My fist struck the face of possibly the world's greatest assassin with a perfect hook, and while it staggered him, his helmet and superhuman biology reduced what should have been a deadly blow into a momentary stun.
He moved with the speed and grace of men and women a third his age, twirling his deadly staff in one hand with his trademark sword buried to the hilt in a distant wall, as his other hand began to grip the bottom of a high-caliber pistol strapped to his thigh.
He even managed to un-holster the weapon before my firm grip placed itself on his fingers and the hammer of the gun, preventing it from firing with my massive thumb, and also forcing the weapon downward enough that his torso bent in just the right way, to avoid having the high-tech staff crack open the back of my skull on his wild back-swing.
His lone eye stared up at me in anger as my superior positioning proved equal to his superior strength, and in the nanoseconds where he debated his next moves to himself, my free hand struck downward into his extended shoulder and clavicle with enough force to break stone and bend metal, and instead of shattering the important pieces to his upper skeleton, his shoulder merely dislocated because of his superhuman body... though his armor was nearing it's last threads of life at this point in our bout.
Though my blow was devastating, I was repaid by the staff producing a five-inch blade from the top end, where it promptly pierced straight through my right kneecap with little resistance. The pain was excruciating, but with the sheer amount of adrenaline I was expelling and my unparalleled mental control, it was not enough to prevent me from claiming his pistol as my own with a textbook disarming maneuver, and promptly firing it into his abdomen until the magazine was empty. The armor stopped a few of the bullets, but the distance and caliber of the weapon meant that his flesh would still be pierced by the tungsten and uranium tipped rounds... but we both knew that such wounds would only slow him down, not kill.
A hard kick to the throat had me gasping for air, but my grip did not waver, as I promptly bent his healthy right arm to such an angle that even his superhuman skeleton couldn't maintain it's shape... the resounding pop of an elbow becoming inverted was practically music to my ears even as my lungs struggled to take in oxygen.
But the man did not scream, not once, just as I did not scream.
Aside from the sounds of our breathing, and our fists cutting through the air, this battle between superior men was as silent as the grave.
In a final bid for safety from my brutal ambush and even more brutal onslaught, Deathstroke The Terminator placed both boots on my chest and kicked himself away with as much force as possible, and while I felt my ribs crack in multiple places, my grip was just firm enough that his trajectory had been forced downward into the concrete rather than up.
Even with the screaming pain in my knee and the multiple bleeding wounds across my body that leaked my precious life-essence, I leapt after my prey, clearing enough distance to make an Olympian gold-medalist gawk. Like a lion leaping after a honey-badger, it was only when I was nearly upon him, did I realize that his jump was not just to create distance... it was to relocate his shoulder and properly grip his staff, which produced a nearly ten-inch blade from the opposite end, aiming directly for center-mass.
My momentum was final, my mass was definite, and we both knew I had the sheer athletic ability to dodge this potentially fatal mistake even despite these two things... but what he didn't know, is that my determination was limitless.
The ten inches of laser-sharpened steel poking through my stomach was enough to surprise the older warrior, the fact that my right hand grabbed the staff and pulled almost four feet of the metal rod through my own body was able to disgust the venerated former soldier, and the realization that both my hands had gripped either side of his head had finally caused the long-awaited look of acceptance to appear in the contract-killer's remaining eye.
SNAP!
And just like that, the old had been brought-low by the new, though not without cost. But just to be sure... my last vestiges of strength were used to fully remove the head and spine of my fallen foe from his body, to ensure his healing factor would not allow him to recover from this conflict.
Looking over myself as I sat next to my foe with his weapon still skewering me, I could tell even with my somewhat amateur medical gaze, that my survival after this battle for dominance would be... unlikely.
Damn... well, I suppose that's enough meditation for now, since it's nearly time for the tide to come in, that means only one thing: dinner.
*****
My eyes opened to the same four walls I been trapped inside for well over a year, with the only breaks in the monotony of my cell was the two grates on either side and the single set of bars above my head, but even with these openings (small as they were) I had yet to see the sun since I had awoken in this world... at least outside of my mind.
Most people think of Bane as a roid-using meat-head, who couldn't think his way out of coloring book, and most of those people are idiots themselves.
Bane had possibly one of the greatest minds the human race could produce, not because of sheer intelligence (though it was monstrously high) like Luthor and other inventors of DC, but because of the sheer flexibility and control that Bane had over his mental faculties, and the resilience of that very same mind.
Bane spent years meditating to overcome his phobia of bats, and actually managed to do so, but since I didn't really have a primary fear or phobia I had to use my patented "Bane-Brain"™ to train in a different way.
With my greater intelligence, as well as my ability to manipulate my own body and mental functions, I was effectively training myself as close to Bane's level as I could before I was even let out of "The Hole" as everyone in Pena Duro called it, while also being able to strengthen my control over myself.
While I didn't have any weights or gym equipment available, I was still able to exercise and more importantly, sharpen my mind with puzzles and hypothetical scenarios/battles... and I had even begun to manipulate my own physiology a small bit.
Similar to some characters in the Baki series, I was so easily able to control my own mind and body, that I could meditate preforming some type of exercise that would be impossible in this cell... and my body would slowly begin to change and respond to my own mental stimuli as if I was actually doing it physically.
So far I was only able to visualize swimming, and the effect was less than actually preforming the exercise, but when trapped in a ten-by-ten box several hundred feet underground you work with what you've got... speaking of:
The slow but steady rush of water began to flow over the grates of my cell, and with the water followed fish, crabs, rats, and even the occasional bird which followed the flow of water to continue gorging itself.
Pena Duro was originally a military prison for the Axis Powers during WW2, but after the war ended the local population quickly took over and began modifying the original structure to make the world's most inescapable prison. Part of this was the water that surrounded the prison, which had regular but powerful storms that were known for being dangerous to even modern ships, but the most dangerous part was the many hidden tunnels and holes in the sides of the cliffs that would suddenly begin to suck down water like a vacuum the moment tide became high enough... leading to a lot of people getting sucked in after getting tossed overboard, and then promptly drowning or getting skewered on ancient volcanic rocks.
The Hole" was a single cell from the Axis days, that was presumably used to try and contain or control one of the Nazi's many failed super-soldier experiments by filling the cell with sea-water from top to bottom every four days. Which made it very hard for normal people to survive their stint in solitary, due to the lack of light, interaction with humans, and the danger of drowning if you were caught unaware.
El-Jefe was as you'd expect the corrupt warden of the world's most terrifying prison to be, imposing, cruel, somewhat charismatic, and a lot smarter than you'd think just from looking at him. Though he had a pretty heavy resemblance to Wario from the Nintendo games, the guy was smart enough to know that killing me outright by execution or starvation would merely make the prisoners rise up, and likely give the people on the outside the same inclinations as well.
To avoid this, the warden fed and watered me... irregularly. I was always given enough water to sustain myself, but food was always at random times and in random amounts, so random that I had to wonder if the guy was rolling d20s to decide on how much and when I'd be fed.
What nobody expected was for me to resort to the most basic instinct of humans: feed on those lesser than you.
I ate anything that was foolish enough to get within reach, though rats were often my last resort due to their aggressive nature, and while I was not at a healthy weight considering my current muscle-mass, it was enough to avoid the possibility of death.
I had been stuck inside this cell for over a year, and I had four more to go until I was released. Nobody expected me to survive five years of solitary, not even my friends Trogg, Bird (who had been sent here way earlier than in the comics), and Zombie believed that I would make it out in a state that would be able to give all I promised on those tiny scrolls of paper the birds ferried between my bars at low-tide.
Promises of freedom.
Promises of purpose.
Promises of a second chance.
But they were skeptical, as they should be, and so I would have to prove to them and everyone else on these Islands, that I truly am the superior man.
But first, I'm going to kill this fucking rat that keeps squeaking at me like he's taunting me... little bastard is trying to look tough for his friends.
I pick up a small rock that has floated in from the strong currents of the sea and tunnels, take careful aim in the pitch-black of my cell, and let the rock fly with deadly speed and power.
Smash!
*****
It has been three years since I've been locked in this cage, and three years since my friends have begun to truly realize just what I am compared to normal men.
I've outgrown my jumpsuit and instead have torn it into strips, to use as straps to hold the bottles of water that are slid through the food-slot onto my body when I train, for extra weight.
I've been hit with the "puberty-stick" pretty hard since I've got a bush of chest hair at ten, and my body has quickly become that of a starving Olympic athlete's child.
Even in total darkness, I can see clearly, more than some of the animals that enter my cell, and I see more than any normal man would thanks to meditation... I was born in the dark, and then I conquered it, like all the other obstacles set before me.
Everyday that I live is a day that breeds resentment for the government from my fellow prisoners, and the citizens who are prisoners in all but name. Bird tells me in his limited messages that I've become a symbol to all of Santa Prisca, that the current government is not as strong as they project... and apparently not as united as they'd seem.
Over the past few years the collection of leaders who run this country, "The High-Junta" as they are called by the people, have begun to get quite tense with each other, due to my continued survival and the involvement of several external threats.
My continued living was building a powder-keg of revolution for the people, the likes of which would likely make a second revolution almost certain, and a rebel victory far more likely than the last time. But the Warden himself was now rumored to be skimming extra money "off the top" for every prisoner that was sent to Santa Prisca, rather than taking the flat rate he was expected and giving the rest to the communal vault they all shared. Most of the people in Pena Duro was actually a foreigner to these lands, usually criminals, but occasionally political prisoners, mercs, and soldiers who had been on the losing side got packed up and shipped out here with a fairly hefty reward attached.
That the warden was recently rumored to have been taking more than his "fair" share of the profits, meant that he'd likely been doing this for quite awhile and that whoever was covering his misdeeds no longer wanted him around.
I finished writing my most recent orders to my three friends and trusted lieutenants, before tying the small piece of paper to the bird that delivered it, watching as it flew out of the top of my cell.
Trogg and Zombie would be keeping an eye out for useful people who had skills that would be needed for my plans, while Bird continued to smuggle-in and stash many items that I'd requested over the past three years with the efficiency of a soldier organizing a munitions-warehouse.
Just one more year... one more year until I was out of this cage.
Then, my plans could truly begin in earnest, and I could be one step closer to my absolution.
*****
They stopped giving me fresh water four weeks ago, in a final attempt to remove me from their lives, without being seen as weak by the prisoners or citizens of Santa Prisca.
The human body can only survive without fresh drinking water for four days.
I am still here.
I am still alive.
My survival is through a combination of meditation, pain, and pure determination to see this to the end.
I decided that in my final two weeks I shall resume my physical training in spite of my lack of water:
1,000 sit-ups, 1,000 push-ups, 1,000 pull-ups, 1,000 squats, 1,000 lunges, 1,000 flutter-kicks, 1,000 left-hooks into the stone walls, 1,000 right hooks into the walls, 1,000 kicks into the walls, and a 50-mile run every single day.
I can't quite remember what day it is, but my count of every exercise is precise.
I can't remember what the sky looks like, but my body moves without hesitation or shaking.
I've not seen another human face outside of my mind in five years, but I know that I will prove to everyone that the current leadership of Santa Prisca pales in comparison to something like me.
I am finishing my routine with pull-ups today, 997... 998... 999... 1,000. I stop and merely hang from the grate above me as my sharpened ears hear the sound of boots approaching the door.
It takes almost ten seconds for all the locks upon my door to be undone, before the door opens and my back is covered in the lights of the nearby hallway, and I simply hang from the ceiling by my fingers with my back to the warden like he deserves.
I hear a guard whisper a prayer as he sees me not only alive, but now one of the most physically formidable prisoners within this complex. I swing my legs forward and release my fingers at just the right time to dismount from the ceiling with a triple-flip.
Landing in a crouch, I slowly rise and turn to find that I am now of equal height with El-Jefe despite still being a boy, and we both knew I would grow larger as I matured.
The man's cigar hung between his lips and his eyes showed equal measures of hate and fear when he looked upon my form, for the first time in five years, in all my naked glory.
I gave a sharp grin that promised so much, and none of them pleasant, before pointing to myself with my thumb.
Spoiler
"As you can see senor, I have used my isolation... constructively." The smugness in my voice infuriated the man, but as I approached the door he quickly stepped aside enough for me to exit The Hole.
I walked out to the astonished eyes of my fellow prisoners, guards, and doctors. All of them staring at what they thought was a dead child, but now stood before them as nearly a man, and more formidable than ever before.
As I walked naked through the crowd, I noticed some of the middle-eastern prisoners begin to chant under their breaths:
Deshi...
Basara...
Soon, every prisoner began to follow suit.
And the warden simmered in a silent rage, as I strut out among my people for the first time in five years.
Now that my irksome solitary confinement had ended, I could finally begin Phase-2 of my plans.
Rise From Darkness.