The rescued Nikke's systems cycled through initialization sequences, her temporary limbs responding to Maxwell's diagnostic commands. Arthur watched status indicators shift from amber to green as consciousness returned to the damaged soldier.
Her eyes opened, focusing immediately on Arthur's face. Memory processes caught up with current circumstances—rescue, repairs, safety. Relief flooded her expression.
"Commander," she managed, voice steadier now that power wasn't critical. "Thank you. I—"
"Save it for after extraction," Arthur said, not unkindly. He activated his comm unit, raising it to speak. "Command, this is Cousland. We have one injured Nikke and a Brain Shelter with three preserved. Requesting immediate medical extraction at our coordinates."
Static.
Arthur frowned, checking the device. Full power, proper frequency, clear line of sight to the sky. He tried again. "Command, do you copy? Requesting medical extraction."
More static. Not even the acknowledgment tone that indicated transmission receipt.
"That's strange," he muttered, examining the comm unit more closely. The diagnostics showed everything functioning normally, yet no connection established.
Maxwell's expression had shifted to something carefully neutral. "Commander, you won't be able to reach Central Command."
Arthur looked up sharply. "Why not?"
"CEO Syuen implemented a communications blackout for this operation," Maxwell explained, her tone professionally detached in a way that suggested personal discomfort. "All transmissions from this sector are being blocked at the source. We're operating under radio silence."
"For what possible reason?"
Maxwell met his gaze steadily. "So that Missilis can claim full credit for the rescue operation. If Central Command coordinates extraction or provides support, it becomes a joint operation. Syuen wants this to be entirely a Missilis achievement."
Arthur stared at her, processing the implications. "You're telling me we can't call for extraction because your CEO wants good publicity?"
"That's correct."
"Then how are we supposed to get injured Nikkes back to the Ark?" Arthur's voice had gone dangerously quiet. "We can't escort each one personally—that wastes time when forty-three more are still missing. And you three run on *batteries*. You can't stay on the surface indefinitely."
Laplace stepped forward, her usual enthusiasm dampened but still present. "We can carry them with us! Heroes never abandon those in need. We'll find everyone, bring them all back together!"
Drake nodded, adjusting her sensor array. "The villainous plan accounts for such contingencies. We have sufficient power reserves and load-bearing capacity."
"No." Arthur's tone carried absolute finality. "Absolutely not."
Maxwell tilted her head slightly. "Commander, we've handled similar situations before. It's not ideal, but—"
"It's not acceptable," Arthur interrupted. "You want me to risk the lives of injured Nikkes by keeping them on the surface longer than necessary? Brain Shelters have seven days of preservation time, but that assumes optimal conditions. Combat damage, environmental factors, power fluctuations—all of that reduces the window. Every minute they're not in a proper medical facility increases the risk of permanent damage."
He gestured toward the three Nikkes standing before him. "And you want to keep searching while carrying additional weight, draining your batteries faster, with no way to call for backup or extraction if something goes wrong? If your power reserves drop too low, you'll be forced into sleep mode. Then who rescues *you*?"
The silence that followed carried weight. Maxwell's carefully neutral expression cracked slightly, revealing something like gratitude underneath.
"So what do we do?" Laplace asked quietly, her hero persona momentarily set aside.
Arthur pulled up his right sleeve, exposing the sleek goddesium prosthetic and the Omni-Tool interface Jack Harper had installed. His fingers moved across the holographic display that materialized above his forearm, cycling through options until he found the communications suite.
"Syuen blocked conventional frequencies," he said, voice carrying grim satisfaction. "But Cerberus technology operates on entirely different protocols. Military-grade encryption, frequency-hopping spread spectrum, satellite uplink bypass."
He activated the connection. Static flickered briefly, then resolved into a clear channel.
"Shifty, this is Cousland. Do you copy?"
The response came immediately, Shifty's familiar voice carrying evident relief. "Commander! We've been trying to reach you for the past hour. Communications were being jammed at the source."
"I'm aware. I need an extraction shuttle at my current coordinates. One injured Nikke, non-ambulatory, plus a Brain Shelter containing three preserved. Medical priority."
"Copy that. Dispatching now. ETA fifteen minutes."
"Acknowledged. Cousland out."
Arthur lowered his arm, meeting Maxwell's wide-eyed stare. "Extraction incoming."
"Syuen is going to be *furious*," Maxwell breathed.
"I don't care."
The simplicity of the statement—the absolute conviction behind it—seemed to strike all three members of Squad Matis simultaneously. They exchanged glances, something unspoken passing between them.
Drake was the first to speak, her theatrical villainy completely absent. "You really don't, do you? Care about corporate politics, I mean."
"My job is to bring Nikkes home alive," Arthur said flatly. "Not to manage Syuen's public image."
Maxwell's expression had softened into something Arthur couldn't quite name. Respect, certainly. But also a kind of wistful longing, as if she were watching something she'd never quite believed could exist.
The rescued Nikke had been listening throughout, her remaining hand still trembling slightly. "Commander, may I... may I speak?"
Arthur knelt beside her, bringing himself to eye level. "Of course."
"My squad—we were on an artifact retrieval mission. Sector Thirty-Eight, pre-war research facility. Standard operation." Her voice wavered but held. "We had full equipment loadout. Weapons, scanners, the portable radar unit they issue for surface operations. Everything showed clear."
She paused, hydraulic fluid leaking from her damaged optical systems—tears, Arthur realized. "Then it was just *there*. No warning. No sensor reading. A Tyrant-class, massive, right on top of us. By the time we saw it, three of my squad were already down. I managed to... to extract their brains, get them in the shelter. Ran. Hid. Kept the beacon active."
"You did everything right," Arthur assured her.
But Maxwell had gone very still. "Wait. You had a standard-issue radar?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And it didn't detect a Tyrant-class Rapture until visual contact?"
The injured Nikke nodded miserably. "I thought... thought maybe it was damaged. Battle damage, or malfunction, or—"
"May I see it?" Maxwell asked gently.
The Nikke gestured weakly toward her equipment harness. Maxwell carefully extracted a compact device roughly the size of a handheld radio, its casing scarred but intact. She turned it over in her hands, running diagnostics with practiced efficiency.
"Basic model," she murmured. "Short-range, limited resolution. But effective for its purpose. Should absolutely detect something as massive as a Tyrant-class from at least five hundred meters."
She produced a small toolkit—the same one she'd used for the field repairs—and carefully opened the radar's casing. Her fingers moved with surgical precision, checking connections, examining circuitry, testing components.
After two minutes of intense focus, she looked up. "There's nothing wrong with it."
"But that's impossible," the rescued Nikke protested. "If the radar was working, it would have shown—"
"Unless the Rapture can spoof radar signatures," Maxwell finished. "Make itself invisible to conventional detection methods."
The plaza went silent except for the distant sound of wind through ruined buildings.
"That's absurd," the injured Nikke whispered. But her voice carried no conviction.
Maxwell's expression had turned grim. "The surface rarely plays fair. And Raptures have demonstrated adaptive behavior before. A Tyrant-class with electronic warfare capabilities? It's not just possible—it explains *everything*. Why so many squads vanished. Why distress beacons are all we find. Mass-produced Nikkes with basic equipment wouldn't stand a chance against a Tyrant that can't be detected until it attacks."
Arthur felt pieces clicking together in his mind, forming a picture he didn't like. "Other manufacturers lost squads too. Elysion, Tetra, Cerberus, Mishima and Arasaka—"
"All equip their mass-produced units with similar technology," Maxwell confirmed. "Standard-issue gear, cost-effective, sufficient for normal operations. Against a conventional threat."
Drake had moved closer, studying the radar with her sensor array. "If this Rapture can mask itself from basic detection..."
"Then it's been hunting deliberately," Arthur finished. "Targeting retrieval teams, squads with minimal support, Nikkes who can't call for backup before it's too late."
Laplace's voice cut through the growing tension, unusually sharp. "She ran away. Her squad was killed, and she ran without completing the mission."
The rescued Nikke flinched as if struck. Fresh hydraulic fluid leaked from her eyes.
Arthur turned on Laplace, his expression hardening. "*Excuse me*?"
Laplace gestured toward the injured Nikke, frustration evident. "Her squad was sent to retrieve something important. They failed. She abandoned the mission to—"
"To save her squadmates' lives," Arthur interrupted, his voice cold enough to stop Laplace mid-sentence. "She extracted three brains under fire, secured them in preservation, maintained a distress beacon despite catastrophic injuries, and survived long enough for rescue. She gave her squad a chance at recovery. Do you understand what that means?"
Laplace opened her mouth, closed it, uncertainty crossing her features.
"She's the *hero*," Arthur continued relentlessly. "Not because she completed some corporate retrieval objective. Because when everything went to hell, when her entire squad was being slaughtered, she prioritized the lives of her sisters over a mission parameter. She did exactly what I'd want any soldier under my command to do."
The rescued Nikke was staring at Arthur with something like reverence, her remaining hand pressed against her chest.
Laplace's shoulders sagged. "I... I didn't think of it that way."
"Then think harder," Arthur said, not harshly, but firmly. "Heroism isn't about completing missions. It's about protecting the people who matter."
The sound of approaching engines cut through the moment. Arthur looked up to see a Cerberus shuttle descending toward the plaza, its military-grade systems cutting through whatever jamming Syuen had implemented.
The shuttle landed with practiced precision, rear hatch opening to reveal two medical Nikkes with a stretcher. They moved quickly, efficiently, transferring the injured soldier and securing the Brain Shelter with careful reverence.
One of them—a Nikke named Coral, if Arthur remembered correctly—paused before boarding. "Commander Cousland? Shifty says to tell you she's routing all further rescue calls through Cerberus channels. Central Command authorization."
Arthur nodded. "Understood. Thank you."
The shuttle lifted off, bearing its precious cargo toward safety. Arthur watched until it disappeared beyond the ruins, then turned back to Squad Matis.
Maxwell was smiling—small, genuine, and deeply satisfied. "Forty-three to go," she said.
"Then we'd better keep moving," Arthur replied.