The warehouse's dim light cast elongated shadows across the crates, amplifying the sense of isolation in Sector Four's forgotten underbelly. Arthur leaned against a rusted support beam, his goddesium legs providing unyielding stability as he processed Sakura's words. The air was thick with the scent of stale metal and distant echoes of the interrogation—muffled grunts and sharp questions from her operatives. Sakura sat poised on a crate, her kimono's intricate patterns seeming almost alive in the flickering glow, a stark reminder of the festival's vibrancy they'd left behind.
She met his gaze steadily, the weight of her revelation hanging between them like an unspoken challenge. "The oath wasn't just words, Arthur. It was a binding forged in the fires of our past lives." Her voice carried a rhythmic cadence, drawing him back into the memory she wove.
In that shadowed chamber within Tetra's labyrinthine headquarters, the air had been charged with skepticism. Sakura, then still human, her features sharp and unyielding, had narrowed her eyes at Mustang. "Altruism towards outlaws? That doesn't suit you, Mustang. What's the real angle here—some grand sympathy for the Rim's dregs, or a twisted love for humanity's underbelly?"
Mustang's laughter echoed low and resonant, a sound that seemed to absorb the room's tension rather than dispel it. He stepped closer, his silhouette sharpening under the overhead lamps, revealing a face etched with the permanence of someone who had outlasted eras. "Sympathy? Altruism? No, that's not my game. This isn't about pity for the outlaws or some bleeding-heart affection for mankind's flaws. No, it's simpler, colder: restoration of peace to the Ark. Pure and unadorned."
He paced with deliberate steps, his presence commanding the space. "From the old days—the very founding of this bastion—to now, the chasm between the privileged and the destitute has widened into a festering wound. Enmity festers, turning neighbor against neighbor, rich against poor. If this conflict escalates into outright war, the Ark won't survive. It'll buckle under the sheer mass of its own hatred, crumbling from within before any Rapture can touch it."
Moran crossed her arms, her expression a mix of intrigue and defiance. "So you handpick us? To be what—guardians in the gloom? Why not just crush the darkness outright?"
Mustang's eyes gleamed with a fervor that bordered on fanaticism. "I told you. Because only those who've walked in shadows can truly navigate them without losing their way. You three... you hold a love for humanity despite its ugliness. You've seen the outlaws not as beasts, but as people—broken, striving, real. That's the key. All of this is to band humanity together, to prove that my 'Goddesses'—those who braved the battlefields of old—did not sacrifice in vain. Their legacy demands unity, not division."
Rosanna tilted her head, her mind racing through the implications. She voiced the thought aloud, probing. "If control is what you seek, why not leash us like Missilis does with their Exotic squad? Collar us, make us your obedient enforcers. It'd be cleaner, wouldn't it?"
The CEO's response was immediate, vehement, his voice rising like a storm. "Leash you? Absolutely not. A queen is crowned, not collared. You are to rule the underworld with autonomy, not grovel under a yoke. That's the essence of it—true power, unbound."
Rosanna pressed further, a sly smile playing on her lips. "And if we overstep? If this 'autonomy' leads us to turn on you, to bite the hand that crowned us? What then?"
To their surprise, Mustang's face lit up with an almost disturbing excitement, his eyes alight with challenge. "Overdo it? Turn on me? I invite it! Take your shot if you dare. It'll make things... interesting." His tone was laced with genuine thrill, as if the prospect invigorated him.
Rosanna backed down silently, the intensity of his gaze quelling her retort. Mustang straightened, his demeanor shifting to one of solemn finality. "One last assertion: no matter the paths you tread, the circumstances that tempt you, you must never break this oath. Not a single toe over that line, for any reason. If you do, there will be hell to pay. Consider it the price of coronation over subjugation—the consequence of queenship, not servitude. If that doesn't sit well, the door is there. Leave now."
The chamber fell silent, the weight of his words sealing their fates. They had stayed, sworn the oath, their human lives ending in various tragedies only to be reborn as Nikkes, wardens of the fragile balance Mustang envisioned.
Back in the warehouse, Sakura's eyes refocused on the present, the memory dissipating like mist. She adjusted her posture, the silk of her kimono whispering against the crate. "And that's how it ended—or began, depending on how you look at it. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Arthur?"
He nodded slowly, the pieces slotting into place amid the broader puzzle of Ark's undercurrents. Mustang's ageless influence, the deliberate selection of the Queens—it all painted a picture of calculated longevity, a web spun across decades. "It does. Explains the tensions, the accords... and why alliances like yours with Moran and Rosanna hold despite the rivalries. It's bigger than turf wars."
Sakura offered a faint smile, tinged with the weariness of secrets long held. "Precisely. We're threads in a larger tapestry, keeping the fabric from unraveling. But enough reflection—"
Her words were cut short as one of her operatives approached, his face etched with urgency. The man, clad in a dark suit that blended with the shadows, bowed slightly before speaking. "Boss, we've cracked it. The thug spilled more under pressure—Liberty's main hideout is in an old ventilation substation two levels down, near the Outer Rim access points. Looks like they've got a stockpile: weapons, credits from extortions, and some tech that doesn't match standard black-market gear. Could be ties to bigger players."
Sakura rose fluidly, her demeanor shifting from reflective to commanding in an instant. "Excellent. Rally the team—we move now. This ends tonight. Arthur, you're with us?"
Arthur pushed off the beam, his prosthetic arms flexing subtly as he checked the omni-blade's readiness. "Wouldn't miss it. Let's see what Liberty's hiding."
The group mobilized swiftly, exiting the warehouse into the dimly lit corridors of Sector Four. The air grew cooler as they descended via a service elevator, the hum of machinery underscoring their approach. Sakura's operatives moved like shadows, securing flanks while Arthur walked beside her, his senses heightened.
The ventilation substation loomed ahead, its entrance a grated door half-concealed by debris. Faint voices echoed from within, mingled with the clank of metal. Sakura signaled a halt, her eyes scanning for traps. "Breach on my mark. Non-lethal if possible—we need answers. Arthur, cover the left."
He nodded, positioning himself as the team advanced. The door burst open under a controlled charge, and chaos erupted. Liberty members—rough-clad figures armed with makeshift rifles—scattered, shouting alarms. Gunfire cracked the air, but Sakura's men were precise, disarming foes with calculated shots and takedowns.
Arthur surged forward, his goddesium legs propelling him with inhuman speed. A burly gang member swung a pipe at him; he dodged, countering with a prosthetic-fueled punch that sent the man crumpling. Another fired wildly—Arthur activated his omni-blade, the energy edge slicing through the weapon cleanly before subduing the attacker.
In the substation's core, amid humming vents and stacked crates, they cornered the apparent leader: Vance, a wiry man with a scarred face and a defiant sneer. "You Queens think you own everything? Liberty's just the start—real change is coming!"