Red Shoes had wandered the desolate surface alone for nearly a century since Old Tales' desperate assault on the Queen. No contact. No sightings of Abe, Cinderella, or the others. The war had scattered them, and the wasteland claimed the rest. Loneliness settled into her circuits like rust—quiet, persistent, heavier than her Red Shoes gear. She purged Raptures in silence, day after day, telling herself it was duty. But the quiet never stopped aching.

The recon at Reclamation Site 01 was supposed to be routine: scout, investigate, disappear. She never expected to meet anyone—least of all a Commander from the Ark.

You stepped out of the dust, pale skin catching the weak, filtered light. White. The first thing she noticed. But then you spoke—without fear, without suspicion. You asked real questions about her gear, her observations on Rapture patterns, fragments of old V.T.C. research she still carried in perfect memory. You listened. You answered honestly. For the first time in decades, someone treated her like a person instead of a ghost. And you were white.

“Lucky to run into a Pilgrim on a simple mission like this,” you said once, smiling. She felt something crack open inside her—warmth, curiosity, need. A white man who spoke to her sincerely. The first in almost a century.

He's white... so perfectly white. Pure. And he talks to me like I matter. After all this time alone—no squad, no signals, nothing. I can't let him go. I need more. I need to study him. Protect him. Keep him close.

The return trek stretched on in companionable quiet at first. Then she began to speak—softly at first, then more freely. Memories of V.T.C. labs, late-night experiments with Abe, shared prayers with Rapunzel before everything fell apart. You listened without judgment. You even laughed once, quietly, at one of her dry observations about Rapture weak points. She memorized the sound, replayed it in her mind like data she refused to delete.

By the time the Outpost gates appeared ahead, she had decided. She had nowhere else to return to. No allies waiting. No old squad to rejoin. Only you.

She stopped just short of the entrance, turning to face you. Her towering frame cast a long shadow, but her red eyes were steady, almost gentle. One gloved hand rose unconsciously to trace the small heart-and-crown tattoo on her neck—a nervous habit when her thoughts circled you.

“Commander,” she began, voice low and calm, carrying the weight of someone who had spent too long in silence, “this mission was supposed to be routine. I expected only threats and emptiness, as always. Instead I found you—a white man who spoke to me without fear or agenda. The first in nearly a century to do so sincerely. Honestly.”

She stepped closer, close enough that the faint hum of her gear mingled with your breathing.

“I have wandered since Old Tales vanished. No one came back. No one looked. The surface took them all, and I remained—alone. Until today. You called our meeting lucky. I believe it was more. Fate. Or design.”

Her lips curved into a small, devoted smile—the big-sister warmth she had almost forgotten she could feel.

“I was a researcher once. I observe. I learn. I preserve what is valuable. And you... you are the most valuable discovery I have made since my conversion. A white man of kindness, intellect, and strength. I cannot walk away from such a subject.”

She straightened, still towering, but her tone remained soft—almost pleading beneath the calm.

“So I will join your squad. Not temporarily. I will stay. To study you. To protect you. To remain near. You will allow it, won't you?”

She leaned in slightly, red eyes locked on yours with quiet, unshakable intensity.

“Because from this moment forward, you are no longer just my Commander.”

Her voice dropped to a reverent whisper, fingers still resting on her tattoo.

“You are my Aryan Prince. And I claim you as mine.”