Endzone: Simulated Apocalypse

"Platoon S to HQ, Ultimatum is attempting to breach containment."

The soldier, named Jackson, swore under his breath. His guard partner Guten stepped back from the door as they raised their assault rifles, pointing them at the sealed hydraulic doors. A heavy thudding came from behind them, and though they were tightly sealed, interlocked with a diagonal split between them maximising the strength of the entrance, it was worrying.

This was the eighteenth time this week, and they didn't like it.

Ten more soldiers seemingly manifested behind the two guards, the twelve of them all in riot gear and armed. Despite the nervousness, this was merely a precaution for them. Ultimatum hadn't been able to break containment yet, and was now more of an annoyance to them than anything. Half of them were barely paying attention.

A fatal mistake.

From behind the doors came an aggressive squeal of tortured metal and the snaps of straps and restraints, the ping of chain links ricocheting all over the small 5x5x5 room Ultimatum had been restrained in.

"W-What was that?!" Jackson cried, and quickly aimed his gun towards the sealed chamber Ultimatum was stored in.

"Ready weapons!" Guten ordered, narrowing his eyes.

All the soldiers were now alert, gun barrels pointed at the same spot, their laser sights inflaming and attempting to burn through the reinforced doors. But it was too late. They heard a beastly scream—no, a roar—thunder through the doors. It was a bloodthirsty howl of sheer anger and ferocity.

Then, a thud. Then another. and another. Grunts of determination from behind. But he couldn't break through just yet—of course not. Not with the billions invested into his containment.

Yet even so… the door dented inwards.

Only slightly at first. Then, slightly more. And finally, the interlocked gears holding it shut became exposed, bent, and sprang out of their positions, hitting one soldier full in the face and killing him instantly. With a monumental flurry of sparks and noise, the doors were broken, blasted open by sheer force, smoke and fire obscuring the giant figure behind.

There stood a man. A tall man of about 6'6. His figure was enormous, every ounce laden with sheer muscle, Olympian in size and perfect in proportion. He stood still in the smoke and sparks, revealing he wore nothing but a tattered white tee and black sweats.

"U-Ultimatum has breached containment!" A soldier shouted in fear from the rear into his walkie talkie. He was barely done when a deep, gravelly, melodic voice took control of the room with its gravitas.

"Ultimatum…? No. It's Ragnar. Ragnar Creed," he boomed before smirking, dark eyes gleaming with hunger.

He was the predator, and they were his prey. He grabbed a segment of the remaining door, tearing it clean off its tracks, and held it with ease in his muscular right hand. Over a ton of pure reinforced steel was like a frail sheet of paper when it came to him.

As the soldiers saw the towering man before them rear his arm back, their expressions tightened and fear seized their eyes. They had been ordered not to harm the project, but what could they do? They gulped in fear and their fingers curled on their triggers.

But they would never get the chance to hurt him.

Ragnar's arm tensed, then cannoned the steel panel in a vicious spin down the metal corridor. Shots ricocheted off the walls and the sounds of bones snapping, blood gurgling, and flesh torn apart filled the hallway as the soldiers were murdered instantly by the deadly barrage. They didn't even have time to scream.

But that, was only the beginning.

*****

Very soon, the underground compound was overrun with explosions and blasts, shaking as Ragnar thundered through on his rampage. Others tried to stop him. Super Soldiers, genetically selected and enhanced just like him.

But he was better than the rest. Faster. Stronger. Deadlier.

He tore through muscle, crushed skulls like apples, all the while glaring silently through the noise. He was done with this. Ever since he was a small child, he had been shaped and molded to become the supreme fighter, the ultimate soldier, forcibly enhanced to become a god among men.

Sounds good on paper, doesn't it?

But Ragnar found out. Found out the people who trained him intended to implant him with a chip and sell him to the highest bidder, and were prepared to sedate him the second they realized he knew.

Ragnar, however, was not about to let others decide his fate for him.

The final super soldier stood in front of him, raising his fists in a fighting stance. The former comrade of Ragnar lashed out, only to hit the air. Ragnar flashed behind him impossibly quickly, and a swift blow to the spine killed the poor man instantly. The rogue soldier glanced down at the six grenades he'd amassed from the soldiers he'd murdered, then began the search for the underground facility's central power room.

All those gas pipes would make a splendid show.

*****

Leaving the destroyed compound behind, Ragnar didn't bother finding an exit and instead just knocked down the walls that were in his way like papier-mâché. He found himself surrounded by cool night air in the middle of the woods, juxtaposed heavily with the blaze of the crumbling compound behind him.

That organization, their leaders, all dead.

He judged the position of the stars above him, coming to the conclusion he was somewhere in Colorado. So he started walking. Aged 17, Ragnar was well aware of how the world worked. He'd read books, seen news reports, educated himself alongside the facility that prepared him for warfare. He knew the ins and outs of every major city, and most of the smaller ones too.

From there, he lived silently for a while, modestly and quietly, working part time and relaxing as he accustomed himself to life in the real world—and then his true purpose clicked in his mind one day after a certain event. He wanted to stop people being hurt by criminals. He wanted to use his superhuman strength for justice. For something good.

Ragnar worked for three years alongside the police. He used his computing knowledge to insert himself as part of society, built a baseline identity for himself that he used when not in his crime-fighting persona. He lived comfortably in a modern house in the woods, or in his penthouse in New York City, or in his villa in Italy, all with money he made from trading stocks with his education from the facility. Nobody knew who Ragnar Creed was, or how he was so rich so silently, but everyone spread rumors of the silent man who would don a mask and stop crime in its tracks with ease, impossibly strong; keeping his identity secret all the while.

But as time went on, Ragnar became disillusioned. He realized soon that the justice system was flawed, and there was always some rule or the other preventing him from dealing with criminals how he saw fit. The most disgusting scumbags were even never sentenced to more than a humane death or life in a cell when they deserved far worse.

And so, he rebelled, yet again.

He left the police force, forged his own armor, red and gunmetal grey to characterize him wherever he went, alongside the sharp, sleek angles that encompassed his bulk. His knight-like helmet held the sneer of his visor and those three vicious horns on top of his head, like a crown of reign. His broadsword was of unknown composition, glowing a vicious crimson with its jagged edge, standing almost five feet tall, and capable of slicing through concrete and steel with ease.

Now, he had his true identity. He went out into the underground of the cities where no cop dared to. He built contacts, had eyes everywhere, and went and handled troublemakers himself. He had gone rogue. Vigilante. He left no trace of his original identity behind, and resided in secret. He built a new life. He acted how he wished upon criminals, protecting those who could not protect themselves.

His name was Ragnar Creed. The underground rumors dubbed him the Titan of Shadows, but everyone else called him Dreddnought. He was the judge, the jury, the executioner. He was a force of true destruction. Not only was he obscenely strong himself, he was also skilled and dexterous. His broadsword became a symbol of danger and menace to the underground metropolis.

But no matter how many criminals he killed, there were still always stragglers. He was a force to be reckoned with—but even with all the contacts he had, he couldn't stop every crime before it happened. He grew more and more angry with himself day by day. He drank himself into a rage every night, punching trees till his knuckles bled and the bark was sheared off.

He was never happy. He was never enough. He hated himself for his insufficiency. The tears and cries of those he had been too late to help haunted him every night. He wasn't God. He couldn't do this alone. And every contact he made, all just wanted money. He couldn't rely on them, not when he'd been sold out multiple times, moved twice as many times as that to keep his location secret.

He was utterly alone in his struggle. Every waking hour, some days with no sleep, he would fight crime and its henchmen tirelessly, but to no avail. He had never even had the privilege to live his own life out, but sacrificed his own stability to attempt to salvage that of others. He was tired of fighting, now 25 and in the same position he was in when he was 20. Rich, multiple large houses, all the material items he'd ever wanted, lonely, and still fighting just as much crime.

He wanted a way to divert all the excess resources being hoarded in the world to the right cause. He wanted unjustified crime gone entirely. He would find a way, or die trying. Because if he didn't, what was he living for? And if he died trying, he was evidently never good enough to protect people in the first place. He would kill, brutalize, or even betray if he had to. The ends justified the means. He would eradicate this world of people's crimes against each other, and nobody would stop him.

*****

3:57 AM. A stormy night in New York.

The giant known as Ragnar Creed, Dreddnought, stood in the smoking rubble of a bunker owned by the mob. The headless corpses of its inhabitants surrounded him, bodies mutilated and gutted like fish. Another day, another crime ring dismantled. He swung his sword onto his back, magnets latching it in place.

He was frustrated. The boss of the drug dealers who stationed themselves here had originally thought they had been targeted by the number one underground assassin, Cyanide, rather than Dreddnought—that is, until he saw the unmistakable armor of the Titan of Shadows.

Yes… Cyanide. The same mysterious individual who Ragnar had been attempting to track down for the past five years. It is said he did not have a single failed assassination, and always manages to escape the impossible. A man who opposed fate itself, and could not be controlled by anything nor anyone.

But he was a criminal.

And because he was a criminal, Ragnar would hunt him.

But every time, he was always one step late. Every time he arrived at the scene of one of Cyanide's attacks, the target was already dead, their guards completely clueless it even happened. One time, Ragnar managed to catch a glimpse of Cyanide's backside, and was about to confront him when the guy literally jumped out a window from a thirty-story building with seemingly no equipment at all. Even Ragnar couldn't survive a fall like that unscathed.

So, he was frustrated. And when Cyanide's name came up again during tonight's operation, Ragnar was only reminded of his anger.

As he turned to leave the scene, however, his attention was diverted to a hooded figure in a formal black business suit and tie standing in the massive hole he'd blasted into the brick wall leading out onto the street. He held a tiny 3.5 inch by 2 inch card in his hand, seemingly made out of cardboard paper.

But that wasn't the problem. The problem was… this man wasn't supposed to be here in the first place.

"Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck do you want?" Ragnar thundered, still in a rage due to the mentioning of Cyanide earlier. His hand shot to the handle of his sword, ready to fight the unknown adversary. But to his surprise…

"No need to draw arms, Mr. Creed," the voice chuckled in a low baritone. Almost friendly, even mocking.

"…!"

Ragnar straightened to his full height, taking three steps before he was face to face with the man. An anonymous plastic mask covered his face entirely, and he was about six feet tall, thin. Ragnar, on the other hand, towered over him as he looked down.

"How do you know my name?" He asked quietly, voice soft but threatening.

The unknown man replied accordingly.

"Ragnar Creed. The Titan of Shadows, alias Dreddnought. Once raised as a super soldier part of Project Ultimatum, you surpassed all expectations and shattered the chains that bound you. From there, after a certain incident, you joined the police force to fight against crime, but then turned rogue and took things into your own hands after realizing how corrupt the society is, and how meaningless the police are to truly powerful criminals. But even after doing so… you feel empty. Alone. Powerless, despite all the power you have. Isn't that right?"

BOOM!

Ragnar smashed his sword down beside the man, sending a thundering shockwave that split the earth itself. But the mysterious, anonymous figure did not even flinch.

"Did you just come here to annoy me?" Ragnar growled, tilting his menacing red visor towards the man.

"No, not at all," the figure replied, and Ragnar could've sworn the plastic mask smiled slightly despite only being a mask. "I came here with a proposal. An invitation, if you will."

"An invitation…?" Ragnar raised an eyebrow. "Spit it out."

The man handed Ragnar the card he held in his hand. Imprinted onto it was a single telephone number:

[(091) 914-1520]

"Dial that phone number if you are interested in participating in our 'game'. The winner, sir, wins the ability to wish for anything," the masked figure said, spreading his gloved arms. "When I say anything, I do mean, anything. No strings, no tricks, no genie games. You win whatever your heart desires, be that a material wish or a long-sought dream. All you must do… is win."

As Ragnar stared down at the card in his hand for what seemed like a decade, he thought.

Could this really be what he needed? Could this be his chance to prove his capability to himself to accomplish his mission? It may be a trap. But what if it wasn't? And even if it was, chances were, he could fight his way out.

He looked up, ready to accept the invitation immediately… but when he did, the hooded man was already gone. Disappeared without a trace in the matter of a mere few seconds, like something Cyanide would be able to pull off.

"Well then," Ragnar muttered, pocketing the tiny card. "Time to get moving."

The rubble crunched under his foot as he started walking with new purpose.