened. "You think the Raptures were somehow masking her signature?"
"Or she was masking herself, and couldn't maintain it once the immediate threat was eliminated," Arthur countered. He looked down at the unconscious Nikke. "Either way, this changes things. If Nikkes are being hidden from conventional sensors..."
"Then we need to find every distress beacon," Maxwell finished, "and clear the area before we can locate survivors."
Drake's theatrical demeanor had vanished entirely, replaced by calculating focus. "That's tactically concerning. If we can't trust sensors..."
"Then we trust Laplace's hero senses!" the energetic Nikke declared.
Maxwell and Drake exchanged glances, then looked at Arthur. He could see them weighing absurdity against results.
"Whatever works," Arthur said. "We've got forty-three more Nikkes to find."