The gate leading back toward the Ark proper opened slowly. Webb was in Central Government custody. The USB drive with trafficking evidence sat in his coat pocket like a lead weight. Mission accomplished, as Andersen would say.
Except it didn't feel like victory.
Arthur's reflection stared back from the polished elevator doors—brown hair still perfectly slicked, beard trimmed, tactical coat hiding the weapons and the prosthetic arms that marked him as different. Everything looked the same as when he'd left the Outpost three days ago. But Viper's betrayal had left something bitter in his mouth that no amount of professionalism could wash away.
Arthur stepped into the commercial district level, out into the neon-drenched thoroughfare of the Ark's entertainment sector, where citizens who could afford distraction came to forget that humanity lived in an underground cage. His comm unit buzzed with messages—Shifty confirming extraction team deployment, Andersen requesting debrief, Rapi asking about his return timeline. Arthur silenced them all.
He needed to not think for a while.
Coin Rush occupied an entire city block, its facade a monument to excess. Holographic cards and dice tumbled through the air above the entrance, and the building itself seemed to pulse with internal light. Arthur had heard about Mustang's flagship casino but never had reason to visit. Tonight felt like the right time to change that.
The interior was everything excess promised—crystal chandeliers, gilt fixtures, and the constant chiming symphony of slot machines. Dealers in immaculate uniforms worked tables where credits changed hands with casual indifference. The air tasted of expensive perfume and desperation.
Arthur found an isolated row of slot machines and fed his credit stick into the reader. The balance made him pause—months of high-risk missions had accumulated into an amount most Ark citizens would never see. He selected maximum bet and pulled the lever.
Cherries. Credits returned.
Again.
Lemons. Credits lost.
Again.
Sevens. Credits multiplied.
The mechanical repetition was exactly what he needed—action without consequence, risk without stakes. Arthur lost himself in the rhythm until boredom crept in to replace the numbness.
"Slot machines are for tourists," a smooth voice said beside him.
Arthur turned to find a Nikke regarding him with professional interest. She was striking—impossibly long legs encased in skintight red pants, white shirt crisp beneath a red sleeveless jacket that struggled admirably to contain her modest chest, a cravat tied with perfect precision. Her eyes held the calculating warmth of someone whose job was making guests feel special.
"Rouge," she introduced herself with a polite smile. "Games master. And you look like someone who deserves more interesting entertainment than watching fruit spin."
"Arthur," he replied, even though everyone in the Ark proper knew Commander Cousland by sight these days.
Rouge's smile widened fractionally, genuine interest flickering behind professional courtesy. "Commander. We've been hoping you'd visit. May I interest you in roulette? I promise the wheel is more entertaining than the slots."
Arthur cashed out his credits and followed her to the roulette table. The game had elegant simplicity—predict chaos, bet accordingly. He placed fifty thousand credits on red.
The wheel spun.
Black.
"Unfortunate," Rouge said, though her tone suggested she found his lack of concern more interesting than the loss. "Again?"
Arthur doubled his bet. Red. The ball clattered around the wheel's edge and settled into a red pocket. Rouge's eyes gleamed as she pushed his winnings forward.
"Perhaps blackjack would better suit you, Commander. More strategy, less randomness. Unless you prefer chance?"
"Strategy sounds good," Arthur admitted.
They moved to a private blackjack table, away from the main floor. Rouge dealt with practiced efficiency, her movements smooth and hypnotic. Arthur bet conservatively at first, feeling out the rhythm. Then he started increasing stakes—one hundred thousand, two hundred thousand, half a million.
Rouge's smile never wavered, but she'd started calling him "Highroller" with genuine respect.
Arthur won three hands, lost two, won again. The credits were meaningless numbers on a display, but the game itself required enough focus to quiet the thoughts he was trying to outrun. Rouge dealt another hand.
Arthur went bust.
"Even the best players lose sometimes," Rouge said diplomatically. "Perhaps a break? The house offers complimentary drinks—"
The lights dimmed suddenly. Murmurs rippled through the casino, but they carried excitement rather than alarm. Rouge's professional smile became something more genuine.
"Ah, perfect timing. You're in for a treat, Commander."
A stage Arthur hadn't noticed before illuminated at the casino's center. Two figures emerged from behind crimson curtains, and the crowd's murmur transformed into appreciative whistles.
The dancers were Nikkes, both wearing bunny girl outfits that left very little to imagination. The first had porcelain skin and long bleach-white hair that cascaded past her shoulders, yellow eyes bright with mischief above a playful grin. Her white outfit showcased a slim figure with athletic grace. The second was her perfect contrast—tanned skin, long brown hair, warm brown eyes, and a shy smile that somehow made her black outfit even more alluring. Where her sister was slim, she was curvaceous, every movement highlighting that fact.
"Blanc and Noir," Rouge explained quietly. "Sisters. Mustang's star attractions."
Music pulsed through hidden speakers—pre-war composition, heavy bass, sensual rhythm. Twin poles descended from the ceiling, and the sisters took position with synchronized precision.
Blanc moved first, spinning around the pole with acrobatic flair, her white outfit catching the light as she climbed, inverted, descended in a controlled slide that made it look effortless. She grinned at the crowd, feeding off their energy.
Noir followed a heartbeat later, her movements more fluid, less showy but somehow more captivating. She blushed as the crowd cheered, but her shy smile never faltered. Her curves worked with gravity and momentum, creating visual poetry.
Arthur found himself genuinely impressed. This wasn't mere entertainment—it was performance art, requiring strength, coordination, and absolute trust in their own abilities. Blanc spun in dizzying rotations while Noir created impossible shapes, their routines complementing each other perfectly.
The crowd went wild. Arthur joined them, appreciation for skill overriding his earlier numbness.
When the lights came back up, Arthur felt almost energized. Rouge appeared at his elbow, eyebrow raised.
"Ready for another round, Highroller?"
Arthur returned to the blackjack table, but this time he felt different. Lucky, perhaps. Or just distracted enough to stop overthinking. Rouge dealt, and Arthur placed his bet.
Two million credits.
The entire table went silent. Other players turned to stare, recognition dawning. That was Commander Cousland, the one who treated Nikkes like people. The one who built the Outpost. The one with the legendary polyamorous family.
And he'd just bet enough money to buy a small apartment complex.
Rouge's professional composure cracked slightly—her eyes widened before she recovered. "Bold choice, Commander. Are you certain?"
"Deal," Arthur said.
Movement at the table's edge caught his attention. Blanc and Noir had emerged from backstage, still in their bunny outfits, drawn by the commotion. Blanc's yellow eyes sparkled with interest when she saw the bet amount and who'd made it.
"Well, well," Blanc said, sliding closer with zero hesitation. "Blanc, Commander. This is my sister Noir. We couldn't help noticing someone interesting."
Noir followed more shyly, warm brown eyes studying Arthur with genuine curiosity. She pressed herself gently against his side, the warmth of her presence somehow steadying. Her voice was soft when she spoke. "Good luck, Commander."
Blanc leaned across the table, her playful grin widening. She blew Arthur a kiss, the gesture theatrical but charming. "For extra luck. You'll need it with a bet like that."
The other players radiated jealousy so thick Arthur could taste it. Rouge dealt with exaggerated care, making a show of the cards.
Arthur drew nineteen. Rouge showed fifteen. She drew.
Bust.
The table erupted. Arthur stared at his winnings as Rouge pushed four million credits forward with a smile that mixed professional courtesy with genuine delight.
"Congratulations, Highroller. The house always appreciates players who take real risks."
Blanc laughed, delighted. "I told you our luck was good! Noir, we picked the right one."
Noir's shy smile bloomed into something warmer. She produced a small card from somewhere in her outfit and pressed it into Arthur's hand. "If you want to celebrate sometime. Both our numbers are there."
"We don't usually give those out," Blanc added, leaning close enough that Arthur could smell her perfume—something light and floral. "But you're special, Commander. Everyone knows how you treat Nikkes. That matters to us."
Arthur pocketed the card, finding himself smiling genuinely for the first time since leaving the Outer Rim. "I'll remember that."
He cashed out his winnings and left Coin Rush considerably richer than he'd entered. The AZX train back to the Outpost gave him time to process the evening. Viper's betrayal still stung, but the distraction had done exactly what he'd needed. Sometimes the solution to complicated feelings was simple action.
The Outpost's bar was still open when Arthur arrived, Nikkes from various squads unwinding after shifts. Arthur walked to the counter where Yulha was nursing something amber.
She looked up with tired yellow eyes, long ashen hair framing sharp features. Her red cropped shirt revealed fit stomach and enough neckline to be distracting, white coat draped over her shoulders, black leather pants with strategic cutouts showing off her thighs. Triangle Squad's leader looked perpetually exhausted.
"Drinks are on me tonight," Arthur announced to the bar. "Everyone."
Cheers erupted. The bartender started pouring. Arthur slid onto the stool beside Yulha, who regarded him with weary amusement.
"Celebrating or drowning?" she asked, voice carrying the rasp of someone who worked too hard.
"Both," Arthur admitted. "You?"
"Courthouse paperwork doesn't file itself. Needed to kill my liver before it killed me." Yulha's sharp teeth showed in a tired grin. "Though if you're buying, I might forgive the interruption."
They drank. Other Nikkes joined them, swapping stories and jokes. Arthur found himself laughing at Yulha's dry observations about Outpost bureaucracy, at her pointed commentary on everyone who made her job harder. She matched him drink for drink, her exhaustion slowly replaced by alcohol-fueled animation.
"You're not so bad, Commander," Yulha said eventually, words slightly slurred. "For someone who makes my job exponentially more complicated."
"Sorry about that," Arthur said, not sounding sorry at all.
Yulha leaned against him, too tired to maintain personal space. "Don't be. Place was boring before you showed up."
They drank into the night, surrounded by the family Arthur had built, in the sanctuary he'd created. Viper's betrayal felt distant now. Tomorrow he'd deal with Andersen's debrief, with the trafficking evidence, with the mission's aftermath.
Tonight, he was just Arthur, drinking with friends, feeling lucky.