The hum of the Outpost's communications center provided a steady backdrop as Arthur Cousland prepared for another day at the Rehabilitation Center. It was the morning after his unsettling session with Sin, and the encounter lingered like a persistent fog. Arthur adjusted his tactical coat, his goddesium prosthetic legs whirred softly as he stood, Cerberus charcoal-alloy arm flexing with mechanical precision.
Rapi entered, her red eyes sharp but shadowed with concern. "Another trip to the Center?" she asked, voice steady but laced with unspoken worry.
"Yeah. Quency's next on the list," Arthur replied. "Andersen's pushing for results. If I can turn these Nikkes, it would be a boon. Each one possess a special power."
She nodded. "Just... don't let them get inside your head. Sin already tried her tricks."
"I won't. Promise we'll talk more tonight."
At the Center, Mana awaited in the sterile lobby, her lab coat impeccable, glasses perched on her nose. "Councillor Cousland, punctual as ever. Sin give you much trouble yesterday?"
"She was evasive," Arthur said, following her through the humming corridors. The air carried a metallic tang, energy fields buzzing faintly.
Mana stopped before a reinforced door, marked with escape risk warnings. "Quency's a unique case. Her actual crimes? Petty theft, mostly—lifting credits, small tech. Nothing violent. But her sentence ballooned because she wouldn't stay put. No matter the facility—high-security vaults, isolated cells—she'd slip out. Earned her the moniker 'Escape Artist' among crooks and guards alike. We've got her room sealed airtight, 24-hour surveillance, but she still vanishes for hours. Skips counseling like it's optional. Most rehabilitators quit after a few no-shows."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Sounds resourceful. Why the escalation if it's just theft?"
"Embarrassment, mostly. Central Government can't admit a Nikke keeps outsmarting their systems. She's a symbol of failure. Be cautious—she's charming, but it's a mask for opportunism."
He nodded, entering the room as the door hissed open. The space was barren: white walls, a single table, chairs bolted down, no windows or vents visible. Surveillance cameras blinked in the corners, red lights steady. But the room was empty. No sign of Quency—no discarded items, no scuffs on the floor. Arthur's hand instinctively hovered with urge to activate his omni-blade, a prickle of unease rising. Had she escaped again? The door sealed behind him with a click.
"Hello? Quency?" he called, scanning the corners. Silence.
A cheerful voice chirped from directly behind him: "Looking for me?"
Arthur whirled, heart jolting, his prosthetic arms tensing for action. There she stood, inches away, a mischievous grin splitting her face. How had she gotten there without a sound? The room hadn't offered hiding spots, and he'd checked upon entry. She jumped back slightly, pink eyes wide in mock surprise. "Whoa, easy there! You startled me startling you!"
He steadied himself, taking her in. Quency was strikingly pretty, cute even, with a curvaceous figure that reminded him of Anis but taller, more imposing. Her long brown hair was messy, streaked with pink highlights that matched her vibrant eyes. She wore a striped black-and-white prison shirt, loose enough to hint at her ample curves, paired with shorts that exposed the full length of her long legs and thick thighs. Her hands were cuffed together in front, chains linking them, yet she moved with effortless grace.
"Arthur Cousland," he said, extending a hand before remembering the cuffs. "Your new counselor. That was... impressive. Were you behind me the whole time?"
She laughed, a light, infectious sound, tilting her head. "Quency, at your service. And yeah. Guess I'm just that quiet. Nice to meet you, Arthur. Though, gotta say, these counselor visits are getting old. Everyone pestering me like I'm some project."
They sat at the table, Arthur across from her. She played coy immediately, batting her eyelashes. "Me? I'm innocent as they come. Haven't done a thing wrong. Why would you think otherwise?"
He leaned forward, keeping his tone neutral. "Your file mentions escape attempts. Multiple facilities, breaking free like it's a hobby. That's not nothing."
Quency's expression shifted to exaggerated hurt, her pink eyes widening. "Escapes? Me? Look at me—do I seem like the type? This room's locked down tighter than a vault, no tools anywhere, and these cuffs?" She held up her bound hands, chains jingling softly. "I'm just sitting here, minding my business. And if I was so good at escaping, why am I still rotting in this cell? You're being awfully prejudiced, jumping to conclusions like that."
Arthur paused, sensing the deflection but also the kernel of truth. She was testing him, probing for reactions. "Fair point. Maybe I am. Let's start over. Why are you here, then? Serious crimes, right?"
She leaned back, crossing her legs, the motion drawing attention to her thick thighs. "Murder? Nope. Assault? Not my style. But theft... yeah, that's it. Sticky fingers, they say." A sly smile crept across her face as she reached into her shirt pocket and produced his wallet, dangling it by the chain. "Like this."
Arthur blinked, patting his empty pocket. She'd lifted it the moment he'd entered, silent as a shadow. "Impressive. But that doesn't build trust."
Her grin faded, replaced by genuine upset. "See? You assume the worst. I was just demonstrating. Here, take it back." She slid the wallet across the table, pink eyes flashing with frustration. "Everyone does this—judges me before I even speak. It's exhausting."
He retrieved the wallet, meeting her gaze. "You're right. I shouldn't have assumed. I'm sorry."
Quency blinked, surprise softening her features. "Wait, really? An apology? I was half-joking, you know. Most counselors just get mad or lecture me." She paused, then nodded. "Alright, forgiven. But if we're doing this, you gotta commit. Every session, no skipping. Deal?"
"Deal," Arthur said, a small smile forming. "And to seal it—once you're out, how about I treat you to a light croquette? Heard they're your favorite."
Her eyes lit up, a genuine spark of delight. "You know about that? Deal! But don't think this means I'm spilling all my secrets yet."
The session flowed easier after that. Quency opened up slightly, sharing bits about her pre-incarceration life—petty thefts born from necessity in the Outer Rim's harsh underbelly, skills honed to survive. She dodged deeper questions about potential ties to larger networks, like smuggling rings, but Arthur noted the hesitations. Her charm was disarming, a blend of cuteness and cunning that could easily sway allegiances. By the end, he saw potential: not just as a reformed Nikke, but as an asset in infiltrating terrorist cells, her escape talents invaluable for covert ops.
As he left the cell, Mana arched an eyebrow. "She actually showed? And no incidents? You're a natural, Councillor."
"We made progress. She's not what the file says—more layers there," Arthur replied, mind already turning to how Quency might fit in the future.