Brandon Breyer, also known to the terrified populace of planet Earth by the appellation Brightburn, awoke in utter darkness. His insectoid mask was absent, his psychological armor removed with its absence.

Confused at this new development, he attempted moving his arms but it felt as though he were trying to push against thick mud. This was impossible. He could bend steel, lift whole trucks, collapse buildings, and yet found that he couldn't move more than half an inch before the resistance of the gelid substance became too much to overcome.

Instinctively, Brandon called upon the power of what he called his 'Burn-vision." I'll melt my way out of here! Ambient energy stored within his cells flowed into his retinas. Twin beams as dark red as the fires of Perdition blasted forth. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating the beams' intensity to that of the most powerful lasers. He kept them on for several seconds until finally he expended all the energy he could possibly muster and had to stop.

Still he could see nothing. No effect. He could burn through freezer doors. He had even carved out whole furrows in concrete with them in his confrontations with the military. And yet all he had accomplished was raise the temperature of his surroundings to what must be at least a 100 degrees. Even invincible, he began to sweat ever so slightly.

He shut his eyes and listen. The only sound was the squelching of whatever substance surrounded him. Where was he? He couldn't remember anything that happened before.

And then...

"Brandon Breyer."

Somewhere in that darkness, a voice.

"Can you understand me?"

Male, and had an accent almost like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Brandon recalled how his father used to watch those action movies all the time. But there was also an edge of distortion and a faint echo, like the man speaking was talking through a tin can.

"I graciously allowed you the freedom of movement in your neck. If you can understand me, nod once, please."

The malicious demigod, not knowing what else to do, nodded his head.

Instantly twin sirens filled Brandon's ears, punishing his inner eardrums with 120 decimals; beyond deafening. It felt like his entire head was being compressed within an enormous vice while being repeatedly slapped. He wanted to clamp his hands over his ears, but could not for them mysterious substance weighing down his limbs. The noise increased in pitch and volume. He thought he would go deaf and find relief, but then remembered that he was invincible. Helpless, he could only scream from an agony that never seemed to end.

"I specifically commanded that you nod only once. You nodded twice. Did your adopted parents teach you nothing of the virtue of obedience?" There was a cruel hint of sarcasm in that voice.

The agony faded. Brandon felt like vomiting, but his stomach was empty. He missed his mother's homemade pancakes, but then recalled that he had killed her, and so wouldn't enjoy them ever again.

"Still, this proves the effectiveness of your new cochlea implants. Perhaps if you behave yourself, I may instead deploy them to play music for you instead of the previously-employed ultra-sonics. Do you enjoy classical? Jazz? My personal archive contains every piece of music ever recorded by humanity, and some of which were not human. Perhaps I can be persuaded to play some of them for you at audible volume next time."

Brandon recovered quickly. He always did. He had only been wounded once. His mother's betrayal with a shard of the Red Ship. He had bled then, but seconds later the cut had healed with not even a scar.

"You must forgive the extravagant measures that I have made to ensure your comfortable stay as my guest. Latveria has a long history of unruly tourists, particularly the American variety. We also must contend with the occasional superhuman threat, and we have become quite proficient in detaining them when they decide to assault our sovereign nation," the voice then added. "Like you did."

Brandon did not like this. He was not used to being powerless, robbed of his senses, and taunted.

The voice went on.

"Directly in front of me is a control panel. I personally designed and constructed it with my own hands. With the merest twist of a knob on it, I can turn up your oxygen to induce euphoria, or dial it down so you will experience suffocation. Early on, I learned that you still possess the need for respiration. There's another knob next to it from which I can pump in the most disgusting and nauseating odors - all specifically isolated and chemically refined for their potency. Next to the knob is a separate keypad and menu screen from which I can prepare your meals. They can be a tasteless mash of life-sustaining nourishment and fluids, or delicious mixtures resembling in taste the finest delicacies ever prepared by human hands. Or I can give you a variety of drugs to produce a variety of different effects in even a metabolism such as yours - ecstasy, drowsiness or even painful seizures. Or industrial chemicals, concentrated poisons. Nerve toxins. I doubt any of them could actually kill you, but they will succeed in sickening you to the point where you will perhaps desire death. A fate that will be denied to you."

"As for your location, you are currently half a kilometer beneath the surface in a specially constructed sarcophagus made from adamantium that has been in turn lined with panels of imported vibranium. The sarcophagus has been completely filled to the brim with a gel designed to dampen and dissipate kinetic energy equal and beyond that generated by some multi-megaton, non-nuclear weapons. I doubt you can move even a single finger now. You have been permanently cathetered to ensure the efficient removal of waste. Your oxygen is a separate feed, continuously purified and recycled. The unit is completely self-sustaining, with its own power supply and multiple backups.

"I also took the liberty of placing your prison at the center of sixteen concentric and overlapping force-fields created to specifically imitate those of a certain female adversary of mine. All of this is directly suspended above one of my time platforms whose transchronol coordinates are set for a picosecond after the Big Bang event which created our universe. I need only press the large red button in front of me to release you into that 1000 trillion degrees Celsius cauldron."

A pause.

"It is doubtful that even a high-level cosmic abstract such as Galactus could survive that, and you, my dear boy, are not Galactus."

The voice went on. Clearly the man it belonged to enjoyed hearing himself speak. Perhaps he even recorded everything he said for prosperity in massive data-storage banks.

"Now that we understand one another, let us now discuss you."

Light filled Brandon's vision, the source was a light beam directly projected into his retinas, which resolved into images of himself, video clips of destruction as well as glowing graphs, charts and data streams - all of which were completely beyond his understanding.

"Do you like it, child?" the voice asked. "I can project whatever I desire. These are the contents of your personal file, but it can also display the latest cinema, video files from the Internet, hypnotic fractal patterns. I can also concentrate the ray to mimic the intensity of a most powerful laser, and overstimulate the sensory receptors in your eyes. I am informed that it is quite agonizing. Being invulnerable, you will not become permanently blinded, though perhaps you may desire that you had that capacity.

"But I am getting off the trail. Forgive me. Let us return to you. Bone structure, organ placement, every tooth and hair follicle. Any ordinary hospital or trained medical expert would conclude that you are homo sapien sapien. But I am one who sees deeper than the narrow eyes of the world's so-called greatest geniuses and their crude devices. My bio-scanners were quite thorough. Your nature is extraterrestrial. I hypothesize that you may even be a Hyperion variant based upon the variety of abilities that you have displayed, though I have yet to detect any trace of Eternal DNA in you. I am still reviewing the results of the last scan. I am certain I will discover it."

The view changed from raw data to solely video. He saw the office building collapse. He saw himself hovering ominously over a forest fire that he had started. He remembered those times fondly. But then how did he come here, to this place?

"Your exploits so far have been most impressive," the voice said. "Destruction can serve a purpose, but only when that purpose is Doom's."

Doom. That name sounded familiar. Images of a man in armor, green cloak and hood, an iron man mask. Hadn't that been the last thing he saw before all this? Him pulling a strange device from his belt - visible waves of some strange energy and then nothing?

"You will be consigned to this place for a length of time not one second less than what I deem necessary for your re-education. Forever if I so desire."

Brandon then felt it. A prickling sensation. What was this?

"Oh yes. There is also one other detail that I did not previously mention. The microbots I filled your sarcophagus. They will be your constant companions. Part tiny robot, part industrious insect. You should be delighted, Brandon. I learned from your school records that entomology was one of your favorite subjects. It was always one of mine as well. These will continuously remove dead skin cells, stray hairs, lubricate your eyes and moisturize your skin to prevent dryness. They will also remove excess bodily waste, and even clean your teeth and gums if you allow them."

Brandon could feel them in the dark. It felt like ants were crawling all over him, every inch of skin.

"Treat them well, Brandon. I have imbued them with rudimentary sentience, and they can become quite irritated when you ignore them or neglect them. They are also equipped with painful stingers which they will utilize, specifically targeting areas of your body which are not completely impenetrable. I would quickly begin humming or whistling to placate them if I were you."

Brandon wanted out! Out! This was the grave! No. This was Hell itself. Brandon had died, and he was alone with only the Devil for company.

"Every day will be something new, Brandon. I shall deeply enjoy our time together. Perhaps one day you will even call me 'Master,'.

Brandon screamed then, silently in the darkness. It was likely that he would never stop.


And while Brandon gave vent to his distress, his captor smiled under the grille of his metal mask, and settled back in the comfortable oak throne in an iron-sheathed control room.

All of this was necessary, Victor thought. The psychotic only understand things related to punishment and reward.

There was potential here. A fine minion if he could be properly trained and controlled. An assassin to slay his foes. A weapon to use against entire nations if he proved powerful enough.

If not, he could always vivisect the child and try his hand at cloning him from the resulting genetic samples.

There were a multitude of possibilities, and Doom sat back in his seat as his mind, like a Cray supercomputer, considered each of them.

All around him banks of processors hummed and purred, screens scrolled data like fast-flowing rivers. Outside the fine crystal windows storm clouds gathered themselves over dark mountains and howled like caged beasts.

Victor Von Doom was in his Heaven, Brandon Breyers was in his Hell, and all was right in Latveria.