The knock on the bars was subtle — too subtle for most inmates. But Max was awake, seated on the edge of his cot, his feet planted on cold cement like he was bracing for something.
The guard didn't speak. Just unlocked the door and motioned with two fingers. Max followed.
Administration Office - Sublevel B
The corridors twisted like veins beneath the prison — no windows, only humming fluorescent lights and rusted pipes that sweated with condensation. Max was led to a reinforced steel door with a slot at eye level and no identifying sign.
The guard punched in a code. The door creaked open.
Inside sat a man with a thick, salt-and-pepper beard, a shaved head, and a belly that stretched the seams of his cheap suit. A half-empty glass of something brown and burning sat beside a stack of personnel files.
Warden Zharov.
His English was infamous — as broken as it was laced with sarcasm.
"Ah. New boy with soft hands. Sit. Make self... at least tolerable."
Max sat without speaking. He studied the man. His office was more a bunker than a room — old Soviet maps on the walls, a wall of screens displaying feed from every wing of the prison, and a scent of cigar smoke and cold steel in the air.
Zharov didn't look up right away. He flipped open a file labeled "Subject: Maximilian Cross (ID UNKNOWN)".
"You break Makar's windpipe yesterday. Good form. You study krav?"
Max blinked. "Since I was nine."
"Impressive. Most men learn from prison. You bring prison with you."
Zharov sipped his drink, watching Max like he was trying to see through him.
Then he leaned back, sighing.
"Let us talk… like men. You not normal. I know this."
Max tensed.
"You walk in here. No ID. No record. No family. No past. But with eyes like soldier. And hands like ghost. I have had inmates from every pit in the world... but you, you don't fit."
Max said nothing. Let the silence stretch.
Then he spoke.
"What happened to the Avengers?"
Zharov blinked, caught off guard. "You mean... Americans in tights? Why? You know them?"
"I've heard things," Max said carefully. "Thought they were supposed to protect the world."
Zharov smirked, twirling his finger in the air like mocking a halo.
"Ha! Protect? No. Fight each other like spoiled children. United States gave them new rule — Registration Act. Must register names, powers. Like license for gods. Half said no. Your Captain America now fugitive."
Max's pulse quickened.
Civil War.
That's the timeline. I'm in the MCU. But that means... things are about to go to hell.
Zharov narrowed his eyes, watching Max with interest.
"You ask about heroes. You plan to escape? Fly like Iron Man, maybe?" He let out a low chuckle. "You ask strange things."
Max exhaled.
"Then let me ask something stranger. Can I work… as a janitor?"
Zharov blinked.
There was a long silence. Then he burst out laughing — wheezing, shoulders shaking, knocking his glass over.
"You! Janitor? After breaking three inmates in gym? What you want? Mop floor with their bones?"
Max smiled. Coldly. Dryly.
"Just want to keep busy."
Zharov wiped his eyes, still chuckling.
"Fine. Fine. You clean. But do me favor: don't kill everyone, yes?"
Max laughed too.
A deep, dry laugh.
Because that's exactly what he was planning.
Max's Cell — Later That Night
He sat on the floor, knees to chest, staring at his hands again.
"Civil War. Sokovia. The Raft. This isn't just a comic book anymore."
He flexed his fingers. Sparks. A flicker of speed. But he still couldn't trigger it fully.
And now, with this new intel, the stakes were rising fast. If heroes were fractured… if the world was polarizing around them… he'd either be locked down or labeled a threat.
Unless he made the first move.
Dream Sequence – Flash of Lightning
He's not in the cell anymore.
He's standing in a white void.
Static in the air. Time feels loose, like it's melting.
A figure stands across from him. Not fully visible. Blurred. But familiar.
Words echo, like through a broken radio:
"You weren't supposed to wake up in him."
"Too soon."
"The speed will come. But not without the cost."
The voice is layered. Male and female. Human and machine.
"Who the hell are you?" Max asks, but his voice doesn't carry.
"You were chosen. But not by us. And not for their war."
The figure lifts a hand — five fingers glowing like nebulae.
"Rebirth has a price."
Max reaches forward.
Flash. Noise. Screaming.
He's awake.
Max in Janitor Uniform, Eyes on the Supply Closet
He's in gray overalls now. A mop in his hand.
The supply closet is five feet from him.
Bleach. Ammonia. Everything he needs.
He leans against the mop, watching the hallway.
Thinking.
Calculating.
Plotting.
"Zharov thinks this is a joke. It isn't."
"This prison is my crucible."
"Let's see who burns first."