The moment the manacles gave way under Deadshot's bolt cutters, a new energy surged through Utopian. As Floyd injected the stimulant into his jugular vein, an explosive warmth instantly spread throughout his body.
The Compound V, which had been silently working to repair the damage, seemed to ignite. This was no longer repair, but transmutation. His cells, subjected to extreme stress and now boosted by the chemical cocktail, adapted and evolved at a dizzying speed. His muscles densified, his bones reinforced with a natural metallic alloy, and his senses sharpened to the point where he could perceive the hum of electrical currents in the walls and the frantic pulse of every guard within a hundred meters.
Utopian rose to his feet, the cracking of his knuckles not from pain, but from contained power. A halo of thermal energy distorted the air around him. He felt a raw, overwhelming force circulating in his veins – a sensation so close to what he imagined Superman's power felt like that it was almost intoxicating.
"Stand back," he simply said to Deadshot, his voice now a low rumble that vibrated the very air.
Without waiting, he raised a fist and, in a flash of pure kinetic energy, struck the cell's reinforced door. The metal, twenty centimeters thick, bent, twisted, and was torn from its hinges with a screech of tearing metal, launched like a projectile into the corridor where it embedded itself in the opposite wall.
Alarms screamed, red strobe lights flooded the hallways.
"Follow me," Utopian ordered, stepping out of the cell.
Chaos was total. Soldiers poured in. Utopian did not kill them. Instead, he became a hurricane of controlled precision. He moved at a ghostly speed, dodging bursts of gunfire, neutralizing each guard with a mere touch – pressure on a nerve that numbed an arm, a flick to the forehead causing instant unconsciousness, a gaze that overloaded and fried their electronic equipment. It was a demonstration of restraint and absolute power, a rage channeled with surgical efficiency.
Deadshot, behind him, covered their rear with muffled sniper shots, taking out cameras and automated weapon systems with methodical coldness. "You got a plan for getting out of this sun-scorched hellhole, Sunshine?" he called out between shots.
"The plan is to go through them," Utopian replied, his eyes already locked onto a psychic signature he felt distinctly, a blot of pride and mental cruelty amidst the chaos.
Psimon.
They found him in the control room, desperately trying to breach Utopian's mind, but his power now shattered against the hero's adamantine will.
"You... It's impossible!" stammered the psychic, his face twisted with effort and fear.
Utopian didn't utter a word. He crossed the room in a flash. Instead of a physical blow, he released a blast of pure psychic energy, a scathing counter-attack that struck Psimon's consciousness directly.
Psimon's scream was short and agonizing. His own powers turned against him, amplified and perverted by Utopian's brute force. There was an audible sound of mental short-circuiting, and Psimon collapsed, his eyes rolling back, foam at his lips. His mind was in shambles, his neural connections burned out. He wouldn't be a threat for months, if ever again.
Utopian stood over him, barely breathing heavily, his body radiating barely contained power.
"Now, let's find Queen Bee," he said to Deadshot, his tone leaving little room for discussion. The escape was successful. But for Utopian, this was only the beginning of the payback.