Marvelous Meditations #60

Having unloaded an amount of intelligence that would make even the most sophisticated spy networks green with envy, Arkady studied Nathan’s face carefully.

The American’s condition for freeing him—and for providing a workable alternative to the Carbonadium Synthesizer—was simple: information.

Arkady had no shortage of that.

He spoke at length, revealing details that would make world governments tremble if they ever saw them laid out on paper. Classified Russian black ops missions. Secret super-soldier projects buried beneath layers of deception.

The names of underground power players, smugglers, assassins, and warlords operating in the shadows. Criminal networks that spanned continents, not just borders.

And yet, despite the sheer goldmine of intelligence being handed to him, Nathan showed interest in only one thing:

The Hellfire Club.

Arkady noticed it immediately. The way the American’s posture shifted, the slight narrowing of his eyes—not at the mention of the Club itself, but at something specific.

A job Arkady once did for them.

Not the details of the job itself. Not the money, not the target.

Nathan wanted the method to contact one of their pawns.

That realization sent a quiet ripple of amusement through Arkady’s mind. A dangerous man hunting ghosts.

But none of this really mattered to him. Not the secrets he was giving away, not the supposed deal being placed before him. Whether it was Nathan Cross who handed him a Synthesizer or his own Russian masters, it made no difference. Both would make him a slave. Both would chain him.

And Arkady was done being a dog on a leash.

He was feeding Cross these secrets for one reason only: to get these restraints off.

The moment he did, he would tear through every single obstacle in his path. Rip out their throats, bathe in their blood, and take what he needed.

Inhibition drugs dulled his power, and the cold seeped deep into his bones, but it didn’t matter. He was still Omega Red.

And despite everything—despite the steel coffin binding him, despite the weight of his chains—he was confident in his ability to escape.

The two men standing before him? Not mutants.

The old one, Gregor, was seasoned, but age had dulled his edge.

And Cross? His prosthetic arm looked dangerous, but in the end, it was still attached to a fragile, breakable human.

Arkady grinned beneath the muzzle, his crimson eyes glinting with something between amusement and bloodlust. "So, how about it? Satisfied?"

Nathan met his gaze with an expression so blank it might as well have been carved from stone. "Very."

Arkady let out a low, rumbling hum. "Then why don’t you help me out of these restraints?" His voice was thick with mockery, but there was a dangerous edge beneath it. "We’re comrades now, da?"

Nathan’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile—more like the suggestion of one. He turned to Gregor. "Set him free, old man."

Gregor’s face was unreadable as he pulled a remote from his coat, his fingers moving with the efficiency of a man who had seen far too much to be surprised by anything anymore. With a sharp click, he pressed a button.

The sound of metal clanking against the floor filled the freezing room as the restraints snapped open one by one. Heavy steel bindings dropped, and thick mechanical locks hissed as they disengaged.

Arkady let out a deep groan, the sound guttural, almost obscene, as he stretched his limbs for the first time in what felt like an eternity. He reached up, tearing the muzzle from his face and tossing it aside with a metallic clang.

"This..." he exhaled, rolling his shoulders, feeling his strength return inch by inch, "feels great."

Then his gaze shifted.

His eyes, sharp and predatory, locked onto Nathan like a beast sizing up its prey. A wicked grin twisted his face. "This, however—" he growled, muscles tensing— "this will feel even better."

Without warning, he lunged.

Even weakened—his body still suffering from the inhibition drugs, the cold, the lingering effects of captivity—Arkady moved like a force of nature.

The distance between them vanished in a blink.

He swung his fist, aiming to cave in the fragile human’s skull—

But Nathan was already moving.

In a single, fluid motion, he raised a sleek, strange-looking pistol, the design far too advanced to be anything standard-issue. His finger squeezed the trigger.

A small, spherical projectile shot from the barrel with a soft pop—almost disarmingly quiet.

The instant it made contact with Arkady’s chest, the sphere shifted.

A patch unfolded, sticking to him like a parasite.

Before he could process what was happening, a surge of electricity—enough to power an entire city block—exploded through his body.

Arkady’s roar of pain and rage echoed through the chamber. His muscles locked as white-hot agony tore through his nerves.

That alone would have been enough to bring him to his knees.

But Nathan wasn’t that merciful.

With the pain enhancers Gregor had pumped into his system, the sensation was amplified tenfold.

The torment that followed was unlike anything Arkady had ever felt. Every nerve in his body screamed. His very bones felt like they were being shattered from the inside. His mutant physiology should have allowed him to endure almost anything—but this?

This was hell.

Arkady convulsed on the floor, his body jerking violently as the last dregs of electricity crackled through his nerves. His breath came in ragged gasps, every muscle in his body locked in agony.

Nathan watched in silence, his expression as indifferent as ever. Slowly, deliberately, he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled one free, placing it between his lips.

The metallic fingers of his right hand shifted slightly, a small nozzle emerging near the tip of his thumb. A single spark ignited, and the cigarette flared to life.

He took a long drag, inhaling deep before exhaling a slow, curling stream of smoke. It had been a long time since he indulged in this particular vice—a habit from a past life, one he’d sworn off years ago. But just this once, he would allow himself the luxury.

His gaze flicked downward, meeting Arkady’s hate-filled stare.

"I didn’t want to come here, you know…" Nathan muttered, the cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. "Had better things to do. And honestly? The kids would’ve been more than enough to deal with the likes of you."

Arkady gritted his teeth, the pain still fresh in his nerves as he forced out a hoarse breath. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Nathan chuckled, the sound low and amused. He took another slow drag, letting the smoke coil from his lips like a specter before continuing.

"I mean that the one who wanted you dealt with? It wasn’t me. Not at first."

With that, Nathan lifted his boot and pressed it against Arkady’s throat—not enough to choke him, just enough to remind him of exactly where he stood.

"I honestly couldn’t give two shits about you," Nathan said, his tone almost conversational. "There’s no shortage of psychopaths in this world—lunatics with more power than their tiny egos and brains can handle."

He lifted his foot, flicked the cigarette from his fingers—and let it drop right onto Arkady’s face.

The embers sizzled against his skin.

Before Arkady could react, Nathan’s boot came down, grinding the smoldering tip against his cheek. The Russian snarled in pain, but the restraints on his body left him unable to do anything but seethe.

Nathan exhaled one last cloud of smoke, then let his words sink in.

"You were nothing. No one. Just another name in a file." He paused, his expression darkening. "Until I read through the file."

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes now cold, unreadable. "You were part of a hit squad a couple of years back. A job, right? Standard op, nothing personal."

Nathan crouched slightly, bringing himself to Arkady’s level. "The target?" He smirked, but there was no humor in it. "A little girl by the name of Lily."

Arkady gritted his teeth, his breath coming in ragged bursts as he glared up at Nathan. "Who?" he spat, his voice hoarse from the pain still searing through his nerves.

Nathan’s smirk widened, though there was no real amusement in it.

"Denial?" He tilted his head slightly, studying Arkady as if he were some particularly vile insect pinned beneath his boot. "Or maybe…" he mused, "you really don’t remember her?"

He turned slightly, his gaze shifting toward Gregor. "What do you think, old man? Think he’d remember your boy?"

Gregor hadn’t taken his eyes off Arkady once. His expression was stone, but his gaze—sharp, unyielding—held the weight of a thousand knives.

"Nyet." Gregor’s voice was quiet, but it carried an unmistakable finality. He took a slow step forward. "But I will make him remember."

Nathan exhaled, shaking his head slightly as he turned back to Arkady. "Honestly?" he murmured, his tone almost thoughtful. "I’d love nothing more than to rip you apart with my own hands."

With slow, deliberate motion, he reached into his coat. There was a soft metallic scrape as he drew out an axe, the weapon’s weight settling effortlessly in his grip. Then, without another word, he let it drop.

The axe slammed into the metallic floor with a deafening clang, the edge buried deep, pulsing with an eerie blue glow.

Arkady’s eyes widened in horror. He recognized that weapon. The same one that severed his Carbonadium coils. The same blade that, for the first time in years, had made him feel vulnerable.

Nathan didn’t so much as glance at him. Instead, he turned toward the door.

"But the old man here?" he said casually, striding toward the exit. "He’s got a bigger bone to pick with you."

Gregor stepped forward, his fingers curling around the axe’s handle. The moment he lifted it, his posture shifted, his presence filling the room with something dark, something violent.

Nathan didn’t bother looking back. He walked out, his boots echoing against the cold floor. He made it only a few steps before a sharp, ragged scream tore through the corridor behind him.

He paused just briefly, letting the sound settle in his ears. Then he continued walking, hands in his pockets, his voice carrying softly through the dimly lit halls—

A low, haunting hum.

"Темна́я но́чь, только пули свистят по степи…"

(Dark is the night, only bullets whistle across the steppe…)