Chapter Text
The surface was hell.
Everyone in the Ark knew it—humans and Nikkes alike. It was a truth etched into every corridor, every breath, every mission briefing. The humans stayed buried deep underground, safe behind steel and circuitry.
The Nikkes were not so fortunate.
Built to fight, not to live, the Nikkes were sent topside again and again to face the horrors humanity refused to confront. The sky above was choked with ash, the ground crawling with Raptures. Death was certain. Survival was rare. And retreat was never an option.
They didn't get to choose. They only followed orders.
Because that was what they were made for.
Commander Cade Thorne pressed himself against the crumbling concrete barrier, debris raining down around him as another Rapture shell exploded mere meters away. The acrid smell of smoke and burning metal filled his nostrils, mixing with the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.
Through blurry eyes, he could see the situation deteriorating by the second.
"Counters, report!" he barked into his comm, trying to project confidence he no longer felt.
"Commander!" Anis's voice crackled through the static. "We're pinned down in Sector 7! These bastards just keep coming!"
"Rapi's taken heavy damage to her left arm," Neon added, her usually cheerful voice strained with worry. "She's still operational, but—"
"I'm fine," Rapi's calm voice cut through. "Commander, the enemy formation suggests they're attempting to flank our position. We need immediate tactical support."
Cade's fingers flew across his tactical pad, analyzing the battlefield data streaming in from his Nikkes.
Even he, who considered himself an aggressive optimist in most typical scenarios, could see that the situation had deteriorated worse than he could possibly imagine.
What should have been a reconnaissance mission had turned into a full-scale engagement with a Rapture force three times larger than intelligence had indicated. His girls were scattered, outgunned, and running low on ammunition.
He grit his teeth before barking back into the comms.
"Negative, Counters. Fall back to Rally Point Beta. That's an order."
"But Commander—" Anis started to protest.
"No buts! Execute the withdrawal now!"
Cade knew he was asking them to abandon the mission objective, but keeping his squad alive was more important than any tactical goal. He'd rather face the Central Government's displeasure than getting his ass kicked by Ingrid once she found out he'd let the Counters get overwhelmed.
The sound of mechanical screeching filled the air as more Raptures poured over the ridge. Cade counted at least a dozen of the smaller units, with what looked like a Lord-Class heavyweight bringing up the rear.
His blood ran cold.
The Counters couldn't handle that kind of firepower, not in their current state.
"Commander, we have visual on your position," Rapi's voice came through clearly. "Multiple Rapture units converging on your location. You need to move, now."
Cade was already running, keeping low as he sprinted forward through what used to be a residential district. His boots splashed through puddles of contaminated water, and he could hear the distinctive whine of Rapture energy weapons charging behind him.
A plasma bolt seared past his head, close enough that he could feel the heat singing his hair. Another impacted the wall beside him, showering him with concrete fragments. He dove behind an overturned vehicle, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Distance to Rally Point Beta?"
"Two hundred meters, Commander," Neon reported. "But there's a problem. We've got more contacts between you and us. Looks like they're trying to cut off your escape route."
Of course they are. The situation was growing increasingly dire by the second, and Cade couldn't do a damn thing about it.
The commander checked his sidearm. Half a magazine left. Not nearly enough. Hell, not even guaranteed to work.
Fuck.
Cade let out a single shuddered breath, gritting his teeth tightly as he pressed the comm close to his ear once more.
"Counters, I need you to listen carefully," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "I'm going to create a distraction. When you see my signal, you execute the withdrawal immediately. No delays, no heroics."
"Commander, no!" Anis's voice was sharp with alarm. "We can fight our way to you!"
"The mission parameters have changed. Your priority is to return to the Ark with the intelligence we've gathered. That information could save thousands of lives."
It was true, but it wasn't the whole truth. The real reason was simpler: he wouldn't let his girls die for him. Not today. Not ever.
Over… here, Commander.
Marian's voice echoed in the Commander's mind, soft and haunting. Funny, how even after all this time, that moment still lingered—like he had never truly left it.
That was where everything started after all, huh?
Cade pulled out his last grenade. He had maybe thirty seconds before the Raptures found his position. Through a gap in the wreckage, he could see the lead units spreading out, their sensors sweeping methodically. Smart. Coordinated. Deadly.
"Commander," Rapi's voice was quieter now, almost gentle. "We're not leaving you behind."
"That's not your choice to make," Cade replied, surprised by how calm he sounded. "You three are the best squad I could've had the honor to command. Don't throw that away because of one stubborn human."
He could hear them arguing amongst themselves over the comm channel, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of worry and determination.
These girls—his girls—had become so much more than just weapons. They were friends, comrades, family. The thought of never seeing them again made his chest tight with emotion he couldn't afford to feel right now.
"Ten seconds, Counters. Be ready."
Cade stood up, grenade in hand, and stepped into the open. The Raptures immediately locked onto his position, their weapons swiveling toward him with mechanical precision. He could see their optical sensors focusing, could almost feel the targeting systems painting him with invisible lasers.
For a moment, time seemed suspended.
He thought about his life, about the choices that had brought him to this point.
Growing up in the Ark, watching the surface through monitors, dreaming of the day humanity would reclaim what they'd lost. Graduating from the Academy, taking command of his first squad, losing Marian under his command and learning to carry that weight. Meeting Counters. Training with them, fighting alongside them, watching them grow from efficient weapons into something more.
Something human, in all the ways that mattered.
He thought about Anis' terrible jokes that somehow always made him smile. Neon's boundless optimism that never wavered, even in the darkest moments. Rapi's quiet strength and unwavering loyalty. They'd trusted him with their lives, and he'd tried so hard to be worthy of that trust.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into his comm.
He armed the grenade and threw it as hard as he could toward the largest concentration of Raptures. The explosion lit up the battlefield like a miniature sun, and in that moment of chaos and confusion, he raised his pistol and opened fire.
The first Rapture went down, sparks flying from its damaged optical array. The second took two rounds to the center mass before its power core overloaded. But there were too many of them, and he was just one human with limited ammunition and reflexes that, no matter how well-trained, couldn't match mechanical precision.
A plasma bolt caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around and sending him crashing into a pile of rubble. His pistol went flying, clattering across the broken concrete and disappearing into the shadows.
Fire lanced through his arm and down his side, and he could smell his own burned flesh.
Through the smoke and pain, he could see the Counters in the distance, moving toward the extraction point as ordered.
Good. They would make it. They would survive. That had to be enough.
Another energy blast tore through his abdomen, and he doubled over, gasping. Blood filled his mouth, tasting of copper and defeat.
Hard to breathe… Body failing…
He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't obey. The world was spinning, colors bleeding together like a watercolor painting left in the rain. He could hear the mechanical clicking of Rapture actuators as they approached, their sensors confirming what he already knew.
But his girls were safe. In the end, that was all that mattered.
The last thing Commander Cade Thorne saw was the bright flash of a Rapture energy weapon charging to full power. The last thing he heard was Anis screaming over the comm channel, the sound cutting through static distance and the growing darkness that surrounded him.
"Commander—!"
Then there was nothing.
Darkness.
Not the peaceful darkness of sleep, but something else. Something deeper and more complete. A void where time held no meaning and consciousness drifted like debris in an endless sea.
But even in that torturous emptiness, fragments persisted. Flashes of memory that flickered and died like dying stars:
The weight of responsibility pressing down on his shoulders as he reviewed casualty reports.
Anis laughing at her own joke while they relaxed in the Command Center.
The satisfaction of a mission well-executed, watching his squad return safely to base.
Rapi's steady presence during those long nights when sleep wouldn't come.
Neon's smile, bright enough to light up the darkest corner of the Ark.
The sound of plasma fire and the smell of burning metal.
Pain.
Darkness.
Nothing.
And then—
Light.
Not the harsh glare of battlefield illumination or the sterile glow of the Ark's corridors, but something softer. Warmer. Like sunlight filtering through clouds, though that was impossible this far underground.
Cade's eyes opened slowly.
The ceiling above him wasn't familiar. Clean white panels with integrated lighting, free of the scratches and wear that marked most surfaces in the Ark. The air smelled different too—recycled and sterile, but with an underlying chemical tang that made his nose wrinkle.
He tried to sit up and—
Wrong.
The movement came too easily, too smoothly. His chest felt lighter—no, not lighter, different. The weight distribution was all wrong, center of gravity shifted in a way that made his stomach lurch with a sensation he couldn't name.
"What the—"
He tried to speak and his voice came out wrong—higher, softer, distinctly feminine. Not his voice. The sound of it made his skin crawl, made something deep inside him recoil.
"Easy there," a voice said from somewhere to his left. "You've been out for quite a while. Take it slow."
Cade turned his head to see a woman in a white lab coat watching him with tired eyes. The woman looked to be in her forties, with graying hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and the kind of deep lines around her eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights.
She was speaking but Cade could barely process the words because he was too busy staring at his hands.
His hands.
They looked like his hands. Almost. The shape was similar, the proportions were close, but—
The small scar on his left index finger from a childhood accident with a kitchen knife. The slightly crooked pinky from an old training injury. The calluses from years of handling firearms and tactical equipment.
Gone. All of it. Gone.
His skin was perfect. Unmarked. Unblemished. Like a fucking mannequin fresh off an assembly line.
The fingers were slender, delicate, with neat nails that looked like they'd never seen a day of real work. When he flexed them experimentally, they moved with disturbing precision—no tremor, no waver, no human imperfection.
"What..." He raised his hands closer to his face, watching them move with that same mechanical smoothness that felt completely alien. "What did you do?"
"My name is Dr. Elena Vasquez," the woman said, her tone clinical and measured, like she was discussing equipment maintenance rather than whatever nightmare he'd woken into. "You're in Research Lab 7 of the Missilis Military Research Center, Level B-12. Do you remember what happened to you?"
Cade wasn't listening. He was too busy staring at his hands, then down at his body.
Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
Soft curves where there should have been angles. Smooth, unblemished skin that looked too perfect, too artificial. His hands were delicate, feminine, completely foreign. He could see the gentle rise and fall of breasts with each breath, and the sight made something inside him recoil in visceral horror.
The body beneath him wasn't his.
His hands flew to his chest, his throat, his face, touching unfamiliar contours with mounting terror. His jaw was softer, more rounded.
His neck was slender, lacking the pronounced Adam's apple he'd had his entire life. His shoulders were narrower, his arms lacking the muscle definition he'd built through years of training.
Even his hair—he could feel it now, brushing against his shoulders, far longer than he'd ever kept it.
Everything was wrong. Everything had been changed.
"What the fuck did you do?" he repeated, and this time his voice came out strangled, almost breaking.
Dr. Vasquez's expression shifted to something that might have been sympathy, but she sure as hell failed to express it. "You sustained catastrophic injuries on the surface. Multiple plasma weapon impacts. By the time your squad retrieved you, you'd been clinically dead for nearly thirty minutes. Your body was beyond saving."
"Then I should be dead." The words came out harsh, almost accusatory.
"The Central Government authorized an experimental procedure—"
"I didn't authorize shit!" Cade tried to stand and immediately regretted it as his new center of gravity sent him stumbling. His legs were shorter, his balance completely off. He caught himself against the edge of the medical bed.
“Commander, listen.” Dr. Vasquez leaned forward, her expression compassionate but clinical. "We saved you. Or rather, we saved what makes you who you are. Your brain was extracted and placed in an artificial body—a specialized Nikke frame designed to accommodate for your… unique circumstance.”
“Nikke?” Cade glared, the realization hitting him like another plasma bolt to the chest. “You put me in a fucking Nikke body? That… no, that shouldn’t be possible. I’m—”
“Male, yes,” Dr. Vasquez confirmed, nodding her head. “As I was trying to tell you, the Central Government authorized an experimental procedure involving the implementation of male brains into specialized Nikke frames. The success rate has been minimal, however, in your case, the procedure has proceeded without any issues. Your memories, your personality—they’ve been preserved as best as possible. You’re operational now, like any other unit."
Cade looked down at himself again—at the body that wasn't his, would never be his.
“Lucky?” He scoffed. “This isn’t saving me. This is—this is—"
He couldn't finish. Couldn't articulate the violation he felt, the fundamental wrongness that screamed through every synthetic nerve.
"I want to see," he said suddenly. "I want to see what you did to me."
Dr. Vasquez hesitated, then gestured to a full-length mirror on the far wall. "I should warn you—"
But Cade was already moving, stumbling across the room on legs that were too short. Each step was a reminder of how different everything was—the way his hips moved, the slight bounce of his chest with each movement, the way his hair swayed against his shoulders.
He reached the mirror and stopped dead.
The girl staring back at him was a stranger.
She had brown eyes—the same shade as his, at least—set in a face that was softly pretty in an understated way. Not classically beautiful, but cute, approachable, with features that balanced on the edge of feminine without being overtly sexual. Her face held echoes of his original features—the shape of her eyes, something about the set of her jaw—but softened, rounded, unmistakably female.
Long brown hair fell past her shoulders, framing her face in a way that made her look younger than his years. Her body was similarly modest—slender but not fragile-looking, with gentle curves that suggested femininity without being exaggerated.
She looked like she could be someone's younger sister. Someone's girlfriend.
She looked nothing like him.
"No," Cade whispered. "No no no no no—"
He touched the mirror with one delicate hand, watching his reflection mimic the gesture. The girl's face crumpled with the same anguish he felt, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks in a way that felt foreign, like even his grief had been feminized.
"We tried to maintain as much resemblance to your original appearance as possible," Dr. Vasquez said from behind him, her clinical tone never wavering. "Given the constraints of the female frame. The facial structure, the eye color, even certain proportional elements were preserved where most appropriate.”
“Resemblance?” Cade shook his head. “This—this isn’t even fucking close… There’s nothing left…”
“Commander Throne—”
“How long?”
"…Three weeks since the operation. You've been unconscious while your neural patterns integrated with the NIMPH. The process is... complex. As I’m sure you’re aware.”
Three weeks. His squad would think he was dead. Hell, he was dead, in every way that mattered. This thing staring back at him in the mirror—was it really him at all? A ghost trapped in a machine?
“Look, Commander…” Dr. Vasquez sighed, setting her data tablet aside. "I know this is overwhelming. What you're experiencing—the confusion, the sense of disconnection—it's all perfectly normal given the circumstances."
"Normal?" Cade laughed, and the sound came out with that same feminine tone that made his stomach churn. "There's nothing normal about this. I'm supposed to be dead. I should be dead."
"But you're not. You're alive, in the way that matters most. You think, you feel, you remember. The body is different, yes, but the mind—the soul, if you believe in such things—that's still you."
Cade drew his hand back, his head hanging low.
"…What happens now?"
"…Now you recover. Learn to use your new body. Adapt to your situation." Dr. Vasquez straightened herself, smoothing down her lab coat. "There will be tests, of course. Physical and psychological evaluations. We need to understand how successful the integration has been."
"And then?"
"That's not my decision to make. You'll need to speak with Commander Ingrid about your future assignments."
The thought of facing Ingrid—of explaining what he'd become—filled Cade with dread. The Central Government had clear policies about Nikkes. They weren't people; they were equipment. Property. The idea that he might now fall under those same classifications made his stomach turn.
"Doctor," he said as Dr. Vasquez moved toward the door. "The others—my squad. Do they know?"
Dr. Vasquez paused, her hand on the doorframe. "They know you died on the surface. They attended your memorial service two weeks ago. As far as anyone is concerned, Commander Cade Thorne is dead. What you choose to do with that information is up to you."
The door slid shut with a soft hiss, leaving Cade alone with the stranger in the mirror—this brown-haired, brown-eyed girl wearing a ghost of his face. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass and closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight of what he'd become any longer.
Commander Cade Thorne was dead.
The thing looking back at him from the mirror was something else. Something that would have to find a way to exist in a world where even breathing felt like a betrayal of who he used to be.
"Fuck…”
The floor beneath his boots rumbled—a deep, mechanical tremor that rolled through the deployment bay like a distant earthquake.
It had been a month since Cade's mind was installed into a frame that wasn't his. Since then, his days had blurred into a sterile rhythm of gunfire drills, recalibrations, and mandatory sync tests. Any trace of muscle memory from his old life had been erased—replaced by precision tuned for war.
He still thought of himself as 'he,' even as the world insisted otherwise. Even as his reflection and voice and every physical sensation screamed the opposite.
Now, he stood among a dozen others, each bearing the same regulation-issue armor and weapons. Mass-production units—practically indistinguishable at a glance, at least to the commanders who deployed them.
But Cade was learning that they weren't quite as uniform as the Central Government liked to pretend.
"—heard from Delta Squad that Sector 9 is completely overrun," one of the girls was saying, her voice pitched low. She had the standard-issue look—blonde hair in regulation style, generic features that wouldn't stand out in a crowd. "Like, completely. They lost three units in the first wave."
"That's awful," another replied, her tone carrying genuine concern. This one had brown hair, also regulation length. "Did command even send backup?"
"Backup? Please. They just threw another squad at it." The blonde one—Cade had heard someone call her M-24—shook her head. "Standard procedure, right? Units are replaceable."
"Don't say that so loud," a third girl hissed, glancing nervously toward the command platform. "You know how they get about 'inappropriate commentary.'"
"I'm just saying what everyone's thinking." M-24 crossed her arms. "We're not stupid. We know what we are."
Cade listened quietly, keeping his expression neutral. The mass-production units had less independence than named Nikkes like the Counters, but they weren't mindless either. They had thoughts, feelings, opinions. They just knew better than to express them too freely.
It was depressing as hell.
"Hey, you're the new one, right?" The brown-haired girl had noticed him watching. "W-7?"
"Yeah," Cade replied, keeping his tone even. "First surface deployment."
"Ooh, fresh from processing." M-24's eyes lit up with something like mischievous interest. "How's it feel? The body, I mean. Did they do a good job with the neural integration?"
"It's... fine. Functional."
"'Functional,' she says." M-24 nudged the brown-haired girl. "M-16, remember when you first got activated? You spent like two hours just staring at your hands."
M-16 flushed slightly. "It was weird, okay? The whole proprioception thing takes getting used to."
"Tell me about it," another girl chimed in, this one with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. "I kept walking into walls for a week because I wasn't used to the difference in movement from... before."
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Most mass-production Nikkes developed from scratch, not having any memories from when they were human. But some—the ones who had the haunted look that Cade was starting to recognize—had maintained their memories.
"Anyway," M-24 said brightly, clearly trying to move past the awkward moment. "First mission is always nerve-wracking. Just stick close to the formation and follow orders. You'll be fine."
"Thanks," Cade said, offering a small smile.
"Don't mention it. Us production models gotta look out for each other, you know?" M-24's smile was genuine, if a bit sad. "The fancy named Nikkes get all the glory and the cushy assignments. We just get the meatgrinder."
"M-24," M-16 warned, glancing toward the command platform again.
"I know, I know. 'Maintain proper attitude,' 'trust in command,' blah blah." M-24 rolled her eyes but lowered her voice. "Doesn't make it less true."
"Did you hear about the Limitless squad?" another girl said quietly, joining their circle. She had black hair cut in a severe bob. "Apparently they got completely wiped out in Sector 15 last week. All five units."
"Damn," M-16 breathed. "What happened?"
"Intelligence failure. Thought it was a low-threat zone. Turned out there was a Tyrant-Class nesting there." The black-haired girl—her designation tag read R-9—shook her head. “They didn’t stance a chance.”
"And command just... what, writes them off?" Cade asked, unable to help himself.
M-24 gave him a look that was equal parts sad and knowing. "You really are fresh, aren't you? Yeah. They write us off. Order more. That's how it works."
"…That's fucked up."
"Welcome to being a mass-production unit." M-24's smile was bitter. "We're tools, W-7. Expensive tools, but still tools. The sooner you accept that, the easier it gets."
"It shouldn’t be that way…” Cade said quietly. “I don’t want it to get easier…"
M-24 studied him for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. "Yeah. Me neither."
Before anyone could respond, a sharp voice cut through the deployment bay's ambient noise.
"Listen up!"
Commander Harrison stood at the head of the formation, his words echoing off the metal walls. He couldn't have been more than a few years older than Cade had been when he led Counters, still wearing his authority like a new uniform.
The chatter died instantly. Every Nikke in the bay snapped to attention, their conditioning overriding whatever personality they'd been showing moments before.
"Today's operation is a sweep-and-clear in Sector 12," Harrison continued, his tone brisk and businesslike. "Intel suggests light Rapture presence—mostly Servant-Class units, possible Master-Class support. Nothing you haven't trained for."
He pulled up a tactical display, the hologram showing a bird's-eye view of the operation zone. "Standard formation. Alpha team takes point, Beta provides overwatch, Gamma secures the flanks. Execute by the numbers, and this should be a textbook operation."
Cade studied the display with the automatic tactical awareness he'd honed over years of command. The sector layout was straightforward—urban ruins with multiple sight lines, plenty of cover, several natural chokepoints. Good terrain for defense, dangerous if you got caught in the open.
Harrison's formation was... adequate. Not great, not terrible. He was clearly following Academy doctrine to the letter, which meant predictable but safe. The kind of plan that worked fine against light resistance but would fall apart under real pressure.
Cade kept his thoughts to himself.
"W-7," Harrison said, and Cade felt every eye turn toward him. "You'll be with Alpha team on point. Let's see what that new processing can do."
"Yes, Commander," Cade replied automatically, his voice steady despite the way it made his skin crawl.
M-24 caught his eye and gave him a small, encouraging nod. M-16 looked worried. The brown-haired girl mouthed "good luck."
Twenty minutes later, they were on the surface.
The doors hissed open with a high-pressure gasp, releasing a rush of cold, dust-laced air that smelled of rust and decay. The surface was exactly as Cade remembered it—bleak, lifeless, and just straight-up depressing.
"Move out," Harrison's voice crackled through the comms.
Cade took point, his rifle held in a ready position that felt both familiar and foreign. His movements were fluid, precise, each step exactly where it needed to be without conscious thought.
The rest of Alpha team fell in behind him—M-24, M-16, R-9, and three others. They moved in practiced formation, boots crunching against loose rubble and cracked asphalt.
"Eyes up," M-24 murmured over the local squad channel. "This sector's been quiet for too long. Makes me nervous."
"Everything makes you nervous," one of the other girls teased quietly.
"Yeah, well, I'm still operational, aren't I?"
"Units don't stay operational," R-9's voice came through, almost mechanical in its flatness. "We're either functional or we're replaced."
"Ugh, R-9, you sound like a propaganda broadcast," M-24 complained. "Can you at least try to have a personality?"
"Personality is not listed among my primary functions."
"That's... actually really sad," M-16 said softly.
"What's sad is that half the command staff probably agrees with her," another girl muttered.
Cade let the chatter wash over him, focusing on the environment. Movement patterns, sight lines, potential ambush points. His tactical awareness hadn't diminished with the body change—if anything, the Nikke frame's enhanced processing made him more effective at reading battlefield conditions.
They were sweeping through what used to be a residential block—low, flat buildings now reduced to skeletons of rusted beams and crumbling concrete. Everywhere, signs of past engagements—cratered storefronts, bullet-scarred walls, the occasional twisted piece of Rapture wreckage.
"So W-7," M-24 said casually as they moved. "You got a story? Everyone's got a story."
"…Not really," Cade replied.
"Come on. Everyone says that and they're always lying. Were you a volunteer? Drafted? Built from scratch?"
"Does it matter?"
"I guess not." M-24's tone softened. "I was a volunteer. Thought I could make a difference, you know? Help humanity fight back. That was... god, three years ago? Feels like longer."
"I abandoned my memories, " R-9 offered unprompted. "Never human. Never needed to be."
"I envy you sometimes," M-16 said quietly. "Not having to remember what it was like before."
"Contact," Cade said suddenly, his voice cutting through the conversation. "Two o'clock, approximately two hundred meters. Multiple Servant-Class signatures."
"How can you—" M-16 started to ask, then stopped as the Raptures came into view. "Oh. Yeah, I see them now."
"Good eyes, W-7," Harrison's voice crackled through the comm. "Alpha team, engage at your discretion."
Cade's locked onto the three Servant-Class scouts moving in a standard triangular pattern. His mind automatically calculated trajectories, wind resistance, optimal firing solutions. In his old body, he would have called out the targets and let his squad engage. Now...
“Encounter.”
He raised his rifle and fired three shots in rapid succession.
The first round took the lead Rapture in its optical sensor array, the machine collapsing in a shower of sparks. The second caught the left-flank unit mid-stride, penetrating its power core with surgical precision. The third shot hit the remaining Rapture before it could even process that it was under attack.
Total engagement time: 1.8 seconds.
"Holy shit," M-24 breathed. "That was—"
"Impressive shooting, W-7," Harrison cut in, his tone carrying a note of surprise. "Continue advance."
"Seriously, who are you?" M-16 asked as they moved forward. "That wasn't standard processing reflexes."
"Just training," Cade said, but even he could hear how unconvincing it sounded.
"Training my ass," M-24 muttered. "I've been doing this for three years and I couldn't make those shots."
They pushed deeper into the sector. The next engagement came ten minutes later—a larger patrol of Servant-Class units with a single Master-Class controller hanging back.
"Beta team, you have the Master-Class," Harrison ordered. "Alpha, suppress the servants."
Cade assessed the situation in microseconds. The Master-Class was using the terrain for cover, staying behind a collapsed wall while its servants advanced. Standard Rapture tactics—send in the expendable units while the valuable ones directed from safety.
"M-24, M-16, take the servants on the left," Cade said quietly. "I'm going for the Master-Class."
"That's not the order," R-9 said mechanically.
"The Master-Class is the priority target. Take it down and the servants lose coordination." Cade was already moving, using rubble for cover as he flanked wide to the right.
"W-7, maintain formation," Harrison snapped through the comm.
Cade ignored him. His new body moved with fluid grace, each step silent despite the debris-strewn ground. He circled around the collapsed wall, his rifle coming up as the Master-Class came into view.
The machine's sensor array swiveled toward him, but Cade was already firing. Three rounds into its central processor, two more into its power coupling. The Master-Class jerked and sparked, its limbs twitching as its systems failed.
The Servant-Class units immediately lost cohesion, their movements becoming erratic and uncoordinated. Alpha team cut them down in seconds.
"W-7, you are not authorized to break formation," Harrison's voice was sharp with anger. "Return to your position immediately."
"Target eliminated, Commander," Cade replied evenly. "Minimal ammunition expenditure, zero casualties, enhanced tactical advantage."
There was a long pause. Cade could practically hear Harrison grinding his teeth.
"...Acknowledged. Resume sweep pattern."
M-24's voice came through the squad channel, tinged with awe. "Okay, seriously, who are you? That was some elite-level shit."
"Definitely not standard mass-production," M-16 agreed. "W-7, you're hiding something."
"Maybe she's a secret weapon," another girl suggested. "Like, experimental prototype or something."
"If I was experimental, they wouldn't have put me with you guys," Cade pointed out. "No offense."
"None taken. We know where we rank." M-24's tone was matter-of-fact. "But still. That was impressive."
The sweep continued. They encountered four more Rapture groups over the next two hours, each engagement lasting less than a minute. Cade found himself falling into old patterns—reading the battlefield, identifying priority targets, exploiting enemy weaknesses. The difference was that now he could execute the tactics himself instead of directing others.
It felt wrong. Felt like playing both commander and soldier simultaneously. But it was undeniably effective.
During a brief lull, M-24 sidled up next to him while they checked their equipment.
"So," she said conversationally, "you're definitely not telling us something."
"Probably lots of things," Cade replied.
"Fair enough. We've all got secrets." She paused, then added quietly, "Just... be careful, okay? Command notices when units perform above expectations. Sometimes that's good. Sometimes it's not."
"What do you mean?"
"They might promote you. Give you a name, better assignments." M-24's expression was hard to read. "Or they might decide you're too valuable to risk and lock you away for testing. That or keep you hooked up to a Synchro Device. Brrrr. Gives me chills just thinking about it. "
The thought made Cade's blood run cold.
"Thanks for the warning," he said.
"Like I said. We look out for each other." M-24's smile was sad. "Even if command doesn't."
By the time they reached the final checkpoint, Alpha team hadn't taken a single casualty. Unusual for mass-production units, who typically absorbed losses as an acceptable cost of operations.
"Sector clear," Cade reported. "No remaining hostile contacts detected."
"All teams, return to base," Harrison ordered.
The deployment bay doors opened to admit them back into the Ark's sterile safety. Cade fell out of formation, his mind already processing the mission data, cataloging what had worked and what could be improved.
Old habits.
"W-7."
He turned to find Harrison approaching, his expression unreadable.
"That was... unconventional," Harrison said slowly. "Breaking formation, taking initiative without orders, prioritizing targets contrary to mission parameters."
"Yes, Commander." Cade kept his voice neutral, waiting for the reprimand.
"It was also remarkably effective." Harrison studied him with something like curiosity. "Zero casualties, faster completion time than projected, minimal ammunition expenditure. Your tactical awareness exceeded all projections for a new production unit."
"I was simply executing my function, Commander."
"No." Harrison shook his head. "That wasn't standard execution. That was tactical expertise. Combat intuition. The kind of thing you don't see in fresh production units." He paused, considering. "You'll be receiving specialized assignments going forward. Your capabilities are wasted on standard sweep operations."
"Understood, Commander."
Harrison pulled out a datapad, his fingers dancing across the interface. "I'm flagging you for advanced deployment protocols. High-value targets, reconnaissance operations, situations requiring adaptive response. You've proven you can handle it."
"Thank you, Commander."
As Harrison walked away, M-24 appeared at Cade's elbow, her eyes wide. "Holy shit. You're getting specialized assignments? Production units don't get specialized assignments."
"Apparently this one does," M-16 said, joining them. She looked at Cade with something like awe. "That's... that's huge, W-7. You basically just got fast-tracked out of mass production."
"It's just assignments," Cade said, but the words felt hollow.
"Just assignments? Are you kidding?" M-24 grabbed his shoulder. "Do you know what this means? You're not really one of us anymore. You're... I don't know, something else. Something special."
Something else. Something special.
Cade looked down at his hands—small, delicate, distinctly feminine—and felt the familiar surge of dysphoria.
No. He wasn't special. He was a ghost wearing stolen skin, a commander stripped of his command, a man trapped in an artificial body with skills that had just made him more visible instead of letting him fade into anonymity.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
"Don't mention it, W-7." M-24's smile was genuine, if a bit sad. "Good luck with whatever comes next."
As his former squadmates dispersed, heading toward maintenance and debriefing, Cade stood alone in the deployment bay. Around him, the Ark hummed with its usual mechanical efficiency, indifferent to the small tragedies playing out within its metal walls.
He'd wanted to disappear, to blend in among the mass-production units. Instead, he'd done the opposite. Made himself visible. Notable.
Counters would hear about him eventually. Command always shared information about effective units.
What would they think when they heard about W-7, the production unit with commander-level tactics?
Cade didn't know. Wasn't sure he wanted to find out.
Three months.
That's how long it took for W-7 to become something else entirely.
Three months of missions executed with surgical precision. Three months of impossible objectives completed ahead of schedule. Three months of Harrison's squad racking up success after success, climbing the ranks of command recognition, all because of one unnaturally effective combat unit.
Cade had tried to keep his head down. He really did. But his training, his experience, his instincts—they wouldn't let him be mediocre. Every mission became an opportunity to apply years of tactical knowledge, to read battlefields the way other people read books, to turn what should have been costly engagements into efficient eliminations.
And people noticed.
"W-7, you're on point for the Sector 15 incursion," Harrison would say, and there would be satisfaction in his voice. Pride, almost. "High-value target, Lord-Class confirmed. I want it neutralized within the hour."
Cade would nod, take his rifle, and disappear into the ruins.
Fifty-three minutes later, the Lord-Class would be a pile of scrap, and he'd be back at the rally point before the support teams even finished setting up.
"Exceptional work," Harrison would say, reviewing the mission data with obvious pleasure. "Your kill efficiency is 47% above standard combat unit parameters. Ammunition conservation is optimal. Zero unnecessary risks taken."
"Just following tactical protocols, Commander."
"No. You're exceeding them. Significantly." Harrison would lean back, studying him like a prize thoroughbred. "Do you know what kind of reputation you're building? Other commanders are starting to ask about you. Want to know how I got so lucky with my unit assignments."
Cade said nothing, just maintained his neutral expression.
"My squad's success rate has increased by 34% since you joined us," Harrison continued, pulling up performance metrics. "Mission completion times are down. Casualty rates among other units are minimal. Resource expenditure is optimal. You're making me look very good, W-7."
There it was. The real pride. Not in Cade as a person, but in what he represented—a tool that exceeded expectations, an asset that elevated Harrison's career.
The missions kept coming. Each one more difficult than the last, each one another opportunity for Cade to prove that his years worth of experience hadn't died with his original body.
Recon missions deep in Rapture territory, where he'd move through ruins like smoke, gathering intelligence that should have been impossible to obtain.
Assassination operations against high-value targets, where his tactical knowledge let him exploit weaknesses other units would never see.
Rescue operations in hot zones, where he'd extract stranded personnel with zero casualties.
And with each success, the whispers grew.
"Did you hear about Harrison's unit? The one that took out three Lord-Class Raptures in a single operation?"
"W-7, right? I heard she moves like a ghost. In and out before the Raptures even know she's there."
"Wraith. That's what they're calling her now. Because by the time you see her, you're already dead."
The nickname caught on. Started as battlefield chatter, spread through the deployment bay, eventually made its way into official reports. W-7 became Wraith—not through official designation, but through reputation earned in blood.
Harrison loved it.
"Wraith," he'd say, testing the word with obvious satisfaction. "It suits you. Efficient. Elegant. Intimidating." He'd pull up mission statistics, showing them to other commanders with poorly concealed pride. "This is what proper utilization of Nikke assets looks like. No wasted potential. No unnecessary sentiment. Just pure, efficient execution."
Cade would stand at attention while Harrison showed him off like a prize hunting dog, every word reinforcing what he'd become—a weapon. A tool. Something that made other people successful while he remained hollow inside.
"You're the best asset I've ever commanded," Harrison told him one day, and there was genuine warmth in his voice. The warmth someone might have for a favorite car, or a reliable rifle. "Other commanders spend years trying to find units with your capabilities. I got lucky. Or maybe I just know how to recognize quality when I see it."
"Thank you, Commander."
"No, thank you. Your performance has been exceptional. You've elevated this entire squad's reputation." Harrison smiled, and it was the smile of a man whose career was ascending. "I'm putting in a request to keep you assigned to my unit permanently. Can't let other commanders poach my best asset."
My asset. My unit. Mine.
Never "you." Never recognition that there was a person inside the synthetic shell. Just appreciation for what the tool could accomplish.
And the worst part? Cade couldn't even blame him. To Harrison, to everyone in the Ark, he was just a tool. An exceptionally effective one, but still just a Nikke—property of the Central Government, designed to follow orders and complete missions.
The irony wasn't lost on Cade. In his old life, he'd fought against this exact attitude, had pushed back against commanders who treated Nikkes as expendable equipment. Now he was on the receiving end, feeling firsthand what it meant to be valued only for your combat efficiency.
"Another mission tomorrow," Harrison said, reviewing the briefing data. "Deep reconnaissance in Sector 22. High risk, but I know you can handle it. You're my ace in the hole, Wraith. The unit that makes everything else possible."
"I'll complete the mission, Commander."
"I know you will. You always do." Harrison's smile widened. "That's what makes you exceptional."
Exceptional. Valuable. Effective.
Never human. Never real. Just a ghost in a synthetic shell, making other people's careers while suffocating inside a body that would never feel right.
Three months of success. Three months of proving he could still fight, still win, still matter.
Three months of slowly losing himself in the role of Wraith—the perfect weapon that everyone praised and no one actually saw.
By the time Harrison scheduled the meeting with Deputy Chief Andersen, Cade had become exactly what he'd feared—not a person, but a legend. A name whispered in deployment bays. A reputation that preceded him into every briefing.
And as they walked through the corridors toward Andersen's office, Harrison practically radiated satisfaction.
"This meeting is partly because of you," Harrison said, his tone carrying genuine pleasure. "Andersen wants to assess your capabilities personally. Your performance has caught the attention of upper command. They're considering expanding the specialized unit program, using you as a template for future deployments."
A template. A model to be replicated.
The thought made Cade's artificial stomach churn.
"I'm very fortunate to have you under my command," Harrison continued. "Most commanders go their entire careers without access to a unit of your caliber. You've made my job significantly easier, Wraith. Your efficiency, your tactical awareness, your ability to execute missions without supervision—it's exactly what the Ark needs."
They were almost to Andersen's office now. Harrison straightened his uniform, preparing to present his prize asset to upper command.
"Just remember," Harrison said, his tone shifting to something more instructional, "when we're in there, you represent not just yourself, but the entire specialized unit program. Your performance reflects on my command decisions. Understood?"
"Understood, Commander."
"Good. Let's show them what proper Nikke utilization looks like."
The door hissed open, and Harrison led Cade inside, pride evident in his bearing.
He was showing off his most valuable tool.
And Cade—Commander Cade Thorne, who used to lead squads and make strategic decisions that affected thousands—followed three paces behind, playing the role of the perfect weapon.
Because that's what everyone saw when they looked at him now.
Not a man. Not a person. Not even really a ghost.
Just Wraith. The asset. The tool.
The thing that made other people successful while dying inside one mission at a time.
Deputy Chief Andersen was seated behind his desk. The room was sparse as ever—clinical and utilitarian. Andersen didn't look up immediately. He was reviewing data on a floating display, performance stats scrolling past.
Only when the doors shut behind them did Andersen lift his gaze.
"Commander Harrison. Wraith."
The new callsign sounded strange in Andersen's voice. Professional yet distant.
"Reporting as ordered, sir," Harrison replied. "Wraith performed admirably in today's field test. Zero deviations from mission parameters."
"I've reviewed the logs," Andersen said, his tone carefully neutral. "The unit demonstrated exceptional tactical awareness. Precision targeting, adaptive combat strategies, independent decision-making within acceptable parameters."
"Exactly." Harrison nodded approvingly. "The unit shows remarkable capability for a new deployment. Almost intuitive combat sense."
"Almost," Andersen echoed quietly.
Harrison continued, oblivious to the undercurrent. "I've updated the designation to reflect specialized capabilities. 'Wraith' will be assigned to solo operations going forward. High-value targets, deep reconnaissance, situations requiring independent judgment."
"I see." Andersen's expression remained neutral. "And you believe the unit is ready for that level of operational independence?"
"The battlefield results speak for themselves, Deputy Chief." Harrison's tone was confident. "Zero casualties, faster completion time than projected, minimal resource expenditure. Wraith is an asset we should be utilizing to maximum efficiency."
"An asset," Andersen repeated, something unreadable in his voice. "Yes."
"The unit requires minimal oversight, executes orders precisely, and demonstrates tactical flexibility that typically takes months of field experience to develop." Harrison glanced at Cade. "It's quite impressive."
"I see you're quite satisfied with your new acquisition."
"Very much so." Harrison turned to Cade. "Wraith, you're dismissed. Report to maintenance bay 3 for standard post-mission evaluation."
"Yes, Commander." Cade turned with mechanical precision and moved toward the door.
"Actually," Andersen said, his voice carrying just enough authority to stop both of them. "Commander Harrison, I need a moment with Wraith. There are some mission parameters I need to discuss before finalizing the deployment reports."
Harrison's expression flickered with mild annoyance. "I can provide those details, Deputy Chief."
"I'm sure you can. But I prefer to conduct my own assessment." Andersen's tone was polite but firm. "It won't take long."
For a moment, Harrison looked like he might argue. Then he gave a curt nod. "Of course, sir. Wraith, answer the Deputy Chief's questions completely and accurately."
"Yes, Commander."
Harrison left, the door hissing shut behind him. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the soft hum of the ventilation system and the distant thrum of the Ark's machinery.
Cade stood at attention, maintaining perfect regulation posture, his eyes fixed on a point just above Andersen's head.
Andersen waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
"You can drop the act now, Cade. He's gone."
The words hit like a physical blow. Cade's carefully maintained neutral expression cracked, and he blinked, his artificial eyes widening slightly. "What—"
"Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you." Andersen leaned back in his chair, his expression weary but genuine. "I know exactly who you are. I've known since before you woke up."
For a long moment, Cade just stared at him. Then, slowly, the rigid military bearing melted away. His shoulders dropped, his posture relaxed, and when he spoke again, his voice carried a familiar edge.
"Well shit. And here I thought I was doing such a great job with the whole 'mindless automaton' routine." He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall with casual familiarity. "How long have you been sitting on that little revelation?"
A genuine smile crossed Andersen's weathered face. "Since I signed off on the neural transfer procedure."
"You—" Cade's eyes widened. "You authorized this?"
"Elena Vasquez brought me the proposal. You were dead, Cade. Clinically dead for nearly thirty minutes. Your body was beyond saving. This was the only option." Andersen's expression was pained. "I wasn't going to let you die if there was any chance to bring you back."
Cade was quiet for a moment, processing. Then he let out a short, bitter laugh. "So you're the one I should thank for this delightful new existence? Great.”
"Still got that attitude, I see."
"Yeah, well. Turns out a little artificial neural networking isn't enough to make me a compliant soldier." Cade gestured toward the door Harrison had exited through. "Though I have to admit, watching that pompous bastard treat me like a prize show dog was absolutely delightful. Nothing quite like being discussed like equipment while standing right there."
Andersen actually chuckled. "You had me worried for a minute there. The way you were responding to his orders, I thought maybe the NIMPH had stripped you of… well, you."
"Please. I've spent three years managing Counters Squad. If I can handle Anis's attitude, I can certainly handle one Academy graduate who thinks he knows everything about command." Cade's smile turned predatory. "Poor bastard has no idea he's dealing with someone who used to outrank him by three pay grades."
"You're playing a dangerous game."
"I'm playing the only game available." Cade pushed off from the wall and walked over to the desk. "Harrison sees what he expects to see—an artificial weapon that happens to be good at killing things. As long as I give him the responses he's looking for, he'll never look deeper. Guys like him don't want to see Nikkes as people. Makes it easier to send us to die."
"Us," Andersen said quietly. "You're already thinking of yourself as one of them."
"I am one of them now, aren't I?" Cade's tone was matter-of-fact, though there was an edge of bitterness underneath. "Synthetic body, NIMPH keeping my brain from rejecting the hardware, expected to follow orders and complete missions without question. Walks like a Nikke, talks like a Nikke, gets treated like a Nikke. Close enough."
"You're still you, though. That hasn't changed."
"Hasn't it?" Cade looked down at his hands—small, delicate, distinctly feminine. "I don't know, Anders. Some days I'm not sure what I am anymore."
"You're my friend," Andersen said firmly. "In a body that doesn't fit, going through hell, but still my friend."
Something in Cade's expression softened. He sank into one of the chairs across from Andersen, his earlier bravado fading slightly. "You have no idea how good it is to hear that. To talk to someone who actually remembers I used to be... me. With everyone else, I have to be Wraith. The perfect little soldier. It's fucking exhausting."
"I can imagine." Andersen was quiet for a moment. "Counters doesn’t know. We told them you didn't make it."
"Good. Keep it that way." Cade's voice was firm. "I don't want them to see me like this."
"They'd probably understand better than you think."
"Maybe. But I'm not ready to find out." Cade ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "It's bad enough dealing with this myself. I don't need their pity on top of everything else."
"It wouldn't be pity."
"Wouldn't it? Look at me, Anders." Cade gestured at himself with obvious distaste. "Their commander died a hero on the battlefield. What came back is... this. A ghost wearing a stranger's face. I'd rather they remember who I was than see what I've become."
Andersen studied him for a long moment. Then, without a word, he reached out and flipped over a picture frame that had been lying face-down on his desk.
It was a photo of the old command staff with Counters, taken during a rare moment of celebration after a successful mission. Cade stood at the center, head thrown back in genuine laughter, surrounded by people who had trusted him with their lives. His arm was slung around Andersen's shoulders, both of them grinning like idiots.
Cade stared at the image, something tightening in his chest. "That feels like a lifetime ago."
"It was five months ago."
"Yeah, well. A lot can change in five months." Cade's voice took on a wistful quality. "That was right after the Iron Shell operation, wasn't it? Neon had accidentally overloaded the power grid, and Anis tried to cover for her by blowing up the comms tower 'on purpose.'"
"You remember."
"I remember you being absolutely livid. Said the whole squad was acting like a bunch of trigger-happy schoolgirls." A faint smile tugged at Cade's lips. "You had that vein throbbing in your forehead. The one that only shows up when you're about to start yelling."
"They blew up a communications tower."
"Anis blew up the communications tower. Neon just made it possible." Cade's smile widened slightly. "I think that was the same week you told me I had the worst command discipline you'd ever seen."
"You did. Still do, apparently." But there was warmth in Andersen's voice, genuine affection mixed with the old exasperation. "I swear, sometimes I think you encouraged them just to drive me insane."
"Only sometimes?" Cade's tone was teasing, almost playful. For a moment, he sounded like his old self—confident, relaxed, human.
Andersen chuckled, but then the sound died. His expression shifted, the warmth fading into something more complicated. He stared at the photograph for a long moment, his jaw working silently.
"What?" Cade asked, noticing the change.
"That person in the picture," Andersen said slowly, not looking up. "That commander. He's dead, Cade."
The words hung in the air like a physical weight.
"What are you talking about? I'm right here."
"Are you?" Andersen finally looked up, and there was something raw in his eyes. "That man died on the battlefield. Burned away by Rapture weapons. Counters mourned him. The Ark held a memorial service. There's a plaque with his name in the Hall of Remembrance."
Cade's artificial breathing hitched. "Anders—"
"And now you're here," Andersen continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "You sound like him, you move like him, you even call me Anders like he used to. But he's still dead, isn't he? That body's gone. That life's gone. And I don't know what that makes you."
The warmth that had filled the room moments before drained away like water through a sieve. Cade felt something crack inside his chest—that brief moment of connection, of being seen as himself, shattering into pieces.
"I'm still me," he said, but his voice had lost its earlier confidence. "I remember everything. I think the same way. I—"
"You're a Nikke now." Andersen's voice was flat, factual. Not cruel, but not gentle either. "You follow the same protocols as every other combat unit. You get assigned missions, you execute them, you report back for maintenance. You're property of the Central Government, expected to serve until your frame fails or you're decommissioned."
Each word was a hammer blow.
"The man I knew was a commander. Had authority, respect, autonomy. Could make decisions that affected thousands of lives." Andersen gestured at Cade. "What are you now? A specialized combat unit. Valuable, yes. Effective. But ultimately just another weapon in the Ark's arsenal."
Cade's hands had clenched into fists on the armrests. "So what, you're saying I'm not even a person anymore?"
"I'm saying I don't know what you are." Andersen's expression was pained. "And I don't think you know either."
The silence that followed was crushing. All the easy camaraderie from moments before had evaporated, replaced by a gulf that neither of them knew how to cross.
Cade stood slowly, his movements careful and controlled. When he spoke, his voice was hollow. "You know what's funny? You're the first person I've talked to since all this who actually remembered I used to be someone. Who looked at me like I was still real."
Andersen said nothing.
Cade nodded slowly, understanding. "Guess that was too much to hope for."
"Cade—"
"No, it's okay," Cade cut in gently, not harshly, but to spare them both from making it worse. "I get it. The person you knew is dead. What's standing here is just... something else. Something that wears his memories like a costume."
He moved toward the door, his steps quiet. Before leaving, he paused and looked over her shoulder.
"For what it's worth, it really was good to see you again."
"Yeah," Andersen said, and his voice carried the weight of goodbye. "You too."
But they both knew he was talking to a ghost.
When the door closed behind Cade, the silence that followed felt like the end of something that could never be recovered.
Just when Cade thought his day couldn't get any worse, the universe decided to twist the knife.
The conversation with Andersen had left him feeling hollow. For a brief, shining moment, he'd thought someone still saw him as him—as Cade Thorne, the person, not just a ghost haunting synthetic flesh. But that hope had been crushed under the weight of reality.
Andersen was right, in a way. The man he'd been was dead. What remained was something else. Something that didn't quite fit anywhere.
Cade was exiting the equipment maintenance bay, still lost in thought, when he heard the distinctive click of expensive heels on polished floors. He turned to see Syuen approaching, her confidence and narcissism practically radiating off her like a visible aura.
Oh great. Exactly what I needed.
Syuen looked exactly as he remembered—dressed in designer attire that probably cost more than a squad's monthly ammunition budget, every strand of hair perfect, makeup flawless. She carried herself with the kind of cold authority that came from never having been told "no" in her entire pampered life.
But there was something else in her expression as she drew closer—not curiosity or calculation, but immediate, certain recognition.
And that fucking smile.
"Well, well, well," Syuen said, stopping directly in front of him and looking him up and down with undisguised amusement. "Commander Cade Thorne. In the flesh. Or should I say, in the synthetic polymers and reinforced chassis."
Cade's blood ran cold. "I don't know what you're—"
"Oh, cut the bullshit." Syuen laughed, the sound sharp and mocking. "Did you really think I wouldn't know? This is Missilis technology, darling. My technology. I authorized the neural transfer procedure personally. Signed off on every specification, every system integration, every little detail of your new body."
She circled him slowly, like a predator evaluating wounded prey.
"I have to say, the engineers did excellent work. The facial structure actually retains some of your original features—softened, of course, feminized, but recognizable if you know what to look for. And I definitely know what to look for."
"Syuen—"
"Tell me, how does it feel?" She stopped in front of him, tilting her head with mock sympathy. "To go from being this big, strong, manly commander—" she drew out the word deliberately, savoring it, "—to... this?" Her gesture encompassed his entire form dismissively.
"You used to be what, six-foot-two? Broad shoulders, that whole commanding presence thing. You'd walk into a room and people would straighten up, pay attention. You had presence. Physical authority." She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to something almost intimate. "And now look at you. What are you, five-foot-three? Maybe five-four on a good day?"
Every word was a precisely aimed strike, targeting the dysphoria that already ate at him constantly.
"Those delicate little hands that used to be calloused and scarred from years of combat training—now smooth and soft. That face that used to be all angles and masculinity—now rounded, pretty, cute." Her eyes dropped to his chest with exaggerated interest. "And those. Can't forget those. Tell me, Cade, do you even recognize yourself when you look in the mirror? Or do you see a stranger every single time?"
"Fuck you," Cade said, his voice tight with barely controlled rage.
"Oh, there's that temper. I'm glad to see some things haven't changed." Syuen's smile widened. "Though I have to say, it's much less intimidating coming from such a cute little package. When you used to yap on and on about Nikke rights, there was at least some physical presence behind it. You could loom. You could intimidate. Now?"
She made a dismissive gesture. "Now you look like you’d do better on your knees, rather than commanding operations."
The implication in her tone made Cade's skin crawl.
"You really went out of your way to make this as awful as possible, didn't you?" Cade said through gritted teeth.
"Me? I'm not the one who made you uncomfortable in your body, darling. I just approved the specifications. If you want to blame someone for making you too feminine, too obviously wrong for your masculine self-image, blame Dr. Vasquez. She's the one who designed you." Syuen examined her nails casually. "Though I did suggest keeping you... modest. Wouldn't want you attracting the wrong kind of attention, after all. You're a combat unit, not a pleasure model."
"I'm going to fucking kill you."
"No, you're not. Because you're a Nikke now, and I'm your superior in the corporate hierarchy that actually matters." Syuen's voice hardened. "Do you know how many times you lectured me about treating Nikkes with dignity? About respecting their autonomy? And now you are one. How ironic. The great champion of Nikke welfare gets to experience firsthand what it's like to be property of the Ark."
"I'm not property."
"Aren't you?" Syuen stepped closer, her voice dropping to something almost intimate. "That body was built in a Missilis facility using Missilis technology. Technically, I own the patents on your systems. Your NIMPH, your neural interface, your synthetic musculature—all mine. So in a very legal sense, Commander, you quite literally belong to me."
The words made his skin crawl. "The Central Government authorized—"
"The Central Government signed a very expensive check that I was happy to cash. But don't mistake bureaucratic authorization for ownership." She reached out suddenly, and Cade flinched before she touched his cheek with one perfectly manicured finger. "This face? Mine. Those combat reflexes? Mine. That adorable little feminine form you're so clearly uncomfortable in? Mine."
Cade jerked his head away from her touch. "You're sick."
"I'm practical. There's a difference." Syuen withdrew her hand. "Besides, think of it as a learning experience. You always claimed to understand what Nikkes went through, to empathize with their struggles. Now you get to live it. Every day, you'll wake up in a body that isn't yours. Every time you speak, you'll hear a voice that doesn't match who you are inside. Every time someone calls you 'she' or treats you like property, you'll remember what it feels like to be powerless."
She leaned in close, her breath warm against his ear. "And the best part? There's no escape. This is your life now. This body, this voice, this feminine shell. For years, maybe decades. Nikkes don't age, don't die easily. You could be trapped like this for a very, very long time."
"…Why?" The question came out almost desperate. "Why save me just to torture me like this?"
"Because you're useful, darling." Syuen's tone was matter-of-fact. "All that tactical experience, all that combat knowledge, all that expensive training—it would be wasteful to let it die on some battlefield. This way, we get to keep using you. Indefinitely, potentially. And as a bonus, I get to watch you suffer in a body that will never feel right."
She stepped back, her smile returning. "Oh, and one more thing? I'd be very careful about who you share your little secret with. The Central Government might have authorized one experimental neural transfer, but if word gets out that Commander Thorne survived and is running around in a Nikke body? Well. Let's just say there are a lot of people who would find that information very valuable. Politically, scientifically, militarily."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's friendly advice. Though I suppose we're not even close to equals anymore, are we? I'm still running one of the most powerful companies in the Ark. You're just a tool now. Bit of a downgrade on your part."
She started walking away, her heels clicking against the floor.
"Syuen," Cade called after her, his voice hard.
She stopped, glancing back.
"I'm still the same person who called you out on your bullshit. This body doesn't change that. You can mock me all you want, but I still know exactly where all your skeletons are buried. And the next time you need someone who can actually win a battle instead of just talking about quarterly profits, remember—I might look different, but I'm still better at this than you'll ever be."
For just a moment, Syuen's smile faltered. Then it returned, colder than before.
"How adorable. The ghost has claws." She turned fully back to face him. "But let me make something very clear, Wraith. In your old body, you had protection. Rank. Authority. People who owed you loyalty. Now? You're nothing more than just another Nikke. Valuable, yes, but ultimately replaceable. If you become a problem, if you make trouble for me or Missilis, I can have you decommissioned with a single conversation."
She let that sink in.
"So by all means, keep that defiant attitude. Keep pretending you're still Commander Thorne and not just a weapon wearing his memories. But know that you exist now at my sufferance. One word from me, and you'll find yourself in a maintenance bay being 'recalibrated.' Is that clear?"
"Crystal."
"Good. I'm glad we understand each other." She turned to leave, then paused one more time. "Oh, and Cade? Have fun being a Nikke. I hope you enjoy the experience. After all, you'll be living it for a long, long time."
She walked away then, leaving Cade standing alone in the corridor.
His hands were shaking.
That fucking…
Syuen had taken every insecurity he felt about his new body and weaponized it, used it to cut him down, to remind him of everything he'd lost.
Big. Strong. Manly.
He looked down at his hands—small, delicate, unmistakably feminine—and felt that familiar wave of revulsion. This wasn't him. Would never be him. And Syuen knew it, knew exactly how much it hurt, and had gone out of her way to make sure he felt every bit of that pain.
The worst part was she was right about one thing: he was vulnerable now in ways he'd never been before.
As Commander Thorne, he'd had authority, respect, protection.
As Wraith, he was just another Nikke—valuable perhaps, but ultimately disposable in the eyes of people like Syuen.
Cade forced himself to breathe, to push down the dysphoria and rage and fear until he could function again. He had to keep it together. Had to maintain the facade. Had to survive in this wrong body wearing this wrong face with this wrong voice until he figured out what the hell he was supposed to do with this second chance at life.
Even if that life felt like a punishment.
Even if every person who recognized him saw something different. Andersen saw a ghost. Syuen saw a weapon wearing stolen memories.
Maybe they were both right.
Maybe the man he'd been really was dead, and what remained was just something that remembered being human.
The thought was more terrifying than any Rapture he'd ever faced.