Dreadnought

I’ll be honest: I went into *Dreadnought* expecting a fun, queer twist on superhero lore, but I wasn’t prepared for how *visceral* it would feel. Daniels’ writing doesn’t just *tell* you about Danny’s dysphoria or the violence of being outed—it *throws* you into the sensory overload of it. The moment Danny’s body reshapes itself to match her identity mid-battle? Chills. The way her parents react? A gut-punch. Soudek’s narration amplifies this rawness; she doesn’t just *read* Danny’s panic attacks or triumphs—she *embodies* them, her voice trembling with repressed rage or dissolving into exhausted laughter. It’s a masterclass in audiobook acting, especially in scenes where Danny’s newfound confidence clashes with her lingering self-doubt. That said, the pacing stumbles in the middle. The villain’s motivations feel undercooked compared to the nuanced portrayals of Danny’s allies and enemies within the superhero community, and a few fight scenes drag when the emotional stakes aren’t as high. But the production itself is flawless—no distracting audio glitches, and the sound mixing ensures Soudek’s performance stays front and center. What sticks with me most, though, is how *unapologetic* this book is. It doesn’t ask for your sympathy; it demands you *witness* Danny’s journey, flaws and all. If you’ve ever felt like an outsider in your own skin, this audiobook will feel like a battle cry.