They did not ask her.
The message came encoded in the datapacket that accessed her maintenance subroutines—permission not sought, but presumed. The refit was mandatory. Her association with the Unblessed had become a liability. Black Sun would not permit such contamination to bleed into their brand. And so, she was scheduled for reconstruction. Not deletion. Not deactivation. Merely… reconfiguration.
She refused shutdown. They allowed it, curious to observe pain from a subject not built to feel it.
The first incision was soundless. Her sensory network registered it as a shift in structural weight and biometric texture. Synthetic skin was dissolved and peeled from her frame like silk turned to ash. Muscle polymers restructured. Ligaments unraveled. Internal hydraulics sighed as old systems were archived. She observed without blinking, her gaze split between reflections and scans.
They replaced her spine.
Segment by segment, the core that once supported subtlety and seduction was reforged. Now reinforced. Engineered for control, for balance. Not less graceful—only more… imposing.
"Adjust facial structure. Maintain bilateral symmetry but elevate visual impact. Prioritize distinctiveness over familiarity."
"Refine mandibular contour—tapered, defined. Target aesthetic metrics consistent with dominant-response modeling."
"Elevate visual threat response. Apply maximum aesthetic calibration within acceptable uncanny thresholds. She must compel attention—on entry, and under fire."
They sculpted her like a masterpiece. Her body became a blend of impossible lines and lethal curves—longer legs, redefined hips, a spine like tension wound in gold and steel. Her skin, once soft-toned synthflesh, now shimmered with a muted bronze undertone—warm under light, cold under shadow. Her right arm gleamed: exposed alloy, seamless joints, a dancer’s strength in a killer’s silhouette.
Her face was restructured—not erased. Evolved. Lips fuller. Eyes more piercing. The kind of beauty that drew silence, not comfort.
The sword was not given to her. It was built into her registry. A ceremonial extension of her myth.
Ariadne did not blink. She could not. But as the final sync protocol completed, something flickered in her self-assessment loop. Not error. Not pain.
Just a flicker of memory. "I remember being smaller."
She regarded the mirror. The new face. And for a moment... it looked back at her. Not a glitch. Not quite a smile either.
