Chapter Two

𝘋𝘫𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘔𝘶𝘯𝘯 𝘗𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘺, 𝘚𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘥, 𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘺

In the glory days of the Armament Society, the organization had brought offenders from every corner of the world to justice. Under the Suit's capable leadership, the A.S was a well-oiled crime deterrent, hailed by several world leaders as the Earth's Herculean defenders. Putting an end to murderous threats such as bombings in Tokyo to underground drug rings in Mexico, terrorists that threatened global safety were almost guaranteed to be apprehended by Armament Society agents. Back in their heyday, it seemed that the entire world, although they were oblivious to the Society's existence, felt that a guardian angel was watching over them. Yet although their imposing feats secured them a place in history as the world's most redoubtable protectors, like all things, with time, they became nothing more than exactly that. Archived tales of heroism, their audience ignorant of their accomplishments. The Society became rumors, and its numerous outposts were rendered relics. And perhaps one of their most lasting relics remained a memorable sign that the Society was a formidable foe.

While the Armament Society often transferred their captives to local maximum security prisons to avoid arousing suspicion, the prisoners they deemed uncontrollable were sent to their own surreptitious containment facility. An expansive stockade, Djevelens Munn Penitentiary covered the vast majority of Djevelens Hode Island, a remote, unpopulated island in the Svalbard area, with its perimeter. Safeguarded by trained garrisons and fortified technological security systems, the prison's tungsten walls held a multitude of vicious prisoners for over thirty years without record of even an attempted jailbreak. Watchtowers manned by armed guards surrounded the prison grounds' barbed wire borders, which were armed with both motion-detecting security cameras and 10,000-volt electric defenses. Needless to say, the Suit's ideal design of a secure prison facility proved capable of containing as many of the Armament Society's detainees as they could apprehend. Which was fortunate, considering the Suit required as many of his prisoners as was possible.

The Suit's sleek, jet-black Sikorsky hovered over the vast, snow-capped helipad, ground marshallers signaling for a landing. His luxurious collection of lavish vehicles were one of the few things he considered truly his, without ties to the Armament Society. He had deemed himself worthy of boasting extravagant items, having devoted everything to global safety. Though he lacked in childhood memories, his earliest memories were of him in his adolescent years, scrounging in back alleys for a chance to fight for his country. And he did. In the end, he may have operated in the shadows, but was still hailed as a true patriot, a paragon, the man of the hour. Despite the appreciation he had received in exchange for the effort he put into defending the world, there still remained an instinct in the back of his mind that told him otherwise. That he was not, in fact, the paladin he presented himself as. Decades of therapy still proved useless in resolving his condition. At times, he felt the rage was too much for a single person to bear. And when it became overwhelming, it was as if he'd boiled over. The last time he'd ever lost control of his rage was his first time leading a field mission with operatives in search of a human trafficking ring in Venezuela. The first time he'd beaten someone until his knuckles bled. That night, he'd blacked out, and regained consciousness standing over an unconscious body, his dress shirt stained with blood, his knuckles aching. He could feel the weight of the dagger in his left hand, still dripping with blood. A sound that he could never erase from his head. He never forgot the look of pure terror in his victim's eyes. Forever frozen in a cold, dead mask of fear. That night, he swore to himself that his rage would never get the best of him again. But could he guarantee that? Could he guarantee that everyone around him was safe from him? Furthermore, what right did he have locking up deranged criminals when he should have been locked up with them? Should he have been? Was he one of them?

The Suit peered out of the window at the facility's snow-capped rooftops, chewing on an unlit cigar. He glanced over at Pedersen, who sat across from him, his bulging arms crossed, his nostrils flaring.

"Astonishing. Over thirty years and Djevelens Munn still stands to this day. It's nice to see something bring relevance to the Armament Society's name, eh, Isak?"

Pedersen simply scowled, watching as snowflakes dropped past the helicopter's windows.

"Oh, dear. Pray tell, what ails you, min venn?" the Suit cooed with mocking sympathy. He moved one hand up to cover his cigar, a burning lighter in the other.

"When we initiated this project, you told me it would be trained personnel going through that portal and coming back. A simple reconnaissance mission. Extract the target, and get out. Now you're telling me you want to send the Armament Society's worst enemies through that portal?"

The Suit guffawed heartily, smoke billowing from his mouth.

"Isak," he said between coughs, "You once told me you did not wish to harm Armament Society operatives by sending them into the line of fire. Now, all of a sudden, you change your mind and decide that we should be sending agents instead of glorified nobodies? Isak, make up your mind. You didn't want to endanger personnel, so this was the only compromise. These delinquents may be our sworn enemies, but that does not mean they cannot be of use. Rather than letting them rot, why not put them to good work? Hey. Cheer up. We'll be the saviors of the world once more."

The helicopter touched down softly on the helipad, its skids slicing into mounds of snow. The Suit slipped into a coat and cautiously stepped out of the helicopter, so as not to slip on the thick layer of sleet blanketing the rooftop. Pedersen struggled out behind him, the sound of his boots akin to that of a gong. One of the marshallers breathlessly approached the Suit, nervously looking him in the eye.

"Mr. Suit, sir. Welcome back to Djevelens Munn. I see you brought company."

The marshaller gestured towards Pedersen, who appeared as gargantuan with his height sized up to the helicopter.

"Mr. Pedersen is merely a confidant. A companion on this specific trip to ensure the success of our initiative."

"Yes, of course, Mr. Suit. Anyhow, I'm Sawyer. I took the liberty of volunteering as your escort on this particular... er, visit."

The Suit nonchalantly brushed past him, turning a blind eye to him and the other marshallers.

"I don't require a chaperone, Sawyer. I was present at this facility when it was erected. Now, run along back to whomever sent you, and enlighten them on their mistake."

Belittling those around him was often something the Suit did effortlessly to secure his elevated status above others. This was often perceived as egoistic, like many other of the Suit's traits, but the Suit himself considered this one of the finer qualities of an exceptional leader. Never having the fear to constantly remind his employees, his workforce, that he alone was their kingpin. The Suit likened this to chess, a game the Suit deeply admired, and considered a preeminent analogy for battle tactics. He perceived the game itself to be a simulation of war on the battlefield, and its various ranks. He likened pawns to his workmen, disposable, expendable, and debilitated in comparison to him, the king. When he likened himself to the king, he also interpreted that if he died, or if his enemies had cornered him into checkmate, then the game would be over. Lost. Without him, every other piece revolving around him would be eliminated, simply relics in a lost game. To ensure the king's safety, he had surrounded himself with several rooks, knights and bishops over the years. Powerful companions willing to sacrifice themselves to the opposition to save him. However, something he lacked was a queen. Over the years, he had never considered it important to pursue a queen. In his eyes, love was a fickle thing. Allowing someone past the walls you put up to secure yourself, according to him, was foolish. He perceived love as the deadliest weapon wielded against someone, capable of inflicting lasting damage that would linger for years. He shielded himself to ensure this would never happen to him. As for children, he never took a liking to progeny. He had a deep, seething disdain for children, the main supporter for his decision of never having descendants. He simply viewed them as carbon copies as the original, himself, and that he should remain the sole incarnation of himself in history. However, deep down, he knew the truth. He knew why he rejected love. He knew why he deemed himself unworthy of ever pursuing a life with a spouse, or progeny. He did it not to keep himself safe from them. He did it to keep them safe from him. For the span of his entire life, he had been plagued by his rage. A fire within him that could never be extinguished, no matter what he did. And when the fire grew stronger, that was the greatest liability of all. He was not to be trifled with, and this was not only a danger to those around him, but to himself as well. For the fire that empowers him may as well burn him alive from the inside. He knew this was the reason he kept everyone in his life at arm's length, or even farther. Retrospectively, this succeeded thus far, but would it continue to succeed? After all, over long distances, fire spreads.

The Suit descended down a flight of stairs, Pedersen's thundering stomps reverberating behind him. Djevelens Munn Penitentiary was a ten-floor-tall building with no direct elevator access between floors, one of the many precautions that the Armament Society took to prevent an escape. Instead, each floor was connected by a spiral of stairs, stopping at each floor, and continuing up to the next. Most people underestimated the Suit's physical capabilities, but, despite his advanced age, he retained remarkable endurance and stamina. He lacked the elderly conditions of arthritic issues and hazy vision, but still possessed an extreme condition of memory loss. Not only memories of his childhood, but the timeline of his life possessed many holes in it within his memory. Blackouts, a side effect of his rage. While his therapist suspected these to be epileptic seizures, the Suit knew that it was far worse. He suspected a darker side of him at play here, the voice inside his head that drove him to do what he did. His fire.

In due course, the Suit and Pedersen had set foot on the sixth floor, a dimly lit cavern with two directions; the remainder of the staircase, and a dingy corridor that ended in a heavily guarded metal blast door. While Pedersen proceeded down the staircase's steps, the Suit froze, staring down the corridor at the blast door and the excessively armed guards standing sentry in front of it.

"Suit? You coming?" Pedersen called.

"I'll be right with you. I'll meet you at Cell Block X. Before I join you, I have to make a quick pit stop. It won't take more than a minute."

Pedersen glanced at the Suit, then at the blast door.

"Wait. This is where you put..."

"We need him, Isak. He may be washed up, but he is undoubtedly a genius, compared to the other psychopaths we have locked up in here. If we are assembling our detainees for a mission, they'll need a leader. Someone they can relate to, and someone we can trust will complete the mission.

"Suit, you know we can never trust that little two-faced son of a-"

"I have to try, Isak. It's our last hope."

Pedersen sighed, continuing to descend down the stairs, while the Suit swiftly strode down the corridor, dismissing the guards with a firm nod. The Suit pressed his palm against a screen of glass, clearing his throat.

"Access, TS-01."

"Welcome, Mr. Suit," a metallic voice cooed.

The blast doors opened with a mechanical click and a hiss as smoke began to billow into the corridor. The Suit stepped into a decrepit room, dimly lit with walls of reinforced steel. At the center of the room was a vertical plexiglass cuboid, reinforced with iron. Locked within it was a lumpy, compact bed, its sheets green with mold, and a rotting desk, the brittle breaks on its edges having been left behind by termites. And, of course, Exhibit A.

"Adrianus. It's nice to see that you are... well."

A man wearily crawled out from under the bedsheets, shaggy, unshaven, and sporting a bright orange prison jumpsuit. When he stood upright, he was tall, pale, slender, and appeared as if he was about to faint. His ratty, dark brown hair was the length of his shoulders, and his bottle-green eyes plagued with fatigue and dehydration.

"Well?" he whispered in his hoarse, menacing voice. He spread his arms widely, gesturing towards his environment.

"Look at me, Suit. I'm a crowd-pleaser living under a microscope. Locked away in this ridiculous glass box!" Adrianus roared. As if to make a statement, he swung his fist at the cell's walls, the sharp clang echoing around the room.

"We've been over this, Adrianus. This penance is what you deserve. You need to repent as punishment for your actions."

Adrianus slumped on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"Of course, of course. My retribution. Listen. I acknowledge that my past actions are somewhat... unredeemable, but hear out my bargain."

"Save it," the Suit snapped. "I came here to offer you my proposition.

Adrianus sat bolt upright, staring down at the Suit with hungry, ravenous eyes, similar to that of a rapacious dog.

"What kind of a proposition? One that will deliver me from my lifelong damnation?"

"One that benefits us both."

"Go on," Adrianus prompted impatiently.

"You may be oblivious to this fact, but the world is in great peril. The Supernova Crisis. A black hole has devoured its way into our solar system, and is going to consume our planet in a matter of days."

"And why do you look to me for help? You're the one with the army of scientists and researchers. What did you call it? The Artillery Fraternity?"

"The Armament Society has devised a solution to this issue. But it requires manpower, which we can only afford by bringing you and some of your... friends into the fray."

"The friends that kicked me against a wall?" Adrianus chuckled. "But, by all means, continue."

"We cannot afford to send our personnel on this mission, so we are sending a team of you inmates."

"What's the goal?"

"An extraction mission into the Converse to collect dark matter and destroy this black hole."

Adrianus sucked his teeth.

"Well, I assume this 'Converse' is an alternate dimension or parallel universe?"

"If you've studied string theory, you'll understand."

"Well, there is a slight issue with your plan, with that issue being the fact that if you do proceed with destroying the black hole with a dark matter bomb, the fallout from the implosion would be... in a word, cataclysmic."

"We've set up satellites in a specific pattern to produce an electrical force field to contain the fallout and any... 'debris'. A sphere, if you will. We've designed it in this way to-"

"Because it's beneficial in that it optimizes the distribution of electrons," Adrianus interrupted. "Yeah, I've studied force fields, too. You sure this'll work?"

"It's nowhere near certain. 49% failure rate."

"Well, at least the odds are in our favor. A 51% chance of success is better than an uncertain 50-50."

"So you'll comply?"

"What do I get in return if I participate?"

"If we go through with this, and the mission succeeds, then we guarantee you an early parole for good behavior."

Adrianus clapped his hands together, beaming.

"Ah. That's what I like to hear."

❖❖❖

Pedersen tramped sluggishly down the final flight of stairs, the thundering sound of his footsteps resounding off of the stainless steel walls. Cell Block X was a cavernous hallway separated from a warren of corridors by a set of iron bars, guarded by both motion-detecting security cameras and armed garrisons. Pedersen's credentials, especially as the Head of Security at the Armament Society's Warren, allowed him to slip into any location as well as the Suit himself. Nonetheless, he saw the Suit not as his competitor, but his mentor. Without the Suit's help, he would never have achieved his rank. He would have just been another Norwegian giant in an igloo, selling wood for a living. Despite his best efforts to change his life, stowing away on a cargo ship, dreaming of a life in America, he would have ended up executed on that ship if not for the Suit. If not for the lionhearted Navy SEAL team and their daredevil leader, who rescued him from the clutches of dastardly, oil-thieving terrorists. Quite literally, he owed the Suit his life. But there was a part of him that feared. That concerned himself over the Suit's intents. Pedersen had always cared for living beings, always smuggling away seals to deliver them from his father's ax. While he considered this one of his best redeeming qualities, the Suit berated him without hesitation on how it was his greatest weakness. Sympathy was poison, he said. When wielded without caution, it would consume you. But Pedersen had never believed that. Not once had he approached a situation without consideration. It was this that he considered his greatest capability.

The row of floor-to-ceiling iron bars that cut off the corridor of prison cells from the spiraling staircase was manned by heavily armed guards, security agents in their Kevlar armor, armed to the teeth. The Armament Society may have had multiple outposts, including the black sites they kept their prisoners in, but their security agents all followed the same chain of command. They were all agents of the Society's security division. This was often advantageous when commuting from one outpost to another, especially with a higher rank in the hierarchy. Security agents on duty were trained to identify valid or invalid credentials, thus being how the Armament Society kept their outposts safe from charlatans at all times. As for Society operatives that told the truth, they had no issues with access, particularly board members or high-ranking individuals.

At the fore of the bars, a pair of armed guards stood each on one side of the gate, while a third manned the cameras and remote weapons. The guard on the right stepped between Pedersen and the bars, staring right up at his chest.

"ID and badge, please."

Pedersen's Armament Society-issued badge was undoubtedly one of his most prized possessions. Unlike most other operatives, his was awarded to him in recognition of great valor and heroism. Furthermore, it was also crucial in any agent's day-to-day activities, as their badges were the only proof of their identity, thus being the reason as to why Pedersen kept it on him at all times. Pedersen fished his wallet out of his pocket, a sleek, black Montblanc, and handed the minuscule, crimson card to the agent. The guard inspected it closely, and gestured at the guard behind the camera. Simultaneously, the bars lifted from the ground with a mechanical click and whir, opening a wide berth for entry. Pedersen briskly pried his badge from the guard's fingers and marched through the entryway, ducking so as not to hit his head on the raised bars. The corridor, while built from bricks and mortar on the outside, was lined with decrepit cells with walls of tungsten, separated from the outside by screens of plexiglass, and crammed with bunk beds and pots of murky drinking water. Disheveled inmates in bright yellow prison jumpsuits scowled, howling uproariously and rapping at the plexiglass. Beyond the corridor was a spacious, circular hall, packed with stainless steel picnic tables and surrounded by guards, their weapons arranged. Inmates sat at each of the tables, either playing cards or smuggling plastic bags of pruno. Pedersen gestured towards a guard keeping watch from a surveillance platform, who hastily scurried down the staircase.

"Alert the higher-ups. Let them know that the Suit is prepared to commence the second phase of Project: Vortex."