Arthur found Rapi in the Outpost's armory, methodically cleaning her rifle with the focused precision that characterized everything she did. Her red eyes flickered up as he entered, and something in her posture shifted—subtle tension replacing practiced calm.
"Rapi," he said, closing the door behind him. "We need to talk."
"The weapon maintenance schedule is current," she replied immediately, returning her attention to the disassembled rifle. "All Bravo team equipment is ready for deployment."
"That's not what I meant." Arthur moved closer, his goddesium legs silent on the armory floor. "I've noticed you've been... different. Since Devil Hunters arrived. Since Makima—"
Rapi's hands stilled on the rifle components. A faint flush colored her cheeks. "I don't know what you're referring to, Commander."
"Don't do that. Don't retreat into formality." Arthur kept his voice gentle. "Talk to me. If something's bothering you, I want to help."
The flush deepened. Rapi abruptly stood, gathering rifle parts with slightly too much haste. "I should check the ammunition inventory. Flower mentioned a discrepancy in the count—"
"Rapi—"
"Excuse me, Commander." She moved past him with practiced efficiency, leaving Arthur alone in the armory with half-cleaned weapons and mounting frustration.
This was the third attempt in as many days. Every time he tried to address the obvious tension, Rapi found an excuse to escape. The wistful looks when she thought he wasn't watching, the way her shoulders tightened whenever Makima appeared—all of it painted an increasingly clear picture that she refused to acknowledge.
Arthur sighed and left the armory, heading toward the residential quarters where Anne waited. At least some relationships in his life weren't hopelessly complicated.
Anne sat cross-legged on the floor of her quarters, surrounded by drawings that covered every available surface. Her small hands moved with focused intensity as she added details to a new sketch—Arthur recognized the Outpost's library, rendered in careful pencil strokes.
"That's excellent," Arthur said from the doorway.
Anne's face lit up with genuine joy—an expression that still struck him as miraculous after months of watching her forget everything each morning. The Christmas preservation of her core memories had been impossible, defying every known principle of NIMPH architecture. But Arthur had learned to accept impossible things.
"Papa!" She scrambled up, rushing to hug him with the unselfconscious affection of a child who knew she was loved. "Look, I drew Phantom's library. Do you think she'll like it?"
Arthur knelt to examine the drawing more closely, his prosthetic hand careful as he lifted the paper. "She'll love it. You've captured the reading alcoves perfectly."
"I remember going there with you," Anne said proudly. "You read me the story about the rabbit and the moon."
"I did." Arthur's throat tightened slightly. Every retained memory felt like victory against a system designed to erase. "You have a good memory now."
"Because you helped me." Anne settled beside him, leaning against his shoulder with complete trust. "Rupee says I'm lucky to have you as my dad."
The word still caught him off-guard sometimes, carrying weight he'd never expected to bear. "I'm the lucky one," he said quietly.
A polite knock interrupted the moment. Arthur turned to find Makima standing in the doorway, her amber eyes taking in the domestic scene with unreadable intensity.
"My apologies for the intrusion," she said. "I was looking for you, Commander. But I can return later."
"It's fine." Arthur stood, his hand resting briefly on Anne's head. "Anne, this is Makima from Devil Hunters. Makima, my daughter Anne."
Anne regarded the redheaded Nikke with open curiosity. "You have pretty hair. Do you like drawing?"
"I've never tried," Makima admitted, stepping into the room with surprising gentleness. "Is that something you enjoy?"
"Very much." Anne gestured to her scattered artwork. "Papa says I'm getting better."
Makima knelt to examine the drawings. "These are quite skilled. The perspective is sophisticated."
Arthur watched the interaction with carefully concealed wariness. Makima's reputation preceded her—psychological warfare specialist, strategic manipulator, someone who viewed people as chess pieces to be positioned. But her attention on Anne seemed genuine, lacking the calculated edge that colored her other interactions.
"You're very dedicated as a father," Makima said, still examining Anne's work but clearly speaking to Arthur. "It's... unexpected. Most commanders maintain professional distance."
"Most commanders are idiots," Arthur replied.
Makima's lips curved in genuine amusement. She straightened, her amber eyes meeting his with renewed intensity. "I'm beginning to understand why your Nikkes perform beyond standard parameters. It's not just tactical competence. It's—"
Arthur's omni-tool chimed urgently. He checked the display and suppressed a sigh at seeing Poli's identification code.
"Cousland," he answered.
"Commander, I have a situation at the A.C.P.U. station." Poli's voice carried professional exasperation. "A Nikke claiming you'd vouch for her. She's extremely intoxicated and causing minor property damage."
"Description?"
"Black hair, crossbow on her back, keeps demanding quality sake and insulting our beverage selection."
Himeno. Of course. "I'll be there shortly."
Arthur ended the call and looked at Makima, who had clearly overheard. "Duty calls. Anne, I'll be back later. Keep drawing."
"Okay!" Anne was already returning to her sketches, unconcerned.
Makima fell into step beside Arthur as they headed toward the A.C.P.U. station. "Himeno has impressive alcohol tolerance. For her to reach 'extremely intoxicated' status suggests she found your bar's entire supply."
"That's a problem for later," Arthur said.
The A.C.P.U. station occupied a reinforced section of the Outpost's administrative level. Poli waited outside the holding cells, her expression mixing relief and irritation in equal measure.
"Thank you for coming," she said. "I wasn't sure if arresting her was appropriate given the Devil Hunters' assignment here."
"You made the right call." Arthur moved past her toward the cells. "I'll handle it."
Himeno sat on the cell's bench, her crossbow confiscated and her normally serene expression replaced by bleary contentment. She looked up as Arthur approached, squinting slightly.
"Cousland," she pronounced carefully. "Your bar has inferior sake. I told them. They didn't listen."
"How much did you drink?"
"Not enough." Himeno stood with only minor swaying. "Insufficient quality. Had to compensate with quantity."
Arthur signaled Poli to release her. "You're coming with me. We're doing a tour of the Outpost so you can walk this off."
"Don't need a tour," Himeno protested, but allowed herself to be guided from the cell. "Need better alcohol."
"You need water and fresh air."
Makima joined them as they exited the station, her amusement poorly concealed. "This should be educational."
They walked Himeno through the Outpost's main thoroughfares—past the library where Phantom waved cheerfully, through the theater district where Julia's violin practice drifted from open windows, along the shopping street where Rupee's boutique displayed the latest designs. Himeno's coordination improved gradually, her hangover settling into something manageable.
"Your facility is well-designed," she admitted, examining the architecture with professional interest. "Defensive positions integrated naturally. Good sight lines. Civilian comfort without sacrificing tactical advantage."
"I had help," Arthur said, nodding to Centi and Liter as they passed a construction zone.
They were approaching the shopping district's central plaza when Poli's voice crackled over the omni-tool, urgent and sharp.
"Commander! Terrorist attack, shopping street, multiple casualties! Heavenly Ascension claimed responsibility—explosions and fire, we need immediate response!"
Arthur was already running, his goddesium legs eating distance with mechanical efficiency. Makima and Himeno matched his pace, combat instincts overriding hangover.
Smoke billowed from storefronts ahead. Civilians scattered in panic while flames consumed a boutique's facade. Bodies lay motionless on the pavement—some moving, some terribly still. Arthur's tactical brain catalogued the scene in microseconds: four civilians down, three fires spreading, two masked figures fleeing toward the residential sector.
"Himeno, casualties!" Arthur barked. "Makima, with me!"
He sprinted after the fleeing terrorists, his Cerberus prosthetic hand deploying the omni-blade as he closed distance. The nearest figure turned, raising a crude explosive. Arthur's handgun spoke once—precise shot to the hand, detonating the explosive prematurely. The terrorist screamed and dropped, clutching charred fingers.
Makima took the second figure with clinical efficiency, her SMG placing non-lethal shots that dropped him writhing to the pavement. Within thirty seconds, both terrorists were subdued, zip-tied, and secured.
Arthur stood over them, breathing controlled despite the adrenaline flooding his system. Rage burned cold and focused in his chest—they'd attacked his Outpost, his people, his home. His prosthetic hand twitched toward the trigger.
One shot each. Problem solved. Justice served.
But that would make them martyrs. Heavenly Ascension thrived on martyrdom, converting dead terrorists into recruiting propaganda. Killing them would feed the cycle.
Arthur forced his hand to stillness. "Makima, secure them for A.C.P.U. pickup."
Her amber eyes studied him with renewed interest. "Restraint. Impressive."
They returned to find Himeno performing triage with startling competence, her crossbow abandoned as she applied pressure to a civilian's leg wound. Poli worked beside her, dragging an unconscious man from a burning storefront while flames licked dangerously close.
The roof groaned—structural failure imminent. Poli looked up too late, frozen as burning debris fell toward her.
Himeno moved with the fluid precision of someone absolutely sober, tackling Poli clear as the roof section crashed down where she'd stood moments before. They rolled together, coming up coughing but alive.
"Nice catch," Poli gasped.
"You're welcome," Himeno replied, already moving back to the wounded.
Arthur coordinated fire suppression while medical teams arrived. Thirty minutes later, the fires were contained, casualties stabilized, and terrorists secured. Four civilians injured, none dead—better than it could have been. Much better.
Poli found Arthur supervising cleanup, her uniform singed and her expression grateful. "Thank you. All of you. Without your response..."
"It's what we do," Arthur said simply.
"Then let me buy you a drink," Poli insisted. "All of you. Please. I owe you that much."
The Outpost's bar was quiet in the late evening, most residents either asleep or still processing the attack. Arthur, Makima, Himeno, and Poli occupied a corner booth, glasses of varying contents before them.
"To fast response times," Poli said, raising her glass. "And people who actually give a damn."
They drank to that.
Himeno examined her glass—proper sake this time, imported at Arthur's request. "Better quality. Acceptable."
"High praise," Makima said dryly.
Arthur let the conversation wash over him, his mind still processing the day's chaos. Rapi's avoidance, Anne's drawings, Makima's unsettling interest, Himeno's hidden competence, and terrorists bold enough to attack his Outpost directly.
"Another round?" Poli asked.
Arthur raised his glass. "Another round."