Warworld.
Cell B1-3.
After that first battle and the hand-stitched story of his life, Vulkan—alias Bob Wilkinson—lay down on the cold floor and pretended to sleep. He rested his head against the metal, closed his eyes, and feigned deep slumber. His heart rate slowed, perfectly mimicking the metabolism of a sleeper. His breathing became slow and steady. Any observer would have believed him plunged into profound rest.
Around him, Orrana and Tsag followed suit. The golden warrior had wrapped herself in a rudimentary blanket found in a corner of the room. The giant ant had half-buried herself in a mound of sand she had strangely managed to find—or create—in a recess of the cell. Silence settled, broken only by Orrana's light snores and the peaceful clicking of Tsag's resting mandibles.
But Vulkan was not asleep.
Behind his closed eyelids, his Primarch mind was churning at full speed.
I'm in the DC Comics universe.
The thought looped in his head like an absurd mantra. The DC universe. The one from the comics he used to devour in his old life. Superman. Batman. Wonder Woman. The Justice League.
And the New Gods.
Darkseid. Highfather. The forces of Apokolips and New Genesis. Beings capable of altering reality with a snap of their fingers. Living gods waging war across the stars. And he, Bob Wilkinson, 41-year-old unemployed Texan, had dropped right into the middle of this cosmic chaos.
Well, buddy, you've landed yourself in quite the mess.
He suppressed a nervous laugh. It was ironic. Absurdly ironic. The DC universe was one of the most dangerous in all of fiction. The threats were constant. The cosmic crises came one after another like seasons. And he, with his Primarch body, his handful of magical items, and his surprise box system as random as it was unpredictable, had to find a way to survive in the middle of all this.
Mongul. Warworld. The New Gods. And I bet Darkseid isn't far off either.
He analyzed the situation with a strategist's clinical precision. Mongul was a tyrant, certainly, but he wasn't the worst. Compared to Darkseid, he was almost a spoiled child. Almost. The problem was being stuck on Warworld, a gigantic battle station filled with gladiators, guards, and technological traps. Not to mention this control collar keeping him from using his full power.
I need to find a way to get this collar off. Without that, I'll never break free.
Suddenly, another thought struck him. Something obvious he had completely forgotten in the chaos of the last few days.
My surprise boxes. I've been racking up days. A lot of days. I haven't checked since I arrived on Warworld.
How long had he been here? The days had blurred together in his mind. The capture. The interrogation. The arena. The battle. Everything had happened without pause.
System, he thought silently, what is my current accumulation level?
Ding!
[Current accumulation: several days. Significant bonus available. Would you like to open a surprise box?]
Vulkan hesitated. Opening a box now, in the cell, under likely surveillance, was risky. But not opening it meant depriving himself of a potential asset that could help him escape.
Not now. Tomorrow, before the next fight. I need to think about the best moment.
He pushed the decision aside for later and focused on his escape plan.
Step one: remove the control collar. Step two: retrieve my magic bag and the chainsaw. Step three: find a ship to leave Warworld. Step four: survive the rest of the DC universe.
Simple. Basic. Nearly impossible. But it was a start.
---
In Mongul's Viewing Lodge.
Far above the cells, in the private lodge of the tyrant of Warworld, the atmosphere was one of study and reflection.
The vast circular chamber was bathed in calculated shadow, lit only by the shifting reflections of the arena visible through the viewing window. The war trophies hanging on the walls glowed faintly, silent souvenirs of conquered worlds and fallen heroes.
Mongul stood motionless as a conqueror's statue, his hands clasped behind his back. His dark armor absorbed the ambient light. His cruel eyes stared at an invisible point before him.
The small winged being with brown lizard skin approached, his membranous wings folded against his back. He held a data tablet glowing with a pale light.
"Master, here is the intelligence on Vulkan. Captured by the spy camera in his cell."
The alien extended the tablet with a trembling gesture. A holographic screen appeared before Mongul, floating in the air like a window into cell B1-3.
The footage showed Vulkan, sitting on the floor, telling his story to Orrana and Tsag. Every word was recorded. Every detail was analyzed. Nocturne. Prometheus. The Salamanders. The Space Marines. The Emperor. The 410th century.
Mongul watched in silence. When Vulkan described his home planet, its volcanoes, its earthquakes, its fire creatures, the tyrant experienced a twitch. Almost imperceptible. A faint movement of the eyebrow. But for those who knew Mongul, it was a sign of deep interest.
"So he comes from an alternate future. How interesting."
He turned slightly toward the small alien, who trembled under his gaze.
"Could we find one of these salamanders? Or something close to it?"
The alien blinked his bulbous eyes, his clawed fingers tapping nervously on the tablet.
"I will look, Master. Warworld's database contains archives on thousands of species across the galaxy. There may be a similar creature."
Mongul nodded slowly, a cruel smile stretching across his lips.
"Good. Prepare a report. I would like to offer it to our special guest."
"Offer it, Master?"
Mongul turned his head fully toward him, his eyes piercing the small being like blades.
"Yes. A gift. Something that reminds him of his world. Something that makes him... happy."
The small alien swallowed hard. He knew his master well enough to understand that "happy" in Mongul's mouth meant exactly the opposite.
"You want... to break him psychologically, Master?"
Mongul turned his gaze back to the viewing window, toward the empty arena below.
"I want to see what hides behind that warrior's facade. Every fighter has a weakness. A breaking point. A crack in their mental armor. Find me that crack."
"Yes, Master."
The alien bowed and retreated into the shadows, his membranous wings quivering with unease.
Mongul remained alone before the viewing window. The hologram of Vulkan still floated in the air, frozen on an image of the Primarch telling his story.
"A warrior from the future. A son of an Emperor. A Primarch."
He pronounced the word with a slow, savoring relish, as if tasting a rare delicacy.
"We shall see how long you keep your pride, Vulkan of Nocturne. We shall see."
In the arena, preparations for the next battle were already underway. The blood-soaked sands were being cleaned. The traps were being rearmed. The next waves of combatants were being selected.
And somewhere in the archives of Warworld, a small lizard-skinned alien was feverishly scanning files on fire creatures, searching for a salamander worthy of breaking a Primarch.