There was a man that sat in a cell.

He had long dark hair that had a slight curl to it and olive toned skin that often made him look like he had a tan. These two traits hinted at Italian or Greek heritage somewhere in the family tree. He was tall to most and short to some, broad shouldered and well muscled. His dark brown eyes, if one was brave enough to look into them, shone with an intelligence some would call exceptionally dangerous and few would call slightly deranged. He had a strong jaw line that was covered in a perpetual scruff that slang referred to as a 5 o'clock shadow. His nose was broad but straight and perfectly proportioned to the rest of his handsome face. His thin lips were constantly drawn in an insufferable know it all smirk.

The guards feared him. There wasn't one in the prison that would admit it, but they did. They knew that the meager prison walls and bars weren't enough to hold the man. And in a prison specifically designed to hold the most powerful and most dangerous villains the world would ever know, that was a frightening thought in deed.

What kept the man in his cell was not the walls them selves nor the fences or the barbed wire. It was not the bars on the doors, nor was it the chains and cuffs that they would use when moving prisoners from cell to cell or other areas of the prison. Not even the power-dampening field put a cramp in this man's style, or plans. None of these things kept this man bound to serve out his triple life sentence.

Rather it was a promise he had made.

He had promised his son, his only child, that he would stay and serve his time. After all what was 75 years to someone who would live to be thousands? But there were precious few that knew how long he would live. And he was in no hurry to enlighten anyone else.

Time meant something entirely different to him. Years weren't really all that long. And in the boring monotony of prison life, they weren't really all that noticeable either. But the one thing that did force him to keep track of their passage was also the one thing that kept him there in prison. The judicial system that had foolishly locked him away, had granted him one visit per year.

He wasn't quite sure what the motivation behind that little bit had been, and he wasn't really interested in puzzling it out. But he was grateful, because once a year, he got to see his son. To most being able to see your child once a year for 30 minutes would be unbearable. But he didn't count time like the rest of the inmates did. So to him, in a way, it was almost like seeing his son every day. And now that his son had (hopefully) stopped growing, it wouldn't be such a shock to see the rapid changes in the growing boy.

"Battle!" a rough yell was tossed down the hall as a small gate was opened in the middle of a thick metal door. "You know the drill, hands palm up." The man was flanked by an entire team of guards dressed from head to toe in riot gear, shields up and batons at the ready. Every guard was briefed never to underestimate this particular inmate, never to become complacent when dealing with the man. The rookie of the bunch flinched as large, strong hands slowly appeared in the opening, palm up as requested.

The lead guard quickly tightened a pair of adamantium handcuffs around the tattooed wrists then quickly stepped back. "Unlock." The guard ordered and reached for his special issue Taser. There was a loud buzz followed by a clank as the door to the cell was unlocked. Another guard stepped up to slowly maneuver the door open. As the door swung open, Barry Battle followed until his knuckles brushed against the wall and his back was to the squad of guards in their riot gear.

"Don't move." The guard commanded as he bent down to place matching cuffs on his ankles.

Barry didn't respond. He rolled his eyes. Really, after eight years of this you would think they would stop jumping every time he blinked. He blamed it all on Stronghold and his propensity for hyperbole. He may have done a nasty thing or two to get in here, but he was by far not the worst person they had locked up in this merry little boarding school.

"Two steps back." Mr friendly ordered.

Barry obeyed without a word, and the guard swiftly clipped the chain in place that linked the anklecuffs and the handcuffs.

"No funny business." The guard ordered without looking him in the eye. Barry just smirked. And then off they went. The squad of riot dressed guards escorted him to a private and well-secured room not far from his cell. There he was extremely surprised to find the one and only Steven Stronghold, dressed in his ridiculous red, white, and blue costume.