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[indent][sub][COLOR=slategray][B]Location:[/B][/COLOR] [color=lightgray][I]Volkov-7 Penal Colony[/I] - [I]Siberia[/I][/color][/sub][sup][right][COLOR=slategray][b]Occupation 2.14:[/b][/COLOR] [I][color=lightgray]Reunited[/color][/I][/right][/sup][/indent]
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The snow was coming in sideways at Volkov-7, the infamous Siberian penal colony known only to those who needed to fear it. Winds screamed over the rusted guard towers, cutting across the open rec yard like serrated knives. Prisoners, little more than bundled shadows in their state-issue rags, kept to the edges of the yard, watching silently as two figures advanced toward one another through the storm.

On one side, Alan Scott. Sentinel. The Starheart’s glow muted but unwavering, his emerald cloak snapping violently in the winter air as he planted his boots against the frozen ground. His breath fogged before him in long streams, but his eyes stayed locked on the figure opposite.

On the other… Sokov.

The man was hulking even in his orange prison jumpsuit, the sleeves torn and frayed at the cuffs. Shackles still bound his wrists and ankles, dragging chains that clinked faintly over the howling wind. His black beard was shot through with streaks of gray, his long hair wild and unkempt from years in isolation and worse. His skin bore scars—some surgical, some crude, some glowing faintly red, as if magma lay just beneath. His hands were cracked and raw, and even standing still, he radiated a quiet violence that made the guards on the high catwalks inch backward, rifles slackening in their grips.

Alan’s gaze swept over him, taking in every detail. The way the leylines in the air coiled around Sokov like wary vipers. The deep crimson patterns that traced across his body in jagged, fractal sigils, pulsing faintly. The man didn’t just carry rage—he was steeped in it, like a blade left to soak in blood and fire.

Sokov’s eyes found him in the yard, and a smirk spread beneath the mess of his beard.

[b][color=#DD2C2C]"Sentinel."[/color][/b] The word was a taunt, a sneer, but also somehow reverent.

Alan’s jaw tightened, his own light flaring faintly brighter. [b][color=00583C]"Sokov. You know why I’m here. This doesn’t have to end badly."[/color][/b]

But even as he said it, he felt the Starheart within him recoil, the air between them thickening with an ancient recognition. A resonance that rattled his bones and sent faint arcs of green and crimson dancing across the snow at their feet. The Starheart’s voice whispered in his mind, wordless but alarmed—because it knew. And whatever lived in Sokov’s chest… it knew too.

[color=#B22222]The Crimson Flame.[/color]

[b][color=#B22222]"Oh, it remembers you, little spark,"[/color][/b] Sokov’s voice rasped, though his lips hadn’t moved. [b][color=#B22222]"It remembers what you took. What you left behind."[/color][/b]

Alan felt the words like embers pressed to his skin.

[i][color=00583C]What is he talking about…?[/color][/i]

Sokov’s voice grew louder now, unnatural wisdom dripping from each word as he raised his shackled hands, a faint flame kindling in his palms.

[b][color=#DD2C2C]"The leylines are sick. And you— [color=00583C]Sentinel[/color]—you stand guard over a corpse and call it sacred. You fight the wrong fight while this world burns. But I see it now. You’ve shown me the shape of my enemy."[/color][/b]

Alan stepped forward, his ring flaring. [b][color=00583C]"That’s enough, Sokov. Whatever’s in you, it doesn’t belong here. Stand down."[/color][/b]

For a moment, Sokov tilted his head, almost curious. Then he moved.

The blow was sudden, brutal.

Before Alan could raise a shield, Sokov’s chained fist slammed into his chest with the force of a landslide, hurling him back through the snow in a spray of green light. Alan’s ribs flared with pain as he skidded and rolled, barely catching himself before the second strike came—a hammering uppercut that shattered his barrier and sent him reeling again.

Sokov didn’t use the flame at first. Just his raw strength, honed by years of hard labor and made monstrous by whatever experiments had twisted him. Every hit rang like a bell in Alan’s bones, the cold numbing his reflexes.

Alan gritted his teeth, finally digging deep, and with a roar of emerald fire lashed out, wrapping Sokov in chains of light and slamming him to the yard floor. For a breathless moment he thought he had the upper hand.

But [color=#B22222]the Crimson Flame laughed.[/color]

The air changed.

Heat shimmered around Sokov as his body began to bulk, the crimson runes on his skin igniting as if molten. His silhouette swelled, the snow around him hissing into steam.

And then it struck.

The shimmering aura of Sokov’s partial transformation loomed over Alan like a nightmare—like the shape of a [color=#DD2C2C]red hulking[/color] monstrosity burning itself into existence. Crimson energy flared into the shape of a massive, clawed fist and came down on Alan’s shield, shattering it in a single blow. Another followed, and another, each strike driving him to his knees. The aura alone was suffocating, oppressive, each breath Alan took searing his lungs.

Around the yard, the other inmates and even guards began to step forward out of the shadows—silent, crimson light glinting in their eyes, siding with Sokov.

Alan’s eyes darted to the towers, the walls—he could feel the odds shifting against him.

[b][color=00583C]"Damn it…"[/color][/b]

Sokov towered over him now, his crimson form half-realized, magma-like lines crawling up his arms and chest, his chains falling away like paper. His teeth bared in something between a grin and a snarl, his shadow stretching long over the snow.

Alan’s ring pulsed, desperate. Survival screamed louder than pride.

And in a blaze of green light, he took to the sky, cloak torn and body battered, fleeing as fast as he could back toward the horizon.

Below, Sokov stood in the center of the yard, watching the emerald comet shrink into the storm.

[b][color=#DD2C2C]"Run, little spark. The leylines will burn before this is over. And when we meet again… I’ll show you what you really guard."[/color][/b]

Alan didn’t hear the rest—didn’t want to.

By the time he crash-landed back at the Hall of Memory, blood freezing to his tattered coat and lungs heaving, he already knew this was only the beginning.
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