Arthur woke to the sensation of lips trailing down his neck, warm breath against his skin, and the familiar weight of Scarlet straddling his waist. Morning light filtered through the quarters' single reinforced viewport, casting her red hair in shades of copper and fire.
"Morning," she murmured against his throat, her hips already moving in slow, deliberate circles. "You're awake."
"Hard not to be," Arthur managed, his prosthetic hands finding her waist, the goddesium warm from her body heat. "You always wake up like this?"
"Only when I have something worth waking up for." Scarlet's crimson eyes locked onto his, mechanical irises adjusting with minute precision as she leaned down to kiss him. "Two days of stand-down, Arthur. Two days before we're back topside. I plan to make the most of them."
Her tactical bodysuit was already half-unzipped, pale synthetic skin exposed in the morning light. Arthur traced the visible mechanical joints at her collarbone, feeling the subtle vibration of her internal systems, the warmth that proved she was far more than the machine Central Command pretended she was.
"No complaints here," he said, pulling her down into another kiss.
What followed was quick and intense—neither of them had the patience for slow this morning. Scarlet rode him with the same fierce confidence she brought to combat, taking what she wanted while giving exactly what he needed. Her hands braced against his chest, nails—synthetic but perfectly formed—digging in as her breathing quickened into soft gasps that drove Arthur closer to the edge.
When she came, it was with his name on her lips and her body tensing around him in waves that pulled his own release from him moments later. She collapsed against his chest afterward, both of them breathing hard, skin slick with sweat.
"Good morning," Arthur said eventually, running his fingers through her disheveled hair.
Scarlet laughed, the sound unguarded and genuine. "Very good morning."
They lay tangled together for another half hour before practical concerns reasserted themselves. Scarlet eventually retreated to the small attached washroom, and Arthur heard the shower activate as he checked his datapad for messages.
Nothing urgent. Caldwell's office had confirmed their stand-down period, Shifty had sent a cheerful message about looking forward to working with them again, and Nyx had forwarded what appeared to be a compilation of truly terrible squad name suggestions she'd found in old military databases.
"Razor Squadron," Arthur read aloud as Scarlet emerged toweling her hair. "Omega Force. The Crimson Talons."
"All terrible," Scarlet confirmed, pulling her bodysuit back into place. "We need something better. Something that's actually us."
"We're meeting Lyra and Nyx in an hour. We'll figure it out then."
The next two days blurred together in the best possible way. Arthur and his squad spent their stand-down time away from official duties, away from the weight of Central Command's expectations. They ate together at the Iron Kettle, trained together in the combat simulators when restlessness demanded activity, and talked—really talked—about everything from surface tactics to half-remembered fragments of their lives before.
Lyra opened up more than Arthur had heard before, sharing disconnected memories of a classroom, the smell of roses, a woman's voice singing something she couldn't quite recall. Her fragmentation clearly frustrated her, those blue targeting displays in her eyes flickering occasionally as she tried to grasp memories that slipped away like water.
"It's getting worse," she admitted quietly one evening while Nyx was grabbing another round of drinks. "Or maybe better? I can't tell. More fragments surfacing, but they don't connect properly. Like puzzle pieces from different boxes."
"We'll figure it out," Arthur promised. "That Harmony Cube Command recovered—Caldwell mentioned it's designed for neural-synthetic integration optimization. If they can make it work, it might help."
"If they share it with mass-produced units like me," Lyra corrected, though without bitterness. "Custom models get the upgrades first. We get the leftovers, if we're lucky."
Nyx returned with drinks and steered conversation toward lighter topics, regaling them with stories of Outer Rim chaos that had Lyra simultaneously horrified and fascinated. Scarlet contributed her own tales of missions gone wrong, commanders gone worse, and the occasional victory that made continued service bearable.
Arthur spent his nights with Scarlet, their physical connection deepening into something neither of them quite had words for yet. She was possessive without being controlling, affectionate without being clingy, and made it clear through action more than words that she considered him hers in every way that mattered.
On the evening before their stand-down ended, they gathered in Bay Twenty-Three for the final decision on their squad name.
"Alright," Arthur said, looking at the three Nikkes who'd become far more than just his assigned soldiers. "Last chance. We need to pick something before tomorrow's briefing. Shifty's going to ask, and I'd rather not tell her we're still Squad Thirteen."
"Vanguard is too generic," Lyra said, eliminating her previous suggestion. "Half the squads with permanent assignments probably use variations of it."
"Titanbreakers sounds like we're construction workers," Nyx admitted, reluctantly withdrawing her favorite. "What about something historical? Phoenix, Valkyrie, that kind of thing?"
"Taken, or too common," Scarlet said. "We need something unique. Something that's specifically us."
Silence fell as they all considered options. Arthur leaned against a equipment locker, watching his squad think. They looked comfortable here now, Bay Twenty-Three transformed from a storage area for discarded assets into genuine home territory.
"Monarks," Nyx said suddenly, then started laughing. "Oh shit, I wasn't serious, but—Monarks. Because we're all outcasts, rejects, the ones nobody wanted. Monarchs without the monarchy. Leaders without the legitimacy. It's stupid."
Arthur turned the name over in his mind. Monarks. Unconventional spelling, slightly absurd, but somehow it fit. They weren't legitimate by Central Command's standards, weren't supposed to succeed, weren't supposed to matter.
"I don't hate it," Scarlet said slowly. "It's different. Nobody else would choose it."
"It has a certain ironic quality," Lyra added. "Claiming authority we weren't granted, refusing to accept our assigned place in the hierarchy."
"It's a terrible pun," Arthur said, grinning. "Which means it's perfect. Any objections?"
None came. They looked at each other, and something unspoken passed between them—acknowledgment that this name, ridiculous as it was, somehow captured their situation perfectly.
"Monarks it is," Arthur declared. "May Central Command choke on the paperwork."
The next morning, freshly rested and officially renamed, they headed to Operations for their first briefing as Monarks squad. Shifty practically bounced when she saw them, her diminutive frame vibrating with barely contained enthusiasm.
"There they are!" she announced, blue hair bobbing as she gestured them toward the briefing room. "My favorite squad, now with one hundred percent more permanent assignment status. Congratulations, by the way. Well deserved."
"Good to see you again, Shifty," Arthur said, meaning it. Her genuine enthusiasm was refreshing after days of Central Command's institutional coldness.
"Likewise! Now, let's get to business." Shifty pulled up tactical displays showing a sector map. "Your mission is resource recovery in Sector Nine, approximately thirty-five kilometers northeast. Target location is a commercial district, pre-war shopping area with multiple potential supply caches."
"Rapture presence?" Scarlet asked, already assessing the terrain.
"Light to moderate according to latest reconnaissance. Scout and soldier-class primarily, possible ant-type clusters near the major intersections. No confirmed master or lord-class units in the area." Shifty highlighted several buildings. "Primary objectives are medical supplies, ammunition, and any salvageable electronics. Secondary objectives include civilian goods—clothing, preserved food, anything useful for Ark population."
"Time frame?" Arthur studied the map, noting the relatively open approach vectors.
"Eight hours from deployment to extraction. I'll have aerial support on standby if you run into trouble, and emergency extraction can be ready in fifteen minutes if things go sideways." Shifty's expression turned serious. "That said, this should be straightforward. Command's easing you back in after the Lord-class encounter in Sector Twelve."
Nyx snorted. "How considerate of them."
"Equipment requisition is already processed," Shifty continued, ignoring the sarcasm. "Standard loadouts per your specializations, plus additional ammunition given the extended operation time. You deploy in ninety minutes."
"One more thing," Arthur said. "We have a new squad designation. Monarks, spelled M-O-N-A-R-K-S."
Shifty blinked, processing, then grinned. "That's... actually kind of brilliant. Terrible, but brilliant. I love it. Updating official records now."
Her fingers flew across her terminal, and within seconds their designation updated on all the tactical displays. Squad Thirteen became Monarks, the change rippling through the Ark's operational databases.
"There," Shifty declared. "Official as official gets. Monarks, your first mission as a permanently designated squad launches in ninety minutes. Try not to die—I just updated all the paperwork."
They headed to the armory, the familiar routine of equipment check and weapons requisition settling Arthur's nerves. This was what they did, what they were good at. Surface operations, Rapture combat, resource recovery. Together.
Scarlet checked her SMG with practiced efficiency, Lyra calibrated her sniper rifle's scope, and Nyx hefted her rocket launcher with obvious satisfaction. Arthur selected his standard loadout—assault rifle, sidearm, tactical gear—and ran final diagnostics on his prosthetics.
All green. All ready.
"Monarks," Nyx said, testing the name aloud. "Still sounds ridiculous."
"Good," Arthur replied. "Let's make sure everyone remembers it anyway."
They moved toward the deployment bay, a squad in truth now, permanent and recognized. Whatever waited on the surface, they would face it together.
Behind them, Shifty watched her monitors, already tracking their progress toward the elevator. On her secondary screen, a notification blinked—priority flag from Strategic Research Division, Director Caldwell's office.
Monitor for anomalies. Report any unusual Rapture behavior or recovered tech immediately.
Shifty acknowledged the order and settled in for what was supposed to be a routine eight-hour operation.
She had no way of knowing how quickly routine would become anything but.