DREAM SEQUENCE — Somewhere Else
Black. Then blue. Then a flickering white sky.
Max floated, bodiless, like he was sinking into ice water.
"Maxwell Walker."
The voice came from nowhere — old, melodic, and deeply wrong. It echoed like a prayer said backwards.
He turned. Or thought he did.
Behind him stood a mirror. But it didn't show Max — it showed Pietro Maximoff. Eyes glowing faintly. Skin pale. Hair whipping in slow motion, as if underwater.
Max stared.
"You shouldn't be here," Pietro's reflection said, expression unreadable.
"Neither should you," Max replied, frowning.
The image shimmered. Pietro's face melted into something older — eyes deeper, mouth darker, as if it had seen centuries.
"He left you something. But not everything. The speed is borrowed. The hunger is yours."
"What hunger?" Max asked, his voice cracked, childlike.
"Run long enough... and you'll find out."
A clock began ticking.
The sky behind the reflection fractured like glass.
"Wake up, Maxwell."
SNAP
Arrival at the Prison
Max's head slammed against the side of the prison van as the doors burst open. Snow hit his face like knives.
Two guards yanked him out by the arms. He stumbled forward, legs sore from sitting, wrists raw from the cuffs.
Before him stood a massive iron gate, flanked by rusted fences and watchtowers. Beyond it, the prison rose like a mountain — brutalist architecture layered in frost and steel.
A figure stepped out from the shadows of the entrance.
(Author's note: Character Profile
Name:Warden Grigor Semyonovich ZharovAge:Late 50sHeight:6'6"Build:Bear-like. Broad shoulders, gnarled hands.Language:Broken English with thick Russian accentTraits:Ruthless. Dry humor. Smokes constantly. Keeps a taxidermy bear in his office. Military tattoos hidden under his coat.)
"So. Fast boy," Zharov said, spitting in the snow. "You die. Come back. Lucky dog, da?"
Max didn't respond.
Zharov tilted his head.
"You have nothing now. No name. No speed. No rights. You breathe because I allow. You run, we shoot legs first. Understand?"
Max met his eyes, voice hoarse.
"I'm not planning to run."
Zharov smirked.
"You will. They all run... before begging to die."
He nodded to the guards.
"Put miracle boy in Block 7. Cell with the ghost."
Cellblock 7
The cell door slammed behind Max like a guillotine.
The room stank of sweat and metal. A bunk, a bucket, a flickering bulb. Bare concrete. No windows.
A shape moved in the shadows.
"You're the one who came back?" a voice asked, gravelly and cold.
Max turned.
From the corner stood a giant of a man. Maybe 6'8", scarred from the neck down. Skin like tree bark. Hands calloused like stone.
(Author's note: Character Profile
Name:Alexei "Volk" MirovAge:Late 30sCrime:Mass murder. Cannibalism rumors.Nickname: "The Ghost"Skills:Hand-to-hand combat, psychological warfare, ex-Spetsnaz.)
Alexei stepped forward, cracking his neck.
"You're in my space now. If you breathe wrong, I'll snap your spine like twig."
Max didn't flinch.
"Right," he muttered, sighing. "Welcome committee it is."
Volk lunged — quick for his size, a blur of muscle.
Max sidestepped, grabbing his wrist and redirecting the force.
CRACK! — Volk's elbow smashed into the wall.
FLASHBACK — Age 10, Suburban Gym
Max, smaller, wide-eyed, stood in front of a Krav Maga instructor. His father, a retired Israeli bodyguard, taught with no mercy.
"No flash. No flare. Strike hard. End fast," his father said, circling him.
Max threw a kick. Blocked. Elbow strike. Blocked.
"Again!"
Back in the Cell
Volk swung again — Max ducked, countered with a palm to the throat, then a knee to the ribs. Volk groaned, stumbled.
Max backed off, breathing heavily.
"I don't want to fight," he said. "But I'm not your food either."
Volk sat on the bunk, spitting blood.
Then… he chuckled.
"You fight like death is behind you."
Max looked at the wall, haunted.
"Because maybe it is."
As the lights went out for the night, Max stared at the ceiling.
He felt the buzz in his veins again. That strange ticking behind his thoughts.
Rebirth came at a cost.
He still didn't know who brought him back — or why.But if the dream was real…There were more players in the game than just him.