Warworld.
Secret chamber.
Vulkan admired the courage of this little fellow. Bok, this winged creature with brown lizard skin, had spent years nursing a deep grudge, waiting for the right moment to strike. Years of silent servitude. Years of pretending to obey. Years of watching his people reduced to slavery, his planet sold off, his family scattered to the far corners of the galaxy.
And despite all that, Bok had never given up. He had kept the flame of rebellion burning in his heart, waiting patiently for the spark that would ignite the powder keg.
That spark was Vulkan.
Mongul believed that cruelty and fear were enough to keep a person, a people, a planet under his control. He thought terror was the cement of his empire. But what he had ignored—what all tyrants eventually failed to grasp—was that in the heart of every being endowed with conscience and reason, freedom would always shine. A tiny flame, perhaps. An ember hidden beneath the ash of resignation. But an ember that asked only to blaze.
Vulkan spent hours with Bok preparing the rebellion. Hours studying the plans of Warworld. Hours analyzing the forces at play. Hours weaving the web that would soon ensnare the tyrant.
"Tell me, Bok. Do you have allies in this rebellion?"
Bok nodded vigorously, his membranous wings quivering with excitement.
"Yes. All those of my species. As well as a few select individuals in whom I have the utmost trust. Technicians, engineers, servants who have worked in the shadows of Warworld for years. They await the signal."
Vulkan folded his massive arms across his chest.
"And what about security? The guards?"
Bok shook his head, his expression darkening.
"The guards and warriors who fight for Mongul are loyal to him. They consider him a powerful and strong warlord. For them, serving Mongul is an honor. They will never join us."
"Then we're outnumbered."
"If we want greater help, we need the public's support."
Vulkan was taken aback. He tilted his head, his red eyes gleaming with perplexity.
"I thought the public was on Mongul's side. After what I saw in the arena... the way they chant his name..."
Bok shook his head vehemently.
"No. The members of the public are slaves, just like us. They are brought here by force to fill the stands. Mongul captures them on their homeworlds, transports them here, and forces them to watch the fights. It's a demonstration of power. A message. 'Look what I do to those who resist me. Look and tremble.'"
Vulkan felt a cold anger rising within him.
"They chant his name because they're afraid."
"Exactly. Fear makes them scream. Fear makes them applaud. But fear can also turn into hatred. If we show them that Mongul can be defeated... if we give them a reason to hope... they will rise."
Vulkan was silent for a long moment, absorbing this information. Then a fierce smile stretched across his lips.
"Then we'll give them that reason."
He looked at himself. His Primarch body was still covered in scars, barely clad in his torn gladiator loincloth. He had fought a Drogorr with his bare hands. He had survived the Rage of Kratos. He had stood up to Mongul himself.
But he could not go to war dressed like this.
"Bok. Do you have what it takes to forge a protective suit of armor?"
Bok's bulbous eyes lit up.
"Yes, warrior! Come with me!"
The small creature flew across the laboratory, his membranous wings beating rapidly. Vulkan followed in long strides.
They entered another room, larger than the previous one. The place smelled of heat and metal. Robotic arms hung from the ceiling, motionless, awaiting commands. Workbenches were covered in tools, spare parts, metal plates, and spools of energy wire. A fabrication table stood at the center of the room, surrounded by holographic projectors.
"This is where I make the tools and prototypes," Bok explained. "For Mongul, trial and error is not welcome. If a prototype fails, it means certain death. So I work in secret, testing everything here before presenting my creations."
He turned to Vulkan, a confident smile on his wrinkled face.
"You can make yourself a better set of armor for protection. And I can help you. Together, we can create something exceptional."
Vulkan laid a hand on Bok's shoulder.
"Thank you, Bok."
The small creature smiled without a word, and they got to work.
---
Vulkan was a fan of science fiction and comics. In his old life, Bob Wilkinson had spent hours devouring graphic novels, watching movies, playing video games. He knew the iconic armors of every hero in pop culture.
And he knew exactly what he wanted.
He didn't want a shiny, flashy suit like the technological knights. He didn't want a massive, hulking suit like the Space Marines of his adopted universe. He wanted something different. Something badass. Something that matched the image he now had of himself.
He wanted to stay true to his origins while embracing his new destiny.
"Bok, I have a specific design in mind."
"I'm listening, warrior."
Vulkan connected to the laboratory's holographic interface. His fingers danced across the alien keyboard, and an image appeared in the air.
"This is the model."
Bok studied the image carefully. His bulbous eyes swept over every detail of the displayed armor.
"Interesting. Very interesting. Aggressive lines but functional. Full protection without sacrificing mobility. And this cloak..."
Vulkan smiled.
"The cloak stays. But it's detachable. I remember that the heroes of that universe have a nasty habit of getting it grabbed by villains."
Bok let out a small laugh, that strange sound Vulkan had learned to appreciate.
"Wise precaution."
They set to work.
Hours flew by. The robotic arms activated, cutting metal plates, welding joints, assembling electronic components. Bok supervised every step with surgical precision, his clawed fingers flying over the controls. Vulkan brought his Primarch strength to handle the heaviest pieces and his instinctive knowledge of the forge to guide the design.
The armor that took shape was inspired by the Praetor Suit of the Doom Slayer, in its dark and medieval Dark Ages variant. An armor both primitive and technological, designed to inspire fear in enemies and hope in allies.
The tones were understated yet striking. A dark green, almost black, for the main plates, reminiscent of deep forests or abyssal oceans. Inlays of aged bronze for the edges and reinforcements, evoking ancient relics. Matte black for the flexible armor covering the joints and mobility zones. The whole gave an impression of sturdiness and age, as if the armor had endured centuries of battle.
The helmet was a masterpiece in itself. A faceted visor that completely masked the face, revealing only a menacing red glow at eye level. Short, massive horns curved backward from the skull. The lower jaw was reinforced with bronze, giving the impression of a permanent metallic grimace.
The pauldrons were asymmetrical—the left massive and bristling with spikes, the right more subdued so as not to hinder combat movements. The chest was protected by a segmented cuirass that perfectly hugged Vulkan's muscles. The gauntlets were reinforced with metal plates at the knuckles, turning every punch into a devastating impact.
The cloak, finally. A long mantle of thick fabric, dark green as well, lined with blood red on the inside. It was attached to the shoulders by magnetic clasps that could detach instantly if needed. Vulkan had insisted on this point: he refused to end up like those heroes who got caught by their own capes.
Bok stepped back to admire their joint creation. His bulbous eyes shone with pride.
"It's magnificent, warrior. Truly magnificent."
Vulkan approached the armor floating in its maintenance cradle. He reached out and brushed the cold surface of the metal.
"This armor is far more than protection. It's a symbol."
"A symbol of what?"
Vulkan turned to Bok, his red eyes burning with fierce determination.
"Of the coming revolution."
He donned the armor piece by piece. The plates adjusted perfectly to his Primarch body, as if they had always been part of him. The internal systems activated, displaying tactical data on the helmet's visor.
When he was fully equipped, Vulkan turned to a polished metal mirror in the corner of the workshop.
The reflection facing him was no longer that of a prisoner. It wasn't even that of a gladiator. It was the image of a conqueror. A legendary warrior. A Primarch in battle armor.
The cloak drifted softly behind him. The bronze plates gleamed under the artificial light. The helmet's visor glowed with a menacing light.
Vulkan clenched his fist.
"Perfect. Now, let's go get my companions."
Bok nodded, his membranous wings beating with excitement.
"Orrana and Tsag are still in cell B1-3. I can lead us there undetected."
"Then let's move. The revolution starts now."
The armored Primarch and the small winged genius left the secret workshop. Behind them, the robotic arms powered down, their work complete.
In the shadows of Warworld, the flame of rebellion had just been lit. And soon, it would consume everything in its path.