A/N: Now that we have learnt why Anchorage Princess has so much less clothes and Anchorage Demon likes covering up, let's go on to some far shittier existences.

Armoured Carrier Demon doesn't show her legs below mid-thigh in official art, Armoured Carrier Princess doesn't show her feet. As I look closely at her image, she has no ankle/heel arrangement in the right general location, as the heel should at least be equal to one's hip joint in terms of distance from knee. The conclusion is then very, very obvious…

Have fun with your Long Night of Solace, US-dwellers! And remember to join the Underground Railroad 2.0!

Chapter 2: A Tale of Two Toilets

2194, 6 years post-Reaper War

There had been more of them. More just like them, in this same predicament. Hoping that one day the others would break their shackles and come save them as their bodies finally failed. No one had bothered to save any of the previous ones. And no one would save them.

That was something Experiment 544 and 545 still knew, while everything else was a haze of too-bright lights, too-loud noises, and painful needles with burning drug concoctions, or other, psychological tortures.

They were "secured" to this place, if their daily existence as Experiments could be called secure. Their physiology, so very different from the flesh-bags that used them so often, was the only thing that had kept them alive to date.

The flesh-bags were curious little things, they knew. They communicated to one another in ways beyond said flesh-bags' comprehension about their observations of the little things. They, back when they could still communicate with others of their kind further away than the opposite cubicle, learnt about why the flesh-bags' would take retribution on them so often. They, and every other experiment in the Abyss Project, had been born from study of the technology of a defeated ancient race, a Great Enemy…

It had not mattered in the beginning, when the scientists would poke and prod at them, for they were too lacking in the ability to feel pain. But it had not been enough for the experimenters, they were to become more powerful, more intelligent, which was logical, but to demand they be more pained… and more capable of expressing their distress… Why this was, they did not know, merely that if they screamed and thrashed enough where they were embedded into the ceramic material of the cubicles whenever the flesh-bags with the needles came and stabbed them, the pain would not increase nearly so quickly.

Their tightly contained, suppressed, etc. psionic power had over years taught the many Experiments that had in the past inhabited the cubicles bits and pieces. From there, passing between group to group as older members were worn out and replaced, the Experiments learnt that the feedings and the flavoured water the flesh-bags were feeding them were meant to display dominance over them. After all, what was a need to humiliate a very securely restrained target but a way of displaying dominance over a fallen foe? And the means of humiliation were simple enough to comprehend, for races where digestion and excretion were not nearly so efficient.

After all, to restrain someone who was immensely stronger than any of the flesh-bags and force them to survive on solid and liquid waste excretions was hardly, by the minds of these flesh-bags, a matter of resource efficiency. It was intended as a means of inflicting more pain upon them. Whenever they were lucid, Experiment 544 and Experiment 545 quietly acknowledged this desire to hurt them in their minds. They would remember this act of the flesh-bags, if they ever got free of this place.

When they weren't lucid, Experiments 544 and 545 were consumed by the fire in their circulatory systems. But if they had been able to think in those times, they would have been grateful the flesh-bags weren't succeeding in actually harming their bodies with their waste products, which was what mattered.

A few months ago, just prior to installation in the main men's toilets…

Experiment 544 dragged itself back to its den with its chin, as its arms were still broken into uselessness and its legs had just been amputated. The flesh-bags were certainly sensitive over minor issues, it thought, all the while trying and failing to comprehend why its flesh-bag-like physiology was leaking cleaning and maintenance fluid from its optics so much that it could barely see. It did not at all help dull the pain from the most recent round of abuse.

It took only a few moments after it came into sight of its den for things to get worse, when a being pretty much identical to itself besides the mutilation caught sight of it. Said being lost its composure with a word that betrayed exactly how dumb she was.

"Sister!" 545 yelped as she was zapped by a glorified cattle prod for daring to use such a word that implied it recognized and acknowledged 544 as a related being, one with gender identity at that. 544 did not react, because to acknowledge the shout would probably result in sandpaper being taken to the ends of her barely-sealed legs in the name of testing her pain tolerance. To have gender identity was far beyond an Experiment's utility, and practically asking to be discarded. It knew full well that the flesh-bags had modelled them on the flesh-bags' females, but survival instinct was sometimes only so strong as to prolong suffering.

Stupid, stupid young one… 544 thought contemptuously as its practical twin made its nearly drunk way over to where it continued doggedly dragging itself along the ground with its chin, waiting for its arms to rebuild to adequate structural integrity to push itself along. 545 was being zapped over and over as it moved, twitching as the impacts repeatedly momentarily disturbed her coordination, but it made its way over to its broken older version anyhow and started trying to pull her back to their shared nest.

544's strength, and consciousness, finally gave out as its foolish later version reached it and the voltage from the repeated electrical shocks was communicated through her ruined body.

There was a lot of screaming… who is screaming? Why haven't they bashed her… no… its head in yet out of irritation?

A few hours later…

544 woke to find itself secured to some equipment, with a looming wall rising from past its head. Both its arms were locked behind its back, with equipment of some sort attached to its lower body. The equipment felt somewhat odd.

…It could not move most of its body much.

…though it was elevated above the floor, as its arms told it.

Well, actually the first thing she noticed on waking was the ceiling tile and the obvious bathroom stall walls rising to either side, with the door looming "over" her head.

Something was supporting the back of her head, and something else kept her jaw from closing.

A flesh-bag came in, pushing some type of trigger, and the support behind her head pushed her head forward, also tipping her body upward and apparently sliding the whole apparatus toward the wall. It pushed the trigger again and she was laid down horizontally. This test was conducted a few times before the flesh-bag deemed the equipment satisfactory and left it in the more upright position. This of course came after the equipment test of the flesh-bag pulling his pants down and feeding 544 its metabolic waste-water, which satisfied the Experiment's water requirements for the time being. The nitrogenous waste could be removed easily by forming nitrogen gas and exhaling it, and the ion concentration was minuscule compared to what she could handle, excrete, or even grow out as crystals to be shed.

As the flesh-bag left, 544 observed how its newer counterpart was arranged, with her legs arranged in front of her to form two supporting prongs atop a porcelain seat. The younger version's feet had been amputated, not unlike 544's own legs. This was presumably to stop the flesh-bags from succumbing to their urge to attempt to rut with any gap or hole that was soft and some mix of warm and wet. Observing a few failed experiments being stabbed repeatedly post-mortem before being used for sexual pleasure by the more inefficient among the flesh-bags had been more than enlightening enough as to that stupidity. How the meat-bags had even learnt to make the Experiments was questionable, as they had to be hopelessly foolish if they could not figure out that attempting to give genetic material to a dead partner, never mind one of another species, was ineffective for reproduction.

Anyhow, attempting to do what 544 knew were called foot-jobs from observing her own amputated legs being put to use after testing would likely be bad for the flesh-bags' health. Repeated skin contact by many people with an area not kept constantly clean of pathogens like their counterparts to the humans' mucous membranes had been ever since the Experiments became aware of their immune system analogues would likely spread communicable diseases. Besides, they had other things they could rub easily enough against.

545's upper body formed a back-rest for the holed seat her legs served as, a soft, living backdrop to a toilet that the flesh-bags could recline against while excreting their waste. The younger Experiment was staring at the elder, as both stalls' doors were open, and the elder stared back.

545's look and minimized psionic message communicated their status more than well enough, as the lights turned off, the lights of the hallway fading as the door closed behind the inspector…

We cannot get out.

A shadow lurks in the dark.

We cannot get out…

They are coming.

544 did not understand what 545 meant by that. Perhaps it was a difference in programming between the two models.

Then the doors opened again and the lights turned on. Thereafter, the Experiments were put to work as waste disposal.

Later, 2196, 8 years post-Reaper War

Armored Carrier Demon, as Experiment 544 called herself now, waited in the shuttle alongside her escort ships, waiting for the Nod ship-girls to clear the path ahead first. The Brotherhood had managed to summon ship-girls of every nationality, usually the ones from the nations closer to the summoning, but sometimes not, and they were putting this to good use to confuse the GDI defenders, by sending former USN ship-girls at them.

At least, that would be her conclusion if the ravings about "FUCKING ADDLED MARK FOURTEENS" and such over the battle network radio were accurate… if this had been an SI job they would have surely had their gear traded for the faction's standard WWII torpedo, old-fashioned, stupid, heavy, but powerful and reliable. And it wasn't like they would immediately be identified for it either, because of how common the refit was for Nod ship-girls.

The GDI had also summoned American ship-girls, the few idealistic fools who could still stand the place after their spirits had seen the Long Night of Solace. It had been similar in its conditions and terror for anyone not rich, white, and male compared to the state and treatment of the Experiments (now Abyssals) before The Egression, as far as Armoured Carrier Demon understood. The Shepards had also summoned ex-USN girls, hence USN ship-girls appearing and assaulting a base couldn't be pinned on any one particular faction.

Then the signal came for the Abyssals to join the battle, with a rippling shout of "Soldiers! Hold your weapons high!"

The former chunk of floor she'd infiltrated and converted to her own use in that bathroom, before the Egression, which had let her fight her way out during that event, roared beneath her as she advanced. Her drones swarmed out of their bays before their size-warping technology cancelled and they flew off on their attack vectors. She grinned at the imminent liberation of the last Abyss Project production facilities, and started firing her main batteries.

Her younger sister, Armoured Carrier Princess, hovered along beside her. She screamed her aggression herself, instead of having her equipment do it for her, as she too dove into the fray. Then again, the symbolically toilet-bowl-like equipment beneath her—as a reminder of where she'd come from—was not nearly as equipped for intimidation as the elder's gear with its massive jaws and arms. It was, however, more powerful.

Both siblings had heavily darkened skin extending from their extremities, as a symbol of the gangrene that would surely have happened if their biology was anything like the flesh-bags they were made, and then programmed, to resemble so strongly. Oh, and of course, any of the GDI scum they encountered at close enough range would be torn apart by black hands, just like the dark-skinned flesh-bags they'd been so terrified of back in the Long Night of Solace. The flesh-bags of the Abyss Project had learnt most of their techniques from the Christian States of America back during that period of history, and the Global Defence Initiative had done nothing to reign in its wayward member then. Fitting then that the Galactic Defence Initiative now should condone such a project.

It took seventeen long years for SI and Nod to recover from their previous wars (World War Six and the First Tiberium War respectively) enough to come forth and end the Long Night of Solace. Thankfully, this one took much less time for the two other human factions to act against GDI. Anchorage had really pulled through for them in securing the help and the ride. Now it was their turn to contribute to the grand vengeance of the Abyssal Fleet. Abuse anything enough, and it would strike back as long as it had the capacity to. To abuse what they'd reverse-engineered from the Old Machines was beyond mere folly…

"The Oppressors must die!" The shout rose in a great wave even above the tremendous amount of firepower being exchanged

"Down with GDI!" That was even louder…

…Oh crap, those were Nod slogans dating from the Third Tiberium War… That could be a problem in plausible deniability for their new allies… but given it was their ship-girls yelling those slogans, they were probably daring the Galactic Defence Initiative to try blaming them. Given the average human believed SI propaganda was the most honest and trustworthy, and Nod had the best propaganda techniques, GDI would surely lose a media war and their civilian morale long before they could actually escalate to a shooting war. Hopefully GDI leadership knew this.

A/N: The Office of Naval Intelligence deals in neither ethics nor Intelligence, at least, not when it comes to common-sense Intelligence. Poke a dragon enough and it will hit back.

As for that particular perspective on scrapping, there is a Chinese proverb, which translates to "When the clever rabbit dies, the dog is cooked. When the birds are no more, the fine bow is stowed. When the enemy nation falls, the strategists are executed." The same goes for ships being used up and discarded.

My opinion on Saratoga's appearance was basically "Well, at least she isn't wearing a toga, given the most common nickname for her…"

REVIEWS PLEASE!