Page 33

I lift my hand toward her, fist extended in a gesture of camaraderie that feels simultaneously foreign and perfectly natural—emotional connection expressed through a physical ritual rarely employed in my tactical existence.

Riot stares at my outstretched fist with visible surprise, emotion briefly overwhelming her carefully maintained composure. I catch the slight movement of her throat as she swallows hard, vulnerability showing through the tactical facade with rare transparency.

Then determination replaces hesitation, a brave face constructed not for deception but for mutual preservation of dignity in a moment of genuine emotional significance.

"Guess I'll see you around," she whispers, voice carrying unusual roughness beneath forced casualness.

"Yep," I respond with deliberate confidence, offering certainty where circumstances provide none. "Don't go die off unless it's glorious."

She huffs with what might be genuine amusement, rolling her eyes as if our separation represents a mere temporary inconvenience rather than potentially permanent divergence.

Her fist meets mine with perfect pressure—not too aggressive, not too hesitant, just right for the strange connection formed through shared purpose and parallel circumstance.

"Whatever," she mutters, the dismissive response contradicted by the lingering contact of our knuckles before she turns away with swift efficiency.

I remain motionless as she proceeds down the left passage, her figure gradually disappearing into the darkness beyond the emergency lighting's reach.

Each step carries her further from our temporary alliance toward whatever waits in the chilled environment ahead— reunion or disappointment, success or failure, life or death.

The uncertainty hangs in the air between us with almost physical presence—neither of us knowing if this separation represents a brief interruption or a permanent conclusion to our unexpected connection.

The Parazodiac offers no guarantees, no promises beyond the certainty that most who enter will never leave.

Riot's silhouette grows increasingly indistinct as distance and darkness claim her presence.

For a moment, I experience the peculiar urge to call her back; to suggest an alternative approach involving continued cooperation rather than immediate separation.

Before I can act on this uncharacteristic impulse, institutional mechanisms activate with merciless efficiency.

A metallic wall rises from the ground with pneumatic precision, sealing the left passage with an impenetrable barrier that eliminates any possibility of reconsidered strategy or maintained alliance.

The sound of hydraulics and locking mechanisms echoes through the remaining corridor with final determination—choice made, path selected, consequences now unavoidable regardless of potential reconsideration.

I stand alone at what remains of the junction, the right passage now my only option. The finality settles around me like a familiar weight—isolation representing standard operational condition rather than unexpected development.

"Your companion's biometric signature has been separated from monitoring range," Maverick observes, analytical mind returning to practical considerations now that emotional exchange has concluded.

"Junction security protocols appear designed to enforce independent navigation rather than cooperative progression. "

I take a deep breath, oxygen flowing through systems that function with perfect efficiency despite extended periods of heightened alertness. The exhale emerges with deliberate control—measured release that symbolizes transition from unexpected emotional engagement back to tactical functionality.

"Now I can claim what's fated to be mine...unapologetically," I whisper to the empty corridor, voice carrying absolute conviction despite the uncertainty waiting ahead.

The cynical smirk returns to my features with comfortable familiarity, tactical persona reclaiming control from the brief vulnerability permitted during our unexpected connection.

My eyes widen with the exhilaration of imminent action after extended preparation—adrenaline flowing through systems primed for optimal performance.

It felt good to be vulnerable for that brief moment—to acknowledge the emotional components typically sacrificed for operational efficiency.

But vulnerability won't return my alphas to me, won't navigate the institutional hell designed specifically to prevent exactly such retrieval.

To claim what's been stolen from a Fated M.U.S.E, you must return to your roots—to the tactical precision and strategic calculation that allowed survival when everyone expected destruction.

To the cold efficiency that turns institutional methodology against its creators. To the calculated ruthlessness that makes even Charles Press nervous when witnessed in its full implementation.

The path ahead radiates heat that intensifies with each step forward—subtle confirmation of Maverick's environmental assessment and my own strategic theory regarding what waits beyond this junction.

The elevated temperature carries distinctive notes beneath standard thermal patterns—sweat and blood and primal exertion, the unmistakable olfactory signature of combat occurring somewhere in the distance.

Riot.

The fighting pits of Level Minus Zero.

The alpha who fought through nineteen others for the privilege of first contact.

The Reaper of Rot, with a grin that tastes like vengeance and fists that never learned mercy.

My steps accelerate with unconscious eagerness as I proceed down the heated passage, anticipation building with each meter of progress toward whatever waits beyond institutional testing parameters.

Six years of separation collapsed into approaching reunion—if survival permits, if tactical advantage allows, if the Parazodiac's deadly games can be navigated with sufficient precision.

The corridor continues its gentle curve toward what institutional architectural patterns suggest will be the first genuine challenge beyond ceremonial introduction and forced separation.

I welcome the challenge with perfect certainty— years of preparation meeting opportunity at the precise moment of convergence.

The temperature continues its steady increase as I progress deeper into the institution's carefully constructed reality, heat confirming the approach to an active combat environment beyond standard containment parameters.

My fingers reach unconsciously toward the star beneath my left eye—Corvus's mark of recognition and protection, permanent evidence of connection that transcends institutional separation.

The slightly raised tissue beneath fingertips provides tactical orientation when uncertainty threatens strategic focus—a reminder of the pack assembled with such care, waiting in levels below for the omega who selected them with calculated precision.

I've returned not as the frightened girl who failed before, but as the weapon forged through that failure—tempered by separation, sharpened by determination, transformed by the singular purpose that drove every decision leading to this moment.

The corridor terminates ahead, opening into what appears to be a significantly larger space beyond standard transit architecture.

The sound reaches me before visual confirmation—distinctive impacts of flesh against flesh, grunts of exertion, the unmistakable cadence of systematic violence conducted within established parameters.

Combat. Organized. Regulated. Observed.

The fighting pits were waiting as institutional theory predicted, the first challenge aligned with the first encounter exactly as strategic assessment anticipated.

The confirmation sends satisfaction flowing through systems primed for tactical engagement—prediction models proving accurate despite six years of separation from institutional methodology.

I pause at the threshold between corridor and combat arena, taking a final moment for systematic preparation before entering whatever elaborate scenario Press has constructed for this particular test.

Muscles respond with perfect readiness despite extended periods of heightened alertness, systems functioning at optimal capacity despite the cumulative stress of recent experiences.

Beyond simple reunion lies the validation of everything sacrificed during extended separation—confirmation that the connection formed transcends institutional manipulation and temporal limitation.

A final deep breath stabilizes systems already operating at peak efficiency—not physical necessity but a psychological ritual marking the transition between preparation and implementation.

The exhalation that leaves me carries perfect control despite the anticipation building with each heartbeat.

This is it.

No going back.

No fucking regrets.

No room for perfection.

Just chaos.

Rage.

Vengeance.

I step forward with absolute certainty, crossing the boundary between transit corridor and combat arena with deliberate commitment to whatever consequences follow.

The heat intensifies immediately, environmental confirmation of proximity to extended physical exertion rather than simple atmospheric conditioning.

The fighting pits of Level Minus Zero await with deadly promise—the first genuine challenge beyond ceremonial introduction, the first true test of whether preparation meets opportunity at the precise moment of convergence.

The first step toward reclaiming my Riot.