Warworld. Detention cell.
Vulkan was immobilized. The robotic restraints held his wrists and ankles in a vice of steel. The control collar pulsed softly around his neck, its hooks sunk into his flesh like metallic claws.
But he was not afraid. He observed. He analyzed. He remembered.
The being standing before him, this giant with yellow skin and conqueror's armor—he knew him. He had seen him hundreds of times in his old life. On dog-eared comic book covers. On computer screens. In heated discussions on geek forums. Bob Wilkinson was a loser, a failure, a virgin—but he was also a DC Comics fan since childhood.
And this alien, this tyrant, this master of Warworld, was none other than Mongul.
The intergalactic despot. The conqueror of worlds. The master of war games.
Mongul tilted his head slightly, his cruel eyes gleaming with an amused light.
"Hoo! You know me."
Vulkan remained silent. His stone face betrayed no emotion. His red eyes stared at Mongul without blinking. The mark of Kratos snaked across his obsidian skin like a silent warning.
Mongul smiled. A cold smile, devoid of all warmth.
"No matter. You belong to me now. And you will be one of my new attractions."
Vulkan furrowed his brow. The word "attraction" echoed in his mind like an insult. He was not a toy. He was not entertainment. He was Vulkan, Primarch of the Salamanders, son of the Emperor, war-smith.
Mongul noticed the furrowed brow. His smile vanished instantly.
"I do not like that look. I have seen it so many times. That look of defiance. That flame of rebellion. And so many times, I have seen that look lower its head."
He raised his fist.
The blow came down on Vulkan's jaw with titanic force. A shockwave rippled through the air of the cell. The Primarch's skull was hurled sideways, a sinister crack echoing through his bones.
But Mongul did not stop there. A second blow. Then a third. Then a fourth. The tyrant's fists hammered Vulkan's face like piledrivers, each impact producing a muffled detonation. Even the obsidian skin of a Primarch could not withstand such punishment indefinitely.
The world began to darken. Pain radiated through his entire skull. His red eyes flickered.
Then nothing. Total darkness.
Mongul lowered his bloodied fist and gazed at the unconscious Primarch with icy satisfaction.
"That's better."
He snapped his fingers. The sharp sound echoed through the metal cell. A few seconds later, a small creature scurried forward. Its scaly skin was an earthy brown, its fingers long and hooked like bird talons. Membranous bat-like wings hung from its back, folded like a leather cloak. Its bulbous eyes gleamed with a servile intelligence.
"Yes, Master."
Mongul did not even bother to look at him.
"I must know everything about him. Every detail. Every secret."
"As you command, my Master."
Robotic arms descended from the ceiling. They seized Vulkan's inert body and lifted him like a disarticulated puppet. Everything had been taken from him. The magical storage bag. The Doom Slayer's chainsaw. Even his blue tiger leather loincloth. He was naked, vulnerable, imprisoned.
The robots carried him out of the cell, through steel corridors bathed in pale light, into a research laboratory. The room was filled with holographic screens, humming machines, data crystals blinking in the darkness. Scanners swept over his naked body, beams of light analyzing every inch of his skin. Robotic needles drew blood samples. Electrodes attached to his temples to probe his brain activity.
Hours passed.
---
In another sector of Warworld, high above the laboratories, lay Mongul's private viewing lodge. A vast circular chamber with walls of black steel, adorned with war trophies—skulls of extinct species, shattered weapons of fallen heroes, banners of conquered worlds.
But the centerpiece was the viewing window. An immense transparent wall that looked directly onto the arena.
Mongul stood before this window, motionless as a statue, his hands clasped behind his back. Below him, in the fighting pit, creatures slaughtered each other for the crowd's pleasure. Blood spilled onto the metallic sand. The screams of combatants mingled with the roars of the audience, a swarming mass of aliens of all species, already addicted to adrenaline, hungry for violence, starved for spectacle.
Mongul watched without truly seeing. His mind was elsewhere. In the laboratory, where a human from elsewhere lay unconscious.
"I'm waiting."
His voice was calm, but laden with implicit threat.
The small lizard-skinned alien appeared behind him, trembling slightly. He held a data tablet glowing with complex information.
"Master, we have analyzed him inside and out."
Mongul did not turn around.
"Speak."
"He possesses human DNA. But not ordinary DNA. It is the most powerful human DNA we have ever recorded. And it continues to develop. His cells are strengthening, adapting, evolving constantly. As if his body is in a state of permanent transformation."
Mongul slowly turned his head, one eyebrow raised.
"A human from another era? Which one?"
The small alien swallowed. His clawed fingers tapped nervously on the tablet.
"I... I cannot determine it with precision. His temporal markers are... confused. Inconsistent. As if he has crossed multiple temporal fluxes at once. We will need to interrogate him to make him speak. His memories could fill our archives."
Mongul remained silent for a long moment. Then a smile slowly spread across his lips.
"A human from the future. Interesting."
He turned back toward the arena, where a gladiator had just been decapitated to the cheers of the crowd.
"We shall see if he proves worthy."
His reflection in the viewing window showed a cruel, greedy, calculating face. Mongul did not see a human being in Vulkan. He saw an attraction. An investment. A new source of entertainment for his bloodthirsty audience.
"Prepare him for the arena. I want to see what he's made of."
"Yes, Master."
The small alien bowed and vanished into the shadows, leaving Mongul alone before his kingdom of violence.
In the laboratory, far beneath the surface of Warworld, Vulkan floated in an artificial sleep. But even unconscious, his Primarch body was working. The wounds inflicted by Mongul were already healing. Bones were knitting back together. Tissues were regenerating. The inner flame of the Primarch refused to be extinguished.
Soon, he would awaken.
And Warworld would tremble.