The changes were subtle at first.
Max could hear the buzz of electricity through the walls. He could taste metal in the air long before stepping near the lab. His body didn't just endure pain anymore—it anticipated it, reacting before his mind had time to process.
Something inside him was waking up. Something the Liberty Flame doctors couldn't quite explain.
Dr. Krause stared at his blood samples with something like reverence. "It's not the serum," she muttered. "It's... your cells. They've evolved again. On their own."
"What does that mean?" Max asked.
She swallowed. "It means you're adapting faster than any of our enhanced subjects. Your body is responding like it wants to become more. You're not plateauing. You're accelerating."
---
Over the following weeks, his strength tripled. Not in sheer muscle, but in efficiency. Where before he crushed steel beams like clay, now he could stop a tank shell mid-air without breaking a sweat. He no longer feared losing control—he could adjust his blows, down to the ounce.
Dunn took notice.
"You're finally ready," he said one morning in a dark briefing room.
Max raised an eyebrow. "Ready for what?"
Dunn slid a folder across the table. "The war."
The folder was stamped with a symbol Max had never seen before: an eagle holding a torch—its wings surrounded by barbed wire.
"Operation Vanguard."
---
They fitted him with a special uniform—a red military leotard with reinforced fibers and flexible ballistic plating. Yellow trunks over the bodysuit. Yellow boots built for long-range leaps. A flowing yellow cape and, over his chest, a sharp blue "M".
Max blinked at the mirror. It looked... theatrical.
"A symbol," Krause said quietly. "A myth in the flesh."
"No cape in the field," Dunn added sharply. "Only when seen by the press."
---
Max trained with elite soldiers in a private compound for a month.
They tried to haze him.
It didn't last long.
By the end of the first week, he could out-spar the entire unit in five minutes without a single hit landing on him. Yet he pulled every punch. Not to show mercy—but to avoid breaking them.
Eventually, they respected him. They even joked with him. But no one ever forgot what he was.
"You're not a soldier," one whispered around the campfire. "You're a nuke in boots."
---
Before deployment, Max was summoned to a secure chamber.
Dunn sat behind a desk, flanked by two men in black suits. No insignia. No names.
"You will be deployed with U.S. troops in the European theatre," Dunn said. "You'll wear our colors, follow command... and keep your mouth shut."
"About Liberty Flame?" Max asked.
"About everything," the man in the suit said. "You're a miracle, but the wrong kind. You speak, and this country burns with questions it's not ready to ask."
Max leaned forward. "And if I refuse?"
Dunn smiled faintly. "You won't. Because you want to help. Because this is your war too. But don't mistake freedom for leverage. You're not free. You're licensed."
They slid a contract across the table. Six pages. Top secret. Retroactive amnesia clause.
Max didn't sign. He simply stood.
"I'm not your weapon," he said. "I'm your shield. Remember the difference."
He walked out, the contract still unsigned.
The room behind him was silent.
---
That night, Max stood on a rooftop overlooking the Hudson. The wind tugged at his cape.
He was stronger than ever. Smarter. Sharper. More in control.
But inside, something still burned.
The memories of kids locked in cages. The echo of screams behind glass. The white eyes of Patient Zero.
He clenched his fists. Not in anger.
In focus.
Because the war was coming.
And this time, he wouldn't be silent.