The port-side lounge of the *Admire* was an oasis of velvet and mahogany, insulated from the festivities below by thick blast doors and sound-dampening fields. Deputy Chief Burningum stood by the viewport, staring out at the artificial water of the dry dock with the grim intensity of a captain watching his ship sink. He held a glass of brandy but hadn't taken a sip.
Arthur adjusted his tuxedo jacket as he entered, bracing himself for a lecture. Instead, Burningum turned with a look of desperate relief.
"Commander Cousland," the Deputy Chief said, his voice lacking its usual imperious bark. "Thank you for coming. Please, sit. We have a crisis."
Arthur remained standing, his goddesium hand resting on the back of a leather chair. "Does this crisis involve the structural integrity of the Outpost, Deputy Chief? Or perhaps a Rapture incursion?"
"Worse," Burningum said gravely. He tapped a datapad on the table, projecting a hologram of a shipping manifest. "It involves logistics. Specifically, a supply drop intended for Scout Post Epsilon on the surface. Standard New Year's goodwill package—rations, heating units, ammunition."
"And?"
Burningum cleared his throat, his cheeks flushing slightly. "And a personal requisition was... inadvertently mixed into the cargo crate. A Limited Edition 'Ark Ranger Red' poseable action figure. With the karate-chop action and the signature voice lines."
Arthur stared at him. "A toy."
"It is not just a toy, Commander!" Burningum snapped, then lowered his voice, checking the empty room. "It is for my daughter. It is the only thing she asked for. If I return home tomorrow without it, the domestic fallout will be far more severe than any disciplinary hearing Central Command can convene."
Arthur felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The terrifying bureaucrat was, underneath it all, a terrified father. "You want me to retrieve a doll from a surface drop zone in the middle of a blizzard on New Year's Eve?"
"The coordinates are secure," Burningum pleaded. "Captain Helm has the data. I cannot send a standard retrieval team without logging official mission hours, which would trigger an audit on why I was shipping toys on military transports. But you... you operate with a certain degree of autonomy."
Arthur sighed, picking up the datapad. "Consider it done, Deputy Chief. But this will cost you."
Burningum narrowed his eyes. "Name your price."
"Next month's fuel allocation for the Outpost. Double it."
Burningum grimaced as if he'd swallowed a lemon, but he nodded. "Fine. Just get the Ranger back before the packaging freezes."
***
Twenty minutes later, Arthur stood on the *Admire*'s lower deck near the vehicle bay elevator. Helm was pacing, her white dress uniform pristine, though her expression was clouded with guilt. She refused to look him in the eye.
"I am deeply sorry, Arthur," Helm said, wringing her gloved hands. "I should have told Burningum to retrieve his own contraband. To pull you away from the gala... from our dance... it is unacceptable."
"It's fine, Helm," Arthur said, checking the charge on his sidearm. He had kept the tuxedo but strapped a heavy combat belt over the cummerbund. The juxtaposition was ridiculous, but he didn't have time to change. "Besides, it gets me out of a conversation with a talent scout from Mustang's office who wanted to know if my prosthetics could be 'blinged out' for a music video."
Helm offered a weak smile. "I am coming with you. It is my ship that received the coordinates; it is my responsibility."
"I was hoping you'd say that," Arthur replied. "But we need a squad. Two more, minimum. Standard protocol for surface excursions."
Helm frowned, tapping her chin. "Mast and Anchor are currently... indisposed. I believe Anchor is trying to teach Mast how to identify starfish, and Mast is trying to arm-wrestle the anchor chain. I could recall them, but—"
"No," Arthur interrupted, looking past her shoulder toward the corridor leading back to the ballroom. "We don't need to recall anyone. We just need to remove the biggest liabilities from the party."
Down the hall, the sounds of an altercation drifted toward them. Sugar was leaning over the espresso counter, her sunglasses reflecting the terrified face of a barista. She was holding a bag of beans like it was a suspect in a murder investigation.
"I'm telling you," Sugar growled, "if these beans were roasted any darker, they'd be charcoal. This is negligence. I should confiscate the grinder."
Further down, near a ventilation shaft, Julia was playing her violin again. The screeching had stopped, replaced by a low, repetitive droning sound that was causing a nearby service dog to whimper and hide under a table.
"I hear the hum of the ventilation," Julia murmured to no one in particular, bowing a single, discordant note. "It is the song of the machine's soul. Can you feel the vibration?"
Arthur gestured to the two of them. " Them. We take them."
Helm looked horrified. "Sugar and Julia? For a covert retrieval mission?"
"If we leave them here," Arthur reasoned, "Sugar is going to dismantle your coffee bar, and Julia is going to accidentally find the resonant frequency that shatters your hull. Taking them to the surface is a public safety measure."
Helm sighed, the fight leaving her. "You make a compelling argument, Commander."
***
Ten minutes later, the four of them stood in the freight elevator as it ascended slowly toward the surface access hatch. The atmosphere was less 'elite tactical squad' and more 'disgruntled wedding party.'
"This is an abuse of labor laws," Sugar complained. She was straddling her motorcycle, the Black Typhoon, engine idling with a low rumble that vibrated the floorplates. She was still wearing her black evening dress, the skirt hitched up to allow her legs to grip the bike, her sunglasses firmly in place despite the dim lighting. "It's New Year's Eve. I was about to educate that barista on the proper tamping pressure for a ristretto."
"And I was finding a rhythm in the air recyclers," Julia added sadly, clutching her violin case to her chest. Her spectral dress fluttered in the draft of the elevator shaft. "The *Admire* has a very specific baritone hum. I was close to understanding it."
"This is an official military operation," Helm stated, trying to project authority despite the absurdity of the situation. "We are retrieving sensitive cargo for Central Command. There will be no detours, no unauthorized stops, and absolutely no bartering with wandering merchants."
Sugar revved the engine, the sound echoing loudly in the confined space. "Boring. If I'm riding in the snow in a dress, I want hazard pay. Or at least a scenic route."
"There is no scenic route," Helm insisted. "It is a wasteland."
Arthur stepped in before a mutiny could occur. "Actually, the drop coordinates are near the old coastal highway. It's a straight shot, but the wind coming off the eastern ruins usually clears the cloud cover this time of night."
Julia perked up. "Wind? The acoustics of the wind on the surface... I have read about them. They say the wind howls like a choir of ghosts."
"And the highway," Sugar noted, her interest piqued. "Pavement? Or rubble?"
"Pavement," Arthur lied smoothly. "Long, straight stretches. Perfect for opening up the throttle."
Sugar adjusted her glasses, a small smirk appearing. "Acceptable."
Helm looked at Arthur, her eyes wide. "Arthur, the mission timeline..."
"We have a buffer," Arthur murmured to her, leaning close so the others couldn't hear. "And didn't you say you wanted to see the ocean?"
Helm stiffened. "That was... a metaphorical ambition."
"The coordinates are in Sector Seven," Arthur said. "If the weather holds, and we hit the ridge at the right time... you might see more than just snow."
Helm fell silent, her gaze drifting toward the ceiling of the elevator as the gears ground overhead. The longing in her eyes was palpable. "The sea," she whispered. "From the surface."
"Let's get the toy," Arthur said. "Then we'll see about the view."
***
The elevator doors groaned open, revealing a world of white and grey. The wind hit them instantly—a biting, frigid gale that carried the scent of rust and old ice. The transition from the warm, perfumed air of the *Admire* was violent.
They stepped out onto the loading platform of the surface outpost—a concrete slab jutting out from the side of a mountain, overlooking a vast, snow-covered valley. The ruins of the old world poked through the white blanket like jagged tombstones. In the distance, the skeletal remains of skyscrapers clawed at the sky.
"Check seals," Arthur ordered, his voice changing to his command tone. "Raptures love the holidays too. Stay sharp."
Sugar didn't wait. She kicked the Black Typhoon into gear, the rear tire spinning on the frost-slicked concrete before finding traction. "I'll scout ahead. If there's pavement under this powder, I'm going to find it."
"Sugar, maintain formation!" Helm shouted, but the only response was the roar of the engine and a spray of snow as the Nikke launched herself off the ramp and onto the valley floor.
"She is impossible," Helm muttered, pulling her white cape tighter around her shoulders against the cold. She shivered, not just from the temperature, but from the sheer scale of the horizon. "It is... vast."
"It's quiet," Julia said. She had walked to the edge of the platform, ignoring the cold. She closed her eyes, tilting her head to listen to the wind whistling through the girders of a collapsed bridge nearby. "Listen. D sharp. Oscillating to E flat."
"We move on foot to the transport lift," Arthur directed, checking his Omni-tool. "The drop zone is three clicks north. Sugar will beat us there, but we need to secure the package."
They descended into the valley, the snow crunching under their formal shoes. It was a surreal image—a tuxedo-clad commander, a naval captain in full dress uniform, and a ghost-bride violinist trekking through a post-apocalyptic winterscape. The cold bit at Arthur's face, but his goddesium limbs were impervious, the internal servos generating a faint, comforting warmth.
As they walked, Helm kept glancing toward the east. The sky was dark, heavy with clouds, but there was a faint luminescence on the horizon.
"Do you really think we can see it?" she asked quietly, stepping over a rusted I-beam.
"The geography lines up," Arthur said. "The old coastline isn't far. The water levels rose after the invasion, flooding the lower sectors. The ocean came to us."
Helm adjusted her hat, her expression solemn. "I have studied the charts. I know the depth, the salinity, the currents. But to see it... to know that the *Admire* has a destination..."
"She'll get there, Helm. And you'll be the one at the helm when she does."
She looked at him, gratitude softening the rigid lines of her face. "Thank you, Arthur. For this. Even if it is for a plastic doll."
"It's an action figure," Arthur corrected with a grin. "Burningum was very specific."
A roar cut through the silence. In the distance, a single headlight cut through the gloom like a laser. Sugar was returning.
The Black Typhoon tore up the slope, drifting sideways in a spray of ice before coming to a halt inches from Arthur. Sugar killed the engine and pushed her sunglasses up onto her forehead. Her face was flushed with adrenaline, her hair windblown.
"Found it," she said, breathless and grinning. "About two miles out. There's a stretch of highway that's elevated—wind kept it clear of snow. It was... smooth."
"The package?" Helm asked.
"Right next to a rusted sedan," Sugar confirmed. "Big crate. Marked with the Central Command seal. Didn't touch it. Figured you'd want to do the honors."
"Good work," Arthur said. "Any hostiles?"
"Saw a couple of Watchers near the treeline, but they didn't engage. My exhaust probably scared them off." Sugar patted the fuel tank of her bike. "She sings loud in the cold."
"Then we move," Helm ordered, checking the sky. "We are losing light, and I do not want to explain to the Admiralty why we were ambushed by Raptures while wearing evening gowns."