Beatrix felt amazing.
Every strike landed with satisfying impact. Tarasque’s augmentations cracking under her assault. His defensive posture crumbling. She wasn’t using technique anymore, didn’t need it. Just overwhelming force. Just more.
Her body felt strange but right. Stronger than it should be. Faster than possible. Like she’d been holding back her whole life and finally someone cut the leash.
This was what she was made for. What the Dreadnought Protocol was designed for. Military-grade enhancement for military-grade violence.
She laughed. Couldn’t help it. Pure joy bubbling up.
I’m winning.
Tarasque tried to counter. Toxic gas venting, trying to slow her down. She fought through it. Didn’t care. Pain receptors too dampened to register. Only victory mattered.
Strike to his chest. Reinforced ribs cracking. He stumbled back.
Strike to his shoulder. Biological-mechanical interface sparking. He groaned, human side registering agony.
Strike to his face. Human side. Should have aimed for mechanical side, some distant tactical voice whispered. That one hurt him.
She didn’t care.
Watched him fall to one knee. Then both knees. Then collapse entirely.
Prey defeated.
Satisfaction rushing through her. Chemical cascade of triumph. This was victory. This was…
Something wrong with her hands. She looked down. They seemed larger than before. Muscles visibly swollen, veins dark blue-black standing out against skin. When had that happened?
Her costume had torn at the shoulders. Seams splitting under pressure. When?
Brief confusion. Then dismissed. Didn’t matter. She won. That’s what mattered.
Tarasque lay on damaged platform. Not moving. Still breathing, she could hear it, ragged and wet. But beaten. Comprehensively defeated.
Good.
She should walk away. Victory secured. Fight over.
But her body didn’t move. Just stood there. Standing over prey. Making sure threat was eliminated.
Threat eliminated. Prey defeated. Must stay vigilant.
Blake’s voice cut through the arena, amplified to divine proportions:
“Mercy!”
The word meant nothing. Just sound. Meaningless noise.
“Mercy has been granted!”
Crowd noise shifting. Getting quieter? Shouldn’t they be cheering?
“Fight is over!”
Over? When did it end? She didn’t remember ending it.
“Winner: Beatrix!”
Winner. That word resonated weakly. She’d won. That was good, right? That meant…
Tarasque lay beneath her. Not moving. Smart. Prey that played dead sometimes survived.
Not dead though. Still breathing. Still threat.
She stood over him. Fist raised. Ready to strike if needed.
Waiting.
For what?
Couldn’t remember. Just: standing. Waiting. Fist raised. Prey beneath her.
This is victory. This is what winning feels like.
Why wasn’t anyone cheering?
Time stopped meaning anything.
Beatrix wasn’t really anywhere. Consciousness fragmented into pieces that didn’t connect anymore.
Part of her far away, watching:
That’s me. Standing over him. Why am I so still? Why aren’t I moving?
Part of her was lost in sensation:
Colors so bright they hurt. Blood so red it’s beautiful. Power thrumming through every cell. This is what strong feels like. This is what RIGHT feels like.
Part of her pure instinct:
Prey defeated. Must stay vigilant. Threat could return. Cannot rest until threat eliminated. Stand watch. Maintain dominance. This is territory now. This is MINE.
Human consciousness trying to surface:
The fight’s over. Blake called mercy. I won. I can stop now. I should stop now. Why am I not stopping?
Predator instinct overriding:
Not over. Still moving. Still breathing. Still dangerous. One mistake. One moment of inattention. Cannot allow. Must maintain. Must…
Stalemate between states. Neither winning. Both holding. Frozen between human and monster, unable to choose, unable to move.
Just: being. Pure existence as violence. Potential energy waiting to become kinetic.
Virgil’s voice like hearing underwater:
“Operator. Operator. BEATRIX.”
Couldn’t reach him. Couldn’t respond. Voice too far away.
Other voices now. Familiar. Urgent. Calling her name? Calling something that used to be her name? Couldn’t tell. Everything too far away except prey beneath her and fist above prey and perfect, eternal now of dominance.
The voices getting more desperate. One voice louder than others. Bodhi? Calling that name again. Beatrix. That was someone else. Someone who existed before this moment. Before she understood what she really was.
Blake’s announcement meaningless sounds. Crowd noise white static. Body feeling wrong, too large, too strong, too other, but also feeling right. More right than she’d ever felt. Like she’d been incomplete her whole life and only now, standing over defeated prey, was she whole.
Heartbeat slow. Steady. Calm.
Predator satisfaction.
I won.
But not enough satisfaction. Never enough.
Need to finish.
Time stretching. Could be one second, could be forever. No difference. Just eternal moment of being. No thought. Only state.
The voices getting louder. More frantic. Overlapping now. Couldn’t make out words. Just urgency. Fear. For her? Of her? Couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter.
This was what she was made for.
This was what she’d become.
There was movement.
Beneath her. Prey shifting. Small sound, whimper, pain, weakness escaping despite effort to contain it.
Prey moved.
Prey alive.
Threat.
Beatrix’s fist dropped.
Not thought. Pure reaction. Predator instinct.
About to strike. About to finish. About to…
“BEATRIX!”
Bodhi’s voice. Distant but urgent. Something in the tone cutting through predator fog. Recognition trying to surface. That voice meant something. Someone. Someone who…
Virgil’s desperate measure:
“Emergency protocols engaging. Operator. I have to…”
Chemical cascade dumping into her system. Sedative countermeasures flooding bloodstream. Override codes she didn’t know existed, triggered by AI making autonomous decision.
“I’m bringing you back.”
The world snapped.
Sudden weakness. Like strings cut. Muscles going liquid. Knees buckling. Fist dropping, not striking, just falling. Hand catching on Tarasque’s shoulder to stop her collapse.
Contact shocking her back to awareness.
Everything rushing in at once:
Crowd noise silent. Arena lights blinding.
Virgil’s voice. “Come back.”
Bodhi’s voice, closer now, feet pounding on arena floor: “Beatrix! It’s over! You’re okay!”
She looked down.
Tarasque beneath her. His human eye looking up. Terrified. Not of pain. Of her.
Her hand on his shoulder. When had she touched him? Why was she…
Blood on her knuckles. His? Hers? Both?
Her body felt wrong. Too large. Muscles swollen, veins prominent and dark. Costume torn at shoulders, thighs. Skin stretched tight over enhanced muscle mass. When had that happened?
What did I do?
Memories fragmentary. She remembered the fight. Remembered getting hit. Remembered getting angry. Then... blur. Standing over him. Fist raised. How long had she been…
Oh God.
Tarasque whispered: “Thank you.”
She didn’t understand. Thank her for what? For beating him? For stopping? For…
For coming back. For not finishing. For being human enough, barely, to stop.
Celebration in the arena. Lights. Spectacle.
Beatrix stumbled away from Tarasque. Legs shaking. Body aching in ways that felt wrong. Skin too tight. Muscles cramping as they tried to return to normal size but couldn’t. Permanent changes. Enhanced.
Changed.
Bodhi vaulted the arena barrier. Against every rule. Didn’t care. Moving toward her with purpose, face tight with concern and something that might have been fear.
“You okay?”
She nodded. Lie. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t admit what she’d felt. What she’d been.
“You scared me, kid.”
His voice rough with emotion he wouldn’t show. She couldn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t let him see what was looking back. Wasn’t sure if it was fully her yet. Wasn’t sure if it would ever be fully her again.
Rain and Kivi reached the arena edge. Both pale. Both staring at her like she was stranger. Like they’d watched her become something they didn’t recognize.
They’re afraid of me.
The realization sent a shiver in her spine. Team surrounding her, protective, yes. But also: guarding others from her. Just in case. Just if she wasn’t fully back. Just if whatever they’d seen looking out from her eyes decided to come back.
They walked through crowd as unit. People parting. Watching her differently now. Not just fighter. Something else. Something dangerous.
Whispers following her path:
“Did you see her face?”
“Stood there like a statue...”
“Something’s wrong with her augmentation...”
“Look at her muscles, that’s not normal...”
Confetti falling. Lights flashing. Blake’s voice continuing his showman patter. Victory. Advancement. Round of Four.
It all felt distant. Meaningless.
Through prep room window, Beatrix watched Tartarus handlers dragging Tarasque away. His human eye found hers one last time as they hauled him out of the arena.
Expression: pity.
He pitied her.
He understands.
Handlers taking him back to cage. They’d repair him. Send him back to fight. Until he couldn’t anymore. Until augmentation consumed him completely. Until nothing human remained.
I’m not like him, she told herself. I chose this. I can stop whenever I want.
The lies tasted like chemical tang. Toxic. Necessary.
I can stop.
I just don’t want to yet.
One more fight. Just one more.
And then another.
And another.
Until…
She crushed the thought. Couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t admit what she was becoming. Couldn’t face the mirror Tarasque held up.
She’d won. That’s what mattered. One step closer to Dante’s cure.
One step further from being human.
Fair trade.
Had to be.
The prep room felt like tomb.
Team moved around her but didn’t speak. Kivi running scans she didn’t explain, tablet screen carefully angled away. Rain watching Virgil’s interface, scrolling through data he kept to himself, jaw tight. Bodhi standing guard, watching them all with expression she couldn’t read. Protective. Assessing. Worried.
Beatrix tried to act normal. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
Nobody responded. The silence stretched.
“It was a hard fight.”
Rain finally looked at her. “B...”
“What?”
He didn’t continue. Just looked at her with something like grief. Like he was mourning someone still standing in front of him.
They’re judging me.
Virgil’s voice broke the silence: “Beatrix. We need to discuss what happened.”
“Nothing happened. I won.”
“You were unresponsive for forty-seven seconds.”
Silence in the room. Heavy. Suffocating.
“You did not register Blake’s mercy call.”
“I was... focused.”
“You were absent.”
She didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Because he was right. She’d been gone. Somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn’t human. Wasn’t her.
Somewhere that felt RIGHT, whispered treacherous thought. Somewhere you want to go back to.
Bodhi broke the silence: “You need rest. No training tomorrow.”
“I have three days until next fight…”
“I said no training.” His tone sharp. Final. First time he’d used that voice with her.
She bristled. “Why?”
“Because you stood there for forty-seven seconds.” Rain interrupted, voice cracked. “Unresponsive. We watched…” He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. “Your cortisol spiked to levels that should have killed you. Your muscle density increased forty percent in real-time. That’s not possible, B. That’s not human.”
Silence.
Kivi’s voice, small and scared: “We couldn’t reach you. Virgil couldn’t reach you. Blake called mercy and you just... you didn’t hear it. You weren’t there.”
“I was focused on…”
“You were gone.” Bodhi’s voice rough, carrying weight of experience she didn’t want to understand. “I’ve seen soldiers go to dark places in combat. Seen people lose themselves to violence and never come all the way back. That’s what I watched happen to you out there.”
The words hurt. She wanted to deny them. Wanted to insist they were wrong, she was fine, she was in control.
But she’d seen the replay in her own fragmented memory. Seen the moment consciousness scattered. Seen what looked out from her eyes when she wasn’t home.
Predator. Pure. Perfect.
She swallowed the thought. “I’m fine. I just need to rest.”
Nobody looked convinced.
“Please.” Her voice smaller than she intended. “I just need to rest.”
Rain exchanged glances with Kivi. Both looked to Bodhi. Some silent communication happening between them that excluded her. Planning. Deciding. What to do with her. About her. For her?
“Get some rest, B.” Rain’s voice softer now. Sad. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow.” Kivi not meeting her eyes. Already gathering her equipment. Already creating distance.
Bodhi squeezed her shoulder. Brief. Worried. Holding on just a moment too long. Like he wasn’t sure she’d still be there tomorrow. Like he wasn’t sure what would be looking back at him when they met again.
“Don’t do anything stupid, kid.”
She nodded. Watched them leave. Watched them walk away from her like she was contamination. Like they needed distance to process what they’d witnessed. To decide if they could keep doing this. If they should keep doing this.
The door closed with heavy finality.
Alone in prep room. Just her and Virgil. AI ever-present in her head. Constant companion. Only one who couldn’t leave.
“Operator.”
“What.”
“I have full recording of the fight.”
“So?”
“I believe you should review it.”
“Why?”
“Because you need to see what I saw.”
Long silence. Her hands shaking. Not wanting to know. Needing to know. Terrified of both.
“I don’t want to.”
“I know.”
Pause. Then, quieter: “But you need to. You need to understand what’s happening to you. What the protocol is doing.”
Her throat tight. “Show me anyway.”
Holographic display activating. Fight replaying in miniature above her palm. She watched herself move, precise, technical, controlled. Good fighting. Clean fighting. The fighter her team had built. The weapon they’d crafted together.
Then the shift. The moment Tarasque hit her. The moment everything changed.
Watched herself change. Muscles visibly swelling, costume tearing at seams. Movement quality transforming from precise to overwhelming. Technical approach abandoned for pure aggression. Face shifting from focused to nothing. Expression draining away until something other looked out from her eyes.
Watched herself beat Tarasque. Efficient. Brutal. Joyful.
Watched that smile. That laugh. Pure satisfaction in violence. Not for Dante. Not for necessity. Just for the feeling of it.
Watched him collapse. Beaten. Broken. Done.
Watched herself stand over him. Fist raised. Frozen.
That expression. That lack of expression. Nothing human looking out. Just: predator, satisfied, waiting. Pure instinct, pure violence, pure being.
She stared at her reflection in dark prep room window. Body still slightly wrong. Muscles not quite settled back to baseline. Veins still visible, dark rivers beneath skin. Permanent enhancement. Permanent change.
Next fight would change her more. Fight after that, more still.
Where does it end?
No answer. Couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t face it.
What am I becoming?
The question hung in recycled air. Heavy. Unanswerable.
Virgil’s voice, gentle: “The Dreadnought Protocol is adapting. Learning from each activation. Becoming more efficient. More autonomous.”
“That’s good.” Hollow words. “That means I’m getting stronger.”
“That means it’s getting harder to control. Each transformation makes the next one easier.”
She didn’t reply. Didn’t need to.