When Hot Rod woke up, he found himself in a featureless room. A heavy door locked him in, and there weren't any furnishings except for a bed, necessary bathroom features and a security camera.
How had he gotten here? He held his head as he ran through his memories.
He and Knight were intercepting Sleeper in the middle of a robbery.
They were winning. They had won. Sleeper was on the ground, unmoving.
That Mist chick from the Legion had gotten involved. Knight managed to hurt her. She talked at them like she was in the right or something.
Then Lightning had walked in. Said something. Everything got fuzzy there.
So how?
Had Mist done something when he wasn't looking? No, she seemed mostly harmless. Annoying, but harmless. She hadn't even managed to hurt Knight when she held a knife to his throat.
Then who? Knight would never betray him. Sleeper was out for the count.
Lightning.
As soon as the realization hit him, rage boiled within Hot Rod. He threw fireballs throughout the cell, burning everything in sight. Scorch marks lined the walls and floor. The security camera grew misshapen. The blankets turned to ash. The very air seemed to grow dull.
When he was done, he collapsed on the ground, gasping for breath. Had it always been so hard to breathe?
Jumper's warning flashed through his mind unbidden. Something about a member of the Legion dying in jail.
But, no. That wouldn't be him. Never him. He was the hero. He was a good guy. Good guys didn't get killed in prison. Achilles would work this out. They'd find out it was all a mistake. He'd go home to the Legion a hero for taking down Sleeper. Maybe Barrier Maiden would even start to respect him, stupid bitch that she was.
Yes. This was all a mistake. Hot Rod sat up, leaning against the wall for support. If everything was going to be okay, why was he still anxiously gasping for air?
A cough escaped him as he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. Just breathe. Breathe and focus on something calming.
He didn't know how much time had passed. Exhaustion overwhelmed him. When was Achilles going to get him out of here?
Hope flickered through him as he heard the door unlock. Hope turned to confusion when a man Hot Rod didn't recognize walked through the door.
"Who...?" He didn't get further before coughs wracked his body again.
"Damn," the man said nonchalantly, taking in the room. "I lose security footage and no wonder. You've really done a number on the place. Here I was thinking it was inconvenient that you were awake, but maybe you've done my job for me. Wonder what the air quality's like in here." He walked over to Hot Rod and knelt down so their eyes met.
"Who are you?" This time Hot Rod managed to spit the words out.
"I'm your executioner."
A cold ball of fear dropped down into his stomach as the man continued.
"You, Jakob Beasley, are accused of several counts of murder and attempted murder. How do you plead?"
"Screw off," Hot Rod spat, lifting his arm to throw another fireball. His arm felt strangely heavy, and the man dodged it easily.
"Wouldn't do too much more of that if I were you. Haven't you noticed? The more fire you throw, the harder it will be to breathe, especially in an enclosed space like this."
What?
"I can see the smoke hanging in here. Do you really not know something so basic? And with it being your own Gift and everything." The man heaved a sigh and shook his head. Something struck Hot Rod as strange about the gesture, but his head was too foggy to decide on anything.
Instead, he was running through what 'smoke' was. Wasn't it something produced by fire...?
Wait.
"Let me spell it out for you," the man said, wrapping a hand around Hot Rod's neck and leaning in close. "Smoke is a byproduct of fire. Yours is no exception. Smoke, at least, is heavier than normal air so you can mitigate the effects for a while by staying low to the ground. Breathing in too much of it, however, will kill you. Your lungs will be unable to get the oxygen they need and the oxygen deprivation will end you." At those final words, he shoved Hot Rod farther against the wall.
Hot Rod spat at him, then flopped down onto his side. As low as possible, right? Then this would be better.
"Now answer me." The man looked at Hot Rod coldly. "Do you admit to killing with those flames? Will you acknowledge the people who will never open their eyes again because of your actions?"
"You can't touch me," Hot Rod growled. I'm a member of the Legion. We're the good guys." The man's expression didn't change, but his voice sounded a lot colder.
"You are a parasite. You are the rot that will eat away at Arx Nubibus until it is completely destroyed."
He pulled two things out of his pockets, one in each hand. One was a needle used for medical injections. The other was a strange tube thing that Hot Rod had never seen before.
"As a courtesy, I'll let you decide how you die. I can inject you with a lethal dose of drugs, or I can put a bullet in your brain. Either way will be quick and relatively painless."
"Screw off," Hot Rod said, summoning another fireball. This time, it fizzled into black smoke in his hand before he could even throw it.
"I could also just leave you here and let the smoke inhalation do its work," the man mused. "The only problem is that I want to make sure you're dead. I don't want to sneak in here more than I have to."
Wait.
A question formed in Hot Rod's fuzzy mind.
"Why isn't the smoke affecting you? I thought you said...it was dangerous."
"You think I'd walk in your cell without countermeasures against your abilities?" The man laughed coldly, his face remaining neutral the whole time. "Now, I'd like your answer. How would you like to die, Jakob Beasley?"
"I'm a hero. You aren't allowed to kill me." The man barked laughter at that.
"Do you think I'll show you mercy just because you call yourself a hero? You are just as bad as some of those so-called villains you fight. Worse than most, actually. But don't worry. I'll do everything in my power to make sure the members of Team Chaos follow you very soon. You can all fight each other in hell.
"Now. Drugs or bullet?"
Rage boiled inside Hot Rod again and he forced himself to sit back up. He was not going to let some nobody kill him here. The military would pay for slighting the Legion.
"Drugs or bullet?" This time the man's voice was even colder. Hot Rod ignored him, gathering everything left in him for one last fire blast. This one would be wide enough that the man couldn't dodge. Hot enough that he wouldn't survive.
As he focused, however, the man's voice filtered into his ears, as if from far away.
"Fine. Bullet it is."
The Executioner stared at Hot Rod's lifeless body, blood spilling from the hole in the bastard's neck. The flames had mostly dissipated when he pulled the trigger, but as he examined the robot, a sigh escaped from it.
"Damn. Guess we gotta clean your shirt, Darius. Sorry about that. And fix your poor thumb. Next time I'm doing the drone thing again." The robot stowed the syringe carefully, then redirected his gaze to Hot Rod.
Odin watched the cell for a moment longer, rage simmering inside him. He had to make sure Hot Rod was dead. After a few moments, he had Darius check Jakob's pulse.
Nothing. Good. For extra insurance, he had Darius shoot another four bullets into Jakob's corpse. Each at a strategic location that would normally be fatal - or very close to it. Lungs, temple, brain stem, femoral artery. Any one of those wounds could kill a person. All five meant Hot Rod would never rise again.
The weight of the kickback and the ear-piercing pops of the shots should have been satisfactory, even if he wasn't experiencing them directly.
Yet anxiety still stirred Odin's heart. It would be just like those assholes to bring Hot Rod back in some capacity.
Finally, he shook it off.
"Frickin' entitled toddler's out of the picture. Get yourself together," he said. The robot stowed the gun with a practiced motion, then walked out of the cell.
Soon, hopefully the rest of those damned Gifted would follow.
