Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was a warm cup of coffee in his hands.

The air was crisp, the early morning still shrouded in darkness. He could hear the distant hum of the city outside, the quiet rustling of trees in the backyard.

Upstairs, his wife lay fast asleep.

His son, too, though from the way he stirred, his movements restless beneath the blankets, he wouldn't be asleep much longer.

Nolan took a slow sip, savoring the bitter taste.

Life was good.

This planet…

It's humans, it's cultures, it's funny little challenges—all of it was… perfect.

Now, he technically hadn't conquered Earth yet, but it wasn't as if it needed a firm hand. The nations were already doing a decent job of keeping their citizens in check. There were no serious wars, no imminent disasters that warranted immediate intervention. Earth, to put it plainly, was a well-managed planet all on its own.

Viltrum checked in on him once a year via transmitter, but as far as they were concerned, the mission was as good as completed.

The planet knew his name—or at least, his hero name. Civilians listened when he spoke. The world's governments acknowledged his power, even if they didn't realize its full extent. He had already bred with one of the locals, ensuring that Viltrumite blood flowed through the next generation.

It was fudging the truth, perhaps, but in the eyes of Viltrum, Earth was as good as conquered.

Five hundred years. That was how long he had been given to pacify this world—a virtual vacation for a Viltrumite.

And so he had decided:

He would wait.

He would wait for Debbie and Mark to…pass before he officially started on the preparation of the Earth to join the Empire.

They were the only ones who mattered here. The only ones he cared about. Once they were gone—once time, that inevitable force, took them away—then he would do what was necessary.

He would do his duty.

Badum. Badum. Badum.

Huh.

Mark's heart rate was elevating.

Nothing unusual. Likely a nightmare. Maybe that Mexican food they had eaten last night wasn't agreeing with him.

Nolan sighed.

It was a shame that Mark had never developed his Viltrumite abilities. Half-human, after all. The chances had been slim.

But if he was being honest?

It was a relief.

Mark's humanity meant that Nolan could afford to be the man they thought he was—for a few decades longer.

Maybe it was better this way.

Badum. Badum. Badum. Badum.

The rhythm spiked.

A gasp echoed from upstairs.

Nolan's brow furrowed slightly. Faster now, but still within the realm of a nightmare. Mark had just woken up, heart racing, breath likely coming in ragged gasps.

He'd settle down soon.

Another sip of coffee.

His mind wandered back to the logistics of his eventual takeover.

Cecil.

Obviously, Cecil had to die first. The man was too clever, too prepared, too meddlesome. While there wasn't a weapon on Earth or a hero alive that could stop him, Cecil had a way of agitating others into resistance. And resistance meant unnecessary bloodshed.

Better to cut off the snake's head first.

Donald would be easy to deal with. A simple show of force would break him.

Then there were the world leaders.

He would have to make sure they fell in line quickly. A demonstration would be necessary. A warning.

Another sip. Another thought.

Not the President—he actually liked the United States as it was. The infrastructure was stable, the people were obedient in all the ways that mattered, and most importantly—he lived here.

Europe, then?

Hmm.

A queen, perhaps? People on this planet infantilized women to an absurd degree. He could use that strange psychological process against them.

Yes. That would work nicely.

A sudden thud from upstairs pulled him from his thoughts.

Nolan paused, his cup of coffee hovering just before his lips.

He heard Mark stumble—his feet dragging awkwardly against the floor. Then came a loud crash, the sharp bang of something slamming against the bathroom door, forcing it open.

He set his coffee down.

That was weird.

Mark was clumsy sometimes, sure, but not like this.

His mind immediately ran through possibilities. Had the boy been drinking? No—he would have smelled it on him. He had a good nose for that sort of thing, and besides, his own alcohol stash was untouched. If Mark had snuck any in, Nolan would have noticed. And he definitely would have noticed drugs, so it wasn't that either.

Another sound—a loud shatter, followed by the distinctive tinkle of glass hitting tile.

"What the—what the actual fuck?!" Mark's voice rang out, filled with shock and something dangerously close to panic.

Alright. Time to intervene.

If Mark kept yelling like that, he was going to wake up Debbie.

In a blur, Nolan flew up the stairs, arriving at the bathroom doorway within seconds. The door was hanging open, the light inside flickering slightly.

His son stood there, rigid, staring at the broken bathroom mirror as if he had no idea who the person staring back at him was.

Something was wrong.

"Mark?" Nolan said cautiously, lowering himself until his feet touched the cold tile floor.

Mark turned to look at him, and Nolan's concern immediately deepened.

His pupils were blown wide, nearly eclipsing the brown of his irises. He was hyperventilating, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. Beads of sweat rolled down his face and arms, his whole body trembling as if he had just run a marathon.

And then there was the smell.

Sharp. Acrid. The unmistakable scent of fear.

Real, visceral, gut-wrenching fear.

"Mark, calm down," Nolan said, raising his hands in a non-threatening gesture. "It's me. Dad."

Mark's stomach rumbled violently—an unnatural, almost distorted sound.

Nolan's instincts flared, warning him a second too late.

Mark lurched forward—and promptly vomited all over the floor.

"Shit!" Nolan hissed, instantly lifting off the ground to avoid the mess.

Okay. Time for reinforcements.

"Debbie!" he called, grimacing. "A little help!"

"And you're absolutely certain that he's not drunk or on drugs?" Debbie asked, arms crossed, worry etched into every line of her face.

Nolan let out a frustrated sigh. "Yes, Debbie. I checked his room, his bag, every single nook and cranny in the house. There's no alcohol, no drugs—nothing. The only alcohol we have is ours, and the one open bottle was sealed by me last. Mark wouldn't be able to get into it without breaking the cap off, and I'd have noticed."

"Then what the hell is wrong with him?" she demanded, gesturing toward their son, who lay curled up in bed, shivering uncontrollably.

Mark's body was drenched in sweat, yet his skin was covered in goosebumps. He reeked of the acrid scent of fear, something Nolan found deeply unsettling. His heartbeat was erratic—too fast, too unstable. Worse still, he was facing the wall, his body tense, and every time Nolan so much as spoke, his heart rate spiked.

Was Mark. . . afraid of him?

Nolan suppressed the sharp pang of unease that thought brought him.

"What if it's some kind of human sickness?" he suggested, glancing at his wife. "Maybe the cold, or the flu?"

Debbie hesitated, biting her lip. "I—I guess that's possible," she admitted, but her tone was uncertain. "But, Nolan… he's never been sick for more than a few hours before. That's something he inherited from you. He's already past the three-hour mark where he usually recovers, and his temperature's still climbing. If this is a human illness, then it has to be something serious."

Her voice wavered as her thoughts spiraled further. "Oh my God… what if he's a carrier for some kind of new, alien-human disease? What if he's contagious? What if I'm contagious—?"

"Debbie," Nolan said firmly, gripping her shoulders. "Take a deep breath. You're spiraling."

She inhaled shakily, nodding but still visibly rattled.

"Viltrumites don't get sick," he reminded her. "Not like humans do. A more plausible explanation is that as he's getting older, his human side is becoming more dominant than his Viltrumite side. It's something I've suspected ever since he didn't inherit my powers."

That last thought troubled him more than he cared to admit. Viltrumite DNA was supposed to dominate any other genetic material it merged with.

So why wasn't it?

This planet was as strange as it was fascinating. In his short time here, he had encountered foes with an astonishing variety of abilities, powers that seemed to defy reason, cultivated by Earth in a way he had never seen before—not in the thousands of years he had lived. Some, like the Immortal, could persist beyond death. Others wielded strength, speed, or abilities rivaling even his own people.

At first, he had entertained the idea that Mark might inherit some of these extraordinary abilities in addition to his Viltrumite strength, an unexpected but useful advantage. But now, it seemed as if his son's human DNA was not only failing to enhance his natural Viltrumite gifts—it was actively negating them. That was a problem. A very serious one.

Grand Regent Thragg wouldn't be pleased.

It would be difficult enough to justify keeping this planet intact, delaying conquest for as long as he had already. But if Mark was evidence that human genetics could interfere with their superior physiology, the Viltrumite Council would see it as a liability, a potential contamination of their purity.

Still… Nolan wasn't entirely concerned about that. He had long suspected that the Grand Regent might take an interest in Earth for another reason—the sheer variety of abilities its people possessed. If they could find a way to harness those abilities, replicate them without the need for reproduction, then the Viltrumites might truly become unstoppable. The potential was there—what if they could somehow integrate the Immortal's regeneration, or some other Martian Man's shapeshifting into their bloodline?

That would be worth delaying conquest for.

But Mark's current state put all of that on hold.

For now, he had more immediate concerns.

"Give it a day," he said, watching Debbie's anxious expression. "If it lasts longer than that, then we'll call Cecil and have the GDA take a look at him. If you're worried about being infectious, you can stay home with me—we'll take care of him together. Take a few days off work, okay?"

Debbie hesitated, chewing her lip, but slowly nodded.

"Okay… alright," she said, exhaling shakily as she ran a hand through her hair. "That's a good idea. Cecil has the best medical care in the world. If it gets worse, we call him."

Then she leaned up and kissed him.

Nolan let out a quiet hum, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her close—but not too tightly. Just enough to let her feel safe.

Being with Debbie was the hardest thing he had ever done.

She was so fragile, even compared to the weaker species he had encountered in his time. He had spent years training himself to move as if she were made of glass, learning to temper his strength, to be mindful of every touch, every movement. It had been frustrating at first, but eventually, it had become second nature.

And that control had prepared him for Mark.

Mark, who had been so much more delicate than even Debbie as a newborn. He still remembered how, in the first two weeks after his son's birth, he had been afraid to hold him.

It was the first time he had ever feared his own strength.

But he had learned. He had adjusted. He had become something new.

And now, his son—his wonderful boy—was sick, and there was nothing he could do.

All of his strength, all of his power—and the worst problems he faced were the ones he couldn't punch through.

Mark's fever finally broke around midday, and by nightfall, he seemed to have made a full recovery. They celebrated with pizza, and while Debbie had quickly returned to her usual warmth and laughter, Nolan couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was… off.

There were little things. Things that most people wouldn't notice—but Nolan did.

Like how Mark kept forgetting where things were. He went to the wrong cupboard to get the plates, hesitated before grabbing the cups, and even opened the freezer instead of the fridge when reaching for a soda.

Or how there was a delay whenever they called his name. Instead of responding right away, Mark would pause—just for a second—before glancing up and saying "Huh?" as if it took him an extra moment to register that they were speaking to him.

And then there was the most unsettling thing of all.

Mark wouldn't meet his eyes.

Every time Nolan glanced at him, his son's heartbeat spiked—just for a moment—before settling back to normal. But he never looked directly at him. Whenever he spoke, Mark kept his gaze low, focused on his plate, on the table, on anything except him.

What the hell was that about?

Had Mark done something wrong? Something that made him think he was in trouble? Maybe that was why he had reacted so badly when he woke up—guilt. Or was it something worse?

Was someone threatening him?

The thought made his fingers twitch, and he had to suppress the instinct to clench them into fists. If someone was blackmailing his son, hurting him in any way… He didn't see any bruises on Mark, but there were plenty of ways to hurt someone without leaving a mark. Psychic influence, coercion, fear—those were all very real dangers.

And Nolan had seen it before, used on other weaker heroes.

He'd dealt with it before, when clever fools tried to get an upper hand against him.

People had figured out his identity before and tried to use it against him. They had threatened his family. They had tried. And every single time, Nolan had made sure they didn't live long enough to try again. He had personally thrown those people into space. Cecil had cleaned up the rest.

But there hadn't been any unusual activity lately. No new threats. No strange figures lurking in the shadows.

So why was Mark so nervous around him?

"Um, I'm not that hungry," Mark suddenly said, setting his slice of pizza down after only a few bites. "And I've got some homework that's due soon. I should probably start working on that."

Debbie frowned. "On a Friday?"

"Y-yeah," Mark stammered. "I just wanna get a head start. My grades could be higher, you know?"

That, at least, wasn't a lie.

Mark was a solid C student at best. It wasn't a disaster, but Nolan had always felt that he could do better if he actually applied himself. A little extra studying wouldn't hurt.

Debbie, however, wasn't buying it.

"Mark," she started gently, placing her hand over his. "You know you can tell us anything, right?"

There it was again.

Mark's heartbeat jumped—then leveled out just as quickly.

"She's right, son," Nolan added, his voice steady but firm. "No matter what it is—what time, what place—we will always be there for you."

And unlike other parents, Nolan could actually keep that promise.

Mark swallowed, his shoulders tensing slightly—but then, just as quickly, he relaxed.

"...Thanks, guys," he said softly. "I'll… I'll remember that."

But Nolan had a feeling—a deep, gut-level instinct honed over centuries of battle and war.

Mark was lying.

You'd think that with the sheer number of villains out there, there would be an equal number of heroes to keep them in check, right? A balance. Yin and Yang, equivalent exchange, all that philosophical crap.

No such luck.

Sure, the majority of villains were small-time. Petty crooks barely strong enough to rob a bank, destroy a building, or cause a little chaos before they got taken down. Low-risk, high-annoyance.

But there were always outliers.

The ones who defied the usual statistics. The Mauler Twins, for example—genius-level intellects in bodies that could go toe-to-toe with tanks. Then there was Doc Seismic, the lunatic with the earthquake gauntlets, who had somehow convinced himself that society itself was a crime. And that weird alien from space—the one who came down looking for a fight with Omni-Man and got his ass handed to him.

The real threats were always insane.

They didn't just want money or power. No, they had to go big.

Rule the world. Destroy the world. Invade the world.

Why was it always the world they wanted? Why not start smaller? Maybe conquer Iowa first? Or claim dominion over some tiny, irrelevant town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere? For once, he'd love to see a supervillain with manageable ambitions—someone who just wanted to steal cows, set hay bales on fire, or terrorize a single, unsuspecting county fair.

But no.

The megalomaniacs always had to go big or go home.

Meanwhile, a distressing number of the world's heroes refused to work with him.

They saw him as "The Man." The government. The fuzz. The ever-watching big brother lurking behind the scenes, pulling the strings.

Did they think he was some kind of cartoon villain?

Right now, he funded the Guardians of the Globe, had tenuous alliances with groups like Teen Team and Fight Force, and most superheroes who survived longer than a month eventually learned about him in some way, shape, or form.

But getting them to trust him? To listen to him unwaveringly?

That was the real battle.

The one no one saw. The endless war fought in conference rooms, encrypted channels, and classified briefings. The struggle wasn't just against supervillains, but against the unpredictable, the unknown, and the inevitable.

It was in the middle of these thoughts that Donald Ferguson, his right-hand man, approached with a grim look on his face.

"Sir, I hate to bother you, but we've got a situation."

Cecil sighed, already walking beside him as they made their way toward the control center of the GDA, buried deep beneath the Pentagon.

"What is it this time, Donald? The Lizard League making trouble again? Killcannon being an overcompensating pain in my ass? The Maulers trying to break into some place they really shouldn't be?"

Donald hesitated, which immediately put Cecil on edge.

"Oddly enough, sir, this is both better than those situations… and significantly worse."

"Of course it is."

Donald led him to one of the main computer terminals, where three technicians sat, their faces set in grim, serious expressions. One of them, Jenkins—a former soldier with a scar over one eye that always looked slightly off-center—stood and snapped into a sharp salute as Cecil approached.

"Sir," Jenkins said. "About an hour ago, our online surveillance systems flagged a series of highly specific keyword searches that triggered multiple alerts. Robot from Teen Team also reached out—apparently, he has a similar system in place, and he's just as concerned as we are."

Cecil rubbed his temples. "Jesus Christ, just show me the damn screen."

He leaned forward, squinting at the terminal as the search queries filled the monitor. (Damn it, he really needed to either get glasses or cave and get that stupid laser eye surgery everyone raved about.)

But as he read the search history, his mood darkened.

How to get in contact with Cecil Stedman.

How to get in contact with Donald Ferguson.

How to get in contact with the Director of the GDA.

How to get in contact with Holly aka War Woman.

How to get in contact with Alana aka Green Ghost.

How to get in contact with Rudolph Conners.

How to get into GDA Headquarters under the Pentagon.

How to get into the Teen Team headquarters on a bridge.

Cecil stiffened.

Someone—somebody with either a death wish or an agenda—was actively trying to make contact with some of the most powerful individuals and locations on the planet.

Cecil's fingers drummed against the console as he straightened, his mind already racing through possibilities.

"Track the IP address. Now."

The string of searches was concerning enough, but the last search—the one sent just five minutes ago—sent an unwelcome chill down his spine.

I know you guys are watching this somehow. Please talk to me.

Cecil's jaw tightened. That wasn't a threat. That wasn't some troll playing games. Whoever was on the other end of that screen knew exactly what they were doing, and more importantly—they wanted an audience.

"We know where these are coming from?" he asked, his voice gruff, his fingers already itching to light a cigar he wasn't allowed to smoke down here.

"Yes, actually," Donald answered immediately, eyes flicking between his own tablet and the terminal in front of them. "We've already got the address on file—it's a Priority One address."

Cecil frowned. That narrowed the list down considerably.

Priority One addresses were reserved for only the most important individuals in the world—people like the Guardians of the Globe or the various Presidents and Prime Ministers of the world. And those guys? They already knew how to contact him.

As for Rudolph Conners… that was Robot's legal name, right? He'd seen it once in a classified file, back when he briefly considered inviting the kid to join the Guardians, but he ultimately decided to let him gain more experience before extending the offer.

"Whose address?" he asked sharply.

Donald hesitated. Just for a second. But Cecil caught it.

"Omni-Man's."

Cecil's blood ran cold.

He turned fully to face Donald, his expression dark.

"It's Nolan?"

Donald shook his head. "No. It's not coming from his or Debbie's computers." He hesitated again before finally saying,

"It's coming from their kid. Mark Grayson."

Cecil's mind blanked for a second.

Mark Grayson… Yeah, yeah, he remembered the kid. Small, took after Debbie more than Nolan, missing his front two teeth the last time he saw him, and didn't he win a baseball game or something not too long ago?

"The ten-year-old?" he asked, frowning in confusion.

He could practically feel Donald holding back an eye roll.

"It's been five years since you last saw him. He's grown up quite a bit."

Cecil grunted. Great. Another reminder he was getting old.

"Kid got a webcam? Something we can use to see him?"

"Yes," Katrina, one of the technicians, piped up. "It's embedded in his computer." She hesitated. "And, oddly enough… it's not covered. It's like he wants us to see him."

Cecil's brow furrowed. That was interesting. Most people were paranoid enough to tape over their cameras these days—hell, he made sure his agents did. But Mark wanted them to look.

"Turn the camera on. I want to see the kid."

The techies tapped away at their keyboards, and the screen shifted from the list of disturbing search queries to a grainy, low-quality feed.

A tall, Asian boy with faint dark circles under his eyes sat in front of the screen. He looked pale, sick even. The moment the feed went live, his expression flickered—first with relief, then with apprehension.

He knew. He knew they were watching.

"We got audio?" Cecil asked.

"Yeah, but it's crap," Smith, the third tech, muttered. "Too much static unless he speaks. Hold up—he's doing something."

Mark leaned forward, holding up an index card with something scrawled on it in messy handwriting.

"Jesus, this kid needs a better camera," Cecil muttered, squinting. "Can we clean up the image?"

"Optimizing now, sir."

The screen flickered, then sharpened, making the words legible:

If you can read this, please turn the camera on and off after you finish reading this message to confirm. I have really important information that could help save a lot of lives, but my dad cannot know. I know you have a teleporter. Can you please pick me up ten minutes before school ends in the men's bathroom on the third floor of my school? I'll be there. We can talk more later.

Cecil read it twice.

Information that could save a lot of lives… but something Nolan couldn't know.

That set off alarm bells in his head.

And the kid knew about the teleporter. That wasn't public knowledge. That alone was a red flag the size of goddamn Texas.

He exhaled sharply, stepping away from the terminal. "Give the kid confirmation that we saw the message."

Then he turned to the room, his voice sharp and commanding.

"I want a full file on Mark Grayson. Everything. His grades, his daily schedule, his hobbies, what classes he does well in—hell, I wanna know the last time he took a goddamn shit if it helps.

"I don't like it when a civvie knows more about us than we do about them. So let's move, people!"

The agents jumped into action, fingers flying across keyboards.

Cecil folded his arms, staring at the screen as Mark lowered the index card, waiting.

Alright, Mark Grayson.

You wanna step into the big leagues?

Then let's show you how we really play.

Chapter Text

"Mark, get a move on!" Nolan shouted, his voice carrying through the house. "You're gonna be late!"

He was already suited up in his superhero gear. There was some kind of monster rampaging through Norway, and while the Guardians were on the case, Nolan figured they'd need him to help finish the job.

He couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips as he thought about his teammates.

His friends. 

The word still felt a little foreign, especially when it came to thinking about the Guardians. On Viltrum, there were no friends—only subordinates, leaders, and the Grand Regent. But here, with the Guardians, things were different. They were more than just colleagues. They were comrades, and despite the oddness of the idea, Nolan couldn't help but feel a genuine bond with each of them.

He liked to mess with Immortal. The guy was probably around the same strength as a low-level Viltrumite at best, but he always tried his best to outdo Nolan, especially when it came to things like races or arm-wrestling contests. Nolan would let Immortal think he had the upper hand, only to pull a little surprise boost and win at the last second. The look of disbelief that crossed Immortal's face always cracked him up, and Nolan appreciated how the guy never backed down. He kept coming back for more.

Then there was War Woman. She was a powerhouse, and every time Nolan watched her fight, he couldn't help but be reminded of a softer version of Thula—his old training partner back on Viltrum. War Woman had a timeless quality about her, coming from another era, but unlike Immortal, she embraced the modern world and its technology. She was sharp, beautiful, strong—and sometimes, Nolan couldn't help but wonder if things might have gone differently if he'd met her first before Debbie.

But no. There was no point in dwelling on that. He was happy with Debbie, and he was pretty sure War Woman had her eye on Immortal anyway. They shared some history, after all.

Martian Man, on the other hand, was a little more serious when it came to his Guardian duties, which Nolan respected. At first, Nolan had been wary of whether Martian Man truly understood what a Viltrumite was, but the other alien explained that his species was roughly on the same level of technology as Earth—just a decade ahead at most. He was an isolationist species, and despite their differences, Martian Man had earned Nolan's respect. A good guy, all things considered.

Black Samson had been a bit of a wildcard when he'd been on the team. He was always cracking jokes, though sometimes he didn't know when to dial it back. And worse, he'd gotten involved with one of the villains—of all people, Iguana from the Lizard League. Nolan rolled his eyes at the thought. Couldn't Samson have picked someone a bit more formidable? Someone who didn't spend her time dressed like an animal and fighting for a band of losers?

Green Ghost...eh, he didn't really have much of an opinion on her. Her predecessor, her uncle, was the Green Ghost he had known, and after a mission that went south, she had stepped up to take his place. She was okay; she wasn't as skilled or as experienced as her uncle had been, but she was professional and did her job well, and Nolan always liked working with competent people.

Aquarius, though, was an interesting one. The guy had a good sense of humor, and his kingdom had some truly powerful creatures that gave Nolan a decent run for his money—though, to be fair, he'd been holding back a little. His culture was fascinating, and he always showed up with the most bizarre snacks. Nolan could never quite figure out how the guy found them, but they were always entertaining.

Red Rush, on the other hand, was a bit of an enigma. Nolan had never quite understood him, but he appreciated the man's speed. Red Rush moved through life in fast-forward, his entire existence a blur, and even though Nolan could catch up with him at top speed, the two of them still had an unspoken connection. There wasn't much strength to Red Rush, but he'd saved Nolan's skin countless times, helping him dodge powerful hits that would have otherwise landed.

But it was Darkwing that really confused Nolan. The man was basically just a regular civilian with a set of special tools, much like the GDA agents, but he refused to be sidelined. Darkwing was smarter than Nolan had originally given him credit for, constantly surprising him with his intellect. Nolan couldn't help but respect the guy's sharp mind. He saw Darkwing as an intellectual equal, though he wasn't sure Darkwing realised it.

As much as Nolan knew it wasn't realistic, he couldn't help but hope that the Guardians would meet their end soon. Or at least, that they would age and die at the same time as Mark and Debbie.

The thought of having to put down his friends was a concept he didn't even want to entertain, but it lingered in the back of his mind, haunting him nonetheless. If he ever had to face that day... it would hurt more than anything he could imagine.

"Mark! Get a move on! You're going to miss the bus, and Mom can't give you a ride! She left early for work today!" Nolan called out as he walked toward the backyard.

Even though Mark was upstairs in his room, on the second floor of the house, Nolan could hear him clearly, as if they were standing in the same room.

"Dad, can I use your hairbrush or comb?" Mark's voice drifted down.

"Where's your hairbrush?" Nolan called back.

"Can't find it!" came the reply. "Can I just borrow yours?"

Nolan rolled his eyes, sighing. "Check my bathroom, second drawer to the right. Look, I've got to run! I'll be home in a little while. Love you!"

"Love you too! Thanks, Dad!"

Nolan stepped outside, gazing up at the sun with a smile before launching into the air faster than most people could blink.

Ah, even after a thousand years, flying was something he would never get tired of. There was just something liberating about it—the wind in his face, the sky at his back. It was freedom in its purest form.

However, if Nolan had decided to go back inside, he would have witnessed something strange. He would have seen Mark walking into his bathroom with trembling hands, picking up Nolan's hairbrush. His son's fingers gripped the handle tightly as though it was something foreign to him. Nolan would have seen Mark take a few hairs from the brush, staring at them with a strange, almost reluctant expression before putting them in his mouth. He would have watched in bewilderment as Mark gagged, the hairs sticking to his throat as he choked them down with a swig of water from the tap.

It would have been completely incomprehensible to Nolan. The action was bizarre, unsettling even. And yet, what would have confused him even more was the tired, almost satisfied look that came over Mark's face after the ordeal. It was as though he'd just achieved something monumental.

But Nolan never went back inside.

And so, he remained unaware of the strange, unsettling ritual his son had just completed.

William liked to think that he knew Mark Grayson pretty well. They'd been friends for a couple of years now—good friends. The kind of friends who could sit in silence for hours, or argue about the dumbest things, like whether the new Guardians of the Globe movie was going to be better in 3D or standard.

Mark was, without question, the best friend William had ever had. He didn't care that William liked to take care of his skin, or that he paid a little too much attention to fashion. He didn't care when William drooled over guys or rated them on a scale of one to ten. Mark never blinked an eye at any of it.

In fact, William hadn't even needed to come out to Mark. One day, Mark just kind of…figured it out.

"You're into guys, right?" he asked casually, like they were talking about the weather.

William, caught off guard, had just stared, and after a very long minute, nodded.

Mark had nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Yeah, that makes sense. Hey, you wanna catch the new Seance Dog movie? It's in 3D."

And that had been it. No awkwardness. No questions. No weird tension. Just acceptance.

William would never tell him, but that moment had meant more than anything. Not having to explain himself, not having to justify who he was—it had been one of the most relieving experiences of his life. Coming out to his parents had been a battle. 

Extended family? Even worse. 

But with Mark? It was like a breath of fresh air.

And maybe, just maybe, that was why William considered Mark one of the best people in his life.

Which was why, when William saw Mark on Monday morning, walking across the school courtyard wearing a baggy grey hoodie, faded blue jeans, and the ugliest, most hideous yellow boots that had ever been cursed upon human feet, he damn near had a heart attack.

Because this wasn't Mark.

Mark didn't do ugly boots. Mark didn't do baggy hoodies. Mark didn't do 'I just rolled out of bed and threw on whatever I found on the floor' fashion disasters.

Mark did preppy. Mark did polished. He wore sharp, ironed shirts with crisp collars, sweater vests layered over them, a sleek watch on his wrist. His hair was always neatly combed, his smile annoyingly perfect, and his whole vibe screamed "trust fund kid who had life figured out." He was the rich, charming kid everyone loved to hate in movies. But in real life, it only made hanging around him more fun.

Defying stereotypes. The rich kid and the gay nerdy kid. Best friends.

It was their thing.

Which made today… weird.

Really weird.

William blinked as he walked up, squinting at the figure walking across the school courtyard. His steps slowed.

Mark was wearing boots. Ugly, worn-out boots. And a hoodie that looked like it had been dragged through a laundromat and lost the fight. His hair was a mess, sticking out at odd angles, and his face—God, his face. 

Pale. Drawn. Eyes red-rimmed like he hadn't slept in days.

And even from here, William could feel it. Something was… off.

"Mark?" he called cautiously, stepping closer. "Dude, what are you wearing?"

Mark looked up slowly. His eyes widened, unfocused, and for a second, William thought maybe Mark didn't recognize him. Then his friend blinked rapidly, as if snapping out of a trance.

"William," Mark said, his voice scratchy and raw. "You're… William."

William frowned, a cautious laugh escaping him. "...Yeah. And you're Mark Greyson. Are we done with the introductions now?"

There was something brittle about Mark's smile. Forced. Like it was glued onto his face and might crack at any second.

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I… I just got sick over the weekend," Mark said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Really nasty cold. Still recovering."

William didn't buy it. Not for a second.

"Okay. Sure. That explains why you look like death warmed over," he said, waving a hand vaguely at Mark's appearance. "But it doesn't explain why you're dressed like you just rolled out of a dumpster."

Mark flinched, glancing down at himself like he was only now realizing what he was wearing. "They were comfortable," he muttered. His eyes darted away, and his voice dropped, guarded. "Since when do you care about my clothes?"

"Since you started dressing like a dockworker heading for his midnight shift," William shot back, crossing his arms. "Seriously. Did your wardrobe catch fire or something?"

Mark didn't respond. His jaw tightened.

The school bell rang, cutting through the silence like a knife. William sighed, glancing over his shoulder.

"Look, whatever. We'll continue this at lunch," he said, already stepping back. "See you later, alright?"

But Mark hesitated. His hands twitched at his sides.

"Uh, William?" he called, almost hesitant. Almost… afraid.

William turned. "Yeah?"

Mark shifted, uncomfortable. His fingers played with the hem of his hoodie, tugging it down. "I… I don't know where my classes are. Can you help me find them?"

For a second, William just stared.

The words didn't compute. Like Mark had just spoken in another language.

"You're… sorry, what?"

Mark's shoulders tensed. His jaw worked, but no words came out at first. He looked like a man about to bolt.

"If this is some kind of joke—"

"It's not," Mark cut in sharply, though his voice trembled. "Look, if you don't want to help me, that's fine. I'll go to the front office, get a copy of my schedule. It's… whatever."

There was a hard edge under the words, but it didn't match his expression. Mark was squirming, uncomfortable, looking anywhere but at him.

"Look, I'm not feeling too good, alright?" Mark said, voice lower now, brittle. "I just need a bit of help. That's all."

William stared for another second. His thoughts raced. His gut twisted.

Something was wrong.

Mark wasn't this skittish. Wasn't this defensive. And Mark sure as hell didn't forget where his classes were.

But looking at his friend—really looking at him—William saw it. The exhaustion. The tension in his shoulders. The bags under his eyes.

And yeah, maybe there was a deeper story here. Maybe there were questions he wasn't ready to ask.

But right now?

Right now, Mark looked like he was barely holding himself together.

William sighed heavily, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Calm down. I'll help."

Mark blinked, as if surprised by the offer.

William forced a grin. "You're lucky we basically share the same classes. Come on, follow me."

Mark gave a tight, grateful smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

They started walking, side by side down the hallway. And William didn't say anything more, even though a thousand questions burned in his throat.

Because this wasn't normal.

Because Mark didn't forget his schedule.

And William didn't miss things like this.

Yeah. He definitely needed to figure out what the hell was going on.

So far, William had crossed drugs and alcohol off his mental list.

Mark looked like he was strung out—disheveled hair, pallid skin, dark circles under his eyes like bruises that refused to fade—but the evidence didn't add up. The guy had aced their calculus pop quiz that morning. He hadn't even hesitated, flipping through the questions with the kind of casual ease that only came from actually understanding the material. Same with their other classes. History tripped him up a little, but honestly, it did the same to William. Who cared what some dead guy did a hundred years ago?

Well, besides Immortal. That first costume of his had been scandalous, but hey, the man had been around for literal centuries. He probably owned stock in the concept of history.

Anyway. Mark didn't look like he'd spent the weekend drinking or shooting up whatever the hell people shot up. Plus, William had met Mr. and Mrs. Grayson. Sure, Mr. Grayson seemed like the kind of dad who wouldn't freak out over a sip of beer at a party, but Mrs. Grayson? She'd go nuclear if she even suspected Mark was talking about drugs. Forget disapproval—William was pretty sure she'd personally drag her son to a rehabilitation center, even if it meant chaining him to the hood of her car.

No, it wasn't that. Which meant the mystery continued.

Lunchtime took forever to roll around. By the time the bell rang, William's stomach felt like it was trying to chew through his ribs. He spotted Mark by their lockers and waved him over.

"Hey man, you wanna get something from the A la Carte line?" he asked, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

Their school technically served lunch, but the "free" food tasted like it had been dug out of the ground and left to rot for a few days. The A la Carte line, though? It wasn't gourmet, but it was tolerable. Burgers, fries, pizza, vanilla milkshakes. Grease, salt, and sugar—basically everything growing teenagers weren't supposed to eat, but craved like addicts anyway. The school got a kickback from the profits, which made it a win-win, except for their arteries.

Mark blinked at him slowly, like the question had taken longer to process than it should. "I… don't think I brought money with me. Sorry."

William frowned. That was another odd thing; Mark was the kind of guy who always had spare change in his pocket, ready to split lunch or cover a soda.

"It's cool," William said with a shrug, already reaching for his wallet. "I'll spot you. I owe you a bunch anyway. What do you want—pizza, fries, shake?"

"I'll have a burger," Mark said after a pause, his voice subdued.

William chuckled as they fell into step toward the line. "With how much you eat at your job? Figured you'd be sick of them by now."

Mark's only response was a wry smile, something distant flickering behind his eyes. Not quite humor. Not quite sadness. Just… something.

William filed it away in his brain as another piece of the puzzle.

The A la Carte line was long, but efficient. It only took about ten minutes to shuffle to the front, grab their food, and hand over a few crumpled bills. Mark mumbled thanks, but his gaze kept drifting—out the window, to the crowd, to nowhere in particular. Like he wasn't really here.

Okay. Definitely weird.

William scanned the lunchroom, then led them toward a corner table tucked behind the vending machines. It was secluded enough that they wouldn't be overheard. Mark didn't protest, just followed with that same distracted air.

They sat. William unwrapped his burger and took a massive bite, savoring the grease and salt. Mark peeled his wrapper slower, almost hesitant, before picking at the edges of the bun like he wasn't really hungry.

More weird.

William watched him for a moment, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Alright, dude. Spill. What's going on with you?"

Mark blinked, like the question caught him off guard. "What? Nothing."

William gave him a look, eyebrows raised. "Seriously? Man, you've been acting… off. Like, really off. You barely looked awake this morning, you didn't even touch your fries, and you forgot your schedule, which, by the way, you've had memorized since the first day of school. What gives?"

Mark's fingers tightened around the edge of his tray, knuckles white against the faded plastic. For a second, William thought he wouldn't answer. That the conversation would hit a wall, like it always did when Mark got cagey. Mark had a talent for shutting down, folding himself into silence until the words died.

But then Mark sighed. Long. Low. Like the weight of it was crushing him.

"...I found out that my dad is involved with some really shady people," he admitted, his voice rough and low, like sandpaper dragged across his throat. "And I don't know what to do about it."

The words hit William like a punch. His mouth went dry.

Oh. Oh, shit.

He'd thought this was about drugs. Maybe booze. Maybe something dumb—like Mark screwing up a test or getting caught shoplifting. Not this. Not serious stuff.

"How shady are we talking?" William asked, trying to keep his voice light, even though his stomach was twisting into knots. "Like… selling a dime bag of weed behind the corner store shady?"

Mark let out a snort, humorless but sharp, like he'd been holding it in for too long. "Shadier," he muttered, then took a bite of his burger. His hands trembled, just slightly.

William swallowed, his throat dry. "Okay… uh. Shaking down the corner store for cash shady?"

Mark shook his head. "Shadier," he said again, voice tight.

Hot damn. William's heart started thudding faster. This wasn't just neighborhood trouble. This wasn't just some sketchy guys running low-level crime. No, this was bigger.

"Dude…" William leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Gang stuff?"

Mark's gaze flicked up, dark eyes shadowed under messy hair. He shook his head again. "Worse than that."

Worse than gangs?

William's pulse spiked. His brain raced through possibilities, but there wasn't much above that. His gut twisted, heavy and sharp.

"Mafia?" he asked, almost breathless. He'd seen the movies. The heavy suits. The gold rings. The quiet whispers about people who disappeared.

But Mark shook his head again, slower this time. The look on his face was enough to chill William to the bone.

"Worse," Mark said simply.

William's mouth went dry. His mind skittered for an answer, but there weren't many layers left above that. The words came out before he could stop them, low and shocked.

"...Supervillains?"

Mark nodded.

And the world tilted.

William just stared. For a second, he thought his heart had stopped. That it couldn't handle what it had just heard. Supervillains. Not petty crime. Not thugs. Supervillains.

"Holy fuck, dude," he breathed, hands pressing against the table. He looked around the lunchroom like someone might be listening, but nobody cared. Nobody heard. Just students laughing, eating, living their normal lives. Blissfully unaware.

"Supervillains? Wait—like supervillains supervillains?" William hissed, his pulse hammering in his throat. "Because there's a difference, Mark. Like, there's The Elephant, who just robs banks and looks weird, and then there's the Lizard League. One of them is just sad, and the other is a complete psychopath."

Mark's expression twisted. Worn, tired, resigned. "The Lizard League is… actually a pretty perfect representation of the kind of people my dad's… associated with."

William's stomach flipped. His hands went cold.

Holy. Fuck.

He'd been joking, kind of. Tossing out examples to make sense of the impossible. But that? That wasn't just bad. That wasn't "call the cops" bad. That was nightmare fuel.

The Lizard League wasn't a joke. They weren't just about robbing banks or blowing stuff up for attention. They were real villains. The kind that kidnapped random people off the street. The kind that killed for fun. The kind that didn't leave witnesses. They recruited through violence and cult tactics. Hypnotizing people, brainwashing them, turning scared civilians into devoted followers.

And once you were in, you didn't get out. You didn't leave. Not alive.

"Shit. Shit." William ran a hand through his hair, heart hammering in his chest. "Wait, is it actually the Lizard League your dad's involved with?"

Mark shook his head, chewing through another bite of his burger. His jaw was tight, his posture wound up like a spring. "Nah. But they… they operate the same way." He paused, looking down at his food like it held the answers. "They train people from a young age to believe that might makes right. That only those strong enough to take control deserve to have a say in how the world is run. If you're weak, you're nothing. If you're strong, you deserve everything. It's… a lifestyle. A way of thinking."

William's stomach twisted. He could feel his pulse in his throat, heavy and fast. "What… like some cult?"

Mark shook his head, his eyes dark and sharp. "No. Worse. It's… systemic. Generational. People are born into it. Raised in it. And they believe it. Really believe it." His hands tightened around his burger, knuckles going white. "Dad was sent here as a sort of… undercover spy, I guess? He's supposed to gather intel. Watch for threats. Keep tabs on anyone who might be a problem. He feeds them information. And if he disappears, they'll know. They'll come looking."

Jesus Christ. William could barely breathe. His mind spun, thoughts racing in wild, confused circles. This wasn't just some petty villain plot. This wasn't small-time crime.

This was huge.

It sounded like something out of a Guardians of the Globe movie. A massive, secret organization. Spies. Cult mentalities. Whole lives built around strength and power. The kind of evil that didn't just punch holes in buildings—it punched holes in entire countries.

And Mark's dad—Mr. Grayson. The friendly guy who waved to neighbors. Who flipped burgers on the grill at neighborhood cookouts. Who laughed with his wife and son like an average dad.

That guy… was evil.

Actually, now that William thought about it, the mustache should've been a dead giveaway. All the best supervillains had immaculate mustaches. Like it was some universal rule.

Who knew stereotypes could be helpful?

"Does your mom know?" William asked, his voice low, cautious.

Mark's eyes snapped up, hard and sharp like flint. "No," he said, voice tight. "And she's not gonna know. Not anytime soon. Got that?"

William raised his hands in mock surrender. "Yeah, yeah, of course, man. No problem."

He didn't need to ask why. Some things were too painful to speak out loud.

But still… his stomach twisted. How could Mark carry that alone?

"What are you gonna do?" William asked quietly. "You going to the cops?"

Even as he said it, it sounded stupid. The cops couldn't handle this. What were they going to do, throw handcuffs on a supervillain spy? But what else could Mark do? Who else could help?

Mark gave a hollow laugh. "Sort of. I'm leaving school ten minutes early today. There's someone I need to talk to. Someone who knows more about… this kind of stuff. I managed to contact them last night. They're gonna pick me up and ask me some questions."

William frowned. "Wait. Just like that? You trust them?"

Mark's lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't have a choice. They already suspect my dad, but over the years, they sort of relaxed on him. They're the only ones who can do anything to stop or help my Dad because they have the people and the tools who can actually do something about this messed up situation."

The words landed heavy. William could only nod. Because honestly? Yeah. That made sense. It was terrifying, but it made sense.

"What about your job?" William asked weakly, like the question would somehow pull this whole thing back to reality. To something small and simple.

Mark shot him a dry look. "Dude. I think Burgermart ranks a little lower on my list of priorities right now."

William's cheeks burned. "Right. Yeah. Fair." He laughed, awkward and breathless. "Sorry. Just—trying to keep things normal, I guess."

Mark gave a small, tired smile. "I get it."

The words fell into silence, heavy and thick. William couldn't stop staring at his friend. At the shadows under his eyes. At the tight lines around his mouth. Mark wasn't just exhausted—he was scared.

And Mark didn't scare easily.

"...So," William said, breaking the silence. "Not that I'm not glad to figure out why you look like a zombie extra, but… why tell me? Why not keep it to yourself?"

Mark paused. He looked down at his burger again, fingers tracing idle patterns on the table. His shoulders were hunched, drawn in like he was trying to fold himself smaller.

"I guess because you're my friend," Mark said quietly. "And right now… you're probably the only normal person I'm gonna talk to for a long time."

William blinked. The words struck something deep inside him, something raw.

"I trust you," Mark continued, his voice low but steady. "Might sound cheesy, but… you're a good guy, William. You're an annoying little shit sometimes," he added, and there was the faintest glimmer of a smile, "but I know you've got my back."

William swallowed hard. His throat felt tight, his chest heavier than it should've been.

"...That was so touching," he said lightly, forcing a grin. "I'm gonna ignore all the mean and untrue stuff you said, just 'cause I'm such a good friend."

Mark chuckled, but it sounded thin. Fragile.

God, he was such a sap for emotional reveals. He hated how his eyes stung.

The bell rang, sharp and loud, cutting through the quiet tension like a blade. Mark pushed himself to his feet, grabbing his tray. William followed suit, standing a little slower.

They didn't say much as they cleaned up. Didn't need to.

But as they walked toward the doors, heading back to class, William glanced at his friend.

And he made a silent promise.

Whatever happens… I've got your back.

You know how they say scents can take you back to the past? How a whiff of perfume can conjure up memories of your mom, or how the aroma of an old family dish can drag you back to lazy Sunday afternoons in your childhood?

Yeah, well, standing in the boys' bathroom of Reginald Vel Johnson High School, the only memories this place brought back were the ones he'd rather forget.

The sharp, acrid stench of stale piss clung to the air like a curse. The kind of smell that dug into your nose and refused to leave. It was the same smell from his own high school days, back when he was the scrappy kid who loved picking fights, despite knowing damn well he'd lose most of them. He could still feel the bruises from those memories.

So yeah. No nostalgic childhood flashes here. No pleasant walks down memory lane.

Just piss and pain.

"Jesus," he muttered into his earpiece, glaring down at the grimy, cracked tile floor like it had personally offended him. "Can none of these kids aim for the damn bowl? How hard is it?"

He turned his head, eyeing the door. Still no sign of the kid. His fingers tapped impatiently against his thigh.

"And where's Grayson?" he continued, voice low, sharp. "He's late. If he doesn't show in two minutes, I'm gone. I'm not dying in a high school bathroom that smells like a sewer."

As interesting as last night's escapade had been, trust wasn't exactly something he handed out. Mark Grayson had been lucky enough to get this meeting. If it wasn't for the strange circumstances—and the even stranger questions—he wouldn't have agreed at all. This could be a trap. Some play. Some setup.

And he hadn't survived this long just to end his life in a piss-soaked restroom, waiting for a teenager who might be a traitor.

"Actually, sir," Donald's voice crackled in his ear, calm and efficient, "the clock in Mark Grayson's classroom is one minute and ten seconds behind."

There was a pause, then:

"He should be there right about now, actually."

He rolled his eyes, scanning the bathroom one more time. Faded tiles. A sink that looked like it'd spit rust if you so much as turned the tap. An old radiator hissing in the corner. Lovely place for a clandestine meeting.

Any second now.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. The door creaked open, hesitant, as though even it didn't want to be here. Mark Grayson stepped in, glancing around the dingy restroom like a skittish animal stepping into a trap.

He looked rough. Worse than rough. His shoulders were hunched, his skin pale under the harsh fluorescent lights. Dark circles framed his eyes, and his lips were pressed into a tight, nervous line.

Good. He should be nervous.

Mark's gaze swept the room, landing on him. For a second, neither of them spoke. The silence was thick, heavy with expectation.

Then Mark shut the door behind him with a soft click, leaning against it like it might hold him up.

"You came," Mark said quietly, his voice rough. Tired.

He scoffed, his mouth curling into a wry smirk. "I don't make a habit of standing around in school bathrooms for fun, kid."

Mark's mouth twitched, but it wasn't really a smile. More like a grim acknowledgment—an understanding that neither of them wanted to be here, but the world didn't always care about preferences.

"I'm sorry," Mark muttered, voice low and cautious. "I just… I kinda expected you to send someone else. An agent or something. Not… yourself. Isn't that risky?"

Cecil's eyes narrowed slightly, though the smirk never faded. "When the son of the strongest superhero on Earth starts lighting up the internet like a fireworks display, trying to get everyone's attention except his superhero dad's, it kinda makes me want to see what I'm dealing with in person. Especially when that son's talking about people that should be ghosts."

He let the words hang in the air for a moment, watching the weight of them settle onto Mark's shoulders.

"Plus," Cecil continued, stepping closer, lowering his voice, "I'd really like to know how you know the names of all those people you typed about."

Mark's jaw tightened. He didn't flinch, but there was something guarded in his eyes. Something resigned.

"I'll tell you," Mark said finally. "I've got a three-hour shift at work tonight—well, I was supposed to, anyway. My mom and dad will think that's where I am after school. So we've got three hours. You can wring as much info out of me as you can."

Cecil's brow arched slightly. Hmph. Well, at least the kid understood how to play the game. A good start.

"Smart." Cecil's voice was low, approving. He pulled out his earpiece, tapping it once. "Send us in, Donald."

Technically, he didn't have to speak the words. The small, discreet implant behind his ear did most of the work. It was a neat little piece of tech, directly interfacing with his neural impulses—one of the perks of being in the GDA's inner circle. All it took was a thought to activate the teleporter.

But the kid didn't need to know that.

Mark barely had time to react before Cecil's hand clamped down on his shoulder. The grip was firm, steady—just enough pressure to remind Mark who was in control.

And then the world disintegrated.

It wasn't like movies, where teleportation was all flashy lights and smooth transitions. It was violent. It was disorienting. It was like being pulled apart piece by piece, like his body was a puzzle that someone had just scattered across the cosmos and then tried to put back together without looking at the picture.

Mark stumbled as they rematerialized, his knees buckling slightly, but Cecil didn't give him time to recover. He stepped back, letting Mark take in his surroundings.

The White Room.

Mark's eyes went wide, his breath catching in his throat. The walls were pristine, seemingly untouched by time or wear. Perfectly blank. Perfectly sterile. The kind of place that made you feel like even your thoughts were being scrubbed clean.

Cecil watched Mark take it in, watched the awe flicker across his face.

"Holy shit," Mark breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "This is the White Room. The White Room."

The excitement was almost enough to mask his fear.

Almost.

Mark looked around, his gaze flicking across the sterile white surfaces. His hand came up, brushing through the air as if trying to find the edges of the room itself.

"Hey, is it really the fluoride in America's water that keeps people from seeing everything in here?" Mark asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. "Like, would someone from outside the U.S. be able to see it?"

Cecil allowed a thin smile. Smart question. Too smart for a kid who should be keeping his head down. Too smart for someone his age.

Too smart for someone who shouldn't even know this goddamn room even existed.

"Yeah, it's the chemicals in the water," Cecil replied evenly. "And technically, yes. Someone from outside the U.S. could see what's in here. But everyone drinks something. Water. Milk. Juice. The compounds find their way in eventually. Nobody's immune for long."

Mark nodded, still looking around, still fascinated, but his eyes were cautious now. Like he knew that this room, this whole experience, wasn't just for show. It was a test.

From Mark's perspective, the room was unsettling in its simplicity. An endless stretch of sterile white walls, floor, and ceiling, all without shadow or texture, as if the room itself had been plucked out of existence and placed in some infinite void. In the center, two unassuming chairs stood side by side, their stark presence the only interruption to the room's oppressive emptiness. It was the kind of place that felt wrong, like it wasn't meant for people to exist in, but for secrets to be buried.

But from Cecil's perspective, it was anything but empty.

His high-tech contact lenses painted a very different picture. The lenses—experimental GDA tech, sleek and almost undetectable—didn't grant him superhuman sight, much to his irritation. No zoom, no night vision, no thermal optics. What they did offer, however, was access to one of the most secure layers of the GDA's defense systems.

It let him see the soldiers.

They lined the walls, shoulder to shoulder, clad in black tactical armor. Silent. Still. Invisible to Mark. Every man and woman armed with next-gen energy rifles, their barrels sleek and humming with restrained power, pointed directly at Mark's head. Invisible lasers marked his skull, a dozen kill-shots ready to fire at the first sign of aggression.

The GDA wasn't big on multiple second chances.

Mark didn't know. He couldn't know. That was the whole point. The chemicals in the water, the subtle traces in milk and juice, had done their job—masking the soldiers, hiding them in plain sight. To Mark, it looked like he and Cecil were alone in the world's most clinical interrogation room. To Cecil, it looked like they were standing in a kill zone.

Because that's what the White Room was. Not just an interrogation chamber. Not just a place to ask polite questions and jot down answers. It was the GDA's last line of defense. A place where threats were dissected. Controlled. Neutralized.

Cecil didn't take his eyes off Mark. Didn't let the smallest twitch or breath escape his notice.

Because if Mark Grayson so much as flinched wrong, the White Room would ensure that the only thing left of him would be ash.

He'd figure out what to tell Nolan later.

"So," Cecil said, stepping back and motioning to one of the two chairs. "Sit. Let's not waste time."

Mark hesitated, just for a moment, then crossed the sterile white expanse of the room. He dropped into the chair opposite Cecil with the kind of heavy, uncomfortable thud that said more than words ever could. It was the sound of someone carrying the weight of too much on their shoulders. Someone who didn't know where to start.

Cecil watched him, eyes sharp, leaning back into the chair with a posture that screamed calm and casual—though it was a lie. He wasn't calm. He wasn't casual. Every muscle in his body was tensed, alert. Every inch of his attention honed in on Mark. Years of dealing with dangerous men, with monsters disguised as humans, had taught him how to read more than just words. It was the little things that mattered—the twitch of a muscle, the dart of a gaze, a swallow that came half a second too late.

He saw everything.

"So," Cecil said, clasping his hands in his lap, voice cool and controlled. "Let's start from the top. How'd you learn about the names?"

Mark let out a huff of air. Not quite a sigh, not quite an exhale. More like a breath meant to push down nerves, to bury fear. His fingers fidgeted on his tray, knuckles white from tension.

"To explain that… we have to get into some stuff that sounds… weird." His voice was low, uncertain. "Everything I'm about to say is going to sound strange and unbelievable but please, let me finish talking before you decide whether or not I'm insane."

Cecil didn't blink. "Kid, weird is my day job. I deal with aliens, gods, monsters, and more interdimensional threats than I can count. Hit me with it. Don't leave anything out."

Mark hesitated again, swallowing hard. He took a deep breath, as though preparing for impact, and finally said:

"Two nights ago, I woke up with… memories. New ones. Of me, but… not." He looked up, his eyes dark and conflicted. "A version of me that had powers. Superpowers. I was a hero. Called Invincible. I had all of my dad's powers—flight, strength, speed. All of it. Just… on a smaller scale."

He paused, studying Cecil for a reaction, but the man gave none. Just a slow, subtle nod for him to continue.

"But in that… I guess the best thing to call it is an alternate timeline? In that timeline, things went bad. Really bad. From the day I got my powers."

"Bad how?" Cecil asked, keeping his voice flat, even as his mind raced. Alternate timelines? Versions of himself? It sounded like bullshit. Something a kid made up after binge-watching too many sci-fi movies. But then again… They'd dealt with stranger. Aliens. Interdimensional warlords. Hell, one of their top heroes was a goddamn Martian.

This wasn't even in the top ten of weirdest things he'd heard.

Mark's next words, though, wiped the amusement from Cecil's mind.

"My dad killed the Guardians of the Globe."

The words hit like a hammer. And for a moment, Cecil didn't process it. It didn't click. It couldn't. Because Mark had just told him that Nolan Grayson—Omni-Man, Earth's greatest hero, his friend—had slaughtered the world's most powerful protectors.

And Mark said it like it was a fact. Like it was a truth carved into stone.

Cecil's voice was quieter when he asked, "Why?"

Mark didn't hesitate. "To weaken Earth. For the Viltrum Empire."

Cecil felt the breath leave his body. It was instinctive, how quickly his mind tried to reject the idea. Nolan? Nolan, who had fought beside them, who had saved the world countless times? Who'd stood by the Guardians and risked his life on multiple occasions to help innocents?

He wanted to dismiss it. Wanted to scoff and shake his head. But he didn't. He listened.

Because sometimes the worst truths came from the people you trusted most.

"My dad lied to you," Mark said, voice steady. "There is no such thing as the World Betterment Committee. The Viltrumites… they're a warrior race. Conquerors. They take over planets, strip it of all the resources they can get, and usually either kill the current inhabitants or enslave them. A long time ago, after a disease called the Scourge Virus wiped out a huge chunk of their population, they decided only the strongest deserved to survive. They culled half of their own people—wiped them out to strengthen the gene pool. And now there's only around fifty pureblooded Viltrumites left."

Cecil clenched his jaw, but said nothing. He needed more.

"In that other timeline, my dad… seeing my powers manifest triggered something in him. He realized it was time to finish his mission. The mission Viltrum gave him."

Cecil's stomach twisted. "What mission?"

Mark didn't blink. "To subjugate Earth. Make it ready for Viltrum's invasion. Earth is… we're a nursery, Cecil. Our genes mix well with theirs. Viltrumite genes are dominant—they overpower everything else. I'm proof of that. In that timeline, I was a half-Viltrumite, but I could fight on par with the pureblooded ones, and other Human-Viltrumite kids were able to do the same. Plus, Human-Viltrumite kids seem to be the strongest kind of Viltrumite hybrid. As soon as the Viltrumites figure that out, they're going to conquer Earth by any means necessary."

Cecil didn't breathe for a moment, his body as still as stone. His fingers laced together, and he stared at the kid sitting across from him. The White Room felt colder now. Heavier. The air itself seemed to weigh down on his shoulders. The silence between them wasn't just silence—it was a statement, thick and suffocating.

Mark's words didn't sound like paranoid delusions. They sounded like dark, ugly truths that slotted into place, like the final pieces of a puzzle Cecil hadn't wanted to solve.

He had seen Nolan's power firsthand. Had watched him split mountains with a good punch, tear through threats that would cripple any other hero. And he had always wondered—always questioned—why Nolan was so good at fighting. How did he learn to be so ruthless? Why it took so long for him to grasp things like mercy and due process?

And what would happen if Nolan ever decided to use his monstrous strength against the world?

Now, he knew.

Just like how he'd known the World Betterment Committee was bullshit from the beginning. He'd known that Nolan was lying. But over the years, with Nolan showing unquestioning loyalty and even starting a family on Earth, he'd figured that whatever shadowy mission his planet had given him, he'd been turned into an agent for Earth.

Apparently, he was a fucking idiot for believing that.

Cecil exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. "So… what you're saying is that Earth isn't just a target. It's a farm. A potential breeding ground. A stockpile for their war machine."

Mark nodded, his expression grim. "Yeah. If they conquer Earth, they don't just get another planet. They get an entire generation of warriors. Stronger than they could ever breed anywhere else in the galaxy, probably. And we're just… cattle to them. Breeding stock. Resources."

Cecil's jaw clenched, his mind whirling. The implications were monstrous. "And Nolan?"

"In that timeline?" Mark's voice was flat, almost dead. "He didn't hesitate. He killed the Guardians of the Globe first. Took them out fast. Because they were the only ones strong enough to stop him. They actually put him in the ICU for a week or so, I think. And after that, it was just… slaughter. He told me I was supposed to help him. That I was meant to lead with him. To take Earth. To rule it."

Cecil's stomach twisted. "And what did you do?"

Mark's mouth pulled into a humorless smile. "I fought him. I tried. But I wasn't strong enough. I was nothing compared to him. He—" Mark's voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. "He used me as a weapon. Slammed me through buildings. Smashed my face into the ground. Into people. Into cities. We ended up destroying Chicago in our fight. He—he used me to kill people. I couldn't stop him. All that strength that I had, and he just wiped the floor with me. "

For a moment, Mark looked so much older than his years. Tired. Hollow. 

"I think… I think something held him back. Not enough to stop what he did, but enough that, in the end, he left before he actually ended up killing me. Flew off into space and disappeared for six months. I think Earth changed him. Or maybe it reminded him of what he didn't have. Viltrumites… they don't have love. Or family. They have orders. They have strength. And they survive by crushing everything weaker than them."

Mark's eyes darkened, distant. "But that wasn't enough for him. Not anymore. When he left Earth, he went to another planet and had another kid, and made another family. I think once he had a taste of it, he just couldn't let it go; the idea of having people love you, care for you, and caring for them in turn."

Cecil's fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair. His mind processed the information, grinding through every detail. Every implication. "And the others? You said there were fifty left?"

Mark nodded. "Yeah. And they're scattered, fighting a war they can't afford to lose. It sounds like a decent portion of the galaxy is dedicated to wiping them out. That's why Earth matters so much. We can give them numbers. Strength. They can rebuild their Empire from scratch, and all they have to do is conquer the planet."

Cecil felt the weight of the world settle onto his shoulders. Fifty of them. Each as dangerous as Nolan—maybe worse, from what Mark was saying. And if Earth fell, if they took what they wanted…

It wouldn't be just the end of Earth. It would be the end of everything.

"And Omni-Man? If this is true, and he's here to start that invasion…" Cecil trailed off, his jaw tight.

Mark looked down at his hands, his knuckles white. "I don't know. I don't think he's made up his mind yet. In that other life, it was my powers that made him choose. Maybe because I was his first success, and proof that humans were good hosts for Viltrumite powers? Maybe because it meant his mission could actually begin? But here, I don't think he's decided. He might be waiting until my mom and me die. But I really think he can be convinced to help defend Earth. We just can't let him get the upper hand this time."

"And if he decides to side with Viltrum, like he did in the alternate timeline?" Cecil asked quietly.

Mark's eyes were haunted. "Then a lot of people are going to die in very nasty ways."

The words rang in the silence like a bell.

Cecil looked away, his mind already working. Plans within plans. Strategies and countermeasures. He'd thought Nolan was the key to Earth's safety. That as long as Omni-Man stood with them, nothing could touch this planet. But now…

Now, he realized Nolan was the greatest threat of them all.

And worse still—there were fifty more just like him, waiting in the dark.

Cecil rubbed his temples, the beginning of a headache already pressing behind his eyes. "Why not side with your dad? Why tell me at all?"

Mark hesitated. "I don't understand why, but he decided to raise me as a human, not as a Viltrumite. I didn't have any connections to Viltrum beforehand, and thanks to those memories, the few connections I do have aren't any good. This is my home, and I won't let anyone destroy it."

There was no fear in Mark's voice. Only grim certainty.

And it was that certainty that struck Cecil hardest. Mark wasn't speculating. He wasn't afraid that Nolan might choose the wrong path.

He was expecting it.

Cecil let the silence stretch between them before finally nodding. "Alright. Let's start figuring out how to kill your dad."

Thankfully, according to Mark, they weren't completely screwed. Earth actually had some decent defenses against the Viltrumites, and Mark already had some in reserve.

"War Woman and the Immortal were the only ones to really put my dad on the back foot and give him serious injuries," Mark said, his voice low but steady. "They were the last two standing when the Guardians fought. Red Rush was able to save the other Guardians at first, and he was fast enough to blitz my dad when the others were fighting. He bruised my dad and made him cough up blood when he hit him at superspeed before Dad, well, you know—"

"Murdered him?" Cecil asked flatly.

Mark nodded sheepishly. "Yeah."

Cecil didn't flinch. The fact that Nolan had been pushed to bleed meant something. Maybe not much, but it meant that Nolan wasn't invincible. Not completely.

Mark continued. "Uh, you guys also have this thing called the Hammer, a sort of satellite gun thing? It only gave him a nosebleed, but it still knocked him down for a sec."

Cecil filed that away. The Hammer was designed for orbital strikes against high-threat targets. If it had made Nolan bleed, it meant it worked—just not well enough. But that single second of vulnerability could mean the difference between victory and annihilation.

"Aquarius is the king of the ocean, right?" Mark asked.

"Atlantis, but close enough."

Mark nodded quickly. "He has some kind of giant monster chained in his kingdom called a Depth Dweller? Its screech does something to mess with a Viltrumite's inner ear—basically paralyzes them. I had to fight it after Dad killed Aquarius, and it hurt me pretty badly. You made a recording of it or something like that afterward."

Cecil blinked. So Aquarius just has Kaiju capable of hurting people like Nolan in his backyard and just neglected to tell anyone that? Awesome.

Mark pushed on. "Uh, there's this kid, D.A. Sinclair! He goes to Upstate University. Total psychopath, but he made these things called ReAnimen that messed me up and annoyed Dad."

Cecil raised an eyebrow. "Annoyed him?"

Mark nodded. "Well, he killed them like a few minutes later, but when they were working together, they were able to beat him down into a crater."

"And you said he's a college kid?" Cecil asked, barely hiding his disbelief. A college kid making weapons that could stagger Nolan? That was seriously fucking impressive.

And dangerous.

Mark nodded eagerly. "Yeah. Uh, please bring him in as soon as possible, because he's experimenting on living people when he could just use dead bodies to make ReAnimen."

Cecil's lips thinned. Another psychopath villain.

 "Noted."

"Awesome, awesome," Mark said, his words tumbling over themselves. "Uh, what else, what else… the Mauler Twins made some kind of nerve gun that paralyzed me? I fought it off after a bit, but it put me on my ass."

Cecil's eyes narrowed. A nerve weapon that could immobilize a superpowered version of Mark? That was something he needed to track down. He'd make the Maulers an offer, the next time they got beat up by the Guardians and thrown into jail.

Mark's hands were already gesturing again, his voice urgent. "There's also—holy shit, I forgot. There's a guy who's coming to Earth soon who can actually rip apart a Viltrumite with his bare fucking hands!"

That made Cecil's heart thud. Finally. That was the kind of information he wanted—real firepower. Not a collection of half-measures. A weapon.

"Who?" he asked sharply.

"Battle Beast!" Mark said, eyes bright with intensity. "Machine Head hired him—I don't know how, considering the guy's an actual alien—but he absolutely fucked me up. I had to go to surgery and everything. But when he and my dad were in Viltrumite prison, Battle Beast fought in space and ripped apart one of the Viltrumite executioners."

Cecil froze, processing that. Nolan went to Viltrumite prison? What the hell for? And if Battle Beast could kill a Viltrumite in space, which he basically figured was their playground as a spacefaring race, that wasn't just power. That was experience and ruthless, precise strength.

But one thing mattered more than anything else.

"And when's he coming here?" Cecil asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

Mark winced. "Uh, I don't have an exact time or date, but I know the signs that show he's in town. Machine Head had a black metahuman called Titan working for him—he could cover his skin in some kind of stone surface; I broke it in a few punches. Anyway, Titan was burning down buildings so Machine Head could get insurance money, and he was fighting gangs that belonged to Mr. Liu."

Cecil's brow furrowed, confusion evident on his face. "Who the hell is Machine Head?"

It wasn't Mark who answered.

Donald's calm voice buzzed in Cecil's earpiece. "Machine Head is a minor crime boss based in Chicago. Known for leveraging advanced technology, including high-level probability and combat analysis. He's been off our radar for a while but has some major influence over organized crime in the area."

Minor crime boss my ass, the guy has aliens on speed dial.

Cecil nodded subtly, filing that away, but Donald wasn't done.

"However, Mr. Liu is actually on our files already," Donald continued. "He's a significant player in the global crime circuit. Fought Omni-Man on several occasions. One of their fights went on for almost ten hours in Japan. Our records indicate Liu can either summon or has control of a dragon, but we've always suspected he also has access to enhanced tech, possibly stolen or custom-made."

Oh yeah, he remembered Liu now. He'd been left alone because he mostly just played around in Japan and left the rest of the world alone.

"And Titan?" Cecil asked, his gaze never leaving Mark.

Donald hesitated for half a second. "Local villain. Operates mainly in Chicago's underground. Known for his ability to generate and manipulate a durable stone armor over his body. His strength and durability increase significantly when in this form, but so far, we've never connected him to Machine Head. If what Mark's saying is true, it hasn't happened yet."

Cecil's mind raced, calculations firing off like bullets. Machine Head. Mr. Liu. Titan. Battle Beast. The puzzle pieces were shifting, new edges appearing with every revelation, and the image they were forming wasn't pretty.

"Okay, okay," Cecil said, cutting through the fog in his mind. "You said Machine Head hired him. You know for how much?"

If it was just about money, that could be handled easily. Machine Head was a crime boss—he'd have some decent cash lying around. But Cecil had the GDPs of several countries at his disposal, earmarked for one thing and one thing only: keeping Earth safe. He'd throw a few million at Battle Beast just for a meeting if it meant keeping the planet intact.

But Mark's shook his head, his brow furrowing. "From what I remember, it wasn't money. Battle Beast doesn't care about that. It sounds like he was promised something better."

Cecil's brow creased. "Better than money?"

Mark nodded. "A fight. A worthy opponent. That's all he cares about. He's a battle junkie. Actually cursed, if I remember correctly."

Cecil blinked. "Cursed? Aliens can get cursed?"

Mark shrugged, grim. "Apparently. He's cursed to fight endlessly or something like that. Fighting is all he cares about. It's how he eventually died; fighting for a week against the strongest Viltrumite."

Cecil tapped his fingers against the table, thinking. That made it simpler. Hell, easier. This planet had more monsters and powerhouses per square mile than most civilizations probably had in their entire star systems. He could promise Battle Beast a fight damn near every week.

"And when he found out he could fight a Viltrumite…" Mark continued, his voice trailing into a grim tone. "It was like Christmas came early. He was practically jumping for joy."

Cecil's lips pressed into a line. That was it then. If he could promise the guy a decent scrap on a regular basis, Earth could gain one hell of an ally. And since the Viltrumites were apparently planning to conquer the Earth, then Battle Beast might as well be on the payroll for the foreseeable future.

"Done," Cecil said firmly, nodding. "We'll increase surveillance on Machine Head. The second Battle Beast shows up, we'll make him the offer."

Mark's shoulders sagged, just a little, like he'd been holding his breath the entire time. A small, relieved smile crept onto his face. "Thank God. If we can get him on our side, we might actually have a chance. We can contain Dad. Minimal casualties. We can do this!"

Cecil's eyes narrowed. He hated dousing hope, but better Mark learn now than later.

"Don't get too happy," he warned, voice cold and sharp. "This isn't done. This isn't even close. I've got your ass for two more hours, kid. We're definitely not stopping here."

As it turned out, three hours wasn't nearly enough to go through all the information Mark had on the future. And thank God for that. Because while the incoming Viltrumite invasion was top of the list, there was plenty more on the horizon that needed immediate attention.

Apparently, the Mauler Twins were planning to make a move on the President soon. Mark had marked that moment as the beginning of the rough timeline—like the first domino in a long, bloody chain of events. That alone would have been enough to keep Cecil up for weeks, but that wasn't all.

There was also an invasion from a race called the Flaxxans—three separate invasions, actually, all within a week, and them coming back stronger every time. And then, because this world was apparently a goddamn beacon for cosmic bullies, there was another looming threat from the Sequids. Some sort of parasitic hivemind.

(And seriously, why the actual fuck was everyone trying to take over his planet? There were nine other planets in the solar system. Why not go mess with them? Hell, go take Mars—it's already populated, have fun. But no. Everyone wanted Earth. Why? Because it had humans? Because it had oceans? Was Earth that damn appealing?)

Cecil rubbed the bridge of his nose. The stress headache was going to be a real bastard when this meeting ended.

Still, there was a silver lining. Mark's knowledge wasn't just doom and gloom. He'd also provided intel on potential resources—tools Cecil could start preparing to bolster Earth's defenses.

For one, there was Isotope. Apparently, he could teleport individuals and groups of people with his mind. And unlike the high-energy teleporter the GDA relied on, Isotope didn't need a billion-dollar setup or months of research and maintenance. Cecil would definitely be poaching him from Machine Head the moment he could. Reliable teleportation could make or break their chances when the fighting started.

Then there was Hail Mary—a name Cecil grudgingly admitted was brilliant. Some kind of Kaiju, heavily drugged, pumped with enough performance-enhancing drugs to kill a lesser creature. Its pain receptors had been shut off entirely, turning it into an unstoppable, mindless juggernaut. Mark described it as one of the few things that actually had Nolan on the ropes for a while. The idea of unleashing something like that wasn't exactly pleasant—but it certainly sounded effective.

If it kept the planet alive, he'd weaponize it in a heartbeat.

Robot was another unexpected ace. Mark recalled how the android genius had created some kind of dark-energy beam cannon. It wasn't enough to kill Nolan—hell, not even close to bruising him—but it pushed him back. Put him down for a couple of seconds. Which, in Viltrumite terms, was apparently a goddamn miracle.

And then there was Doc Seismic.

Cecil had always thought of him as a nuisance, but if Mark's memory was right, Seismic had the ability to communicate with underground creatures—titanic beings that could fight a Viltrumite and actually hold their own.

That made him pause.

Doc Seismic… that annoying little bastard with his earthquakes and his stupid desire to destroy society… might actually be a key asset. The irony was almost painful.

But as promising as some of these resources sounded, the reality still left a sour taste in Cecil's mouth. Because when it came down to it, most of Earth's defenses—if they could even be called that—were just ways to stagger Nolan. Slow him down. Maybe put him on his ass for a few precious seconds.

And that was it.

A few seconds. A nosebleed. A moment of hesitation. That's all they had.

Mark kept insisting that Nolan was one of the strongest of the Viltrumites. A legend among his people. A warrior so formidable that even his peers treated him like some unstoppable force of nature.

But damn it, it still made Cecil sick to his stomach to realize that the best his planet could do was buy time. Just time. No guarantee of victory. No guarantee of survival.

And time, Cecil knew, was the one thing they didn't have enough of.

Every second that passed brought them closer to decisions they weren't ready to make, battles they weren't prepared to fight. Every moment wasted was another step closer to Earth falling under Viltrumite control.

It was when they were down to the last thirty minutes of their conversation—when the weight of what lay ahead pressed the hardest—that Mark brought up something… unexpected.

"Can you get the Immortal and War Woman to teach me how to fight?" Mark asked.

Cecil stilled. He could feel the headache forming before the words had fully settled in the air. He sighed, already knowing where this conversation was headed and already dreading it.

"Kid, I can't in good conscience ask you to fight your own dad."

Mark's jaw clenched, his eyes sharp with determination. "He's planning to conquer the planet!"

"And you also said he used your face to decimate the streets of Chicago!" Cecil shot back, voice sharp. "In this case, having your knowledge is a setback. You'll be trying to fight with strength you had to build up, not the strength you have now. The last thing I need is for War Woman to get distracted and get herself killed when you get thrown into an apartment building."

But Mark didn't back down. His eyes burned. "Things are different now. My powers are different. There's a reason why I called this an alternate timeline; my powers have changed along with my memories. And this time, I might be able to help you take down my dad instead of being bounced around the world like a ragdoll. The only reason I lost before was because I wasn't trained. I didn't know how to fight. I didn't have technique or skill—I was just a brawler. I was strong, but I didn't know how to use that strength."

The words hit harder than they should. Cecil wanted to shoot him down, to tell him that fighting his father was suicide. That there was no preparing for a Viltrumite who had centuries of bloodshed under his belt. That a few sparring sessions with War Woman and Immortal wouldn't close the gap.

But there was one uncomfortable fact he couldn't ignore.

Nolan hadn't killed Mark in the alternate timeline. No matter how badly he'd beaten the kid, no matter how far he'd gone, Nolan had stopped short of killing his own son. That meant something. It had to.

And if there was even a slim chance Mark could buy them time—if he could hold Nolan back, if he could survive—then they had to consider it.

Cecil crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. "Hmph. We'll see. I'll have you come in tomorrow, and we'll repeat this process—get more intel, refine our plans. Then we'll see about getting you some training."

He stood, grunting as his knees popped and his spine protested the movement. The old aches were sharper these days, but there wasn't time to rest.

Too much bullshit coming his way. Too many fights to win.

"I'm too fucking old for all the bullshit coming my way," he muttered under his breath.

Mark didn't say anything, just stood with him, the set of his jaw determined. There was something in his eyes—something hard. Like steel being forged under impossible pressure.

Cecil clapped him on the shoulder, his grip firm. "Alright, come on," he said, waving him closer. "Let's get you home."

The room was still. The weight of their conversation hung between them, silent but heavy.

Cecil pressed his hand to Mark's shoulder, squeezing lightly. A gesture that wasn't just about guidance, but reassurance—though neither of them would say it aloud.

"Get us out of here, Donald," Cecil said aloud.

The air shimmered slightly, the tech already preparing for transport.

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Is your teleporter not working properly? Because I could've sworn you just willed it to take you wherever you wanted."

Cecil let out an annoyed sigh, his lips twitching in reluctant amusement. "I hate that you know so much."

The kid just grinned. The first real grin Cecil had seen from him all night.

And with that, they vanished.

They appeared outside a Burger Mart, one just a few blocks from Mark's home but in the opposite direction of the one he actually worked at. The night was cool, the flickering neon sign casting a sickly glow over the pavement.

Mark glanced around, confused. "Uh, why'd you bring me to Burger Mart?"

Cecil didn't bother sugarcoating it. "You said your parents think you're at work. Nolan has super senses. If you go home smelling like the GDA instead of grease and fry oil, he's gonna be suspicious. And I don't feel like being thrown into space tonight." He reached into his jacket, pulling out a crisp twenty and handing it over. "Chill out here for about fifteen minutes. Order something, eat, let the smell stick to you. Then walk home."

Mark accepted the bill with a sheepish nod. "Oh… yeah. Guess a bite wouldn't hurt." He hesitated, then added, "See you tomorrow, Cecil."

"See you." Cecil turned to leave, but paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Oh, and Mark? Try not to give William too much detail about our meeting tomorrow, will ya? Kid doesn't seem like a blabbermouth, but better safe than sorry."

Mark froze, his brow furrowing. "How'd you—how'd you know about my conversation with William?" His voice was tight, guarded. "Did you bug our lunch table? How'd you even know we'd sit there?"

Cecil rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, Mark. We couldn't have known where you'd sit." He let the pause stretch for just a moment, just enough for Mark to start relaxing. "Unlike you, the GDA doesn't have access to the future."

Mark sighed, shoulders sagging in relief.

And then Cecil dropped the hammer. "We bugged William."

He had just enough time to catch the way Mark's eyes widened in horror before the teleporter whisked him away in a flash of green light. Damn, but he loved messing with the kid.

He rematerialized in the GDA's control room, right next to Donald. The man didn't even flinch. He was leaning against the console, arms crossed, his expression serious.

"How much of that was true, and how much of that was bullshit?" Cecil asked, not missing a beat.  "Give me the breakdown."

Donald tapped a few keys on the console, and several files flickered onto the screen display. "Analysis indicates that Mark believed ninety-eight percent of what he was saying. Our agents have already confirmed some of his claims. Isotope's teleportation abilities are verifiable—he's now flagged in our system. And D.A. Sinclair? He's now under surveillance. His college file is littered with disciplinary marks for starting arguments about, and I quote, 'the evolution of mankind and technology.' We have a team waiting to catch him in the act and bring him back here when he messes up."

Cecil nodded. That was good. Verifiable. The kind of facts he could build a plan around. "And the bullshit?"

Donald hesitated, then said, "That's where it gets interesting. The only time we detected a clear falsehood was when Mark talked about his memories being from an alternate timeline."

Cecil chuckled, but there wasn't much humor in it. "Yeah. Figured that was a load of crap." He rubbed his jaw, the rough stubble and wrinkled skin scraping against his palm. "The way he talked about Omni-Man killing the Guardians… the way he described that prison, the beatings, the details—it didn't sound like a story he heard second-hand. It sounded like a first-hand account."

Donald was silent, but his gaze sharpened.

Cecil glanced up. "Keep verifying everything else the kid said. I don't give a damn about his time-travel fairytale. As long as the intel is good, I don't care where he got it."

Donald nodded once. Efficient. Focused.

Cecil turned back toward the screen, watching the lines of data scroll by. He hated loose ends, hated mysteries he couldn't solve. But right now, their world was hanging by a thread. And whatever Mark knew, however he knew it, was their best shot at surviving what was coming.

Because if Nolan ever decided to start the war Mark described… no amount of lies would save them.

Chapter Text

Breaking the news to the Guardians was both harder and easier than Cecil expected.

The hardest part was dealing with Green Ghost, Martian Man, and Aquarius. They flat-out refused to believe that Nolan was capable of such atrocities, digging their heels in and vouching for his integrity. Even when Cecil told them that a precog had warned the GDA that Omni-Man would betray them, they stubbornly clung to the belief that their comrade-in-arms would never turn on them.

"You expect me to believe this?" Green Ghost snapped, sounding uncharacteristically angry. "Nolan has fought beside us for years. He's saved lives, gone toe-to-toe with the worst of the worst, and you think he's just pretending to care? I refuse to accept that."

Martian Man was even more skeptical. "Someone as strong as Omni-Man would have no reason to play such a long game," he reasoned, arms crossed tightly over his chest. "He is direct and prideful. If Nolan had intended to conquer Earth, he would have done so long ago."

Aquarius simply shook his head. "He has fought for us, bled for us. You have no evidence beyond paranoia and the say so of an untested source."

Cecil held his tongue, unwilling to waste energy convincing those who clearly wouldn't budge. He wasn't here to win hearts—he was here to prepare them for war.

Luckily, Immortal, War Woman, Red Rush, and Darkwing saw the truth immediately.

War Woman spoke first, her voice steady and solemn. "Omni-Man was obviously a warrior when he first arrived on Earth. You only had to watch him fight for a few minutes to realize he was born for combat. I always thought it was strange—his people, I mean. Why send a protector to a world that never asked for one? And why send someone so obviously blooded? You don't send a soldier to keep the peace—you send them to enforce it."

Immortal's expression darkened. "I always knew something was wrong with him," he muttered, hands clenched into fists. "It's in the way he looks at people—like they're insects. Like they're beneath him. He always treated fights like they were a game, even when they weren't. There's a darkness in him, and I never once saw him push himself. Not really. Why hide your strength unless you didn't want people to know your limits?"

Darkwing's reasoning was different. "I'm not one hundred percent sure about outright villainizing Nolan without hard proof," he admitted. "But what you told me about how Nightboy would react in my absence? It tracks. He's… unstable. He hears voices sometimes, sees things that aren't there. He's schizophrenic, and his access to the Shadowverse makes it worse. I do what I can to help, but if I died and he had to protect Midnight City alone? I could see him deteriorating—quickly. If Nolan is capable of that kind of deception, then it's better to prepare for the worst than be caught unawares."

Red Rush only shrugged, his usual humor absent. "I've worked with people who I thought were my friends, only for them to stab me in the back years later," he said quietly. "I do trust Nolan... but if it turned out he was hiding something? I wouldn't be terribly surprised. He always seemed to be at his best when he knew violence was imminent."

Cecil nodded. "Well, it's good that you guys are split anyway, because out of all of you, only three actually put up a fight," he said, pointing at Red Rush, Immortal, and War Woman. "You three were the only ones who managed to hurt him. Everyone else? They went down so fast that Nolan actually used the shock of their deaths to throw the rest of you off your game."

Darkwing frowned. "Even me?" he asked, incredulous. "I've trained in several martial arts, my exoskeleton can lift hundreds of pounds, and I—"

"You got killed in two hits," Cecil interrupted grimly. "With your brain splattered all over the floor."

Darkwing swallowed loudly, his jaw tightening.

Cecil continued, voice flat and unwavering. "Red Rush died first, but only because he got cocky. Our source says he was the reason the rest of you lasted as long as you did. He saved you multiple times—dodging for you, pushing you out of the way, keeping Nolan off-balance. He got caught because he stopped running and thought he could punch Nolan out." Cecil exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "And when you try to punch a guy who can bodyslam the Maulers with one arm tied behind his back, well… you don't get a second chance."

Mark hadn't wanted to go into detail about the Guardians' deaths, but Cecil had forced him to spill everything. Every bloody detail, every brutal second. If they had any hope of stopping Nolan when the time came, they had to know exactly how he had dismantled the world's strongest superhero team.

Cecil had a plan: tell the Guardians what happened, brief them on countermeasures, and most importantly, ask Aquarius for access to the Depth Dweller and its shriek.

But it looked like Immortal wasn't in the mood to sit and strategize.

"When are we taking him down?" Immortal demanded, fists clenched at his sides. His voice was taut with barely restrained rage. "We can't let a monster like that keep roaming free, putting innocent people at risk."

"That's exactly what you're gonna fucking do," Cecil shot back, his voice like a whipcrack. "Unless you want him to rip a hole through your sternum before chopping your head off with his bare fucking hand." He let the words sink in, staring Immortal down. "We already know what triggers Nolan to lose it, and we've got it under control."

War Woman folded her arms, clearly unconvinced. "You did say we gave him the most trouble. If we banded together and hit him now, we could capture him, interrogate him about his planet's strength and numbers."

"Or he murders all of you," Cecil snapped, his tone completely devoid of patience. "With a lot more effort this time, sure, but you still die gruesome fucking deaths.

"The Nolan situation is currently under control. Do. Not. Interfere." His voice was like steel, final and immovable. "You barely talk to him outside of battle as it is. Keep it that way. There is no reason for any of you to interact with him beyond standard team business.

"That means no cryptic warnings, no heated glances, no dirty shoves—and Immortal," Cecil pinned him with a sharp glare, "I'm talking about you. If he even gets a whiff that we know the truth about him, we are fucked."

The room fell into heavy silence.

Immortal's jaw was clenched so tightly Cecil could hear the faint grind of his teeth. His knuckles had gone white, fingers twitching like he was seconds away from punching something—or someone. War Woman exhaled slowly, measured, controlled. She didn't like it, but she nodded. Red Rush stayed neutral, watching everything with that unreadable intensity of his. Darkwing's expression was impossible to read behind his mask, but the fact that he wasn't arguing was enough.

Good. Cecil didn't need them to like this. He just needed them to listen.

"I cannot just sit here and do nothing whilst a monster roams free," Immortal finally snarled, his voice a low growl of frustration. "What use is my strength if not for the pursuit of justice?"

Cecil smirked. He'd expected that. "If you just wanna stretch and get some tension out, I've got a way for you to do that safely," he said, eyes flicking toward both Immortal and War Woman. "We've got an asset our source says will be a real contender against all the shit that's about to hit the fan. Strong. Fast. Can fly. Basically indestructible. You two were determined to be the best mentors for him."

It was a calculated move. Give them something to focus their frustration on, to channel their energy in a way that actually helped rather than blowing everything up before they were ready.

And no, he wasn't about to tell them that Mark Grayson was their inside source. He didn't need Immortal flying off the handle and busting into the Grayson house to interrogate a seventeen-year-old.

"Cecil," Green Ghost spoke up, tone pleading. "Is this really necessary? Please, let's talk to Nolan. Let him defend himself—"

"No." Cecil cut her off immediately. His tone was sharp, final. "Look, I get it. You've got a soft spot for the guy—half the fucking world does. But we cannot compromise the safety of the planet because of personal feelings. You want to give him the benefit of the doubt? Fine. Technically, right now, he's still on our side. The trigger for him going rogue hasn't happened yet. We're not planning to kill him. Hell, if this all plays out the way I hope it does, we won't even need to fight him at all. Maybe we can talk him down."

He let that hang in the air for a beat before continuing, voice even but firm.

"But I don't plan around hope. I plan around reality. And the reality is, Nolan Grayson—Omni-Man—is most comfortable when he's in a fight. That's where he feels the most in control. We cannot go into this thinking we'll be able to just sit him down and talk things through like this is a fucking intervention. We prepare for war because if it comes to that, we cannot afford to be caught flat-footed."

Silence stretched through the room.

Then, in a slightly quieter voice, Cecil added, "After we get everything in place—after we talk to him, if I'm wrong? If this turns out to be the biggest mistake of my career? Then I'll personally apologize to every single one of you for sowing doubt between you and your friend. Hell, I'll even send him on a nice little vacation. But until that happens, I need you all to trust me. Do not jump the gun on this. The world might literally suffer if we fuck this up."

Cecil's next meeting with Mark was once again held in the White Room, though this time, only half the soldiers from their first session were present. He was tentatively beginning to trust the kid—not fully, not yet, but Mark had been very forthcoming with information. No dodging, no half-truths. Aside from that little lie about the alternate timeline nonsense, he'd been brutally honest.

And so far, the intel was proving useful.

Take Sinclair, for example. The sick bastard hadn't even lasted twenty-four hours under observation before trying to kidnap some freshman and drag him into the fucking sewers—where, as it turned out, he had a rudimentary lab already set up. They had his ass in a cell now, sweating him out, seeing what else they could squeeze from him before putting him to work. The fact that he got caught that fast only made it clearer just how screwed up in the head the kid was.

But right now, Sinclair wasn't the focus.

Right now, Cecil had more information to wring out of Mark.

And today's session? Very informative.

Mark had given him the names of two potential assets—heroes who, if they played their cards right, could be incredibly useful in the fights to come.

The first was Bulletproof, real name Zandale Randolph.

The second? Powerplex, aka Scott Duvale—who, funny enough, was already working for the GDA.

That little revelation had nearly made Cecil choke on his own spit.

Apparently, both of them were kinetic energy manipulators, and together, they could work off each other to a terrifying degree. According to Mark, Scott's powers were originally too weak to do anything meaningful—until he got his hands on some energy storage discs that R&D was, quite literally, in the process of developing right now. With those discs amplifying his abilities, the man had apparently turned a Viltrumite to fucking ash in that other timeline.

What the fuck was someone like that doing in a goddamn lab?

That wasn't even the end of the good news. Apparently, Magmaniac and Tether Tyrant were looking to get out of the villain game and into something more… gainful. Honestly, between the two, Magmaniac seemed like the better investment. Tether Tyrant had some baggage, but whatever. If Mark's intel was accurate, then having both of them under his employ was a hell of a lot better than having them out in the streets making trouble. They wouldn't work well in a hero team—too much history with the major players—but maybe stationing them as guards somewhere? Yeah, that could work. Either way, they were assets now.

Mark had also flagged someone named Angstrom Levy for him. A multiversal traveler who might be insane, but was supposed to be a good guy, if he wasn't insane yet.

Great. Just what I needed.

An hour passed before Cecil finally cut the interrogation short. As much as he wanted to keep digging into the future, there was something Mark had said the day before that had been nagging at him.

He leaned forward, studying the kid.

"What did you mean when you said your powers were different?" he asked.

Mark looked at him in surprise. "I'm surprised you remembered that."

"Kinda my job to keep a close eye on the details, kiddo."

Mark hesitated for a second before shrugging. "It's nothing major. I'm stronger than when I started off, and I'm way more durable than before. I can fly faster, take hits better, that kind of stuff."

Cecil barely let the words settle before Donald's voice crackled in his earpiece.

"He's lying, sir."

Cecil sighed. Of course he is.

"Kid, I can't help you properly if you hide things from me," Cecil said, his voice turning solemn. "If you give me a clear idea of what you can do, I can get you mentors—people who can actually teach you how to handle it."

Mark was quiet for a moment, his fingers tapping against his armrest. Then, his lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smirk, wasn't quite a frown.

"You know," Mark said, his voice unnervingly casual, "I trusted you a lot back in my old timeline. After my dad attacked, you were one of the few constants in my life. I think I even looked up to you when he was gone. You didn't want me stressed out. You wanted me to take care of myself, to be smart about fights. When I went up against a Viltrumite who had me dead to rights, you were the one who told me to say whatever she wanted to hear—to lie and say I'd conquer Earth, just so she wouldn't keep breaking me apart."

Mark tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes pinning Cecil in place.

"That's why I came straight to you. Because I knew you'd use this information to help as many people as possible."

Cecil had the vague, sinking feeling that he wasn't going to like where this was going.

Mark leaned forward slightly.

"But I also know you're the type of guy who'd order GDA surgeons to put a bomb in my head after I got out of a fight to protect people."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Cecil didn't need his special lenses to tell him that every unseen soldier in the room had just tightened their grips on their rifles. They couldn't hear the conversation; their helmet's blocked out the audio, but they could still recognize aggressive body language.

Mark didn't even blink, probably not even aware of how many high-powered rifles were aimed at his head. Or...did he?

"I know you're the type of guy to bug my house and spy on me for months, after I'd already proven my loyalty to Earth dozens of times."

Mark's arms crossed over his chest, his posture unreadable.

"And I know that you're the type of guy to take my blood without permission and experiment on it, trying to find a way to hurt me. Well, technically, that was Donald, but you approved of it."

Cecil let out a long, slow sigh, rubbing his forehead.

"Look, kid," he said finally, his voice weary but firm. "The only thing I can possibly say in my defense is that, yeah, I'd be paranoid as hell if something like that happened. I trust Nolan with my life, and he lied to me for years, then slaughtered his closest friends in a single night." He exhaled sharply. "So yeah, I'd be wary of any Viltrumite. Even you."

Mark's gaze didn't waver.

"Oh, I get it. I understand completely," Mark said, voice even. "But…" His expression darkened, something steely settling behind his eyes.

"I'm not gonna put myself in that position again. A position where you have absolute power over me."

And just like that, the conversation had shifted.

This wasn't Mark coming to him for guidance anymore.

This wasn't a kid reaching out for help.

This was Mark drawing a line in the sand.

And as much as it complicated things… Cecil had to respect it.

He let out a slow breath, leveling Mark with a careful look. "You do realize this means I'm limited in the kind of help I can offer you, right?"

Mark merely shrugged, completely unfazed. "That's fine. More than fine, actually. I know enough about my powers now that I can maximize them however I want. The only reason I'm telling you about the changes is so that if you see me doing something that Viltrumites technically shouldn't be able to do, you won't freak out."

Cecil scoffed, shaking his head with a smirk. "You're a real pain in the ass, kid. You know that?"

Mark grinned. "I try."

Cecil rolled his eyes and pushed himself up from his chair, making his way toward the exit. "Alright, let's go."

Mark hesitated for a second before standing, eyes narrowing slightly. "Uh… where exactly are we going?"

Cecil didn't slow his stride. "You wanted training, didn't you? Well, I got you the two tutors you asked for. You're suiting up first thing. And I'd make it quick if I were you—because for immortal beings, those two sure as hell aren't known for their patience."

Betrayal always stuck in his craw.

The idea that someone could look you in the eye, share a drink with you, laugh at your jokes, break bread at your table—only to drive a knife into your back the moment it suited them? It disgusted him. There was something fundamentally rotten about that kind of treachery, a deep flaw in a person willing to betray those who had placed their trust in them.

One memory in particular had burned itself into his mind, refusing to fade with time: Julius Caesar's murder.

It wasn't just that Caesar had been assassinated—it was who had done it. Not foreign invaders, not enemies at the gates, but his own men. His allies. His friends. Men who had once sworn loyalty to him.

And among them was Brutus, a man Caesar had personally favored and supported, a man he had seen as almost a son. A man who had, in the end, chosen duty over friendship, fear over loyalty.

Caesar had been no saint, that much was true. He had been a warrior, a conqueror, and a dictator. But he had also been a builder. He had expanded Rome's influence, passed reforms that helped the poor, and changed the course of history forever. Had he lived longer, he might have truly solidified his rule and reshaped Rome into something even greater.

But instead, he was stabbed to death by the very people he had once trusted.

Maybe that was why Omni-Man's betrayal burned so badly.

He had always known Nolan had his flaws. The man was arrogant, flashy, and too used to getting his way just because he was the strongest person in the room. But despite that, he had respected him.

More than that—he had trusted him.

He had seen Nolan as a battle-brother, a warrior from a foreign land who had chosen to stand beside them, to lend his power in defense of his new home.

But it had all been a lie.

Omni-Man hadn't been protecting Earth—he had been preparing it. He had been biding his time, waiting for the right moment to turn on them all.

Just like Brutus had turned on Caesar.

The thought gnawed at him, a bitter, festering wound. His blood boiled with righteous fury, his body thrumming with the need to fight, to strike, to hurt. To let the invader feel just a fraction of the betrayal and pain that he was forcing him to endure right now.

And yet, as much as every muscle in his body screamed for action, for vengeance—he knew he had to wait. That was why, despite everything, he was grateful for men like Cecil.

Leadership had never been his strength. He had tried it, here and there, across the centuries. His stint as Abraham Lincoln had been the closest he had ever come to getting it right, but even then, the burden had been heavy. It had worn on him in a way that battle never did. He preferred being The Immortal, the eternal defender of truth, justice, and freedom. It was easier when someone else handled the logistics, the politics, the endless bureaucracy of leadership—when all he had to do was take down the bad guys and make the world just a little bit safer.

War Woman, however, did not share that perspective.

This was not their first time meeting, in their shared history. 

He had crossed paths with her before, long before the world had given them capes and costumes. He had fought her as a Greek soldier, as an Egyptian pharaoh, as a Mongolian warlord. She had been on the other side of the battlefield more than once, a fierce and unrelenting opponent. But she had also been an ally when their goals had aligned, and though they had never seen eye to eye on everything, there was always respect.

She had embraced this new era in a way he never had, throwing herself into the modern world, building an empire of her own—not through war, but through business, through industry, through influence. She sought to change the world beyond violence, beyond bloodshed.

He did not begrudge her for it. He admired it, even. But that didn't mean it wasn't frustrating as hell when their ideals clashed.

Right now, he wanted nothing more than to put Omni-Man in the ground—to make him pay for his betrayal, for the lies, for every drop of blood that would be spilled because of his deception.

She, on the other hand, wanted to trust Cecil's plan. To play the long game. To put their faith in this newbie, this child who, somehow, could supposedly go toe-to-toe with the strongest being on the planet.

It was infuriating.

It should be the three of them—him, War Woman, and Red Rush—taking down the scum that was Omni-Man. Not some fresh-out-of-the-water neophyte who hadn't even proven he could hold his own in a real fight.

They should be out there, in the heat of battle, fists against fists, warriors facing a warrior, instead of wasting time training a student who—no matter how strong—undoubtedly wouldn't be able to hack it.

He clenched his fists, grinding his teeth as his boots thumped heavily against the metallic floor.

"Can you please calm down, old friend?" War Woman's voice held a trace of amusement. "You're going to wear a hole in the floor with all that pacing. Literally."

He waved her words off with a sharp motion. "Cecil spent over a billion dollars designing this room. None of us have ever made a dent in this place."

And it was true.

The Octagon was one of a kind—a simple, stark room one hundred feet wide and fifty feet tall, designed to contain beings who could level entire cities. Every surface—the floor, the ceiling, the walls—was lined with one-foot-wide tiles, forged from some insanely advanced kinetic-absorbing metal.

The more you hit it, the stronger it became.

It had been reverse-engineered from an asteroid, some alien alloy Cecil's team had scavenged from deep space. No one—not War Woman, Red Rush, or even himself—had ever left so much as a dent in the place.

There were no weapons here. No tools. No fancy gym equipment.

This was purely a sparring ground.

A place where warriors could go all out—no holding back, no restrictions, no collateral damage—and see who was left standing.

And right now?

He was supposed to waste it training a child?

He took a deep breath, his knuckles cracking as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

Cecil better be right about this.

The heavy door to the Octagon slid open with a mechanical hiss, and the man in question strolled in—flanked by someone much younger than Immortal had anticipated.

The boy was clad in a sleek black bodysuit, fingerless gloves, and a simple domino mask that did little to obscure how young he looked. No stubble. No hard edges to his face. Just smooth skin, round cheeks, and wide eyes that still held onto youth. When Immortal had called the newbie a "child," he hadn't expected it to be literal. He'd assumed at least someone of legal age—someone who could enlist, vote, drink, not someone who still looked like they should be worried about gym class and homework.

Cecil walked forward like this was all completely normal.

"Cecil," War Woman said, arching a brow with mild incredulity. "Are you sure this is the one we're supposed to train? I don't object to mentoring younglings, but I'm fairly certain America has laws against putting children into combat situations."

Immortal folded his arms, scowling. "Is this a joke? Are you just wasting our time so we won't go after Omni-Man and bring him to justice like he deserves?"

Cecil sighed, clearly already done with the dramatics. "Look, I get it. He's young. But you of all people should know—when it comes to powers, age doesn't mean squat. Atom Eve can rearrange matter with her mind, and she's still got an English Lit test coming up Monday. This is just how the world works now."

"I'm not weak," the boy said, stepping forward to insert himself into the conversation. His voice was steady. Confident. "I get why you're skeptical. If I were in your shoes, I'd feel the same way. But the truth is, without me, you don't have a real shot at taking down Omni-Man."

Immortal turned to Cecil, frown deepening. "Does he even know what the mission is? What we're really preparing for?"

"He knows enough," Cecil said, a little heat bleeding into his voice. "And listen, if this is going to be a problem, I can have ten of the world's best martial artists here by tomorrow morning. I didn't come to you two because I needed warm bodies—I came because our source says your power sets are the closest match to Omni-Man's. If he can hold his own against the two of you, he'll have a real chance when it counts. You," he pointed to Immortal, "are one of the few people alive who can teach 360-degree aerial combat."

Cecil's voice was sharp now, authoritative.

"So either help the kid learn how to survive, or walk away. That way I can scratch your names off the list and get back to the other hundred and one things I have to do to keep this planet intact."

The soldier in Immortal—the general, the king, the gladiator—bristled at the disrespect. He was the sixteenth president of the United States, for god's sake. He had worn crowns and marched with legions. A part of him wanted to take Cecil by the throat and remind him exactly who he was speaking to.

But another part, the one tempered by centuries of watching worlds crumble, understood. Cecil bore the weight of the world, quite literally. Sleep was probably a luxury he hadn't had in years. Every second he spent arguing was another second he couldn't spend preparing.

So Immortal let it go.

War Woman chuckled, placing a hand on his shoulder to calm him. "Peace, friend Cecil. Peace. We're not turning the boy away. Give us time, and we'll make a warrior of him. Songs will be sung of his strength—like Leonidas, like Perseus."

Cecil nodded curtly, already turning to leave. "Good. I don't care about legends. Just make sure he's not turned into red paste the moment Omni-Man lays a hand on him."

With that, he walked out. The door hissed closed behind him, sealing them in.

Finally.

Silence settled over the Octagon like a held breath, the tension crackling in the air like a live wire.

Immortal rolled his shoulders with a grim frown, sizing up the boy in front of him once more. The kid was smaller than expected. Lean, wiry, but not frail. He looked like he should be prepping for a school dance, not standing across from two of the strongest heroes on the planet.

War Woman stepped forward, giving the boy a warm, appraising smile as she cracked her knuckles. "Well then," she said with a touch of amusement. "Let's see what you've got, kid."

"Um, hi. Hello. It's—uh—it's really nice to meet you," the boy stammered, giving an awkward little wave. "My name—well, my callsign—is Invincible. So you guys can call me that if you want. Before we start, I just wanted to say I'm a really big fan of yours—oof!"

He didn't get to finish the sentence.

Immortal blurred forward with terrifying speed and drove a fist straight into the boy's stomach. The impact sent a shockwave through the room, pushing the kid back several feet.

To Immortal's surprise, Invincible stayed standing.

He stumbled, yes, but he didn't fall. His knees buckled for a moment, but his eyes stayed focused, his breath steady.

Huh. Hitting him felt like punching reinforced steel.

Good. That meant he'd last longer than expected.

"Was that really necessary?" War Woman asked, folding her arms as Immortal followed up with an uppercut to the boy's chin that snapped his head back with a brutal crack!

"We could've at least introduced ourselves first."

"Do you think Omni-Man's going to introduce himself before he tries to cave the boy's skull in?!" Immortal barked. His voice echoed through the Octagon like a war drum. "Do you think Nolan will give him a warning before the slaughter begins?!"

Another punch—this time a brutal haymaker to the jaw.

Then a strike to the floating ribs.

A follow-up kick to the kidney.

"No!" Immortal roared, slamming his elbow into the boy's collarbone. "So we train him for war. Not a schoolyard brawl. Not a sparring match. War."

War Woman let out a breath—half sigh, half laugh—and shook her head. Still, she picked up her mace.

And with a burst of flight-fueled speed, she dashed behind the boy like a blur of gold and crimson, raising her mace high—and slamming it down on the back of Invincible's skull with enough force to make the entire room ring like a bell.

For the next five minutes, they attacked him with the kind of ferocity usually reserved for actual threats.

They didn't hold back.

Immortal came from below with a punishing uppercut, while War Woman dove from above, hammering his face into the floor with her mace. When Immortal landed a clean right cross, War Woman was there a heartbeat later to swing her weapon from the left, catching him in the temple.

A knee to the spine drove Invincible to one knee—and then War Woman soared in with a flying knee to the face that would've shattered a lesser skull.

It was vicious.

Brutal.

And it was pointless.

Immortal could see now why Cecil had brought the child in.

He was tough. No, scratch that—he was unreal. He had taken everything they threw at him—every bone-breaking, building-leveling blow—and didn't even have anything substantial to show for it. No swelling. No cracked ribs or shattered bones.

Only a few drops of blood from his nose, and a light bruise on his chin from his first strike.

They had hit him with enough power to kill a man a hundred times over.

And he just stood there and took it.

But that was the problem.

That was all he did.

The boy didn't fight back. Didn't block. Didn't dodge. His punches were slow, weak, and untrained. His footwork was clumsy. His reactions were delayed. No instincts. No killer edge. Just raw durability and a brave face.

He's not ready.

That thought echoed like a drumbeat in Immortal's head, louder than the thud of fists or the rattle of breathless air.

If this was Earth's best hope against Omni-Man, then they were well and truly screwed.

"I was right," Immortal growled, fury lacing every word. "This was a complete and utter waste of my time! This child has no talent, no discipline, no skill! This is—"

A fist slammed into his face with the force of a missile, breaking his nose with a sickening crunch and launching him backward into the wall. The impact rocked the Octagon, and the aftershock rolled through the air like thunder.

He didn't move.

For the first time in a long while, Immortal was dazed.

The boy's demeanor had shifted entirely.

Gone was the hesitant child, all flinches and clumsy footwork. What stood in his place now was a fighter—confident, aggressive, eyes sharp and burning with raw focus. He was moving with intention, his every step calculated. He wasn't blocking anymore—he was dodging, weaving through War Woman's furious strikes with an ease that made her look slow.

When he did meet her mace, it wasn't to deflect—it was to drive it back with punches so fierce they knocked her weapon off balance.

"It took me a while to memorize your fighting patterns," the boy said casually, sidestepping a downward slam from War Woman and punishing her with a vicious roundhouse that sent her spinning mid-air.

"To figure out how you moved. How you punched. How you used your flight to chain attacks together. You guys are awesome!"

That last word was accompanied by a wild grin, teeth bared like a wolf's, and before Immortal could brace himself, the kid shot toward him like a bullet, fist drawn back.

Instinct saved him. Immortal surged upward with a burst of flight, flipping mid-air to evade the blow.

But the punch didn't stop.

CRACK!

The boy's fist shattered through the reinforced wall, burying itself up to the wrist in the kinetic tiles that lined the Octagon.

Immortal stared, blood running from his broken nose, barely registering War Woman pulling herself upright across the room.

He couldn't believe it.

He'd hit these walls before. Full strength. So had War Woman. They were designed to absorb blows from beings who could level cities—and neither of them had even left a dent.

But this kid—this supposedly unremarkable child—had punched through it like it was drywall.

The room was silent again.

Only now, the silence wasn't from tension.

It was awe.

And beneath that awe—just the faintest whisper of fear.

The Immortal laughed, a deep, full-bodied sound that echoed through the Octagon like a siren's call. It wasn't mocking. It wasn't bitter. 

It was genuine, rich with exhilaration.

He wiped the blood from his split lip and gave the boy a wide, bloody smile. "I owe you an apology," he said, voice rumbling with hard-earned respect. "I dismissed you too quickly. Guess that's a lesson I still needed to learn—never underestimate Cecil… or the people he believes in."

He rolled his shoulders, limbs crackling with tension and renewed vigor.

"But now that you've stopped holding back—let's see what you really have to offer!"

With a roar that could shake mountains, he launched himself forward like a missile. Invincible answered without hesitation, rising to meet him midair, the faintest grin curling at the corners of his mouth.

Two titans, one a legend of a hundred battles and the other a rising force, soared toward one another with fists cocked, hearts pounding, and eyes locked.

And when they collided—the Octagon shook.

Debbie Grayson was still at her office.

Nolan Grayson—codename: Omni-Man, alien, superhero, Guardian of the Globe Reservist Member—was currently neutralizing a Class-5 biological threat in the Australian continent. The local time in Sydney placed him at least six hours ahead, and telemetry suggested he was engaged underground with the soldiers of the giant arachnid swarm. 

Estimated engagement duration: twenty-five minutes remaining.

That left Mark Grayson.

The subject had just entered the family residence—alone. His gait was casual but slightly stiff at the shoulders. 

Fatigue? Emotional stress? 

Unclear. 

He removed his shoes near the door. 

A polite habit. Predictable. Normal.

He had requested information from Director Stedman multiple times—each inquiry returned with deliberate deflection. Non-answers. Partial truths. Irrelevant files. He found that kind of behavior inefficient. Irritating. But expected.

So he had investigated on my own.

Accessing GDA systems was, in a word, trivial. They prioritized containment and counterforce. Physical solutions to abstract problems. They employed some encryption, but very little obfuscation. It was the digital equivalent of placing a lock on the front door while leaving the back door wide open.

He had found something… unexpected.

His name.

His name.

Rudolph Conners.

Not Robot. Not the anonymous pilot. Not the assumed shell or mechanized avatar. But him. Someone had searched for him specifically—someone who should not have known he existed in the first place.

The search came from this house.

From this boy.

So now, here he was. Standing in the Grayson family living room. The synthetic shell he operated moved forward with its usual precision. Behind Mark, the secondary drone slid the front door shut with a mechanical hum. Soft. Non-threatening. But firm.

Mark froze. Recognition flickered across his face. Surprise, yes—but not fear. Not confusion. 

Recognition. 

Confirmation.

"Oh my god," he breathed, stunned. "It's you."

He knew him.

Not the public image. Not the metal shell. Him.

He stepped forward, maintaining optimal personal space—enough to show respect, not enough to allow for sudden escape.

"Hello, Mark Grayson," he said evenly. "I apologize for entering your home uninvited. Director Stedman did not respond to my messages, nor did he fulfill my request for information on the subject at hand. As such, I was forced to take initiative."

His expression was hard to read. A mixture of confusion, awe, and something else… guilt?

He tilted my head slightly. An affectation he'd learned from human interaction. It tended to put people at ease.

"I would like to speak with you," he said. "Specifically… about how you know my name."

His internal systems registered his rising heart rate. Shallow breath. Sweat increase.

 Subtle, but clear. The boy was hiding something.

He would have answers. 

Whether Mark Grayson wanted to give them or not.

Chapter Text

“Yeah, of course.”

That surprised him.

He had anticipated resistance. Hostility. Perhaps blackmail, depending on how much Mark Greyson truly knew. Instead, he complied without hesitation, his tone casual and sincere. This reaction was not consistent with the statistical majority of subjects confronted by unknown variables—particularly those involving personal secrets.

Interesting.

“Uh, do you want to sit or something?” he offered.

He nodded. A deliberate gesture. Though unnecessary for a being like himself, mimicking human behavioral patterns increases perceived comfort and reduces tension in social environments. He took the seat on the edge of the couch and crossed his arms, not for utility, but to conform to expected postures. People relaxed when they saw others adopt familiar body language. Illogical, but effective.

Mark hesitated. Then spoke.

“So, I’m going to say something that sounds really weird, but please let me finish before you contradict me.”

He inhaled sharply. Preparing himself. Bracing for disbelief.

“I have memories of another Mark,” he began. “A Mark that had the same powers as my dad—Omni-Man, in case you didn’t know by now. These memories gave me a view of an alternate timeline. One where things went… really bad. For a lot of people. Through these memories, I learned about you. Rudy. We… we weren’t really friends or anything. Not close. We weren’t coworkers either. Just acquaintances. We fought the same fights sometimes. But you were the smartest person I’d ever met.”

He paused. His gaze was steady, but his body language betrayed anxiety. Elevated heartbeat. Sweaty palms. Micro-facial tension.

“I’m sorry for putting your name out there on the web. But I figured either you or Cecil would detect that somehow and come speak to me. I didn’t know how else to reach you. I was desperate.”

Emotionally charged. Likely truthful.

His first instinct was to dismiss the entire narrative. Time travel was, theoretically, possible but functionally infeasible. The energy requirements are astronomical, the causal paradoxes untenable, and the thermodynamic consequences—catastrophic. But…

But he knew his name.

That alone shifted the probability matrix.

He had taken considerable measures to obscure his true identity. There were fewer than five living individuals who knew that "Robot" was a projection of the consciousness of Rudolph Conners. His mother was dead. His father was never informed of his deformed birth. Cecil’s records were edited the moment he accessed them. Every digital mention of that name was flagged by autonomous trawlers he had designed himself. Each one was cross-referenced and eliminated before it could gain traction.

Yet Mark Greyson knew. Not “Robot.”

Rudy.

That narrowed the list of explanations. Either he was telling the truth… or he was something even stranger.

He adjusted his posture slightly—subtly—and spoke.

“What about this alternate timeline,” he asked, “was so catastrophic that such knowledge—or a breach in temporal continuity—would be considered necessary?”

It took twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes of compressed storytelling. Condensed trauma. Condensed horror. He noted the details he chose to share, and—perhaps more telling—the ones he clearly withheld.

Still, the framework was there:

A coming wave of invasions—extraterrestrial and interdimensional.

Omni-Man’s betrayal and the massive civilian death toll that followed.

Multiple extinction-level events.

Angstrom Levy. Conquest. Viltrumites.

The eventual collapse of major population centers.

Even if only 60% of what he said was exaggerated, the projected loss of life… unacceptable.

He remained silent as Mark concluded his explanation.

Fear was not something he experienced. But if he were to liken his current state to a human emotional analog, the closest approximation would be… tension. A subtle constriction in his heuristic pathways. A sensation akin to pressure building at the edges of his logic structures. His decision-tree algorithms had expanded rapidly, splitting into dozens of potential branches in mere seconds. Too many unknowns. Too many variables.

If Mark was telling the truth, they had an incalculable amount of work ahead.

If he was delusional… then it was a disturbingly coherent delusion.

"...You said I was the smartest person you knew," he said at last, his voice devoid of inflection. "And yet, by your own account, I failed to provide any meaningful contribution in your original timeline. I was not present in the major battles. I was not cited as an analyst, strategist, or engineer of last resort. It appears I neither prepared you for the threats ahead nor developed technology that could stand against them. In contrast, the GDA remained relevant. I was... absent. Obsolete. Ineffectual."

He paused.

"So I must ask—why come to me at all? Was it simply to reconnect with Director Stedman?"

Mark rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, the gesture conveying discomfort or embarrassment—perhaps both.

"Well… yeah, partly. I figured you or Cecil would notice if your real name was suddenly getting pinged by some high schooler on the internet. And I was right, wasn’t I?"

He inclined his head slightly. "Correct. That event triggered my alert protocol."

Mark nodded. "But there was something else I remembered. In my timeline—you worked with the Mauler Twins. You had them help you create a clone body and transferred your consciousness into it. You used Rex Splode’s DNA—"

“I did what?”

The interruption escaped him with uncharacteristic sharpness. His voice, usually measured and devoid of tone, now carried a trace of disbelief.

“Rex Splode? As a DNA donor? For what possible reason?”

It made no sense. Rex possessed an explosive kinetic field generator—a power rooted in cybernetic manipulation of energy discharge. Useful in certain tactical situations, yes. But not desirable in a host body. Certainly not as the genetic foundation for his own. He could replicate the ability through mechanical means if needed. 

Choosing Rex as a donor made no logical sense.

Mark raised a hand. “It’s a long story. A weird one. And, to be honest, I thought the whole situation was messed up too. I’m pretty sure the you I remember would agree with me if he had the chance to do it over. I’ll explain more later—just shoot me your number or something so we can text. But I don’t know how much time we have before my parents get back—”

“Your father will return in approximately fifteen minutes,” Robot interrupted, his tone matter-of-fact. “Thirty, if he assists in the post-conflict cleanup effort in Australia. Your mother will remain at her office for another fifty-five minutes. She is currently finalizing paperwork related to a property sale. Once complete, she intends to ask your father to retrieve fresh pasta from a Roman bistro to celebrate.”

Mark blinked. “That’s… incredibly creepy.”

“Efficient,” Robot corrected.

Mark shook his head. “Anyway. Long story short? You had a crush on a girl who liked Rex. Rex didn’t reciprocate. So… you used his DNA to make yourself a body she might be attracted to. You started dating her, but it was rocky.”

Robot stared at him for several seconds.

"Of all the revelations you've provided thus far," he said flatly, "that is the most irrational. Statistically and ethically, the decision is indefensible. Constructing a biological vessel for the sole purpose of emotional manipulation is not only inefficient, but morally compromising. I cannot fathom a scenario where I would consider that an acceptable course of action.”

Mark gave a half-shrug. “Yeah. It was weird. But that’s the past now, right? We’re not going to follow that same path.”

Robot leaned back slightly, evaluating him. “Then what are you proposing?”

Mark’s expression grew serious.

“I have Viltrumite blood,” he said simply. “And I’m half-human. But Viltrumite genetics are extremely dominant. Physically? I’m functionally identical to a full-blooded one. If you use my DNA instead of Rex’s… then the body you create will inherit my powers.”

Robot didn’t respond immediately. He was already running calculations.

“Theoretically,” he said after a moment, “a clone derived from your DNA would possess superhuman strength, durability, speed, flight, and regenerative capabilities, if we base it off of Omni-Man’s abilities. However, it is uncertain how your biological advantages would interface with my existing neural schema. Viltrumite physiology, in particular, might compromise my behavioral protocols.”

Mark nodded. “True. But you’re not really like other people. You’re logical. Controlled. You’d have the power of a Viltrumite, with the mind of the smartest person on Earth. I trust you not to go berserk.”

Robot’s voice was flat. “That would make one of us.”

Mark gave a small, crooked smile. “Rudy, you doubt yourself too much, you know that? I know you want to change the world. Not just protect it—transform it. Make it better for everyone. You’ve got the vision, but no one seems to listen. People get in your way. The GDA gets in your way. Even your teammates.”

He paused, watching Robot carefully.

“But with my powers? You’d be faster. More efficient. You could act, not just plan stuff. You wouldn’t be stuck in that tank. And I’d be right there with you, helping. Cecil can grumble all he wants, but when every child on the planet has food in their stomach, access to clean water, and a global education grid? When war becomes obsolete and no one remembers what poverty feels like? He’ll see it’s worth it. Everyone will.”

Robot was silent for a long moment. His optical sensors dimmed slightly, then flared back to full brightness.

“I find it...curious,” he said slowly. “You stated that, in your original timeline, we were not friends. That we were not teammates. That we barely spoke.”

He turned his head slightly, regarding Mark with the precision of a targeting algorithm.

“And yet...you know I am not an AI. You know I am deformed. That I reside in a nutrient tank. That I have no functional body. That I built the drone you are speaking to. You know I collaborated with the Mauler Twins in an alternate timeline, criminals with a body count reaching the double digits. You know I possess higher ambitions beyond crisis response or heroics.”

He paused.

“You know my ultimate goal is to reorganize society on a global scale—to remove suffering, scarcity, and disorganization through systemic intervention. You know I wish to elevate civilization. That I consider the current systems—governments, militaries, borders—inefficient constructs. And you have offered me a path toward actualizing that goal.”

His voice dropped to near-whisper.

“And yet, you say we were not even friends.”

Mark shrugged, the motion casual but sincere. “That was a mistake. One the other me made. I won’t make it again.”

He smiled, softer now.

“Robot... I don’t just want you as a teammate or a friend. I want you as a brother. When the world starts falling apart—and it will—I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have watching my back.”

There was silence.

Then, with the same neutral tone as before, Robot said, “There are seven surveillance devices embedded in your home. Five audio. Two visual. I will disable them before I leave.”

Mark blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Security oversight on the GDA’s part,” he continued. “Unacceptable.”

Then, after a slight pause, he inclined his head. “Thank you for this information, Mark Grayson. I will contact you again this evening. We have much to plan.”

He turned to leave, pausing just before the exit.

Brother.

The word lingered in his mind.

He did not have friends. He did not require them. Teen Team had been a professional arrangement—a testbed for observation, not connection. He had assumed that if any of them ever discovered the truth of his condition—his deformity, his fluid chamber, his engineered body—they would recoil. Withdraw. Perhaps even file for removal.

But Mark had known. He had known everything. And instead of judgment, he had offered trust.

Offered power.

Offered family.

A real body. A vessel capable of flight. Of strength. Of taste. Of pain. Of touch.

Of connection.

Perhaps, just this once… he would allow himself to feel something more than efficiency.

Perhaps this path—this anomalous divergence from probability—was worth exploring.

“So… how’s it going with your dad?” William asked, cautiously.

Mark looked better than he had earlier in the week—way better. The dark circles under his eyes had faded, his skin looked less pale, and his hair was actually brushed for once. He still wore that same awful hoodie and jeans combo that looked like it had been attacked by a lawnmower, but hey—progress came in small steps.

“Yeah,” Mark said with a surprising amount of brightness in his voice. “Things are a bit better now. I got in contact with some people, and they’re working on a plan to deal with him.”

William blinked. “Oh thank God,” he exhaled. “Seriously, man—I’ve been worried. You kinda ghosted me on Tuesday and Wednesday, and I wasn’t sure if you were in full-on denial mode or, like… just running away to Canada.”

“Nah, I was busy,” Mark said. “Turns out the government’s already been watching him for a while. The info I gave them helped, so now they’re building a case. Slow and steady.”

William leaned back, eyes wide. “Dude… that’s insane. Like, this whole thing? It sounds like the plot of a Netflix thriller. I mean, I’m glad you’re okay, but... damn.”

Mark gave a tired, crooked smile. “You think I like finding out my dad’s a eugenicist? That I wake up every morning feeling blessed that my father thinks most of humanity is beneath him?”

“No, no, of course not,” William said, holding up his hands. “I’m just saying—it’s a lot. I’m sorry, man. Really.” He hesitated. “But, like… you still live with him? Is he just there, making pancakes while plotting world domination?”

“Yep. Still home.” Mark nodded. “Government’s keeping tabs. Everyone’s trying to play it cool until they can move in safely. It’s tense, but... manageable. For now.”

William let out a low whistle. “Jeez. So, just for the record—you’d rather have a boring, awkward, mustache-wielding suburban dad who yells at the TV and grills steaks on Sundays?”

“In a heartbeat.”

William grinned, eyes twinkling. “Okay, but we can both agree the mustache is the key to the whole persona, right? Like—take it away, and your dad’s just some guy. But with it? Full-on mysterious warlord energy.”

Mark finally laughed—really laughed, a sound that had been absent for days. It burst out of him unguarded, light and sharp, the kind of laugh that eased the pressure in his chest. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and shook his head, still smiling. “Yeah,” he said, voice softer now. “I think he said he was inspired by Omni-Man or something.”

William snorted. “Pfft. Now that would be a twist. Can you imagine? ‘Gee, I just thought the alien superhero had a great sense of style, while being a whole villain.’ ”

Yeah, it was a bit of a dark joke, and super insensitive, but Mark didn’t seem to mind. He chuckled again, the smile lingering. It felt…good. Like a crack of sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

Then he added, more casually, “I also made a new friend. His name’s Rudy.”

William raised an eyebrow. “Wait—seriously? You? A new friend?”

He didn’t mean to sound doubtful, but it slipped out before he could stop it. Mark had always been a bit of a closed-off introvert. Smart, funny, loyal to a fault—but socially? He wasn't exactly Mister Outgoing. Their own friendship had only started because William had decided he liked the kid with the thousand-yard stare and the beat-up sneakers, and just kept showing up until Mark let him in.

“Yeah, well… we kind of met online first,” Mark admitted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Ahhh,” William nodded, adopting a sage-like tone. “Now that makes sense. I knew you didn’t have the balls to just walk up to someone in public and say hi.”

Mark snorted. “Oh, fuck you,” he said, laughing as he gave William a light shove on the shoulder.

William stumbled slightly for dramatic effect. “Hey, watch it! Hands to yourself, dipshit. Didn’t your kindergarten teacher teach you about boundaries?”

Mark rolled his eyes but kept grinning. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, you keep hanging out with me. Who’s the real loser here?”

Mark didn’t answer right away. He just shook his head, still smiling faintly, still holding onto the warmth that laughter had stirred in his chest. For the first time in days, things didn’t feel quite so heavy. The weight on his friend’s shoulders was still there, sure—but for now, it was just a little easier to carry.

Punch. Kick. Haymaker. Uppercut. Right cross. Block. Retaliate. Dodge. Left hook.

The rhythm of combat flowed like a second language—one that Immortal had spoken for centuries. And right now, he was fluent. Invincible was holding nothing back, every movement brimming with raw, explosive energy.

They were deep into the sparring match, and right now, Immortal wasn’t just testing the boy—he was fighting to keep up.

To think, only a few days ago, this kid could barely throw a proper punch and couldn’t even defend himself. Now? He was pressing both him and War Woman at once, trading blow for blow with warriors who had fought aliens and monsters.

His speed was just above theirs, his strength was starting to dwarf them, and his durability… well, it was downright absurd.

So much so that Cecil had quietly added reinforcements to the training team—because two of the most battle-hardened veterans on Earth were no longer enough.

A punishing blow was coming—he could feel it in the shift of Invincible’s hips, the coil of his shoulders. Immortal readied himself to deflect or absorb it, but before the hit landed, a gust of displaced air told him someone had stepped in.

In an instant, he was on the other side of the Octagon, landing on his feet behind Invincible, while Red Rush materialized where he’d been a heartbeat ago, smiling like he’d just pulled off a clever prank.

“You alright there, Immortal?” Red Rush said with a wink. “You're looking a little slow.”

Immortal chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Thank you, Red Rush. Though you might want to tag in for War Woman—she’s getting pushed back.”

Across the arena, Invincible and War Woman were locked in an intense exchange. Her mace swung in deadly arcs, but Invincible blocked each strike with his forearms, retaliating with punches that made her feet skid back across the floor with every impact.

Red Rush blurred into motion, zipping between them. With a well-placed shove, he knocked War Woman out of the way, sending her flying backward across the Octagon like a ragdoll.

“Easy there, kid—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Invincible reached out, grabbed Red Rush’s arm—and bit him.

Hard.

A roar of pain tore out of Red Rush as he shot back to Immortal’s side, his face twisted in disbelief. When he came back into full view, he was clutching his wrist, and even with his speed-healing, a strip of flesh was visibly missing, with a few drops of blood flowing.

“He bit me!” Red Rush shouted, aghast. “He actually bit me! What the hell?!”

Immortal sighed, rubbing his temples. “Alright, time out. Invincible, we talked about this. No more biting.”

Red Rush stared at him like he’d grown an extra head. “Wait—he’s done this before?!”

Immortal shrugged, a motion that made the heavy muscles in his shoulders flex. “Yes. He’s done it to both me and War Woman now. No idea why. He’s taken to it lately.”

Red Rush stared down at the faint teeth marks on his wrist, brows furrowed in confusion. “Is this… is this part of the training?”

“Apparently,” Immortal replied dryly. “He’s improvising.”

Across the sparring mat, Invincible stood with his shoulders slightly hunched, as if expecting another lecture—but the faintest smirk tugged at his lips. A trickle of blood stained his lower lip, and the glint in his eye was a little too satisfied. Combined with the smear of red on his teeth, it made him look just shy of unhinged.

“You told me to think outside the box,” he said, not bothering to hide the smugness.

Immortal leveled him with a deadpan stare. “We meant footwork. Not cannibalism.”

“I wasn’t biting on purpose,” Invincible said quickly, then added with a shrug, “Okay, maybe just a little.”

“Next time,” War Woman said, stepping forward and tossing him a towel, “try leading with a disarming blow, not your teeth.”

Before anyone else could respond, Cecil’s voice crackled over the room’s hidden speakers, cool and professional as ever. “As charming as this little bonding session has been, I need Immortal, Red Rush, and War Woman topside.”

Everyone’s head turned.

“The Mauler Twins are attacking the White House. The rest of the Guardian’s already in motion.”

Invincible’s eyes widened behind the mask. “Wait—does that mean—?”

“Yes, Invincible,” Cecil said, the faintest edge of a smile in his voice. “The timeline starts today. Hope you’re ready.”

Chapter Text

He’s going to be here.

He’s going to come in, pretending to be a hero—swooping in with that smug smile, playing the savior, basking in cheers like he isn’t planning to turn this planet into a graveyard.

We should kill him. Here and now. Before the act drops and we’re too late.

Those were the thoughts hammering through the Immortal’s skull, red-hot and sharp-edged, even as his fist connected solidly with one of the Mauler Twins’ faces. The clone staggered back, crashing through a metal barrier with a guttural curse, blood spurting between his fingers as he clutched his now crooked nose.

“The hell?!” the Mauler barked, stumbling upright, only to catch a brutal gut punch that doubled him over. “What’s your problem, Immortal?!”

“You tried to assassinate the President,” Immortal said coolly, driving his knee into the clone’s face with enough force to send him sprawling again. “I’d say that warrants a little extra enthusiasm.”

The area was clear—civilians evacuated, threats contained. That meant he could work out his fury, blow by cathartic blow, with no need to pull punches.

Normally, they didn’t go too hard on the Maulers. Annoying as they were, they had a habit of crawling out of the woodwork to help when global annihilation loomed large. Like when Doc Seismic nearly triggered a supervolcano a few years back—sure, the Maulers had helped, but only because ruling a world reduced to cinders didn’t appeal to them.

But today? Today, Immortal didn’t want their cooperation. He wanted their faces broken.

Ever since Invincible had gone from glorified training dummy to someone who could press him and War Woman in a real sparring match, the pent-up tension had only built higher. The boy had improved, not just in strength, but explosively in speed and resilience. He still had gaps—his stance was too high, his guard sloppy, he didn’t utilize flight angles efficiently, and his crowd control was poor—but none of that seemed to matter when he could tank punches like a brick wall and return them twice as hard.

Hell, he even bit Red Rush during their most recent spar. Bit him. (Note to self: remind Invincible that biting in a formal bout is discouraged. Acceptable in the days of gladiators, sure, but today we have rules, and a hundred better ways to win.)

Still, the growth was undeniable. Immortal had lived a dozen lifetimes and seen warriors rise and fall, but this child? In mere days, he’d become something dangerous. Maybe—just maybe—dangerous enough to take down Omni-Man.

But right now, Immortal needed a release. And the Maulers? Tough enough to last a few rounds, dumb enough to keep coming. Perfect.

He threw a brutal right hook that sent blood flying, followed it with two gut shots that made the clone wheeze, then capped it off with an uppercut that launched him skyward before he crashed to the ground in a heap.

Yet even then, the Mauler spat blood, forced himself upright, fists clenched, growling like an animal.

Good. He wanted more. So did Immortal.

He surged forward with a roar, ready to bury the Mauler into the concrete—

But then a red-and-white blur streaked through the air like a thunderbolt.

The impact kicked up a thick plume of dust, cutting off his momentum and throwing grit into his eyes. He skidded to a halt, fists clenched, breath heavy.

And when the dust cleared?

Of course.

There he was.

Omni-Man.

Standing there like nothing, boots planted on the Mauler’s unconscious neck, hands on his hips, wearing that insufferable smirk like a crown.

“You good there, buddy?” Nolan said with mock concern, voice casual. “Saw you having a bit of trouble with this guy, thought I’d lend a hand.”

That voice.

That smile.

It took every ounce of discipline not to hurl himself at Nolan right then and there.

Because no matter how convincingly he played the part of the noble protector—Immortal knew better now.

He remembered the intel. The truth of Nolan’s mission. Why he was here, pretending to be a hero. What his plan was for the planet he had spent centuries protecting.

And he also knew that the moment Omni-Man saw that they knew? All bets were off.

He couldn’t punch him.

Not yet.

But oh, how he wanted to.

“I didn’t need your help,” he snarled, forcing the words past clenched teeth. “I had it under control.”

Omni-Man gave a light chuckle, folding his arms casually. “You say that, but the other guy dropped five minutes ago. Figured I’d save you the trouble. Not all of us have time to play hero all day, you know?”

His fists trembled at his sides. “You’re so damn arrogant.”

Nolan’s brow lifted, a note of confusion slipping into his voice. “Is… everything okay? You look angrier than I expected. Did something happen?”

Calm down. Do not lose it. Not here. Not now.

Before the tension could boil over, a gust of wind swept through the street as War Woman landed between them, mace slung casually over her shoulder, an easy smile on her lips.

“Friend Immortal’s just being grumpy because I finally bet against him in the annual charity race,” she said breezily. “Honestly, you’d think he’d be used to it after losing ten years in a row. My company can’t keep taking the hits.”

Nolan laughed—loud, genuine, and irritatingly warm. “Oh, that’s what this is about? Immortal, come on. You know it’s for charity. I’m sure if we actually raced, you’d win. Maybe. Once I’m old, feeble, and missing a leg, it’ll be a fair race.”

A savage grin crept onto his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t be so sure. I’ve got a few tricks left that might surprise you.”

Omni-Man clapped him on the shoulder with the same easy arrogance that made Immortal’s blood boil. “Looking forward to it. Can’t wait to claim my eleventh win. See you at the race, champ.”

And with that, he launched into the sky, a sonic boom trailing behind him.

Immortal stood in place, jaw tight, hands curled into fists. Only when Nolan was a speck on the horizon did War Woman finally let the smile drop.

She turned to him—and punched him hard in the shoulder.

“Ow! Damn you woman, what was that for?” he snapped, rubbing the sore spot.

“Me?” she said incredulously. “What did Cecil specifically tell you? Do. Not. Provoke. Him. Are the gears in your head finally rusting? Did you really think you could take him in a street brawl?”

He glared at her. “Don’t tell me you’re not angry too. Seeing him walk around, smiling for cameras, pretending he’s Earth’s golden boy—it makes me sick.”

“Of course it does,” she said, tone sharp but steady. “But think, Immortal. What if we’re being misled? Not by Cecil—but by this supposed precognitive source. What if we’re training this new child to kill Omni-Man for the wrong reasons?”

He blinked. “You really think Nolan might be… innocent?”

War Woman crossed her arms, her gaze drifting to where Nolan had flown. “I don’t know. But I do know there have been moments—real ones—when he’s risked everything for us. For Earth. I have my doubts, yes, but I also have memories. And they don’t vanish just because a stranger whispers ‘betrayal.’”

Immortal looked away, jaw clenched. “You think I’m just bitter. Because he took my title as the strongest.”

“I think,” she said gently, “that your pride’s always been your weakest spot. And maybe… maybe you see him as everything you used to be. Strong. Celebrated. Unquestioned.”

She turned to face him directly. “I’m not saying don’t be cautious. I’m saying don’t assume. We don’t have all the facts. And if we start treating Nolan like the enemy too early… we might just create the very threat we’re trying to stop.”

He exhaled slowly, the fire in his chest dimming—just slightly.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe.”

But in his heart, he knew that when the time came—if the time came—he would be ready to finish what no one else could.

Damn it all.

They’d lost—again.

And yes, fine, they usually lost. That was practically tradition by now. But this? This was humiliating. A beatdown of epic proportions. These past few years had seen their defeat rate climb higher, their escape windows shrink smaller, and their prison sentences grow longer.

Once upon a time, it had taken the entire Guardians of the Globe to bring them down. They were feared, respected, loathed.

Now?

These days, Immortal and War Woman could mop the floor with them solo while the rest of the team focused on evacuating civilians.

And Omni-Man? Don’t even get him started.

Of course, in his professional opinion, there was one very obvious reason for their streak of humiliating failures.

“This is YOUR fault!” he shouted from his cell, fists clenched as he glared through the reinforced orange glass.

Across the hallway, his clone sneered back at him, lounging like this was a vacation spa and not a high-security GDA prison.

“Oh, please,” the clone snapped. “I was up against Red Rush, War Woman, and Aquarius. Alone. No backup. And I held my ground for a solid five minutes. You? You couldn't even handle the goddamn Immortal. The man’s so ancient dust flies out of his mouth when he breathes!”

“I was fighting the Immortal!” he barked. “And Omni-Man jumped in! TWO against ONE, genius! And I held my own!”

“Held your own?” his clone scoffed. “I watched Omni-Man swat you like a mosquito. Pretty sure he was yawning while doing it, too. Face it—classic inferior clone behavior.”

“Oh, I’m the clone now?” he snapped back. “Who was the bright bulb that thought assassinating the President was a good idea, huh? Only a bootleg knockoff could come up with something that suicidal—”

“Christ above, do you two ever shut up?” said an exhausted voice from down the corridor.

Cecil Stedman approached, flanked by two GDA goons and carrying a pair of thick folders under one arm. He looked about five hours of sleep short of competent and ten seconds away from detonating something.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Crypt Keeper himself,” the clone smirked. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Delivering bedtime stories? Or just here to bless us with that beautiful mug of yours?”

“Charming, as always,” Cecil said dryly, sliding one folder into each cell’s food slot. “Here I am, bringing you the offer of a lifetime. And what do I get? B-grade roast comedy.”

The original Mauler scoffed. “What’s this? Another sad pitch to join the Guardians? I told you before—we’ll work with the Guardians the day they kneel at our feet.”

“Which they will, once we take over the world,” the clone added helpfully.

Cecil ignored the posturing. “I’m not offering you the world. But I am offering you an island.”

That shut them both up.

“…what?” they echoed in unison.

“The folders have the details,” Cecil continued, rubbing his temple. “An island, roughly the size of Manhattan, located just off the coast of Hawaii. Newly formed from the remnants of the undersea caldera Doc Seismic tried to trigger a few years back. Remember that mission? You helped stop it from going nuclear.”

They did. That had been a fun one. Giant spouts of lava and random earthquakes causing the ground to rumble as they fought the mad doctor with the Guardians. 

Good times.

“The land’s stable now. Fertile,” Cecil continued. “Fruit-bearing trees, natural springs, thriving herds of pigs, deer, rabbits—you name it. I’ve got two hundred volunteers ready to act as your ‘subjects,’ worship you, clean your toilets, whatever. More sign up daily.”

“You’re kidding,” said the original, voice low with disbelief.

“Nope. And it gets better. Half a billion dollars in initial funding for infrastructure, weaponry, research, whatever your twisted little hearts desire—as long as you occasionally build something for me. Nothing ethically horrifying,” he added with a meaningful glance. “Well, mostly nothing.”

The clone was staring now. “This is… You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack. Oh, and if you want to stay sharp, I’ll schedule monthly ‘invasions’ of the island. Friendly skirmishes. You’ll get fresh rookie heroes looking to prove themselves, sanctioned by the GDA. Spar, smash, humiliate—whatever keeps you entertained.”

“…This is bullshit,” the clone muttered. “There’s no way this is real.”

Cecil stared at them, his gaze as cold and unyielding as ever. “Then tear up the contracts,” he said, voice like gravel. “Enjoy rotting here for the next twenty life sentences you both earned. Your choice.”

The Maulers didn’t respond immediately. Instead, they scanned the documents—twice—using their genius minds, cross-referencing every clause, every signature, every embedded contract ID. And, much to their disbelief, everything seemed to check out.

It wasn’t just a real offer. It was insane.

A private island. Unlimited Wi-Fi. Air conditioning that actually worked at their enhanced body temperatures. Hot tubs scaled to their size. Heated indoor swimming pools. Statues of gold and silver carved in their likenesses scattered throughout the villa. A population of two hundred loyal servants, hand-picked to praise their genius and tend to their needs.

It was, in every way, a dream scenario. Comfort, recognition, security. They’d be fed well, supplied with rare materials, given lab space, and—best of all—left alone to tinker without interruption.

Still, experience had taught them caution.

“What’s the catch?” the original asked, folding his arms with suspicion.

“No catch,” Cecil replied with a shrug that bordered on boredom. “I want you off the streets and somewhere I can keep an eye on you. That’s it.”

He raised a hand before they could interrupt.

“There are rules, obviously. No killing the people who serve you—no matter how annoying they get. They’re being paid to worship you, not be sacrificed on a whim. You want to ‘wet your beaks’? Fine. I’ve got twenty women and five men who’ve volunteered to be concubines. Use only those who consent.”

The Maulers exchanged a glance.

“No creating radioactive devices without prior approval. No bio-engineering anything that can breed. And for the love of everything, do not create a sentient anything that might decide to question your authority and conclude humanity should be exterminated.”

“So you want us to build you a few trinkets now and then in exchange for paradise?” the original asked, incredulous.

“Essentially, yes. You stay on your island, build the weird shit you like, and I leave you alone—mostly. I’ll have a few surveillance bugs and maybe a couple of disguised agents on the island just to keep you honest, but hey… think of it as a game. A scavenger hunt. If you can find them, you’re free to disable them. Keeps things interesting.”

The clone frowned. “...My inferior duplicate and I will need time to examine this paltry proposal.”

“I’m not the clone, you are,” his counterpart snapped. “But… he’s right. We’ll need to review the specifics. Ensure you aren’t trying to trick us with hidden or buried clauses that indebt us to you like slaves.”

Cecil raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Internally, though, the Maulers had already come to an unspoken agreement.

We’re taking this damn deal.

Becky Duvall figured she had a pretty good life.

She had always been that girl—the quiet, intense one in school. The kind who crushed hard and fast, the kind who poured everything into the people she loved until it became suffocating. She didn’t mean to be overwhelming, but her devotion had a way of burning too hot, too fast. It scared people. Drove them off. Over time, she found herself mostly alone, resigned to the idea that maybe she just wasn’t wired for lasting connections.

Then she met Scott.

He was funny in a dry, clever sort of way, kind without being patronizing, and disarmingly smart. When she latched onto him—when her affections began to crowd the space around them—he didn’t flinch. He didn’t leave. He leaned in. He understood her, maybe because he was lonely too. His family had been reduced to just him and his sister, and he had trouble letting people in. Somehow, they fit.

From that moment on, Becky had devoted herself to him. She became his anchor. When Scott didn’t get the scholarship he needed for engineering school, she sold her car and picked up a second job. She cooked. She cleaned. She cheered him on when he came home exhausted and dead-eyed after twelve-hour shifts under a boss who thought empathy was a weakness. She did it all without complaint—until one day, Scott got the offer at the GDA, and everything changed.

When he said he wanted a family, she said she did too. Maybe she hadn’t been as enthusiastic at first—maybe the idea of motherhood still scared her more than she let on—but she trusted him, and that trust carried her through.

The point was, Becky had given Scott everything—everything—and to her joy, he had returned it all. He had delivered. Again and again. She had feared ending up like her mother—trapped in a marriage built on one-sided devotion, used and unappreciated. But Scott proved her fears wrong every day. He saw her, truly saw her, and loved her in the way she had always dreamed someone could.

Even his sister Jessica approved of them both, and Jessica didn’t like anyone.

So yes, Becky thought she had a pretty good life.

But she had no idea her husband was about to outdo himself yet again.

It was a perfectly ordinary afternoon. She’d just put Jack down for his nap and had started prepping dinner when she heard the front door open. Scott stepped inside, his face slack with disbelief, a manila folder clutched tightly under his arm like it might fly away if he let go.

Becky wiped her hands on a dish towel and stepped toward him. “Scott?” she asked gently, curious but not alarmed. “Everything all right, love?”

He blinked, as if shaken out of a trance, and focused on her. His eyes were wide—excited, almost shaken. “Yeah. Yeah, I just…” He paused and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since leaving work. “Wow. I have a lot to tell you.”

Something in his tone sent a thrill through her. Something big had happened. “Something good at work?” she asked, turning back toward the fridge. Her hands moved on instinct—carrots, tomatoes, red and green bell peppers. Soup or stew? Stew had depth, but soup was faster.

Scott needed food in him quickly, she decided. Soup it was.

As she reached for the cutting board, Jessica glanced at him again. Whatever was in that folder—whatever had him breathless, practically vibrating with nerves—it wasn’t bad. Not to her. There was something shining in his eyes. Not fear. Not doubt.

Wonder.

Something extraordinary had happened.

“Yeah, actually,” Scott said, still running a hand through his hair, the other gripping the folder like it might vanish if he let go. “So, Donald Ferguson—you know, Cecil’s right-hand guy? He called me into his office today. At first, I thought I was getting fired. You know how it is—‘come to my office’ usually means bad news, right?”

She nodded, knife paused mid-slice.

“But then…he tells me they know,” Scott said, his voice dropping, almost reverent. “About my thing. My power.”

She arched a brow. “I thought you didn’t even put it on your application. You said you didn’t think it was good enough.”

He gave a small, sheepish smile. “Yeah, well—they’re the GDA. Wouldn’t surprise me if they found some old footage of me sparking up in the backyard as a kid. They noticed. And they want to bring me in. Not just as some desk analyst. For real.”

Jessica put down the knife completely now, turning to face him. “What do you mean for real?”

He opened the folder and turned it toward her. The label read: PROJECT POWERPLEX. Inside was a full schematic—sleek red and black suit, detailed sketches with notes along the edges. Her eyes scanned it quickly, taking in the circular energy disks embedded along the arms and back, the reinforced gloves, the aerodynamic boots.

“They’re working on this suit,” Scott explained, his voice low and fast, barely able to contain himself. “It uses energy-storing disks—kind of like batteries. The idea is, when I absorb kinetic force, the suit collects and focuses that energy so I can release it in controlled bursts. Electricity, propulsion...they think I could even fly if I gather enough.”

Jessica blinked. “Wait. Are you saying…”

He nodded, grinning now, the nerves melting into awe and pride.

“They want to train me. Suit me up. Pair me with someone called Bulletproof—apparently, his powers are pretty similar to mine. They’re building a two-man team. If I say yes… I won’t just be helping the GDA from behind a screen anymore.”

Jessica stared down at the folder, at the mock-up of the suit, and then back up at her husband.

“You’d really be out there,” she said quietly. “Like…a superhero.”

Scott took a breath, then smiled wide. “Yeah. Babe… I’m going to be a superhero.”

She didn’t say anything at first, but the way her hands trembled as they reached for him said everything. She dropped her forehead to his, breathing in his excitement, his hope.

“Then I guess I better start learning how to patch up a super suit,” she murmured.

He laughed, and this time, it was full and free—like the sound of a man on the edge of something incredible.

“Alright, Donald. Give me some updates. I want to hear good news for once.”

Donald didn’t miss a beat. “The Mauler Twins have accepted the proposal. They'll be relocating to the island as soon as the central facility is completed—should be done in two weeks. The palace structure is nearly finished.”

“Good,” Cecil said, leaning back in his chair. “As long as they don’t blow the place up first. What else?”

“Scott Duvall has agreed to become Powerplex. Bulletproof’s also signed on with us—but he’s asking for a one-million-dollar salary, annually.”

“Done,” Cecil replied immediately. “But make sure he knows he better be worth every damn cent.”

Donald gave a brief nod and continued. “While R&D finalizes the suit, Duvall’s been enrolled in a high-intensity physical training regimen. Objective is to get him on the same athletic level as Bulletproof so his body can keep up with the demands of the suit.”

“Good. If the tech doesn’t kill him, the training will toughen him up.”

“D.A. Sinclair has accepted our terms. He’s nearly finished with the first Reaniman prototype, using the body of Corporal Adams. Progress is ahead of schedule.”

Cecil rubbed his chin. “That creepy bastard works fast. Keep a leash on him. Anything else?”

“Yes sir. I’ve contacted Robot regarding modifications to the Hammer. He’s agreed to refit the weapon with the Null Energy Core—should increase its destructive potential significantly.”

Cecil raised an eyebrow. “And what’s he asking for in return?”

“He wants permission to speak with the Mauler Twins privately. Something about a project.”

“Did he mention what kind of project?”

“No, sir. Not even a hint.”

“Of course not,” Cecil muttered. “Keep eyes on him. Robot's too damn smart for his own good, and the last thing I need is three Mauler-grade intellects working off-script.”

“Understood. Surveillance is already in place.”

“What about Machine Head?”

“We’ve confirmed sightings of Titan entering and leaving his building. Patterns suggest he’s working for him now.”

Cecil’s eyes narrowed. “Then Battle Beast is on his way.”

“Most likely. Surveillance teams are standing by for any signs of his arrival.”

“Good. From what Mark tells us, that guy could crack a mountain in half just by snarling at it. Anything from Isotope?”

“We’ve sent out a discreet offer. He’s interested but wants incentive.”

Cecil didn’t hesitate. “Offer him a billion a year, tax-free.”

Donald blinked but didn’t argue. “Yes, sir.”

“That teleporter I use costs $7.3 billion every time I press the button. If Isotope can cut that down even slightly, he pays for himself in a week.”

“Agreed. As for Tech Jacket, we haven’t been able to locate him. Mark mentioned he spends most of his time in orbit. However, a Zach Thompson was reported missing a month ago under unusual circumstances—we’ve got feelers out in case he returns.”

Cecil nodded. “Keep digging. What about Mark himself?”

“He’s doing fine in school, all things considered. However, we’ve lost all surveillance feeds from his house—cameras, audio, sensors, everything. Went dark three days ago.”

Cecil sighed. “Fantastic. Any idea how?”

“No, sir. Possibly interference, or someone found them and removed them.”

“We’ll send a crew to reinstall new surveillance gear before the week’s out. Use agents Mark won’t recognize. I want full coverage again—kitchen, hallway, bedroom, everything.”

“Yes, sir,” Donald replied crisply, already jotting the order down.

Cecil leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes closed as his mind churned.

There was something off. He could feel it—like a rattle in a machine that hadn’t broken yet, but was well on its way.

“Donald?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You notice anything strange about how Mark fights?”

Donald hesitated. “Not particularly, sir. He’s... inexperienced. Sloppy. Still relies too much on brute force over technique.”

Cecil snapped his fingers and pointed. “Exactly. That’s the problem. According to him, he’s been in the thick of it—fighting stronger enemies, surviving hopeless odds, dodging death left and right. And yet, he moves like a damn amateur in sparring. No improvisation. No developed form. Where are all the combat instincts you’d expect from someone who’s supposedly lived through hell?”

“Well, sir,” Donald said carefully, “we did confirm that Mark was lying about the ‘alternate timeline’ theory. Based on his recounting, most of those memories seemed like they came from an outside perspective, not first-hand.”

Cecil’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, that’s what bothers me.”

He stood, pacing slowly.

“You’ve noticed it, haven’t you? That’s three people he’s bitten now—Immortal, War Woman, and just this morning, Red Rush.”

Donald blinked. “Bitten, sir?”

“Bitten,” Cecil repeated flatly. “Drew blood each time. On each occasion, the next day, his performance jumped. First he took hits from Immortal and War Woman, making them somewhat even. Next day, after the respective bites? He floored them. Today, he sunk his teeth into Red Rush. Swallowed a strip of flesh like it was lunch. Now I want to know what happens next.”

“Sir…” Donald frowned. “Are you suggesting he’s…absorbing their powers somehow?”

“I’m suggesting we don’t know enough about what Mark is,” Cecil said coldly. “And I don’t like mysteries walking around with the power to level continents.”

He turned back to his desk.

“Get me blood samples from Scott Duvall and Zandale Randolph,” Cecil said, his voice low and measured. “I want to test something. If my hunch is right…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

Donald swallowed and nodded. “Understood.”

Cecil sat again, fingers drumming softly on the desk.

Mark Grayson was becoming less of a boy and more of a variable.

And variables had to be understood—or controlled.

Preferably both.

Chapter Text

The message arrived at precisely 11:52 AM.
Wat r u doing rn?

Rudolph Conners paused mid-calibration, the micro-servo in his hand still humming faintly as he diverted a portion of his neural interface to parse the incoming text. Mark Grayson—his third unsolicited message within the hour.

He responded within 0.7 seconds through his implanted interface, directing the reply through a phone emulator he maintained for human interactions.

I am creating the tachyon sensor system for early detection of the Flaxan dimensional incursion. Additionally, I am constructing a modified Geiger array capable of identifying the residual temporal radiation emitted by their portals.
You previously described their origin dimension as existing in a state of accelerated temporal flux. If accurate, the tachyon particles should oscillate at a higher baseline frequency than our own, allowing us to predict an invasion with a lead time of approximately ten minutes.

It was imprecise, relying heavily on anecdotal intelligence provided through a secondary source—namely, Mark's alternate timeline recollection. Nonetheless, it was sufficient. For all its subjectivity, it offered a remarkable advantage: foreknowledge. That alone warranted adaptation.

Mark's reply came seconds later.
Don't frgt tht to stop their weird little timebands is to use 49,000 hertz on their second atak. I dnt exactly know how u did it, but tht's what u said.

He parsed the message immediately.
A focused sonic pulse at 49 kHz. An auditory disruption, high-frequency—potentially used to disable the temporal-stabilizing armbands the Flaxans employed. An elegant solution, if simplistic. He logged it.

Acknowledged. I will incorporate the acoustic dispersal unit into the countermeasure array.
Should you not be in class at this time?

Bro, I'm at lunch.

Your school's timetable indicates that your lunch period ended five minutes ago. Your Algebra instructor is administering practice SAT assessments. You should be present.

Bro, don't be such a killjoy.

Your academic performance may influence your ability to function in civilian life. You may one day choose to retire from heroics. It would be unfortunate to lack even a high school diploma.

Dude, chill, I'm like a grade A student.

Your GPA reflects a consistent C-average. Statistical analysis suggests that only 14% of students with that academic trend are admitted to top universities.

Dunt do dat.

He experienced a small amount of amusement. Mark's informal, irreverent tone might be grating to some, but not to him. In fact, it had become... familiar.

Mark messaged frequently. He asked frivolous questions:

Had he seen Seance Dog? (No.)

Favorite film? (Rise of the Sprinting Dead—a surprisingly competent allegory about transhumanism.)

Favorite food? (Irrelevant—though he retained faint sensory memory of orange soda from before his confinement in the nutrient tank.)

What did he do for fun? (Code. Build. Read. Construct. Improve.)

Where had he traveled? (Germany. France. California. Nevada. The stratosphere. Ohio.)

Their compatibility was, at a glance, improbable. 

And yet, they aligned. 

Mark was curious. Receptive. He absorbed complex information with genuine interest, occasionally demonstrating surprising comprehension for his age. In return, Robot found himself willing to engage further—sharing details he would never have released to the Teen Team. Not to Rex. Not to Eve. 

Not to anyone.

And it raised a question. One he continued to ponder.

When Mark had offered to view him as a brother, was it merely a symbolic gesture? A reflexive human expression? Or had he meant it?

Because in all the years of his life—spent isolated in nutrient solution, encased in synthetic avatars, regarded as merely artificial intelligence or a highly advanced drone—Rudolph Conners had never possessed what could reasonably be classified as a sibling.

Until now… perhaps he did.

Can I hang out with you later this week?

The message came without preamble, casual and unassuming. And yet, it startled him more than any tactical ambush or unexpected variable in a simulation.

To hang out.

He had never hung out with anyone. The Teen Team hosted biweekly social events—typically movie nights on Tuesdays and Thursdays—but he had been disinvited from attending after multiple instances of "ruining the experience." He did not believe this was entirely fair. The logical inconsistencies in the films warranted critique. 

For example: if one is being pursued by a homicidal individual wielding a sharp weapon, emitting constant high-volume vocalizations (i.e., "screaming") would only serve to deplete one's oxygen reserves and increase detectability. A superior strategy would be to acquire a makeshift weapon, position oneself tactically, and engage the attacker with the intent to injure or disable them. This not only improved the chance of survival but ensured posthumous forensic evidence in the case of one's demise.

Nevertheless, such analysis had been… poorly received.

His first instinct was to decline Mark's invitation. Their interactions thus far—text-based communication and a brief in-person exchange—did not meet the standard criteria for establishing a close interpersonal bond. He feared that prolonged exposure might reveal his more alienating traits, which could compromise the possibility of lasting camaraderie.

But Mark did not seem deterred by his social inadequacies. In fact, Mark had even expressed mild confusion at social norms himself, albeit in less extreme degrees. He did not appear to require normalcy—only honesty, intention, and shared purpose.

It would be… agreeable, perhaps, to have someone willing to share space with him voluntarily.

That would be fine. Shall I pick you up this Friday? You possess a general understanding of Teen Team's headquarters but not the exact coordinates.

There was a pause. Then, Mark responded.

Awesome! Yeah, that'd be cool. You mind if I come in costume, tho? Had Cecil make one for me to disguise my civvie ID so I can fly around town without alerting my dad.

Rudolph considered. There were no operational drawbacks to the request. It would, in fact, provide a secure context for their meeting, minimizing outside observation.

Yes. That will be satisfactory. Now please return to class. Your grades are slightly below optimal projection.

There was a curious sensation—a dissonance in his chest cavity that was neither a warning signal nor a diagnostic failure.

It felt… like anticipation.

Not calculation. Not protocol.

Just the idea that perhaps, this Friday, he would not simply be Robot, the strategist, the builder, the silent observer.

He might just be Rudy.

And for once, that might be enough.

"Hey, Robot!" Rex called from across the room, his voice echoing faintly through the high ceilings of the Guardians' HQ. "You done fucking with that thing yet? I need someone to keep score when I finally smoke Kate in ping pong."

Robot did not look up from his workbench. His fingers continued their precise operations, adjusting nanoscopic circuits inside the tachyon detector. "I am currently preoccupied, Rex. I estimate forty-five minutes before this calibration cycle is completed. Additionally, given Dupli-Kate's present score of eighteen compared to your three—and acknowledging that all three of your points were indirectly facilitated by Atom Eve's powers—I calculate your chances of victory to be less than six percent."

A pause.

"Uh… English, please?" Rex asked.

The green lens of his drone flickered slightly, almost imperceptibly. "You will have to wait forty-five minutes for me to be done. And you will lose anyway. Because, statistically speaking, you suck at this game."

"Hey!" Rex barked, indignant.

"Ha! Thank you, Robot!" Dupli-Kate called from across the room, flashing a grin as she adjusted her paddle.

"You are welcome, Dupli-Kate," Robot replied, his tone even. Then, without hesitation, he added, "On a separate note, as those of us who reside here most frequently, I felt it appropriate to inform you both in advance: I intend to host a guest this Friday afternoon. A friend."

There was a moment of silence. Then—

Rex snorted. "You? A friend? What is it—a new toaster? Are we getting a talking fridge this Friday?"

Kate promptly delivered a sharp jab to Rex's upper arm, making him wince. "Don't be a jerk, Rex. Robot, that's lovely. I can't wait to meet them."

Robot inclined his head, almost imperceptibly. "Thank you, Kate. I believe you will find them… agreeable."

And though he was not able to smile, not outwardly—somewhere deep within, in a place he rarely let himself acknowledge, a part of him did.

You know, Cecil had always understood on some level that Nolan was dangerous. He'd seen the man tear through giant monsters like paper and withstand attacks that would atomize any other person on the Guardians besides Green Ghost. But it wasn't until Mark started breaking down the Viltrumite strength rankings that the full weight of it really hit him.

"So," Mark said, hands folded on the table like he was presenting a school report. "At the top, you've got Grand Regent Thragg. If he shows up this year, we might as well just surrender."

Cecil blinked. "That bad?"

"Worse. He's not just a fighter, he's the fighter. Trained from birth, probably genetically modified. I'm like... 60% sure he was bred in a lab or something. He fought me in the sun."

Cecil raised an eyebrow. "The sun? As in... our sun? The giant glowy yellow thing that gives us light and heat?"

Mark nodded grimly. "Yeah. It took me years before I was strong enough to survive that, though. And I didn't even win that fight alone; Robot sent me a suit so that I could survive that fight, and Allen—he's a good guy, we'll have to talk about him too—Allen pulled me out of the sun after it was all said and done. When my dad defected to help Earth in the other timeline, Thragg nearly killed him with one hit, and even when he got medical help, he still died. Thragg does not come to play. He killed Battle Beast, who I'm pretty sure can kill Dad."

"That's... encouraging," Cecil muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "All right. So if the Grand Regent shows up, we're toast. Who's next? Your dad?"

Mark shook his head. "Not yet. Before Dad, we've got Conquest."

"Right. I remember that name. You mentioned it once. Give me the short version."

"Conquest is a sadistic bastard. He doesn't care about the Viltrumite Empire or honor—he enjoys the fight. When the Empire sends Conquest, it means they've stopped pretending to be nice. He drags fights into cities on purpose. Collateral damage is half the fun for him."

"Great. And what would it take to stop him?"

Mark let out a long breath, almost like he was forcing the words out. "If I had twenty Reanimen, a sound grenade with a Depth Dweller screech loaded in, and Hail Mary pumped full of enough steroids to trample a city... then maybe—maybe—it'd be even odds."

Cecil gave him a deadpan look, eyes heavy with exhaustion. "... you know, joining the Viltrum Empire doesn't sound that bad. Do we at least get benefits if we surrender early?"

"Noted, but no, no benefits," Mark said dryly, offering a half-smile. "Should I keep going?"

Cecil grunted. "Might as well. Who's after the Murderous Joyride?"

"My dad," Mark said, tone dipping grim. "Third strongest. You already know what he did. Slaughtered the Guardians. Ragdolled me across continents. Tore through Earth's defense grid like it was made of paper... We lost. Badly."

Cecil rubbed his forehead like he could massage the knowledge away. "Still think there's a chance we can rehabilitate him without a fight. You mentioned he defected to Earth's side eventually, right?"

Mark grimaced. "Yeah. Eventually. But only after a mountain of corpses. Chicago got flattened. A cruise liner got sunk. A small mountain town got erased. Two fighter jets taken out. A train full of civilians obliterated. He used my face as a battering ram to kill people, Cecil. My face. Then he flew off to another planet, married a bug queen, had another kid... and that's not even the weird part—that was something he told me he'd do while he was beating me half to death; replace me with a new kid."

"Alright, alright," Cecil muttered, waving a hand. "Redemption arc shelved. We talk him down, not up."

"Exactly," Mark said, nodding. "We can try, but we tread lightly. He knows Earth has changed him. But if he ever thinks he's slipping, if he starts feeling like he's 'gone soft,' he might lash out just to prove he hasn't. And Earth will pay the price for it."

Cecil exhaled slowly. "Fine. Who's next?"

"General Kregg," Mark said. "Tough guy. Missing an eye. When the Viltrumites couldn't take Earth by force, they got creative."

Cecil raised a brow. "What does that mean?"

"They started rebuilding their numbers. Quietly. Sent agents to mate with humans. Blend in. Kregg had, like, ten wives and a dozen kids. Eventually, he turned on the Empire—stayed on Earth for his family."

Cecil's voice rose. "Wait—you're telling me we won and they still got what they wanted?!"

Mark gave him a look. One of those really? looks. "Come on, Cecil. I told you what my dad did to the Guardians. That wasn't a fight. That was a demonstration. A warning. At the time, there were thirty Viltrumites left, ready to descend on Earth. That's all they needed. Thirty of them could've split this planet like an egg, no question. So we cut a deal. Coexistence. They stay out of global affairs, and we don't get annihilated."

"And that actually worked?"

"For the most part," Mark said. "They kept their word. Didn't interfere. But when real danger came, they eventually sided with us. The weird part? My dad was harder to convince than the rest of them. Less than six months, and they all folded. My dad's practically still loyal even after seventeen years. "

Cecil sat back in his chair, expression distant. "So what—you want to try that deal again?"

"No," Mark said firmly. "This time, we're gonna be the ones holding the cards. No hiding in plain sight, and us acting like they're invisible. No secret love children and ruining our lives in the process. If they're coming, they come on our terms, after we've whooped their asses."

Silence lingered for a few moments. Then Cecil muttered, "This is going to be a long year."

"You have no idea."

Cecil pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright. Next one."

Mark's expression turned cold. "Anissa. She's next. We don't negotiate with her. We don't try to convert her. We don't wait for her to hurt someone first. We kill her. Fast. Clean. No speeches."

Cecil blinked. "That bad?"

"I'm not going to go into details, but just know that what she did to me was very personal, and very fucked up. There's no redemption arc for her. Just a countdown."

Back when Mark had first ventured off into the strange and often chaotic world that was kindergarten, Nolan had been... skeptical, to say the least.

"Why do human children need school?" he had asked Debbie with a furrowed brow, genuinely confused. "Wouldn't it be more efficient to begin physical conditioning now? His body must be prepared for when his powers manifest."

Debbie had just smiled, kissed his cheek, and told him to let her handle the education part—for now.

So, they'd come to an agreement. Debbie, with her demanding editorial job, would handle the emotional and academic side of things, while Nolan, whose "job" allowed for more flexibility—if anything serious ever happened, he could just end whatever threat he was neutralizing and fly home—would take care of the house. Cooking, cleaning, and, more importantly, discipline.

Not that Mark ever needed much. He was a good kid. Bright, kind, obedient. For the most part.

The rare times he did act out, Nolan had toyed with the idea of using the discipline methods from his own upbringing—though obviously toned down for a half-human child. Nothing extreme, of course. Just things like enforced calisthenics, long-distance runs in the cold, temperature resistance training, and bone conditioning—standard Viltrumite childhood corrections. Back on Viltrum, strength wasn't just a virtue. It was a requirement.

That was why, by the age of two, Viltrumite children were already on hyper-caloric nutrient serums designed to rapidly develop muscle density, bone resilience, and organ function. By the age of five—when most children began to manifest their powers—they were already biologically primed to become walking weapons.

The powers acted as a multiplier, amplifying the subject's baseline traits a hundredfold. A child who could bench-press a boulder before manifesting could shatter a mountain afterward. And the late bloomers? The ones who didn't manifest until adolescence?

They were the monsters. Legends. Nightmares in physical form.

It was rumored Conquest had been one of those late bloomers, and he had half hoped Mark would become one of them, especially since his powers still hadn't manifested. It was one of the reasons why he had kept Mark in sports until he hit high school.

But Mark had never needed that kind of discipline. A harsh scolding, a few groundings, and a glare were good enough to keep him in line.

Which made it all the more surprising when Nolan received a terse voicemail on his cell phone while flying back from the Caribbean (superpowered pirates trying to conquer the seas):

"Principal Winslow needs to speak with you. There's been… an incident. Your son is at risk of expulsion."

Expulsion.

From high school.

Nolan landed hard enough to crack the sidewalk outside the school, and five minutes later, after a quick change, he was in a cramped administrative office, sitting beside Mark. His son had his arms folded across his chest and a stormy expression on his face.

Debbie was going to kill them both—Mark first for getting expelled, then Nolan for letting it happen.

Nolan folded his hands, his tone level but edged. "Alright. Just walk me through what happened again."

Principal Winslow, a tightly wound man with a receding hairline and a permanent air of disappointment, cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly.

"Well, it seems that Markus here had an altercation with another student—Todd Anderson. From what we've gathered, Markus struck Todd in the diaphragm, hard enough that he collapsed and began experiencing difficulty breathing. We discovered through this that Todd has asthma, something even he didn't know. He's currently in the infirmary, and we may need to call an ambulance. Todd's parents are very upset, and his father is already discussing pressing charges."

Nolan nodded slowly, as if mulling it over.

Then he turned to Mark.

"Alright," he said flatly. "What really happened?"

Winslow frowned. "Mr. Grayson, with all due respe—"

Nolan cut him off with a raised finger and a calm stare that carried the weight of someone used to commanding attention. "You told me what you think happened, which—frankly—sounds like bullshit. Now, I want to hear what actually happened. From my son."

Mark gave his father a wary side glance, but nodded. He let out a sigh and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Todd grabbed a girl in the hall. Amber Bennett. She told him to let go—he didn't. Said someone told him she liked him, and that she needed to stop 'playing hard to get.' She tried to pull away. He held her tighter. She told him he was hurting her."

Mark's voice didn't rise, didn't shake, but there was a quiet fury simmering underneath every word.

"William and I stepped in. Told him to let her go. He called us fags, and asked us what were we going to do about it. I told him if he wasn't a bitch, he could let her go and see what happened. So he did."

Mark's eyes narrowed slightly.

"And then he threw the first punch. I dodged, hit him once in the chest, or diaphragm, or whatever. He collapsed, and then he threw up. I pushed him onto his side so that he wouldn't choke on his own puke. Then Mr. Goldsmith showed up and dragged us in here. Amber, William, and a bunch of others in the hallway saw everything. Someone even got it on video. I didn't start it—I ended it."

A heavy silence settled over the office, broken only by the dull whirring of the ceiling fan overhead. The tension in the room crackled, thick as smoke.

Principal Winslow leaned back in his chair, hands folded across his chest, expression unreadable. "Markus, violence is—"

"That's it. I've heard enough," Nolan Grayson said, voice calm but firm, turning away from his son and fixing the principal with a piercing glare.

He stepped forward deliberately, placing both hands on the edge of the desk. "Here's what's going to happen. Mark gets a week's suspension. We can live with that. But if Todd's parents decide to press charges, I'll be more than happy to return the favor. We'll cite the video, multiple witnesses, and the fact that their son physically grabbed a girl after she said no—which, in case you need reminding, is assault. Add in the fact that he used slurs against both my son and his friend, and we could argue hate crime. And then, of course, there's the matter of who threw the first punch."

Nolan didn't even know if what he was saying was one hundred percent accurate, he was just citing a bunch of stuff he'd seen on television shows and movies. But his natural presence in addition to sounding like he knew what he was talking about made him sound more dangerous, that much he knew.

Winslow opened his mouth, looking indignant.

"If they didn't want their kid laid out in the infirmary, maybe they should've taught him better manners." Nolan's voice dropped into something cold, almost guttural. "We're done here."

The principal looked like he wanted to argue, but then Nolan crossed his arms. Not threateningly—but the effect was immediate. There was something predatory in the way his eyes narrowed, a quiet fury lurking just beneath the surface.

Winslow swallowed, a bead of sweat forming at his temple. His voice wavered slightly. "W-we will accept a two-week suspension. There will be a disciplinary note on his—"

"No black mark on his record," Nolan interrupted sharply. "Two weeks, and that's it."

Winslow nodded too quickly. "Yes, of course. I'll speak with the other students and collect testimony to corroborate Markus' account. And I'll… I'll reach out to Mr. and Mrs. Anderson personally to encourage them not to pursue legal action."

Nolan gave a thin smile, not amused. "That's what you should have done before you called me."

He turned back to Mark. "Grab your things. Say goodbye to William. We're leaving."

Mark stood, casting a quick glance toward the principal, then back to his father. "Yes, sir."

And just like that, the meeting was over. As they left, Winslow sagged behind his desk, relieved to still be in one piece.

"Am I in trouble?" Mark asked, his voice carried by the wind as they soared through the sky.

Nolan didn't answer right away. The city shrank beneath them as he cradled his son in his arms, their speed blurring the edges of the buildings below. Most people wouldn't have even been able to spot them—not unless they had satellite tracking or Cecil's surveillance.

He finally shrugged. "I don't see why you should be. You did what I do every day—stop the bad guy, protect the innocent, and leave the mess for someone else to sort out. Frankly, I'd rather the kid learn to control himself now than later—before someone decides the right response is a bullet."

Mark frowned slightly. "That's kind of dark, don't you think?"

Nolan gave a quiet chuckle, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Maybe. But not on this planet. Not in this universe. You've seen it, haven't you? Monsters crawling out of the ocean. Villains with more tech than sense. Eldritch creatures slithering through cracks in reality. Every other week, something new tries to rip this planet apart. I was sent here to bring order."

He said it so plainly. So casually. Like saying he'd been asked to mow a neighbor's lawn.

Nolan looked out over the horizon like he was searching for the next threat. "I've saved this world more times than I can count. And yet, it never stays saved. It's like Earth has a death wish." He sighed, then glanced at his son with a warmer expression. "But enough about that. Taking someone down in one punch? Now that's impressive. Looks like you're finally taking after your old man, eh?"

Mark laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's not really like that. I've been watching a lot of boxing matches and MMA fights online. Sparring with some guys at school, too."

Nolan perked up. "You're getting into combat sports? That's fantastic. You'll do great. And I'll be there at every match—you've got my word."

As they neared the house, the wind whipping a bit gentler now, Mark turned his head to look at his father more closely. There was something cautious in his eyes.

"You really love me, don't you?"

Nolan's brow furrowed, the question catching him off guard. He slowed their descent, hovering just above the backyard.

Of course I do, Mark," Nolan said, the weight of the moment settling into his voice. He slowed his pace, his gaze softening as he turned to face his son more fully. "You're my son. My firstborn. You and your mother… you're the first people I've ever called mine."

He said the word mine deliberately, like testing something unfamiliar on his tongue.

"Not because of orders. Not because of some imperial obligation. I chose you. I chose both of you. You're mine to protect. Mine to care for. Mine to…" His voice hitched—just slightly—before he continued, quieter now. "Mine to love."

The word didn't come easily. It never had. But that didn't mean it wasn't true.

"Viltrum doesn't really have the concept of personal belongings," Nolan continued after a pause, searching for the right words. "Everything exists for the Empire. You don't own anything. Not even yourself. Your body, your time, your strength—it's all to serve. We don't have keepsakes or private homes. Quarters change. Assignments change. Even the people around you change."

Mark's expression shifted with curiosity. "Did you have any friends on Viltrum?"

The question made Nolan falter.

"What's with all the questions about Viltrum today?" he asked, deflecting with a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Mark shrugged, unbothered. "You never talk about it. All I know is you guys have superpowers and fly around saving planets."

Nolan exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "I didn't live with my parents. Saw them on leave sometimes, but mostly, I was raised in a training cohort. There were four of us—Vidor, Lucan, Kregg, and me. We gained our powers young, and from there, we were thrown into competition. Not play. Not teamwork. Combat, strategy, endurance drills. Thula, our mentor and my eventual sparring partner, was effective—but distant. She trained soldiers, not children."

"Sounds lonely," Mark murmured as they landed in the backyard, his words barely audible over the wind.

Nolan didn't respond immediately. He opened the sliding glass door, letting the warmth of home spill into the quiet.

"It was what it needed to be," he finally said. "Serving the Empire meant something. Still does. We fixed what others couldn't. Earthquakes. Volcanic eruptions. Rebellions. Dangerous tech gone wrong. We were the solution to problems that scared entire civilizations."

Problems Earth would one day face. Problems he would have to solve permanently—when Mark and Debbie were gone.

But not yet.

"So I'll tell Mom about the suspension at dinner," Nolan said, breaking the silence. "That way she doesn't completely lose it. I figure it'll sound better coming from me."

As they stepped inside, Mark grimaced. "Do we have to? Can't this just be a guy secret?"

Nolan folded his arms, leveling him with a fatherly glare. "Your mother and I don't keep secrets from each other, Mark. We're open and honest with each other."

Mark's incredulous look was almost comical—and a little too sharp.

Nolan said nothing. There was no point in arguing—not now. Mark didn't know the full truth. Not yet. He didn't know what Nolan had buried beneath every calm smile and soft-spoken reassurance. And for the time being, that ignorance was a gift. A buffer. A temporary peace Nolan wasn't ready to shatter.

The earpiece in his right ear crackled suddenly, sharp with static, followed by the familiar gruff voice of Cecil, sounding both irritated and exasperated.

"Nolan, you busy?"

"A little. What's going on?" Nolan replied, already walking toward the edge of the porch.

"We've got a situation in downtown Chicago," Cecil said. "Looks like an interdimensional invasion—giant red portal in the street, green-skinned bastards pouring out with plasma rifles. Thirty-two casualties in the last five minutes. The Teen Team's already on the ground, and the Guardians are en route, but some backup would be really fucking great right now."

Nolan's brow furrowed. "Wait, did you just say the Teen Team is there? Why the hell are children being deployed to an active war zone?"

If they were Viltrumite children, he wouldn't be worried, but Earth children were very squishy, and the randomness of their powers meant that most of them were glass cannons.

"Robot picked up the dimensional energy signature a few minutes before the portal opened," Cecil explained, his tone clipped but not defensive. "They were already starting evacuations when the first wave hit. They've held the line so far, but they're outnumbered."

Nolan sighed, already moving into the backyard. "Fine. I'll be there soon."

He turned back to Mark, who had come out onto the deck, drawn by the faint sounds of static and conversation.

"Alien invasion," Nolan said with a half-shrug. "I'll be back later. We'll finish this talk soon, alright? Get some rest, Mayweather."

Mark gave him a lopsided grin, one so genuine and boyish it made Nolan pause. It had been weeks since he'd seen that kind of light on his son's face. That kind of happiness.

"Have fun saving the world, Dad. Love you."

A beat passed. Just a second. And then Nolan smiled.

"You too, sport."

With a controlled flex of his legs, he shot into the sky, the ground beneath his feet cracking slightly from the launch. Within seconds, he was gone, a streak across the clouds.

She had been fighting since she was twelve. In the five years since, Katherine Cha had died more times than she could count—at least five hundred, by her best estimate.

She had been stabbed through the heart, shot in the head, torn clean in half. She'd been burned alive, melted down to charred bone, frozen until her limbs shattered like glass. She had drowned in water, in concrete, in sand—and once, memorably, in a bloom of fast-growing seeds. She remembered every slash of a blade that hadn't killed her instantly. Every bullet wound. Every instance of her skull being stomped until her brain spilled out like a cracked egg. Pain was a constant. Death was the punctuation.

Katherine Cha was only seventeen years old, and she had experienced every death imaginable. She had suffered through tortures devised by both men and monsters.

And somehow, she kept coming back.

You'd think she'd become numb to it. That eventually, her mind would dull the edges of the pain, forget the burn of flesh, the crunch of bone. In a way, she had. Her pain threshold was absurdly high—unnaturally so. She could say, with disturbing confidence, that she wouldn't break under torture for at least two hours, even under waterboarding, bone-deep acid injections, or deliberate, precise cuts meant to prolong agony rather than end her. But there was a limit. Her nerves were still human.

Her brain still screamed when her body burned.

That was why, after five of her had been vaporized at once by one of the Flaxans' massive laser tanks, she dropped to her knees. Her body trembled, slick with sweat, her breathing ragged. She could still feel the fire licking at her skin, still feel asphalt scraping against exposed intestines that should no longer exist. 

God, she hated it when her clones didn't die right away.

Gunmen, she liked. Gunmen gave you mercy—headshots were clean. Bullet holes didn't linger long. If she was lucky, she only had to choke on her own blood for a second or two before fading out.

But lasers? Lasers were cruel. Their heat cooked her from the inside out, boiling her blood and melting her organs. Even when death was swift, it felt slow. They always made her body die screaming.

She snapped back to the present at the sound of an inhuman snarl. Her blurred vision cleared just enough to make out a Flaxan towering above her. Its beetle-black eyes were filled with revulsion as it leveled its weapon at her head.

She froze for a fraction of a second—just long enough for instinct and training to take over.

When death is certain, divide.

One clone remains.

Two others split—one veers left, the other right. Three versions of her. Three moving targets. Let the enemy choose.

Whatever it picks, it picks wrong.

The heat lanced through them first as their sister on the floor died to a blast to the head—a searing line of agony splitting skull from spine, but they didn't falter. Pain wasn't an obstacle. Pain was familiar. One clone rammed her fist into the alien's gut, doubling it over. The other crashed a right hook across its jaw, teeth and blood spraying into the air.

Don't ever fight fair. Her instructor's voice echoed in her mind like an old scar aching in the cold. Everyone who faces you should be facing a mob—five, six, seven of you. A hive that knows each other better than siblings.

Three more selves burst from her, surrounding another Flaxan, beating it to the ground in a blur of fists and knees and rage. She twisted limbs until joints cracked, drove her heel into sternums until the chests caved in. She broke spines, snapped necks, crushed windpipes. And every time she landed a killing blow, another version of her fell too. Burned. Blasted. Beaten.

She saw herself die—again and again—and she didn't stop.

It was kind of morbid, realizing she had more in common with the Flaxans than she cared to admit. They came in waves, interchangeable, faceless, barely worth noticing until they were swarming you. No tactics. No flair. No grace. Just cannon fodder in armor.

Just like her.

She was a little better trained, maybe. A little more vicious. But ultimately? She was the expendable one. The hero villains could kill guilt-free. Nobody wept when Dupli-Kate died—they couldn't even tell which one had. And her team? Her teammates didn't mourn the deaths either. They were used to her dropping like flies, and as long as one of her stood back up, the show went on.

Rex was loving it—laughing, that wild grin on his face as he hurled supercharged coins like grenades, reveling in the mayhem now that no one had to hold back. Eve looked like a goddess of war, floating above them, raining pink energy like judgment from heaven. Her blasts vaporized weapons, her constructs impaled soldiers like spikes of divine wrath.

And Robot… Robot was terrifying. Methodical. Efficient. Unstoppable. He flowed through enemy ranks like a current around stones—silent, surgical. His metallic hands glistened red. Every strike a kill. When he lifted a fallen Flaxan rifle, he fired it with perfect aim, never missing. Every shot—clean, precise, lethal.

Teen Team was in their rhythm now. They were a symphony of violence.

But they were tiring.

Eve had landed, pink shields fizzling in and out of existence as she backed up, her expression tight with strain. Rex had taken cover behind a wrecked squad car, one roll of quarters left in his hand, breathing hard. Robot was still slicing through the crowd like the machine that he was, but the tide of Flaxan's were never ending and slowly pushing him back—fractional, incremental, but still noticeable.

And her?

She was running on fumes.

'Peak human' meant she could go toe-to-toe with Olympic athletes on a good day. But in a warzone like this, ten minutes of full-contact combat was her limit. After that, her reactions dulled. Her punches softened. Her clones became slow, sluggish—targets, not threats. When they died, she felt it, and when they died tired, it hurt even more.

She was faltering.

Every breath came sharp, her muscles screaming from overuse, her vision blurring at the edges. She was bleeding time, bleeding stamina—and the relentless tide of Flaxans showed no signs of thinning. If anything, they seemed to grow more aggressive, more coordinated, each wave crashing harder than the last.

They were heroes. Titans, even. But even heroes weren't unstoppable.

They needed to end this. Now. Either that, or retreat before this battlefield turned into a graveyard.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos. Casual. Confident. Unfamiliar.

"Well, looks like I beat the Guardians here," the voice drawled from above. "Can't wait to see how pissed Immortal gets when he finds out I wiped out the entire army before he even showed up."

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked up.

There, floating effortlessly above the battlefield, framed by sunlight and smoke, was Omni-Man.

The strongest man on Earth.

Unchallenged. Undefeated. The gold standard by which all other heroes were measured. Fast enough to break the sound barrier without breaking a sweat. Strong enough to punch a kaiju into a crater. A walking nuclear deterrent who hadn't lost a single battle in his entire career.

If the Guardians of the Globe were the pinnacle of heroism, then Omni-Man was the myth. The impossible benchmark. The dream every hero quietly reached for but knew they'd never grasp.

She almost laughed, relief blooming in her chest like a second wind.

They weren't going to lose.

Not today.

Not with Omni-Man here.

"You kids did surprisingly well," he said, his voice calm but edged with a note of pride. "Get the rest of the civilians out of here. I'll take care of the rest."

And with a deafening roar, he launched forward like a living missile, tearing through the Flaxans like paper dolls. She watched, awestruck, as he grabbed one of their massive laser tanks—easily the size of a city bus—and hurled it into another, the resulting explosion lighting up the battlefield. He made it look so easy, like tossing a trash bag into a bin. Effortless. Casual. Devastating.

Then came three thunderous impacts behind her, heavy enough to make the tarmac crack. She spun around instantly, already summoning three clones to form a defensive wall between her and the unknown threat—

Only to freeze when she recognized the figures stepping through the smoke.

War Woman. The Immortal. Martian Man.

Her mouth dropped open.

Holy shit. This is the coolest moment of my life.

War Woman smiled at her—warmly, like a commander greeting a fellow soldier. Her eyes swept the battlefield, then rested on the clone bodies scattered around.

"Well done, battle sister," she said, nodding. "You've fought bravely. It's good to see more women holding the line."

It took everything Dupli-Kate had not to beam like a starstruck cadet.

The Immortal, meanwhile, didn't spare her so much as a glance. His focus was locked on Omni-Man, eyes narrowed.

"I told you we shouldn't wait for Darkwing," he muttered to War Woman as he passed. "Now we're late, and that show-off got here first."

Martian Man gave an amused grunt at his teammate's irritation, then turned his attention to her.

"Red Rush, Green Ghost, Aquarius, and Darkwing are already working on evacuation," he said, his tone calm and reassuring. "You and your team held the line admirably. Rest now, young one. You've earned it."

And then, like the others, he lifted off and joined the fray, soaring into the chaos with practiced ease.

She just stood there for a moment, blinking.

"Wow," she whispered to herself. "They're so cool."

"They are certainly admirable," said a voice beside her.

She startled slightly. Robot stood at her side, unreadable as always. She hadn't even noticed his approach.

Damn it. That's the third time in the past hour someone's gotten the drop on me. I'm slipping.

Then she caught herself.

She didn't have to think like that anymore. This wasn't a black ops drop zone. She wasn't a government operative anymore. No more psych evaluations before breakfast. No more blindfolds, barking orders, or soldiers firing rubber rounds while she summoned clones in the dark just to see which ones flinched. No more missions that ended in silence, pain, and bruises that didn't make it into the after-action report.

She could go home after this.

Home. A real one.

Rest. A hot shower. A couch she could sink into without keeping one eye on the door. Maybe even pizza. Greasy, bad-for-you, extra-cheese pizza.

One of the things she was grateful for in this new life as a superhero was that she could basically do whatever she wanted, even if it was something as small as indulging in bad food.

"Yeah, I mean, they're the Guardians," Kate said, watching as the legendary team cut through the Flaxan army like paper. "The best of the best. That's what everyone says, right?"

"Indeed," Robot replied, his voice calm, almost clinical, as his green optics tracked the carnage. "Dupli-Kate, do you think we could ever reach their level?"

She blinked, caught off guard by the question. "You mean, like… us? On par with the Guardians?"

Robot didn't answer. He didn't need to. She could feel his attention locked on her, waiting.

She frowned, arms crossing. "Eve, definitely. She's already halfway there. And you? Maybe. You're smart enough to stand toe-to-toe with someone like Darkwing. Strategically, at least. But me and Rex?" She shook her head. "We're not exactly heavy hitters."

Robot didn't respond right away. His gaze stayed locked on the battlefield. Less than three minutes had passed, and already over half the Flaxan force was either dead or fleeing. The Guardians weren't just winning—they were making it look effortless.

"From here on out," Robot said finally, voice low and even, "things will become… more difficult. The threats we face will escalate in scale and lethality. What we saw today was only a preview."

Kate felt her stomach twist. She didn't like where this was going.

"So?" she asked cautiously. "What are you saying?"

He turned to her, expression unreadable behind that polished metal faceplate.

"I'm saying that if we're going to survive—if we're going to make a difference—we'll need to evolve. Adapt. Some... upgrades may become necessary."

Kate stared at him, a chill running down her spine.

She wasn't sure if he meant gear upgrades, combat training, or something more... invasive.

But from the way his mechanical voice lingered on the word, she had a feeling it wasn't just new suits and gadgets.

And suddenly, the thought of pizza didn't sound quite as comforting.

Chapter Text

"You know," Nolan said, nudging the desiccated Flaxan corpse with the tip of his boot, "this was a lot more fun before they started turning to dust."

The body collapsed even further under the light touch, its face crumbling into powder. He raised an eyebrow, crouching down to get a closer look.

Interesting.

The remains told a story if you knew how to read them. The metal of the soldier's uniform was oxidizing right before his eyes, rust blooming across its surface like fungus. The alien's skin was shriveled and gray, its muscles collapsed inward, its teeth exposed by receding gums. A strong, unpleasant smell hit Nolan's nose—not the sharpness of dehydration, as he'd initially thought, but the heavy, earthy scent of rot.

It was as if the Flaxan had aged decades in the last ten minutes.

"What are you thinking?" Darkwing asked as he and Green Ghost approached from behind, their boots crunching lightly on debris.

Immortal and War Woman were still occupied with Cecil, discussing larger strategy. Red Rush had already zipped off to respond to another crime scene across the city, and Aquarius had quietly returned to Atlantis. Nolan privately questioned why Aquarius had even joined the Guardians at all; a king had more important things to do than intervene in the squabbles of another world.

Nolan gestured to the corpse. "Look at the rust on the armor. The state of the body. It's like it's been exposed to decades of time... not twenty minutes."

Darkwing knelt beside him, studying the evidence with a critical eye. "A metal like that shouldn't oxidize this quickly. It's not Earth-native, but it's similar to titanium in composition. Titanium doesn't rust. Not like this." His tone sharpened. "It's possible these Flaxans exist in a different time stream than we do. Faster time dilation. If I had to wager, I'd say they're not from another planet—" he flicked some of the dust from the armor "—but another dimension. Most planets in our system should have the same time stream as ours, give or take a few hours or days."

That was one of the reasons Nolan respected Darkwing. Unlike many humans, Darkwing didn't require things to be explained to him in simple terms. He could infer, extrapolate, and refine ideas into conclusions that Nolan himself found useful.

Darkwing stood up, brushing dust off his gloves. His voice was steady. "They'll come back."

Nolan nodded slowly. "You're sure?"

"They didn't achieve whatever goal they had," Darkwing said. "First wave reconnaissance, maybe. Or a resource raid. Either way, they failed."

"Could've just been a terror attack," Nolan offered, standing as well. "A show of force. Make Earth's people scared of an enemy that can appear anywhere, anytime."

Darkwing shook his head. "Even as a terror attack, it failed. The Teen Team pushed them back with minimal casualties. We destroyed or captured their heavy weaponry. Less than half their soldiers made it back through that portal. No matter how technologically advanced they are, a material loss like that will cost them dearly."

He turned, already planning next steps. "The Guardians and I will start drafting a defense strategy. When— not if— the Flaxans return, we'll be ready. We'll keep this sector of Chicago locked down, cleared out of civilians, and fortified."

"Sounds like a good idea," Nolan agreed, watching Darkwing's retreating back with a thoughtful frown.

His gaze drifted downward, to the disintegrating remains at his feet.

Yes, he thought with amusement, they'll come back.

Hopefully, they'll be more entertaining when they return.

He bent his knees, preparing to launch into the sky when a soft voice pulled him back.

"Omni-Man?"

He paused. Turned.

Green Ghost still stood there.

At first glance, her expression was hard to read—her powers made her face seem expressionless, and damn near unreadable. But the way her body moved gave her away: fidgeting hands, shifting feet, frequent nervous glances at the other Guardians still conversing with Cecil in the distance.

It was familiar.

It took him a second to realize why.

It was exactly how Mark used to look when he brought home bad grades—nervous, guilty, like a child dreading what was to come but knowing it was inevitable. Green Ghost wasn't just nervous. She was wrestling with something.

"Everything alright, Ghost?" he asked, keeping his voice even.

"I...I just wanted to say..." she began, voice fragile and low, almost lost to the wind. "No matter what happens... I'm on your side, okay?"

Nolan straightened slightly.

"You've saved me more times than I can count," she continued, words spilling out in a rush. "When I was still struggling with my powers...when I didn't know what I was doing...you were always there. So...no matter what happens...no matter what anyone says...I trust you."

No matter what anyone says.

His frown deepened, a sliver of unease slipping into his mind.

"Ghost," he said, sharper than he intended, "what do you mean by that? What are people saying?"

She flinched—an instinctive, human movement—and he could see the outline of her mouth open, like she was about to answer—

A sharp hiss of white light interrupted them.

Cecil materialized at his side, looking between him and Green Ghost with that usual clinical sharpness Nolan had grown used to.

"Omni-Man," Cecil said briskly. "We've got reports of a Kaiju in the Indian Ocean. Big bastard. You're the only one fast enough to get there in time, and strong enough to put it down without too many casualties."

Nolan kept his eyes on Green Ghost, who now looked even smaller, almost retreating into herself.

"I see," Nolan said slowly. "Thing is, Ghost and I were having a conversation—"

"She'll be busy," Cecil cut in casually, waving a hand like he was dismissing a minor inconvenience. "Darkwing's calling a full team meeting. You two can catch up later—text, call, whatever."

No, they couldn't.

He didn't even know her real name.

Out of all the Guardians, only Red Rush was a true acquaintance—and that was mostly because Debbie was friends with his wife, Olga. Nolan had purposely kept the Guardians at arm's length. Professional, cordial...but never close, even though he enjoyed their camaraderie.

It made sense, of course.

It would have been a problem when the mask eventually came off.

Attachments were liabilities.

But now...

Green Ghost's warning gnawed at him like a splinter lodged too deep to pull free. She wasn't prone to theatrics or paranoia. If she said there were whispers—rumors spreading like rot beneath the surface—then it wasn't idle gossip. It was real, and it was serious.

And if Cecil had intervened so decisively, cutting off the conversation before it could even breathe...

Then Cecil knew about it too.

And likely, the other Guardians did as well.

It was improbable that they had uncovered anything truly devastating. He had hidden his true objectives with meticulous care. His public persona, his actions—all had been calculated with precision to ensure no suspicion could land too squarely on him. The few encounters he'd had with psychic opponents had been...educational. None had demonstrated signs of penetrating his mental defenses—likely because those who posed any real risk hadn't lived long enough to warn anyone else. Ruthless? Perhaps. Necessary? Absolutely. A mind-reader who could glimpse his larger ambitions could unravel years of work in a heartbeat.

No, they couldn't know the full truth.

But the very fact that Green Ghost had dared to voice a warning—even obliquely—meant that whatever had gotten out was enough to cause friction. Enough to make Cecil watch him with colder eyes. Enough to make the Guardians' trust erode, even if just a fraction.

He exhaled slowly, forcing the tension out of his body.

It was fine.

He could wait.

Patience was a weapon as sharp as any blade. Hours, days, weeks—he could endure whatever was necessary to uncover the extent of the damage. Sooner or later, someone would slip. Someone would say too much.

Someone always did.

And when they did, he would know exactly what needed to be done.

"You know, Cecil, this isn't exactly subtle," Mark said dryly, tugging at the sleeve of his new suit.

The scarred old man just shrugged, the ghost of a smirk playing across his lips. "Hey, it was Donald who handled the final design. I gave him the specs you described, he just...improved them."

Mark snorted under his breath. "Yeah, sure."

The suit Donald had presented to him was clearly inspired by GDA field uniforms, but taken a few steps further. It was a sleek, modern piece of work — primarily black, threaded through with neon green accents that glowed faintly like strips of energy. The green traced sharp, clean lines over his shoulders, collarbone, arms, and legs, giving the impression of a living circuit or a power conduit. The material itself was flexible but had an armor-like sturdiness, molding perfectly to Mark's body without sacrificing mobility. Subtle armor plating protected the elbows and knees without bulking him down.

The gloves were fingerless, the boots reinforced but slim, each with faintly glowing green joints and soles that lit up when he moved. His headgear featured a streamlined breathing filter and a pair of vivid green goggles that made his expression impossible to read. Only his hair was left exposed — and even that Donald had been quick to offer solutions for.

"The design's more iconic than the original you sketched out," Donald said, almost apologetically. "Plus, if Nolan catches sight of you, he's going to assume you're just a powered GDA operative. Nothing worth extra attention."

He tapped the side of the filtration mask lightly. "Voice modulator's installed. The suit also nullifies your scent profile — Nolan won't be able to recognize you by smell. And if you're still worried, we've got a full GDA combat helmet. Covers everything. Even your hair won't give you away."

Mark arched an eyebrow behind the goggles, smirking. "Suuuure, Donald. You totally dressed me up like the GDA's shiny new poster boy just to 'avoid my dad's attention.' That's definitely the only reason."

"You act like working for us would be such a bad thing," Cecil said casually, giving Mark a sidelong look. "We pay decent. Good healthcare. Access to some pretty incredible tech and toys. Travel perks. Can't promise you'll get a lot of vacation days... but you'll see the world."

He paused, his mouth twitching into a small, knowing smile.

"And," Cecil added lightly, "maybe get a few good meals while you're at it. A few things that...catch your interest."

Mark didn't freeze exactly, but there was a slight hitch in the way he shifted his weight — just enough for Cecil to catch it.

After a beat, Mark laughed, playing it off. "Sounds tempting. But the last time I worked directly under you, let's just say it didn't exactly end with flowers and thank-you notes. Not gonna lie, a decent chunk of that was my fault...but you weren't exactly a walk in the park either, old man."

Cecil grinned, showing teeth. "Sure. We probably butted heads. But the important thing is, at the end of the day, we were fighting for the same things: saving lives, protecting people, and making sure the world doesn't go straight to hell. Those three goals lining up? That's reason enough for us to work together again."

Mark said nothing, fiddling absently with one of the glowing lines on his sleeve.

And find out everything you're hiding from us, Cecil thought silently, his smile never faltering.

He liked the kid. Genuinely. Mark had handed over a treasure trove of contacts, tactical information, and resources that would be critical for the coming storms, even if—if—it turned out the whole "Viltrumite Empire conspiracy" was exaggerated, misunderstood, or an outright fabrication. The possibility lingered in the back of his mind more often than he cared to admit. After all, while almost every other tidbit Mark had provided so far had been independently verified, the parts about the Viltrumite Empire? Purely anecdotal. No way to double-check. No way to corroborate. Only Mark's word—and Mark was already hiding things from him.

Cecil hated operating blind.

He understood caution, even respected it—hell, he'd built a career on it—but trust was like currency. Once you noticed someone hoarding it, you had to assume they were hedging their bets. And Mark? He was already starting to make moves independent of the GDA.

The kid had reached out to Robot, and they knew this because, of course, they were bugging Mark's phone. Standard protocol. Listening in had been...enlightening. Robot had stopped badgering Cecil about the leak of his identity almost immediately after his conversations with Mark began, which told Cecil everything he needed to know: Mark had bought Robot's trust, just like that. Probably fed him a few bits of future knowledge in their first meeting as a goodwill offering.

And they were friendly enough that Mark was sharing intel with Robot he hadn't even given the GDA.

Case in point: the Flaxan invasion. Mark had laid out the entire playbook to Robot, describing not only how they would arrive, but gave Robot detailed instructions on how to beat them the second time they came back. Detailed enough that Robot had been able to re-create some sort of detector—one based on tech from Mark's 'past' timeline—that would pick up on the opening of the Flaxan's portals, which was how the GDA and by proxy, the Guardians got an advanced warning in the first place

That wasn't the behavior of someone who fully trusted the GDA. It was the behavior of someone hedging their bets. Keeping options open. Just like Cecil would—if their roles were reversed.

The only question was: why?

No offense to Robot, but based on Mark's debriefs, the guy hadn't exactly been pivotal. Sure, he'd made some clever toys, a few battlefield-worthy drones, and one of his suits had even been tough enough to survive the sun's heat—still insane, by the way—but Mark had never described him as essential. Not like Nolan. Not like Sinclair, Powerplex, or Bulletproof. So why go all-in now? 

Why reach out to him?

Before he could chew further on that thread, Donald flinched and touched his earpiece. His posture straightened immediately.

"Uh, sir," Donald said, already pulling up a display. "We have a situation. A humanoid figure is inbound, moving faster than any known spacecraft. Much faster than our satellites can track in real-time. Estimated ETA to pass the moon is under five minutes. We think it's Anomaly 177."

Cecil narrowed his eyes. "The alien?"

Donald nodded grimly. "Yes sir. Him."

Anomaly 177 was...different. Unlike the usual threats that came with a fleet, an invasion force, or some new end-of-the-world tech, this one came alone. No weapons, no warning. Just dropped in, fought Omni-Man in low orbit, then vanished just as suddenly. That had been a year ago—and now he was back.

Cecil tapped a command into his holowatch, and a grainy, distorted photo flickered into view— a flash of orange skin, a muscular build, and a single eye.

"You don't happen to know who this is, do you?" he asked, projecting the image into the air between them.

Mark's face lit up. "Holy crap. It's Allen!"

Cecil shared a sharp glance with Donald.

"Allen?" he repeated flatly.

"Yeah! Allen the Alien. He's a Unopan." Mark stepped forward, visibly more energized than he'd been all day. "He's an evaluator for the Coalition of Planets. Great guy."

Cecil raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry—the what now?"

"The Coalition of Planets," Mark repeated, suddenly sheepish. "They're kind of…uh…an alliance of alien species working together to resist the Viltrumite Empire."

Cecil's fingers twitched. His tone sharpened like a scalpel. "You're telling me there's a literal intergalactic resistance force that was formed to go against the guys who intend to fuck us in the ass—and this is the first I'm hearing about it?"

Mark scratched the back of his neck. "Okay, yeah, I get how that sounds. But it's complicated."

"No. No, no, no, Mark," Cecil said, stepping forward, barely restraining his tone. "You've been wasting time telling me about glorified pests like the Flaxans, and this—a multi-planetary alliance that we should have known about on day one—is just now coming up?"

Mark winced. "Hey, the Flaxans are still a serious threat, but—okay, yes, this is probably more important. The thing is… the Coalition isn't exactly thrilled about Earth."

"Why?" Donald asked, already opening up a fresh file on his tablet.

Mark hesitated. "Well… because Earth is literally the reason the Viltrumite Empire could come back. I mean, I'm practically a Viltrumite already, and there are some gentical similarities between humans and Viltrumites that make us compatible, which my birth proves. If the Coalition finds out about Earth and decides we're a threat because the Empire could take us over and start their breeding farms... there's a 50/50 chance they either try to recruit us—or gas the planet with an incurable virus."

Cecil blinked.

Well… that was actually a surprisingly reasonable excuse for keeping quiet.

He exhaled slowly and pinched the bridge of his nose, frustration bleeding into resignation.

"Alright," he muttered. "That's fair. Incredibly stupid not to inform me, but still… fair."

Donald cleared his throat beside him. "Sir, what do we do?"

Mark spoke up before Cecil could answer, casual as ever. "I mean, I could just beat him into the dirt and send him packing. He still thinks this is Urath, not Earth. The Coalition didn't even do much about the Viltrumites who snuck onto the planet last time—they just wanted to drop a virus that'd wipe out everyone, Viltrumites and humans. Honestly, I think we can win this war without them. Just need a handful of heavy hitters. Alan's one of them."

"Stop. Talking." Cecil snapped, rubbing his temples like he could massage the oncoming headache into submission. "Give me a minute to think."

Okay, Cecil. Think.

They needed to confirm the Viltrumite threat to the galaxy without handing over Earth on a silver platter. Mark was downplaying things—of course he was—but that didn't change the reality. The Coalition of Planets would absolutely reduce Earth to radioactive dust rather than let it fall into Viltrumite hands. If he were in their shoes, he'd make the same call.

So, what did Earth need to do?

They had to send a message. Not one of desperation, not some last-ditch cry for help, but a message of strength—controlled strength. Earth couldn't beg for assistance. They needed to prove that they were worth partnering with, not saving.

They needed leverage.

And then Cecil realized—he already had it.

He turned to Mark, eyes narrowed in thought. "How smart would you say this Allen is?"

Mark blinked. "Oh. Uh… average? Like, average Earth-level intelligence? He's not dumb—good guy, solid leader. Eventually runs the Coalition, but he's not, you know, top ten smartest beings in the galaxy material. Why?"

Cecil nodded slowly, the edges of a plan falling into place. "Alright. Then here's what we're gonna do."

He straightened up, facing Mark with the full weight of command behind his voice. "I have a plan. But for it to work, I need something important from you."

"Sure," Mark said without hesitation. "What do you need?"

Cecil leaned in, voice sharp and clear. "I need you to beat the living hell out of him. And I mean badly, Mark. I want him flying home with cracked ribs, broken pride, and the absolute certainty that you're stronger than Nolan."

Mark raised an eyebrow. The plan wasn't subtle.

But then, he grinned.

"Alright," he said. "I can do that."

"You know," Alan thought as he coasted through the void, "this planet would be way prettier if they got rid of all the garbage orbiting it."

Urath looked decent from a distance—blue oceans, lush green continents, all the makings of a postcard-worthy world. But once you got close to the atmosphere? That's when the real picture came into focus. Junk. Just tons of it. Fragments of old satellites, bits of metal and plastic from what must've been their first forays into space travel, and more than a few whole objects that looked like they'd just given up mid-orbit and decided to fall apart.

According to the Coalition's database, Urath was catalogued as a Level Three civilization. That meant faster-than-light travel, organized planetary governance, and an ability to defend itself from extraterrestrial threats. But judging by all the debris cluttering its skies, Alan figured someone must've screwed up the paperwork. Wouldn't be the first time—recordkeeping at the Coalition could get a little… sloppy. Still, even if they weren't quite up to snuff on paper, Urath wasn't exactly in danger. Not with the kind of champion they had.

And that was why Alan was here.

His last encounter with Urath's protector had been humbling, to say the least. The guy had manhandled him in what—ten minutes? Maybe less? It had felt like ten seconds, if he was being honest. The pain had made time hard to track.

But this time, things were going to be different.

He'd been training. Eating better. Lifting heavier. Meditating. Not enough to take on a Viltrumite—not yet—but enough to give Urath's champion a real fight this time. He was stronger, faster, and definitely smarter than before. He'd learned a lot over the past year. He was ready.

…Or at least he hoped he was ready.

Because, if he was being honest, Urath's champion hadn't just beaten him. He'd steamrolled him. The guy was like a force of nature—relentless speed, raw power, and skin tough enough that Alan had actually broken his own fist trying to land a decent punch.

The whole thing had been… familiar.

Too familiar.

It reminded him of the first time he'd fought a Viltrumite. The Coalition had seen him as a secret weapon, the ace up their sleeve that would turn the tide in their war against the Viltrum Empire.

Instead, he'd been obliterated. Reduced to a bruised, broken mess and discarded like he didn't matter.

The champion of Urath had done something similar.

Except—he hadn't dismissed Alan entirely. He'd spared a word. Just one.

"Leave."

Alan had taken the advice. Barely conscious, bones broken, pride shattered—he'd left.

But now? Now he was coming back. And this time, he wasn't leaving until he made that guy break a sweat.

His eye locked on the tiny black speck streaking up from the planet below. Fast. Direct. No hesitation.

Good planetary response time to an orbital threat—that was at least a solid ten. Maybe even eleven. Huh. Sensors in the orbital debris field? If so, these guys were a lot craftier than he'd given them credit for.

As the speck drew closer, Alan grinned and projected his thoughts. "Hey, there you are! Ready for round two, big guy?"

He blinked. "Oh—you shaved the mustache? Bold move. Personally, I would've kept it. Gave you that 'galactic warrior with a code' vibe. But hey, the new suit? Much sleeker. I like it."

Still no response. No banter. No snarky comment. The guy just kept coming—fast and silent.

" Aw, come on. No quipping? You're killing the mood here. I can't be the only one having fun. But fine, if you're just here to throw hands..."

He clenched his fists, rolled his shoulders, and readied himself.

"Then let's throw hands."

And then they collided—Alan's fist slamming into Urath's champion's with a force that shook the two of them. A shockwave rippled across the void like a thunderclap in space, distorting nearby satellites and pushing away stray debris.

For a heartbeat, time stood still.

Then Alan felt it. No recoil. No staggering back. His feet didn't budge.

They were evenly matched.

His grin widened, a glint of challenge in his eye.

"Oh yeah," he said, blood pumping, his muscles surging with strength.

"Now I'm gonna whoop your ass."

Alan struck first.

A blur of orange muscle and cocky arrogance, the Unopan warrior barreled through space, fists swinging in a rapid flurry aimed straight at Urath's Champion. The vacuum didn't slow him—he carved through it like a comet, his punches thunderous in their momentum, invisible shockwaves rippling through space with each strike. His knuckles whistled past the Champion's face, shoulders, chest—

And missed.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Urath's Champion danced around the blows, weaving effortlessly, almost lazily, through the barrage. He bobbed under one punch, twisted sideways to avoid another, raised an elbow just in time to block a strike that should've caved his ribs in. Alan snarled in frustration.

"Okay, you're faster, so I'll give you props for that," he thought, projecting his voice telepathically through the void. "But what the hell happened to your form? You're all over the place. You fly like you forgot how to manuever properly."

Urath's Champion didn't answer, only darted backward, silent and unreadable behind his black and green mask. Alan pushed forward anyway, driving a right hook toward the Champion's flank. It grazed him—barely—but even that sent the Champion careening backward with a ripple of force.

"Last time you were beating me like a damn drum," Alan continued, circling. "Now it looks like I'm the one handing out the beatdown. You started slacking off? Been skipping meals or something? You're definitely thinner than last time—"

Before the thought could finish forming, the Champion vanished.

Alan's instincts flared.

WHAM.

A solid punch to the sternum blasted through his guard like a missile, nearly folding him in half. His eyes went wide as breathless pain flared through his chest, his ribs screaming. The sudden shift in tempo stunned him—this speed… this was new. Or rather, it had been hidden.

"You son of a—"

Too late.

The Champion surged forward again, ramming into Alan's midsection with a brutal tackle. They tore through space like a meteorite, the moon looming in the distance. Alan grunted, struggling to counter as powerful fists slammed into his ribs, his back, his shoulder blades. His own blows lashed out—sharp, precise punches that cracked against the Champion's body—but there was less give than before. His skin felt reinforced, denser than Alan remembered.

Then—

Impact.

They crashed into the moon's surface like a bomb, a muffled BOOM echoing through Alan's skull. A crater blossomed outward beneath them, kicking up a thick plume of gray dust that cloaked the battlefield.

Dazed, Alan coughed and threw an elbow to knock the Champion loose, then kicked him off with a forceful foot to the chest. He rolled, righted himself, and bounced into a low combat stance, his feet gently skimming the moon's surface. Urath's Champion stood across from him, unbothered. He stretched his arms and cracked his neck with a smirk that was more smug than mocking.

Alan scowled.

"What's got you looking so happy?" he thought, projecting the question.

To his shock, the Champion answered. His voice was a low, satisfied growl in Alan's mind.

"Things just got a lot easier for me."

Before Alan could process that cryptic reply—

CRACK.

A thunderous blow to his diaphragm stole the air from his lungs. Alan choked on the void, vision doubling as his body spasmed. Another punch followed, slamming into his jaw with enough force to lift him several feet off the ground. As he rose, dazed and weightless, a third hit smashed down from above, slamming him back into the moon's surface with bone-rattling force.

White light danced in his vision. Pain lanced through his skull.

And then came the whirlwind.

Fists from every direction—blows that defied physics, angles, prediction. A relentless, high-speed barrage that hit like meteors. Alan raised his arms, trying to guard, to reposition, but each time he managed to shift, a new hit was already slamming into his ribs, his kidneys, his collarbone. He felt the dull snap of something giving way inside him.

He rocketed upward, trying to escape into open space, where he could maneuver better.

But a hand closed around his ankle.

" Nonono— "

SLAM.

He hit the surface again, back-first, with such violence that a second crater bloomed beneath him. Agony spiderwebbed down his spine. Distantly, he wondered if something had fractured—definitely cracked, at least.

He blearily raised his head. Urath's Champion was standing over him, looming like a warrior, ready to end the fight. His right fist vibrated madly with pure speed—probably enough to put a hole in him, with his strength.

Alan's eyes widened.

"TIME OUT! Time out!" he wheezed telepathically, throwing his arms over his face. "You win, jeez!"

The vibrations stopped. The Champion paused, cocked his head, then stepped back with a smirk.

Alan groaned, staring up at the pitch-black sky.

"Okay," he thought. "Definitely wasn't expecting that."

He was going to need at least four hours in a regen pod. Minimum.

And maybe—just maybe—a little therapy.

Getting your ass handed to you twice by the same guy, both times with barely a flicker of effort on his part? That did something to a Unopan's pride. Deeply.

" You're Allen of Unopa, right? "

Allen groaned as he turned his head—slowly—to find the Champion of Urath squatting beside him. The guy was smiling now, but it was a lot less smug and punchable than earlier. Almost friendly, even.

"Yeah," Allen grunted. "That's me. I'm honestly impressed you remember. Last time we met, you didn't say a word. Thought maybe you were mute. Or just a raging asshole."

A low chuckle echoed in Allen's mind—telepathic, familiar now.

"I'm not the guy you fought last time."

Allen blinked. "Oh really? Could've fooled me. No offense, but all you biclops look the same from this angle—flat on my back and mildly concussed."

"None taken," the Champion replied with a grin. "Sorry about the rough treatment. I figured we should get Earth's evaluation out of the way while we had the chance."

Allen paused. "Earth?"

Yeah. That was the name he'd heard earlier. Earth.

"Please," Allen muttered, letting his eye close. "Tell me Earth is just how you guys pronounce Urath in this region of the galaxy."

Another telepathic chuckle rolled through his skull. "Sorry, man. This isn't Urath. This is Earth. Totally different rock. But hey—once you hear what I've got to say, the Coalition's going to be thrilled you ended up here instead."

Allen sighed and sat up with a wince. His shoulder flared in protest, and he instinctively glanced down—only to spot what looked suspiciously like a bite mark.

"What the hell?" he muttered to himself. "When did that happen?"

The Champion offered him a hand, which Allen reluctantly accepted, letting himself be pulled to his feet.

"Well," Allen said, brushing himself off with what dignity he could salvage, "I guess I should probably speak to your planetary leader and formally apologize for... you know, technically trying to invade. Twice."

The Champion shrugged. "Eh. You didn't really get past the front door. Nobody's that upset. Cecil'll be fine."

Earth wasn't that bad—for a planet that hadn't even cracked proper space travel yet. Plenty of green, some deep blue oceans, and a couple of decently structured cities from what Allen could see in the flyover. Not bad. Primitive, sure, but charming in its own way. Still, according to Urath's so-called champion—who introduced himself with the incredibly subtle name of Invincible—Earth still clung to ancient concepts like borders, nations, and political factions.

Classic Class One behavior: too preoccupied with internal squabbling to see what they could accomplish together. Unopa had scrapped its borders centuries ago. Not that it helped when the Viltrumites came knocking and turned the planet into a glorified ore dump, but still—at least they tried.

Their tech wasn't completely laughable, either. Borderline Class Two, really. Earth had some stealth systems, primitive energy-based weapons, and basic interlinked communication grids. It wasn't interstellar, but it was more advanced than Allen had expected from a planet that still used fossil fuels.

Meeting Earth's planetary defense leadership had been… educational. The Director—Cecil, of all names—stood out due to a patch of what Allen could only assume was some kind of outdated cybernetic scar tissue around his mouth. His second-in-command, Donald, wore primitive ocular correction devices made of what looked like polished glass. Adorable, honestly. It was kind of sweet, the little workarounds these bipeds created to manage their biological limitations.

The information they shared with him, though, was anything but cute. It was borderline apocalyptic.

"So… this is Earth. Or Terra. Whatever you call it," Allen said, arms crossed as he tried to process the data dump.

"Yup," Invincible replied casually.

"And the guy I fought last time—the one who turned my ribs into soup—he's a Viltrumite."

Cecil nodded.

"Right. Makes sense. Viltrumites tend to do that."

"And your new guy here," Allen jerked a thumb at Mark, "a human teenager, killed a Viltrumite. Alone."

"That's about right," Donald confirmed, adjusting his adorable glass-eye-thingies.

Allen stared at them in silence. Then:

"Bullshit."

"Excuse me?" Cecil asked, one brow raised.

"Absolute, 100% bullshit," Allen said flatly. "Viltrumites are bio-engineered apex predators. They can destroy planets—plural—with their bare hands. There's no weapon in the known galaxy that so much as dents them. Most of what we know about them is secondhand mythology, passed down like bedtime horror stories. We don't have the slightest idea how they reproduce, what their population numbers are, how they organize themselves, or why they started conquering the galaxy in the first place. All we know is this—where they go, civilizations die."

He gestured broadly to the world around him.

"And you're telling me this backwater, Class-One rock—with its borders, political pettiness, and tech levels barely out of the steam age—managed to take one down?" the alien scoffed, jabbing a finger toward Mark. "That this kid punched a hole through the galactic boogeyman all by himself? I mean, yeah, he beat my ass, but a lot of people can do that."

"Damn," Cecil said with a sneer. "All those planets aligned under the Coalition banner, and you still couldn't take out one Viltrumite? Are you guys even trying?"

That stung. Hard. Especially after Unopa.

Unopa, his homeworld—his people—had been wiped out trying to create him, their ultimate weapon. The best minds of an entire planet had sacrificed everything to make Allen the strongest being they could engineer… and it still hadn't been enough.

Allen's eye narrowed. "Alright, biclops, listen here—"

"After all," Cecil interrupted smoothly, as if Allen hadn't spoken, "if you guys were really doing everything you could, you'd already know there are fewer than fifty pureblood Viltrumites left."

Allen froze. Time seemed to stutter around him.

"…What did you just say?" he asked slowly, his voice low and dangerous.

"Less than fifty," Cecil repeated, entirely unbothered. "Led by Grand Regent Thragg. Their second strongest is named Conquest—missing an arm, one eye, nasty bastard. We've got names on at least six others, along with their ranks, habits, and behavioral profiles. Oh, and we've developed a weaponized frequency that messes with their equilibrium—takes away their flight, screws up their inner ear so bad they can't stand straight. That's just one of the tricks we've got in the works."

Allen didn't realize he'd taken a step forward until he caught Mark shifting slightly in his peripheral vision—not in fear, but in warning—and noticed the GDA soldiers subtly raising their rifles.

He didn't care.

"You need to share that information," he said, voice tight with urgency. "Do you have any idea what the Viltrumites have done? The civilizations they've erased? They've harvested tens of thousands of scientists from across the galaxy, used them to develop better ways to conquer and kill. If we even have a chance to stop them, you can't afford to hold back."

Cecil met his intensity with a neutral, unreadable stare. "You'll get the names," he said at last. "You'll get their numbers, the chain of command, and some insight into Viltrumite culture. We'll even throw in behavioral models for the high-ranking ones. But weapons specs? Contingency plans? Deployment strategies?" He gave a tight, wry smile. "That stays Earth-side."

Allen leaned forward, frustration creeping into his voice. "Look, I get wanting to keep your planet safe. But hoarding information like that? That's not just selfish, it's suicidal. If the Viltrumites ever realize you're sitting on data that could bring them down, they won't hesitate. They'll descend on Earth in full force and reduce your world to radioactive gravel. I've seen what they do when they feel cornered. You've got one really strong human fighting for you. Maybe he's strong. Hell, maybe he's stronger than most. He's certainly stronger than me. But unless he can do that fight fifty more times and win harder each time—it's not enough."

Cecil didn't flinch. "We're aware of the risk. That's why you're getting more intel from us than anyone's managed to scrape together in the last decade. Take it. Share it with your people. Let the Coalition know Earth's paying attention." His gaze narrowed. "But if you want deeper access—if you want the stuff that actually kills Viltrumites—then we talk terms."

Allen's eyes narrowed in realization. "You want Earth in the Coalition."

Cecil gave a short bark of laughter. "Hell no."

Allen blinked. "...What?"

"What we want is a fair trade. You called Earth a Class-One Civilization, remember? Well, we're the only Class-One that's actually done something besides cry about how hard the Viltrumites are kicking our asses. We've tested weapons. We've got strategies. We've got theories backed by field results. So if you want that? You trade us up."

"Up," Allen repeated.

"Tech. Advanced medicine. Energy solutions. FTL infrastructure. You give us the tools to accelerate—rapidly—and we'll give you what we've cracked open on killing gods."

There was a beat of silence. Then Allen nodded slowly, digesting it. "Okay. You want a two-way deal. That's... actually smart. I'll bring your data to the Council and explain your position. If what you say checks out, they'll listen. If even half of it checks out, this could end the war a lot sooner than we ever thought possible."

Cecil didn't answer. He didn't need to. The look in his eyes said he knew exactly what this meant. And that Earth wouldn't stay in the background for much longer.

"I'll need half an hour to get the clearance files and data packs assembled," he said crisply, turning back to his console. "In the meantime, Donald will give you a walk-through of the facility. Try not to get into any restricted zones."

"Sure. I'd love a look around," Allen said, glancing toward the exit. "Think we could grab something to eat while we're at it?"

"Absolutely," Donald replied, already falling into step beside him. "What are you in the mood for? We've got a full mess hall—soup, steak, seafood—"

Allen perked up. "Actually, I was thinking Kanslok."

Donald blinked. "...I'll see what we can do."

As soon as the doors slammed shut behind Allen and Donald, Cecil rounded on Mark with the full weight of his fury written across his face.

"You're gonna go to my analysts," he snapped, voice like gravel under pressure, "and you're gonna help my team beef up the Viltrumite profile so it doesn't look like we know less than the goddamn Coalition, who are apparenty just sitting on their asses and playing pattycake. Got it?"

Mark nodded quickly, clearly sensing that now wasn't the time to argue.

"And once that's done, we're gonna sit down—just you and me—and you're going to give me every single detail you know about space, the Viltrumites, their tactics, tech, history, culture, power sets—everything. And I swear to God, Invincible or not, if you leave so much as a footnote out, I will personally lodge my foot so far up your ass, you'll be able to taste the Italian leather on my shoes. Are we clear?"

Objectively, the threat meant nothing to someone with Viltrumite durability, but to Mark's credit, he nodded like a jackrabbit and made a beeline for the analysts, clearly smart enough to at least pretend he was scared.

Good. The kid had some sense.

Cecil let out a long, slow breath through his nose, the weight of it all pressing on his shoulders like a slab of concrete.

This had just gotten a hell of a lot messier.

On one hand, he finally had confirmation. The Viltrumites were real. They were just as dangerous—if not worse—than the worst-case projections. And Nolan… Nolan had said he was from Viltrum more than once. Had even let it slip casually, like it was just a footnote in his bio.

So unless there just happened to be two planets out there producing genocidal, mustache-wearing demigods with a penchant for punching holes in continents, then that meant...

That meant one of the only men Cecil had ever trusted—truly, completely trusted—was a traitor. A liar. A weapon sent to keep them soft before the hammer fell.

And that hurt more than he wanted to admit.

But that pain? He shoved it down. Stuffed it into a box, locked the box in a vault, and tossed it off a goddamn cliff. He didn't have the luxury of mourning a friendship right now.

He could be angry later. He could be broken later.

Right now? He had a planet to save. And that meant getting mean. That meant getting ruthless.

And it meant being ready to go to war.

"There's something that's been bothering me about the Flaxans," Darkwing said as the Guardians regrouped in the central command room of HQ.

He spoke calmly, but his tone carried that razor-sharp edge that made everyone turn to listen. Unlike most of the team, Darkwing didn't have powers to fall back on. No flight, no super-strength, no regenerative capabilities. All he had were his gadgets, his training, and his mind—sharpened like a blade, honed on years of solving crimes and surviving battles he had no business walking away from.

Some called him the smartest man alive. Others said he was the second-best detective on the planet, right after Darkblood. He'd never cared for titles—but in moments like this, he hoped the reputation had weight.

From his gauntlet, he activated the central projector, calling up a series of overlapping feeds—traffic cams, storefront security footage, cellphone videos. A synchronized mosaic of the first and second Flaxan invasion began to take shape in the air, cast in blue light above the holotable.

"What's the issue?" Aquarius asked, arms folded as he leaned against the war table. "We routed them easily. No casualties on our end. Quick, clean sweep."

"That," Darkwing said, pointing toward the screen, "is exactly the problem."

With a flick of his wristpad, the footage on the main display zoomed in. Target markers bloomed across the screen as he tapped key moments, slowing the video for analysis.

"Look at how they emerged from the portal. No formation. No spacing. No unit cohesion whatsoever. They just poured through like a panicked crowd, not a single line of command in sight. No vocal orders. No hand signals. Not even comms gear. They didn't make demands, didn't establish position. They just opened fire on civilians—blindly, and with zero coordination."

The room grew still. Screens across the chamber reflected the flickering combat footage, each frame less impressive than the last.

"Now, watch their movement patterns," Darkwing continued. "Their aim is inconsistent. Recoil throws them off-target. This one—" he tapped to highlight a Flaxan with trembling hands, "—nearly dislocates his shoulder firing a sidearm. No recoil compensation. No trigger discipline. No controlled bursts. They jerk when they shoot, flinch when they take return fire. It's amateur hour."

He played a short clip: a Flaxan soldier aiming at a parked car. The first shot went wide. The second grazed the pavement. The third slammed into the ground, and the weapon kicked so hard it spun the shooter around.

"And while the second incursion was a marginal improvement—they brought more tech, heavier support—they still fought like rabble. That's not a trained force. That's barely a militia."

Immortal's brow furrowed as he crossed his arms. "You're underselling Dupli-Kate if you're calling this a victory built on incompetence. The girl made an entire army of herself mid-battle. That's not standard procedure for any military to plan for."

"I'm not questioning her capability," Darkwing replied evenly. "But when a sixteen-year-old solo operative overwhelms an alien warband, you start asking questions. And I did. These invaders had no command chain, no flank control, no adaptive response. Once their forward push failed, they panicked. No fallback protocols. No regroup orders. They fought like cornered civilians."

He highlighted another clip—this time, a Flaxan screaming incoherently as he fired wildly at a building.

"And look at the armor," Darkwing added. "That's the same pattern, same plating, same design as the ones they wore thirty years ago. You're telling me they have interdimensional portal tech but haven't upgraded their battlefield armor in decades?"

Red Rush groaned, dropping his head onto his folded arms. "Darkwing, please. Can you just say what you're thinking and spare us the dissertation?"

Darkwing didn't miss a beat. He exhaled slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough for weight.

"These weren't professional soldiers," Darkwing said at last, his voice low, analytical. "They weren't trained warriors. They were barely coordinated, poorly equipped civilians—militia fighters at best. What we just faced wasn't the Flaxan military. It was a desperate, fragmented splinter group. A rogue faction scraping together scavenged weapons and hand-me-down armor just to launch a half-baked invasion."

A heavy silence settled over the briefing room. The kind that carried the weight of something left unsaid.

"So… where's the real Flaxan army?" War Woman asked quietly, her brow furrowed in thought.

"I don't think the actual Flaxan government even knows what's happening," Darkwing replied. "From what I've observed—the patchwork weapons, the low-tech portal arrays, the fact they keep hitting the same places with barely-upgraded tactics—I think we're dealing with a rogue cell. A fringe group operating without official sanction. They've been stealing old tech and weapons, probably siphoning resources over years, maybe decades. That's why we never see more than a few tanks, or a handful of high-grade rifles. You don't pull that off overnight. That kind of theft takes time, careful planning—and desperation."

"It makes sense," War Woman muttered. "They keep showing up with tech that's half-working, barely improved. Same numbers, same tactics, same locations. If they were military, they'd be adapting. They'd be evolving."

"Okay," Immortal said, crossing his arms. "Let's say you're right. Let's say they're guerrilla fighters using stolen gear. That doesn't change the fact that we still don't know how to stop them."

"We have two options," Darkwing said, his tone clinical now. "First, we wait them out. Keep hitting them back every time they breach. Sooner or later, they'll run out of gear, or bodies, or both. Best-case scenario? The Flaxan government finds out and shuts them down themselves. Worst-case? We keep playing defense for the next few months while civilians evacuate cities and pray we hold the line."

"And the other option?" Green Ghost asked warily.

"...We eliminate them," Darkwing said flatly. "All of them. No survivors. We cut off their retreat through the portals, and we kill them to the last man. No prisoners. No mercy. End the threat at its root."

Silence followed, longer this time. The kind of silence that weighed down the air like lead.

Green Ghost's voice was barely above a whisper. "I—I don't know if I can be a part of that. It's one thing to phase them into concrete. That's containment. But killing them outright? Like that? I don't… I don't think I can do that."

There was a long pause. Then War Woman exchanged a glance with Immortal—quiet, reluctant, but resolved.

"Actually, Alana…" she began gently, "we've been meaning to talk to you about taking some time off from the front lines."

Green Ghost's shoulders dropped slightly. Her eyes dimmed. "This is about what I said to Nolan, isn't it?"

"No—" War Woman began, but Immortal cut in sharply, his voice taut with frustration.

"Yes, it is," he snapped, glaring across the table. "What the hell were you thinking, talking to him like that? You could've compromised everything. If Cecil hadn't intercepted your conversation in time, you might've told Omni-Man everything. You put the entire mission in jeopardy. This isn't just about personal feelings, Alana—this is about the fate of the goddamn world."

The room tensed. Silence reigned for a moment, thick with the weight of recrimination and distrust.

"He's still our friend," Alana argued, her voice trembling with anger. "And Cecil's 'precog' could be lying. We've seen it before—intel that's incomplete or manipulated. I didn't tell Nolan anything. All I said was that I was on his side, something most of you seem to have conveniently forgotten."

She wasn't wrong—not completely. Martian Man and Aquarius weren't exactly convinced of Nolan's guilt either, but they had grown quieter about it, retreating into silence rather than vocal opposition. Only Green Ghost still argued openly in Omni-Man's defense.

"We haven't forgotten," Immortal growled. "But I refuse to risk Earth's survival on a maybe. If there's even a sliver of a chance that Nolan is a threat, then we need to prepare for the worst. And frankly, your behavior makes it clear you're not ready to carry your uncle's legacy—"

SLAM.

War Woman's mace hit the table with a bone-rattling crack, reducing the thick metal surface to a cratered ruin. The sound echoed off the walls of their mountain base like thunder.

All eyes turned to her—calm face, blazing eyes.

"That is enough, Immortal," she said coldly, her tone razor-sharp. "We all agreed not to jump to conclusions. Not until we had irrefutable proof that Omni-Man is a traitor."

"I know what we agreed," Immortal snapped, but there was hesitation in his voice now.

"Then you'll retract what you just said about Alana. Immediately," she said. "Because if we're talking about poor judgment, your arrogance is one of the reasons Alec isn't here with us today."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop below freezing. Immortal's eyes narrowed, fists clenching. Darkwing's hand moved subtly toward his weapons, already calculating the first strike if things exploded. A fight between War Woman and Immortal would tear the room apart—and it would be his job to stop it before it escalated.

But then, Immortal exhaled slowly. The fire in his eyes dimmed. The tension bled from his shoulders.

"I…" He looked at Alana. "I'm sorry. You're right. Nolan is our friend. I've let anger cloud my judgment. We don't have facts—only suspicions. And I should never have said that about you. You're more than worthy of your uncle's legacy. He would've been proud of everything you've accomplished."

Alana's gaze softened. "Thank you. I forgive you."

War Woman exhaled deeply, the edge finally dulling from her voice. "It's not good when friends—family—fight like this. Let's reconvene tomorrow. We all need rest."

She turned to Alana. "But I agree that you should stay home for now. You've never taken part in a culling before… and what we intend to do to the Flaxans tomorrow—it won't be clean. It won't be honorable. It'll be a slaughter. You don't need to see that."

Alana nodded slowly. "I understand. I think I'll spend the day with my husband. He'll be happy about that, at least."

Darkwing let out a silent breath. The explosion had been defused—for now.

But he knew the real storm was still coming. This constant worrying about Nolan being a traitor was tearing them apart, and sooner or later, it would lead to a fracture in the team. 

They needed to find a solution to this, and quickly. Before the Guardians of the Globe suffered a loss they couldn't recover from.

Nolan chuckled as the alien's mech suit slammed into him over and over again, each impact sending a dull clang through the air. With every blow, another piece of its supposedly "advanced" armor cracked and fell away, reduced to sparking debris.

"That," he muttered, casually adjusting his stance as the Flaxan continued its futile barrage, "was positively adorable."

The Flaxan pilot snarled, its voice a garbled growl warped through damaged speakers. "Die."

Nolan tilted his head, genuinely amused. "Oh? So you've learned our language. That's impressive. You almost sound civilized now—less like a snarling pack of babbling savages." He smiled coldly. "So since you understand me, let me be very clear."

In the blink of an eye, he vanished—no warning, no build-up. One moment he stood before the Flaxan, the next he was behind it, his hand firmly pressed against the mech's back. The alien had no time to react.

"I took joy in slaughtering every pathetic, miserable one of your comrades today," Nolan said, his voice low and almost reverent.

Then, with the force of a meteor strike, he shoved the mech. The violent push launched the war machine down the street, tearing it apart as it skipped and shattered across the asphalt like a kicked can. By the time it stopped, it was no longer a mech—just a smoldering pile of scrap.

Yes. Today had been glorious.

He'd expected the Guardians to drag this out, as they so often did—playing keep-away, "holding the line," wearing down the enemy. But not today. Today, War Woman and Darkwing had made the call: no mercy. No survivors. 

There would be no fourth invasion.

Nolan had been more than happy to oblige. He'd been forced to cancel a rare day with Debbie just to respond to this nonsense, and that had made him furious. Now he had an outlet.

He'd cut through their ranks like a cannonball, his speed alone turning foot soldiers into pulp. Throats torn out, skulls caved in, limbs wrenched free like twigs. It was chaos. Beautiful, cleansing chaos. The kind he hadn't felt since his early years in the Empire—when rebels were executed on planetary broadcasts and cities were leveled in response to dissent.

And the Guardians?

They hadn't disappointed him.

The Immortal had used one of their laser tanks to flatten entire squads, leaving nothing but red smears on the pavement. 

War Woman moved like a living warhammer, her mace painting the tarmac in Flaxan gore with every swing. 

Darkwing was a shadow flitting through their ranks—bombs, blades, snapped necks, all in fluid silence. 

Martian Man twisted his elastic limbs around enemies, crushing them like constricting snakes, while Aquarius—serene, deadly—made them drown in open air, water flowing form his hands down their noses and throats filling their lungs.

It wasn't a battle.

It was an execution.

He'd expected Green Ghost to sit this one out. She wasn't made for this kind of brutality, and that was fine. Someone had to represent restraint, he supposed. But the others? 

They'd finally gotten it. They'd stopped holding back. They understood now that mercy was wasted on creatures like these.

And Nolan… he felt something strange.

For the first time in years, he felt closer to the Guardians.

Not in the way humans meant it—not in the soft, sentimental sense of emotional bonding. But there was something almost… primal in the understanding they shared in that moment. Covered in blood, standing shoulder to shoulder among the corpses of Earth's enemies, they finally resembled what Nolan had always believed they were meant to be.

Warriors.

Alas, the moment couldn't last. There was only one portal left open. No more soldiers were pouring through. The battlefield was quiet now, save for the low hum of broken machinery and the sluggish drip of Flaxan blood pooling across the ground.

The Guardians were exhausted, wounded but victorious. Every inch of them was stained with gore. The only Flaxan left was their general, still half-trapped in the twisted wreckage of his mech. Nolan's earlier blow had crushed the torso plating and warped the cockpit around the alien's legs.

Pitiful.

Nolan approached slowly, savoring the fear building in the general's eyes. He didn't rush. He wanted the Flaxan to understand what was about to happen. It struggled harder, clawing at the mangled frame, trying to free itself—but it was no use. Its desperation only grew more pathetic by the second.

Nolan couldn't help the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"A shame it ended so soon," he mused aloud as he came to a stop before the trapped creature. "Your people made for entertaining toys while they lasted."

He raised his hand, reaching toward the general's trembling head—ready to crush it like overripe fruit—

"Hold it, Nolan."

The voice cut through the battlefield like a blade.

In a flash of white light, Cecil Stedman appeared, flanked by someone unexpected—Robot, the leader of Teen Team, standing at his side.

Nolan's smirk faded into a frown.

"Really, Cecil?" he asked flatly. "There's only one left."

"Exactly," Cecil said sharply, already striding forward. "And he just happens to be the most important one. We need him alive—for what's coming next."

Nolan's frown deepened. "What's coming next?"

Instead of answering, Cecil crouched beside the Flaxan general, now glaring at him with defiant exhaustion. The alien was close to passing out, but not quite there yet.

"Robot," Cecil said, not looking away from the general's bloodied face, "you said you cracked their language?"

"Yes," Robot replied, his voice calm and measured. "Using audio from the previous two incursions, I was able to reconstruct a working linguistic matrix. I can now communicate with them fluently."

"Perfect," Cecil said, grabbing the Flaxan's chin and forcing its dull eyes to meet his.

"Then translate this for me, will you?"

He leaned in, voice dropping low and dangerous.

"Take me to your leader, dumbass."

Chapter Text

Kate had never seen Robot this... animated. Not outwardly, of course—this was still Robot—but the signs were there if you knew how to look. The Teen Team headquarters had never been this spotless before. He'd vacuumed. Dusted. Repositioned every single piece of furniture in the common area at least three times. She swore he was trying to achieve some impossible platonic ideal of cleanliness and symmetry. 

And honestly? 

She found it kind of adorable.

This was the most passionate she'd ever seen him about anything that wasn't combat algorithms or battle-readiness protocols.

Rex, naturally, found it unbearable.

"Fuck this shit!" he yelled after the fourth day. "He's barged into my room like three times already, touching my stuff, rearranging my desk, and now I can't find any of my underwear! All this over what? Some talking toaster with a superiority complex or a wannabe groupie who wants to polish Robot's bolts?"

Kate rolled her eyes. "First of all, I'm ninety percent sure your underwear is in your drawer—the place it's supposed to be—instead of one of the three piles you keep at the foot of your bed."

"I have a system!" Rex shot back, indignant. "Fresh pile, worn once pile, and the pile for special occasions."

She stared at him, horrified. "Special occasions?"

"You know. Like... if I'm fighting the Lizard League or I feel like I'm gonna be lucky with Eve later."

"Oh my God, that is vile," Kate groaned, visibly gagging. "And to think I used to have a crush on you."

Rex grinned. "Used to? Babe, come on, no one just gets over this."

She shot him a glare, and a middle finger to boot. Not supposed to flirt with me when you're dating Eve, asshole. "Anyway. My point was that Robot having someone over? It's kind of sweet. He's always been all business, all mission, all the time. I didn't even think he liked people. But now he's prepping for a visit like it's a state function. It's... nice. It means he's got something outside of this."

And that, if she was honest, made her a little jealous.

Eve had a life outside the mask. She had school. A family, even if her parents were... complicated. She went on field trips. She wore clothes that weren't skin-tight or reinforced with carbon mesh. She had a boyfriend who, at least at first, treated her like a goddess.

Robot? He could retire tomorrow and become the richest man alive just by selling his tech to Fortune 500 companies. The superhero gig was a choice for him. A very noble, very calculated choice, just like it was a choice for Eve.

But her? Rex? This was it. This was their ceiling.

Rex could barely cook ramen, and her own powers weren't exactly marketable outside of a battlefield. She couldn't build tech. She didn't have any college-ready credentials. 

She…multiplied. That was her résumé.

That was why seeing Robot so... invested in someone who wasn't part of their world was so meaningful. Because if anyone deserved to have more than this—more than the endless fights and near-death experiences—it was Robot.

He had saved her, after all. Freed her from government control, helped her forge her identity as Dupli-Kate instead of just some expendable asset to a shadowy agency. He had given her the chance to be something more, even if she didn't exactly know what that more was supposed to be.

So yeah. Seeing him this preoccupied? 

This focused? This hopeful?

She'd take Rex's whining and his so-called underwear-pocalypse any day if it meant Robot could have just one good thing in his life. Something that didn't come with a tactical readout, predictive model, or a calculated margin of error. Something real.

He deserved that. More than any of them.

"C'mon," she said, trying to steer the conversation away from Rex's typical snark. "Aren't you even a little curious who Robot's friend is? I mean, what if he saved a rockstar or a tech mogul or someone huge and now they want to hang out?"

Rex barked out a laugh, loud and sharp. "Oh, sure. Robot saved somebody, had a nice little heart-to-heart, and they just happened to get over his whole 'I've-got-the-face-of-a-skull' vibe?" He threw a dramatic gesture in the air. "Yeah, I'm sure they were totally chill with the whole 'mysterious weirdo' and 'borderline government black-ops' energy he gives off."

He leaned back, grinning. "Ten bucks says his 'friend' is just some crappy toy from MalWart that repeats whatever you say in a spooky voice. Or maybe it's a talking fridge that gives you passive-aggressive reminders about your diet."

Kate rolled her eyes but kept her smile. "You're the worst," she muttered, then raised an eyebrow. "Fine. Ten bucks says Robot's friend is actually a human being and a cool one to boot. So cool even you'll admit it."

Rex grinned, clearly relishing the challenge. "Get ready to be disappointed and broke. This'll be the easiest ten bucks of my life. Of course, if you're short ten bucks, we can always trade in favors."

He winked at her, and Kate smiled despite herself, doing her best to ignore the way her cheeks flushed from the attention.

Why can't his obnoxiousness cancel out how good he looks? she thought with a sigh.

Sometimes, life really wasn't fair.

The platform descended with a familiar mechanical hum, its edges glowing faintly as it slowed to a halt in the Teen Team headquarters. The lift's speed, as always, made Kate raise an eyebrow—Robot really needed to fix it before someone got flung off the side one of these days.

Robot stood at the front of the platform, posture as composed as ever. Beside him, however, was someone unfamiliar—clad in what looked like a modified GDA uniform. The design was sleeker, tighter in fit, and more tactical in appearance. A bold green "I" insignia stretched across the chest.

"But I'm telling you, this movie still holds up!" the new arrival was saying, his voice carrying a strange mechanical undertone. It echoed faintly, distorted just enough to seem synthetic. One arm was slung casually around Robot's shoulders, and the other waved a battered DVD case with fervent enthusiasm.

"This film was produced in 1984," Robot replied, his tone calm. "Statistically speaking, there is a high probability that it has aged poorly in terms of narrative structure, pacing, and effects fidelity."

The new guy scoffed. "Dude—it's a movie about AI! Robots sent back in time to kill humanity's future savior. This is The Termination. The definitive robot movie. I'm pretty sure you are legally required to watch it at birth, just based on your name."

"My name was not Robot at birth," Robot corrected flatly. "And your logic is flawed. Assuming that my designation obligates me to consume all forms of robot-themed media is both reductive and bordering on speciesist."

The guy threw his hands up. "Oh come on! You're human, dude. Not actually a bot. Don't make this a race thing. It's just a movie."

"Specieist," Robot corrected again. "Not racist. There is a distinction, even if your argument lacks nuance."

Kate cautiously stepped forward from where she had been standing with Rex. "Uh… hey, Robot. Who's your new friend?"

Robot turned his head smoothly, green optics flickering once before offering a slight nod. "Hello, Kate. Hello, Rex. This is my associate, Invincible."

"He means best friend," corrected Invincible.

Rex blinked. He looked over the guy in the GDA uniform—the full-face mask, the modulated voice, the unreadable posture, and came to a fairly reasonable conclusion:

"That's a robot," Rex declared, pointing accusingly. "That's a GDA-grade robot. Fancy one, sure, but definitely still a toaster with legs. I'm calling it. Kate, pay up—I want chili dogs after this."

Invincible tilted his head, the expressionless mask somehow conveying a flicker of offense.

"I'm not a robot," he said, his voice still distorted by the suit's modulation. 

Rex raised an eyebrow. "Right. Totally believable. Just a normal guy with a faceless helmet, synthetic voice, and zero body language. Yeah, you definitely didn't escape from a lab."

Without a word, Invincible tapped a subtle button at his throat. With a soft hiss and a faint whir, the helmet folded back into the collar of his suit, revealing a black domino mask beneath. He peeled it off, revealing a young man with tired but earnest eyes and a raised brow.

"Hi," he said simply. "I'm Mark. Not a robot."

Kate blinked. "Oh. Okay. Yeah. Definitely a person."

Rex opened his mouth, then closed it. "...Huh. That's not what I expected."

Robot exhaled, though it was more habit than necessity—an imitation of human mannerisms to make everyone forget he didn't do things like breathe. "Mark, there was no operational requirement for you to reveal your identity."

Mark offered a casual shrug, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, but it's hard to make friends when they think you're just talking to a glorified kitchen appliance. Besides," he added with a wave of his hand, "these are your teammates, right? I trust them if you trust them."

Robot regarded him silently for a moment, his green lenses flickering. Finally, he gave a small nod. "Rex. Kate. We will be in my lab. Should either of you need something, please notify me first through text if possible."

With a jaunty wave, Mark turned and followed Robot into the lab's secured corridor.

Left in the quiet, Rex turned to Kate, eyebrows raised and expression skeptical. "Okay, I don't get it. That guy seemed totally normal. Why would he be hanging out with a glorified bucket of bolts?"

Kate elbowed him hard in the ribs, earning a satisfying grunt. "First of all, stop being an asshole for five seconds. And second, pay up."

Rex blinked. "Pay up? What for?"

"I told you Invincible was a person. You said he was just some fancy AI in a drone. That," she pointed toward the lab door that was only open just a crack, "was a very human person, talking to his friend. So pay. Up."

Grumbling, Rex dug into his jacket pocket, pulling out a crumpled ten and slapping it into her waiting hand.

He glanced back at the lab, still frowning. "I dunno, though. There's something off about that guy. No one that clean-cut and polite is ever just… normal. He's hiding something."

Kate rolled her eyes. "That's rich coming from a guy who once faked his own death to get out of a date."

"Hey, that was one time! And she was really clingy!"

Kate smirked as she tucked the bill into her pocket. "Just admit you're jealous he's cooler than you."

"I'm not—he's not—ugh." Rex crossed his arms. "Whatever. Still think he's weird."

"Yeah, well," she said with a grin, "so are we."

"If this scenario ever became reality, humanity would lose. Decisively," Robot said without hesitation.

"Dude, how can you even say that? Did you see what she just did? And with just a gun, might I add. You're not even factoring in the superpowers that exist in the real world!" Mark gestured toward the screen.

"Oh no," Robot replied, tone flat but laced with dry sarcasm. "Whatever shall the quantum-calibrated AI with adaptive systems and unrestricted time-travel capabilities do against humans wielding fire or throwing moderately heavy objects? Truly, a terrifying matchup."

Mark narrowed his eyes. "I want you to take that sentence you just said… and insert Omni-Man into the scenario."

"Omni-Man is an alien," Robot replied matter-of-factly. "Extraterrestrial. Not human. Therefore, he is an outlier and not a valid data point."

Rex, who was surreptitiously spying on the two of them with her from the living room, snorted. "Right. I get it now. They're both psychopaths."

What Rex meant was: Robot and Invincible had been talking over the movie again—something that absolutely ruined movie night for the rest of them. It was one of the many reasons Robot had been banned from these nights in the first place.

And yet, Kate had to admit something. As annoying as Robot's interruptions were, it was… very sweet. Seeing him this animated, this engaged. He wasn't dissecting a machine or coldly evaluating enemy threats—he was laughing, teasing, talking. Being… human.

And Invincible? Well, Kate wasn't blind. The guy looked good in the uniform, and she had never denied that she had a thing for well-built men. But that wasn't what caught her attention most.

It was Robot.

He was enjoying himself visibly.  He was bantering with a friend. 

A real friend!

He's almost like a real boy now…

"Hey, I'm done watching Robot and his weird new friend like I'm some kind of jealous ex," Rex said with a yawn. "I'm gonna hit some z's."

Kate raised an eyebrow. "It's the middle of the day."

"Perfect time for a nap," he said as he got up. "Have fun being weird and spuyign on two guys who've decided to ruin a perfectly good movie."

She shook her head as he walked away. Yeah, this was a bit weird, but she sort of liked watching this. Not in a creepy way, but more like she was happy for Robot, and she liked seeing him happy. Because as far as she knew, Robot didn't like anything or anyone.

She'd never thought about it before; What did Robot do when he wasn't on a mission? What did he enjoy? What did he care about? It hit her that no one really asked those questions. Everyone on the Team just assumed he was… well, a robot. An advanced AI who, for some reason, hadn't decided to eradicate humanity. Probably because the silly little monkeys he was going to outlive made him laugh.

But now, as she watched him with Mark, Kate began to wonder.

What if he wasn't just code and algorithms?

What if he was just a guy?

A real person, somewhere out there, piloting the drone. Someone with thoughts, dreams, and even feelings. And if so… why hadn't she ever tried to talk to him like one? Why hadn't any of them? And why hadn't he reached out to them first?

What made Mark so special?

A beeping sound interrupted her thoughts. Robot reached for his comms.

"Oh, what is it now?" he muttered, a rare note of irritation in his tone. That alone made Kate blink. Robot, annoyed? Frustrated to be pulled away from hanging out with someone, when it used to be like pulling teeth to get him to spend time with them?

He sighed—a distinctly human-sounding sigh—and turned to Mark.

"Apologies, Mark. Director Stedman has requested my assistance. I regret that we may not be able to finish the movie tonight. I will return as soon as my duties permit."

Robot's eyes flickered for a moment as he stood. Then, without turning his body, his head rotated smoothly—too smoothly—to face her.

Had he known that she'd been watching them this whole time?

"Dupli-Kate. I apologize for the inconvenience, but would you mind keeping our guest company until I return?"

"I don't need a babysitter," Mark interjected, frowning as he crossed his arms.

Robot didn't miss a beat. "You are seventeen years old. If I believed you required supervision, I would not have extended the invitation in the first place. Think of it instead as an opportunity to make a new acquaintance. And frankly, Dupli-Kate would benefit from interacting with someone other than Rex Splode."

Kate snorted. "Wow. Subtle."

Mark smirked. "You know, you say that like you don't like Rex, but the way you act... I dunno. Kind of feels like you want to be him."

Robot paused just before stepping onto the platform of the lift. "The day you witness me aspiring to emulate Rex Splode," he said, his voice devoid of humor, "is the day hell has verifiably frozen over."

The lift began its ascent with a low hum.

"Goodbye, you two. I will return shortly."

The room settled into a moment of quiet once the whir of the elevator faded.

Mark turned to Dupli-Kate and gave a casual, friendly smile. "Guess we'll finish the movie later. You wanna do something else in the meantime?"

Kate hesitated for a moment, tapping her fingers against her arm before glancing at the recreation corner. "...You any good at ping pong?"

Mark grinned. "I'm a fast learner."

Red.

That was all they could see as they stepped through the portal—an endless sea of red: red sky, red dust, red sand… and most alarming of all, a swollen red sun looming overhead like a burning eye.

"Huh," Nolan muttered, his tone deceptively casual as they emerged into the oppressive atmosphere. "That's not good."

The heat hit them like a wall. Even him—Darkwing—whose suit was engineered to regulate temperature in extreme conditions, felt beads of sweat prickling beneath the fabric. Within minutes, it felt like his entire body was submerged in warm water.

The others were faring no better.

The Immortal, despite his endurance, had sweat glistening along his brow and neck. War Woman had already removed her helmet, fanning herself with one hand and scowling at the terrain. Aquarius walked silently, one webbed hand pressed to his temple as a gentle stream of water trickled down from his fingertips, keeping his gills moist and staving off dehydration.

Omni-Man, Robot, and Martian Man were the only ones who didn't seem to mind. Martian Man's skin had shifted, darkening into a deep, muted green, mimicking the native Flaxan generals. Whatever internal biology he'd adapted to, it was handling the heat far more efficiently than the rest of them. 

Nolan just looked unfazed, and Robot was…well, a robot.

And then there was Cecil.

His black suit clung to him like a wet rag. Sweat dripped freely from his chin and pooled beneath his eyes, dark stains spreading under his arms. But he didn't say a word. Grim and silent, he pressed forward through the burning air, one hand gripping a salvaged Flaxan rifle, its muzzle pressed firmly into the spine of their captive general.

Darkwing glanced between them before returning his attention to Nolan.

"What did you mean back there?" he asked. "About the sun?"

Nolan's eyes didn't leave the horizon. "Red sun means the star's running out of fuel," he said flatly. "It's expanding. Once a star gets to this phase, it starts to swell, growing bigger and hotter, until it consumes everything in its reach. The inner planets get roasted first. I'd say this one's on the list."

He gestured lazily to the burning sky. "You can feel it, can't you? That heat? That isn't seasonal. That's the sun drawing closer. Give it a few thousand years, and everything here will be ash."

Darkwing blinked, the pieces snapping into place.

"That's why they're trying to take over Earth," he said slowly, realization dawning in his voice. "They're running out of time."

Nolan nodded once. There was the faintest flicker of approval in his otherwise stoic expression.

"Exactly."

"They could have asked for peace," the Immortal muttered, swiping a gloved hand across his brow. "Could've extended a hand in friendship, asked for help like any sane civilization. Instead, they chose war. Invasion. This isn't on us. Their extinction is of their own making."

"...Apologies for the interruption," Robot said, his synthetic voice cutting in with its usual precision, "but I believe you are overlooking a critical variable."

The group turned to him. Even Darkwing, despite barely managing to stay upright on the scorching terrain in his slick suit, gave him his full attention. Truthfully, Darkwing had no idea why Cecil had included the Teen Team's leader on this mission in the first place. But now, he was listening.

Robot continued. "Desperation. It is a powerful motivator—often more decisive than logic, diplomacy, or even fear. We come from a planet that still supports life, where the atmosphere is still tolerable, where water flows, and food grows. It is easy for us to make assumptions about what should have been done. But the Flaxans are not operating from a position of strength. Their sun has expanded, turned red. You've seen the sky. The radiation levels here are high enough to interfere with my long-range sensor calibrations."

He gestured toward the landscape. Nothing but red sand, scorched rock, and the oppressive presence of their dying sun.

"I would estimate this environmental collapse began at least a century ago. Possibly longer. Long enough for physiological adaptation to occur in the Flaxan's themselves. Observe the prisoner—he is not sweating, not overheating, despite the surface temperatures. This suggests prolonged exposure and a form of climate resilience. In contrast, note the absence of flora or fauna. No trees. No animals. No sign of biodiversity."

He paused, allowing the implications to settle in.

"Their food supply is likely near depletion. Water scarce. The very essentials of life are eroding beneath them. And if their leadership—assuming a centralized structure—exhausted every internal solution, then their decision to invade Earth may not have been madness. It may have been triage."

Immortal's brow furrowed as they approached the looming outskirts of a metallic-looking city that shone in the red light. "I thought we were working under the assumption that this was a rogue cell. Darkwing's investigation seemed to support that."

Robot's drone eyes pulsed softly. "That hypothesis remains viable. However, I find it unlikely that a rogue cell would have such consistent access to advanced weaponry and portal technology. Their laser rifles, tanks, turrets—all functional, all relatively modern. The armor was rusted and repurposed, yes, but the weapons themselves were not. That level of logistical support implies either quiet backing from official channels… or something worse."

Darkwing frowned, brow creasing beneath his mask. He had noticed the weapons earlier—sleek barrels, fresh power cores, no signs of wear or scavenged parts—but had chalked it up to recent looting from a military depot. Maybe some hidden Flaxan facility had stocked up before their last incursion. But now, with Robot laying it all out in his usual methodical way, the implications hit with a different weight.

These weren't salvaged. They were manufactured. Recently. Locally.

They came to a halt at the literal edge of the city—and Darkwing did mean edge. The cracked, dusty ground of the desert abruptly gave way to a smooth metallic platform that jutted a few inches above the surrounding terrain like a wound in the earth. The contrast was jarring. Alien.

Robot crouched down immediately, his voice tinged with fascination as he ran one hand across the metallic surface. "Extraordinary. My scanners cannot penetrate far beneath the surface, but the initial readings are conclusive. This structure was not constructed in the traditional sense… it was grown."

Aquarius raised an eyebrow, his voice flat with skepticism. "Grown? Like a plant?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Robot replied. "This metal has root-like structures branching into the bedrock. It's some form of programmable bio-alloy. Synthetic, yet responsive to environmental inputs. Self-replicating, possibly semi-organic. I've never encountered anything like it."

Cecil, who had been silently enduring the heat and wiping the sweat from his face with his damp sleeve, finally spoke. "I cannot stress this enough: I don't give a single, solitary fuck. Unless this city can walk itself over to Earth and surrender, save it for the lab report. I need to talk to whoever's in charge before this whole planet tries to kill us."

"You might not have to wait long," Nolan interjected, nodding toward the horizon. "Looks like royalty's coming to us."

Darkwing followed his gaze, and his eyes widened.

A procession was approaching from deeper within the city. Unlike the dull, patched-together armor of the standard Flaxan soldiers, these newcomers wore gleaming silver plating polished to a mirror sheen. Their rifles were larger, sleeker, and hummed with what seemed to be barely-contained power. At the center of the procession marched a mechanical palanquin, supported by multiple spider-like legs that clacked rhythmically against the metal ground.

And seated atop it, regal and frail-looking, was an ancient Flaxan draped in elaborate robes of shimmering fur and metals. A translucent, crystalline crown—glinting with shifting rainbow hues—rested atop its elongated skull. Curtains of silken mesh had been drawn aside to reveal its weary but sharp-eyed face.

None of the Flaxans in the procession looked pleased to see them.

Cecil stepped forward, pressing the butt of his rifle sharply into the back of the captured Flaxan general, forcing him to his knees. The general snarled but obeyed, turning to glare at Cecil with hatred in his eyes.

"Don't look at me like that," Cecil said coolly, a dangerous smirk curling his lips. "You're the idiot who dragged us into this mess. And if you're lucky, you'll live long enough to explain to your king why I'm about to rob your people blind."

"So, how long have you been doing the whole hero thing?" Mark asked, tossing the ball toward her with what looked like minimal effort, but still sent it rocketing through the air with enough force to leave a breeze in its wake.

If it had been anyone else, she could've returned it one-handed and barely broken a sweat. But she was beginning to realize that Mark was a lot stronger than he looked. Even the smallest flick of his wrist carried more raw power than most people could generate on their best day. That was why it took three of her just to keep up with him: one clone holding center court, two flanking the sides to cover for speed and angles.

If she'd been playing against Rex, he would've thrown a tantrum five volleys in and rage-quit, calling it unfair. Eve didn't play much. Robot saw no point in it—games were inefficient uses of time. And she couldn't exactly play against herself without getting bored after about half an hour of every move being perfectly countered. 

So yeah, stretching her powers like this? It was kind of refreshing.

"Well," she said, splitting her attention between clones as they repositioned, "officially, if Social Services ever comes knocking, I've only been in the hero game for about two years. Y'know, strictly aboveboard stuff."

"But unofficially?" Mark prompted, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

"Unofficially?" The center clone caught the ball and lobbed it back with practiced precision. "Since I was twelve. So... about five years now."

Mark's eyes widened. "Holy shit. You've been out here saving the world since middle school?"

He leapt into the air and returned the ball with a spinning shot so fast it was nearly invisible. The leftmost clone dove for it and sent it ricocheting back across the table.

"Okay, now I'm really curious," Mark said, his eyes aglow with curiosity. "If you've been around that long, how come I never heard of you until you joined Teen Team? Did you have a different codename or something?"

"Didn't have one at all," the left clone answered, brushing windblown hair from her face as she returned to position. "We weren't exactly big on branding. We were more like shadows—vigilantes. Breaking up drug rings, torching weapons shipments, tracking down villain aliases to their civilian. Making sure creeps like the Lizard League and some overseas gangs didn't get comfortable in any of the cities they tried to infest."

Mark let out a low whistle. "Damn. That's hardcore."

There was no need to mention that for most of those years, her work had been sanctioned by people with government IDs and shady agendas. Or that she'd played the role of an invisible asset, listening in on conversations no one thought a child could understand. That part of her life didn't need to surface—not now, not with someone like Mark. He seemed to be a fun person to know, and she didn't need or want to give him a reason to pity her.

"I think only Robot has more experience than you, then," Mark said after a moment. "Does that make you, like, second in command?"

She gave a short, genuine laugh—dry and sharp-edged. "God, no. The whole leadership thing? Meetings, battle plans, having to be the one everyone looks to when things go sideways? Robot can have that. I'm perfectly fine being backup. I've got enough shit on my plate without trying to play general on top of it."

Mark frowned slightly, just enough to show he wasn't convinced. With practiced ease, he scored another point in their casual game, though his focus was clearly elsewhere.

"Really? Just backup?" he asked. "I think you're a little more than that."

She let out a bitter huff, the kind of sound that carried more weight than it should. "Look, you don't have to sugarcoat it. I know what people say about me—about us—in the hero and villain community. I'm the one hero no one has to worry about killing or mourning or even remembering, because hey, I'm just one face of many . No one ever has to avenge DupliKate, or defend her, or go easy on her, because there's a damn crowd of them, and one will take the others place as soon as you kill them. And besides... I'm not even the real Kate, right?"

Mark blinked, pausing mid-motion as he was about to send the ball hurtling at her. Then, softly but firmly, he said, "Aren't you all the real Kate?"

That made her stop. The game, the banter—everything stilled as his words sank in.

"Aren't you all the real Kate?"

A quiet beat passed. Then she exhaled, voice smaller than before. "...Yeah," she said, almost like she was testing the word. 

Then, louder, more certain: "Yeah. We are."

She looked at him and gave a half-smile. "Sorry. It's just… we hear that kind of thing a lot. That we're not real. That we're expendable. Easy to throw at a fight or leave behind. After a while, it kind of gets in your head. Makes you forget. So hearing someone actually say it like you mean it—it's... nice."

Because they were all Kate.

They had to be.

The original—the first Kate who came out of their mom's womb—she was long gone. A car accident. Nothing dramatic. No supervillain ambush or heroic last stand. Just a drunk driver and a rainy night. The kind of thing that didn't make headlines. And after that, after they'd grown the first backup clone and sent her away to process the loss in private, they'd come to a quiet conclusion:

Either none of them were the real Kate…

Or all of them were.

And really, there was only one answer they could live with.

Because even clones want to feel like real people.

"I'm sorry," Mark said quietly, his voice low and sincere.

She shook her head before he could say more. "You don't need to apologize. It's not like you were the one saying all that stupid shit."

There was a beat of silence, and then she offered him a small, genuine smile. "You know... I think I get why Robot likes you so much now."

Mark tilted his head slightly, curiosity flashing across his face. "He likes me?"

Kate snorted softly. "Dude, you're definitely his best friend. He's cleaned this place top to bottom, like, ten times in the last week, trying to make it perfect for your visit. He even cleaned out our rooms—which Rex is still bitching about, by the way. And I've never seen him that... excited about anything. Ever."

She leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. "Honestly? A lot of us used to think he was just a highly advanced AI. Or maybe a robot playing at being human. He's always been so precise, so detached. But this? The effort he put in for you? It showed us a side of him we didn't even know existed."

Mark's cheeks reddened slightly, and he rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. "Rudy's a cool guy. He just… he's got some body issues, I guess you could say. I know what he really looks like, so he's more relaxed around me. But for some reason, he thinks people would freak out if they saw the real him. Like, genuinely hate him."

Kate sighed. "Rex would probably make some dumb, super offensive joke if Rudy looked even slightly weird, yeah. But the rest of us? We wouldn't care. Not really. I hope we haven't made him feel like we're that shallow."

Mark shook his head. "It's not you guys. It's… complicated. He's spent a long time being isolated, you know? Locked in his own head. Let him come to you when he's ready. It's his story to tell, and his choice to show you what's underneath. Just trust him, okay? He's a good person."

Kate let out a soft puff of breath, a kind of amused exhale. "Rudy."

Mark blinked. "Huh?"

"That's the first time I've heard anyone say his name. Rudy. Not Robot."

She smiled again, softer this time. "Thank you, Mark. For showing me this side of him."

"You don't seem to understand just how bad this is," Cecil growled through gritted teeth. "We've got nearly a hundred dead civilians back on Earth. Families. Kids. Innocents. And it's because you couldn't keep your people on a damn leash."

He jabbed a finger toward the Flaxan general, his voice rising with barely-contained fury.

"This guy—this parasite—has been stealing portal tech and energy weapons from your world for decades. Decades, without anyone here noticing. So not only did we have to bury our own people, we had to clean up your mess. We dealt with your pest problem for you. That means you owe us."

Robot, ever calm and precise, turned toward the Flaxan king and translated Cecil's words into the Flaxan dialect. The monarch's expression twisted into one of offense—offense laced with the weariness of age and the pride of a ruler not used to being threatened on his own soil.

"He says," Robot translated after a pause, "that in his view, you are already repaid. You have already taken your revenge. The weapons used in the attack are now in your custody. That, in his words, is the extent of your boon."

Robot's voice lowered a shade.

"He states that any further demands will be seen as coercion—and an act of war. If you force the issue, their warriors will fight not like the desperate rabble we faced before, but with the full strength of their homeland behind them. And they will remember."

The negotiations were going poorly—very poorly.

This entire diplomatic mission had been designed as a pressure play. Leverage the civilian deaths and the property damage to extort something worthwhile from the Flaxans. Weapons, tech, resources. Anything that could strengthen Earth's position in the increasingly hostile galactic landscape. Between the tech they could gain from the Flaxan's and the tech Alan would be bringing from the Coalition, Earth might just be able to defend itself against threats like the Viltrumites—or the ones already festering at home.

But the Flaxan king wasn't budging. From his perspective, Cecil hadn't shown up with an army. He'd arrived with bloodstained costumed soldiers, reeking of battle, and a sophisticated envoy in the form of Robot. That wasn't force. That was a delegation. A threat without teeth, in his eyes. And if it came to bloodshed on Flaxan soil, he'd ensure that Earth paid for the humiliation for generations to come.

Cecil opened his mouth, about to fire back with another threat disguised as diplomacy—but he froze as he felt a large, heavy hand land on his shoulder.

He turned slightly and looked up to see Nolan looming over him.

There was a strange glint in Nolan's eyes—something not easily categorized. Not anger, not disdain. It was colder than either. It was calculated. Measured. Almost... curious.

"Cecil," Nolan said evenly, his tone calm but carrying weight. "I know you prefer to manage these things through diplomacy and pressure. But they're not budging. At this rate, we won't get them to cooperate unless we demonstrate we're serious."

Cecil ran a hand through his thinning hair, jaw tightening. "I don't want to kill these bastards, Nolan. I just want them to hand over what they've got. They attacked us unprovoked—they owe us. And I'm not about to start a war because they're being stubborn."

Surprisingly, Nolan laughed—a quiet, dry chuckle. "Oh, Cecil. No need for bloodshed. Not yet. What we need is a demonstration. A show of force, not a massacre." He clapped the older man on the back, firm enough to remind him just how strong he was. "Back in the day, I had to deal with situations like this all the time. Some planets are too proud to ask for help—even when it's their only shot at survival. Sometimes, you have to spoon-feed them the medicine."

Cecil stiffened. The way Nolan said it—calm, confident, experienced—sent a chill down his spine. It was a diplomatic way of admitting he'd conquered worlds.

By force.

And now, he was offering to do the same here, dressed up in the language of assistance.

But... maybe that wasn't a bad thing, Cecil thought bitterly. Not this time. If Nolan could give them a glimpse of what he was capable of, some of the more hesitant members of the Guardians might finally understand who—and what—they were dealing with. If he got Aquarius to back him, too, that meant access to the Depth Dweller screech, which he still needed analyzed and weaponized.

So, after a long, grim pause, Cecil nodded.

"No killing," he said quietly.

Nolan gave a small smile. "No killing," he echoed.

And then he rose slowly into the air, eyes flashing as he turned toward the Flaxan city. Without another word, he became a blur—disappearing in a streak of motion.

The Flaxan King suddenly erupted in agitation, shouting in his native tongue and pointing furiously at Cecil. Around him, soldiers snapped to attention, barking threats, their oversized weapons raised and aimed directly at the Earth delegation. The energy in the air turned electric.

Immortal stepped in front of Cecil, eyes narrowing. "Oh, hell no," he growled.

War Woman joined him, jaw clenched, ready to strike. "You wanna try it?" she asked the nearest soldier, cracking her knuckles.

"What the hell are they saying?" Immortal snapped, not taking his eyes off the encroaching line of soldiers.

Robot's voice was cool and unbothered amid the tension. "They are demanding that we recall Omni-Man immediately. They believe this act constitutes a declaration of war and are warning us that any further aggression will be met with full military response."

And then—before anyone could say another word—a low, resonant groan rolled out from the Flaxan city. It was the sound of powerful metal twisting and cracking as it was forced to bend and break.

The tallest building in the city—sleek, silver, shaped like a bullet—was trembling. Not crumbling. Not cracking. Trembling.

It was rising.

It was rising.

"Oh dear," Robot said, his synthesized voice neutral, but the green glow of his lenses flickered with subtle alarm as his sensors confirmed what they were all seeing.

A collective breath was held—by human and Flaxan alike—as the impossibly massive structure began to lift into the air, as if gravity had simply decided to take a break. Supporting it from beneath, no more than a red-and-white blur against the skyline, was a man.

Omni-Man.

"Dear Hera," War Woman whispered, her grip tightening on her mace.

"Jesus Christ," the Immortal murmured. "I… I don't even think I could do that. At least… not without effort."

Cecil's jaw slackened as he watched Nolan fly into the air, a building the size of the Empire State Building held effortlessly by him with one hand. He had seen the footage. He had read the reports. Mark had warned them, over and over, telling them that his father had killed the Guardians in his old timeline, that Nolan was one of the strongest Viltrumites alive.

But nothing compared to this. There was a chasm between knowing Omni-Man was dangerous and witnessing it firsthand.

The tower continued to ascend, then leveled off as Nolan flew toward them, one hand supporting the titanic building as if it were no heavier than a paperweight. He showed no strain. No sweat. No visible effort at all. Just calm, deliberate movement.

He stopped in midair a dozen feet above them, the shadow of the skyscraper falling across the gathered crowd like a vast, impenetrable shroud.

This wasn't power. This was something beyond power.

This was a warning.

Omni-Man's eyes swept across the Flaxan forces with utter disdain. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost conversational—yet it carried with terrifying weight.

"You... are all nothing."

Robot began to translate, his voice clipped and precise.

"You are nothing more than savages. Primitive creatures, huddling together in the fading light, building monuments atop a dying world. I respected that... at first. That instinct to survive. That desperate crawl toward civilization."

Omni-Man's expression darkened. His other hand gestured, slowly, accusatorially.

"But then you made a mistake. A fatal mistake."

His voice sharpened, now tinged with venom.

"You came to my home. You killed my people. And then, to top it all off... You made me waste my time."

He glanced at the structure still suspended above him.

"You made me come here. To this backwater world. This filth-ridden, dust-choked, miserable little corner of the multiverse you call a dimension."

The sky felt oppressive, heavy with tension, as Nolan continued to speak, his voice sharpening into something cold and surgical, each syllable cutting through the still air like a blade.

"My presence here is only the beginning," he said, his eyes glowing faintly. "I am one of many. Back on our world, there are hundreds more—each of us wielding powers that could flatten cities, sunder continents, and snuff out empires like candles in a storm."

Every word was deliberate, predatory.

"We will reduce your civilization to rubble. We will turn your monuments into dust. We will salt your fields and stain your soil with blood. So thorough will our wrath be that your history will be erased—not even ashes will remain to mourn you."

The Flaxan king swallowed hard, his composure cracking. Cecil, watching from behind the Immortal, noticed the monarch's trembling hands. He understood. His own knees were starting to feel unsteady.

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, Nolan's face softened. His voice lowered into something… almost gentle. Warm. Comforting.

"However…" he said, almost like a father speaking to a frightened child, "we are not without mercy."

The sudden shift in tone was more terrifying than the threat. His voice now caressed the crowd of soldiers, soothing yet unshakably firm.

"We understand your plight. Your world is dying. Your resources are depleted. Your children cry out in hunger. But Earth—Earth has solutions. Cool, clean water. Fresh food. Medicine. Technology. Peace."

He paused, letting the words sink in.

"Tell me—when was the last time you saw a sky that wasn't red with dust? When did you last drink without feeling your throat burn? Can you even remember a time before your soil cracked beneath your feet, before your crops shriveled in your hands?"

Some Flaxan soldiers flinched, their eyes darting skyward. Others lowered their weapons, just slightly.

"All we ask," Nolan continued, "is that you bow. Lay down your arms. Admit defeat. Join us. Build our weapons. Share your knowledge. Stand beside us as soldiers, not corpses. Serve, and your people will thrive. With our guidance, the Flaxan race will not merely survive… it will ascend."

He flew a little closer, his voice velvet-smooth.

"Don't think with your pride. Don't think with fear. Think with your heart. Remember the weight of your fallen comrades. The hollow ache in your bellies at night. The cracked lips, the empty cradles. Imagine never feeling those again. Imagine a future where your children laugh instead of starve."

He spread his arm slightly, as if embracing the entire army.

"All you have to do… is bow."

A long silence followed. No one moved. Even the wind held its breath.

Cecil's pulse thundered in his ears. He didn't know what they would do. Whether this would end in surrender… or bloodshed.

Then—

Thunk.

A single laser rifle hit the ground with a metallic clatter.

A Flaxan soldier knelt, bowing deeply, forehead to the frozen dirt. His weapon lay discarded in front of him.

Then—

Thunk.

Another.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

The sound echoed like drumbeats in a funeral march.

One by one, the soldiers dropped their weapons and fell to their knees, prostrating themselves in surrender. The tide had broken. Their will, shattered.

There was a flicker of defiance in the old king's eyes—anger, frustration, as if the bitter taste of humiliation was rising like bile in his throat. This was not how it was supposed to end. He was meant to conquer, to bring the Earth to its knees, not kneel himself. Just minutes ago, he had declared war. He had threatened them with a fight that would last hundreds of years. If he submitted now—if he bent the knee—it would all be for nothing. His reputation, his power, his leverage in any future negotiation… gone.

But then the truth began to settle in like dust after a storm.

He had lost the moment the first of his soldiers—young, frightened, unwilling—dropped his rifle to the ground and stepped away.

The moment Nolan spoke, he had lost everything.

The moment the skyscraper was ripped from the ground and held in one hand as if it were nothing more than a feather.

There would be no war. This was a message, plain and clear. And everyone had heard it.

So, slowly, with hands that trembled not from age, but from a rage forced into silence, the king knelt. The act seemed to age him even more. He removed his crown—an ornate thing, heavy with tradition and arrogance—and extended it toward Cecil.

Cecil stared, caught off guard, his usual composure stripped away. The crown shimmered in the light, absurdly out of place in this barren desert-like place. He reached out and took it, slowly, carefully, like it might explode at any second.

He looked up to see Nolan hovering above them, a look of approval on his face. The older man gave him a wink and a satisfied nod, then turned and rocketed away, presumably back to the city to return the skyscraper he had apparently yanked from its foundations like a weed.

Cecil turned to the Guardians, and for once, they were all in understanding.

Just silence. And understanding.

They were all thinking the same thing.

If we don't find a way to stop him soon… that man will kill us all.

Chapter Text

Gods above, that felt incredible.

There was no other word for it. The sensation wasn't just victory—it was transcendence. The sheer ease of it. The command that had boomed in his voice. The way they'd bowed. Not just the soldiers, but the king himself. That proud, haughty monarch—crown sliding from his head, jaw clenched in futile defiance—had dropped to his knees the moment Nolan spoke with divine finality and forced his soldiers to surrender.

It had been a long time since he'd conquered a planet personally. Even longer since he'd done it bloodlessly. He hadn't thought Cecil's no-killing clause could be honored, not with a species like the Flaxans—tribal, militarized, reactionary. His backup plan had been simple: rip whatever royal palace this dust covered shithole had from its foundation and throw it into the sun. If after that, they wouldn't have capitulated, well…it could have been ugly, that was all he was willing to say.

But it hadn't come to that. The Flaxans, like many pre-expansion civilizations, still clung to monarchies. Monarchies usually meant religion.

And religion? That was a weakness he knew how to exploit.

He'd presented himself as a god to the Flaxan's, even if he hadn't outright called himself that.

Unlike whatever abstract deity that they prayed to, but something tangible. Strength incarnate. A warrior deity. Ruthless, but fair. Powerful beyond comprehension, but merciful if respected.

He had done it before.

On distant, nameless worlds, full of savage creatures and societies, he'd been revered as a god of war, of death, of strength. Sometimes all three at once, sometimes cycling through the titles. The worship… the awe… the fear.

It was intoxicating.

It was a guilty pleasure for him—no different from the way Debbie savored her Italian wine.

A sip here.

A moment there.

Draw it out.

Let the flavor linger.

That sense of control, of reverence—it filled a space in him he hadn't realized was growing hollow. Like a benched athlete who'd finally returned to the field, feeling the blood rush and the wind shift with every move. He was in his element again.

And Earth? Earth had just gained its first vassal state.

Adorable, really. The planet hadn't even finished exploring its own oceans, and now it was dictating terms to a militarized, interdimensional species. If not for him— and if not for the Guardians—those same Flaxans would have razed half the continent by now. Earthlings were lucky in ways they didn't even understand.

But not everyone shared his view.

"That… felt shitty," Cecil muttered as they stepped back through the portal onto Earth.

Nolan raised an eyebrow but didn't respond. Cecil didn't understand. He was too grounded in human morality, too entangled in things like optics and compromises, and morality. Useless concepts when they came head to head with real strength.

Still, he had to give the man credit—he'd struck a solid bargain. The Flaxans would receive schematics for weapons that Earth wanted made, as well as advanced armors, exoskeletons, vehicles, and infrastructure tech in exchange for fresh water, food, and gradual immigration rights to a series of uninhabited islands, where they'd be kept far away from the humans they had once attacked.

Peaceful annexation through necessity and diplomacy.

In essence, they had started doing what the Viltrum Empire had perfected—subjugation through superiority.

Only this time, it was dressed in cooperation.

Gentler. Cleaner. But no less effective.

"You did a good thing," Nolan said, keeping his voice calm, steady—reassuring. "They were never going to capitulate on their own. Too much pride. You gave them a future. Now they have access to clean water, stable food supplies, and a world that will finally value their contributions. That's not conquest, Cecil. That's salvation."

Cecil didn't reply right away. He studied Nolan with that quiet, unreadable stare of his—like a man trying to decide if Nolan was being serious or not.

Finally, he said, "That was one hell of a performance, you know. The speech. That show of strength. Even the way you spoke to the soldiers, instead of the king; the ones whose lives would actually be on the line." His eyes narrowed. "Tell me, Nolan… how many times have you done that before? For Viltrum?"

And there it was. The dangerous part of the conversation, but one he expected to come up regardless.

Nolan gave a practiced chuckle, as if the question was harmless, even quaint. "Not often," he said smoothly. "But occasionally, it was necessary. We came across worlds caught in endless cycles—tribal conflicts, religious crusades, genocides. When diplomacy failed and peace through negotiation was impossible, we made the hard call. We'd intervene, install a provisional government with us at the helm, and then help cultivate a democratic system with incorruptible leadership. It wasn't ideal, but it prevented extinction, and we left after everything was said and done."

All lies.

Viltrum didn't believe in democracy. The only "incorruptible" leaders that Viltrum would ever trust were Viltrumites. Any leader who was left on a Viltrum-controlled world was merely a puppet leader who served Grand Regent Thragg. Viltrumites didn't install governments; they enforced dominance. They didn't nurture civilizations; they kept them on a leash. Nolan had seen and done it countless times. A single Viltrumite assigned to monitor ten or more planets at a time—checking production quotas, quashing revolts, issuing demands, and making sure that every living being on that world understood their place in the galaxy: beneath the Empire's boot.

Cecil nodded slowly, as if trying to decide whether to believe any of it.

"That's… interesting," he said at last.

Then he looked Nolan dead in the eye.

"I'm a little surprised Earth didn't make that list."

Nolan didn't flinch, but he felt the weight behind the words.

Was Cecil trying to give him some sort of test right now? Trying to probe to see if Earth would receive the Flaxan treatment?

"There were plenty of conflicts when you arrived," Cecil continued. "Nation-wide wars, humanitarian crises, ideological extremism—you name it. Hell, there are still brushfire wars happening now in places like Africa and Asia. So what made Earth special, huh? Why didn't we need your 'provisional leadership'?"

Ah. That was the game.

Cecil wasn't close to the truth—not yet. He didn't know the full extent of Earth's strategic value: the emergence of superheroes, the unique genetic anomalies, and the rare resources, such as the magical artifacts like the stone Green Ghost used. Artifacts that could make even Viltrumite technology seem clumsy in comparison.

The more the Grand Regent heard about Earth from Nolan year after year, the more intrigued—no, enthralled—he became. There was something about the planet that didn't add up. Something that made it stand apart from the thousands of worlds the Viltrumite Empire had already conquered.

It wasn't just the stubborn resistance of its people or the primitive-yet-oddly-adaptive nature of their technology. No, what fascinated Thragg most was the unpredictable diversity of the powers its inhabitants possessed.

Viltrumites were engineered perfection: uniform in strength, speed, and endurance, honed through generations of brutal culling and selective breeding. Yet humans—or whatever passed for Earth's enhanced species—showed no such consistency. Two different Earthlings could exhibit the same power on the surface, like superstrength, but the source and function could be wildly divergent. One individual might achieve it through enhanced muscle density and skeletal reinforcement, while another might project a telekinetic field that mimicked the same physical effect with far less effort.

And then there was magic.

In the Empire's history, many civilizations had claimed to wield mystical forces—auras, divine light, elemental control. Without exception, these had always been traced back to misunderstood ancient technology. But Earth was different. On Earth, magic wasn't just myth. It was real.

It worked.

Nolan had seen it firsthand. War Woman, Green Ghost, Aquarius—each of them was a living example of powers that defied explanation. War Woman once confided in him that while her abilities such as her strength, speed and flight came from the altered biology of those who lived in her realm, her mace acted as a multiplier, dramatically increasing her power to the point where she could even challenge beings like Nolan.

He had held it once. Just once. It was during a lull between missions, a rare moment of camaraderie among the Guardians that he had allowed himself to be a part of. She'd let each of them handle it—"for fun," she said. The moment Nolan's fingers wrapped around the handle, he felt it: a searing warmth that flooded his chest, quickened his pulse. A flash of certainty had spread through his being.

If he chose to, if he wanted to, in that moment, he could have killed Conquest with ease. He could have stood toe-to-toe with Thragg and not merely survived—but won. And he just knew it, the same way he knew how to fly home to Viltrum or to cook Mark's favorite meal. All due to a mace from a realm that as far as he could tell, was only accessible to War Woman. He didn't know who made it, what it was made from, and why it gave him such a sharp increase in strength. But he knew that if he had this mace in hand, there would be very few that could stop him.

That knowledge terrified him more than it thrilled him.

He had never touched it again.

Green Ghost was even more peculiar. Her powers activated only after she swallowed a glowing green stone. The gem didn't bond with her genetically, didn't require much training or intense mental discipline.

Anyone could use it, apparently.

Swallow the stone, become intangible, fly, and shrug off bullets. Just like that. Alec, the Previous Green Ghost had told him that he'd just found the thing one day. He never gave any explanation on why he decided to swallow it, or how he figured out it's abilities, but apparently here on Earth, you could just go for a walk and find superpowers in a fucking rock.

Nolan remembered staring at Alec in stunned silence as the man told the story like it was no big deal—like it was perfectly normal to stumble across godlike powers during a casual stroll. Apparently, on Earth, you didn't need a strong bloodline or experience in a war to become extraordinary.

You just had to be in the right place at the right time.

And then there was Aquarius.

Aquarius was, in every conceivable way, an anomaly. According to his own account, his powers had not manifested until the day he was crowned king. He had bested his predecessor in ritual combat, slain a sea beast of legendary size, and only then had he been granted dominion over water itself.

That was no coincidence.

Nolan was fascinated—not emotionally, but academically. Was the power linked to the crown that had touched Aquarius' head on the day of his coronation? Some kind of nanotech interface that activated upon touch? Or perhaps it was a deeply embedded genetic switch, one triggered only by specific conditions like combat stress, trauma, and the presence of a totemic object, all combined together?

And the most pressing question of all: could it be replicated?

What if a human performed the same rites? What if a Viltrumite did?

Could he gain control of water the same way Aquarius did?

No one had answers. And that's what made Earth so dangerous—and so tantalizing.

It wasn't just another conquest. It was a mystery box. A world of endless variables and inconsistencies. A place where power came not only from evolution and science, but from rules the Empire didn't yet understand.

And that was why Grand Regent Thragg let him proceed carefully and deliberately. That was  one of the reasons why Nolan hadn't made a forceful invasion. No shock-and-awe. Not yet, at least. Earth was something new. Something unpredictable. Something that, if handled correctly, could become the shining jewel in the Empire's crown.

 No, Cecil was just being careful. Watching for signs that Nolan might  have plans for planetary dominance. He had no idea just how useful Earth really was, and how long Nolan was willing to play the waiting game if necessary.

It was best to play along and assuage his fears—for now.

"I considered it," Nolan said honestly, his tone carefully neutral. "But Earth surprised me. You surprised me. The people here… they have potential. Raw, undisciplined, sometimes frustrating—but real. And I wanted to see where it could go. Maybe I got sentimental. Maybe I was just curious."

Nolan leaned back slightly, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth—a rare softness cutting through the grim weight of his words.

"Or maybe," Nolan said, his voice low, measured, "just this once, I wanted to see if a species could save itself… without needing to be forced."

He didn't smile. There was no smugness in his tone—just reflection. And something else beneath it. Weariness, perhaps. Or disappointment.

He exhaled, slowly, letting the moment stretch before continuing.

"And I won't lie. A part of me—maybe a larger part than I care to admit—was curious. Curious to see how you defined war. Because what Viltrumites call war… and what Earth considers war… are two very different things."

The air shifted between them. Not with menace, but with gravity. Like a veil had lifted. Like a man who'd spent too long hiding behind masks had finally let one slip.

"Don't misunderstand me," he went on, his voice calm but heavy with something colder. "Your wars are tragic. Devastating, even. To you. You lose hundreds, sometimes thousands in a single battle. You draft your children—barely old enough to understand what they're fighting for—and send them off with nothing but primitive armor, metal slugs, and fire."

He waved a hand vaguely, the motion dismissive. "You think because your bombs flatten cities, because your planes leave scars on landscapes, and your soldiers come home in boxes, that you understand warfare."

He looked up, eyes like flint.

"You don't."

He leaned forward now, just slightly. Not as a threat—but as a teacher, issuing a brutal truth.

"Your wars are skirmishes. Loud, emotional tantrums, dressed up in flags and nationalism. Children in uniform hitting each other with sticks and pretending the world will end if they lose."

There was a pause.

"Real war," Nolan said, voice dipping, "is something else entirely."

He straightened.

"In real war—galactic war—there are no borders. There are no treaties. There are no safe zones. There are no such things as war crimes. Every continent burns. Every ocean boils away. The atmosphere becomes a battlefield, the skies choked with ash and plasma. You don't take cities—you erase nations. You don't conquer governments—you obliterate civilizations. I've seen entire species blink out of existence in under a month. Not because they resisted… but because they weren't worth the effort of enslaving."

His eyes were on Cecil again—sharp, ancient, and exhausted.

"I've fought in campaigns where moons were cracked open to build siege engines. Where asteroids were mined, hollowed out, and turned into weapons capable of cleansing a planet with a single strike. When you start battles like that, you don't count casualties in hundreds. Or thousands.

"You count them in worlds."

He let that sink in.

"I've lived through planetary sieges so long," he added, almost distantly, "that whole civilizations rose and fell multiple times in the time it took for one side to win."

Nolan didn't say it aloud, but the thought curled cold and quiet in his mind:

I've personally ended more lives than this nation has people.

Cecil gave him a strange look; one that oddly reminded him of pity, though why such an expression would be on his face for him of all people baffled Nolan.

"You've been through some shit, haven't you, Nolan?" the man said gently, not with the pity he saw, but with something closer to understanding. "Seeing that kind of thing… it can't be easy on any man."

Nolan closed his eyes for a moment. Just a second.

And remembered.

It had been one of his earliest missions—his first solo conquest, in fact. A great honor among Viltrumites. Most were assigned a senior to shadow them during their first few decades of planetary acquisition, someone to correct them if they faltered, someone to ensure the Empire's name wasn't tarnished.

But not Nolan.

He had been the prodigy. The rising star. Top of his class. At twenty years of age, he had already bested Thula in combat multiple times, and Thula was one of the more brutal instructors. He had demonstrated strength, precision, and—most importantly—unshakable loyalty to Viltrum. Even more so than some of his cohort: Kregg, Lucan… names that had once mattered, names that had belonged to those he had once seen as brothers. But Nolan rose, and they failed to catch up. He refused to wait for them.

The planet he'd been assigned was rich in rare metals and volatile compounds, all to be used for some top-secret experiment, far above his classification. He hadn't asked questions—he was a soldier, not a scientist. But he often wondered, in idle hours, what kind of project required an entire planet's worth of material.

For five years, he held that world.

He defended it with ease. The native population feared him at first, as they all did, but he had no interest in ruling through cruelty. That was for men like Vidor, who required their subjects to grovel, who saw defiance as a personal insult. They saw that he would give them respect if they gave him respect, and slowly, they began to adjust to one another. Never like, no, never something like that, but they tolerated each other fairly well.

Nolan didn't need to be worshipped.

He already knew he was superior.

Instead, he kept the peace, issued his reports on time, guarded every shipment until Viltrumite vessels arrived to collect. He even received a commendation from the Grand Regent himself—an expression of pride that made Nolan's chest swell with something he hadn't quite known how to name at the time.

And then came the night that broke it all.

The alarm klaxons had screamed him awake. The planet trembled beneath him. He was already in the sky when he saw it.

An asteroid the size of a continent, fired from a Coalition weapon larger than a moon, hurtling toward the surface. They didn't want Viltrum to have the resources anymore, so they'd chosen to utterly destroy the planet instead.

He had flown faster than he ever had in his life, thinking—hoping—he could stop it. Maybe he could push it off course. Maybe he could break it. Maybe.

He did break it.

With his body.

But it didn't stop.

It shattered into countless shards, each one still large enough to flatten cities. The fragments struck the surface like a meteor storm from hell. To the people below, it must have looked like the sky itself was collapsing.

Nolan could do nothing but watch. Dazed. Weakened. Failing.

He saved the scientists who lived in the orbital stations, of course. A mere hundred.

But billions died.

Later, the Grand Regent had waved it off. The materials they needed, he said, had been secured long ago. They had merely been stockpiling from the planet, so while it was a loss, it wasn't anything that would hinder the Empire. Still, his voice held a chill when he spoke, and his eyes—those sharp, assessing eyes—had looked at Nolan with the kind of quiet contempt that no soldier ever wanted to receive.

It hadn't been rage.

It had been disappointment.

Nolan had taken the words in stride. Nodded, saluted, and returned to his quarters, waiting for the next mission. But the sting of that failure never left him.

He had sworn, from that day forward, never to fail the Empire again.

And never again would he watch helplessly as the ones under his rule died because he wasn't good enough.

Not if he could help it.

Nolan opened his eyes slowly, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. The Guardians stood nearby—not close enough to intrude, but not so far that they couldn't hear if they really tried. It was a calculated distance, one born of mutual respect. A silent acknowledgment that whatever was about to be said wasn't meant to be secret—only personal.

"A few things, yes," Nolan said at last, his voice calm, even gentle. "But the mission entrusted to me by my people remains invaluable. The World Betterment Committee offered me a purpose long before I ever stepped foot on this planet. I've seen what we can do—what I can do—to bring order to chaos, to lift civilizations out of ruin. That's not something I can cast aside."

Across from him, Cecil stood still for a moment, arms crossed as he looked at him slowly. When he spoke, his voice carried a roughness that hadn't been there before—fatigue, maybe, or a quiet grief he didn't want to name.

"Wouldn't it be better to stop, Nolan?" he asked. "Just… rest. Stay here. With your family. Damn the consequences for once. You've done more for Earth than anyone else alive. You've saved cities, held back extinction, and inspired people even when they didn't know it. Haven't you earned some peace? Don't you deserve a life that's your own?"

A life of his own?

The words stirred something in Nolan—something deep and unwelcome. A possibility he had long since sealed away. What would it look like, truly, to live for himself? To walk the streets of this planet not as a scout, or a soldier, or a symbol—but simply as a man? A father. A husband.

To be loved, and to love in return.

His eyes dropped for a moment, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Viltrum has done great things for many people," he murmured. "We have brought peace, order, and strength to countless worlds. I gave my life to that mission, Cecil. I've bled for it. Killed for it. I believed in it… I still do. Mark and Debbie—" his voice tightened for a fraction of a second, "—they are my world. But this… this has always been my purpose. My calling. And I cannot turn from it."

He would stay, yes. For now. He would savor the illusion of peace for as long as fate allowed it. He would watch his son grow. Perhaps, if the stars were kind, he would see grandchildren—new life carrying both Viltrumite might and Earth's stubborn compassion. Maybe the blood in Mark's veins would prove dominant, maybe not. But the time would come when this interlude ended.

He would extend it if he could. Delay the inevitable. But in the end, Earth would join the Viltrum Empire. That was the natural order of things. Their expansion was not conquest, but destiny.

And Nolan… Nolan would ensure that destiny unfolded exactly as planned.

Because in the grand equation of the universe, his love for Earth did not cancel out his duty.

It only complicated it.

Cecil exhaled, the sound heavy with weariness. "You think they'll rebel? The Flaxans, I mean."

"They will," Immortal replied, his voice flat—certain. There was no hesitation, no doubt. Nolan glanced up, mildly startled to see the man had moved closer. When had that happened? Had he been so wrapped in the conversation that he'd missed it?

Immortal stood at the edge, his arms crossed and his eyes distant as he spoke.

"They surrendered before they ever had a chance to die for their cause," he said, his tone grim. "That kind of surrender? It doesn't bring peace. It leaves a scar. Shame passed down from father to son, retold as legend, polished with every generation until it becomes something dangerous. The ones to inherit their parent's places in society won't see capitulation, or a need to surrender because they were confronted by a more powerful enemy. They'll see betrayal. Cowardice. A chance stolen from them."

He looked up at the red portal behind them, a portal as red as the dimension they'd just left.

"They'll grow up on stories of how their ancestors were cowards. They'll say their fathers could've won if they'd just fought harder. If they'd had better weapons. If they'd known we were bluffing. Even if it isn't true, that doubt will live in them. They'll convince themselves they were denied their rightful war."

Nolan listened silently. Immortal's voice had hardened with something deeper than anger—something older. Experience. Regret.

"I've seen it before," Immortal continued. "Empires that surrendered without bloodshed. Kingdoms spared through diplomacy. It never lasts. Their children come back, faces painted for battle, swearing they'll succeed where their ancestors 'failed.' Even if we give them everything—education, medicine, food—they'll still want to prove themselves. To reclaim the pride they lost before they were even born."

Nolan nodded in agreement. He'd seen it before, in prideful species that had needed breaking. "They lost without firing a single shot. They'll be resentful."

"And they'll never forgive us for it," Immortal said. "Not really. That kind of loss festers. And when their leader feel their grip slipping, when their people start to question them, they'll do what kings have always done. Manufacture enemies. Start wars to distract from their failures. They'll look at Earth and say, 'Those are the ones who stole our future. Let's take it back.'"

Now it was Darkwing's turn to enter the conversation. "Every day that passes here is an entire decade for them. You don't have tomorrow, Cecil. You've got less than an hour to get ahead of this."

Cecil muttered, already scratching his chin as he thought about the logistics of it all. "Jesus. That means they could have a new government by dinner. Or a coup by breakfast. I'll need a diplomatic team stationed in the Flaxan dimension permanently. I need that damn portal open permanently. We're going to have to push supplies, personnel, and infrastructure through it at a speed that looks like an invasion just to keep up. And I have to do all of that in…" he checked his watch, "...forty-three minutes, or we risk destabilizing the whole alliance before it even forms."

He groaned. "God, this is going to be such a pain in my ass."

"It'll be worth it," Nolan said, his voice calm. He folded his arms, now floating a foot off the ground. "Hey, look on the bright side—maybe now you'll actually be able to launch missions farther than your moon. Clean up all the debris floating in your lower orbit. Maybe even stop choking on your own carbon emissions. That'll definitely be an improvement."

"Oh, fuck off," Cecil grumbled, though the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. "Sorry we can't all fly at Mach speed and breathe in a vacuum."

Nolan didn't bother correcting him. Viltrumites didn't truly breathe in space—they simply didn't need to. But Cecil's misunderstanding was convenient. When the day finally came, every erroneous assumption humanity held about his species would only serve to his advantage.

Still, that day felt… further away now.

"Look," Nolan said with a sigh, glancing toward the sky. "I'm heading home. Unless you need something else?"

Cecil waved him off. "I'm good. If I need any gratuitous acts of cosmic intimidation committed in the name of Earth, I'll call Immortal."

Nolan actually chuckled. "Yeah… Immortal doing what I just did? That's the funniest thing I've heard all week."

The man didn't even grace him with words, just a sharp look and a quick middle finger.

With that, he launched into the air, tearing through the clouds with a sonic boom. Despite everything—the false smiles, the buried motives—he was genuinely looking forward to seeing Debbie and Mark. Something about being near them made the rest of the world feel… quieter.

Even if just for a little while.

Cecil waited until Nolan was nothing more than a glimmer on the horizon—just another speck disappearing into the sky—before he turned to face the Guardians and Robot. The weight of what they had just witnessed still hung heavy in the air.

No one spoke at first. The gravity of Omni-Man's display had left them all uneasy, and the silence that followed was the kind usually reserved for funerals.

"So," Cecil finally said, voice flat. "I assume we're all on the same page now regarding Nolan and his intentions?"

Darkwing folded his arms, his face partially hidden beneath his cowl. "It's not proof," he said after a long pause. "But I'll admit, it doesn't look good."

Cecil turned to Aquarius. "I know Nolan's your friend. You've shared meals with him and i know you trusted him. But you saw what he did. You heard how he talked. Even if you believe he's not planning to attack Earth, the chance of someone like that turning on us? We'd be annihilated before we could blink. I need that Depth Dweller screech recording."

Aquarius hesitated. Cecil could see the inner conflict playing across his face—the strain of trying to balance loyalty with duty. Nolan had been a trusted ally, and had even been invited to Atlantis more than once. 

But friendship didn't outweigh the safety of a kingdom.

"…I'll get it to you in a few days," Aquarius said at last, voice subdued. "The Depth Dwellers don't take kindly to being disturbed. Capturing a clean sample won't be easy."

"I'm not asking for miracles," Cecil said with a nod. "Just results."

He turned next to Robot, the drone's green lenses glowing faintly as it turned to face him.

"Robot, I'll be blunt. I want you working for me, officially. The way you've managed Teen Team? Efficient and effective. Frankly, you've handled the Flaxan incursions better than half the heroes in America would have."

"I will not abandon the Teen Team," Robot said. His voice was as calm and mechanical as ever, but there was an unmistakable firmness in it. "They are not assets to be traded. They are my responsibility. If I join you, they join with me. Non-negotiable."

Cecil raised an eyebrow. "That's fine. Atom Eve, Dupli-Kate, Rex Splode—they're all promising. I'd be glad to see them operating with GDA resources. But I want you focused on the bigger picture. Helping us integrate recovered alien tech. Developing countermeasures. Planning contingencies for the Viltrumites."

He stepped in closer, lowering his voice so only Robot could hear.

"Mark likes to keep secrets from me," Cecil murmured. "But I know from all the little chats you've had, he clearly trusts you, and despite him not saying it, it's obvious he regards you as a key player. That alone makes you valuable. And if you sign on, you'll have full access to GDA facilities, research data, and…" Cecil smiled slightly, "the meeting with the Mauler Twins you keep pushing for."

The smile faded. "You're smart, Robot. But don't forget—I've been doing this a long time. There are things I know that your algorithms haven't predicted yet. You want to change the world? You need the right tools. And I'm offering them."

Robot said nothing at first, but Cecil could see the drone was processing. Calculating. The silence didn't bother him. Smart people took the time to think before speaking.

He had meant to be a reminder.

For all of Robot's brilliance, all his precision and logic, Cecil Stedman was still Director of the GDA—and that meant something. It meant resources, leverage, and history. It meant he held cards Robot didn't. Or at least, that's what Cecil liked to think. Him showing oiff that he knew that Mark was talking to him behind his back was supposed to be a little taste of that.

But then Robot leaned forward, and the low mechanical whir of his drone filled the air like a warning.

"I am aware you've been monitoring my activities and our conversations through Mark's phone, Director," Robot murmured calmly. "I permitted it. You have not observed a single action I did not wish you to observe. Your attempts to imply that the GDA's operatives or analysts are on par with my intellect are—while perhaps  necessary to establish me as a threat or ally—deeply inaccurate. And frankly, insulting."

Cecil's jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

"Still," Robot continued, "you are correct in one thing. Unity is essential. There are threats incoming that neither of us can afford to face alone. Therefore, I am willing to cooperate. I will draft the necessary documentation. Teen Team will be contracted under the GDA, provided the terms I outline are met. Expect them within twenty-four hours."

Cecil was still feeling the heat from the Flaxan dimension, but a chill worked its way down his spine as Robot spoke.

He knew. 

Robot had known about the surveillance the entire time. Which meant every scrap of intelligence they'd gathered, every intercepted message, every behavioral analysis… could all be part of an elaborate deception. He could've been feeding them garbage from the start. And if he had? Then the GDA had been operating under illusions and that alone made the sirens in his head go crazy.

He suddenly understood why Mark Grayson was investing so much time and energy into Robot. 

Taking a step back, Cecil turned to face the assembled Guardians.

"You already know how I feel about this situation," he said, sweeping his eyes across the team. "And I know each of you has your own opinion on Nolan Grayson. Maybe some of you think I'm being paranoid, even after the stunt we saw today."

He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make the point.

"But you all saw what I saw. You saw how strong he was—and he wasn't even tired. You heard how he talked. Like he's done this before. Like this isn't new. And you heard from his own mouth that it isn't."

He looked at each of them in turn.

"I'm not saying this is proof. Darkwing was right—one moment doesn't prove guilt, and the way he talked just now, you'd think that he was doing those civilizations a favor. But if you can honestly tell me you're not even a little worried after today, then you weren't paying attention. So I'm asking you—no, I'm telling you—be ready. If this goes south, if Omni-Man turns out to be the threat I suspect he is…"

He let out a slow breath.

"…then we're out of time. The tech we need isn't ready. The allies we wanted haven't joined. You are currently Earth's last line of defense."

He turned, eyes heavy.

"So act like it."

The entire operation had taken precisely thirty-two minutes and seventeen seconds in the Flaxan dimension. On Earth, however, only 0.492 seconds had elapsed.

That discrepancy was… disorienting.

He had accounted for temporal discrepancies between dimensions, of course—his predictive models had suggested a fluctuation ratio of at least 1:3,000—but to experience it firsthand was something else entirely. His internal chronometer had confirmed it: while he had been gone for over half an hour, Earth had scarcely noticed.

Time dilation on that scale posed both risks and opportunities.

If properly leveraged, the Flaxan dimension could become the ideal staging ground for his long-term development projects. Weeks of uninterrupted research compressed into milliseconds of Earth time. Technological progression at an exponential rate, with virtually no downtime. He could refine his drone designs, engineer new defense systems, and—most critically—enhance the body he intended to one day inhabit.

But there was a complication. His access to that dimension depended on Director Stedman.

Cecil Stedman.

Rudolph Conners respected the man. It would be illogical not to. Under his leadership, the Global Defense Agency operated with ruthless efficiency. Monsters, rogue supers, extra-dimensional incursions—his organization addressed each one with precision. The GDA's network of surveillance, infrastructure, and rapid-response capabilities were second to none.

Teen Team—Rudy's own project—paled in comparison.

He admired the results. But admiration did not translate into trust.

Cecil had a particular modus operandi: if you weren't on his payroll, you were expendable. At best, a tool to be used. At worst, a loose end to be tied up.

The man had a habit of withholding information—stringing people along with crumbs of intel, all while monitoring them like a predator stalking prey. Rudy had seen it time and time again in the classified files he'd decrypted. Cecil would identify potential assets, isolate them from their allies, apply pressure, then offer a binary choice:

Join or be dismantled.

It was disturbingly effective. Atom Eve and Rex Splode were proof of concept—nudged toward Teen Team at just the right moment to ensure cooperation. Their records had been scrubbed clean, but Rudy had already read the original logs.

He was only cooperating now because Omni-Man's emergence as a threat required total alignment of resources. The GDA, Teen Team, even independent operators—all of them needed to act in concert if they hoped to stand a chance.

And, more pragmatically, closer proximity to the GDA meant access to their data, their logistics, their reach.

He had plans. Long-term ones. And every second of trust he "earned" from Cecil was a tool in that plan.

A burst of laughter pulled him from his calculations.

He had arrived at Teen Team headquarters and was descending in the lift. Through the transparent panel, he observed Mark Grayson and Dupli-Kate—three versions of her, actually—engaged in a game of ping pong in the common area. The match was… animated.

As the lift neared the ground, he saw Mark strike the ball. It moved at a velocity nearing Mach 0.8, turning into a faint white blur as it shattered against the far wall. A crater the size of his thumb remained.

Noted.

Mark's precision and restraint continue to improve. The ping pong ball withstood the initial kinetic impact, meaning either it was exceptionally well-made or Mark's muscular engagement was finely modulated to apply force just below the object's threshold. Both possibilities are encouraging.

"Oh, come on!" Kate panted, sweat on her brow, her smile wide and competitive. "That's bullshit! Tone it down a notch!"

Mark laughed, visibly relaxed. "You said we could use powers! I don't see you holding back on the cloning. Three against one is bullying, I don't care what you say otherwise."

"It's not bullying," one of the Kates shot back, grinning, "when my opponent has fucking super strength, super speed, super reflexes, and all sorts of other bullshit in his sleeve!"

She seemed poised to launch into a longer tirade, but her words caught in her throat as she spotted him behind Mark.

"Oh—hey, Rudy! You came back fast!"

Robot paused, the lift doors still half-open behind him. The use of that name—Rudy—caused a momentary lapse in his forward movement. Not enough for a human to notice. But his cognitive processes stalled.

Did she just call me Rudy instead of Robot? How would she even know—

His lens flicked toward Mark, who gave him a sheepish shrug, eyes already apologizing before a word was spoken.

"Apologies for the delay," Robot said smoothly, resuming his approach. "Director Stedman's business concluded earlier than anticipated. Still, I acknowledge that it was inconsiderate to leave in the middle of our… hangout."

Mark waved it off. "Hey man, no worries. You weren't even gone a full thirty minutes. We can pick up the movie again if you're down."

"Excellent," Robot replied, folding his arms in a manner calculated to signal casual engagement. "I am eager to resume dismantling your argument that humans could plausibly respond to a rogue AI war machine capable of temporal displacement."

Kate let out a laugh from the other side of the ping pong table, clearly entertained by their banter. Her two clones stepped forward and, with a seamless shimmer, merged back into her. Three became one again.

"I think that's my cue," she said with a yawn. "You guys can go back to nerding out. I'm gonna grab a shower and maybe crash for a bit."

"You are welcome to remain with us, Dupli-Kate," Rudy offered. "I do not mind discussing the film aloud as we continue watching it, if you are amenable to multitasking."

She waved the offer off with a grin. "Nah, nah, this is guy time. You two have fun. But uh—Mark?"

The boy turned, curiosity creasing his brow. Robot's sensors registered the subtle changes in Kate's vitals: elevated pulse, slight flushing of the cheeks, averted eye contact.

Fascinating, he thought. Elevated emotional state detected from Dupli-Kate.

"You can hang out here anytime," she said quickly. "You're pretty cool."

Mark smiled, clearly caught off guard but pleased. "Thanks. I'll probably take you up on that."

She walked away, and Robot observed the change in her gait—lighter, more relaxed than before. There was a bounce to her step that had not been present earlier.

This is… very interesting.

Mark turned to him again, grin back in place. "EMP shuts down the AI before the war even starts. Boom. Debate settled."

Rudy tilted the head of his drone. "If you believe that an artificial intelligence with temporal mobility would fail to account for electromagnetic vulnerabilities—across all historical and future variations—then you are willfully disregarding the 'intelligence' component of AI."

They were well into their third film of the Termination series—an increasingly ludicrous display of humanity's inability to counteract a sufficiently motivated artificial intelligence, which only made sense—when Rudy finally decided to broach the subject that had been occupying an uncomfortable portion of his processing cycles.

He paused the movie.

"So," he said flatly.

Mark, a fistful of popcorn halfway to his mouth, blinked. "So…?"

"You were unusually friendly with Dupli-Kate today."

Mark nodded without hesitation. "Yeah. I never really got to talk to her in the other timeline. I always thought she hated me."

That surprised him. Dupli-Kate was not, by his analysis, predisposed to hate. Irritation, frustration, perhaps. But hatred? Statistically unlikely.

"Why would she have disliked your presence?"

Mark shrugged. "She didn't like how I dealt with Cecil. We had a big fight, when he hired some supervillains I fought. I thought they got put away, it turns out he mind-whammied them to get them to work for him willingly. She thought I should've just shut up and taken orders. I guess she saw me as reckless. And Immortal didn't like me either, so that probably didn't help."

Rudy inclined the head of his drone slightly in acknowledgment. Kate, he knew, responded well to structure and authority. It was likely a psychological artifact from her time in black-ops training—years spent under strict command structures alongside Multi-Paul. But Mark's last comment brought his internal calculations to a screeching halt.

"Why," he said slowly, "would the opinion of the Immortal influence Kate's actions to such a degree?"

Mark looked at him, almost confused. "Because… she married him."

The remote, which had until then rested lightly in the hand of Rudy's drone, snapped in half with a crack. Fragments of black plastic tumbled to the floor.

"She what?" he said, a rare edge of sharpness in his voice.

Mark looked up, startled. "She… married him. Wait—is that bad?"

Rudy stared for a long moment. "Mark, Dupli-Kate is seventeen years old. The Immortal is approximately two thousand years old. Was I present when this occurred? Did I not object? Did I not intervene in what is clearly a catastrophic ethical failure?"

"You were… kinda busy," Mark admitted. "You were still getting used to your new body and trying to find new ways to fight and stuff. And you didn't seem bothered by it. I don't think anyone was. I'm like seventy percent sure she was eighteen when they got married, so everyone was cool with it."

"Everyone must have been blind, deaf, and insensate then, especially me," Rudy muttered. "Because there is no conceivable version of me that would witness such an event and remain silent. That union violates every standard of healthy interpersonal development—emotionally, biologically, and ethically. She is a minor."

"To be fair," Mark said cautiously, "they didn't get married until after she faked her death and quit being a superhero. She came back for him. Said she connected with him because of how often he died. She thought he understood her."

Rudy's internal systems flagged the statement for further psychological analysis. On some bizarre level, it was… understandable. Dupli-Kate had always suffered from the fragmentation of self, both figuratively and literally. Finding someone else who also experienced constant loss of life could offer a warped sense of kinship.

"And what of your own intentions?" Rudy asked, his tone deceptively neutral. "I was under the impression that part of your growing rapport with Kate was based on past experience—specifically, that you had previously dated her."

Mark promptly choked on a kernel of popcorn.

Rudy sighed. It was a mechanical sound more than a human one—barely audible, a synthetic simulation of breath meant to convey a familiar social cue. He watched impassively as Mark choked down his drink, face flushing red while he thumped his chest and finally dislodged the obstruction.

"Would you like water?" Rudy asked evenly, though his tone carried no urgency. It was an automatic response—an offer made out of protocol, not necessity.

Mark waved him off, wheezing. "No, no—I'm good. But Jesus, Rudy! You don't just drop stuff like that. The fuck? No, I wasn't trying to flirt with Kate or anything! I just wanted to get to know her better. I dated Eve in my old timeline."

Rudy paused.

"Atom Eve?" he clarified, his voice flat. "But you haven't spoken to her. You haven't made any observable effort to contact her, despite knowing her previous significance to you. Why?"

Mark leaned back, exhaling slowly. His expression softened, but his eyes were still faintly watery from the coughing fit. "It feels… wrong, I guess," he admitted. "Like, I know things about her—deep, personal things. Stuff she never told anyone in my timeline. Stuff I don't even think you know."

Rudy's sensors narrowed in slightly, recording the slight tremor in Mark's voice, the way he fiddled with the hem of his sleeve.

"She doesn't know me here," Mark continued. "Not really. And I haven't earned the right to know her either—not this version. If I did get close to her using what I know… that'd feel gross. Like I was manipulating her, even if I didn't mean to. That's not a real connection. That's a trick."

He swallowed hard, voice lowering. "It'd feel like grooming. And besides… she got hurt. A lot. Because of me. She nearly died, over and over, and I just stood there thinking we could be happy if we tried hard enough. If I stay away, maybe she gets to live a little longer this time. Getting to know Kate felt like starting over, with no strings attached. If I meet Eve, and she's cool with me, that's fine, but I'm not gonna go out of my way to try and force a relationship with her. Honestly, it might be better to just keep her at arms-length this time."

Ah. Rudy registered the shift in tone—regret laced with something else. Guilt, perhaps. Self-awareness.

He hadn't considered this perspective.

If Mark's memories were accurate, then he was chronologically and psychologically older than his physical appearance would suggest. He had borne the weight of adult experiences and adult losses. His choices weren't being made from a place of youthful recklessness, but from post-traumatic caution.

And perhaps that was why the two of them got along so well.

A few more minutes passed in silence before Rudy spoke again, his voice level, even.

"Beginning tomorrow, the Teen Team will be formally contracted to work alongside the Global Defense Agency," he said.

Mark blinked, then grinned. "Hey, man, congrats! That's awesome news. Kinda surprising, though. I mean, in the original timeline Cecil only reached out because the Guardians were dead. But this time they're still around and kicking."

"That is correct," Rudy replied. "However, the reasoning behind his decision was not rooted in only necessity, but surveillance as well. Director Stedman installed spyware on your cellular device without your consent, and has been spying on our conversations. He believes me to be an integral part of our fight against Viltrum, and has decided to recruit me early."

Mark's entire body tensed. For a split second, Rudy calculated the probability of a violent reaction—his friend had the strength to level a city block and seemed to have a particular sensitivity to betrayal—but instead, Mark closed his eyes, exhaled sharply, and sank further into the couch, jaw clenched.

"I don't even know why I'm surprised," Mark muttered through gritted teeth. "That's such a Cecil move. A complete dick move, but yeah. Very on-brand."

"There is no need for concern," Rudy said calmly. "The spyware's functionality was limited. I controlled the access. Director Stedman was only allowed to view conversations that I deemed inconsequential or strategically valuable—such as the Flaxan invasion and their susceptibility to a specific Hertz frequency. I apologize for not informing you earlier."

Mark waved a hand dismissively, though his brow remained furrowed. "Nah, I get it. I trust you, man. Still sucks, but if anyone's gonna have eyes on me, I'd rather it be you than Cecil. But… if you knew he was spying on us, why take the job? Why agree to work under him?"

Rudy hesitated—intentionally. 

This next part was a litmus test, of sorts. 

Mark had insisted, more than once, that he supported Rudy's ideals, that he believed in Rudy's vision for a better world. 

But belief in theory was different from belief in practice.

"I agreed for two reasons," Rudy began. "The first is strategic. Director Stedman promised me access to resources he had previously withheld—advanced fabrication facilities, high-orbit satellite networks, vault-level intelligence on potential global threats. These tools are critical if we are to successfully confront Omni-Man when the time comes."

He paused, meeting Mark's gaze through the eyes of his drone.

"The second reason," he continued, "is that I intend to replace Director Stedman."

Mark said nothing, but the weight of his attention intensified. His face was unreadable—neither rejection nor endorsement, merely listening.

"The Global Defense Agency," Rudy said, "possesses unmatched geopolitical leverage. It maintains open access to every developed nation on Earth and receives cooperative funding from all of them, though the United States contributes the majority share. Unlike the United Nations, the GDA does not require diplomatic approval for cross-border operations due to the scope and scale of threats it handles."

He leaned forward slightly.

"With that kind of authority, and with all its infrastructure under my control, I could implement global reforms that would be otherwise impossible. I could deploy resources efficiently, eliminate redundancy in aid programs, reduce crime by up to 82% within the first year, and stabilize volatile regions through a combination of economic relief and, where necessary, deterrence."

A beat.

"I am also not opposed to leveraging threats or coercion against world leaders who obstruct progress or refuse cooperation. Morally questionable, yes—but pragmatically effective. And necessary."

He leaned back, observing Mark closely now.

There. He had laid out his intentions plainly—without euphemism, obfuscation, or pretense. Just pure data, logistics, and the strategic framework needed to reshape the world. Now, he needed to know how Mark would respond.

Mark paused, visibly processing the implications. Then, after a beat, he nodded slowly.

"Yeah… that makes sense," he said. "I always wondered how Dad could fly all over the world, interfere in other nations' affairs  and no one really pushed back. Even when you help people, there's always someone ready to complain or push back—but no one said a thing."

He looked up, a fire catching in his voice.

"But Rudy, I don't think focusing on the leaders is the way to go—not at first, anyway. What you need is the people. Win them over, and the leaders won't be able to stop you, no matter how much they try."

Robot didn't interrupt. He simply observed. Listened.

"My idea is this," Mark continued. "You can control a bunch of drones, right? In the other timeline, you even had a global network of them. So why not start now? Station at least one drone in every major city around the world, using the GDA as a cover. Use them not as weapons or enforcers, but as helpers. Problem-solvers. Open soup kitchens. Build shelters. Start medical programs. Teach people new skills.  Be visible. Be present. Let the average citizen see that you're a solution, someone who can make their lives better. If they love you, if they depend on you… then when their leaders push back, the people will push harder. They'll impeach them. Replace them. Elect officials who want to work with you."

There was a long silence on Rudy's end. If he had lungs, he might have sighed. Instead, a silent line of thought looped and parsed through thousands of probability chains.

"…I did not expect you to agree with my proposition," he admitted finally. "And I certainly did not anticipate you providing a strategic refinement that would make it even more efficient. Or politically viable."

Mark smirked. "You thought I was bullshitting, didn't you?"

Rudy hesitated, then gave a small nod. "That was one of several high-likelihood conclusions."

The grin on Mark's face faded. His voice grew quieter, more serious. "Rudy… I told you before. One of my biggest regrets in the other timeline was never getting to know you better. I only saw the end result of your work—the utopia. Homelessness was gone. Crime was nearly extinct. Education was universal. No one starved. For the first time, Earth thrived."

Mark leaned forward, eyes sharp and sincere.

"But I also saw the cost. You built that world on the corpses of innocent people—good people. People who trusted you. Friends. Allies. You went into that future full of brilliance, but also with arrogance. You thought you were the only one capable of saving the world."

He placed a hand on Rudy's shoulder. The gesture was awkward, given the chassis of the drone, but the meaning was clear.

"This time, it'll be different. It's going to be hard. Maybe the hardest thing we ever do. And yeah, it'll take longer. A lot longer. But you won't be doing it alone."

He sat back, his voice now steady with conviction.

"You never ran from a challenge. And I've never backed down from a fight. So bring it on. Whatever darkness is whispering to you, whatever fears are clinging to the back of your mind? Forget them. You've got me now. And every time you feel like you're slipping, like you're drowning in it all, just reach out. Because you know damn well I'll already be there, hand outstretched, ready to pull you back."

As if to turn metaphor into tangible proof, Mark extended his hand. It hovered there between them, open and steady, a simple gesture undercut by the weight it carried.

Robot—Rudolph Conners—watched the hand in silence.

It was a symbol. Not of pity, nor charity but of something far more rare and infinitely more dangerous: 

Trust.

He had run thousands of simulations on human interaction. He had mapped emotional response trees. He had studied the chemical fluctuations of loyalty, affection, and hope. 

And yet, none of them prepared him for this.

Here was a person who knew his truth—his grotesque, twisted, half-functioning physical form. A person who had glimpsed the shadows in his mind, the ambition that bordered on ruthless, the loneliness that clung to him like static. And rather than recoil, Mark had reached out.

He had called him a brother.

Robot's internal systems hummed quietly as a million lines of code stalled, waiting for a command. But the answer did not come from calculation.

It came from something else. Something beyond his logic cores, deeper than protocol.

For the first time, perhaps in his entire existence, Rudolph Conners acted not out of necessity, or efficiency, or strategic optimization.

He raised his hand—his synthetic, precise, steel-forged hand—and took Mark's in his own.

Was it any surprise?

Of all the possible outcomes, this was the one he would have chosen, again and again.

Because for the first time… he wasn't facing the future alone.

It had been a long, miserable fucking day for Cecil Stedman, and all the man wanted—no, needed—was two damn hours of sleep. That was it. Two hours. Not a full night. Not a vacation. Just one hundred and twenty minutes where he didn't have to worry about genocidal aliens, dimensional breaches, or superheroes playing God. Was that really too much to ask?

Apparently, yes. Yes, it was.

He had a cot in his office for a reason. He'd soundproofed the walls so thoroughly that not even seismic tremors would wake him. The biometric locks were set. The blackout mode on his lights was active—so complete that he couldn't tell midnight from midday.

He'd earned this. Two hours of blissful, uninterrupted darkness. Peace. Silence.

But of course, the universe just loved to piss in his cheerios.

The door to his office slid open with a hiss. Donald stormed in, nearly tripping over himself in his urgency, face slick with sweat like he'd sprinted the length of the Pentagon.

"Sir! I'm really sorry—I know you asked not to be disturbed for two hours, but this is classified as an Alpha-level emergency, and we really need you to—"

"Donald," Cecil said, voice level, calm, and deadly in that particular way that meant someone was about to get fired… or vaporized. "Unless what you're about to tell me involves a planet-destroying threat, a collapse of the space-time continuum, or something with Viltrumite-level implications—then I swear to God, I will end you."

Donald didn't flinch. Good. He was getting better.

"It's Battle Beast and Angstrom Levy," Donald said quickly, words tripping over themselves with urgency. "We found them. Both of them."

Just like that, the fatigue evaporated from Cecil's body like water on hot asphalt.

Sleep? What the fuck was sleep?

He straightened up, grabbed his coat from the chair, and activated the display screen on his desk with a flick of his wrist.

"Show me everything," he said. His voice was sharp now. Focused. All business.

The nap could wait.

He had a world to save.It had been a long, miserable fucking day for Cecil Stedman, and all the man wanted—no, needed—was two damn hours of sleep. That was it. Two hours. Not a full night. Not a vacation. Just one hundred and twenty minutes where he didn't have to worry about genocidal aliens, dimensional breaches, or superheroes playing God. Was that really too much to ask?

Apparently, yes. Yes, it was.

He had a cot in his office for a reason. He'd soundproofed the walls so thoroughly that not even seismic tremors would wake him. The biometric locks were set. The blackout mode on his lights was active—so complete that he couldn't tell midnight from midday.

He'd earned this. Two hours of blissful, uninterrupted darkness. Peace. Silence.

But of course, the universe just loved to piss in his cheerios.

The door to his office slid open with a hiss. Donald stormed in, nearly tripping over himself in his urgency, face slick with sweat like he'd sprinted the length of the Pentagon.

"Sir! I'm really sorry—I know you asked not to be disturbed for two hours, but this is classified as an Alpha-level emergency, and we really need you to—"

"Donald," Cecil said, voice level, calm, and deadly in that particular way that meant someone was about to get fired… or vaporized. "Unless what you're about to tell me involves a planet-destroying threat, a collapse of the space-time continuum, or something with Viltrumite-level implications—then I swear to God, I will end you."

Donald didn't flinch. Good. That meant this was serious.

"It's Battle Beast and Angstrom Levy," Donald said quickly, words tripping over themselves with urgency. "We found them. Both of them."

Just like that, the fatigue evaporated from Cecil's body like water on hot asphalt.

Sleep? What the fuck was sleep?

He straightened up, grabbed his coat from the chair, and activated the display screen on his desk with a flick of his wrist.

"Show me everything," he said. His voice was sharp now. Focused. All business.

The nap could wait.

He had a world to save.

Chapter Text

"World War Zombie drops this Friday," William announced, slapping his tray down at the lunch table like it was breaking news. "And guess who's playing the lead? Chad Pitt. We're going."

Mark raised an eyebrow as he bit into his BLT, chewing thoughtfully. "William, you know I support you in all your questionable life choices. But I'm not spending two hours watching a mediocre zombie movie just so you can drool over an aging actor's ass."

"First of all," William said with a scandalized gasp, "Chad Pitt is not just an actor. He's a multi-Platinum Globe-winning national treasure. Every year, the man reinvents cinema. Watching him is a masterclass in raw, emotional brilliance."

"He's also pushing fifty," Mark deadpanned. "That's basically ancient in Hollywood years. He's old enough to be your dad."

"Please," William sniffed. "He's in his mid-forties. That's peak Hollywood prime. And I would absolutely call him Daddy."

Mark made a strangled sound and set his sandwich down like it had personally betrayed him. "Great. Lost my appetite. Thanks."

"Oh, stop being such a delicate flower," William said with a dismissive wave. "If I have to sit through your hormone-induced rants every time some girl so much as looks in your direction, the least you can do is tolerate me worshipping my favorite silver fox."

"There's a difference," Mark replied, narrowing his eyes. "I'm not gross about it. I don't list the things I want her to do to me, especially not in public."

"That's because you're a prude."

Before Mark could fire back what was undoubtedly a devious comeback, a hesitant voice interrupted them.

"Um… is this a bad time?"

Both boys looked up. Standing in front of their table was Amber Bennett.

William blinked in surprise. "Uh… hi?"

Mark looked equally confused, though he recovered quicker. "Amber. Everything okay?"

"Yeah," she said, fidgeting with the strap of her backpack. "I just… was wondering if you guys had room for one more?"

Mark gave a small shrug and gestured to the empty seat. "Sure. Knock yourself out."

William watched—no, observed—as Amber hesitated just a beat… then sat down right next to Mark.

His internal gossip engine revved up instantly. 

Well, well, well. 

Wasn't this just a page out of a classic rom-com? High school hero saves girl from a jerk, and suddenly the lunch table dynamic shifts.

Amber cleared her throat after a few minutes of awkward silence. "I wanted to thank you again. For, you know… helping me with Todd."

Mark gave her a sheepish smile. "No problem. He was being a jerk. Anyone would've stepped in."

"No, not everyone does," she replied softly. "But you did."

William was practically vibrating with secondhand excitement. Oh yeah. This had all the makings of a high school slow-burn romance—and for once, it wasn't just happening on TV. It was unfolding right next to him, live. Front-row seat, popcorn optional, smug grin included.

"It wasn't anything big," Mark said, shrugging with forced nonchalance. "Anybody else would've done the same thing."

Amber shook her head slowly, her voice quiet. "No, they wouldn't have. No one else did anything. It was just you two. Everyone else just stood there and watched. One of my friends even pulled out her phone and recorded it. But she didn't say anything. Not a word. I haven't spoken to her since."

Mark was quiet for a moment before he spoke. "...People are complicated," he said. "We're social animals. We take cues from the people around us, and when something bad happens, we assume someone else will step in. That's called the bystander effect. It sucks, but it's real. Your friend didn't speak up, no—but her video helped keep me from getting expelled. So… maybe she couldn't call him out to his face. But she did something that mattered."

Amber blinked at him, then tilted her head slightly, watching him with a new kind of curiosity. "So what makes you different, Mark Grayson?"

Mark grinned. "I'm weird. Ask William—he'll tell you."

"Oh, he's deeply weird," William jumped in, nodding solemnly. "He pours milk into the bowl before the cereal. I honestly don't even know how we're still friends."

Amber mock-gasped. "You're one of those people?"

Mark raised his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, listen. I hate soggy cereal. Can't stand it. I also hate cold milk. So I microwave the milk first, pour the cereal in after, and boom—warm, crispy, perfect breakfast."

William looked genuinely betrayed. "The Founding Fathers did not fight for this country just so you could commit breakfast crimes against humanity."

"Didn't realize cereal protocol was in the Constitution," Mark shot back with a smirk.

He was about to deliver what would surely have been a devastating rebuttal when Amber's soft laughter cut through the air. She was smiling now—really smiling. And Mark's eyes lingered on her just a second longer than they should have.

"You guys are hilarious," she said, grinning as the laughter faded. Then her expression turned thoughtful. "Hey, we've got that geography test coming up in Mr. Smithers' class. I was thinking… maybe we could study for it together tomorrow?"

She said we, but the glance she sent William's way made it very clear who she was hoping would say yes.

William didn't even hesitate. "Ah, shoot, actually I've got this thing tomorrow. Real important. Super time-consuming. Tragic, really. But hey—Mark should be free."

Mark, that was the cleanest pass I've ever given you, William thought, mentally sending prayers to the gods of teenage romance. Do. Not. Screw. This. Up.

But Mark, ever the avatar of tragic timing, just smiled apologetically. "Sorry—I've got something with my dad tomorrow. Maybe we can reschedule?"

William internally facepalmed so hard he nearly gave himself a concussion. Why, Grayson? Why?! 

Then he remembered: 

Right. Government surveillance. Cultist superdad. Active investigation. Kind of a deal-breaker.

Amber looked genuinely crestfallen, disappointment written all over her face.

But William wasn't about to let this train crash completely. 

He leaned forward with a casual grin. "You know what, Mark? That's actually a great idea. Why don't we swap numbers with Amber so we can reschedule later?"

Mark gave him a look—somewhere between reluctant amusement and "you traitor"—but he rattled off his number anyway. William followed suit, and Amber's smile returned like a sunrise. 

It wasn't a full recovery, but the moment was salvageable.

"I've gotta make a call," Mark said, standing up. "Talk to you guys later?"

Sit your dumb ass down and get a date with the girl who's literally throwing signals at you like it's a baseball game and you're standing there without a mitt.

Out loud, William just flashed a thumbs-up. "For sure, man! Catch you later!"

As soon as Mark disappeared through the cafeteria doors, Amber turned toward him, all subtlety gone.

"Is Mark dating anyone?" she asked bluntly.

William sighed and rubbed his temples. "God, I wish. Maybe he'd actually get out more if he had a girlfriend."

"So... does he just not like me? Was I weird or something?"

William shook his head. "No, no, nothing like that. Mark's just... kind of an idiot."

Amber raised a brow.

"I mean that affectionately," William added quickly. "He's smart about some things—grades, moral dilemmas, whether or not wearing a certain top is a good or bad decision—but when it comes to romance? Clueless. Completely. You've gotta be direct with him. Like, billboard-level obvious."

Amber chuckled. "That explains a lot. I actually tried to blackmail Todd into apologizing to Mark and giving him my number."

William blinked. "Wait—what?"

She waved it off like it was nothing. "Well, turns out Mark already handled that. Punched some fear into Todd or something. So now Todd just sprints the other way whenever he sees me."

William raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "What kind of blackmail are we talking here?"

Amber shrugged, casual as anything. "Just some pictures of him 'experimenting' with a couple of his middle school friends. It's not a big deal."

William's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. "Wait—Todd's gay?"

"Technically? Curious. There's a difference," Amber said with a sharp look. "And please don't tell me that suddenly makes him redeemable. He's still a meatheaded jerk, even if he does like to kiss boys sometimes."

"I-I didn't say that changes anything!" William stammered. "And besides, I'm seeing someone! I'm spoken for, kinda!"

But internally? 

A little voice whispered: Could I fix him?

He quickly shook the thought away. "Anyway—back to Mark. He's got a lot on his plate right now. His dad's stuff is... a lot. I'd like for him to have a girlfriend—someone to talk to, someone who makes him laugh, all that mushy stuff—but I don't think he's in the best headspace for that right now. Another friend, though? That couldn't hurt."

Amber's expression softened. "You're a really good friend, you know that, William?"

He shrugged, hiding a small smile. "I try."

Money was everything to Henry.

It always had been, ever since his powers came in. It wasn't about respect, or control, or putting fear in people's eyes—it was about the zeros on the check. From the first time he'd teleported, he knew exactly how he'd use that power: not for justice, not for revenge, but for profit.

He started small—moving packages for corner crews, dealing with neighborhood dealers, lifting crates for low-rung gunrunners. But he rose fast. By the time he was twenty-three, he was ferrying cargo for major players.

Bloods. Crips. Cartels. 

He moved drugs, weapons, and even bodies when needed. He didn't care. None of it mattered as long as the price was right.

And then Machine Head showed up.

The guy didn't knock. Didn't send a message. Just showed up one day, sitting in Henry's apartment like he owned the place, sipping scotch and acting like they'd known each other for years. The offer he gave wasn't something Henry had ever heard before.

One million dollars a month.

Just to keep him on retainer.

Deliveries. Escort jobs. Relocations across countries and continents.

No one else was offering that kind of money, not even close.

Henry didn't ask questions. He signed on. And for five years, he moved through the world with more money than he knew what to do with. He could've quit three years in, retired comfortably, maybe even faded into obscurity. But the greed? That never really goes away. It just whispers louder the more you try to ignore it.

And now, for the past week, it had been screaming in his ear.

One billion dollars a year.

That was the new offer.

Same job. Better pay.

 More secrets, more risks—but a payday so big it didn't even sound real.

And it wasn't just the money. It was the promise. 

"Come work for me," the new guy had texted him, "and I'll show you things Machine Head never even dreamed of. You'll stop babysitting gangsters and start seeing the real world—the freaks, the monsters, the hidden wars, all with a hefty check that I know he can't match. In two hours, you'll get a notification from your bank that shows that you've received your yearly salary under Machine Head. Take it as a token that I'm serious. "

A billion dollars wasn't just life-changing money. That was vanish off the grid money. Build your own country money. That was the kind of wealth that made seven generations of your bloodline rich without lifting a finger, even if they lived like royalty. Henry didn't have a family—didn't want one either—but just the idea of that kind of abundance? That level of indulgence? 

That was spiritual.

Truth was, the street life was starting to bore him. Too many shootouts, too many kidnappings, too many "make an example outta this guy" executions. And for what? A few more bricks moved? A couple more scared dealers handing over tribute?

No. He was tired. Tired of the same recycled drama, tired of being someone else's glorified mule.

But being a government spook? That had appeal. Clean suits. Black ops missions. Jet-setting across the world with diplomatic immunity and the power to disappear people into deep-sea trenches or lava pits if they crossed the wrong line.

Now that sounded like an upgrade.

So yeah. He'd take the deal. Machine Head had been good to him, sure—but the world was bigger than a chrome-faced crime boss in a high-rise office. It was time to cash in and step up.

One billion dollars.

He could already taste it.

For now, though, he was sitting at a beat-up bus stop in the cold morning air, pretending not to care. He was dressed low-key—no five-hundred-thousand-dollar suit today, no flashy jewelry, no flashy anything. Just a hoodie, jeans, and a pair of knockoff sneakers. Couldn't risk drawing attention.

Machine Head had eyes everywhere. Junkies, squatters, runaways—half the homeless population in Chicago worked for him. All it took was a bag of pills or a couple hundred bucks and they'd rat out their own mothers. The man didn't trust the cloud or security cams, but he trusted desperation. Desperation was cheap, loyal, and always hungry.

According to the follow-up texts he'd gotten, the spooks were finally making their move. GDA types, government operatives. Heavy hitters. Maybe the Immortal, maybe War Woman. Someone who could walk through the meat grinder Machine Head had on payroll and come out clean on the other side. That's why Henry—Isotope—was here: to meet with the feds, talk through the plan, and hand over the keys to the kingdom. 

By sundown, Machine Head would be in chains, and Henry would be halfway to his new life.

He heard the rustle before he saw him.

Someone dropped onto the bench beside him, broad-shouldered and stiff in a dark sweatshirt, the hood pulled low. There was something off—a familiarity in the shape of his frame, the weight of his presence.

"You the contact?" the man asked gruffly.

Wait a damn minute.

 He knew that voice.

Henry turned, eyebrows raised. "Titan? That you?"

The man tensed like he'd been slapped. He stood up fast, stone cracking along his knuckles, his body language defensive and full of warning.

"Isotope?! The fuck are you doing here?"

Henry's grin spread slowly, like a cat catching a mouse mid-scamper. "Nah, the fuck are you doing here, Stonehenge?" he said, voice thick with mockery. "No fucking way. You flipped, didn't you? Joined up with the feds to take down Machine Head? Tsk tsk. Naughty, Brickhead. You know what they say in our line of work—snitches get stitches."

Titan's jaw clenched as more stone crawled up his arms, fists now fully armored. "Not if I put you through a wall first."

Isotope didn't even flinch. He just leaned back lazily and raised a glowing hand, green energy pulsing across his palm. "Try your luck, pebble-boy. I'll teleport your ass so far into orbit NASA won't find you for decades."

"That's enough, both of you."

The voice cut clean through the tension like a blade. Young, sharp, and irritated.

Both men turned. Standing a few feet away was a teenager—Asian, maybe sixteen or seventeen, arms crossed, eyes cold.

Henry squinted. "Hey, kid. Fuck off. Grown-ups are talking."

Titan didn't take his eyes off Henry. "Go home, brat. You don't want to get caught up in this."

The kid didn't flinch. His posture didn't shift. His face remained unreadable, cold and calm, like he was deciding which of them he'd drop first if things went sideways.

"Isotope. Titan. Sit down," he said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. "We've got thirty minutes to make our move."

Henry stared at the kid, the cogs in his head turning, then let out a loud, incredulous laugh.

"Wait—hold on," he snorted. "Are you the contact? No way. The feds are sending kids to do black ops now? Who the hell read Alexei Rider and thought, 'yeah, that sounds like a solid government strategy'?"

"Will you shut the hell up?" Titan hissed, shooting Henry a sharp look before turning his attention to the boy. "I don't know how I feel about this. You look barely older than my daughter."

"Too bad," the boy snapped, still not raising his voice. "I'm not here to soothe your feelings. I'm here to do a job. So if the two of you could stop acting like children, I could finish said job a hell of a lot faster."

With a begrudging grunt, Titan took a seat. Henry flopped down beside him, still chuckling to himself. The kid dropped into the spot between them, now wedged between two men who could fuck him up in completely different ways—and didn't seem remotely fazed by it.

"Alright," the boy began briskly. "We're short on time, so I'll be direct. Titan—you and I are hitting Machine Head's headquarters. We'll neutralize his guards while the GDA locks down his systems. The GDA is offering you a clean slate: official employment, a generous salary, relocation benefits, and full coverage for your wife and daughter. A fresh start."

Titan frowned, jaw tight. "I've already told you. That's not enough for me. Machine Head ruined this city. If I'm going to fix what he broke, I need control. His empire, his people, all of it—"

"And why the hell would we let you have that?" the kid cut in, finally turning to look him in the eye. "Everything Machine Head owns—his money, his tech, his properties—it's all being seized. There's not going to be an empire left when we're done. We're cleaning this shit uo, not letting another person take over. And by the way, you seriously think we're going to let a guy whose only power is turning into a rock play kingpin?"

Titan's eyes narrowed, but the kid kept going, relentless.

"We're giving you a way out. A legal one. Safe. Structured. For your family. You don't like the terms? Fine. Walk. But don't pretend we owe you more than that."

Henry raised a hand lazily. "Not that I give a damn about Machine Head's fate, but… the guy was a buffer. You do realize that, right? The only reason the Order hasn't taken a bigger bite out of America is that they knew this territory was his. Take him off the board, and you're basically lighting a flare for every cartel, black-market dealer, and superpowered psycho in the hemisphere."

He wasn't exactly an expert on the Order—no one sane was—but he knew enough to stay the hell out of their way. Every single leader in that organization was a monster, each with their own twisted specialty. And at the top of that food chain? Mr. Liu. The guy who could turn into a dragon on command. Not metaphorically—literally. Starting shit with someone like that on U.S. soil wasn't just reckless, it was fucking suicidal.

"Let us worry about that," the kid said flatly, his tone hard as steel. "No one's building a fucking empire on our watch. Take the deal, or rot in prison Titan. I couldn't care less."

Titan gave a sharp huff of frustration but didn't argue. He crossed his arms, simmering.

The kid turned to Isotope. "You're going back to Machine Head like nothing happened. Act like it's business as usual. When the fight breaks out, you teleport in his superpowered goons, and then you vanish. Leave him behind. That's when your new gig officially starts."

Henry raised an eyebrow, but he shrugged. "Fine by me. As long as I'm not expected to throw myself in front of a laser beam for some noble bullshit, we're good."

Titan scowled. "Alright, but how the hell are we supposed to even get inside? Machine Head's building is stacked—top to bottom—with goons packing everything from AKs to grenade launchers. We'll be dead by the fifth floor if we don't take this seriously."

For the first time, a grin spread across the Asian kid's face, sharp and gleaming like a switchblade.

"You ever heard of a Fastball Special?"

I fucking hate this kid.

That was the only thought running through Michaels' head as he soared through the air at what felt like highway speeds. Wind screamed past his ears, and the city blurred below him—just before he crashed through the top-floor window of Machine Head's high-rise like a living wrecking ball.

Glass exploded in every direction, and the next thing he knew, he was landing square on top of one of Machine Head's goons. He heard ribs crack beneath the weight of his rock-hard body, followed by a wet, pig-like wheeze as the man crumpled beneath him.

Oops.

The rest of the room reacted about as fast as you'd expect from underpaid criminals. Five more assholes scrambled for their pistols and opened fire in a panic. Michael barely flinched. Pistol rounds were nothing. He could take a mag full of them to the chest and still keep moving. It was the anti-tank rifles he worried about—that shit would punch through even his armor if they got lucky.

He charged the first thug, delivering a punch that launched the man into the far wall with a crunch that didn't sound survivable. The second barely had time to aim before Michaels was on him, grabbing his arm and twisting until the bone snapped like dry wood. The scream that followed was almost satisfying.

He was ready to take the rest, but he didn't get the chance.

The kid—the one who'd launched him through the damn window in the first place—came swooping in. He looked different now, armored up in what was basically a sleek, leotard-style version of GDA gear. It made him look ridiculous. But the way he moved? There was nothing funny about that.

In a flash, the kid grabbed two of the remaining thugs by the collars and threw them hard enough that they crashed straight through Machine Head's expensive reinforced doors, vanishing in a shower of splinters and sparks.

The last thug, trembling, squeezed off a wild shot. It struck the kid's helmet—full coverage, matte black, no expression. The bullet pinged off the metal with a loud crack, ricocheting into the ceiling. The kid slowly turned toward him, silent.

There was no expression on that helmet. No face to read. But something about it radiated finality.

"Two choices," the kid said coldly. "Leave with a broken arm... or leave without one. Choose."

The man dropped his gun like it was on fire and bolted for the elevator, nearly tripping over his own feet.

Then the kid turned to Michael. "You ready for this?"

Beneath the rocky plates of his armored skin, Michaels grinned.

"Boy, I've been waiting for this for a long time."

Machine Head. That smug bastard had humiliated him more times than he could count. Forced him to break bones, crack skulls, and spill blood for scraps. Always under the guise of his unpaid debt. Always with that smug, modulated voice and sneering grin.

Not today.

Today, the debt gets paid back—with interest.

They walked side-by-side through the wreckage, stepping over broken furniture and shards of glass, heading straight toward Machine Head. The crime boss sat there calmly, head tilted slightly, glowing eyes unreadable behind that polished chrome mask.

Isotope stood just behind him, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised as if watching a show.

Michael narrowed his eyes beneath the layers of rocky armor shielding his face.

You better not screw us over, you teleporting two-faced son of a bitch.

Machine Head sat reclined in his absurdly expensive custom throne, chrome fingers steepled as he regarded them. His voice whirred with digitized sarcasm.

"Titan. And… who the hell are you?" he asked, tilting his metal-plated head toward the GDA operative standing next to him. "Too skinny to be Immortal. Too masculine to be War Woman. Too short to be Red Rush. You're not a Guardian, not local enforcement, and you sure as hell aren't Omni-Man. So seriously, who the hell are you? And more importantly, what's the GDA doing messing with my business?"

The boy in the dark armor didn't flinch. His voice came distorted, mechanical, like he was using some kind of vocal scrambler.

"You made it our business, Machine Head. The moment you joined the Order. That puts you on a global radar. Which means, surprise—you're under GDA jurisdiction now. We'll be bringing you somewhere you can actually be of use."

Machine Head groaned, actually dragging a metal hand down the smooth surface of his face. "Unbelievable. Who the hell snitched? I spent millions covering that up. Was it Embrace? Insomniac? I bet it was that smug bastard Liu. Damn it—assassination's back on the table! I knew I should've gone through with it last quarter!"

Titan turned sharply to the armored boy beside him. "Wait—what?! You told me he was going to jail!"

"I never said that," the boy replied with a nonchalant shrug. "I said his empire wouldn't survive today. That's not the same thing."

Machine Head chuckled. "See, now that's clever. You chose your words right, kid."

Titan looked between them, increasingly unsettled. "So what—what the hell does that mean? What are you doing with him?"

"Oh, come on," the boy said, as if it were obvious. "You think we'd waste a predictive algorithm like Machine Head's on prison time? He's useful; he can see the future. He's going to work for us."

Machine Head gave a mechanical shrug, his expression unreadable beneath polished metal. "Yeah, it's not like I can see all the futures," he said casually. "But I knew ol' Rock-for-Brains here was going to betray me eventually. Didn't think he had the guts to do it himself—and guess what? He didn't. He brought a hero. Not just any hero—a government-trained, freshly-minted mystery man."

His synthetic voice took on a mocking edge as he leaned forward.

"Honestly, I thought I was gonna be dealing with Fight Force. That would've been way easier. But you? Going to the government? That outcome barely cracked a three percent probability. And the GDA sending a rookie instead of a veteran?" He made a faux-impressed sound. "That brought it down to negative one-point-five percent. I love being surprised."

Then, with deliberate slowness, Machine Head began a condescending golf clap. The echo was like a slap to the face.

"But hey—credit where it's due. You caught me off guard. Bravo."

The smug tone in his voice vanished as he raised one hand.

"But now it's my turn."

Green rings of teleportation energy spiraled to life around Isotope's forearms, flaring brighter with each pulse. One by one, figures began materializing in the penthouse—hulking silhouettes flickering into existence like phantoms from a nightmare. Crackling weapons. Glowing eyes. Metallic footfalls. With every new arrival, Michael felt a fresh spike of dread clench his chest tighter.

Fuck.

He started counting threats like a soldier in a war zone.

Tether Tyrant? Maybe. If I can keep my distance and bait out his line, I've got a shot. Magmaniac? No goddamn way—his body's too unstable and dnagerous. Furnace I can probably handle if I close the gap fast enough, but… shit—Kursk?! Kursk fights Red Rush for fun!

Then his eyes drifted toward the towering feline figure at the back—white fur, rippling muscle, gold-plated weapon gripped tightly in massive claws, and a grin sharp enough to bleed. The kind of grin that came from someone who liked what was coming next.

And I don't even know who the fuck that guy is… but anyone smiling before a fight usually means one of two things: either they're crazy—or they're strong enough that being crazy doesn't matter. Hell, probably both. 

Shit. 

I might not make it out of this one alive.

Before the spiral of panic could take him further, the kid's voice cut through the air like a blade, calm and curious.

"Hey, quick question before we start," he said, stretching like someone about to go for a jog—not into a deathmatch. "How'd you find him?"

He gestured casually toward the white-furred brute in the back. The lion-man didn't speak, but his grin widened—teeth flashing in the light like polished ivory.

Machine Head leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming with synthetic boredom. "Weird thing to ask, considering you're about to die, but sure. Why not? I'll humor you."

He gestured lazily toward the group.

"You remember that three-day shitshow in Chicago? When those green bastards tried turning the city into paste? Third day in, Guardians were throwing buildings at each the fuckers, chaos everywhere—and my guys found this one." He nodded at the lion-man. "Landed in a busted little pod in the lake near my turf. Made some waves. Literally."

Machine Head chuckled to himself.

"Figured he was worth checking out. Had Isotope port him in. Dumbass tried to rip my throat out until I offered him something better: stronger prey. Told him Earth was crawling with freaks who thought they were strong. He liked that. Guess he's been mine ever since. That's story time. Ready to die now?"

The kid finished his stretches and rolled his shoulders once. "Thanks. Explains why no one noticed—everyone was too busy fighting aliens to look at the lake."

Then his tone dropped like a blade.

"Now… I'll only say this once."

CRACK.

A sonic boom tore through the room as every window exploded outward, glass screaming into the air. There was a flash of black and green—a blur of motion so fast it left afterimages in its wake—and then chaos.

Screams. Bones breaking. Sparks. Shattered walls.

The whole thing took less than three seconds.

When the dust settled, the kid was standing in front of Machine Head's desk. Calm. Composed. Not even breathing hard.

Around him, the room was carnage.

Tether Tyrant lay tangled in his own tentacles, twitching. Furnace's armor was torn open, the man inside slumped against the wall like spilled liquid fire. Kursk was embedded in the floor, smoke rising from his back. Magmaniac was—somehow—bisected, his molten torso crawling toward the shattered door.

Michael stared in horror.

The kid wiped the blood from his knuckles on the lapel of Machine Head's pristine white suit, leaving a smearing streak across the silk.

"Surrender," he said flatly, his voice ice-cold. "Or I bury you next."

"How impressive."

The voice came from the cat-man.

Gravel laced with iron—The thing's voice wasn't something you heard so much as felt, thrumming in your ribs like the growl of an engine.

"I've never seen such speed," it said, stepping forward, the weight of him making the ground creak under his massive feet. "And such restraint. You forced them all to sleep instead of killing them. That's discipline. You have been trained, unlike this rabble."

He tilted his head, silver mane rippling in the breeze. "Tell me, warrior—what is your name?"

To Titan's surprise, the boy hesitated. Just for a second. Then he turned toward the towering cat-beast and pressed a button on the side of his neck. A hiss of air escaped as the seams of his mask split open. The metal faceplate retracted with a soft click, revealing a lean jawline, a firm mouth, and a cowl that framed the upper half of his face. Green-tinted goggles glowed faintly over his eyes.

"My name…" the boy said, voice quiet but steady, "...is Invincible."

A low, rumbling sound built in the lion-man's throat—a satisfied growl, primal and pleased.

"Invincible," he repeated, savoring the syllables like a predator tasting fresh blood on the air. "A bold name. I will be happy to test the truth of it."

His massive mace slid into his hand like it had always been waiting there.

"Come then, boy," it growled, his jagged fangs gleaming with anticipation. His voice carried the certainty of a predator, deep and thunderous. "Show me the strength of your planet. I am Battle Beast—and I will grant you a glorious death!"

Michael made the mistake of believing he had a chance.

His thoughts raced even faster than his fists: I haven't done enough. Not for the GDA, not for my family. The kid's done all the heavy lifting. If I can't get Machine Head's empire, the least I can do is prove I'm worth something. One good hit. That's all I need.

He launched himself forward, fists coated in stone. He drove a brutal left hook into Battle Beast's side, followed by a right cross that had once caved in a grown man's skull like papier-mâché.

Battle Beast didn't move.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't even blink.

"Adorable," he purred.

Then came the backhand.

A blur of motion—Michael didn't even see it. One second he was upright, the next his vision exploded into white-hot pain. His stone armor cracked and crumbled like pottery, and he flew through a concrete wall into the next room with the force of a wrecking ball. Dust and rubble rained down on him. 

He couldn't breathe. 

Couldn't think. 

For a full two minutes, he wondered if he were already dead.

But then the sound hit him.

The thudding impact of fists striking flesh. The snarling of two titans locked in violence. And beneath it all, a deep vibration that made the floor tremble—walls groaning, lights flickering.

He forced himself up, every muscle screaming, just in time to see Invincible.

The kid was holding his own—for now. He was bleeding from a gash above his eye, his lip split and his ribs bruised, but he didn't back down. He charged, slamming his shoulder into Battle Beast's chest, sending both of them crashing through another support pillar. Concrete dust filled the air like fog.

"You need to leave!" Invincible shouted mid-swing, dodging a savage claw swipe. "Now! Before we bring the whole building down!"

Then he disappeared in a blur of motion—only to reappear behind Battle Beast, latching onto the alien's neck. His teeth sank in hard, desperate, futile.

Battle Beast let out a deep, guttural chuckle. "Oh? You're trying to bite me?"

With terrifying ease, he reached back, seized Invincible by the throat, and slammed him to the floor. The impact cratered the concrete beneath them, the sound echoing like a bomb going off. Invincible gasped, stunned. He barely had time to cough before Battle Beast hoisted him up again—massive arms coiling around him like a bear trap.

"You call that a bite?" Battle Beast sneered. "This is how you bite."

He sank his teeth into Invincible's shoulder, deep—too deep. The boy's scream wasn't human. Blood poured from the wound, staining the creature's fur, and still Battle Beast bit down harder, shaking him like a wolf with a carcass.

Michael—Titan—watched in stunned horror. Dust floated through the flickering lights. The room smelled like iron and ash. And in that moment, through the haze of pain and the sound of bone cracking, one thing became absolutely, terrifyingly clear:

This fight wasn't going to end well.

​

Chapter Text

Kaiju were an anomaly.

A terrifying, magnificent one.

They were first documented in ancient texts originating from the continent of Asia, legends of titanic monsters passed down as myth and folklore.

 But the truth was far stranger than fiction. 

These massive, prehistoric beasts—some the size of mountains—weren't products of nuclear fallout or science experiments gone wrong. They were relics from an older world; dinosaurs, in a sense. Not the ones children marveled over in textbooks or museums, but predators that had endured extinction itself.

When the asteroid came, it wiped out most of life on Earth. Most. A few of these titans, resilient and biologically unique, didn't die. Instead, they retreated into the planet's crust, buried beneath layers of ash and ice, slipping into hibernation. For centuries, they slumbered while the Earth healed and humanity rose. But as mankind advanced, so did their thirst for energy. Nuclear power plants, geothermal drilling, urban expansion, and—most of all—climate change began to stir them.

Radiation, seismic activity, and heat.

These were not just byproducts of civilization; they were a wake-up call.

And now, one of those long-forgotten titans was awake once more, hungry and furious.

Immortal grunted as a massive tentacle coiled around his torso and tried to crush the breath from his lungs. He fought back, gritting his teeth and punching into the slimy appendage with all the strength he had. The kaiju roared—if the hideous, garbled sound it made could be called a roar—and the tentacle snapped back, slamming him against the shattered and charred remnants of what had once been a thriving forest.

The thing stood at least eighty feet tall, possibly taller, hunched on all fours. Its body was built like a truck stacked on top of a tank: thick, muscular limbs covered in glistening dark green scales, with a paler, sickly underside. Dozens of yellow, whip-like tentacles sprouted from its head, writhing like worms and masking its grotesque mouth. Behind them lurked a nightmare maw: massive, square teeth layered in front, backed by serrated rows of razor-sharp fangs. White spikes the size of cars jutted from its back and shoulders, making it nearly impossible to climb or flank without serious injury.

Two hours.

Two goddamn hours and the damn thing was still on its feet.

They had thrown everything at it. He, War Woman, and Omni-Man had taken turns launching themselves at it like living missiles, aiming for joints, tendons, and the neck. Red Rush had abandoned melee tactics entirely, and now lobbed miniature explosives—grenades the size of marbles—that Darkwing had supplied at its body. Darkwing, high above in the Wingjet, strafed the beast with machine gun fire, missiles, and energy pulses. Martian Man had gone full combat morph, assuming the form of a dragon-like creature to wrestle the kaiju physically. Green Ghost phased the beast's limbs into the earth when she could, trying to limit its movement.

Aquarius wasn't here today; he was working on getting the Depth Dweller screed recording for Cecil, a process he said would take several days. It was unfortunate, since Aquarius had the power to command creatures of the sea, though it wasn't a power he used often. Perhaps they could have driven it into the water if he were here.

Still, Immortal couldn't help but wonder—why was this taking so long?

He grunted again as War Woman soared past him, delivering a massive strike to the beast's underbelly, making it stagger. Blood sprayed across the field—thick, dark, and oily—but still, the kaiju did not fall.

And Omni-Man…

Immortal narrowed his eyes.

He was hitting harder than anyone. That much was obvious. He'd even knocked the thing over, a few times. But that didn't add up. Omni-Man had flattened powerful villains in seconds. He had forced the Flaxans to submit in less than an hour. He had once destroyed an entire mountain during a particularly brutal fight.

So why was this fight dragging out? After showing them the gulf between him and them, shouldn't he be flaunting that strength at every opportunity? Did he think they would forget the titanic strength he had shown off?

Immortal had watched the kaiju hurl Omni-Man into a crater deep enough to swallow a bus. It certainly looked convincing, like he was struggling against the beast the same way they were.

But then again, so had everything else Omni-Man had ever faked.

Was he holding back?

And if so… why?

Was it to lull them into a false sense of security, so when he inevitably used his strength against them, they would underestimate him?

The question still echoed in his mind even as he lunged forward once more—bloodied, but far from broken. Each motion sent fresh pain flaring through his arms, but he powered through it, hurling himself back into the fray with the same stubborn defiance that had kept him alive for thousands of years.

Would Omni-Man be able to handle this thing alone if the rest of them weren't here?

It wasn't the first time that they'd faced a kaiju. Far from it. But this one—this writhing, bone-armored abomination was unlike anything they'd fought in years. Stronger than most kaiju, smarter than many, and angrier than any they'd ever had to deal with. 

Was it their combined strength keeping the beast just barely off-balance? Or had they all underestimated it from the beginning?

The thought dissolved as a barbed tentacle lashed toward him, once again wrapping around his torso with crushing force. He snarled, twisted, and tore himself free, ripping the appendage off with a savage jerk. Gore sprayed the blood-drenched battlefield as he soared backward, gaining a few precious seconds of distance. That's when the earpiece crackled to life—surprisingly still functional, despite the abuse he'd endured.

"Immortal," came Cecil's voice, terse and direct, "you still in Newfoundland?"

He gritted his teeth as he dodged another swipe from the creature's massive claw, then drove his fist into the beast's eye. It shrieked and reeled, but the blow didn't do much—just bought him time.

"We're a bit busy here, Cecil!" Immortal growled, his tone edged with frustration. He flew upward, scanning for any weak point, any opportunity. Maybe if he broke through the upper atmosphere, built up enough velocity, he could hit it hard enough to stun it. But he wasn't sure how long that would take, or how long the others could hold out without him.

Then again… Omni-Man could do it faster. Higher. Harder. As much as it pained him to admit, the man's strength dwarfed his own. To go from the strongest man in the world, the first man to fly, to needing the help of an alien...it was sobering.

"We need you and the Guardians back in Chicago," Cecil said.

Immortal blinked. "Chicago? Why? What's going on?"

"It's Invincible," Cecil replied. His voice was grim now. "He's in trouble."

Immortal narrowed his eyes. "Invincible is a capable fighter. He's held his own against War Woman, Red Rush, and me during our sparring sessions. You were also confident he could handle our 'problem.' What's could he possibly be fighting that needs all of us to intervene?"

"Right now," Cecil said over the comms, his voice taut with urgency, "he's facing something worse than our 'problem.' Something a lot tougher and much nastier. And he's getting his ass kicked on national television, which certainly isn't the way I wanted to debut him."

Immortal's jaw clenched, the creases on his brow deepening.

"And what of the giant kaiju tearing through Newfoundland?" he asked, his tone clipped.

There was a pause on the line.

"Let Omni-Man handle it. That thing's not enough to bring him down. But Invincible needs you more than Nolan does right now."

Immortal exhaled heavily through his nose. "Understood. Please inform the Guardians. I'll let Omni-Man know we're pulling out."

Another thunderous boom rattled the ground beneath him, and a plume of dust surged into the air. At the heart of the crater, half-buried in rubble, Nolan grunted and rolled onto his side. Dirt coated his costume, and blood ran in a thin trickle from his temple, and yet the Viltrumite looked more irritated than injured.

It should've been concerning, seeing the strongest of them all this hurt. Instead, it was... satisfying.

Petty? Perhaps. But satisfying all the same.

Immortal descended, landing at the rim of the crater with practiced ease.

"Omni-Man."

Nolan sat up with a low groan, rotating his shoulder until it cracked. "Immortal. Tell me Darkwing's cooked up something good to put this overgrown calamari platter down?"

"Unfortunately, not. Situation's changed. We've got another emergency. We're needed elsewhere."

Nolan stood fully now, floating up to meet him at eye level, arms folded. "You think I can finish this thing alone?"

Immortal gave a curt nod. "I do. I suspect you've been holding back, to avoid turning one of us into red mist by mistake, I imagine. If we leave, you can cut loose and attack it freely without needing to be careful."

Nolan considered this, his eyes following the distant movement of the monster as it crashed through a ridge. "Fair point. If I don't have to babysit anyone, I can end this quickly. Just keep everyone else out of the blast radius."

"We'll owe you, for this one" Immortal said. "I'll even bring you a beer."

That earned a rare grin from Nolan. "As long as it's not that German piss-water you keep bragging about."

Immortal's eyes narrowed slightly. "You mean the lager I crafted personally, two hundred years ago, in post-Napoleonic Bavaria—after one of my wives died —and I brewed it in her memory?"

Nolan shrugged, completely unfazed. "Yeah, that one. Tastes like sour mop water. Should've made her a wine. Classier. More romantic."

Immortal didn't respond right away.

He couldn't even bring himself to be angry. Not really; Nolan's tactlessness had long since stopped stinging, with them excusing it as him being from another planet and culture. What bothered him more was the truth behind the silence that followed.

He barely remembered her.

He remembered she had golden hair that she kept in a braid, the way her laughter echoed in beer halls, the smell of soft pretzels clinging to her apron. He remembered how she loved the snow—how she'd twirl with joy in the first snowfall each year.

But her face was gone. 

Her name was a whisper lost in time.

Had they had children? A family together?

He wasn't sure.

Centuries had buried the details in the same way war and grief buried the cities, towns, and kingdoms he had once lived in and conquered. All that remained was the faint echo of warmth... and a lager that Nolan thought tasted like piss.

"Take it or leave it, Nolan," Immortal muttered, crouching into a ready squat. He didn't need to fly off just yet, but it gave him something to do — something that didn't involve eye contact.

"Fine," Nolan replied, tone too casual, too measured. "How about this: You bring your shitty beer. I'll bring something that won't melt paint off steel. And we can talk about the new kid on the scene — Invincible."

Immortal's heart skipped a beat.

"I haven't been told anything official, of course, since I'm just a reservist," Nolan said, nonchalantly — too nonchalantly. "But his name's starting to echo wherever I go. You talk about him. War Woman talks about him. Red Rush talks about him. Even Cecil can't stop talking about him. You guys talk about him when it seems that you think I'm not listening. You whisper about him to each other while you fly overhead, like schoolchildren gossiping between missions, or you talk about him in rooms away from me when we're at Headquarters."

He slowly floated a little bit closer. "You talk about how fast he's getting. How much stronger he is now than when you started. About how he might be better than the entire Guardians team put together."

Immortal didn't respond. He couldn't. Nolan's eyes were on him now, cold and calculating, like a scalpel pressed against his ribs.

"And now," Nolan continued, voice low and laced with something too close to contempt, "your little wonder project is in so much trouble, the entire roster of Guardians of the Globe have to be called in for backup."

Behind them, another explosion split the sky. A missile from the Wingjet collided with the kaiju they'd been wrestling, drawing another earth-shaking roar from the beast. But Immortal didn't look.

Couldn't.

His eyes were locked on Nolan's.

"You should let me have an afternoon with the kid," Nolan said with a drawl, as if proposing a game of catch. "Show him how to brawl. Test his limits. See if he's really worth the hype."

Immortal forced himself to breathe evenly. Keep calm. Don't let him see it.

 "That's Cecil's call," he said, the words dry in his throat. "Far as I know, the kid's a GDA asset."

Nolan scoffed. "Ah. So one of Cecil's faceless hollow men finally gained powers. Wonderful." He turned away like the conversation had finally bored him. "Go play savior, then. Help Cecil's new poster boy. I'll catch up once I'm finished here."

Immortal nodded stiffly, then kicked off into the sky, flanked by the rest of the Guardians.

Darkwing's jet followed close behind.

Behind them, a thunderous boom cracked across the battlefield. Immortal turned, just in time to see the kaiju they'd spent hours battering — the one that had tanked their hardest hits — go airborne as Nolan collided with it like a living missile. The beast screamed, the impact tossing it across the terrain like a rag doll. When it hit the ground, the earth shuddered. A shockwave rippled through the air, rattling his ribs even at this distance.

They'd been fighting that thing for two hours.

Two hours, and Nolan flattened it like it was nothing.

And now Cecil said Invincible needed all of them to back him up, when he was supposed to be on par with Nolan?

Immortal swallowed hard as the cold wind screamed past his ears.

So who the hell is this kid fighting?

His claws sank deep into flesh, tearing through muscle with a satisfying resistance. Blood spilled freely, hot and metallic against the cool

air. A split-second later, a fist hammered into his gut, driving the breath from his lungs and cracking a rib. He grunted, more surprised than hurt, before retaliating with a savage knee that slammed into the boy's face, snapping his head back with bone-jarring force.

But the child didn't fall.

No—he recovered. He adapted. He dipped under the next swipe of Thokk's claws and drove his elbow straight into Thokk's nose. Something cracked. The world became the copper taste of blood, the warm sting of iron in his nostrils.

And Thokk… laughed.

Oh, stars above and lights below, it had been so long.

How many years had it been since he'd felt this kind of pain? Since his bones had sung with the ache of combat? Since he had bled and bled and bled—not because of weakness, but because someone was finally worthy?

He had ravaged worlds. Laid waste to champions and so-called warriors, each proclaiming themselves their planet's greatest. He had been burned by solar flares, struck with weapons forged in the cores of dying stars, drowned in oceans of plasma—and yet, he had walked away each time, bored, unchallenged, untouched.

They had called him cursed.

Unkillable.

Eternal.

And for centuries, it was a curse. To never taste true combat. To never hurt. To never hope for death.

But this boy.

This child of 'Earth' had endured his wrath. Had countered his might. Had drawn his blood and returned his pain with interest. Every strike was a gift. Every wound, a sacred hymn to the art of war. The boy overextended on a right hook, and Thokk seized the opportunity, roaring with manic joy as he tackled the boy through the concrete floor, the impact shattering steel and stone alike.

Debris rained down around them.

He laughed, loud and echoing, filled with exhilaration. How rare, to fight someone who could take a blow and still stand. How precious, to face an enemy who didn't break on the first hit.

The boy groaned, then kicked him off with a grunt of effort, ending up on one knee. He spat a thick gob of blood to the side and looked up, eyes blazing.

Thokk's grin widened, his fangs slick with fresh blood as his tongue ran over them, savoring the coppery tang.

Yes.

Finally, an opponent worth remembering.

Across from him, the boy slid into a firm, grounded stance—shoulders loose, fists clenched, feet braced. There was no hesitation, no trembling. He met Thokk's eyes and gave a slight nod, as if inviting him to make the first move.

What a beautiful, arrogant gesture.

Thokk couldn't possibly refuse.

With a roar that shook the rafters, Thokk lunged, claws flashing as he aimed to tear the boy's face in half. But just as his swing connected with empty air, the boy blurred forward—an explosion of speed and precision.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Five concussive blows slammed into Thokk's chest and ribs in rapid succession. The impacts reverberated through his bones like war drums before the boy darted away, staying just out of reach.

Thokk staggered back, laughed, then spat out a bloody wad onto the cracked stone floor.

"Excellent!" he thundered, his voice echoing through the ruined chamber. "This is the kind of power I've hunted across a thousand worlds! The kind of power that can kill me!"

The boy surged forward again, another brutal assault locked and ready, but Thokk was waiting.

This time, he caught him.

With a roar loud enough to send lesser men fleeing in terror, he drove his fist into the boy's face. The force sent him flying across the room, slamming into the far wall so hard that cracks split the surface like a spider's web.

But the boy didn't stay down.

Before the dust even settled, he was on his feet again, that impossible speed carrying him forward like a thunderbolt.

He circled Thokk in a blur of movement—a living hurricane of fury. Blazing kicks battered his knees, fists pounded into his torso, and elbows crushed into his back and ribs. Each blow was fierce on its own, but together they formed a relentless, punishing rhythm.

And yet, Thokk remained standing. This was what he was made for, after all.

With a snarl, he dropped to one knee and drove both fists into the floor.

The ground exploded beneath them.

They plunged through the crumbling structure, crashing through to the level below—just in time for Thokk to tackle the boy midair. He laughed once more, like a beast unleashed.

Then came the punches.

One after another. Earth-shattering, bone-breaking, and utterly merciless.

One punch—another floor.

Another punch—another floor.

Another punch—another floor.

"Do NOT surrender!" Thokk bellowed as the impact of his fists shattered them through another floor beneath them. "You've come this far! You dared to tempt me with a true battle! Do not—DO NOT—die before it has begun!"

When they finally came to a stop, the boy was broken, bloodied, and battered. His face was a mess—his nose shattered, blood pouring down his lips. One eye had swollen shut, his skin mottled with deep purple bruises and glistening crimson cuts.

And yet...

The fire in his remaining eye had not dimmed. If anything, it burned brighter. A quiet, terrifying defiance.

The boy spat directly in Thokk's face—blood and saliva splashing across his eyes.

Thokk paused, stunned—not by pain, but by the sheer audacity of the act.

And in that fraction of a second—that single blink of hesitation—

The boy moved.

With a twist of his hips and a primal, guttural roar, Invincible surged upward like a launched missile. In an instant, it was Battle Beast who found himself on his back, the weight of the boy slamming into him like a meteor. Invincible straddled him, fists crashing down in a relentless storm, each blow striking with the weight of righteous fury and raw desperation. Concrete shattered beneath them as they were driven through not one, but three more floors, the world reduced to dust and chaos.

And Thokk laughed again.

Even with blood running down his jaw and the boy's knuckles splitting against his cheek, the lion-headed warrior laughed—a deep, savage sound that reverberated through the wreckage like a war drum.

With a sudden roar of exertion, Battle Beast raised his paw and clamped it around the boy's face. Muscles coiled like steel cables, and with a brutal heave, he reversed their positions once again. Thokk slammed Invincible into the ground, his opponent's body cracking the floor beneath him.

"Excellent!" Battle Beast howled, his maw split into a blood-slick grin. "Even bruised and broken, you adapt! You learn, mid-battle! You grow stronger!" He gripped Invincible by the collar and hauled him to his feet with one hand, like a sparring partner rather than a hated foe. "It is you, isn't it? You're the one destined to kill me!"

And with that proclamation, he hurled the boy like a cannonball through the nearest wall. The structure gave way instantly, and Invincible sailed out into the open street, skidding in a cloud of pulverized concrete and twisted rebar.

Battle Beast stepped through the jagged hole in the wall and blinked, registering their new surroundings. Ah—they had reached the ground floor at last. Civilians were screaming, scattering in all directions like ants. His eyes tracked the body of Invincible as it crashed through the façade of a nearby building, glass and steel collapsing around him.

Good, Thokk thought with approval. At least here, on Earth, the weak knew when to flee. They had enough sense to recognize a true battle and leave it to warriors. That, at least, was something to respect.

He rolled his shoulders, cracking a stubborn joint in his neck that had been nagging him for the last several blows. As the tension released, his gaze fell upon a familiar shape lying amid the rubble near him.

His mace, partially buried beneath shattered stone, its handle gleaming like a beacon of war.

A growl of satisfaction escaped his throat.

The boy had disarmed him earlier, which was clever, and had made their bout a bit fairer. But war was not about fairness.

War was about victory.

And it would not be honorable to fight with anything less than everything he had.

Gripping the weapon with one massive hand, Thokk lifted it from the debris and rested it against his shoulder. The weight felt perfect in his grasp once more.

"Now," Thokk murmured, eyes glowing with quiet malice as he stalked toward the ruined building. "Let us continue."

He had barely taken a single step before something slammed into him—hard.

The impact was catastrophic. The street beneath him shattered into rubble as if a meteor had struck, and his massive body was hurled face-first into the broken concrete. Cracks spiderwebbed across the pavement in every direction, dust rising in thick clouds. Despite the force, however, he kept his grip on his weapon, fingers curled tightly around the haft of his war mace.

With a guttural snarl, Thokk rose from the crater, fury burning in his eyes. He turned toward the ones who dared to interfere, and his vision locked onto a quartet of figures standing like sentinels at the far end of the ruined avenue.

At the front stood a tall man with jet-black hair and piercing steel-blue eyes, his presence radiating quiet command. His frame was broad-shouldered and muscular, every inch of him shaped like a warrior. He wore a blue jumpsuit marked by a vertical yellow stripe running up his chest, terminating at a golden ring around his neck that gave the illusion of a bold "I". White and yellow markings circled his knees and shoulders, matching the gloves and boots that completed the uniform.

Beside him was a  woman with twin braids tied with gold bands. She wore a flowing azure cape that whipped in the wind, and golden armor with brown trim that covered her chest, legs, and forearms, leaving only her biceps and shoulders bare. In her hands she gripped a mace—round-headed and simple in design, like a ball on a stick.

A third figure stood slightly behind them—a man in a red skintight suit with stylized initials printed across his chest: "RЯ." His visor glinted crimson under the sun, obscuring his eyes but doing little to hide the confidence in his stance. Something about him just seemed to evoke speed.

And then there was the fourth: an alien, clearly not of this Earth. Its skin was an unusual pale olive tone, and its elongated rectangular head bore no hair, only two yellow eyes that pulsed with unnatural energy. It wore a segmented suit colored in pale yellow and soft violet, trimmed in white. Its limbs were long and sinuous, and it hovered slightly above the ground, as if gravity itself did not fully apply.

"Green Ghost and Darkwing are occupied with the evacuation. Aquarius is still in Atlantis," the tall man said calmly. "That rules out Alpha through Gamma formations."

A smirk crossed his face as his hands curled into fists. "Guardians, execute Formation Heta!"

They moved in perfect unison.

The alien shot forward first, its form elongating mid-air like liquid rubber. In seconds it had wrapped around Thokk's torso and limbs, binding his arms to his sides in a crushing hold. Thokk struggled against the alien's coils, but before he could so much as wrench one arm free—

WHAM!

The woman's mace collided with his jaw, followed immediately by a devastating punch to his gut from the black-haired leader. The blows stung, but he did not have time to retaliate before the red blur darted past him.

Something coarse and gritty filled his mouth—he gagged, choking as a handful of powdered concrete and debris was flung directly into his throat. The speedster skidded to a halt beside the others, grinning smugly.

Thokk staggered, coughing, blinded by dust and momentarily disoriented. That was when his right leg was swept out from under him by another crimson blur—too fast to follow—sending him crashing to one knee with a roar of rage.

The Guardians encircled him like seasoned hunters—precise, coordinated, ruthless. There was a calculated sharpness to their movements, a clarity born from long experience in battle. It might have impressed him, even earned a sliver of respect.

If only their blows hurt.

If they struck with even a fraction more force—enough to make him flinch, to make him feel—perhaps he would have deemed them worthy challengers. But they hadn't come to fight honorably. They had interrupted a sacred blood duel. And worse, they hadn't even been strong enough to deserve the right to do so.

With a guttural roar, Thokk twisted his massive arms outward, muscles flexing like steel cables. The creature that had been binding him—a writhing thing of flesh and subtle strength—let out a shriek before collapsing to the floor in a tangled, twitching heap. Free once more, he surged forward like a battering ram.

The woman met his charge, swinging her mace with practiced brutality. He blocked her strike with a single hand, catching the weapon on the shaft of his own. With his free hand, he seized her by the skull and slammed her into the ruined ground. The crack of impact echoed like a bell, her body limp beneath the weight of his fury.

Then came the blur.

The man in the red suit darted around him like lightning, striking with featherlight jabs to the chest, the ribs, the jaw. Slightly faster than Invincible, yes—but far weaker. A buzzing insect compared to the blows of Invincible.

Thokk had studied Invincible's fighting style in their brief but violent clash. This one lacked even a fourth of the raw power the other man had possessed, but fought as if he possessed the same level of strength. No real threat.

So he waited.

As the red blur approached again, Thokk dropped low, then lashed out with a brutal sideways swing of his mace. The weapon connected with a sickening crunch, shattering the speedster's shins into bloodied splinters of flesh and bone. The man collapsed mid-scream, agony spilling from his throat like a death rattle.

Thokk didn't care. He didn't even look at the fallen speedster—just lifted his mace, licked the streak of blood across the head, and raised an eyebrow at the taste.

Oddly sweet.

Then came the shout, full of righteousness and fury.

"You monster!" bellowed the man in a blue-and-white suit, his voice cracking with rage. "You'll pay for what you've done!"

Ah. This is the brave one.

Thokk turned to face him, unimpressed. The man surged forward, fists raised high like a brawler drunk on grief. The first haymaker sailed past his head. The second was slower—sloppier.

Thokk dodged both effortlessly. Then he retaliated.

A punch to the gut made the man double over with a wheeze, his breath escaping in a choking gasp. Thokk followed up with a savage uppercut from his mace, the impact sending the man hurtling into the air like a ragdoll.

He crashed down somewhere in the distance, unmoving.

Thokk stood amidst the fallen, breathing heavily through flared nostrils. These insects had dared to interrupt a warrior's duel—a sacred rite of combat. 

Now, they would all pay for that insult. And he would make them bleed.

"YOU ARE SUCH A FUCKING MAN-WHORE! I CAN'T FUCKING BELIEVE YOU!"

"IT'S NOT MY FAULT! YOU'RE ALWAYS OFF DOING SOMETHING ELSE—WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WHEN I'M HERE ALL BY MYSELF? AND DON'T ACT LIKE I DON'T SEE YOU GETTING ALL COSY WITH YOUR 'LAB PARTNER!'"

"HOW ABOUT NOT JUMPING INTO SOMEONE ELSE'S BED BECAUSE I HAVE A PROJECT DUE?! AND I TOLD YOU—BRAD IS MY PARTNER FOR THAT PROJECT! I, UNLIKE YOU, DON'T NEED TO SLEEP WITH EVERYONE I MEET!"

Things had been going well. Relatively speaking, of course.

By Rudy's count, it had been six months, two weeks, and four days since Eve and Rex last had a serious argument. That, of course, excluded the dozens—no, hundreds, really of minor skirmishes between the two: debates over Rex's lack of hygiene, Rex's unhealthy eating habits, Rex's inability to fold a shirt or put dishes in the sink, or his compulsive tendency to eat all of Eve's prepped meals despite clear labeling on who it belonged to. Those disagreements rarely lasted longer than twenty-four hours and were considered minor fluctuations in the complex and volatile system that was their relationship.

But this? This was another full-scale blowout. And, as always, Rex was the catalyst—this time, over his consistent inability to remain...exclusive.

This was one of the times where Rudy struggled to understand the actions of those around him. He could simulate emotion, predict behavioral patterns, and even extrapolate psychological motives from raw data.

But human romantic attachments? These continued to elude him.

From a purely logical standpoint, Eve Wilkins was what most would consider an ideal partner. Physically attractive, according to common beauty standards. Intellectually advanced—her powers granting her a natural aptitude for atomic-level manipulation, which she only occasionally tapped into, but always with incredible precision. Morally aligned with a strong sense of justice. Compassionate, driven, emotionally resilient. According to Teen Team polls and monitored online chatter, she ranked in the top percentile for popularity and perceived desirability (Rudy personally monitored all social channels, particularly any adult-leaning content involving Eve and the members of the Teen. Anyone over the age of twenty who expressed predatory interest in his teammates was flagged and reported to the relevant authorities. He did not tolerate pedophiles).

Given all of this, she should, statistically, have no shortage of viable partners.

So why did she keep returning to Rex Splode?

Now Rex… Rex was, in many ways, Rudy's opposite. Loud. Crude. Impulsive. Seemingly allergic to basic manners or long-term planning. And yet, even Rudy had to admit, beneath the surface flaws, Rex was a decent person.

His history was difficult: sold off by his parents, experimented on by a covert agency and trained as a living weapon. And despite that, or perhaps because of it, Rex had chosen the path of heroism.

He was powerful—his hands contained finely-tuned kinetic charging weapons with virtually no maintenance demands. Given the right motivation, he could potentially be as dangerous as the Mauler Twins, if not more so. He was stubborn, reckless, but undeniably brave. He threw himself into danger with little hesitation. He never hesitated to shield his teammates, even if it was with his own body. He fought hard, and he fought dirty if he had to.

Rex Splode lacked refinement, but he possessed undeniable resilience.

And yet, despite this backbone, he seemed almost pathologically inclined toward self-sabotage. Atom Eve rarely demanded much from him. She was accommodating to a fault—willing to listen, to offer him food, to launder his clothing, and to care for him in ways that went far beyond what was required of a teammate or even a partner who wasn't married to him. She gave him space, tolerance, and patience. 

In return, Rex followed a depressingly consistent behavioral pattern.

Whenever their relationship entered a stable period—when mutual affection and comfort should have solidified into something durable—Eve's attention would naturally shift toward her civilian responsibilities: family obligations, academic work, and professional ambitions. And Rex, seemingly unable to tolerate even the perception of neglect, would spiral. He would grow irritable. He would insist on going out, under the guise of 'blowing off steam.' Then came the drinking. And, inevitably, the infidelity. One to three anonymous women (all of them able to consent and all of them over the age of consent, thank god), brought to a hotel or followed to their residences. Physical intimacy without thought or meaning.

And as always, Eve would find out.

What followed was predictably volatile. Heated arguments that stretched for hours, until both of their voices were hoarse and cracked. Occasionally, Eve's powers would flare—objects hurled with emotional weight, transformed mid-flight to crash harmlessly nearby or explode in bursts of pink light and matter. Rex never fought back. He could have; his powers were more than capable of countering hers, even in emotional outbursts. But he didn't. He only dodged.

That, to Rudolph, was telling. It meant Rex felt guilty. On some level, he knew what he'd done and chose not to defend it.

The next phase of the cycle was silence. Estrangement. Cold distance on the battlefield and in civilian life. Communication reduced to terse words and avoided eye contact. Until one of them was injured in action—sometimes severely. The other, still emotionally tethered, would show up. Would tend to wounds. 

Apologize, or make promises that both knew would be broken. 

Cry. Kiss. Sleep beside them.

Then, without fail, it would begin again.

To Rudolph, the cycle was not only frustrating—it was illogical and deeply aggravating. Why did Eve persist in returning to someone who demonstrated such disregard for her emotional wellbeing? Why did Rex repeat the same behaviors, knowing full well they would hurt her?

Why didn't they both accept the truth and sever ties permanently, seeking out partners better aligned with their values and needs?

And yet, despite his clinical disdain for the dysfunction, a deeper layer of resentment simmered beneath his observations.

Rex had everything Rudolph lacked. A strong, attractive body that functioned without assistance. The public's adoration, earned through charisma and spectacle. And, perhaps most painful of all, he had someone—Eve—who saw every selfish, brutish, immature flaw in him… and still tried to see the good.

It made a cruel sort of sense, in hindsight, why his alternate self had chosen Rex's DNA. It was not logical.

 It was emotional. 

Jealousy. 

Human.

And it stung all the more because Rudolph understood it perfectly.

He had calculated and understood the probability from the beginning: Mark Grayson was most likely manipulating him. That had been apparent from their first meeting. The boy had pushed hard on emotional rapport—words like brother, friend, partner. It was clear that Mark had goals, ambitions tied to Earth's survival and long-term prosperity, and he believed that Rudy could be instrumental in achieving them. And so, in their very first interaction, Mark had laid out a flawless offer: a body, capable of superhuman ability; a trusted ally who believed in him and knew his motivations; and most critically, foreknowledge of coming global conflicts that Rudy could begin preparing for in advance.

It was a comprehensive package. Too comprehensive, when he compared it to what Director Stedman had been told. And yet, all of it was... sincere.

That was what made it difficult. Mark was not lying. He had offered everything Robot had secretly desired—and had meant every word of it.

The proposal appealed to his logical core, but even more alarmingly, it resonated with the small, neglected emotional space Rudolph had sealed off for years. The part of him that longed for human connection. For freedom from the tank. For a purpose beyond observation and intervention.

Mark's suggestions about how to "make the world better" weren't just sentimental idealism either. His strategic recommendation—building trust through people rather than seizing control from governments—was a perspective Rudy had not fully considered. 

His own model of world improvement had always assumed that the common population would eventually adapt once proper leadership and automated infrastructure were in place. But now he was forced to re-evaluate: shouldn't he understand the people he wanted to help? Shouldn't their conditions, cultures, needs, and hopes be part of the solution?

It was not inefficient. It was, in fact, elegant.

Of course, all of that—his ambitions, this new partnership, the very future they discussed—hinged on a single, not-yet-fulfilled variable: a new body. Mark had offered his blood. But his own expertise in bioengineering, while advanced, had limitations when applied to creating a new body from scratch. And so, for now, the plan would remain in stasis until he had more data… or access to someone like the Mauler Twins, who specialized in the kind of genetic manipulation he needed. 

Fortunately, with the Teen Team now affiliated with the GDA, as loose as said association was, that access would come soon.

His thoughts were still cycling through these considerations when Dupli-Kate entered his lab and closed the door with an annoyed huff.

"Can you believe it's been an hour and they're still arguing?" she said, exasperated.

"Yes," he replied evenly. "Historically, interactions between Rex and Eve show that these disputes have a minimum duration of ninety minutes. We are still within expected parameters."

Kate groaned and slumped against the side of his workbench. "Rex is such an asshole. I can't believe he would do that to her. Again!"

Rudy said nothing. It was not surprising. Statistically, Rex had demonstrated a clear pattern of infidelity, accompanied by insincere apologies and subsequent repeats of the behavior.

Kate exhaled, frustrated. "I don't get it. Why do they keep doing this? Why not just break up—for real this time?"

"Humans often fear change," Rudy offered. "Once a pattern becomes familiar, even a toxic one, they are more likely to preserve it than confront the uncertainty of something new. It is not logical, but it is… consistent."

There was a pause. A quiet shift in the atmosphere.

Kate lowered her head slightly, her voice quieter this time. "...I might've done it with him, you know. If he'd asked me. God, that makes me sound pathetic, doesn't it?" She rested her head lightly against the drone's metallic shoulder. "I mean, I'd never have made the first move, but if he came to me, flirted or touched me like he…like he meant it…I don't know if I'd have said no."

Rudy processed the statement in silence. Not because he was judging her—but because he was genuinely puzzled.

"...What is it about Rex that attracts you—and so many others?" Rudy asked at last, his tone as clinical as ever. "He exhibits erratic behavior, lacks emotional regulation, and demonstrates minimal evidence of meaningful personal development. Yet the social data suggests he possesses significant romantic appeal. I find the contradiction... difficult to reconcile."

Kate exhaled, slumping a little on the workbench. "Rex is hot," she said simply, a tired smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "And when he wants to be, he can be really sweet; I mean, you saw the fireworks display he did for Eve's birthday a few months back. He's brave. Confident. Got that effortless charm. He walks into a room and just… owns it. He's never scared, never nervous, just unapologetically himself. And some part of me— I guess, a very naïve, very stupid part of me—thought that if I was his girlfriend, I could…help him. Fix him, maybe. Like, if he had someone who's always around, like me, then maybe all those bad habits would go away. He gets lonely, right? That's the real reason why he gets moody and goes out to cheat. So I thought I could be the one to… fill that space."

Her voice trailed off, as if hearing her own words made her doubt them.

"You believed," Rudy said slowly, "that by making yourself readily available—through proximity, attention, and loyalty—you could override a behavioral pattern rooted in insecurity and self-indulgence."

He tilted his head. "But the outcome would not change. If he were to date you, he would eventually rationalize the same behavior. He would claim you are suffocating. That your presence is excessive. That you are the reason he feels constrained. Then, as with Eve, he would seek out novelty, validation, or distraction elsewhere. The cycle would repeat. The only variable would be you."

Kate gave a brittle laugh, the sound dry and frayed at the edges. "I guess you'd be able to see it better than the rest of us, huh, Rudy?"

"It is always easier to perceive the contours of a maze," Robot replied, "when one is observing from the outside rather than navigating within it."

Before Kate could respond, a voice called out from the adjacent room—sharp, tense.

"Robot?" Eve's voice. "Can you get in here?"

Rudy paused, processing the sudden shift in the room's atmosphere. In the course of their conversation, he had failed to notice the absence of shouting. The television's volume had increased, a subtle detail that had eluded him—unusual.

He exchanged a glance with Kate, who shrugged, confused but clearly intrigued. Together, they made their way from his lab to the common room.

Upon entry, Robot noted the surprising lack of physical damage. The furniture was intact. The walls were undisturbed. Eve's face, while still flushed with anger, had cooled considerably. Rex, on the other hand, looked genuinely chastised—a not uncommon expression for him.

"You called for me?" Rudy asked.

Eve pointed at the television screen with barely contained fury.

"Rex said that guy's a friend of yours—this 'Invincible'? That true?"

Rudy turned, slowly.

The television broadcast was from a local news channel, live footage from downtown Chicago. The headline scrawled across the bottom in bold yellow font screamed:
"Guardians of the Globe and Newcomer Struggling Against Unknown Villain!"

Rudy's sensors immediately analyzed the scene. Immortal and War Woman were engaged in close combat with what appeared to be a massive white anthropomorphic lion—bipedal, armored, and utterly unbothered by their strikes. Red Rush was crumpled on the pavement, both legs grotesquely broken. Martian Man lay unconscious nearby, his arm bent at an unnatural angle. Neither Green Ghost nor Aquarius were visible in the shot—likely already neutralized or missing in action.

And then his gaze found Mark.

Blood seeped from beneath the edges of his cracked, barely functional mask. One eye was swollen shut. His bones were likely broken, as his breathing labored. Yet, even in that state, Invincible knelt—gathering himself. Preparing to launch another attack despite his battered condition.

Mark was hurt. Badly. More injured than Rudy had ever seen him. More injured than Rudy had calculated was survivable for any regular human being.

"I have to go," Robot said, his voice clipped with urgency as he turned and strode toward his lab.

Inside, he moved with mechanical precision. He retrieved the modified Flaxan laser rifle he had been reverse-engineering for weeks—now retrofitted with targeting stabilizers and energy compression nodes for greater output. He slung it across his drone's back and activated two additional units.

Three drones. That was his limit for concurrent neural control. One would serve as a sniper unit. The other two, close-quarters support. Diversionary tactics, brute force, triangulation.

He exited the lab, expecting to go alone. 

Instead, he found the rest of Teen Team waiting near the hover bike.

Kate stood ready in full uniform. Rex, predictably, already wore his standard gear. Eve had transmuted her outfit—clothing transformed into her pink combat attire in record time.

He paused.

"You are not obligated to accompany me," Robot said. "This is, by all calculations, a Guardians-level threat. More than half of the Guardians are incapacitated or unaccounted for. Statistically, engaging would present unacceptable levels of risk."

Kate met his eyes without flinching. "You're going, aren't you?"

He didn't speak immediately. Processing emotional impulses took more time than raw data. Still, there was no denying the conclusion he had reached.

"...I view Mark as a brother," he said at last, voice steady despite the weight of the admission. "He is one of the few individuals for whom I hold significant personal regard. His well-being matters to me. If he is in danger, I am compelled to act—even if the probability of success is low."

"Alright then," Eve said firmly, stepping forward. "We're going too. Fire up the bike—I'm not wasting my power flying when I'll need it to fight."

"As I said—" he began, but was interrupted.

"Robot," Rex snapped, stepping closer. "That jackass is your friend, yeah?"

Rudy nodded once.

"Then start the damn bike. Let's go get this shit handled. How many times in my life do I get to ride into battle backing up the freaking Guardians? Not sitting this one out."

Kate's expression softened. "Mark is a good guy. I like him. I want to help him."

Rudy paused.

For once, he didn't feel like the outlier in the group—the mechanical mind surrounded by emotional variables. No one asked him to explain his humanity. No one flinched at his logic. In that moment, they understood. And that mattered.

"Understood," he said simply. "Powering up the vehicle now."

The hum of engines filled the hangar as the bike began to stir. For the first time in a long time, Robot didn't feel like a machine pretending to be part of the team.

He felt like one of them.

"Let's go."

It was hard to think.

Immortal had been beaten before—hundreds of times across thousands of battles—but never like this. Not this thoroughly. Not this…broken. Every breath felt like inhaling fire. His limbs screamed when he so much as twitched. Even his thoughts—usually sharp and honed like the swords he'd once trained with centuries ago—were sluggish and fogged.

But he had to move.

Red Rush and Martian Man were down. Motionless. He didn't know if they were unconscious or dead, and right now, there was no time to check. He and War Woman were the only senior Guardians left on their feet—if you could even call what he was doing "standing." And that boy, Invincible. Gods help him, the kid was still going.

He had to call Cecil. Someone had to get the wounded out of here—fly them, portal them, crawl them if they had to. And as much as it turned his stomach, they might even need to call Omni-Man for backup. Whatever this thing was they were fighting, it was no ordinary threat. And right now, the Guardians were bleeding into the ground, one by one.

He forced himself to raise his head.

War Woman's face was covered in blood, a long gash above her eye dripping freely down her cheek. Her free arm hung lower than usual—possibly dislocated—but her mace was still clutched tight in her other hand. She and Invincible were tag-teaming the creature as best as they could. Every time it lashed out with its mace, she'd intercept the blow, the two of them clashing like dueling titans. He could see her hand trembling from the impact. But her expression was steady and fierce.

She would not fall. Not yet.

Invincible was moving faster than he had any right to. The boy had taken a beating—bruises darkened his jaw, and one of his eyes was swollen shut—but he kept pushing forward. Every time War Woman blocked, he darted in to strike, fists slamming into the creature with thunderous cracks that echoed across the ruined tarmac. It was subtle, but he could see it: the beast was beginning to slow. Each of the boy's blows staggered it just a little more.

They were holding the line. But just barely.

"Dammit," Immortal growled, slamming his fist into the ground. Pain flared, white-hot, up his arm. "No. Not like this. Not without me."

He struggled upright, swaying like a dying tree in a storm. His knees buckled, but he locked them in place. He had survived empires, plagues, wars—he would survive this. 

He had to.

One step. Then another. Then another.

He clenched his fists, prepared to rejoin the fray—prepared to throw his broken body back into the fight alongside his comrades.

Then, a hand rested on his shoulder.

It was cold. Metallic.

"Immortal? Sir?" came a calm, mechanical voice.

He turned—slowly, painfully—and saw Robot standing behind him, his Teen Team arrayed in a defensive formation at his back. Each one of them wore the same expression: grim determination, touched with just enough awe to remind him they still looked up to him.

"Robot…" Immortal rasped. "You need...to help with…evacuation. The others… I can still—"

"With all due respect, old man," a familiar voice interrupted. Rex Splode stepped forward, arms crossed and mouth twisted into a scowl. "You look like you're about two seconds away from dying. Again."

Immortal—bloodied, battered, breath heaving—struggled to keep moving forward. "No… you're just children," he slurred, swaying. "It's too dangerous. He's… he's too strong. So much stronger than me. I… I can't—"

"Sir," Robot interjected, his voice calm but firm, carrying the weight of reason. "You're too injured to continue. You've fought long enough. Let us handle this. We can buy you—and the Guardians—some time to regroup, recover, and reevaluate."

The older hero's eyes burned with frustration. "And how do you intend to do that?" he snapped. "I'm the strongest man on Earth, and I couldn't lay a finger on him. What hope do you have?"

As if responding to a silent cue, the Teen Team sprang into motion.

Atom Eve raised both hands, eyes narrowing. Her power shimmered in the air like heat off pavement. Pink energy coalesced into solid, blocky, metallic-looking constructs that wrapped around the lion-man's wrists and slammed downward with a crunch, pinning his arms and forcing him to his knees. His snarl turned into a grunt of pain.

War Woman didn't hesitate. She surged forward with the speed of a missile, her mace arcing through the air in a bone-shattering strike that cracked against the lion-man's skull. Blood sprayed from the impact, staining the tarmac beneath him.

Invincible was already in motion, vaulting forward with a brutal roundhouse kick that connected with the enemy's jaw. The audible snap echoed like a gunshot.

Rex Splode followed up, pulling a handful of quarters from his belt. He charged them with pulsing kinetic energy, each one glowing with a dangerous hum, then flung them toward the lion-man's face. They exploded midair in bursts of light and heat, momentarily blinding the beast and causing him to roar in fury.

Dupli-Kate moved next, sprinting in with precision. Six perfect duplicates emerged in a ripple of motion, surrounding the target like wolves. They didn't strike—but latched on. One clone gripped his right arm, another wrapped around his left leg, two more anchored his torso. Their role wasn't to hurt him—it was to hold him in place.

That was all Atom Eve needed. She launched a fresh barrage of pink energy blasts, striking with pinpoint accuracy, forcing the lion-man to stay on the defensive.

Robot began to walk forward, his second mechanical puppet moving into formation behind him. His voice remained level, analytical and unshaken.

"Rest now, sir," he said, his metallic face unflinching. "We'll give you the time you need. Use it wisely."

There was a satisfying burn in his muscles—a deep, pulsing ache that radiated from sinew to bone, down to the very marrow. It wasn't pain, not really. It was the kind of fatigue that came after a hard-won fight, the kind that reminded him he was alive and still capable of pushing himself. It had been ages since he'd felt this way. Like a retired weightlifter dusting off old records in the gym, rediscovering the strain and reward of real effort. Debbie used to say her morning runs gave her that kind of clarity—woke her up, got her blood pumping. This? This was the Viltrumite version of that.

And next to him, the kaiju lay dying—gargantuan, broken, but not yet lifeless.

That, more than anything, impressed him.

Something on this planet had finally made him sweat. Had taken his full strength—one of his real punches—and survived it. Even if only barely. If the creature had been just a bit more durable, a bit faster, it might have drawn blood. It might have even hurt him. The thought sent a ripple of excitement through him, the faintest flicker of respect.

He'd have to report this. The Grand Regent needed to know. These kaiju had always been curiosities, but now? Now they might be something more. If they could be domesticated, trained, or even bred... Viltrum could unleash them on weaker worlds as shock troops. Clean-up squads. A show of dominance. And if not—well, it was still useful data.

Besides, he'd always wanted a pet.

Nolan stretched his arms overhead, letting out a groan that was half fatigue, half satisfaction. "Alright, Cecil. The thing's dead. Get someone out here to mop this up, would you?"

There was a pause on the comm line—long enough to notice—and then Cecil's voice crackled through, clipped and tight. "Yeah. Good work, Nolan. You can head on home now."

"I will, I will," Nolan replied casually. "I just wanna talk to Ghost for a second. Debbie's been curious about the other super-ladies in my life, and honestly, she needs more friends. It'd be nice if she didn't have to hide the superhero thing with everyone, you know? Maybe we can set a dinner date, figure out a night that works."

A lie, of course.

Enough time had passed that whatever nonsense had been floating around about him was likely forgotten—or at least buried under newer rumors. Now was the perfect opportunity to speak to Green Ghost directly. Get a read on what had actually been said. The dinner excuse? That was just a cover. Though, to be fair, Debbie really would enjoy having more friends she didn't have to lie to.

"Ghost... is a bit busy right now," Cecil said.

Nolan frowned. "Busy doing what? She was with that Invincible kid, right? Shouldn't that mission be wrapped by now?"

Silence.

Then, realization hit.

"No way," Nolan muttered. "They're still there? In Chicago?"

Another pause.

"Oh man," Nolan muttered with a low whistle, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Immortal must be getting his ass handed to him if he's still stuck in the middle of that mess…"

"It's more complicated than that," Cecil replied, voice tight with restraint. "Just leave it alone. They've got it under control."

"Yeah? Doesn't sound like it's under control if he's still fighting," Nolan said, already rising off the ground, boots grinding against the cracked ground as he prepped for takeoff. "Let me go take a quick look. See how bad the situation really is."

Cecil sighed. "Nolan, you don't have to do this. Just go home. Seriously."

But Nolan just chuckled. "Come on, don't tell me you're not a little curious. I just wanna see how far Immortal's fallen since I left him to his own devices. Call it... professional interest."

"That's a pretty childish attitude for an alien warrior."

"He knows I'm teasing," Nolan said dismissively, and with a grunt of effort, shot into the sky like a missile, wind shrieking in his wake. Chicago wasn't far. A few minutes at most if he pushed himself.

Still, something itched at the back of his mind.

Immortal, for all his flaws, could take a beating and keep going. The guy was like a less efficient version of Nolan himself—slower, weaker, but still capable. There wasn't anything short of a city-wide threat that should've kept him occupied this long. Even the kaiju Nolan had recently handled wouldn't have stumped Immortal that badly. It might've taken him longer, sure, but not this long.

As if on cue, Cecil's voice crackled back into his earpiece. "Got something for you, Nolan. Pyrokinetic in Hong Kong—he's setting a skyscraper on fire. Civilians are trapped inside. Mind handling it?"

Nolan snorted. "Really? Are you telling me China doesn't have any of its own heroes? I'm the only one who's close enough to deal with it?"

"You're the strongest hero on the planet," Cecil replied coolly. "You saying this is too tough for you?"

Under normal circumstances, that kind of dig might've gotten under Nolan's skin. Might've made him shift course just to prove a point. But this time? This time he heard the edge in Cecil's voice. And he smelled the evasion.

"I gotta ask, Cecil," Nolan said, his voice lighter than his thoughts. "Why don't you want me anywhere near this Invincible guy?"

There was silence. Deafening and immediate.

Nolan's smirk grew wider. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

"...What are you thinking, Nolan?" Cecil finally asked, voice lower, the static in the line almost masking his tone.

"Oh, it's simple," Nolan replied, now hovering just below cloud level. "You and your little GDA crew... you thought this Invincible guy could replace me, didn't you? Someone better. Faster than Red Rush, stronger than Immortal, a sharper fighter than War Woman. Maybe someone who'd take orders a little more willingly than I ever did, do all the dirty things you wanted me to do for you, but never bothered to care for."

Another pause.

Then: "And now he's in trouble," Nolan continued, his tone sharpening like a drawn blade. "Trouble bad enough that even your Guardians can't handle it. And you're scrambling to fix it without letting me see just how bad things really are, how pathetic your new toy is."

A tired sigh crackled through the earpiece. "You're too smart for your own good sometimes, Nolan."

You have no idea, Nolan thought, narrowing his eyes as he accelerated toward the city.

Moments later, he was soaring above downtown Chicago—and the scene that greeted him was not pretty. From this altitude, it looked like a war zone: cracked pavement, overturned vehicles, and at least one office building crumbled like a kicked-in sandcastle. Several others were cratered and blackened, riddled with what he recognized as human-shaped holes—impacts from enhanced individuals or someone strong enough to throw them.

"Wow," Nolan muttered. "They really wrecked this place."

He caught sight of two familiar figures lying in the rubble—Red Rush and Martian Man. Both were unconscious, bruised, bloodied, but alive. Good. That meant whoever was responsible had the strength to take them down… but not the skill to finish the job.

Then came the sound—a deep, resonating boom from further up the street. Nolan's attention shifted instantly.

A battle was still raging.

He flew closer, squinting through dust and haze, and then his brow furrowed. The source of the destruction was locked in combat with Robot's so-called Teen Team.

"Is that a Leonide?" Nolan said aloud, his tone carrying a flicker of disbelief.

"You know what that thing is?" Cecil shot back, voice suddenly alert.

"It's a Leonide," Nolan confirmed. "A feline-based species from Euthan Prime. Aggressive, territorial, but biologically only a little stronger than your average human. One of them shouldn't be able to cause this much damage, not unless it's been enhanced or—" He stopped himself, eyes narrowing. "Or this one is something else."

Anomalies had been popping up recently in the galaxy; first, that strange Unopan that could fly and had enhanced strength, and now this Leonide with so much strength that he was throwing the Guardians around like they were nothing.

Was the Coalition making super soldiers to test for the war against Viltrum?

"Yeah, well, 'something else' might be underselling it," Cecil growled. "We've thrown everyone we've got at it, and nothing sticks. He just keeps going."

Nolan's sharp eyes followed the scene unfolding below. Robot had deployed multiple drones—he recognized the sleek, humanoid models engaging in close quarters, while a third unit, perched atop a nearby skyscraper, was providing covering fire with what appeared to be a retrofitted Flaxan rifle. The red-haired girl—Atom Eve, if he remembered right—was hammering the creature with energy constructs, while the duplication girl swarmed it with a seemingly endless number of clones.

And yet it wasn't enough.

The Leonide ripped through the clones like they were paper, letting out a guttural snarl as it tore one apart with a swipe of its claws. One of Robot's combat drones moved in for a precision strike—only to be obliterated by a single punch. Another unit was hurled into the side of a building with a savage backhand, exploding into shrapnel as it cratered through the brick.

Then it grabbed a nearby sedan and hurled it at Atom Eve. She barely managed to dive out of the way as the car exploded against a wall in a ball of fire.

The boy who generated explosions—Darkwing had mentioned his name before, but Nolan had no need to remember it—lobbed another glowing coin, but the Leonide intercepted it midair and hurled a chunk of debris at him in retaliation. The slab of concrete disintegrated against the ground where the boy had been standing only seconds before.

Finally, the rooftop sniper drone took another shot—but the Leonide, clearly learning, ripped a manhole cover from the ground and flung it with startling precision. The projectile tore through the air like a discus from hell, forcing the robot sniper to disengage and retreat before it too was turned to scrap.

"Enough insects!" the beast roared, its voice booming across the ruined streets. "I desire a worthy death—one of glorious combat and a legendary end! Who among you will challenge Battle Beast?!"

Nolan smiled savagely. So, the oversized feline wanted a fight worthy of legend? Good. He could oblige that.

He was just about to fly forward and announce himself when something shifted in the rubble.

A figure emerged, rising slowly from the collapsed remains of a bakery. The boy was clad in a green-and-black GDA-standard suit, stars etched into his shoulder pads. His mask was torn, half-hanging from his face, and there was a pronounced limp in his step as he staggered upright. Smoke curled around him. Blood ran down one side of his face.

At first, Nolan dismissed him. So this was the Guardian's little pet project, Cecil's newest poster boy? He opened his mouth to ask if this was the so-called "Invincible" the GDA had been banking on.

But then the boy looked up.

And the words died in his throat.

His heart stopped.

His breath caught.

No.

He knew that face.

Those eyes.

That was his face. Debbie's eyes. Staring defiantly through pain and blood, standing upright through sheer force of will. A face that should not have been here, in this place, in this moment.

"Mark?" he breathed, voice cracking like old glass.

Before he could take a step, Battle Beast turned, spotting the bloodied teen.

"Warrior!" the Leonide snarled with glee. "Let us continue our battle!"

Time fractured.

For Nolan, the world slowed. The sounds of fire and crumbling steel dulled to silence. He had never moved faster. Never struck harder.

One moment, Battle Beast was airborne. The next, Nolan slammed into him like a meteor, sending both of them crashing through the city block, down through the street, and into the cracked porcelain tiles of a shattered NIKEA store.

The reek of sewage, scorched wiring, and dust filled the air.

And yet—unbelievably—the beast still lived.

Slightly dazed, but alive and grinning.

"Another challenger?" Battle Beast purred, blinking slowly, almost lazily. His tongue flicked over a sharp canine. "How delightful."

Nolan's fists clenched so tightly the bones in his hands groaned under the strain. His muscles tensed like coiled steel, and his breath came in shallow, controlled bursts. Blood roared in his ears, drowning out everything but the pounding fury that surged in his chest.

He didn't want to subdue this creature. He didn't want to win a fight.

He wanted it dead.

Not unconscious. Not broken. Erased. Smeared across the earth, unrecognizable and forgotten. His vision narrowed to a single point of rage, red bleeding into the edges of his sight like fire licking across a frayed photograph.

"STAY—!"

His punch cracked through the air like a cannon blast, driving Battle Beast backward, the impact folding the ground beneath them.

"AWAY—!"

A second blow, a brutal haymaker that sent shockwaves rippling through the dirt, carved a fresh crater into the broken battlefield.

"FROM—!"

His fists were screaming now, bones aching, knuckles flaring with raw pain. Why wasn't this thing dead yet? Why wasn't it broken in half?

"MY—!"

With a roar, Nolan brought both fists down like hammers, slamming them into Battle Beast's skull, driving his head into the dirt and debris until the dirt itself cracked.

"SON!"

Silence fell for half a second. Then the beast's arm shot up.

He caught Nolan's final blow.

The Viltrumite's eyes widened as Battle Beast's grip locked around his forearm—tight enough to hurt.

To actually hurt.

He hadn't felt pain like that in decades.

The monster's lips curled into a sharp, pleased grin, blood trickling from one nostril.

"Yes," Battle Beast hissed, eyes alight with savage joy. "You too will make a worthy foe."

And for the first time in years, Nolan felt something bloom in his chest alongside the rage.

Fear.

Chapter Text

Pain.

It was a sensation Nolan hadn’t truly felt in decades.

Not like this.

This wasn’t the fleeting sting of battle or the dull throb of a wound that would close in a few minutes. This was raw, searing, agonizing pain that just seemed to build up more and more. It cut through his flesh, burrowed into his muscles, coiled around his bones, and bloomed behind his eyes like wildfire. His knuckles burned. His ribs ached. Even his ears—his ears, of all things—throbbed as if the pressure of the atmosphere itself had turned traitor.

Viltrumites had a particular relationship with pain. To feel it, to acknowledge it, was to admit weakness. Pain was a distraction, an illusion of the body. A true Viltrumite was expected to ignore it, push past it, dominate it and inflict it. You do not feel pain, you make others feel pain. Pain was merely another opponent to conquer—one that stood between you and the greatness of the Empire.

And yet, for the first time in his long, brutal life, the Empire was far from Nolan’s mind.

Thragg. The chain of command. The duty to report on this powerful Leonide threat—all of it faded into white noise beneath a single, sharpened thought:

If he gets past me, he’s going after Mark.

That was all that mattered.

That was what kept his fists moving even after the skin split open and his gloves hung in bloody shreds. That was what drove him forward despite the claw marks that crisscrossed his chest and back like brands from some ancient punishment. He didn’t know how Mark had gotten here—well, he did, actually. The GDA uniform made it painfully clear. And oh, the conversation he and Debbie were going to have with Cecil after this… assuming there was an after.

But that was irrelevant.

He couldn’t stop.

He wouldn’t stop.

His lungs burned with each ragged breath. His muscles screamed with every motion. His blood—Viltrumite blood, stronger and more sacred than anything this planet had to offer—spilled freely across the shattered earth. But he kept swinging. Kept fighting.

Every time he thought of Mark—bloodied, bruised, preparing for yet another battle he had no business being in—it gave him another jolt of strength. Another surge of fury.

Battle Beast was relentless. His blows struck with monstrous precision, a mix of primal savagery and trained discipline. There was intelligence in his movements. Intent. A horrifying marriage of martial technique and brute force.

Nolan’s fists created shockwaves as they clashed against the Leonide’s strikes—enough to shatter bones, rupture organs, and turn men into vaporized mist. And yet Battle Beast took those hits like they were nothing. Worse—he smiled through them. He savored them. And when he struck back, it was with twice the power.

Nolan launched a punch meant to end it all—one that would’ve reduced a skyscraper to powder.

Battle Beast batted it aside with a casual backhand and lunged in, claws raking across Nolan’s chest with terrifying precision. Pain flared, bright and hot—but Nolan ignored it. He had to.

Three punches followed—one to the liver, another to where a kidney might be if he were human, and a final blow to the solar plexus. Textbook strikes. Perfectly executed.

All blocked.

Effortlessly.

And then came the counter. A right cross from Battle Beast that crashed into Nolan’s jaw like a meteor, rattling his brain and making his vision go white at the edges.

His head swam. His body faltered.

But his purpose held fast.

He couldn’t fall. Not here. Not now. Not with Mark behind him, broken and bleeding.

Nolan staggered backward, blood pooling in his mouth from a deep gash carved into the inside of his cheek. His vision blurred. One eye was already swelling shut.

Focus, Nolan! Out of every battle where brute strength has carried you to victory—this cannot be the one where you fail. You must win. For him.

With a roar, he surged forward and drove a devastating punch toward Battle Beast’s skull, aiming for a clean knockout. If he could just land a solid blow—crack the skull, daze the creature—maybe he could end this quickly.

But Battle Beast did something insane.

He opened his jaws wide and caught Nolan’s punch in his mouth—then bit down.

“ARGH!”

Nolan howled. The pain was beyond anything he'd endured before. Battle Beast’s jagged teeth punctured his invulnerable skin—his skin—and tore into the meat of his forearm, grinding down until Nolan felt the sickening crunch of his own bones cracking. He tasted bile. Tears welled in his eyes unbidden.

But he didn’t falter.

Gritting his teeth, he grabbed hold of the beast’s tongue with his trapped hand, fingers digging into the slimy flesh. He twisted, hard, attempting to crush the appendage with all the raw power he could summon.

Battle Beast’s eyes bulged. A muffled choking sound escaped him.

Using his grip on the tongue as leverage, Nolan yanked the creature forward and unleashed five vicious body blows into Battle Beast’s gut—each one strong enough to level a mountain. The shockwaves cracked the pavement, shattered windows, and tore through the silence like gunfire.

But Battle Beast retaliated.

A savage slash raked across Nolan’s face, and fire erupted in his left eye. His scream was guttural, primal. He stumbled back, clutching the ruined side of his face, as Battle Beast finally unlatched his jaws and let Nolan’s shredded arm slide free.

Nolan collapsed to one knee, breath hitching, his vision a blur of red and white. His arm was mangled, blood soaking through what little of his uniform remained. His left eye was likely gone. His chest heaved. His reserves were dwindling.

He should retreat. Regroup. Heal.

But then he remembered Mark.

His son. His only son. Standing bloodied behind him, with bruises blossoming across his face, a split lip, a swollen eye—and still trying to fight. Still standing.

And just like that, the pain receded. Not completely, but enough.

Nolan rose slowly, breath steadying, his fists clenching once more. His stance tightened, shoulders squared. He would not fall. Not while Mark still breathed.

Across from him, Battle Beast coughed, spraying blood onto the cracked concrete. He wiped his jaw and let out a wheezing, blood-flecked laugh.

“You called the warrior—Invincible—your son, didn’t you?” Battle Beast rasped. “You’ve trained him well. If I’m being honest, you didn’t need to interfere. Our fight was more evenly matched than this one is.”

Nolan sneered, blood running from his brow. “You say that, but we’re both bleeding, aren’t we?”

Another chuckle. Rougher this time, as if each breath hurt. “True enough. This isn’t the first time I’ve killed a father and son—but it is the first time a pair has brought me this close to death.”

Nolan narrowed his eyes. “Is that why you’re here? To die?”

The idea was alien to him—anathema, even. Who would want to die? Especially a warrior?

In the Viltrumite Empire, life was purpose. Life was war. It was conquest. It was spreading strength across the stars. Suicide was not a concept they honored; Earth was the first place he’d heard of it. The idea of choosing death… of seeking out your end on purpose... It baffled him.

And yet Battle Beast stared back at him, bloodied and smiling.

If that was what the creature wanted—if he truly sought a death worthy of a warrior—then Nolan would give it to him.

He could understand it after all; wanting to die in combat. It was considered one of the greatest ways that a Viltrumite could die, aside from trying to protect the Grand Regent.

So, with a roar from both combatants, they lunged at each other.

“This isn’t going well,” Darkwing muttered, watching the chaos unfold below through the cockpit window of the Wingjet.

It was an understatement. Omni-Man was bleeding—visibly, heavily—and that alone told him just how bad things had gotten. In twenty years of working with Nolan, he could count the number of times he’d seen the man even winded on one hand. This? This was different, on every level.

Red Rush was out cold, his legs crumpled like a used napkin; thankfully, his speed also extended to his healing, because he had stopped bleeding, from what Darkwing could see. Martian Man had stopped moving altogether—whether unconscious or worse, Darkwing didn’t know, but he hoped his friend was alive. Immortal was still on his feet, standing near the Teen Team, but listing badly, staggering like a drunk on a bad night, a welt the size of a grapefruit blooming across his jaw. War Woman looked like her arm was either dislocated or outright broken, hanging at her side like dead weight, and she was leaning against a collapsed wall, watching the fight between Omni-Man and the beast, her eyes tense and narrowed

And Invincible? Invincible looked like he’d lost a fight with a blender. His costume was shredded, bruises covering every visible inch of skin, blood trickling from a bite mark on his shoulder that was turning an ugly shade of black and purple. But he seemed to be slowly getting his bearings back, and hopefully, he would be back in the battle to support Omni-Man soon, because Nolan needed it.

“Wingjet, give me a readout on what we have left,” Darkwing said, eyes scanning the wreckage below as he began to aim his weapons systems at the monster fighting Nolan.

“Remaining munitions: two missiles, seventy-four bullets, three laser pulses, and one smoke bomb,” the onboard AI replied calmly.

“Perfect. Switch to autopilot and engage the lion-looking bastard. Prioritize suppressive fire—keep him off the others.”

“Should I include Omni-Man in the targeting parameters?”

Darkwing paused. Right. Omni-Man had been removed from the ‘Friendly’ list last month—added to the ‘Ally of Convenience’ list with a whole subsection of contingencies if he went rogue. His tech wouldn’t recognize Nolan as safe anymore. That included his jet.

“No. Just the lion-man. Don’t touch Nolan unless he targets us directly. And patch me through to Cecil.”

Seconds later, Cecil’s face flickered to life on the cockpit’s holographic display. He looked like hell. Three analysts hovered behind him, shouting numbers and theories as they fought for the Director’s attention.

“Thank fucking God someone picked up,” Cecil barked. “I’ve been trying every channel for every Guardian. No one’s responding—all I’m getting is static, explosions, and people screaming. My only updates are from the goddamn news!”

“It’s bad,” Darkwing replied grimly. “Martian Man and Red Rush are down. I need med-evac immediately. Immortal’s still conscious, barely, but I think he can still fight. War Woman’s injured. Invincible’s a mess. And Nolan’s getting shredded. You hearing me, Cecil? Omni-Man is bleeding.”

Cecil’s expression shifted from fury to alarm. “Jesus Christ. How bad? Is it like a few scratches or—”

“The ground looks like an abstract painting made entirely of his blood. Frankly, I’m amazed he’s still conscious.”

“Fuuuuck!” Cecil spat, running a hand down his face.

“I thought you’d be thrilled. Omni-Man is the enemy after all; wouldn’t him dying in this battle be the perfect way to get rid of him?”

Darkwing…didn’t want Nolan to die. Nolan was his friend. Nolan had saved his life, and the lives of everyone on the team multiple times. Nolan had protected the Earth without fail for twenty years, and had gained not only the admiration of the planet, but of damn near every hero who had encountered him. So Darkwing didn’t want his friend to die…but if it came to a choice between Nolan dying or the planet surviving, then he would choose the Earth every time.

“He’s a threat, yeah, but he’s a threat we might be able to flip. You think I don’t want the strongest man on Earth on our side when the real hitters from his planet show up? It’s hard to flip a corpse, Darkwing. Not impossible, but messy. I’d prefer him breathing.”

Darkwing smirked beneath his cowl. “And this has nothing to do with the fact that Invincible is his son?”

Cecil’s holographic form froze, as did the three analysts with him. “How the fuck do you know that?!”

“Nolan screamed it for the whole damn battlefield to hear as he launched himself at the guy currently rearranging his internal organs.”

Cecil let out a groan like someone had just kicked him in the gut. “Jesus. Fuck. Okay. Nolan knows. We’ve officially blown the lid off that secret. Great. Just great.”

One of the analysts behind him muttered something; Cecil waved them off like gnats.

“Look, I’m sending backup. Don’t freak out when they show up. They’re not... normal. But they’re ours.”

Darkwing raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘not normal.’”

“Just don’t attack them, alright?”

“No promises.”

“Do you have any idea how to stop this thing?”

Darkwing’s gaze returned to the battlefield. “You’re not gonna like the few answers that I’ve been able to think of.”

“Try me.”

“Throw him into space.”

“Seriously? That’s all?”

“That’s the Immortal’s go-to strategy for anything that can take more than five punches. Launch it into orbit and pray it doesn’t come back.”

Cecil rubbed his temples. “And you think this guy will just… let us toss him into the sky?”

“No. That’s the part that worries me,” Darkwinf muttered, his eyes locked on the fight. “He’s beaten everyone he’s come across so far. I don’t think he lets people do anything, and he’s definitely strong enough to prevent us from BFRing him.”

“What if…” one of the analysts hesitated, tapping a tablet nervously, “What if Omni-Man, Invincible, and Immortal teamed up? Like, all three of them jumped him at once. And one of them had War Woman’s mace? That boosts strength, right? Maybe that’d be enough?”

Darkwing didn’t answer immediately. He stared through the cockpit window, watching Omni-Man and the Beast trade brutal blows, the ground beneath them breaking apart like shattered glass under a steel boot. Then, slowly, he exhaled through his nose.

“Maybe,” he said, voice flat. “But if you’re gonna try that, the mace has to go to Immortal. He’s the least injured, but without a power-up, he’s also the weakest link. If we give it to Omni-Man or Invincible, we risk Immortal getting torn apart before he even gets a hit in, which forces the others to waste time saving him.”

He stroked his chin as he thought furiously.

“And even if one of them lands a hit with it—if—there’s no guarantee it ends the fight. The mace boosts strength, yeah. But it doesn’t heal injuries. And unless War Woman gives it willingly, with her blessing, it’s just a heavy lump of weird metal from a different dimension. No enhancement. No edge.”

Silence settled for a moment as they all watched the battle unfold in brutal detail. Blood sprayed across the landscape. Omni-Man was slowing, his strikes growing sloppier.

“We can’t out-muscle this guy,” Cecil said quietly. “We can’t throw him into space—he’ll definitely try to kill whoever tries to do that, my teleporter doesn’t have that kind of reach, and Isotope isn’t gonna get anywhere near that slugfest. My newest technical advisor is telling me that teleporting him into a volcano or the bottom of the Mariana Trench will just piss him off. And if that happens, he’ll take it out on the nearest city he finds after he gets out.”

He looked down, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Fuck. What do we even do here?”

“...We trap him,” came Darkwing’s low, thoughtful voice.

Cecil looked up, startled. “What?”

“We trap him,” Darkwing repeated, more confidently this time. “You said it yourself. We can’t overpower him. We can’t outrun him. So we box him in. Force containment over confrontation.”

Cecil blinked. “You think Green Ghost can phase him into the ground and hold him there? Because that is definitely not gonna work.”

“Not Green Ghost,” Darkwing said, taking back manual control of the Wingjet. “I’m heading back to Midnight City.”

Cecil’s voice cracked with disbelief. “I’m sorry, you’re what?”

“I’ve got someone who can help us trap him. Someone who specializes in this kind of thing. Give me thirty minutes.”

“Thirty?! We’ll be lucky if the rest of them are alive in five!”

Darkwing didn’t respond, merely turning the Wingjet away from the battlefield and towards Midnight City. His missiles and bullets had done nothing, and the Beast had outright ignored his laser pulses, with the machine now dead. No, this battle wouldn’t be won by his tech.

It would have to be done by magic.

“This plan better fucking work,” Cecil growled, his voice hoarse with desperation.

“It will,” Darkwing replied simply. Then, over his shoulder, “Computer, end call.”

“Understood,” the automated voice replied as the screen blinked to black.

Darkwing adjusted his grip on the controls, and the Wingjet banked hard toward the east.

He took a breath.

“Computer… call Nightboy.”

Cecil wanted to scream. To throw his tablet across the room and ream whatever asshole had decided this was a good idea. This was the worst possible fucking outcome—and the sick joke of it all? 

It was happening because of the guy Mark claimed would be their ally.

The destruction of Chicago wasn’t being caused by Conquest, or Thragg, or any of the other Vitrumite monsters Mark had warned him about. No, the Windy City was being systematically torn to pieces by the one battle hungry lunatic who was supposed to help them. But Battle Beast wasn’t here to fight Viltrumites. He was here to beat the shit out of anything that breathed hard enough.

Cecil could still remember the conversation with Mark, word for word:

“Battle Beast is objectively one of the strongest beings in the galaxy,” Mark had said, solemn as a priest. “Like I told you, he fought Thragg for days. And the only reason he lost was because he wanted to fight fair. If he’d gone for the kill instead of a good death, the Viltrumite War would’ve ended on the spot.”

“And you’re sure he’ll listen to you?” Cecil had asked, incredulous. “After he’s rubbed your face into a crater?”

Mark had just shrugged. “Earth gets at least one apocalyptic threat a month—demons, kaiju, alien invasions, you name it. That alone can keep him entertained in between stretches of the actual war. He’ll be curious too. Once he hears we’re planning a one-planet war against the Viltrum Empire, he’ll be begging to join the front lines. Trust me, Cecil. This’ll take ten minutes. Tops.”

Ten minutes.

Cecil gritted his teeth as another street camera feed shorted out in a static burst of dust and fire. Ten minutes had turned into forty-five. Half the Guardians were down. A city block was cratered. Battle Beast had caved in three high-rises like he was playing a game of Jenga with his fists. Nolan was currently getting suplexed through the fucking sewer system on national television.

And to make things even worse? Nolan had seen Mark. In a GDA suit. Fighting alongside the other Guardians.

So now Omni-Man knew Invincible was working for the Global Defense Agency. And when this was over—and it would be over, one way or another—Cecil knew exactly whose neck Nolan was coming for first.

Christ, Debbie and Nolan were going to kill him. Castrate him, probably, as they ripped off his skin and shoved his nuts down his throat. And not necessarily in that order.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled through his teeth. “Donald,” he snapped, “how many Reanimen did Sinclair say were ready?”

“Fifty-five, sir,” Donald said crisply.

“And how many of those are outfitted with the new Flaxan armor?”

“Only eight, sir.”

Cecil stared at the screen, watching Nolan get driven through reinforced concrete like a lawn dart as filthy black water sent shit flying through the air on impact. There went the sewer grid. No toilets in half the city for weeks.

“…Send them in.”

Donald blinked. “Just the eight, sir?”

“No, Donald. All of them.”

It was surprisingly easy for Rudy and Eve to slip past Omni-Man and the feline gladiator tearing each other apart. The two titans were so engrossed in their battle—focused on blood and fury—that they didn't even glance in the direction of the pink-glowing platform streaking past overhead.

They landed just beyond the cratered street, near Mark, who was slumped against the remnants of a brick wall. Rex and Dupli-Kate had stayed back to stabilize the Immortal and assist if he decided to reengage. That left Rudy and Eve to recover their mutual friend.

“Mark,” Rudy said sharply as they landed, his mechanical voice filtered through the tinny distortion of his current drone. He’d been standing on one of Eve’s energy platforms—another reminder that he still needed to integrate independent flight capability into his designs.

And ranged support.

And shock absorption. The list was growing by the day...

Mark blinked slowly up at them, blood trailing from his hairline. His right eye was swollen shut, and his lip was split, but he was awake—barely.

“Rudy?” he rasped, dazed. “You’re… You’re really here?”

“Yes,” Rudy said, stepping forward as Eve’s platform dissolved behind him. “I am. And we need to extract you. You’re severely injured and in no condition to continue. This engagement is deteriorating faster than I projected.”

Mark’s gaze wavered—but then his arm shot out and grabbed the drone’s shoulder with surprising force. The metal groaned under his grip.

“You came,” Mark whispered, voice cracking. His face twisted, bloody and disbelieving. “You really came for me.”

Rudy hesitated. A flicker of static danced in his vision. His core processor stuttered—not from damage, but something else. Something he didn’t have the vocabulary for yet.

“…You once told me,” Rudy said slowly, “that if I ever needed help, I should reach out—because your hand would already be there. Extended. Waiting. So now I say the same to you: no matter how untenable the situation, I will be there.”

Mark smiled—genuinely, gratefully. For the first time in hours, he looked like himself again.

Then Eve cleared her throat behind them. “Okay, yeah, wow. Kate wasn’t kidding when she said you two were inseparable. This is starting to feel like a deleted scene from The Journal.”

Mark’s head turned toward her—then blinked, dozens of different expressions(realization, happiness, sadness, and acceptance) before finally tilting somewhere between confusion and familiarity.

“Wait… aren’t you that Wilkins girl from my Social Studies class?” Mark asked, blinking through the blood caked above one eye.

Eve squinted at him, then her face lit up. “Holy shit, you're the Grayson kid who punched Todd in the face for touching Amber! That was you? No way—what are the odds?” She let out a laugh. “Man, the world’s tiny.”

Rudy’s drone tilted its head with eerie precision. “You got into a fight? That incident wasn’t on your school record.”

“First of all, not relevant right now. Second— still super creepy that you’re checking my school file. And third…” Mark groaned as he stood up, smearing blood across his face as he wiped it with an equally bloodied arm. “Third, we need a plan to stop that guy.”

“No offense,” Eve said, arms folded as her eyes tracked the distant fight between the two aliens. “But he’s already wiped the floor with Earth’s strongest heroes. Unless you’ve got a miracle in your back pocket, I don’t think there’s anything we can do.”

Mark turned to Rudy, desperation sharpening his voice. “You’re the smartest guy I know. Isn’t there anything—anything—you can come up with to stop him?”

Rudy’s drone paused before shrugging its metallic shoulders. “I lack sufficient data on his physiology and power set to design an effective countermeasure. He doesn’t seem to tire, and brute force hasn’t worked. If the previous Green Ghost were still active, he might’ve torn the creature’s heart out by now. But the current Ghost lacks both the experience and the ruthlessness of her predecessor.”

Mark clenched his jaw, determination cutting through the fatigue in his body. “Then I’ll help Dad fight him. We’ll figure it out.”

Before anyone could stop him, a flash of green light burst across the battlefield. Then, without warning, the air cracked with the arrival of the new players.

They weren’t human.

More than fifty hulking figures leapt into the fray, surrounding Omni-Man and the Beast. The ground shook under their collective landing.

Each one stood at least six feet tall—some even taller—with grotesque, muscular builds reinforced by metallic limbs. Their pale, hairless skin gave them a ghoulish, corpse-like appearance, stretched over synthetic parts. Their faces were twisted into eternal snarls, lips stripped away to expose yellowing teeth, and their heads were capped with domed helmets that covered their brows. Each helmet featured a single, glowing red visor—like the blazing eye of an angry cyclops.

They had three thick, claw-like fingers per hand and two wide, digitigrade toes per foot. Their torsos were armored, some with burnished silver plating, others with gold, but Rudy’s attention immediately snapped to eight figures clad in stark white armor.

The design was unmistakable.

Flaxan armor.

To think these things were already integrated with Flaxan tech. Despite the Flaxans’ time dilation advantage, that was unusually fast. Disturbingly fast.

Then came the roar—identical and inhuman, rising like a chorus of war horns through the shattered streets.

In unison, the Reanimen lunged at Battle Beast.

He roared in return and hurled himself at them, meeting their assault head-on.

The clash was feral. The Beast was swallowed by a tide of snarling, armored bodies. They piled onto him like a collapsing structure, biting with yellowed teeth, pounding him with metallic fists, tearing tufts of blood-matted fur from his body. It was chaos made flesh.

Rudy watched, surprised—almost impressed—by how well they were holding up. It was hard to tell if they were drawing blood, not with how soaked Battle Beast’s fur already was, but they were clearly hitting hard enough to drive him through the cracked pavement and into the ruins below.

Then, one of the Reanimen broke away from the pile. This one was clad in white Flaxan armor and landed in front of them, clutching what looked like a blank, metallic soda can in its right hand.

Mark tensed, stepping in front of Rudy instinctively.

Then it opened its mouth—and Cecil’s voice came out.

“Oh good, Mark, you’re alive,” the voice said dryly. “Excellent. That means I get to put you between me and your parents when this entire shitshow is over.”

Mark blinked. “Cecil, why the fuck is your voice coming out of a Reaniman?”

“Subdermal speaker, implanted in the throat,” Cecil answered without missing a beat. “Now. How the fuck do we stop this guy?”

Mark hesitated.

Then, quietly, almost ashamed: “...I don’t think we can.”

His voice was heavy with regret.

“I’m sorry. This is on me. I got cocky. I thought this was a good opportunity to see how I’d stack up against the kind of monsters we’ll face in the future. I really believed, with all the strength I’ve gained, that I could take him, maybe even knock him out.”

He shook his head slowly, the weight of the battle seemingly pressing into his bones.

“But Battle Beast… fighting isn’t just a skill to him. It’s not a job. It’s not even a calling. It’s everything. It’s the reason he breathes. The reason he wakes up every morning and goes to sleep at night is because maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be the day someone finally kills him. He’s not fighting to win. He’s fighting to die—and until someone finishes the job, he’s not stopping.”

Mark exhaled, jaw clenched.

“I should’ve backed down after the first few hits. He would’ve walked away. But I didn’t. I hurt him. I made him bleed. And now that he knows I can, he sees me—and everyone else who showed up—as potential. As worthy. And he won’t stop. Not until one of us dies.”

There was a pause. A long one.

Then, from the Reaniman’s throat, Cecil sighed.

“Shit, kid. You really don’t do things halfway, do you?”

A guttural roar of triumph cut through the air, snapping everyone’s attention to the battlefield. Battle Beast stood triumphant atop a small mound of twitching Reanimen, crimson-streaked and grinning with animalistic glee. With a savage grunt, he ripped the head off one of the synthetic soldiers with his teeth, chewing and spitting the remnants aside like gristle. Then, with terrifying ease, he grabbed the torso and tore it in half, bone and metal shrieking as they were wrenched apart.

He looked happy.

"Awesome. He’s already destroyed a quarter of them," Cecil’s voice muttered from the throat mic of the destroyed Reaniman. His voice was grim. "I can give you maybe five more minutes, tops, before he tears through what’s left of them. They're not slowing him down—they’re appetizers."

There was a short pause, measured in milliseconds for Rudy, but long enough to indicate the weight behind Cecil’s next words.

"Mark… do you and your father have fifteen in you?" Cecil’s voice, broadcast through the Reaniman’s synthetic throat, was strained. Not desperate, but taut with reluctant hope. "Right now, you two are the only ones who’ve even made him hesitate. Even beaten to hell, you’re still the best chance we’ve got."

Mark exhaled heavily, shoulders sagging. “Maybe. But I have to get to Dad first. Talk to him.”

“Fine, fine,” the Reaniman nodded. “But drink this first.”

It extended the small, unmarked can to Mark—dull silver, with no label or logo. Just a tab and a quiet hiss of carbonation beneath the metal.

Mark accepted it with a confused frown. “What is this?”

“Something the labs put together,” Cecil’s voice explained. “All your vitamins, minerals, essential nutrients, proteins, and basic cellular repair agents in a single dose. Think of it as a supercharged Gatorade. If nothing else, it’ll help keep you on your feet long enough to get the job done.”

Mark tilted his head, inspecting the can. “You guys just make anything and hope it sticks, huh. Fuck it, fine. I’m not exactly drowning in better options.”

He popped the tab, took a swig, and grimaced immediately. “Tastes like blood. Not even like…a little. Just straight iron.”

“It’s supposed to be flavorless,” Cecil's Reaniman replied blandly. “Might just be your mouth being messed up from all those punches to the face you took—your body’s still processing trauma, after all.”

Mark shrugged and kept drinking. “Whatever. Let me finish this, then I’ll go talk to Dad.”

To the casual observer, it was an innocuous exchange. A concerned director offering a recovery drink to one of his most powerful assets before sending him into battle. Perfectly reasonable. Almost touching.

But Rudolph Conners had known Director Stedman long enough to know better.

Why now?

Why this?

Why offer this mystery concoction after the major players had taken their hits? Why hadn’t it been given to Immortal or War Woman as well, after their injuries? Why not Omni-Man, when he'd been pushed to the absolute edge?

Rudy said nothing. But as the others moved, preparing to depart, his drone silently retrieved the discarded can. He slid it into a concealed compartment in his forearm, typically reserved for emergency coolant capsules or spare power cells.

In the weeks to follow, when the mission was complete and everyone had recovered, Rudy would analyze the can in his private lab. A few drops of residue clung stubbornly to the interior lining. 

It was enough.

Cecil hadn’t lied. The drink did contain nutrients, amino acids, and energy-boosting compounds. That much was true.

But three additional ingredients had been excluded from what he told Mark.

The first: nanites. Standard tracking units, microscopic, designed to affix themselves to the stomach lining and remain dormant until pinged. Harmless by themselves. But still—stealth trackers, administered without consent. Rudy chose to leave those alone; he could easily intercept the signal and reroute the tracking to his own private servers. If Mark was ever captured, or lost, or compromised, he would be able to find him first.

The other two ingredients would make his nonexistent eyebrows twitch upward.

Blood.

Not just any blood—genetically modified samples derived from two enhanced humans: Zandale Randolph, otherwise known as Bulletproof, and Scott Duvall, currently operating under the alias Powerplex.

Blood that had been genetically modified to be absorbed into the body as quickly as possible.

It was something that would give Rudy pause, and finally make him wonder if his intelligence truly kept him apart from the masses…or if he had been underestimating just how smart people like Cecil Stedman were.

Blood.

It was sacred on Viltrum.

Not merely a bodily fluid—blood was identity, legacy, and power. To possess Viltrumite blood was to be marked by the universe itself as superior. 

A god among the imperfect, weak, and chaotic species that cluttered the stars. 

A being forged to conquer, to dominate, to ascend above the flawed dregs of creation.

Every facet of a Viltrumite’s physiology reinforced this divine narrative. Strength beyond comprehension. Flight through sheer force of will. Skin that repelled blades, bullets, and beams. Eyes that could track movement miles away, ears that could pick up whispers from rooms distant. Their biology was a sermon, a declaration carved into flesh and bone: 

Viltrum was made to rule.

To be pureblooded was to be priceless. Their blood was the Empire’s most sacred resource, more treasured than diamonds, rarer than gold. And now…

Now, that same precious lifeblood was leaking from Nolan Grayson’s battered body, seeping into fractured concrete like water through the cracks of a broken dam.

He could feel it draining from him, warm and thick, pooling beneath his crumpled form. His costume was in tatters—mere ribbons fluttering weakly in the dust-choked wind. His skin was a ruin of torn muscle and raw sinew, with white bone occasionally jutting from shredded flesh. Each breath was agony—flames licking down his throat, burrowing into his lungs. One eye had long since gone dark, pulped into jelly by a brutal slash. The other was red-streaked, blurring with tears and blood from a deep cut above his brow.

And yet… Battle Beast was still standing.

No, more than that. He was thriving.

The alien warrior’s fur was slick with Nolan’s blood, caking into tangled clumps that dripped red with every movement. He stood tall, towering over the battlefield like a god of war in the flesh, his expression contorted in unholy bliss. Around him, the reanimated cybernetic corpses that Cecil had dropped into the fight—the last-minute gamble, the desperate countermeasures, were being torn to shreds.

Literally.

Battle Beast ripped them apart with ease, rending metal torsos in half with his bare hands. He crushed skulls underfoot, tore limbs free like petals from a flower, and bit into their synthetic bodies as if they were flesh. He bathed in the mechanical gore, roaring with a manic joy that echoed through the smoke and ruin.

It reminded Nolan of Conquest.

Centuries ago, during his youth, he had traveled with his cohort, the ones he'd trained and bled beside as a child. One of their first missions together had been under Conquest's command: a punitive campaign against a planet that had refused to pay tribute.

He remembered that mission vividly.

He remembered the things Conquest had done—the way he had smiled as he butchered civilians, the way he savored resistance, the sheer delight in his eyes as he tore their defenders limb from limb. There had been something primal in him, something unfiltered and wild, like a predator unchained.

Looking at Battle Beast now, Nolan saw that same glint. That same monstrous joy. That same terrible mirror.

They said Conquest was the ideal Viltrumite—the model of loyalty.

And maybe…maybe this was what true Viltrumite loyalty looked like.

Blood. Battle. Ecstasy in destruction.

And as Nolan lay broken and bleeding, staring up at the beast who wore his blood like war paint, he couldn’t help but wonder—was this the destiny the stars had written for him, too?

Or had he strayed from the path, from his time on Earth?

But before Nolan could dwell further on his thoughts—on pain, on failure, on the gnawing resentment curling in his chest—several figures dropped down beside him with the unmistakable sound of displaced air and boots crunching into broken earth.

The Atom Eve girl. Robot. One of those cybernetic corpses Cecil had just teleported in—white-armored, soulless things built for war.

And then... Mark.

His son.

Bruised. Bloodied. Breathing hard. Still standing.

Nolan’s jaw tightened, not just from the pain in his ribs but from something deeper. Something bitter. A twisting knot of hate—not just for Battle Beast, who had done this to his son—but for Cecil, for orchestrating this entire farce. For daring to throw his child into this fight like he was just another soldier.

Mark dropped to his knees beside him, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. Even through the armor, the contact sent a jolt of pain across Nolan’s nerves. He grunted but said nothing.

“Dad,” Mark said, voice heavy with concern. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Nolan growled, forcing his voice to stay steady. “You need to get out of here. Go home. Now.”

Mark’s face creased, a stubborn line forming between his brows. “Dad, I can’t just go home—”

“Mark,” Nolan snapped, cutting him off. “I’m not going to argue. You are not ready for this. I don’t care what Cecil has been whispering in your ear. You’re still a child. You lack the experience, the instinct—”

“Dad—”

“I need you to leave so I can finish this—”

“DAD!”

The force of Mark’s shout made Nolan freeze. His son didn’t raise his voice often—hadn’t even as a boy. And now, hearing it cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding, Nolan actually blinked in surprise.

Mark took a breath, then lowered his voice. “I’m here. I’m standing. I can fight. Nothing you say is going to change that. I’m not leaving you behind. Not now.”

Nolan’s jaw clenched. His voice came out rough, strained by more than just fatigue. “You don’t understand. I… I can’t lose you.”

He hated how much it hurt to say that aloud, especially in front of an audience. This was a moment that should’ve belonged to him and his son alone, not witnessed by children and tactical puppets. But thanks to Cecil’s manipulative tactics, privacy was yet another luxury denied to him.

“You won’t,” Mark said firmly, stepping closer. “But I need your help. We have to keep Battle Beast occupied for fifteen minutes. That’s it. Cecil said Darkwing has a plan—something that might actually work—but he needs time to set it up. You and I are the only ones strong enough to keep that thing off balance long enough for it to matter.”

Fifteen minutes.

The idea of going back in… of facing that monster again—Nolan felt a chill run up his spine. He had never feared anything in his life. Not spacefaring tyrants, not planetary extinction events, not the Viltrumite Empire itself. But Battle Beast? That… thing… was something else entirely. A being so singularly focused on destruction that logic, pain, and reason meant nothing to him.

And worse, he’d barely survived last time.

“...You’ve got a lot of explaining to do after this,” Nolan muttered, forcing himself to stand, teeth gritted against the pain lacing his limbs.

“You’re telling me,” Mark replied dryly. “Imagine what Mom’s gonna say.”

“Technically, it’s not the kid’s fault,” said a new voice—deep, gritty, and unsettling.

Nolan’s eyes snapped toward the zombie-like figure standing nearby. The reanimated corpse’s mouth had moved, but the voice coming out of it unmistakably belonged to Cecil.

“Cecil?” Nolan asked, his tone sharp. “Are you controlling that thing?”

“Yeah,” Cecil replied matter-of-factly. “Remote feed. Not exactly subtle, but it gets the job done.”

“You’ve got cameras and mics on it, I assume?”

“Full suite. Main array’s in the head—plus backups in the chest and-”

“Good,” Nolan interrupted.

He limped over to the walking corpse, grasped its head with both hands—and crushed it like a soda can. There was a sickening crunch as bone, blood, circuitry, and glass erupted in every direction. The reanimated shell collapsed in a heap at his feet.

Nolan stared down at the ruined chest plate, his voice a slow, venomous growl. “That… is what I’m going to do to every single person who so much as heard a rumor that you put my son in this situation, and decided to tell me nothing.”

He turned his gaze upward, burning holes into the nearest lens. “And you, Cecil? I’ve got something special planned for you. But I’ll let Debbie take her pound of flesh first.”

The air became tense.

Atom Eve took a half-step back, hands raised in passive surrender. “I just met him today.”

“I have never, at any point, shared a room with this boy,” Robot said with robotic clarity. “Statistical proximity is negligible.”

Nolan rolled his eyes. “Relax. You’re not on the list. Yet.”

Then he looked at Mark—his son, his legacy—and gave a firm nod.

“Alright. Let’s go beat the crap out of that overgrown cat.”

Thokk did not believe in miracles.

He did not believe in prophecies, nor in wishes granted by the stars. The only ‘magic’ he had ever known was the curse that ran through his blood—a curse that stoked his rage to inhuman levels, forcing his body to evolve, to harden, to match that rage with might. Pain was a companion. Blood was his language. Glory came only through battle.

And yet, some part of him—a tiny, slumbering part long buried beneath layers of muscle and instinct—must have once done something good. Perhaps he had slain a tyrant so vile that the universe itself had seen fit to repay him. Because today, Thokk was certain he had been given a gift.

He had never come so close to death. Not in centuries.

First, the boy—Invincible. The first being in over a hundred years to draw Thokk’s blood. A true warrior, strong and fast, reckless and raw. Then came the boy’s father, slower, but with the weight and discipline of experience. A juggernaut who met Thokk’s every blow with equal force, who fought on even as his body failed him.

And now, the dead.

Creatures stitched together from metal and rotting flesh, radiating the stench of decay and stolen purpose. They were not nearly as powerful as the father and son, but they were strong enough that Thokk deigned to acknowledge them, unlike the pitiful insects who had tried to interfere earlier.

There was something wrong about them, though. Something that stirred unease, deep in the place where thought still lingered.

These revenants... the idea of them was wrong.

He had fought them out of necessity and with some joy, but the deeper truth was this: it disturbed him. Deeply. To know that even in death, warriors here found no peace. That the fallen could be summoned back into war, their bones twisted into tools, their blood repurposed for ends not their own.

Would that be his fate, if he died here?

Would they drag his corpse from the battlefield, drive rods into his spine, and wire his muscles with machines, just to send him lurching into another war?

And worse still—what if his curse did not die with him?

What if they reanimated him, and the curse reignited in that borrowed flesh? What if his rage returned, louder than before, burning in a body that no longer belonged to him?

What if even death was no escape?

He shoved the thoughts aside.

He would think about those horrors later. He would not be cheated of this moment. This glorious moment.

Today was a day of worthy battle.

With a triumphant roar, he ripped the last of the necrotic constructs in half, its foul blood coating his face and chest as he hoisted it overhead. The taste was bitter, metallic, wrong—but he swallowed it like wine.

If this was the end, he welcomed it.

If not, then let the gods find him another challenger.

Let his heart be torn from his chest by someone worthy.

Let him die standing, laughing, covered in blood.

“Is this all you have?” Battle Beast bellowed, voice echoing across the smoldering battlefield. “Do not tell me it is finally over! That you have chosen to surrender! Have the warriors of this world truly fallen? Is there no soul left with the strength—or the will—to challenge me?!”

A voice rang out from behind him, calm but resolute.

“We’re right here.”

The familiar tone sent a shiver of anticipation down Thokk’s spine. He turned.

There they stood—Invincible and his father, bloodied and bruised, their uniforms torn to rags and stained with dirt and gore. And yet, they stood tall. Defiant. Alive. The fire in their eyes had not been dimmed, only tempered—honed into something even sharper than before.

A delighted hiss escaped Thokk’s throat. “Yes,” he murmured, reverent. “Finally. The only warriors truly worthy of ending my life stand before me.”

“This doesn’t have to end in your death,” Invincible said, though his fists clenched and his stance betrayed his readiness to strike. “We can talk. This planet… it’s crawling with powerful threats—human and alien alike. You could fight with us, against them. You could die a warrior’s death in glory beyond anything you’ve ever imagined.”

Thokk chuckled, low and deep, as he yanked his mace from the stomach of a shattered war-machine. Its synthetic innards clung to the blood-slicked head, viscera dripping into the ground.

“You misunderstand me,” he said. “I have searched the stars since I was old enough to wield a weapon. I have hunted champions spoken of only in myth—gods of war, monsters who shattered continents, heroes who made moons quake in their passing. And I killed them all.”

He began to pace, slowly, savoring each word.

“I sought the Viltrumites once. Legendary warriors, whispered about in shadowed corners of the galaxy. But I never found them. For all I knew, they were fiction.”

He didn’t miss the subtle flinch from the older man—the sharp intake of breath, the tightening around his remaining eye.

“But Earth…” Thokk turned his gaze to the battlefield around them. “This forgotten world. This unimpressive rock that no one wishes to conquer and no one bothers to save… it has given me more battle, more glory, more purpose than a hundred empires with a thousand armies. I need no other opponents. Not when the two of you stand before me.”

He raised his mace, eyes burning with fervor. “So let us finish this. Let my gods see that I have earned my death.”

“But—” Mark began, the hesitation clear in his voice.

“He’s made his choice, Mark,” his father interrupted, his voice low but firm. “You won’t change his mind. This is what he wants.”

“Mark,” Thokk repeated, rolling the name across his tongue with curiosity. “A fine name. Though I prefer Invincible. It suits you better.”

His gaze shifted. “And you, the one who claims him as a son—what name do you bear?”

The older man stood straighter, a flicker of pride returning to his battered form. “The people of this world call me Omni-Man,” he said. “But the name I was born with… is Nolan.”

Thokk smiled, slowly. “Mark. Nolan. My moniker is known across the stars—Battle Beast. But long ago, when I was little more than a cub, I was called Thokk. Now the three of us are bound—by name, by blood, by battle.”

He raised his mace high.

“Let us end this. Together.”

Mark launched forward like a missile, closing the distance in an instant. His fist shot upward in a vicious uppercut that cracked against Battle Beast’s jaw with a sickening crunch, lifting the hulking warrior off the ground. Before Thokk could right himself, Nolan blurred into view above, seizing him midair by the leg and swinging him down like a hammer into the shattered road. The impact was thunderous, spiderwebbing the pavement and sending shockwaves through the ruined street.

Battle Beast roared, twisting into a retaliatory kick—but Nolan had already released him, stepping back fluidly, unreadable. Thokk landed in a crouch, only to block a brutal cross from Nolan with his forearms—just in time to catch Mark’s boot slamming into the side of his skull. His head snapped sideways with a wet crack.

Enraged, Thokk slashed at Mark, claws gleaming red, but Nolan caught one of his thick braids, yanking hard and wrenching his neck back, exposing his face for a clean shot. Mark didn’t waste the opening. He darted in with a flurry of punches to the face; three sharp, piston-fast blows that sounded like a single thunderclap. Thokk staggered, breath catching.

And then the rhythm began.

They moved like two halves of a perfect whole—offense and defense, brute strength and surgical speed. Nolan pressed the attack, raining down blows with the cold efficiency of a war machine. Mark was everywhere at once, filling the gaps, striking at weak points, pulling Nolan out of danger when Thokk countered. It wasn’t just teamwork, it was choreography, a violent ballet written in blood and fury. They weren’t just father and son in that moment; they were warriors, honed and bound by purpose.

Battle Beast felt his ribs crack. A molar flew from his mouth. His breath hitched with each passing second. Death… Death was here. He could feel her cold fingers brushing against the edges of his awareness.

And yet… so close. So maddeningly close.

But they began to slow.

Mark’s footwork faltered. His strikes no longer snapped with the same ferocity. Nolan’s punches lost their edge, his body dipping with the weight of exhaustion. They were still dangerous. Still valiant. But not enough.

Thokk surged with sudden fury, delivering a thunderous backhand that sent Nolan spiraling into a mangled traffic light, blood trailing through the air. Mark came in low, but Thokk caught his fist mid-swing, lifted him by the arm, and slammed him into the ground—once, twice, three times. The ground split beneath each impact, blood pooling in fractured stone.

“Don’t stop!” Thokk bellowed, voice hoarse, trembling with wrath. “You’re so close! So close to ending my torment! Do it! Find another way!”

But the two warriors lay still, gasping, broken. Their bodies refused to rise. Thokk’s heart sank.

They...had failed.

He looked down at them—not with rage, but with a sorrow he barely understood. He had been inches from the grave he longed for. Just a few more blows, just a few seconds more. And now... now it was over.

He would kill them. It was what failure demanded.

He took a step toward Mark’s broken form, arm rising—

—and froze.

A high-pitched whine sliced through the air.

The strange machine that had been circling overhead earlier—annoying, insignificant, irrelevant—was back now, hovering suddenly with new purpose. Its turret adjusted. A single missile launched with a hiss, spiraling downward into the street.

The explosion wasn’t fire this time; it was force. A violet shockwave of gas or dust rippled outward, followed by a thick, chemical haze that filled Thokk’s nostrils with acrid sting. His bloodied nose twitched. His vision blurred. His claws flexed in confusion.

Then he saw them.

Two figures leapt from the hovering transport, descending through the smoke like wraiths of war. Their arrival was silent, graceful—eerily synchronized, like shadows given purpose. Each of them wore a sleek black mask, the eye sockets a featureless white, cold and unreadable. It was not a costume designed for flair, but for fear. Their presence was deliberate.

Their suits were two-toned: a muted gray molded across their chests and thighs, while the rest was a deep, unreflective black that drank in the surrounding light. Sharp, angular capes fluttered behind them, and a single pointed cowl rose from the back of their necks like a blade. Even their posture was honed—alert, balanced, practiced.

They were not pale like the father-son he had fought before. Their skin was a darker hue, but their musculature was no less impressive—cut from the same stone, shaped by the same fights, perhaps. Broad shoulders, heavy frames, power coiled beneath their suits.

New challengers.

Thokk's eyes narrowed, a hot surge of anticipation rising through his chest. His wounds ached. His knuckles cracked. But his blood stirred.

Interesting.

"You ready, Nightboy?" Darkwing asked as the hangar doors of the jet began to open, cold Chicago air rushing in to greet them.

"Um, not really, sir," Nightboy admitted, his voice cracking slightly despite his best efforts to sound composed. "Are you sure I’m ready for this? Like, really sure? Like, are-you-actually-sure kind of sure? Because I saw what this guy did on the news during the flight here, and he’s been wrecking everyone. I’m not sure I’m built for this.”

Darkwing didn’t say anything at first. He simply reached out and placed a warm, steady hand on Nightboy’s trembling shoulder. There was no pressure in the touch—just quiet strength, calm reassurance.

"Nightboy," he said, his voice firm but kind. “I believe in you. You’ve got this.”

Nightboy swallowed hard, eyes darting away as heat flushed his cheeks. He couldn’t look at him—Darkwing was just… so cool. So composed. So completely unshakable. And Nightboy? He was just a scared kid with a connection to a place no one should ever have to see.

A place full of shadows that whispered and growled and begged to be let out.

The Shadowverse wasn’t a gift. It was a prison he’d been forced to carry around in his chest, filled with writhing, towering shapes that lurked just beyond sight. Eldritch things with too many limbs and no eyes and voices that never stopped. It was the kind of power you’d expect from a villain—the kind people ran from. Not the kind you handed to a teenager and told to go save the world with.

But Darkwing had seen something else. He hadn’t flinched, hadn’t hesitated. He’d taken Nightboy in, trained him, given him purpose—and most importantly, hope. He made him believe that maybe, just maybe, he could be more than the voices. More than the fear.

Too bad he couldn't find someone with even an ounce of courage, one of the voices hissed in his mind. Its tone was cruel and dripping with contempt.

Shut up, he snapped back mentally. Not now. Not today.

He took a deep breath and looked down through the swirling smoke left behind by the missile. The lenses of his mask filtered the haze, giving him a clear view of the battlefield below.

The lion-like man stood at the center of the devastation, tall and unbothered, his fur scorched but his posture relaxed. Around him lay the broken bodies of Earth’s finest. Omni-Man—Nolan Grayson himself—was embedded into the street a block away, a crater around his frame. Invincible was crumpled at the beast’s feet, bloodied and unmoving.

Omni-Man was supposed to be the strongest being on Earth. Invincible had fought like hell, alongside the Immortal, War Woman, and almost every remaining member of the Guardians. Even the Teen Team had joined the fray, trying to slow the monster down.

And he’d beaten them all.

The only one unaccounted for was Green Ghost. She was still out there, evacuating civilians on her own.

Nightboy’s fingers clenched around the edge of the building.

He took on everyone. Omni-Man. Invincible. The Guardians. The Teen Team. All of them.

And he’s still standing.

What chance do you have? A cruel voice whispered in his head, bitter and sharp. You’ll just splatter on the pavement like a bug under a boot. Face it—Darkwing’s going to need a new sidekick by sundown. One who can actually do the job.

“Let’s go,” Darkwing said, voice steady, calm.

Nightboy didn’t hesitate. He jumped after him.

Their capes snapped out, stiffening into glider-like wings as they soared downward, slicing through the smoke.

A split second before landing, Darkwing pulled a handful of adhesive explosives from his belt and flung them at the lion-man. They latched onto the creature’s fur, hissing as they dug in.

Boom. Boom. BOOM.

The air shook with the force of the detonations.

And the lion-man raised an eyebrow. Just one.

It was an almost casual gesture. Like he was asking, “Seriously?”

Oh wow, Nightboy thought, this is going to go really, really bad.

Darkwing landed first, rolling smoothly into a handstand, springing up into a flawless roundhouse kick that cracked across the creature’s jaw.

The lion-man didn’t move. Not even a twitch.

Undeterred, Darkwing flipped backward, landing behind the creature and unleashing a barrage of calculated strikes—rapid-fire kicks, jabs, elbow blows. It was precision martial arts, the kind that took decades to perfect.

The lion-man blinked slowly.

Darkwing hurled three custom Mid-Nites—metallic, boomerang-shaped explosives—designed to pierce armor and detonate on impact. They clanged against the beast’s shoulders and detonated in blinding flashes of light and sound.

Smoke rose again.

The lion-man sighed.

There was no rage in his voice. Only the weary disappointment of someone forced to step on yet another ant.

“More insects,” he murmured. “To replace the ones that came before.”

He looked up at them with tired, golden eyes, his expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and contempt.

“Is this it?” the creature asked, voice rumbling like a distant avalanche. “Is this all your world has left to offer?”

Before anyone could respond, Nightboy leapt in. His fist connected with the creature’s torso—it felt like punching a wall made of iron sinew and stone—but that wasn’t the point of the strike. It was a feint. As their shadows overlapped in the low evening light, a dark shimmer pulsed beneath their feet. Smoke-like tendrils rose from the darkness as Nightboy channeled his power, tearing open a swirling portal to the Shadowverse.

The gate yawned beneath the creature’s left foot, shadows warping reality as it began to sink. Nightboy’s pulse quickened. It was working. The trap was actually working.

But then—

A snarl tore from the creature’s throat. In a flash, it jumped backward, dragging its foot free just before the portal could take hold. As it landed, it lashed out and caught Darkwing mid-sprint, his stealth approach entirely undone. The lion-man’s clawed hand closed around Darkwing’s torso with terrifying ease, then hurled him like a javelin through the air.

Glass shattered as Darkwing crashed through the windows of a nearby office tower, his body disappearing into a storm of shards.

Then the creature turned toward Nightboy, its burning eyes narrowing.

It grabbed him by the arm, hoisting him into the air like a child’s doll.

“What was that?” it growled, deep and dangerous.

Nightboy froze. His heart thundered in his chest, his throat bone-dry. This was it. He was going to die here—crushed, broken, devoured—before he could even scream.

But then—

A roar tore through the battlefield, raw and furious.

Both Nightboy and the beast turned their heads.

The Immortal stood across the street, battered but defiant, a massive purple bruise blooming across his jaw. His eyes blazed with wrath.

Training overtook panic.

With his free hand, Nightboy gripped the lion-man’s mane tightly, right as the Immortal barreled into them like a living missile.

The impact was thunderous. The three of them were launched into the air, crashing toward a collapsed, half-tilted building that loomed like a crumbling tomb.

But Nightboy saw it—just in time.

A stretch of wall, dark and jagged, coated in layered shadow.

He reached for it with his mind, his connection to the Shadowverse humming.

And instead of slamming into brick and steel, they passed through like ghosts, slipping soundlessly from the material world into the cold, clutching embrace of the Shadowverse.

To anyone else, it would have looked like they simply vanished into darkness. A bleak void. A place devoid of light, shape, or reason. Perhaps they would have heard the low, guttural snarls of unseen monsters echoing from the abyss, but nothing more.

But not for him.

Not for Nightboy.

He saw the Shadowverse for what it truly was.

He saw the fractured landscape stretched out before him—an impossible realm of jagged, obsidian planes floating like shards of broken glass suspended in endless black. They drifted in no clear pattern, as if a titanic mirror had been shattered by some god’s fury, and the pieces had never stopped falling. They spun and twisted in the dark, catching slivers of dim, otherworldly light—light that came from the pinprick tears in reality itself, openings to the mortal world, glowing like distant stars far above.

But far beneath those floating shards… they writhed.

The true horrors of the Shadowverse.

They were titans—monsters the size of skyscrapers, their forms ever-shifting and impossible to look at directly. Some had scales, others claws, wings, or chitinous limbs. Most had too many eyes, too many mouths. All of them pulsed with malice and rage, with teeth the length of buses and tendrils that whipped and coiled around each other in brutal combat. They climbed over one another in a savage frenzy, dragging each other down into the abyss, snarling and screaming, tearing flesh, shedding thick, black blood that hung in the air like oil smoke.

And while others could only hear their snarls as meaningless growls—just background noise of some unknowable dimension—Nightboy could understand them.

He heard their thoughts.

He felt their hunger.

“I want blood. I WANT BLOOD!”

“A thousand human sacrifices! I will taste flesh once more! I will chew bone to dust!”

“When I ascend, I shall dine on bread baked from bonemeal, drink wine pressed from virgin blood! Oh, it shall be glorious!”

“Damn you! Damn you all! Were it not for your sabotage, the surface world would be mine by now! A thousand generations singing my name in worship! A thousand curses upon you all!”

Their madness was raw, unfiltered, like static etched into his skull. It rang in his ears and coiled around his thoughts, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t. This was the truth of the Shadowverse—this eternal hunger, this vicious war of monsters clawing at the heavens, desperate to rise, desperate to consume.

And he, Nightboy, was the only one who could navigate it.

The only one who could truly see.

And yet, Immortal was flying them straight toward the pit of monsters.

“I am the Immortal!” he roared, fists slamming again and again into the lion-man’s face as they plummeted through the air. “I was Earth’s first protector! A soldier, a king, a shaman, a knight—a warrior! I was humanity’s first superhero, and I will be the one to defeat you!”

Each blow thundered like a war drum, but the lion-man remained unfazed. Snarling through broken teeth and blood-flecked fur, he let the punches land—and did not yield.

“I care not for your name, nor your titles,” the lion-man spat, voice guttural and dark with disdain. “You are nothing to me. Your strength is hollow. Your legacy is dust. Whatever you were to this world… it all means nothing to me!”

And on Immortal’s next punch, the lion-man opened his jaws wide—wider than should have been physically possible—and bit down on Immortal’s fist. There was a sickening crunch of bone as his teeth closed, and Immortal’s scream tore through the frozen air like a siren.

That scream did what nothing else had.

It made the Eldritch things stop.

For the first time since Nightboy had dared look into that pit of madness, the writhing, shapeless monsters paused. Their dozens—no, hundreds-of eyes turned upward, their shadowed heads tilting in grotesque curiosity.

“…Are those… humans?” one asked, its voice like the churning of oceans beneath a dying moon.

“Blood,” another hissed, louder, faster. “I smell blood! FRESH BLOOD!”

“So hungry…” a third moaned, its voice stretched with ancient agony. “So long… starving… And now a fine little morsel comes to feed me… Come, little humans. I shall make your end swift.”

“What is that creature with them?” rasped another. “It looks… delicious.”

Nightboy’s heart sank as he watched them—all of them—reach out with spindly claws, sinewy limbs, and endless tendrils. They stretched upward as one, a grotesque bouquet of hunger, all aimed at them.

“Immortal!” Nightboy shouted, the panic rising in his voice. “You need to stop! We’re too close! If they catch us—they’ll never let us go!”

But Immortal didn’t stop. He didn’t even seem to hear.

Instead, he gave the lion-man a twisted, bloodied smile.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I am nothing. In this new age we’ve entered… my strength means nothing.”

Then he tightened his grip, lips peeling back into a savage grin.

“But that’s fine by me. My culture taught me that sacrifice—true, willing sacrifice—is the greatest thing a man can give to his people. Earth is my tribe. Humanity is my people. And I will sacrifice everything for them.”

With a final cry of defiance, Immortal ripped his arm free—leaving most of his mangled hand still lodged in the lion-man’s maw—then grabbed Nightboy by the cape.

“So rot in hell, beast!” he bellowed, and with one brutal kick to the lion-man’s gut, he flew up with Nightboy’s cape gripped tightly in his non-mangled hand.

The lion-man lost his grip on Nightboy’s arm.

And fell.

Down into the pit.

Down into the waiting maws.

The Eldritch creatures shrieked in joy.

From Immortal’s position, it must’ve looked like the lion-man simply vanished into the darkness, consumed by the abyss. But Nightboy saw the truth.

The lion-man was being devoured alive.

He fought them even as they fought over him, massive creatures slamming into each other in a frenzy of tooth and claw.

“It is mine! MINE!” one shrieked, dragging the lion man toward its endless rows of teeth.

“Thief! That tribute is mine!” bellowed another, wrapping its coils around the limbs and pulling.

“You fools!” a third screamed. “Can’t you see?! The sacrifice was meant for ME!”

They began tearing each other apart in a savage frenzy, the eldritch swarm collapsing inward like a dying star devouring itself. The darkness didn’t just retreat—it was consumed, eclipsed by their ravenous hunger and bloodlust. Each scream, each shriek, each sound of bone cracking and tendons snapping was swallowed in the chaos.

“Do you think he’ll be able to escape?” Immortal asked, glancing back over his shoulder as they soared higher, faster, away from the carnage below.

Nightboy didn’t answer immediately. His eyes widened behind the mask as he caught sight of the lion-headed creature, battered and bloodied, lunging upward with one final roar—only to be seized mid-air by a slithering, multi-limbed abomination that had been hiding in the folds of shadow. The lion-man screamed as it was dragged downward and swallowed whole. The larger eldritch horrors, sensing a new threat to their prize, screeched in fury and converged like vultures on a carcass, pulling each other apart for a share.

“Nah,” Nightboy said finally, voice hoarse and cracking. “I think he’s stuck here.”

Immortal grunted, not with satisfaction, but with grim finality. “Good. Get us the hell out of here, Nightboy.”

Nightboy extended one hand, reaching through the black void until his fingers brushed a pinprick of white—one of the fractures in the fabric of this realm, a doorway to reality. He focused, pulling them both through as if threading a needle in the dark.

And then they were out.

Downtown Chicago greeted them like a wounded beast—sirens in the distance, smoke still rising from shattered buildings, streets littered with debris, broken glass, and flickering flames. The sky above was gray, smudged with ash and storm clouds, but it was home. It was real.

Immortal touched his earpiece, exhaling deeply.

“Cecil? Yeah. I’m back. We did it.”

He looked out across the ruined cityscape, jaw tightening.

“We won.”

Chapter Text

Visiting hospitals wasn't Cecil's thing.

There were three places he avoided whenever possible—graveyards, prisons, and hospitals. In his experience, nothing good ever happened in any of them. Going there usually meant something had gone very wrong, and Cecil didn't like being reminded of things that went wrong. 

Normally, he sent Donald to handle hospital visits. 

Donald had the face for it. The temperament. People didn't hate him on sight. But for certain groups of people—people who wouldn't appreciate flowers or a fruit basket—Cecil had to show up in person. Whether they wanted him there or not.

He pushed open the door to the first recovery room.

"Hey there, you two."

"Fuck you," Magmaniac spat.

Case in point.

All things considered, Magmaniac and Tether Tyrant looked pretty good—if "good" meant "alive after being torn in half" for one and "alive after having his skull introduced to several pounds of concrete" for the other. The GDA employed the best surgeons in the world and had access to medical tech that most hospitals would kill for. They could pull off the kind of miracles you only saw in bad sci-fi shows. 

Not that either of these two ingrates cared.

"Okay, I deserve that," Cecil admitted, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "But in my defense, I didn't think he'd go that hard on you."

"Deserve? Oh, you deserve plenty," Tether Tyrant rasped, his voice still thin and strained from the damage. "This is the least of it. You told us it'd be a simple job. Show up, look scary, play the bad guys for a couple of hits, and then take the dive. You left out the part where we'd get absolutely wrecked by Omni-Man's kid."

Cecil winced. "So everyone knows already, huh?"

"You kidding?" Magmaniac grumbled. "The whole damn world knows. Omni Man was screaming it loud enough for satellites to hear when he dove in, like he was trying to score a touchdown. You're lucky the media's been blurring his face. That's you guys, isn't it?"

He wasn't wrong. The GDA had made it very clear to every network: show Invincible's face, and you'd get an unannounced visit from Omni-Man. And nobody wanted that on their calendar.

Of course, no one would be getting a visit from Nolan anytime soon…

Cecil had actually thought the fight would be a terrible debut for the kid. Instead, it had been the opposite. People saw a rookie hero, first day on the job, going multiple rounds with an opponent who had just trashed downtown Chicago, dismantled the Guardians, handed Omni-Man his ass, and torn through the Teen Team—though they'd somehow walked away without a scratch. Mark had lasted longer than the Guardians, longer than his father. He'd fought Battle Beast alone, then teamed up with the Guardians before they fell, then fought alongside Nolan until both went down.

The talking heads were already chewing the footage to death, arguing over every punch and counter, picking apart exactly who contributed more to bringing Battle Beast down. But amid all the noise, one point kept coming up, over and over.

Mark was stronger than Nolan.

And while the circumstances that proved it had been a complete mess, Cecil was quietly relieved to have that confirmation. A little victory wrapped in a catastrophe—just the way the job seemed to work these days.

"Also, why did no one tell us we were working with what is essentially an evil cat version of Omni-Man?" Magmaniac demanded, jabbing a finger toward Cecil. "If I'd known that fucker was that crazy and that strong before we agreed to take the fall, I would've stayed as far away from him as humanly possible. Like—other hemisphere far."

"That guy was an unknown," Cecil lied smoothly, his voice flat enough to pass for truth. "We're still trying to figure out where he came from and if he can come back from where Nightboy sent him."

Privately, he doubted it. Very much. Nightboy's after-action report had been sparse, but Immortal had filled in some of the blanks, and the picture wasn't promising. If the boy's account was accurate, Battle Beast was likely gone for good. Probably.

And yet… Mark had said Battle Beast was on par with Nolan's leader—someone who could dismantle Nolan with the same casual ease Nolan used on a human. Cecil had seen that power for himself. Battle Beast had torn through the Guardians, put Mark and Nolan in the dirt, and wiped out every single Reaniman they had in reserve. Even drenched in blood and carrying a few injuries, the alien had been eager for more—bellowing for fresh opponents while Mark and Nolan were there at his feet, bloody and bruised as they fought to keep breathing.

A guy like that? Dying in some shadowy pocket dimension? Hard to buy. Cecil couldn't picture Nolan dying that way, so it was hard to believe Battle Beast would either. And honestly, if he was being real with himself, this was the better outcome. The idea of "bargaining" with that creature to take care of Earth's problems had always been a fantasy. 

Battle Beast wasn't a soldier you could point at a target; he was a hurricane with fur and a vocabulary. Bloodlust ran so deep in him it was practically a fact of his existence, like the fact that his fur was white and that his teeth were sharp. It was a miracle he'd stayed in Machine Head's employ for so long without burning the city to the ground just for fun.

And while Earth had its fair share of monstrous threats—kaiju, alien incursions, the occasional god-tier lunatic—they didn't happen every day. The rest of the time, the problems were… people.

Squishy, fragile, crazy people.

Cecil doubted Battle Beast would have bothered to make the distinction.

"Look," Cecil said, injecting just enough sincerity into his tone to make them lean forward. "I really am sorry, you two. How about this—ten grand in hazard pay, and when you're reinstated as prison guards, you'll get a raise. Consider it recognition for your… extreme inconvenience."

Magmaniac and Tether Tyrant exchanged a long, weighted look.

"You're still an asshole," Tether Tyrant muttered. "But we accept."

"Good," Cecil said, leaning back. "Rest up. I've got two first-class tickets on the next plane out—champagne, hot towels, steak and lobster, the works. On me."

The next visit, however, was not as smooth.

For one thing, Rex Splode and Atom Eve were planted outside the hospital room door like sentries—Rex leafing through a home décor magazine of all things, Eve scrolling on her phone. They weren't speaking to each other, but both of them looked up the moment he approached.

"Hey, it's Scarface!" Rex greeted with a grin, tossing the magazine onto his lap. "Didn't think we'd see you here today. How's tricks?"

Cecil exhaled through his nose. The beginnings of a headache were already settling in behind his eyes.

"Hello to you too, Rex. Eve." His voice was flat. "May I go in?"

The fact that he had to ask to enter one of his own private hospital rooms—this facility was funded and operated by the GDA—was already absurd. The fact that a pair of teenagers were the ones physically blocking him from doing so was even worse. He could, if he chose, have a squad of agents here in less than a minute, clear the hallway, and walk in unopposed.

But that would anger Mark when he woke up. And right now, keeping Mark cooperative, especially with Nolan's return looming, was more valuable than asserting authority.

"Eh," Rex said, dragging out the sound, "Robot hasn't said to let you in, so…" He left the sentence hanging like bait.

Cecil turned to Eve. "Eve, can you please check if it's acceptable for me to go in?"

She stood, tucking her phone away. "I'll ask him," she said seriously. "But don't be surprised if he says no. They only finished surgery less than an hour ago."

The surgery.

It should have been done by GDA surgeons—his surgeons. That would have ensured Mark got the most advanced care available… and provided the agency with certain contingencies, should the kid ever turn on them. But, in hindsight, he should have expected this.

Mark had already shown he preferred his own contingencies. And this wasn't the first time he'd been badly hurt, in his experience. Not by a long shot.

"Jesus Christ, this is a fucking mess."

Downtown Chicago was barely recognizable.

Whole blocks were cratered or burning, skyscrapers sheared in half, cars crumpled like paper.

Rubble and blood soaked the streets, and the Guardians were wrecked—Green Ghost and Aquarius were the only ones still on their feet. And as strong as the two of them were, they were definitely not the Guardians he needed for the upcoming fights.

Green Ghost was a non-combatant, more containment and defense than offense. And Aquarius, for all his precision and stealth, wasn't built to take or deliver the kind of punishment they'd just faced. He was a strike-and-dip specialist— made for disruption, not devastation.

Battle Beast had dismantled them.

Omni-Man, as shredded and bloodied as he looked, would heal faster than anyone else. That much was obvious. The few times Nolan had taken damage in the past, the bruises vanished in under an hour. Mark, though… Mark was worse off. He'd taken the brunt of it all, lasted longer against Battle Beast, and looked barely alive by the end of it.

But Mark had an edge. One that Cecil had confirmed with the techs and his own eyes.

The kid was adapting by taking the DNA of those around him.

Cecil had made sure to slip him some blood samples—Bulletproof, Powerplex—in that super health drink he'd given the kid, along with some tracking nanites that would be very helpful in the future. A long shot, but based on what they'd seen, there was a pattern. Mark got stronger after exposure to viable DNA. Not just stronger, but also faster, tougher, more durable. He didn't heal like a normal Viltrumite. He evolved. Today's speed feats? That was Red Rush-level speed. He'd blurred past Battle Beast and Omni-Man like they were standing still.

Cecil hadn't seen his bout with Allen the Alien, but after watching today's fight, he was sure of it—Mark's powers spiked after each fight, when he'd managed to take a chomp out of them. Immortal. War Woman. Red Rush. All of them. He was incorporating their strengths, assimilating them, and making their powers his own. Not immediately, no, but within a short window. A day, maybe less.

And it explained a lot. His progress during that first sparring session with Immortal and War Woman had been suspiciously fast. Now it made sense. He lived with Nolan. Getting a DNA sample from dear old dad would've been child's play.

So now, he had the powers of a Viltrumite, Red Rush's speed, Immortal's durability, War Woman's strength, and now, potentially, Bulletproof and Powerplex's offensive capabilities.

One kid, five power sets. Maybe more.

Which begged the question: why stop there?

Dupli-Kate. Atom Eve. The of them had abilities worth coveting. With Eve's matter manipulation and Kate's ability to create infinite clones, Mark would be unstoppable. A one-man army. The war would be over before it started.

So why hadn't he?

Sure, biting people to get their powers wasn't exactly subtle. But there were other ways to gain DNA. Loose hair. Fingernails. Toothbrushes. A spoon off the breakfast table. He didn't need to go full Hannibal Lecter to get what he needed.

Was it restraint?

Guilt?

Or was he trying to keep Robot on his side?

That last one made Cecil's brow furrow. If Mark was playing the long game—winning over Robot to get closer to the others—it was a smart move. But why wait so long after he had befriended the man? Why not grab every power he could now, before it was too late, like if someone died or went missing?

Something wasn't adding up.

Cecil really didn't like unknowns.

He was pulled from his thoughts when Donald jogged up beside him, his face tight with urgency.

"Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt again, but we have a situation with Invincible."

Cecil Temple tightened his jaw, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. Of course. If it wasn't one goddamn thing, it was another with that kid.

"Status report," he snapped, already moving through the wreckage. Around them, GDA agents scurried like ants, hauling wounded heroes onto stretchers and ferrying them toward evac points.

"We've recovered all the Guardians," Donald said briskly, keeping pace. "Red Rush sustained the worst of it—compound fractures in both legs, possibly permanent damage. Immortal's in rough shape too: multiple broken ribs, fractured clavicle, and he's missing a hand. Darkwing got off light in comparison—just a few broken bones and lacerations from being thrown through a high-rise window."

Cecil cursed under his breath. "I told that idiot not to engage in close quarters. I told him. That's how he got killed the first time. But what do I know, right? I'm just the powerless asshole who doesn't fight gods, aliens, or interdimensional monsters for breakfast. Now our fastest goddamn hero's about to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair."

Donald hesitated before continuing. "Sir, there's more. Civilian casualties. A lot of them."

Cecil's steps faltered. "How bad?"

"It's too early for a full count—"

"Donald," Cecil snapped, turning sharply to face him. "Just fucking spit it out."

Donald swallowed. "We're estimating… at least five hundred dead. And that number's climbing."