As Jyan is escorted from the sterile confines of solitary back into the chaotic heart of the prison, the air becomes thick with jeers and taunts, the denizens of this concrete jungle craving any spectacle to break the monotony of their sentences.
"Look who's back from the dead!" a voice croaks from the shadows of a cell they pass. Behind the scarred bars, a wiry man with a shark-like grin presses his face against the cold metal, his eyes gleaming with malevolence. "Thought you'd be crispy-fried by now, Jyan!"
Laughter erupts from adjacent cells, a discordant symphony of schadenfreude and desperation. Another inmate, his body canvased with tattoos of allegiance, leans on the bars of his cell and sneers, "You're marked, boy! CSP's got a special place for you––can hear the zapper warming up from here!"
The guards maintain their stony facade, one of them shaking his head slightly as if to dismiss the rabble. "Keep moving, Jyan," he mutters under his breath, the words more for the spectacle-hungry prisoners than for Jyan himself.
Advancing through the corridor, the air is split by a different tone—a low, guttural threat from a heavily scarred brute who's made a name for himself through sheer brutality. "Pretty boy, the moment they slip, I'll be there. Gonna have fun watching you try an' fight back then!" His malice-filled promise echoes off the walls, sending shivers through some of the less hardened prisoners.
Jyan's jaw clenches, but he offers no retort. His silent defiance seems to only incite them further, taunts morphing into harassment from the cells they march by.
"Jyan the Juggernaut! Think you can take us all on?"
"Hey, kid, maybe you'll take a swing at Dreadnaught next!"
"Hell yeah! That bastards been slashing up everybody I heard!"
The younger guard flinches at the mention of the name, a ripple of tension coursing through his posture. But the procession continues– an unyielding march underscored by the bars and cement.
Jyan thought calmly, '..Dreadnaught..'
Through a reinforced door, they reach an area dubbed "Hell's Boulevard" by the inmates—a stretch notorious for the most hard-bitten, where lifers and short-timers alike mix with volatile unpredictability. A cathedral of crime, its stained-glass windows the fractured lives within.
A hush falls over Hell's Boulevard as Jyan steps through. Hundreds of eyes lock onto him, measuring, trying to discern if the tales align with the man. From somewhere in that throng, a voice boisterous with the thrill of challenge calls out to him. "You're gonna crack, Jyan! No one's tough all the time. We'll be watching, waiting for that moment."
The older guard's grip tightens on his baton, seamlessly flicking a switch that sends a low hum through the air–a reminder of their authority. The sea of faces gives way, a grudging respect for the potential violence the baton promises.
Then from the far end of the corridor, a solemn tenor cuts through the tension. "Don't let them get to you, kid. They don't, they won't ever understand," drawls an old lifer, named for the number of 'deaths' he'd seen. His eyes hold a different sort of message–not of menace, but of recognition. He had watched many young men like Jyan pass by, some consumed by the darkness, others defiant until broken.
Jyan's cell arrives as the procession ends with methodical precision.
The cell door clanged shut with the unfeeling finality typical of this bleak corner of Forgrenn. Opposite of Jyan, projecting menace like a shadow cast by flame, were the rest of the sullen members of the Red Spider gang. The air hung heavy between them, strung with the tension of impending cruelty.
They looked ragged—a vicious band held together by sinewy loyalty and faded tattoos that feebly clung to their pallid skin. Foreheads marked with a vicious, shared scar, a rite of passage that spoke of pain embraced willingly for the sake of belonging. But the menace in the air became palpable as Jyan's gaze locked with that of the leader, Ashen.
Ashen was a monolith among them, his aura that of a beast caged too long. His flesh was a tangled web of scars and ink; the most notable—the grotesque emblem of a spider covered his neck like a promise of his deadly intent. His eyes, hard and cold with a color of greenish blue, his hair a solid blonde fade style haircut, had lost all but a spark of humanity.
"You've got gall, I'll give you that, Jyan," Ashen's voice rumbled, his frame motionless yet radiating an aura of restrained violence. "Figured we'd never see you walk back into our web after the beatdown you laid on us, almost killing about half of us; feels empty in here. But times change, and with Kanoan's rule over Forgrenn, we've learned that survival isn't about the bravest or the strongest. It's about seizing power, crushing anyone in your way."
Ashen advanced slowly, his fists tightening. The Red Spiders moved as one, a unified force of hatred and retribution. They were a displaced fraternity whose resentment had been nurtured by the anarchy Kanoan's reign had sown.
Ashen threw the first punch—a missile that launched with vicious intent, aimed square at Jyan's jaw. There was power enough behind it to fell lesser men, yet Jyan remained unmoved, a statue carved from living stone. Another blow landed, and then another, as Ashen's lieutenants joined the onslaught, their hatred manifesting in every strike that sought to break Jyan's stoic resolve.
But Jyan did not crumble. He stood amidst the deluge of their rage, his flesh taking the punishment but betraying no hurt, no flicker of pain across his expressionless face. It was as if each blow landed on him were no more than the kiss of a butterfly—seen, but not felt.
This singular defiance, this eerie calm in the face of the storm, seemed almost to lay bare the fear and confusion that Ashen and his followers harbored. The Red Spiders, once rulers of their own domain before Kanoan's corruption seeped into the foundations of Forgrenn, were being confronted with an enigma, a man whose spirit they could not seem to touch, let alone break.
Ashen paused, breath heaving, his fist raised for another strike that did not materialize. The cell fell silent but for the labored breathing of the assailants. They looked to their leader, and for a fleeting second, uncertainty flashed across Ashen's scar-laden features.
It was a brutal display—of violence and of the embodiment of the Red Spiders' fall from a code of strength and respect to the lawless servitude under Kanoan. Yet, as the swirl of fists and curses slowed, they left behind not a broken man, but an unscathed Jyan, his impassive silence louder than any cry of pain or defiance could ever be. In the dim light of the cell, Ashen and the Red Spiders had come to recognize an alarming truth. In their attempt to dominate, they had instead unveiled the staggering depth of their own vulnerability in the face of the quiet strength that Jyan bore like armor.
Jyan walked away, saying, "Thanks."
Ashen gritted his teeth in anger, "…Thanks..? Fucking thanks?! I'm gonna kill that bratty bastard!"
One of his members held him back, saying, "No! Ashen, you know what the guards do to those who are overly violent."
"..Hmph. Whatever."
As Jyan was walking to his cell, his name got called by a group of men in a cell.
"Oi, kid."
Jyan turned his attention to them, and they motioned him to come over there.
'Grimm..Veil…Cogs..' Jyan thought.
Grimm towered over the motley crew, his stature reminiscent of the war-torn behemoths that trudged through the Gellan Marshes. His skin, the color of soot, bore the marks of defiance – graphically inlaid graphene tattoos which crawled up his arms like the vines in Jotun's forbidden forests, wrapping around his neck in a collar of intricate lines. The tattoos shimmered faintly with an edge that caught the dim light, hinting at deep metallic blues and steely grays intertwined with the blackness of his base skin tone. Bulbous, enhancing cybernetic implants dotted along the more substantial muscle groups, each one emitting a faint, pulsating bluish glow. His face was angular, weathered like the cliffs of Torridon, and his eyes, artificially replaced, blazed with a cold bioluminescent glare, the hue a vibrant green, punctuated by flashes of amber and gold when he moved his head.
Veil was a contrast to Grimm's brutish display. Slender and agile, he seemed almost to flicker in and out of vision, his presence as illusive as the mist found curling around the mountaintops of Whisper Peaks. His skin was ethereal, almost translucent, a pale alabaster hinting at long hours spent away from natural light. It was stretched over high cheekbones and a sharply defined jaw, giving him an otherworldly appearance. His eyes, ever stirring, shimmered like pools of mercury, liquid and capturing the scant light to reflect an array of colors—a spectrum that shifted from silvers to soft grays touched with a kiss of blue. His hair was the darkest black, but it bore no shine, absorbing light somewhat like a void. It was slicked back, defying any notion of disarray and ending abruptly at the nape of his neck.
Cogs, on the other hand, was a walking manifesto of mechanical ingenuity. His skin, the bronze of a sun-set drenched desert, was adorned with gear-like designs, a canvas showcasing the exquisite fusion of biology and engineering. These designs moved and whirred silently as if part of an internal machine mirroring the contraptions he so lovingly forged. His hair was a tangle of copper and amber, a wild mane that had subtle metallic threads woven through it, reflecting his propensity for intertwining technology with life. Eyes like burnished brass sparkled with a mechanical gleam, underscored by a hint of emerald from the tiny LEDs implanted at the edges, which flared when his excitement peaked. His hands, scarred and calloused, bore the stains of oil and the myriad colors of various metalwork, a veritable palette of ochres, reds, and dull silvers.
Each one banded together by the unifying gray garb of the Iron Eclipse uniform, worn thin and bearing the imprint of countless hours toiling within the austere environments—their colors dulled, as though leached by the despair that hung in the air, yet they bore these badges of endurance as defiant emblems against their circumstances.
Jyan walked towards them; Amid the dim lighting of Iron Eclipse's harrowing cell block, Jyan stretched languidly on his bunk, a mere shadow within a high-tech catacomb designed to extinguish defiance.
"What's up, Jyan?" Grimm started, his voice a low rumble that felt like distant thunder, "We recognize a fellow con who can stand his ground. Your brawl with the Red Spiders was expected the first time, of course they got clobbered. We need a man of your prowess if we're to get the hell out of this hellhole. Even though..it was weird as hell seeing you not fight back this time."
Jyan said nothing.
"Hell yeah, Jyan," Veil said, shifting slightly to better catch the light, "You've carved a reputation more precise than the badge numbers burnt onto our flesh. We're ready to take on the behemoth that is this prison, and as Grimm mentioned, we could use someone with your...capabilities. We heard your name before this planet went to shit. As a matter of fact, I was hearing about it right when I tried to leave this planet. But Kanoan has all exits blocked off, no one can leave or enter this shitty planet."
"You've got a certain flair for the dramatic, Jyan," Cogs posed with a gesture to the bunk that had so recently been a makeshift battleground. "But it's not brawn alone that'll see us through. This place—it's a fortress, a testament to torment. Its surveillance systems and some of their AI-driven guards are programmed for cruelty. However, every system has its weaknesses, and I've got an inkling you know how to exploit them. We're getting the hell out of here, fast. This plan took months to prepare, people even sacrificed themselves just to get us what we needed. But our missing link is you."
Detailed maps of the prison's layout materialized from Veil's sleeve, flickering in the semi-darkness. The impenetrable walls, the intricate surveillance networks, the brutal labor camps, and the forbidding isolation zone that plunged deep into the planet's crust—all displayed in stunning clarity.
"I had a contact smuggle some equipment in here, so don't be alarmed, I'm not a narc or anything." Veil chuckled.
"We'll need to move through The Tunnels that the drones patrol ceaselessly," Grimm noted, tapping on the hologram where a delicate network of passageways appeared. "Then navigate the gauntlet that is Factory Ground Zero—where robotic overseers show more mercy than the sunless skies of Forgrenn."
"We've been piecing together intel for months," Cogs interjected, "Disrupting the drones and evading those ever-watchful lenses will be key. I've got a few scramblers that might just do the trick. With your skill and our knowledge of the inner workings, we could be the grit in the Eclipse's gears."
The four men stood in a tightly packed circle in the center of the cell, the oppressive ambiance of Iron Eclipse wrapping around them like a cloak. Grimm broke the hallowed silence, the glow of his eyes providing a flickering cadence as he sketched an invisible blueprint in the air.
"Jyan," he started, more to the room than the man himself, "He's a force, ain't he? Like the acid storms on Zephron's Plain, raw and untamed. It's that kind of force we'll need to shake the foundations here."
Cogs, who had remained silent so far, piped up from behind a pile of scattered gadgetry that seemed to resonate with a life of its own. "The escape—I've got it plotted. But it's more than timings and diversions. It's art, an intricate dance. And like all art, it reveals our very souls."
The cell carried their words like soft currents through the stifling air. Veil unraveled the holographic plans further, his slender fingers dancing over schematics and codes, outlining their potential path to freedom.
"Factory Ground Zero is key," Veil explained. "Control the factory, and we control the chaos. It's execution in those moments that'll seal our fates."
Grimm let out a deep, resonating hum, seemingly amused by Veil's comment. "Chaos? No. It's a storm. A tempest. We won't control it; we'll ride it like harbingers of the new dawn. Jyan, you've been forged in the forges below, disciplined in the courts above—now we wield you as a weapon against this place that binds us."
As they spoke, they each exuded their persona more clearly: Grimm with his pensive intensity; Veil, the shadow that had learned to dance with light; and Cogs, the free-spirit bound by the chains of his own genius.
The chattering of gears and clicks from Cogs' corner filled the brief silences as he tinkered away, his enhancements nearly synchronous with the parts he assembled. "I've fashioned disruption nodes. Once deployed, they'll send the Eclipse's security systems into a tailspin, won't they?" The small spherical devices blinked up at them like the promise of dawn.
Veil leaned close, peering at the nodes with intrigue. "Resourceful as ever. They'll buy us time, just enough to crack the spine of this place."
As they conversed, Jyan said, "No use."
They gasped, looking over at Jyan.
Jyan continued, "You think they actually let this stuff pass through them? They already know we have this stuff, this preparation. They're waiting for us to fuck up and escape, so they can have a reason to kill us. All this..technology you have, they know you have it. Give it up."
Veil stood up, "I Know you're scared it's ok-."
"Don't touch me."
Veil backed away a little, saying, "I know you. Well heard of you. Back before all this shit with the hero Kanoan broke loose, You were a legend on the hover ball fields. And you were unique, containing feats that-."
Jyan said, "-Stop. Not out loud. They can't know."
"Know what..?"
Jyan sighed, thinking, 'They don't know I can break out of here with an all out punch. But I've kept my strength and speed under wraps. Why.? Because they'll be on my ass. Fast. If anyone tried to talk about my feats around the guards, I'd have to deny it. Those gang members I fought earlier, I didn't even go all out on them. I didn't hit them too hard, but apparently some of them still almost died. I matched my strength with theirs, accidentally adding a little bit more power to it. Before Kanoan's reign, I've learned to control my power line Yuna and Garrick wanted me to. I've gotten into many fights, arguments until I just decided to shut up. I've been here for a year..keeping a low profile. Right after what happened when Kanoan came back, I sat in the cell, tired, depressed, floor filled with tears, and I became good at sketching. I sketched Yuna's face, Garrick's face, Yuna's, Ajin's, Jugg's, Seven's, and Braxx's face as well. Then I stopped, I paced around every night in hopes they survived. But I got no word from anyone. I just keep hearing about the state of this planet and how more corrupt it's been. People still live their lives, but it has to be for the glory of 'Kanaon.' Every actor, sports player, and celebrity has to glorify Kanoan in everything they do. It's so..fucked. I want to escape..I can..but not without a cost. Dreadnaught..the one who knocked me out, one of Kanoan's strongest subordinates..he's here all the time, to keep things under control. I'm afraid I'll lose, he's augmented with tons of technology to make him have power greater or equal to mine. What if I fail? If anyone breaks out, or tries to, they die. It's been done hundreds of times just this year alone. It's getting annoying now. The action..the adrenaline pumping I yearned last year..it's gone. Watching Kanoan slaughter so many people…it fucked me up. I'm really trying to find myself again. I just don't wanna see anyone else die in here, and these inmates seem like decent people. Do they really need me? Should I do it? Am I scared of Dreadnaught? Afraid to lose and fail? What about dying? I've become ruthless since I've been here, not giving a damn about hurting anyone who wants to start something with me. Why didn't I fight back against the gang members? Because that's what the guards want. They want violence, and whoever dishes out the most anger, gets taken, and they never come back. I want to escape, but they have a plan, a well thought out plan, whereas I was thinking of punching my way out. I'm not invincible, but I'm pretty tough. Not tough enough to outlast so much damage.'
Jyan took a deep breath, saying, "..We need more people on board."
Grimm chuckled, "Haha, hell yeah. I told you he would side with us, Cogs."
Cogs nodded, "Now this should really work."
Jyan added, "Even though..this is what they want?"
"Yeah they want it. And we're gonna give it to them. But if we have you and others who are willing to stand with us, then we're gonna do this shit. I have kids I have to see. Them being out there alone in those dark cities..I can't waste another second."
Grimm added, "I got a puppy out there, she loves to bark loud..and stuff. I'm just hoping they didn't turn her into a fucking puppy cyborg."
Veil said, "I uh, don't really have anything out there. Just myself, ya know? But if I can get back out there and join a resistance to win our planet back, I won't waste time."
Jyan asked, "What do you need me to do?"
Grimm leaned against the wall, speaking with a lower tone, "You've heard about the disappearing prisoners? Ya know, some guards will act all sussy and snatch a prisoner up that goes batshit crazy in here?"
"Mhm.."
"That's the first step. We need someone to cause some serious damage to some *clears throat* invasive inmates. And then get taken by the guards to see where they go."
"Risky."
"Yeah it is. But you're the only one capable of handling yourself against superhuman shit. Since we've noticed you've been keeping your strength under control. And you can take a damn hit as well. We've been watching, observing, sorry if that's weird, but it was necessary."
"..It's weird."
'Am I making the right decision? Screw it..I have to do something, otherwise I won't be able to find them all. I don't trust myself with escaping alone, I studied things from some old timers here to try and make a plan, but it all turned out stupid in the end. My main obstacle is Dreadnaught. I don't wanna lose, but I don't wanna stay in here either..'
Jyan said, "..So I just need to beat people up, get the guards attention."
Jyan unfolded his arms, turned around away from them, and started walking towards the group of the Red Spiders, along with Ashen.
"Yo, boss, look who's come for more?"
Ashen turned around, grinning, "Oh yeah? You're back? Want some more?"
Jyan answered, "Yes."
[INTERNAL DOCUMENT - IRON ECLIPSE PRISON - INTERROGATION LOG A-17]
The echoing clanks of heavy boots reverberated down the damp, dimly lit corridor of the Iron Eclipse. Dreadnaught, Kanoan's imposing subordinate, marched ahead of the group, his massive frame nearly spanning the width of the passageway.
Dr. Vexlerian trailed closely behind, flanked by a contingent of guards and medical personnel—all of whom seemed insignificant beside the armored colossus that led them. They escorted a crazed prisoner, his manacles scraping against the floor, who occasionally lunged and jerked in futile attempts to break free.
Vexlerian's skin was pale, an alabaster shade that rarely saw the touch of natural sunlight, giving him a somewhat ethereal glow under the white fluorescent lights of the compound.
His hair, kept meticulously groomed, was a stark silver, a testament to the premature aging that afflicted those who delved too greedily and too deep into secrets not meant for man. It contrasted sharply with his sable black eyebrows, which arched ever so slightly, lending him an aura of perpetual inquisitiveness, or perhaps skepticism—the hallmark of a mind that questioned everything. Vexlerian's eyes were perhaps his most unsettling feature. They were a pale ice blue, not the warm blue of a summer sky, but rather the frigid, piercing blue one would associate with the heart of a glacier. Those eyes, devoid of warmth, surveyed the world with clinical detachment, assessing and analyzing with relentless precision. Adorning his lab coat, a plethora of pens and gadgets were meticulously arranged in his chest pocket, each tool serving a specific purpose in his daily routine of experiments and examinations. His coat itself was a canvas of his profession, pristine and unyielding, buttoned to the very top, a symbolic barrier between him and the world of chaos and variables beyond. Upon his face, a pair of spectacles sat perched, their thin, metallic frames reflecting the cold light, the lenses tinted ever so slightly to shield his eyes from the harshness of his working environment. His nose, angular and prominent, further accentuated the sharpness of his features, while his mouth was most often set in a firm line, revealing nothing of his thoughts or emotions. It was rumored among the staff that Vexlerian had been exposed to a dosage mishap in his early days, which accounted for the singular white streak that ran through his otherwise dark facial hair—a badge of survival, or perhaps a warning. This unique feature only added to the mythos that surrounded him within the facility—a man who walked among the anomalies he sought to control, marked by them, yet unbowed.
Flickering lights cast ominous shadows on the group as they navigated the maze-like structure of the prison, the uneasy silence punctuated by the frenzied muttering of the restrained inmate. Upon reaching a checkpoint, a guard hastily unlocked the gate, the metal bars shrieking in protest as they slid open to let the foreboding procession pass.
Once through, Dreadnaught fixed his gaze on the doctor, his voice a low growl that seemed to emanate from the very walls surrounding them. "Doctor Vexlerian," he began, a menacing undertone threaded through his words. "How fares your progress?"
The doctor adjusted his glasses with a gloved hand, clearing his throat before responding. "Significant advances, I assure you. The crystal's effects have proven… potent. This one"—he gestured at the wild-eyed prisoner—"exhibited an unparalleled degree of hysteria. It's almost as if the shard whispers madness into their very souls."
A sinister chuckle escaped Dreadnaught's helmet. "And of the containment? I trust we are not at risk of… mishaps?"
"Precautions have been implemented to ensure that even in... uneven states, the subjects remain securely confined. The data harvested thus far has been invaluable. We're close to isolating the precise stimulus that exaggerates aggressive tendencies," Dr. Vexlerian replied, his voice clinical and detached.
They arrived at the next security point, this one leading to the Restricted Research Sector. The guards ran biometric checks while an additional security detail patrolled the area—drones buzzing overhead to capture every angle, every moment.
As the group awaited clearance, a maintenance worker shuffled past, casting a wary glance towards Dreadnaught. The man's tool belt clattered, and a spanner slipped from his grasp. The sudden clink as it hit the floor made the crazed prisoner flinch. His eyes rolled back in his skull momentarily before he locked eyes on the tool. Whispers of intelligible thought surfaced in his ravaged expression.
"Implements of… of construction, or destruction?" he hissed, saliva frothing at the corners of his mouth.
One of the doctors scribbled down notes, her attention drawn to the prisoner's reaction. "Remarkable, the artifact's influence seems to amplify his cognitive response to environmental stimuli," she mused, the hint of excitement in her voice belying the precarious nature of their work.
The security gate hissed open. Dreadnaught checked the seals on his suit and motioned for the group to move. They entered the sterile environment of the research sector, illuminated by the cold light of fluorescents.
"Excellent," Dreadnaught said, though whether in response to the doctor's remarks or to the opening of the gate was unclear. "We proceed on schedule, then. But remember, Vexlerian, Kanoan grows impatient. He desires results that affirm his vision—a vision you are privileged to help manifest. Do not disappoint."
Dr. Vexlerian nodded, a nervous edge to his usual stoicism. "I am well aware of the stakes, Dreadnaught. The honor of serving Lord Kanoan's vision is not lost on me. I shall not fail."
A subtle shift occurred in the corridor. An alarm shimmered into life somewhere in the distance, a sharp, insistent note that tugged at the senses. Guards tensed, and even Dreadnaught turned his head, listening.
"Containment breach in sector seven," buzzed the voice of a CSP unit over the communication link.
The medical team exchanged tense glances. The research dreaded the very thought—their scientific pursuits teetering on the edge of a disorderly inferno.
"Secure our guest. We cannot have our precious work unraveled by careless missteps," Dreadnaught ordered, his voice steely.
With swift compliance, the guards tightened their grip on the crazed prisoner, who had begun to tremble with a newfound intensity, reacting to the growing chaos like a harbinger of the dark tidings that brewed deep within the Iron Eclipse.
As soon as the distant alarm pierced the heavy air, a palpable tension seized the prisoner. His muscles tightened and his eyes ignited, reflecting a red, malevolent glow that seemed to emanate from within. The manacles that once bound him rattled violently against the cold metal floor as an unnatural force swelled around his form. A crimson aura flared to life around his silhouette, tendrils of energy writhing like serpents possessed.
"The containment fields are failing.." Dr. Vexlerian shouted, his composure crumbling, but his warning came too late.
With a thunderous burst, the crazed prisoner shattered his restraints. Shards of titanium alloy sprayed the corridor as he lunged forward, a feral snarl contorting his features. The red aura enveloped him like a storm, his fists becoming bludgeons of pure rage as he tore through the guards with the ferocity of a wild beast unleashed.
Dreadnaught's optics narrowed, targeting the anomaly before him as the guards recoiled. "So the rat bites," he rumbled, stepping forward with a calculated grace that belied his hulking frame.
The mad prisoner launched himself at the armored titan, his scream a discordant symphony of madness and fury. His strikes, empowered by the crystal's corruption, were relentless, battering against Dreadnaught's reinforced exterior with a hail of blows that resonated through the corridor.
"Your strength is nothing but the dying flails of a tainted soul." Dreadnaught declared, swatting away a particularly vicious assault. His arm shot out, catching the prisoner by the throat, the impact of his grasp audible even over the cacophony of the alarm.
The prisoner's aura flickered like a flame resisting the dark, his voice croaking with defiance. "I'll kill all of you!"
But Dreadnaught was an immovable force, a bastion of Kanoan's iron will. With a swift motion, he lifted his adversary off the ground, the red aura sputtering against the sheer indomitable will of his presence. "You are but a footnote in the grand design," he growled, tightening his grip and watching the light in the prisoner's eyes begin to dim.
With a resounding crash, he hurled the prisoner against the unforgiving steel wall. The prisoners body had broken, and blood came out of his mouth, nose, eyes, and ears, and he was dead immediately. The aura dissipated on impact, leaving behind only a man broken by forces beyond his comprehension. Dreadnaught loomed over the crumpled form, his victory absolute, his superiority unchallenged.
A grim silence claimed the corridor once more, the whispered madness settling into the echoes of Dreadnaught's triumph. "Containment may breach," he addressed the cowering medical staff without turning, "but control is never in question."
Dr. Vexlerian pushed up his glasses, now diamond shards of fear in his eyes. "We... we will re-double our efforts, Dreadnaught. The crystal's potency is a variable we cannot afford to underestimate."
"Make it stronger, that one was too weak."
Dreadnaught's reply was a simple, dismissive grunt as he turned towards the alarmed sector, every step a testament to his undoubted authority within the walls of the Iron Eclipse. The chaos may have been quelled for the moment, but the shadow of the next storm was never far behind.
Dreadnaught's departure was marked by the hiss of hydraulics and the finality of heavy metal doors sealing shut behind him. His last command lingered in the sterile chill of the corridor, a directive poised between warning and decree.
In the aftermath of the confrontation, Dr. Vexlerian straightened his lab coat, a veneer of professional calm returning to his demeanor. "Increase the dosage," he echoed, his voice steady despite the palpable undercurrent of anxiety. "We'll recalibrate the crystal infusion parameters immediately."
The other researchers gathered around, their murmurs a blend of relief at their own safety and the keen edge of scientific curiosity. Dr. Lena Fayre, a junior researcher whose expertise lay in neurochemistry, approached Vexlerian with a tablet in hand.
"D-Doctor! There's something you need to see," she said, tapping the screen to bring up a video feed. "It's about the subject Jyan. He's been... problematic."
The screen flickered to life, revealing the interior of a cell. There, amidst a tableau of unconscious bodies, sat a solitary boy—no more than a teenager. A stillness surrounded him, like the eye of a storm, while the forms at his feet bore the brutal testament of his capabilities. Jyan was sitting on a large pile of gang members, they were bloody, body broken in all sorts of places, and smoke was ascending off of them. And Jyan was smiling.
"Jyan," Dr. Vexlerian murmured, recognition chilling his spine. "Yes, I'm aware of his... tendencies."
"His aggression levels are off the charts," interjected Dr. Harold Keats, the lead psychologist. "His past outbursts have been... significant. We've avoided using him in the high-dose experiments for fear of the uncontrollable variables he introduces. He also didn't show much rage, so that's another variable."
Dr. Fayre nodded in agreement. "He's young, but his resilience is uncommon. I believe—if the dosage is calibrated precisely—he could sustain the crystal's influence longer than any of our previous subjects."
A protracted silence embraced the group; the decision carried with it an undeniable weight. Vexlerian's mind raced with the possibilities—was Jyan the untapped wellspring that would justify the risks?
Dr. Soren, an expert in genetics, chimed in. "It's not only that. There's something else about his physiology. His rate of recovery, the way his biology seems to... adapt. It's unprecedented."
Vexlerian clasped his hands behind his back. "Very well. Prepare subject Jyan for the experiment. We proceed with caution and document every step. I want constant monitoring. If anything goes awry, we terminate the trial immediately."
The researchers exchanged glances, each well aware of the stakes involved. "Will we inform Dreadnaught of our intentions with Jyan?" Dr. Soren asked.
"No," Vexlerian replied curtly. "Dreadnaught wants results, not a briefing on potentialities. We will show him what Jyan can endure... and we will do so on our terms."
Before the discussion could progress, a commotion arose from the far end of the detention area. The doctors and guards alike turned to see a group of maintenance workers struggling with a rogue service bot that had begun to malfunction, sparks flying as it spun wildly.
"What now?" Dr. Fayre exclaimed, stepping aside as two guards rushed to contain the haywire machine.
It was one of those unpredictable events that plagued the facility—a place where science pushed against the boundaries of ethics and practicality. While the chaos ensued, Vexlerian remained focused on the feed, witnessing a flicker of an unreadable expression wash over Jyan's face before the boy returned his gaze to the middle distance.
"Attend to the malfunction, and then prepare the subject," Vexlerian ordered, his attention unwavering from the task that lay ahead. "Lock down this wing until we are certain there are no further... disruptions."
"Understood, Doctor," Fayre replied, coordinating the efforts to address the diversion, her scientific mind already racing with the potential implications of the impending experiment.
Dr. Vexlerian watched the screen one last time before turning on his heel and striding toward his laboratory. Jyan, the boy surrounded by the remnants of his violence, represented a new chapter in their twisted symphony of research—a chapter that Vexlerian intended to write with meticulous, if precarious, ambition.
Dreadnaught's towering frame navigated through the Iron Eclipse, the fortification where hope and light were swallowed whole by Kanoan's dark ambition. His footsteps echoed with chilling intent through the Outer Ring, the gargantuan silhouette framed against the man-made chasm separating free land from this prison of despair. Hooded eyes of new inmates glinted with terror as they caught a glimpse of him, their murmured prayers and curses blending into one. A brief clash—a guard's harsh reprimand—reverberated off the walls as a prisoner stumbled, barely heard.
"Report on Vexlerian's progress, Kanoan," Dreadnaught voiced into the intercom, his tone betraying nothing but unwavering conviction as he strode by the high, barbed fences encapsulating the barracks.
The barracks, a fortress within the fortress, bustled with military precision. Guards shuffled between duty stations, drones hummed overhead, their silent vigilance unyielding. A brief commotion arose as an inmate, eyes wild with defiance, was dragged into an interrogation room. The deafening sound of a door slamming shut muffled his cries.
His voice cold as the steel around him, Dreadnaught continued, "There is much unrest—the shard's influence grows erratic—its potential still unmastered."
The Factory's mechanized heart throbbed with the relentless beating of industrial hammers, forging Kanoan's arsenal with the fire of forced labor. Momentarily, the relentless sound of machinery faltered as a system malfunctioned, sparks igniting a chaotic dance. Dreadnaught didn't slow as the revolt was quickly smothered, an errant worker seized by guards, his struggle ending in a violent display of dominance.
Somber and implacable, he descended into the Solitary Confinement and the Pits. Here, separate from the mechanized anarchy above, was a haunting silence punctuated only by the distant echo of anguished soliloquies. An inmate, long succumbed to isolation's embrace, reached through the bars with trembling hands, as though trying to capture the fleeting essence of sanity slipping through his fingers.
At the Core, the deepest and most secretive part of the prison, even the air seemed to be charged with the weight of hidden horrors. This was a realm where mad science and ambition fused into instruments of oppression and coercion. Through thick, soundproof glass, shadows and silhouettes moved with intent purpose, their actions obscured, the results of their endeavors murmured in shuddering gasps from those within.
Security systems, unparalleled in their sophistication, scanned and allowed Dreadnaught passage—an authority above question within these walls. He approached the intercom, his figure enshrouded by the foreboding presence of this impenetrable stronghold, and said, "The verdict awaits, Kanoan. Shall we nurture Vexlerian's schemes, or shall we… adjust?"
In the vast silence that enveloped the Iron Eclipse, pregnant with unspeakable fates and twined in the intricate web of power and subjugation, Kanoan's voice finally pierced the veil, a single, frigid syllable carrying an ocean of menace.
"Continue."