The sterile hum of the AZX train faded as Arthur stepped onto the platform deep within the Ark's underlevels. The air here was cooler, laced with the metallic tang of recycled oxygen and something sharper—disinfectant, perhaps, or the faint ozone of security fields. The Rehabilitation Center loomed ahead, a monolithic structure buried in the bowels of the city, its reinforced walls a testament to the dangers it contained.
He approached the entrance, where automated scanners swept over him, confirming his identity and new credentials. The massive doors parted with a hydraulic hiss, revealing a stark lobby patrolled by armed guards and monitored by unblinking cameras. A Nikke awaited him, her lab coat pristine over a form-fitting white shirt and pencil skirt, clipboard in hand. She had sharp features, glasses perched on a pert nose, and hair kept short—efficient, clinical.
"Commander Cousland? Or should I say, Councillor now?" she said, extending a hand. "I'm Mana, lead researcher from the Missilis Medical Research division. I'll be your liaison here."
Arthur shook her hand, noting the firmness of her grip. "Just Arthur is fine. Andersen briefed me on the basics. I'm starting with Guilty."
Mana arched an eyebrow, leading him down a corridor lined with reinforced cells. "Guilty, huh? Bold choice for your first. Did you pick her because you figured there's no risk of physical harm? She's restrained, after all."
He chuckled softly. "Something like that. But I've dealt with strong types before. My squad's got Nyx—she's a force of nature herself."
"Keep your guard up anyway," Mana warned, her tone turning serious as they passed a series of locked doors, each humming with energy fields. "Of the many counselors who've tried to reform Guilty, ten ended up in the hospital with compound fractures. She plays up this harmless, innocent front—big eyes, soft voice. Gets them careless. They loosen the restraints, despite explicit instructions not to. And then... well, you can imagine."
Arthur nodded, his goddesium legs whispering faintly as he matched her pace. This place reeked of control, the opposite of his Outpost philosophy. "Understood. No removing restraints. And if things go south?"
"There's a bell in the room," Mana replied, stopping at a heavy door marked with warning symbols. "Ring it, and a guard team swarms in to restrain her. But let's hope it doesn't come to that. She's been isolated for a reason—solitary confinement wing. Good luck, Councillor. I'll be monitoring from outside."
The door slid open, revealing a sparse interrogation room: white walls, a metal table bolted to the floor, two chairs. In the center sat Guilty, her imposing figure hunched slightly under the weight of her restraints. She was beautiful in a raw, untamed way—tall and curvaceous, with generous curves that strained against her simple prison jumpsuit. Her breasts were prominent, drawing the eye despite the utilitarian fabric. Long brown hair cascaded down her back, accented with streaks of green that caught the harsh overhead light. Pink eyes flicked up as Arthur entered, wide and curiously innocent. Thick, padded cuffs encircled her wrists and ankles, chained to the floor with heavy links that hummed with suppressive energy fields. Her arms were bound behind her, limiting movement.
Arthur took the seat across from her, setting the data pad on the table. The door sealed shut behind him with a finality that echoed in the confined space. "I'm Arthur Cousland. Your new counselor."
Guilty tilted her head, a small smile playing on her lips. She didn't speak at first, just studied him with those striking pink eyes. Then, softly, "Another one? After what happened to the last guy? I thought they'd given up on me."
Her voice was gentle, almost childlike, belying the power Mana had described. Arthur leaned forward, meeting her gaze steadily. "I'm not like the others. And I'm not here to give up. Let's talk about what happened. You insist you did nothing wrong?"
She shifted in her restraints, the chains clinking softly. "Nothing wrong? How could I? The Missilis scientists made me like this—super strong, unbreakable. They poked and prodded, turned me into a weapon. And now I'm locked up for it? It's not fair. I just... touch things, and they break. People break. But the ones who made me? They walk free, sipping coffee in their labs."
Arthur held her stare, his brown eyes unwavering. There was truth in her words, a raw injustice that resonated with his own battles against the Ark's dehumanizing systems. He'd seen it in Lyra's memory fragmentation, in Anne's daily resets—Nikkes treated as experiments, discarded when inconvenient. "I get it. The system's rigged. Scientists play god, and you pay the price. But breaking people isn't the answer. We can change that."
Guilty's pink eyes locked onto his, intense and searching. She averted her gaze briefly, cheeks flushing slightly, before glancing back. "Do you mean that? Really? Or is this just another trick to get me to behave?"
"I mean it," he said firmly, his voice steady. "I've built a place—the Outpost—where Nikkes aren't tools. They're people. Partners. If we work together, maybe you could be part of that."
She muttered under her breath, "You're not on my side yet. Not really." Then louder, "So what's your big plan, Counselor? Talk me into being weak?"
Arthur shook his head. "No plan imposed on you. I want to know what *you* want. What does Guilty dream of, beyond these walls?"
The question caught her off guard. Her eyes widened, and she looked away again, the chains rattling as she fidgeted. "What I want? No one's ever asked that. You're... you're lying. You can't be on my side. Not after everything."
He persisted, leaning in. "Try me. How'd you end up in solitary, anyway?"
Guilty sighed, her curvaceous form slumping slightly. "The last person... they said they could handle my strength. Insisted on it. So I got excited, you know? Touched them—a hug, really. But I broke them. Arms, ribs... it was an accident. They locked me here after that. This stifling little box. No windows, no air. Just waiting."
Arthur nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds like you both underestimated it. You more than them. Strength like yours—it's a gift, but uncontrolled, it's a curse. We can work on that. Teach you to regulate it, measure it. Turn it into something you command, not the other way around."
Her laugh was bitter, pink eyes flashing. "Impossible. I was born this way—made this way. Nothing changes that. You're a liar, just like the rest. I won't listen to you!"
She turned her head away, refusing to meet his eyes now. Arthur watched her, noting the vulnerability beneath the defiance—the way her shoulders trembled, the green highlights in her hair catching the light like trapped lightning. This wasn't just about power; it was about isolation, about being feared rather than understood. It mirrored Diesel's trauma, the way she'd hidden her pain behind cheer.
"I'm not lying," he said softly. "I'll be back. We'll start small. Prove I'm on your side."
Guilty didn't respond, her silence a wall. Arthur rose, pressing the exit buzzer. The door opened, and Mana waited outside, eyebrow raised. "How'd it go? She didn't try anything, did she?"
"She's guarded," Arthur replied, glancing back as the door sealed. "But there's potential. Hurt, like so many. The scientists did a number on her."
Mana nodded, walking him back to the lobby. "Missilis has a lot to answer for. But if anyone can crack her, it's you. Your rep precedes you—treating Nikkes like people, not parts. Just remember the rules. No risks."
As he boarded the AZX back to the Outpost, Arthur's mind churned. Guilty's story tied into the larger web—Missilis experiments, like those on Yuni and Mihara, whose sensory needs he'd satisfied in heated encounters. Flashbacks intruded: the office tryst, Yuni's moans as she rode him, Mihara's tongue working in tandem. It had been a release, a bond forged in intensity. Now, with Guilty, it was about breaking chains, not just physical ones.
At the Outpost, the communications center buzzed with activity. Shifty looked up from her console. "Boss, you've got a visitor—Diesel. Said it's urgent."
Arthur found her in the lounge, dark hair tousled, rail uniform slightly askew. She launched into his arms the moment he entered, lips crashing against his in a fervent kiss. "Missed you," she murmured, hands roaming over his prosthetic arms, feeling the alloy's warmth.
He reciprocated, pulling her close, the kiss deepening as they stumbled toward a couch. Diesel straddled him, grinding against his growing arousal, her breaths coming in gasps.
Arthur's hands explored her curves, slipping under her uniform to cup her breasts, thumbs teasing nipples to hardness. She moaned, arching into his touch, her own fingers undoing his trousers. Soon, she was riding him with abandon, their bodies moving in sync, the lounge echoing with their shared pleasure. It was raw, emotional— a continuation of their bond, healing her lingering trauma through intimacy.
As they climaxed together, Diesel collapsed against him, whispering, "You're my anchor, Arthur. Don't ever change."
He held her, mind drifting to Guilty's restraints, the parallels stark. Redemption started with trust, one link at a time.
Later, as Diesel dozed contentedly, Arthur slipped away to plan his next visit to the Center. Sin and Quency awaited, each a puzzle for him to solve.