AN: Thank you for the power stones! Since we made it past our 600 PS goal, here is your bonus chapter!
——
When Reznov awoke, he found himself trapped in a cold, unyielding steel chair that seemed designed to be uncomfortable. The surface of the steel chair felt like biting frost against his skin, sending jolts of discomfort surging through him as he tried to gain his bearings.
Having navigated similar harrowing situations before, he wrestled with the encroaching sense of dread at the reality of his situation, forcing himself to take stock of his surroundings.
Desperation flooded his thoughts as he examined the stark, featureless room where he was imprisoned, desperately seeking any hint of escape.
To his horror, the space contained nothing but four menacing steel walls, a grim concrete floor, and a metal ceiling adorned with harsh, glaring lights that illuminated everything in relentless brightness. The only potential distractions from the chilling monotony were two small air vents, their grilles cold and foreboding.
But the most disturbing fact of the room were the utter lack of doors.
"What is this?" Reznov rasped, each word laden with frustration as he struggled against the merciless grip of the chair.
His heart raced, a frantic drum in his chest, as he glanced down to witness the chilling sight of the chair fused to the floor beneath him, trapping him like a fly in a web. Panic surged within him, threatening to drown out the remnants of calm he clung to.
In that silent, suffocating moment, a crimson light erupted over the center of the wall to his left. It flickered ominously before extinguishing, revealing a doorway.
Paradoxically, instead of offering any glimmer of salvation, it only intensified the oppressive atmosphere, tightening the noose around his throat.
With tense, unsettling stillness, Atomic entered the room. The moment he stepped through the threshold, the doorway vanished entirely, leaving only the cold, unforgiving steel wall behind.
An icy dread settled in Reznov's stomach, like a stone dropped into the depths of a dark abyss, as he grasped the full extent of his entrapment.
"It's you," Reznov hissed.
Atomic said nothing as he approached the trapped Russian.
Once in front of him, Atomic stomped his foot, and a plush, wooden chair rose from the ground behind him. Taking a seat, Atomic remained silent and stared down at Reznov, causing the hardened man to bristle.
"What is this? Your attempt to intimidate me? I've seen and done far worse to several dozen men. This is nothing!" Reznov barked, spitting at Atomic. However, before his spit could reach Atomic, it fizzled into nothing.
Reznov composed himself, showing no outward signs that Atomic's presence affected him. Yet, deep inside, he was unsettled.
Sitting across from him was a person who wielded an extraordinary power—capable of manifesting anything he desired with a mere gesture.
This unique ability made Atomic an almost insurmountable force; there was little that any individual or entity could do to challenge or hinder him. With a simple wave of his hands, he could make weapons, armor, vehicles, and even illicit substances materialize or transform into something entirely different.
The question loomed: how could any criminal organization possibly stand against such overwhelming might?
It came as no surprise, then, that Atomic effortlessly dismantled colossal and formidable criminal enterprises, such as Maksimilian Zhukov's extensive network involved in human trafficking and drug smuggling. In a matter of mere months, he eradicated operations that others could barely fathom disrupting.
This accomplishment was not just a feat of power but one of unprecedented efficiency—even elite law enforcement agencies like the FBI, CIA, and SHIELD, blessed with vast resources and expansive authority, would have needed years, if not decades, to achieve the same result.
Consequently, any criminal wishing to extend their presence lived in constant fear of Atomic's mere existence.
The mere whisper of his name struck terror into the hearts of those who operated in the shadows, sending them scurrying into hiding. Confronted with his capabilities, escape seemed a futile endeavor; capture was virtually assured, and evasion an even more unlikely outcome.
In the eyes of the criminal underworld, Atomic emerged as a formidable force of nature—a harbinger of justice whose actions were swift and unyielding. The notion of him was synonymous with imminent danger and the dire need for concealment.
Yet, amidst this pervasive fear, a singular fact brought a sliver of solace to those entrenched in illegal activities:
Atomic did not kill.
This strange moral code provided an odd sense of security, a twisted reassurance that while he would bring their operations crashing down and bring them before the police, there was a line he chose not to cross.
"You expect me to believe that you're going to force me to tell you where Zhukov is? I would sooner die than expose my boss," Reznov said with a large smile and leaned back on his uncomfortable chair. "So you might as well take me to prison. Otherwise, you're just wasting your time-"
"Earlier this year, on April twenty-first… do you remember the name of the man you killed in cold blood?" Atomic said, his voice low and steady.
Reznov blinked and, despite himself, thought back to that date. In the end, he couldn't remember. "I've killed many men. It's impossible to remember them all," he said with a cruel smirk. "Why? Did I kill someone you knew? Were they family? Now I regret not remembering!"
Atomic watched Reznov laugh with his head thrown back, the simmering, cold, repressed rage he had locked away for several months was threatening to explode out of him. But he held strong. No matter how shaky that restraint was.
"…his name was Luigi Lombardi. He was a good and kind man. A man who loved his daughter and his community. A man who brought so much light into the world. A man you murdered without a second thought after you beat him down like a dog in front of his daughter." Atomic said, his words slowly became lower, and his voice was shaky. "That's who you killed."
Reznov's eyes widened, and the memory of Luigi stepping up to his men to protect his daughter resurfaced.
A gasp of realization escaped him.
But it wasn't due to him suddenly feeling regretful over what he had done; no, he remembered now because of how hilarious the memory was.
As such, Reznov began to… laugh.
A laugh so loud and out of control that one would think he just heard the most hilarious joke ever told by a master comedian.
Atomic leaned back in his chair, his expression utterly confused as he listened to Reznov laugh.
"T-that's who you're so upset over? Some fat man who made pizzas? Oh man! I can't believe that's the reason you did all this for!" Reznov's laugh began to ease into chuckles. "I thought that I might have killed your father or something like that, but I couldn't have imagined it was that blubbering oaf," With a cruel grin, Reznov leaned forward. "You know, you really should be thanking me, Atomic. One of my men, a real fucked up individual, I'll admit, wanted to fuck this Luigi guy's daughter right in front of him before we shot him. If it weren't for me, he would have done it. Go on, thank me-"
Instantly, all of Reznov's restraints and chair transmuted into oxygen.
Standing to his feet, Atomic's own chair disappeared. In another flash,Atomic's armored gloves, cape, and helmet vanished to reveal Wyatt's enraged expression.
Reznov looked up in shock at the sight of the 17-year-old Wyatt. "A… child?"
"Stand. Up," Wyatt hissed, his eyes burning with all the rage he's kept locked away for the last several years.
Reznov's shock quickly disappeared, and he stood to his feet. He glared at the teenager in front of him and cracked his neck. "What's this? What's your game here, boy?"
Wyatt glared at the man as his entire body shook with all his pent-up feelings. "I thought I could do this the right way. The just way. But seeing you in front of me… listening to you talk… you're nothing but an animal who doesn't care about the lives he ruins."
Reznov blinked at Wyatt before a small chuckle escaped his lips. "You want to beat me down like a man? You could use your powers to destroy me in seconds. Why do this?"
"There is no why... All I want to do right now is make you hurt. Right here, right now. There's nothing more than just me and you. No powers. No weapons. Just my fists," Wyatt said as he walked up to Reznov, the rest of his suit changing back into a pair of everyday clothes.
Thinking this was his chance to turn the situation around, Reznov chuckled and ran at Wyatt with his fists raised. The boy may have god like powers, but in a competition of skill and strength, Reznov's own body eclipsed Wyatt's own.
Within a second, the two reached one another and sent out their fists.
With a quick weave, Wyatt ducked under Reznov's punch and countered with a sharp hook into the older man's ribs. Reznov grunted and brought down a hammer fist into Wyatt's cheek.
Ignoring the sharp sting of pain and the taste of blood, Wyatt moved in and slammed his right elbow into the same spot he had hit Reznov before. The man coughed as his ribs shifted from under the blow.
Using fast and devastating combos, Wyatt unleashed a volley of violent punches, kicks, knees, and elbows at Reznov.
Each new attack elicited a grunt of pain from the Russian.
Once he finally caught his breath, Reznov grabbed both of Wyatt's wrists and crashed his forehead against Wyatt's nose, breaking it.
Tears stung at the corners of his eyes, and Wyatt's body folded over as Reznov buried his fist into his stomach.
Such an attack would have normally folded any other person, but Wyatt had been continuously beaten down by Logan during all of their training sessions. Greatly increases his tolerance to pain and strengthening his body's ability to absorb such attacks.
In a snap, Wyatt grabbed Reznov's arm and tossed him over his shoulder. Reznov's eyes grew wide as he let out a scream, his back impacting the hard floor.
With expert fluidity, Wyatt moved himself onto Reznov's side and held the man's arm in an arm bar. With a thrust of his hips, a loud snap echoed in the room.
A piercing scream of pain bounced off the walls as Reznov rolled to his side to nurse his broken arm. But a firm grip on the front of his shirt pulled him up. Reznov looked up right on time to see a bloody fist slam into his face. He gasped as the fist pulled away, but only to immediately come crashing back down.
Punch after punch rained down onto Reznov's bloodied and quickly bruising face as Wyatt unleashed all his pent-up rage and emotions onto the man. At some point, he had let go of the man's shirt and used both fists to strike down.
Red, hot tears ran down his face as he pictured Luigi's body being rolled out of his pizzeria and the sight of Serena standing within a shipping container.
"This is for Luigi! This is for Serena! This is for every fucking life you ruined!" Wyatt roared as waves of pain shot up his fists with every new punch he struck into Reznov's face. Wyatt's knuckles were torn and bruised as he continued his relentless assault.
As his breathing grew out of control, Wyatt's stamina quickly burned out, leaving him to pant as he kneeled over Reznov's stomach. His hands and face were covered in blood as Reznov's disfigured face stared up at him. Teeth and blood lay scattered all around the man's head as he barely managed to draw breath.
With a growl, Wyatt reached out to the man's neck and began to squeeze. As Reznov began to wheeze and choke, Wyatt screamed in frustration and tore his hands away.
Reaching down, Wyatt pulled Reznov up to his face and let out a blood-curdling yell full of all his rage, anguish, and regret.
"I want to kill you… Gods know I do. But if I do… if I do that. I'll be no better than you," Wyatt said, not to Reznov, but to himself. "You don't get to change who I am. Who I want to be. I can't-I won't let that happen."
Rising to his feet, Wyatt looked down at Reznov with complete hatred and left the room. As he stepped outside, he created a high-security solid steel door that quickly closed behind him with a metallic clang.
Wyatt stood in the brightly lit corridor of the prison, his gaze fixed on the plaque affixed to the wall beside the heavy steel door. The lone name engraved on it caused his injured to flare—Reznov. Beneath it, another title was etched starkly: Prisoner #1.
"In half an hour… tend to his injuries and wake him up. I'm not done with him yet," Wyatt commanded, his voice steady despite the heaviness in his chest. A sleek, red and black robot, polished to a mirror finish and standing tall amidst the bleak surroundings, acknowledged him with a curt nod.
"Very well, Sir," the robot replied, its voice smooth and emotionless, as it clutched a first aid kit with its metallic hands.
Wyatt, still smeared with blood, strode through the cavernous hall. The atmosphere felt thick, oppressive; rows of empty, inescapable cells lined the walls, each one a grim promise of imprisonment for humanity's darkest souls.
He had constructed this facility deep beneath the icy expanse of Antarctica, a fortress built from the blueprints of the MRD Nevada facility. It had been a colossal undertaking, one driven by a sense of urgency and a heavy burden of moral responsibility.
This prison was his solution—a fortress for those he deemed too dangerous to be left to the whims of a faltering justice system.
Over a dozen robotic sentinels like the one standing outside of Reznov's cell were programmed not just to guard, but to attend to its future inmates.
This prison had become Wyatt's answer to a dilemma he grappled with—his refusal to take a human life, no matter how justified the act might seem. He was determined not to become a vigilante who resorted to lethal force, not wanting to commit the very act he sought to prevent.
He rejected the philosophy of heroes like the Batman, who placed their faith in a broken system that repeatedly allowed the worst offenders to slip through its fingers—escaping punishment or regaining freedom through clever legal maneuvering.
Wyatt understood the stakes; he was painfully aware of how easily these monsters could return to wreak havoc on innocent lives.
Despite the moral or outside consequences of his decision, Wyatt was determined to do what was necessary. No matter the cost to his own ideals or conscience.
For several painstaking weeks, he devoted himself to the monumental task of constructing a prison buried deep beneath the ice-covered landscape of Antarctica, several hundred kilometers below the surface.
This formidable facility was built using an impressive combination of the toughest materials known to man, with adamantium as its primary component, renowned for its unparalleled strength and durability.
Each section of the prison was meticulously designed, incorporating expertly coded programs and advanced equipment to ensure seamless operation, effectively eliminating the possibility of human error.
Wyatt deployed dozens of his newly constructed guardian robots throughout the facility as an added layer of security. These machines were programmed to handle unforeseen circumstances with the nuance and adaptability of a human caretaker. Additionally, he stationed a small army of his highly advanced Gundam mechs, ready to respond to any improbable scenario in which a prisoner might attempt to escape.
Even in the most unlikely of circumstances a prisoner does escape their cell, true escape would be impossible.
If the prisoners somehow managed to overcome the Gundam mechas, they would then have to face the several thick layers of solid steel and adamantium, along with hundreds of kilometers of densely packed ice standing between them and freedom.
Inside the prison, each cell resembled a minimalist New York apartment, furnished only with the bare essentials necessary for human sustenance.
Bland yet nutritious meals and fresh water were delivered through a state-of-the-art shuttle system, ensuring that inmates received what they needed without the risk of interaction. Each room contained an assortment of books, brainteasers, and a small television encased in reinforced glass to protect against potential vandalism or attempts to disable it.
The television, however, offered little variety; it broadcast only two channels—one featuring an endless stream of "Sesame Street" reruns and the other dedicated to streaming classic Hallmark movies.
The prison Wyatt had meticulously crafted, aptly named the Fortress of Solitude, stood as a testament to his vision: an unparalleled fortress of security—escape-proof and extraordinarily efficient.
Reaching the central control room of the prison, Wyatt stared unblinkingly at the large monitor screen displaying a video of Reznov lying unconscious.
After a moment, the harsh reality of the brutal state he had left the man in finally sank in. Wyatt fell to his knees and looked down at his bloodied and torn hands. Clenching them into fists, he collapsed forward, pressing his forehead against the cool iron floor.
"God damn it…" Wyatt hissed as tears began to stream down his face.