Director Sarah Caldwell's office occupied a strategic position within the Ark's administrative sector—high enough to project authority, accessible enough to avoid the appearance of isolation. Arthur entered precisely on time, noting the understated efficiency of the space: tactical displays showing surface operations, secure communication terminals, and notably, no decorative excess. This was a workspace designed for function.
"Commander Cousland," Caldwell greeted him, gesturing to a chair. Her silver hair caught the overhead lighting as she moved around her desk. "Thank you for your punctuality. I'll be direct—you've earned it, and we're both busy."
Arthur sat, his prosthetic hands resting comfortably on the armrests. "Appreciated, Director."
"Your performance with Squad Seven exceeded all projections," she began, pulling up data on a wall display. Mission metrics scrolled past—resource recovery percentages, combat efficiency ratings, survival statistics. "More importantly, you demonstrated consistent methodology regardless of which Nikkes you commanded. That suggests your success isn't dependent on specific personnel, but on your approach itself."
"I just treat them like soldiers," Arthur said. "Like people. It's not complicated."
"It shouldn't be, yet somehow Central Command has made it so." Caldwell's expression hardened momentarily before smoothing back to professional neutrality. "Which brings me to your permanent assignment. Squad Thirteen—Scarlet, Lyra, and Nyx—is yours. Permanently. No rotation protocol, no temporary assignments. They're your squad, you're their commander, effective immediately."
Relief washed through Arthur, though he kept his expression controlled. "Thank you, Director. I won't disappoint."
"See that you don't." Caldwell leaned forward. "However, there's a bureaucratic matter we need to address. Squad Thirteen was a temporary designation, a holding number for problematic assets awaiting permanent placement or disposal. Now that you're transitioning to permanent status, you'll need a proper squad designation. Something that will appear in operational reports, mission briefings, commendation records—assuming you survive long enough to earn any."
Arthur hadn't considered that angle. "Any restrictions on naming?"
"Nothing profane, nothing that could be construed as insubordinate, and ideally something that won't embarrass Central Command when inevitably cited in official documentation." A ghost of amusement crossed her features. "Beyond that, choose what feels appropriate. Discuss it with your squad—they're the ones who'll carry the name into combat. Make it meaningful."
"Understood."
"Good." Caldwell stood, signaling the meeting's conclusion. "Your squad is waiting in Bay Twenty-Three. I took the liberty of notifying them about the permanent assignment before this meeting. Seemed cruel to make them wait longer than necessary."
Arthur rose, recognizing the dismissal but also the consideration beneath it. Caldwell understood what this meant to his Nikkes—stability, recognition, an end to the dehumanizing rotation that treated them as interchangeable parts.
"Director, one question. Why me? You could have chosen any Academy graduate for this experiment."
Caldwell regarded him with those sharp, assessing eyes. "Because you already believed what I need to prove, Commander. You didn't need convincing that Nikkes deserve respect—you arrived with that conviction fully formed. My job isn't to change you. It's to protect you long enough for your results to change everyone else."
She paused at her desk, fingers drumming once against its surface. "And because someone I trust vouched for you before you ever entered the Academy. That recommendation carried significant weight."
Arthur wanted to ask who, wanted to understand the full scope of the conspiracy that had pulled him from the Outer Rim into this position. But Caldwell's expression made clear the conversation had ended.
"Dismissed, Commander. Go tell your squad the good news."
---
Bay Twenty-Three felt different when Arthur entered—less like a storage area for discarded equipment, more like home territory. His squad stood near their equipment lockers, and the moment Scarlet spotted him, her entire posture changed.
She crossed the distance in seconds, grabbed the front of his uniform, and kissed him hard enough that Arthur actually had to brace himself with his prosthetic leg to avoid being knocked backward. Her lips were warm and insistent, the kiss aggressive and possessive and completely indifferent to the maintenance crew working two bays over who suddenly found their equipment diagnostics absolutely fascinating.
When Scarlet finally pulled back, her crimson eyes were bright with emotion. "Permanent assignment, Commander. Caldwell actually did it."
"She did," Arthur confirmed, aware his face was probably flushed. "We're official."
"Lyra and I requested it formally," Scarlet said, still gripping his uniform. "After your first mission with us. Submitted transfer requests to make the assignment permanent."
"Scarlet," Lyra's voice carried a note of exasperation from where she stood with Nyx. "You weren't supposed to tell him that part."
Scarlet released Arthur's uniform, and for the first time since he'd met her, actual color rose in her pale synthetic cheeks. The blush was faint but unmistakable, her usual confident aggression momentarily replaced by embarrassed vulnerability.
"I didn't know Nikkes could blush," Arthur said, unable to suppress his grin.
The blush deepened. "Shut up. Advanced synthetic skin includes autonomic response emulation for better infiltration capability. It's not—I'm not—"
"It's adorable," Arthur said, which only made it worse.
Nyx's laughter boomed through the bay. "Never thought I'd see Scarlet actually embarrassed. This is amazing."
"You didn't submit a request," Arthur observed, looking at Nyx. "Why not?"
Nyx's humor faded slightly. "Different situation. Scarlet and Lyra are Elysion. Their manufacturers at least pretend to care about Nikke preferences. I'm Missilis."
"And?"
"And our new CEO, Syuen, gives exactly zero shits about what Nikkes want." Nyx's golden eyes hardened. "She's young, ambitious, and treats most of us like we're malfunctioning appliances. Calls us 'bucket of bolts' to our faces, only values the handful of custom models she personally designed. A mass-produced unit like me requesting specific assignment? She'd probably have me decommissioned out of spite."
Arthur felt anger kindle in his chest. "That's insane."
"That's Missilis under Syuen," Nyx corrected. "Look, I wanted permanent assignment same as these two. But I know my manufacturer. Better to stay under the radar and hope Caldwell's authority keeps me with you anyway."
"Which it does," Lyra interjected quietly. "Caldwell's authorization overrides manufacturer preferences for strategic assignments. Nyx is part of Squad Thirteen regardless of what Syuen thinks about it."
"Good," Arthur said firmly. "Because you're all stuck with me now. Which brings up our first official business—we need a proper squad name."
"About damn time," Nyx said. "Squad Thirteen sounds like a horror movie."
"Exactly Caldwell's point. Something that won't embarrass Central Command in official reports, but meaningful to us." Arthur looked at each of them. "Ideas?"
"Something badass," Nyx suggested immediately. "We're not some cute mascot squad. We fight Lord-class Raptures and win."
"Phoenix," Scarlet offered. "Rising from ashes, rebirth, all that symbolic shit about second chances."
"Too common," Lyra countered. "Half the squads probably wanted that name. We need something unique."
"Let's celebrate first," Arthur decided. "Talk it over somewhere more comfortable than a equipment bay. Iron Kettle?"
Scarlet's grin returned full force. "Now you're talking."
---
The Iron Kettle welcomed them with the same warm efficiency as their first visit. The owner, recognizing Arthur and his squad, guided them to the same corner booth without being asked. Within minutes they had food ordered and drinks arriving—alcohol for Arthur and Nyx, synthetic-compatible variants for Scarlet and Lyra.
"To permanent assignment," Arthur raised his glass. "And to never dealing with rotation protocol again."
They drank, and the celebration properly began.
"You know what I don't miss?" Nyx said after her second drink. "Commander Petros. That useless bastard."
Lyra's expression soured. "Oh god, Petros. He was the worst."
"Worst how?" Arthur asked, curious.
"Imagine everything you don't do, and that was Petros," Scarlet explained. "Stayed in the transport during operations, gave contradictory orders, panicked during combat. We basically had to run missions ourselves while keeping him alive."
"He screamed when we encountered scout-class Raptures," Nyx added with disgust. "Actual screaming. We're fighting for our lives and this coward is shrieking like he's being murdered."
"How did he graduate the Academy?" Arthur asked, genuinely baffled.
"Family connections," Lyra said quietly. "His father is a Central Command bureaucrat. Petros got pushed through despite being completely incompetent. They assigned him to us figuring either we'd die and solve the 'problematic Nikke' issue, or we'd somehow keep him alive and he'd get credit."
"But before Petros," Scarlet said, her expression softening slightly, "we had Commander Hayes."
"Hayes was good?" Arthur asked.
All three nodded.
"Hayes was almost as good as you," Nyx said. "Treated us like soldiers, fought alongside us, gave a shit whether we survived. We had him for six missions before—"
She stopped, expression darkening.
"Before what?" Arthur pressed gently.
"Before Central Command rotated him out for getting 'too attached' to his squad," Scarlet finished, bitterness sharp in her voice. "Same bullshit doctrine that treats us like equipment. They gave us Petros specifically to remind us that competent commanders were a privilege we didn't deserve."
Silence fell over the table, the celebration momentarily dampened by harsh reality.
"Well," Arthur said finally, "now you're stuck with me permanently. No rotation, no Petros replacements. Just us."
"Just us," Scarlet echoed, reaching over to take his hand. "I'll drink to that."
They returned to brainstorming names, the suggestions growing progressively more ridiculous as alcohol consumption increased. Nyx proposed "Titanbreakers," Lyra countered with "Vanguard Actual," and Scarlet's increasingly creative suggestions had to be vetoed for violating Caldwell's profanity restrictions.
Eventually Arthur called for a pause. "Let's sleep on it. Decide tomorrow when we're sober and clearheaded."
"Smart," Lyra agreed. "Though Nyx might need significant processing time to achieve clearheaded."
"I'm fine," Nyx protested, slightly slurred. "Totally functional."
They paid, left generous tip, and headed back toward quarters. Lyra and Nyx peeled off toward the Nikke barracks, leaving Arthur and Scarlet walking together through the quieter corridors.
"Your place again?" Scarlet asked, her earlier aggression softened into something more intimate.
"If you want."
"I want." She moved closer, her hand finding his. "We're permanent now, Arthur. No rotation pulling you away, no temporary assignment ending. Just wanted to make sure you understood what that means."
Arthur stopped, turning to face her. "Tell me what it means."
Scarlet's crimson eyes met his steadily. "Means I'm yours and you're mine for as long as this war lasts. Means I'll follow you into hell and fight my way back out. Means I trust you with my life, my squad, everything."
She kissed him then, gentle this time, vulnerable in a way that contrasted sharply with her earlier public display.
"It means," she whispered against his lips, "that I might actually believe we can win this thing."
Arthur pulled her closer, his prosthetic arms steady and sure around her. "We will. Together."
They made it to his quarters eventually, the privacy lock engaging behind them as Scarlet pushed him toward the bunk with renewed intensity, both of them seeking connection deeper than physical release—confirmation of permanence in a world that had offered them nothing but temporary survival.
Later, with Scarlet sleeping peacefully against his chest, Arthur stared at the ceiling and thought about squad names, about permanent assignments, about the weight of responsibility and the gift of trust.
They would find the right name. Something that captured who they were, what they fought for, what they meant to each other.
But for now, this moment was enough—his squad permanent, his purpose clear, his future uncertain but no longer solitary.