Arthur studied the ruins stretching endlessly before them, his goddesium hand flexing unconsciously. "We're chasing something that can hide from radar, that's already killed dozens of Nikkes, and we have no idea what we're actually walking into. Does that concern anyone else?"
Laplace's face lit up with that impossible enthusiasm Arthur was beginning to recognize as her default setting. "Concerns are just opportunities for heroism, Commander! The greater the challenge, the more glorious the victory!"
"We don't even know if we can detect it properly," Arthur pressed. "For all we know, it could be watching us right now."
Drake adjusted her sensor array, red eyes narrowing as she processed data streams. "The villainous hypothesis extends beyond mere radar suppression. Consider: if this entity possesses adaptive camouflage, thermal masking, even visual distortion capabilities—"
"The Nikke we rescued said it appeared right in front of her squad with a *thump* and started attacking," Maxwell interrupted, her tone carrying the patient authority of someone who'd had this conversation before. "That's not exactly a subtle approach. Whatever stealth capabilities it has, it doesn't use them when it attacks."
Drake's theatrical demeanor faltered slightly. "The villainous logic... concedes the point."
"Good." Maxwell's gaze swept across her squadmates and Arthur. "We can theorize about enemy capabilities all day, but that won't find the missing Nikkes. Drake, how's the sensor calibration?"
"Optimized for Tyrant-class thermal and electromagnetic signatures," Drake confirmed. "Though if our quarry can mask those as well—"
"Then we adapt," Maxwell said firmly. "Focus on what we *can* control. Arthur, how are your power reserves?"
Arthur glanced at his prosthetics' diagnostics. "Stable. The goddesium systems don't drain like your batteries. I can maintain combat readiness indefinitely."
Something flickered in Maxwell's expression—envy, perhaps, or appreciation. "Must be nice."
They moved through the wasteland methodically, clearing sectors with practiced efficiency. The Raptures they encountered were standard variants—Ants, Moon Eyes, the occasional Flier. Nothing that suggested Tyrant-class presence, yet the wrongness Arthur felt persisted like pressure before a storm.
Four hours into their patrol, Drake's sensors lit up. "Thermal cluster, northeast. Pattern suggests twelve hostiles, mixed composition."
"Standard engagement," Maxwell ordered. "Laplace, you're on breakthrough. Drake, suppressive fire. Commander, watch our flanks."
The battle unfolded with brutal efficiency. Laplace's energy blasts punched through Rapture armor like paper, her movements carrying that same theatrical flourish she applied to everything. Drake's precision shots disabled mobility systems, turning the battlefield into a shooting gallery. Arthur picked off stragglers with the M-99 Saber, each shot a calculated execution.
Maxwell directed it all with quiet competence, her tactical mind evident in every order. No wasted movement, no unnecessary risks. Within minutes, the last Rapture collapsed in sparking ruin.
"Clear," Maxwell announced, checking their power levels with habitual thoroughness. "Laplace, sixty-eight percent. Drake, seventy-five. Good margins."
Drake was already recalibrating her sensors, sweeping the broader area with methodical precision. Her eyes widened. "Contact. Tyrant-class thermal signature, due west. Distance... approximately eighteen kilometers."
Arthur felt his pulse quicken. "Can you confirm it's our target?"
"Insufficient data for positive identification," Drake admitted. "But the signature's magnitude and the fact that it appeared suddenly suggest either recent activation or... deliberate unmasking."
"Could be a trap," Maxwell said thoughtfully.
"Could be our only lead," Arthur countered.
Laplace stepped forward, her expression carrying uncharacteristic seriousness. "Then we follow it. That's what heroes do—face the danger to save those who can't save themselves."
Maxwell met Arthur's gaze, silent question in her eyes. He nodded once, decisive.
"West it is," Maxwell said. "Drake, maintain continuous tracking. If that signature moves or disappears, I want to know immediately."
They moved through the ruins at a measured pace, balancing speed against the need to conserve power. The terrain shifted from urban sprawl to industrial wasteland—massive processing facilities reduced to skeletal frameworks, conveyor systems frozen mid-operation, storage tanks ruptured and leaking decades of accumulated rust.
The Tyrant signature remained constant, a beacon drawing them forward. Too constant, Arthur thought. Too convenient. But what choice did they have?
Twilight found them making camp in a partially intact warehouse, its roof mostly collapsed but its walls providing adequate cover. Drake's sensors showed the Tyrant signature had stopped moving, now roughly eight kilometers distant.
"We could reach it before full dark," Laplace suggested, her eagerness barely contained.
"And engage a Tyrant-class at night, with reduced visibility and no fallback position?" Maxwell shook her head. "We camp here, resume at dawn. That's final."
Arthur set up his bedroll while the Nikkes performed their evening maintenance rituals. Watching them check power levels, run diagnostics, calibrate weapons—it struck him again how much they resembled soldiers everywhere, human concerns translated into mechanical frameworks.
He caught Maxwell watching him, something thoughtful in her expression. She approached as the others busied themselves.
"Question, Commander," she said quietly. "If we get into serious trouble out here—Tyrant-class ambush, multiple hostiles, overwhelming force—would Syuen authorize extraction for us?"
Arthur considered the question, thinking of his interactions with the Missilis CEO. "Honestly? I don't know. She sent you out here to make her look good. Whether she'd pull you back if things went wrong..."
Maxwell's laugh carried no humor. "That's what I thought."
Drake drifted closer, her theatrical persona momentarily absent. "The villainous perspective suggests that CEO Syuen would classify our loss as—"
"Drake." Maxwell's tone carried gentle warning. "Not now."
But Arthur had already caught the implication. "She wouldn't extract you. Even if you were dying."
Maxwell met his gaze steadily. "Calling for evacuation isn't what Matis does, Commander. It isn't even an option for us."
The words hung heavy in the cooling air. Laplace had gone very still, her usual enthusiasm dimmed.
"We're the top squad of Missilis Industry," Maxwell continued, her voice carrying quiet resignation. "Everyone's eyes are on us—shareholders, competitors, the other squads. We cannot afford to show weakness. Not ever. Calling for extraction after just a few days on the surface? That would be admitting we couldn't handle the mission."
"That's insane," Arthur said flatly.
"That's corporate warfare," Maxwell countered. "Syuen doesn't see us as soldiers, Commander. We're high-tech toys. Proof of concept. Walking advertisements for Missilis superiority." She smiled, bitter and knowing. "Nothing short of a Heretic jumping us out of nowhere would make us even consider calling for help. And even then, Syuen would probably spin it as a tactical retreat rather than admit her precious Matis squad needed saving."
The casual way she said it—the acceptance underlying her words—made Arthur's chest tighten. These were elite soldiers, capable and deadly, and their own CEO treated them as disposable propaganda.
"That's wrong," he said quietly.
Maxwell's expression softened. "Wrong doesn't matter much in the corporate world. But I appreciate you saying it."
They settled into watch rotations, the warehouse filling with the soft sounds of Nikke sleep mode—not quite unconscious, never truly defenseless, but as close to rest as their kind achieved. Arthur took first watch, looking into the darkness beyond their shelter.
Maxwell joined him despite not being scheduled. "Can't sleep?"
"Thinking," Arthur admitted. "About what you said. About Syuen."
"Don't let it bother you too much." She settled beside him, close enough that he felt the warmth radiating from her systems. "We're used to it."
"You shouldn't have to be."
She studied him in the darkness, purple eyes reflecting starlight. "You really mean that. It's not just rhetoric or political maneuvering. You genuinely believe Nikkes deserve better."
"I do."
"Why?" The question carried genuine curiosity. "You're human. You could command however you wanted, treat us however you wanted, and the system would support you. But you don't."
Arthur thought of Scarlet, Nyx, Lyra—of Anne clutching her calico doll, of Mary's redemption, of every Nikke who'd trusted him with their lives and hopes. "Because you're people. That shouldn't be complicated."
Maxwell moved closer, her hand finding his prosthetic one. The goddesium was cool beneath her fingers, but her touch carried warmth he felt through the neural interface.
"The other commanders I've worked with," she said softly, "they either saw us as weapons or trophies. Useful tools or status symbols. You're the first one who just... sees us."
"Maxwell—"
"Nora," she interrupted. "My name is Nora. The other two don't even remember. But I do. And I want you to know it."
The vulnerability in her voice struck something deep in Arthur's chest. He turned to face her fully, his hand rising to cup her cheek.
"Nora," he repeated, testing the name. "Thank you for trusting me with that."
She leaned into his touch, eyes closing briefly. When they opened again, they carried determination and something warmer. "When we get back to the Outpost—"
"You'll want a place there?" Arthur asked.
"If you'll have us." Her smile turned rueful. "After this mission, after you've proven Cerberus communications can bypass Syuen's blackout and rescued Nikkes she wanted to use for propaganda... I don't think Missilis HQ will be a comfortable home for a while. And I've heard the Outpost welcomes all Nikkes."
Arthur pulled her closer, his forehead resting against hers. "You'll always have a place there. All three of you."
Dawn arrived with cruel efficiency, gray light filtering through the warehouse's broken roof. Arthur woke to voices—Laplace's bright enthusiasm and Drake's theatrical protest.
"The villainous intrusion observes that the Commander and our fearless leader appear to be... entwined."
"They're kissing!" Laplace's whisper somehow managed to be louder than normal speech. "Oh, this is so romantic! Like a hero finding love in the midst of—"
Arthur and Maxwell separated, both suddenly aware they'd fallen asleep pressed together, his arm around her shoulders, her head against his chest.
Maxwell's expression cycled through embarrassment and defiant pride before settling on composed authority. "Good morning. I trust you both slept well?"
Drake's smirk could have cut steel. "The villainous rest was most adequate. Unlike certain parties who appear to have engaged in... alternative nocturnal activities."
"We were talking," Maxwell said firmly. "And then we fell asleep. That's all."
"Sure," Laplace agreed, her grin threatening to split her face. "Talking. Very... close talking."
Arthur stood, stretching his prosthetic limbs and changing the subject with desperate efficiency. "Drake, status on the Tyrant signature?"
"Still present, still stationary," Drake confirmed, mercifully allowing the diversion. "Eight kilometers west-northwest. Whatever it is, it hasn't moved all night."
"Then we move out," Maxwell ordered, her command voice firmly reestablished. "Weapons check, power confirmation, then we march. And if either of you mentions this morning again, I will personally reprogram your personality matrices."
Laplace and Drake exchanged glances that promised extensive future commentary, but they fell into formation without further protest.
Arthur caught Maxwell's eye as they prepared to depart. She mouthed "Later" with a small smile that promised continued conversation.
The hunt continued, and somewhere ahead, their quarry waited.