The transport to the location of the Culling was a converted cargo hauler that smelled like fear and recycled air. Beatrix counted the occupants by their Humanware signatures: one hundred sixteen souls packed into a space meant for cargo, not hope. Nobody spoke. Killers didn't make small talk before the killing started.

  She found a corner spot and strapped in, her pack pressed against her chest, her scarf covering her face. Everything she owned that mattered had been reduced to two kilograms of survival gear and the clothes on her back.

  Virgil reported quietly.

  "I'm fine."

  A man across from her, thick neck, dead eyes, chrome knuckles, met her gaze for three seconds before looking away. Everyone here was doing the same calculation: threat assessment, survival odds, who to avoid and who to kill first.

  The transport lurched as engines engaged. Through the hull, she heard the docking clamps release with a metallic scream that sounded like the station saying goodbye.

  Beatrix closed her eyes and tried not to think about what waited at the other end. Tried not to calculate the math: five hundred participants, twelve qualifying slots, a four percent survival rate that assumed you were lucky and skilled and willing to do things that would haunt you forever.

  She thought about Dante instead. About the prize money. About how none of this mattered if she didn't make it through.

  The man with chrome knuckles was still staring at her when she opened her eyes.

  From orbit, the cylinder known as Limbo looked like a corpse, a spinning husk with half its mirrors shattered, its skin cracked open into ribs of metal and glass. Six kilometers in diameter, thirty-two kilometers long, rotating slowly against the stars like something that had forgotten it was supposed to die.

  This is where the Culling happens. Fitting.

  The shuttle rattled as it began final approach, engines groaning in protest. Someone muttered a prayer. Someone else laughed, brittle and sharp.

  "Welcome to Hell." a voice called from the front. "Hope you said your goodbyes."

  The cargo doors opened onto desolation.

  Limbo hit Beatrix like a slap of sand.

  Gray sand stretched in every direction, broken by debris fields and collapsed structures that jutted from the wasteland like broken teeth. The cylinder had been abandoned decades ago, left to rot in the outer ring. Now it was an arena.

  The sky was wrong. Artificial lighting panels flickered through the structural framework above, casting everything in sickly gray that made it impossible to judge distance or time. Gravity pulled at her unevenly as she stepped off the transport, dragging her down hard then releasing, making each step uncertain.

  "Perfect," Beatrix muttered, boots sinking into sand that felt like ash. "Just like home."

  Around her, the other Culling participants fanned out across the staging zone, each claiming their small territory. She let Virgil count them while she scanned for threats: five hundred seven people. All desperate. All dangerous. All competing for twelve slots.

  The math was brutal. Most of them would die today.

  Three massive hangars dominated the zone, repurposed cargo bays housing equipment stations, medical facilities, and the kind of vendors who only appeared when people needed things they probably shouldn't have. Acheron enforcers stalked the perimeter in their ascetic gear, their presence less about security and more about making sure everyone understood who owned this place.

  A holographic display materialized above the central hangar, sixty feet tall and impossible to ignore:

  THE CULLING

  Distance: 10 kilometers

  Slots Available: 12

  Rules: First 12 to cross the finish line qualify for The Grind

  Restrictions: None

  Countdown to start: 07:13 hours

  Her HUD showed the countdown: [07:13:22]

  She had seven hours to figure out how not to die.

  Beatrix started walking toward the equipment stations, scanning the crowd as she moved. Her enhanced vision picked out details that baseline humans would miss, the quality of armor, the subtle tells of military training, the desperation in how people held their weapons.

  And there were weapons. Everywhere.

  A woman near Hangar One carried a beam rifle that looked military-grade. Two men by the medical station had slug throwers holstered at their hips. Someone was testing what looked like a plasma cutter modified for combat, the blade singing blue-white in the gray light.

  Beatrix's stomach dropped as she continued her assessment. Half the participants were armed. A quarter had combat-grade enhancements she could see, chrome limbs, reinforced skeletal structures, neural processors that put her own augmentations to shame. And in the distance, near Hangar Three, she counted six mechs. Small ones, maybe three meters tall, but mechs nonetheless.

  She was outgunned. Outmanned. Out-equipped. The Dreadnought Protocol made her faster and stronger than baseline, but these weren't baseline competitors. These were people who'd come prepared for war.

  [06:23:56]

  A old scrap of wisdom from Bodhi surfaced in her mind, another scav rule: Own the floor, kid. The floor tells you where to stand, where to run, where to make your last stand.

  Ok, old man. I can do that.

  She focused past the people, to the floor itself. The terrain. Her eyes, enhanced by the Protocol, tracked the subtle lay of the land, the way the gray dust drifted into deeper dunes near the western wreckage, indicating persistent air currents from a breached hull segment. She noted a series of collapsed girders near Hangar Two that formed a natural, shadowy bottleneck.

  Virgil chimed in, following her focus.

  “A gravity trap or a vacuum zone,” Beatrix murmured to herself. “Anyone running that way is going to have a bad day.”

  She wasn't just seeing the arena. She was reading it. And she was doing it aloud, a scav’s habit of talking herself through a problem.

  “The main route they’ll stampede down,” she said, voice low, pointing toward the apparent starting line that led into a canyon of wreckage. “It’s a funnel. But look at the support pylons on the north side, the metal fatigue is extreme. That’s not just old. That’s stressed. Something’s pulling on it from underneath. There’s probably a sub-level collapse. That whole flank could go if five hundred people start pounding over it.”

  “So the obvious path is also a death trap,” she concluded. “Wonderful.”

  “You see all that just by looking?”

  The voice came from her left. Beatrix turned, her body instinctively squaring up.

  The man was tall, shaved head, built like a brawler but with the calm eyes of a pragmatist. He’d been listening.

  “I see enough,” Beatrix said, keeping her tone flat.

  “Julius.” He didn’t offer a hand, just a measured nod. “Was actually planning to take my team through the death trap.”

  “You have a team?” The feeling of being outnumbered returned.

  “You don’t?”

  Beatrix responded with a sad smile.

  “I’ve got a team forming. Three others. We’ve got guns, a mechanic, and a hired blade.” He jerked his chin toward the deadly funnel she’d just described. “We don’t have anyone who can look at a killing field and see the floor giving way before it happens. That’s more valuable than another trigger finger.”

  "I don't need..." She started the automatic refusal, then stopped. Because standing here alone, surrounded by five hundred competitors with guns and mechs and experience she didn't have, the lie tasted like suicide.

  "I want to meet the others first," she said finally.

  Julius’s grin was sharp. “Thought you might. Follow me.”

  [05:01:38]

  The other two were waiting in Hangar Three's shadow, checking equipment with the kind of focus that meant they'd done this before. Not the Grind necessarily, but something similar. Something that had taught them how to move in a world that wanted them dead.

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  "Electra," the woman said by way of introduction. She was small and compact with short hair and the kind of wiry strength that came from living on Umbra-3's lower levels. Her eyes were bright blue, tactical, constantly moving. "Mechanic. I have just joined too."

  "Saladin." The older man didn't offer his hand. Maybe forty, with scars that mapped a violent history and eyes that had seen too much. When he spoke, his voice was rough but measured. "Julius hired me to help you through the first few kilometers."

  Beatrix studied him more carefully. He moved like a professional, economical, aware, dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with augmentation and everything to do with experience. His gear was worn but well-maintained. A merc, then. A real one.

  "Help us how?" she asked.

  "Tactical advice. Threat assessment. Making sure you don't die from something stupid in the first kilometer." His expression was neutral, unreadable. "After that, we'll see."

  "You planning to qualify?"

  "Planning to get paid." He pulled up a holographic display, terrain maps spreading through the air. "From your pooled resources. I get twenty percent of whatever prize money the team earns from qualifying. Everyone who crosses the line, I get a cut." His smile was thin. "Means I'm incentivized to keep you alive, not compete with you."

  It made sense. Brutal sense, but sense. Saladin was being paid to increase their odds, not to take a slot himself. He'd make more money shepherding four people through than trying to qualify himself.

  "And if we all die?" Beatrix asked.

  "Then I wasted my time and you wasted your lives." Saladin's expression didn't change. "I'd prefer we avoid that outcome."

  Julius clapped Saladin on the shoulder. "Don't let the charm fool you. He knows his shit. Kept me alive through two corporate raids and a clan war."

  "You also paid me very well for that," Saladin noted.

  “We need to plan a route,” she said, turning to the terrain. “The main path is a structural deathtrap. We need alternatives.”

  “She thinks the main path is a death trap.” Julius explained to the rest. crossed his arms. “It seems right, but it’s also the fastest way. We didn’t come here to hide.”

  “We came here to qualify,” Beatrix countered. “Hiding beats dying. I wish we had a map of the service tunnels.”

  Electra’s lips quirked. She pulled a slim datapad from her thigh rig and thumbed it on. A three-dimensional schematic of Limbo’s interior unfolded in holographic blue between them. “You mean like this?”

  Beatrix stared. It was detailed, down to the sub-level maintenance corridors and atmospheric processing ducts. “How did you get this?”

  “The clans broadcast the basic race map to build hype,” Electra said, her fingers dancing over the interface, highlighting routes. “This is the engineering schematic. Pulled it from a decommissioned station archive. The clans want a show; they don’t care if we know where the floor might vanish.”

  Saladin leaned in, studying the map. “Seems like a maze underground. Safer, but slower.”

  “We stick to the surface,” Julius insisted, not looking up from the schematic. “Speed is…”

  “Speed is useless if you’re buried under ten tons of collapsing deck plate,” Beatrix cut in. She pointed at the hologram, her finger tracing a path the others had overlooked, not a marked corridor, but a straight, structural support conduit that ran parallel to the surface route.

  “Look. This isn’t a maintenance tunnel. It’s a primary coolant chase. It’ll be clear. Built for service drones, not people. Wide, straight, and it dumps out here…” her finger stabbed a point two kilometers ahead of the surface funnel’s collapse zone, “...ahead of the bottleneck. It’s not on your schematic as a path because it wasn’t built to be one.”

  Virgil highlighted the conduit in pulsing gold. The path was suddenly, obviously perfect.

  Julius stared, then a slow grin spread across his face. “You don’t just see the floor giving way. You see the girder no one’s standing on. Welcome to the team, boss.”

  “I’m not the boss.”

  “Sure you’re not.” His grin was knowing. “That’s why you’re already calling the shots.”

  "Shut up, Virgil."

  All of them looked at her. Electra's expression shifted from neutral to intrigued.

  "Your AI talks back?" she asked.

  "Constantly."

  A new voice filled the air around them, clean, digital, and emanating from Beatrix’s direction:

  “Holy hell,” Electra breathed. “It insults you?”

  “You could have asked before using the external speakers,” Beatrix said.

  Saladin’s weathered face cracked into a small, genuine smile. “I like your AI. It lacks the usual bullshit.”

  “It lacks tact,” Beatrix grumbled, but the strange moment had broken the ice. They were a unit now, however ragged.

  [02:49:21]

  They spent the next two hours reviewing terrain and checking equipment. Electra walked them through maintenance records she'd somehow accessed, pointing out structural weak points and potential shortcuts. Julius stretched and tested his augmentations. Saladin watched everything, offering corrections when someone was about to make a stupid mistake.

  Beatrix was near the medical station when a shouting started. She couldn't see what triggered it, maybe a territorial dispute, maybe old grudges, maybe just nerves stretched past breaking. Whatever the reason, two fighters went at each other with fists and chrome, and violence exploded in the staging area.

  The Stygia Contract responded instantly.

  > BOUNTY ACTIVATED: 50,000 CREDITS

  > BOUNTY ACTIVATED: 50,000 CREDITS

  The notifications appeared in everyone's Humanware simultaneously, complete with both men's faces, locations, and vital signs. One hundred thousand credits total for stopping them.

  It took exactly four seconds.

  The first man's teammates shot him in the back, beam weapon, clean through the spine. The second man tried to run and made it three steps before someone else dropped him. Not Acheron guards. Just other participants who saw free money and took it.

  The bodies smoked on the gray sand. Two people collected the bounties while everyone else watched and learned.

  The crowd dispersed slowly, the lesson absorbed. The contract didn't need enforcers when it could turn everyone into one.

  Beatrix found Julius near Hangar Three, his face grim.

  "You see that?" he asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Good. Means we all understand the rules." He looked at her, serious for the first time since they'd met. "In the race, anything goes. But until then, we're safer than we've ever been. The contract makes sure of it."

  "Until the Culling," Beatrix said.

  "Until the Culling," he agreed.

  She thought about what would happen when that protection ended. About five hundred people who would try to kill each other. About how the word "safe" had already lost all meaning.

  [01:31:01]

  One hour later, Saladin disappeared into the equipment vendors and returned with something that made Beatrix's chest tighten.

  Guns. Four of them, three beam weapons, one slug thrower that looked older than the station itself.

  Beatrix felt dread in her skin. She'd been watching the other competitors arm themselves, had seen the guns and blades and modified tools that everyone else seemed to have. Her enhanced reflexes and the Dreadnought Protocol gave her an edge, but against beam weapons and slug throwers, speed only helped if you saw the shot coming.

  Julius, Jace and Electra each took one of the beams. The slug was there on the ground, tempting as a poisonous monster.

  "I need a weapon," Beatrix said quietly.

  Saladin looked up. "You sure?"

  “No. But I need one.” She met his eyes, refusing to blink. “Do you have any medkits? The good kind, with trauma foam and coagulant.”

  Without a word, Saladin pulled a flat, military-grade medkit from his pack and handed it to her. She clipped it to her belt. A small weight of potential salvation.

  Julius picked up the slug thrower, hefting its weight. "Glock 19. Old Earth design. Not accurate past fifty meters in this gravity, but for close work..." He looked at Beatrix, then extended the weapon toward her.

  The gun sat between them, ugly and simple and terrifying in its honesty.

  "I've never..." The words caught in her throat.

  She'd told her mother she wouldn't fight anymore. The cages had been different, controlled, refereed, tap-outs possible. This was different.

  This was a tool for killing.

  Julius kept the gun extended. "Five hundred people. Twelve slots. Most of them armed. You think your fancy AI's gonna stop a slug from fifty meters?"

  Her hand didn't move. Couldn't move.

  She thought about the promises made at her mother’s deathbed, about the girl she'd been who would never have touched this weapon.

  But that girl couldn't save Dante. That girl was already dead.

  "Then you'll learn," Julius said, his voice not unkind. "Or you'll die. Your call."

  When her fingers finally closed around the grip, it felt like another piece of herself dying. The weight was wrong. Foreign. Like holding a piece of someone else's nightmare.

  "Safety's here," Julius said, showing her. "Aim center mass. Squeeze, don't pull. The recoil will try to ride up—let it, then bring it back down for the second shot."

  She memorized it. Hated that she memorized it. Hated how natural the weapon felt in her hand once she accepted it.

  "Not now," Beatrix said quietly, tucking the Glock against her hip where it pressed unfamiliar and heavy. "Not yet."

  Saladin had watched the entire exchange in silence. When he finally spoke, his voice was gentle:

  "Every line you cross gets easier to cross again. Remember that."

  She met his eyes and saw judgment there. Not cruel, just honest. A man who'd crossed too many lines himself and knew exactly what it cost.

  "I know," she said.

  "Keep telling yourself that." Saladin's smile was sad. "Maybe you'll believe it longer than I did."

  [00:11:46]

  They gathered near the starting line.

  [RISK ASSESSMENT: 507 HOSTILES]

  [THREAT LEVEL: EXTREME]

  Five hundred seven participants according to the official count. Beatrix could see them all now through her enhanced vision, the desperate mass of humanity that had decided dying in a race was better than whatever they were running from.

  Some had full mech suits towering above the crowd. Others had strapped on so much enhancement gear they looked more machine than human. A few had nothing but baseline bodies and prayers that wouldn't save them.

  And somewhere in that mass, twelve of them would cross the finish line. Everyone else would fail or die trying.

  [00:00:59]

  Julius moved to Beatrix's left. Jace to her right. Electra and Saladin positioned themselves slightly behind, forming a loose wedge.

  "Remember," Saladin said quietly. "If you get a chance to quit..." He paused. "Take it. Living beats winning every time."

  "Get ready." Julius said, ignoring the advice.

  Beatrix said nothing.

  The countdown appeared in the air above them, massive red numbers that everyone could see.

  [00:00:10]

  Around her, five hundred people prepared to kill or die or both. Broadcasting drones swarmed the air.

  [00:00:09]

  She looked at the person next to them. A grizzled man, breathing carefully, shallowly, trying not to show he was nervous. He caught her looking and gave her a thumbs up. Tried to smile.

  [00:00:08]

  She thought about Dante in his hospital bed. About Kivi watching the broadcast somewhere, hoping she'd survive. About her mother's promise and how far she'd already broken it.

  [00:00:07]

  The Glock pressed against her hip. Her enhanced muscles tensed, ready to explode forward.

  [00:00:06]

  [00:00:05]

  "Stay close," Julius said. "First kilometer is going to be chaos."

  [00:00:04]

  "No shit," Electra muttered, her fingers dancing over her equipment's interfaces.

  [00:00:03]

  Saladin's hand rested on his rifle. "When it starts, move fast and move smart. Don't stop for anything."

  [00:00:02]

  Beatrix's heartbeat thundered in her ears. Her vision sharpened, the Protocol preparing her body for violence.

  [00:00:01]

  She could see every face in the crowd now. Every weapon. Every augmentation. Every person who stood between her and those twelve slots.

  [00:00:00]

  The air horn screamed.

  Five hundred seven people surged forward as one.

  The Culling started.