3 days earlier....
Black Site
Badlands National Park
South Dakota, USA
The Stygian Archive's canteen hummed with an unsettling energy. It wasn't the clatter of trays or the murmur of conversations—those were merely surface noise. Beneath it thrummed a current of the bizarre. Mutants shimmered with scales like captured rainbows, their movements fluid and unsettling. Humans, marked by cybernetic enhancements or other unique features, moved with a nervous tension. A hulking figure, his skin like rough-hewn granite, grumbled about the meatloaf, the sound like rocks grinding together. A woman whose hair cascaded in living vines picked delicately at a salad, her gaze distant. Michael Cage sat apart, an island of quiet in this sea of the extraordinary. He picked at his lukewarm meal, his focus on the blandness of the food a shield against the cacophony around him. He wasn't interested in the whispered anxieties, the sideways glances, or the palpable unease that hung heavy in the air. He simply wanted to eat, to endure this meal, to return to the sterile monotony of his cell.
The canteen doors hissed open, slicing through the hum of the room. Four figures entered, their sharp black suits a stark contrast to the prison-issue orange. Viktor Storm, Director of the Stygian Archive, led the group, his presence radiating an almost palpable authority. Three other suited men followed in his wake, their faces impassive. A guard, his movements crisp and efficient, led them through the suddenly hushed canteen. He stopped before Michael, who remained with his back to them, and announced, "Here he is, Director. Prisoner M-29531."
Jason McKnight, a wiry man with a neatly trimmed mustache and dull grey eyes that seemed to absorb rather than reflect light, scanned Michael's yellow jumpsuit. He looked at Viktor, his expression unimpressed. "A yellow," he remarked, the word carrying a weight of unspoken judgment. "Mind telling me who this is and why you're picking him?"
Michael continued to ignore them, the clinking of his fork against the plate a small act of defiance.
Viktor's voice was smooth, even, a carefully controlled instrument. "This is Michael Cage. Former SEAL specialist. His talent? Teleportation. Anywhere, anyone." He paused, letting the information sink in. "Currently residing here for abandoning his team on a Karoo mission."
Viktor stepped closer, his presence suddenly more intense. "Michael," he called, his voice carrying across the quiet room.
Michael sighed, the sound laced with weariness. He pushed his plate away, the metal scraping against the table. "I'm not interested in whatever you're selling, Viktor," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "And I sure as hell ain't taking part in your damn program. So just leave me alone."
Viktor's lips curved into a thin, almost predatory smile. "You might want to… reconsider, Cage. This offer… it concerns a life. Not yours. Hers."
Michael's head snapped up, his eyes meeting Viktor's with a flicker of anger, a spark of fear. He searched Viktor's face, trying to decipher the meaning behind his words.
Viktor leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, audible only to Michael. "Not so long ago, your mother… she was caught stealing at a supermarket." He paused, letting the information hang in the air. "She's in custody. And without bail… she'll be sent here. To this… place." He emphasized the word "place" with a chilling inflection. "You know what this place is like, Michael. Especially for a seventy-year-old woman."
The color drained from Michael's face. His jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck corded.
Viktor straightened, his gaze unwavering. "Be smart about this, Michael. I can free your mother. Provide the money she needs to care for your siblings."
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken desperation. Finally, Michael whispered, the word barely audible, "Okay…"
"Good lad," Viktor said, his voice regaining its smooth confidence. He gave a curt nod to the guard, who moved swiftly. A black bag was pulled over Michael's head, plunging him into darkness. He felt himself being led away, the unsettling hum of the canteen fading into a muffled roar.
The bag was ripped away, and Michael blinked against the sudden brightness. He was no longer in the canteen. He sat in a plush, theater-style seat, the soft fabric a stark contrast to the cold concrete of his cell. He looked around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. The room was oddly shaped, with rows of seats rising in tiers toward a small stage. Other figures were scattered throughout the seating area, their expressions ranging from disorientation to weary resignation.
Viktor Storm walked onto the stage, the spotlight snapping on, illuminating him in its harsh glare. He surveyed the group, his gaze lingering on each face, assessing, calculating.
"Welcome," he began, his voice amplified through hidden speakers, resonating through the room. "You are all here for a reason. You have all been chosen." He paused, letting his words hang in the air, allowing them to settle like a weight on each individual. "Chosen to be part of something… that makes the world a better place." He paused again, a subtle shift in his tone. "A safer place."
Viktor gestured to a large screen behind him. It flickered to life, displaying a series of disturbing images: grainy photos of crime scenes, buildings reduced to rubble, each marked by a chilling similarity.
"There have been reports," Viktor continued, his voice grim, "of a dragon. A dragon with… human features. It's been seen burning people alive, kidnapping women…" He trailed off, letting the implications hang in the air. "And recently, it attacked citizens in Central City."
A male inmate appearing somewhere between late 30s and early 50s with long, dark hair, often tied back in a loose ponytail, and a messy goatee. His eyes are a piercing shade of green, raised a hand from the audience. Zane Grants is his name.
Zane: AHEM.
Viktor: Yes? (He acknowledged Zane.)
Zane: Excuse me, Director But… any specifics about this dragon? Powers? What kind of dragon is it?
Viktor: Good question, Zane. Unfortunately, specifics are… limited. Its features are… human-like. Its power level… significant. As for its species… our analysts suggest it's… unnatural.
Zane: Ah. So it's a mutant.
Viktor: That's what we suspect as well.
A ripple of murmurs went through the group. Amongst the group is a man in his early thirties with black hair and hazel eyes calls out to Viktor, "Hold up. So you want us... SPECIFICALLY... Us to go out there to fight a human dragon? Dragon-human, man-dragon." His name was Rex.
"A… Humagon?" Ender chimed in, wearing the inmate overalls.
"How about an abomination?" amongst the group of inmates a third voice belonging to the inmate, Kyle spoke.
Kyle: How about calling it an abomination.
Rex: (He snapped his fingers.) Ah, yes. An abomination. That's what it is.
A hand of a pale skinned inmate with light brown hair and light pink eyes went up. "I got a question, Director. How the hell are we, a bunch of convicts, supposed to take that thing down? If it's a mutant, it can think like a human. That's… that's damn near impossible."
Viktor nodded, his expression acknowledging the validity of the concern. "An astute observation, Arthur. The… "abomination" is infact intelligent. That's what makes it so dangerous. Its human-like qualities. Its ability to strategize. To outthink its prey." Viktor paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled group. "But your strength… lies in your own unique abilities. Powers that, when combined… allow you to adapt. To think quickly. To work together. To overcome challenges… that would be impossible for any single individual. That… is why you were chosen."
Michael listened, his mind still replaying the conversation about his mother. The dragon, the mission, it all seemed distant, unreal. He ran a hand over his messy hair, as he took a deep breath, trying to push aside the fear that gnawed at him. He was a SEAL. He had faced danger before. But this… this was different. This was personal.
Viktor: So Gentlemen. Welcome... To the Convert Operations Division.
The group was led to another room, a long corridor lined with individual cubicles. Each cubicle bore a nameplate. Michael found his. He stepped inside, the bare stone walls and the spartan furnishings giving the space an institutional feel. He was alone. But the weight of what Viktor had told him pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating.
The after some time, the hallway hummed with a low, almost imperceptible frequency. It was the kind of hum that burrowed its way into your teeth, a constant, subtle vibration that set your nerves on edge. Michael Cage, clad in a sleek, black tactical suit that felt more like a second skin than clothing, walked alongside the other inmates, their footsteps echoing in the stark corridor, each wearing identical suits. The suit was a marvel of engineering, lightweight yet incredibly durable, designed to enhance their abilities and protect them from… well, from whatever hell Viktor Storm was sending them into.
Michael glanced at the others, each a study in controlled chaos. Zane, the inmate with the ponytail and a now neatly trimmed goatee, was fiddling with a pair of metallic gauntlets. Rex, the one who had coined the term "abomination," was cracking his knuckles, his eyes darting around as if expecting an ambush. Kyle, the one who called the dragon an abomination, walked with his arms crossed with a smug grin on his face. And Ender... well, Ender was humming a jaunty tune, seemingly oblivious to the tension crackling in the air.
They all stood in the hanger bay waiting for their transport before Arthur, the pale one with the astute observation, muttering to himself, walked in.
Arthur: Hey, Guys, have any of you seen a pair of... (His words get cut off, irritated to see his gauntlets being fiddled by Zane.)
Arthur: Oi! Goatee. You do realize those are high-tech gauntlets, right? NOT playthings.
Zane: Hm? Oh, these? Wow, I didn't know. Thought they were mittens... Relax. I'm just checkin' out the tech, nothing's gonna break.
Arthur: Right. Like I want to risk getting vaporized by a malfunctioning techno-gauntlet before we've even been deployed.
Kyle chuckled in the back.
Kyle: That'd be awesome.
Arthur: Really? You know what'd be even more awesome? You shuting the fuck up.
Michael chimed in.
Michael: Guys. Enough. We've got a job to do.
The bickering died down, the silence settling. Each of them was tense, their nerves as taut as bowstrings. They all knew... that this was serious. But bantering, making light, it helped mask the fear. The fact that none of them knew what they were getting into. The hangar was still, the silence broken only by the distant roar of a helicopter engine echoing through the space. The aircraft sat in the center, its rotors a blur of motion. A ramp lowered, and a figure in a black uniform beckoned them forward.
Michael's gaze drifted to the transport, a large, unmarked black aircraft, its wings folded at ninety-degree angles.
As they stepped out onto the landing pad, the wind whipped at their suits, the roar of the helicopter blades drowning out all other sound. The figure stood beside the open hatch, his orange hair a beacon in the swirling dust.
"Welcome aboard, ladies and gentlemen," the man said, his voice surprisingly calm amidst the chaos. "I'm Jack Drake, your commanding officer for this little… excursion." He flashed a grin that didn't quite reach his icy blue eyes.
Michael recognized him.
They all got onto the aircraft before lift off. They all sat together from two sides in silence. Rex and Kyle traded glances to one another before Jack breaks the silence.
Jack: So... How the suits, fellows?
Kyle: (He adjusted hie suit) Oh, it's Great, really. Feels like I'm part of a fucking black-ops Power Rangers team.
Ender: (He made light laugh at Kyle's comment) Black-ops Power Rangers?
Rex: (snorted.) More like a suicide squad, mate. Except, you know, with less Harley Quinn and more… whatever the hell that guy can do. (He jerked a thumb towards Arthur, who scowled and adjusted his guantlets.)
Arthur: (He protested) Hey, I'm very useful, okay. These babies pack a punch aaaand (He raises a small green vial to everyone) by taking one injection from this, I'll be unstoppable.
Jack: Ah, you the guy that can copy people's powers.
Arthur: Yep. Through contact or these (He shook the vial before stashing it back in one of his pants pockets.
Michael: (He had his eyes on Jack since they got on board.) I know you... You were an inmate in the archive. The speedster.
Jack: (He smirked) That's right. And you Michael Cage, right?
Michael: Yeah.
Jack: (He nodded) Know why you all here?
Michael: Yep. We going to central city to stop a mutant dragon.
Jack: Ah, good he filled you in. (A pause, filled only with the thrum of the helicopter) But that's not really it. I mean, you're here because you're criminals, right? You're here so the Archive can use you without worrying about the PR nightmare that would come with sending their own loyal guards into the field. You're expendable. (A pause. Everyone considered the bluntness of his statement) But... I don't buy into that. You're all more than that. You're more than your crime. You're more than some number, or a cell. So listen up...
Jack: (He leaned in) This mission? This is a chance. A chance to do something. To mean something. To be more than just convicts. To be... heroes.
Kyle: (He snorted) Heroes. Is that why the government picked us as cannon fodder? Come on, man, let's not kid ourselves.
Jack: (He looked at Kyle) I'm being serious. You're all here because you can do things most people cant.. or you have skills... and that makes you unique. Special. And with that specialty, you can nolonger be seen as a convict meant to stay in the abyss of the archive.
Jack: (He paused) I've been in the archive for a long time. I've seen some good people, people who didn't deserve to be there. Like you. (Looked at Ender) And this is an opportunity. If we stop this dragon, your records will be wiped, your names and families won't be put at risk.
A moment of silence fell upon the group.
Jack: So for the time being... consider yourselves agents… of the Convert Operations Division.
The words hung heavy in the air, like a promise or a curse.
During the whole trip, the group sat in silence with the only murmur being the sounds of the ever present engines and rotors of the helicopter.
Jack glanced around at the others, trying to read their faces in the aircraft lights. Rex's gaze was hard, his jaw set. Kyle was looking at his feet with an expression of something serious. Ender was humming quietly, oblivious or simply apathetic. And Arthur had his foot constantly the ground, was he eager? Michael wondered before staring out into his own thoughts.
"2 minutes to drop!" The pilot announced.
Zane stared out the window, the city sprawling beneath them like a concrete jungle. Michael felt a surge of adrenaline, a familiar cocktail of fear and excitement. He was a SEAL. He glanced at the others, their faces a mixture of grim determination as they got up from their seats.
Jack: Alright, listen up! We're approaching the drop zone. You'll be jumping at five thousand feet. Your objective is to NOT kill the mutant.
Rex: I'm sorry, what?! I think i misheard you coz of all the noise from the rotors out there.
Jack: Your objective isn't to kill the mutant. It's to make them run, so we can find the bodies of the victims they've captured.
Kyle: Wait.... But that's not what Viktor–
Jack: (Interrupted Kyle) Consider this a change of plans. If we kill or capture the beast, we won't ever figure out what happened to the victims.
Kyle: I'm pretty sure it ate them as its meals. Since its... you know... it's dragon-like.
The helicopter lurched, and a red light began flashing.
"Thirty seconds to drop!" The pilot announced.
Chaos erupted. Arthur started frantically adjusting his gauntlets again, muttering about "calibration" and "optimal energy output." Rex was swearing under his breath, he had a black utility belt that holds packs of rods thay he checks on with a manic intensity. Kyle yawned before stretching his arms. Ender held a fullt loaded sniper rifle while humming a melody with his foot tapping. Michael, meanwhile, felt a strange calm settle over him. He had a job to do. His mother's life depended on it.
"Ten seconds!"
The ramp at the back of the helicopter lowered with a loud hydraulic hiss, revealing the swirling grey clouds and the distant, patchwork quilt of Central City far below.
"Five!"
They all waited by the hatch for the countdown. Sweat dripped down the side of Zane's face.
"Four!"
Kyle shoved Ender towards the open ramp, seeing chaos occurring down in the city as they notice a large red scaled dragon humanoid walking down the streets breathing out large streams of flames to the people.
Rex: Good heavens, that's a pickle. That's the abomination.
Kyle: Did you just say, "Good heavens, that's a pickle?"
Rex: Yeah. Jack's speech about being a hero really touched me, you know... sooo I won't be using any... unrefined language from now on.
Kyle: "Unrefined language?" You sound like my grandma trying to order a pizza.
Rex: Hey, it's a process! I'm trying to be a better person. A heroic person.
"Three!"
Jack: Focus.
Jack dropped into a low crouch, his eyes focused on the building across the street.
Jack: Try not to get yourselves killed. Or worse, eaten.
Rex: Uhm. Why are you in that stance?
Jack: Preparing to jump off to a building.
Rex: Oh, okay... WHYY? WE in a helicopter, we can just.... have it land and walk out.
Two!"
Zane: That's a risky move. Landing in a middle of a monster's rampage.
Kyle: (scoffs) If you ask me, that's better than breaking our damn bones, ponytail.
Rex: Exactly!
"One!"