Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room is quiet.

It isn’t the silence of fear or mourning. It’s something more—clinical. The kind of silence you find in sterile laboratories or digital voids. The hum of energy pulses gently from the walls, as if the entire ship is breathing in sync with the being who rules it.

A Mark Grayson variant lies strapped to a sleek, floating gurney—a version consumed by rage and pride, who crushed Earth under his heel and laughed about it. He’s a monster. Or at least... was.

Muscles flex and strain against the restraints, already cracked from his thrashing. His eyes are bloodshot. His teeth are bared. His face is drenched in sweat, and his voice is raw from shouting.

“You think you can fix me, freak?! I’m better than all of you! I won! I turned my world into a damn monument to me! You touch me, and I’ll rip your—!”

“Shh. I know. You’ve suffered so much. You’ve been... inefficient.”

And across from him, another Mark smiles.

It’s not the smile of a predator, or a sadist. It’s gentle. Soft. Loving. A warm, patient curve of the lips that never wavers, no matter how many threats are hurled at him.

He steps forward, gliding across the floor in perfect, silent precision. His long, white coat flows behind him like a shroud of fog. His eyes glow faintly—not menacing, just bright, like LED halos.

“You’re afraid,” The other Mark says quietly, almost apologetically. “You shouldn’t be. It’s not going to hurt.”

The evil Mark thrashes harder.

“Don’t you touch me, you corpse-eyed—!”

He leans down, reaches out with steady hands, and brushes the matted, sweaty bangs from the other Mark’s forehead, fingers like cold silk. His touch is tender. Reverent. As if he’s looking at something sacred—not a monster.

“You won’t have to be angry anymore. I’ll take care of everything.”

The struggling slows—just slightly. Not from calm. From confusion.

“What... what the hell are you—?”

The worst part isn’t the procedure—it’s that it’s not painful. Not cruel. It doesn’t match the screaming rage of the one being "saved."

A gentle whirring begins beneath the table. The lights dim to a soft white-blue. Tiny drones emerge from the walls like fireflies, weaving delicate threads of energy across the variant’s body. There’s no scalpel. No incision. No drilling. Just… a soft sensation in the spine. Like a cold breath trailing up from the base of the neck.

The evil Mark opens his mouth to scream again—but the words die in his throat. His pupils dilate. His chest heaves once, and then... relaxes.

His fingers go still. His jaw unclenches.

The fury melts. Slowly. Gracefully. Like steam escaping a kettle. His heartbeat steadies. The wrinkles of rage on his brow smooth out. His lips part—not in a cry, but in a breath.

“Wha... what was I...?” His voice is calmer now. Quiet. Like someone waking up from a fever dream they can’t quite remember.

He doesn’t remember what he was yelling about. That ugly pride, that burning anger—it’s been overwritten. Not erased—refined.

“There. You see? Doesn’t that feel better?”

The other Mark leans forward and kisses his forehead, the faintest shimmer of affection on his lips. “Welcome back to yourself.”

The chamber is still. The soft hum of the gurney fades as the restraints retract with a gentle hiss. The newly “refined” Mark sits upright slowly, eyes wide, blinking like someone who’s just seen the sun for the first time.

He swings his legs over the side of the floating table. His movements are unsure, uncoordinated—like a child learning to stand again after an injury. His enhanced body is sleek, seamless, and perfect… but he doesn’t remember how to be in it yet.

His knees buckle. But he doesn’t fall.

The other Mark is there in an instant. He catches the variant in his arms with such effortless precision it’s as though the fall had never begun.

“It’s natural,” He says softly, his voice a melodic whisper. “You’re remembering how to live. It’ll all come back to you. Bit by bit.”

The variant—no longer the wrathful tyrant who spat venom just minutes ago—lets out a small, airy giggle. It’s high, strange, and utterly incongruent with who he once was. He wraps his arms around the other Mark’s neck, clutching him like a toddler to a parent.

“You’re warm,” the variant murmurs, nuzzling against him. “I didn’t think you’d be warm…”

He smiles. And not out of triumph or pride—but something gentler. Something worse.

“Of course I’m warm,” he says. “You’re safe now.”

He wraps his arms around the Mark variant, holding him close. Not tightly. Not possessively. Just firmly enough to make sure he never falls again.

The white lights in the chamber dim to a soft glow. The pair stand there, locked in that embrace—like a shepherd and his newest lamb.

“I love you,” the variant says suddenly, dreamily.

“I know,” Mark replies, brushing the back of his hair with one hand. “You’re learning fast.”

Chapter Text

From a young age, Mark Grayson was... different. Not in the typical half-Viltrumite, late-bloomer way. He was calm. Too calm.

While other boys laughed, shouted, played, or cried—Mark watched.

When he finally gained his powers, there was no exuberance, no boasting. He simply said, “Interesting,” and began testing them with the same cool detachment he used for math equations.

Nolan noticed. He worried. But his worst suspicions weren’t confirmed until he saw who Mark was closest to: DA Sinclair.

Sinclair was supposed to be a dangerous anomaly—a genius warped by obsession. But to Mark, Sinclair wasn’t a madman—he was a visionary.

“Organic life is inefficient,” Sinclair once told him. “We’re fragile. Emotional. Impermanent. But you... you could be more. You already are.”

Mark didn’t just listen—he agreed. Quietly. Without fanfare.

Nolan always planned to reveal the Viltrumite Empire’s purpose eventually. He believed that when the time came, his son would either embrace the cause—or at least resist with passion.

But when that day came…

“Our people need Earth, Mark. Your job is to help prepare it—for unification.”

Mark didn’t scream. He didn’t argue. He smiled. “No. I won’t.”

Nolan froze, confused. “What did you say?”

Mark walked over and placed a gentle hand on his father’s shoulder.

“Conquest is primitive. Wasteful. You destroy what you could preserve. You brutalize what you could improve. The Viltrumites are stuck in a cycle of war because they never imagined a future without it. I have.”

“What future?” Nolan growled. Mark’s smile never wavered.

“One where we don’t need to kill to control. Where weakness is eliminated—not through genocide, but through synthesis. I’m not here to help your empire. I’m here to replace it.”

Nolan, full of Viltrumite pride and fear, did what came naturally—he attacked.

He expected Mark to hesitate, to cry, to bleed. But Mark didn’t flinch. His muscles pulsed once—then gleamed. Chrome sinew under skin. Artificial veins carrying white-hot nanite blood.

Mark had already upgraded.

What followed was surgical. Nolan was a warrior; Mark was a machine. No wasted movements. No fury. Just cold, efficient dismantling.

“You’re not my son,” Nolan gasped as Mark held him down.

“No,” Mark replied, pressing two fingers to his temple. “I’m more.”

Nolan’s body shattered. Not killed—preserved. Mark left him alive. Intact. Broken. As a relic of an obsolete empire.

The Viltrum Empire expected a soldier, a threat, maybe even a rebellion. What they got was a presentation.

Mark uploaded footage of his battle with Nolan across the empire. He didn’t issue ultimatums—he laid out charts. Probabilities. Efficiencies.

He offered upgrades. Evolution. Victory without death.

Some resisted. A dozen proud warriors. Mark fought them—but not to kill. He converted them. Defeated them, repaired them, and reprogrammed them with cybernetics that made resistance... impossible.

“We’re not conquering anymore,” he told them. “We’re standardizing.”

And just like that, the empire bent the knee.

Not to fear. Not to love. To logic.

They call him many names now: The White Emperor. The Cyber-King. The Nightmare in White.

His armor—bright, silver-white alloy laced with living code—shines brighter than the banners of Viltrum ever did.

He speaks rarely, but when he does, his words are laced with synthetic warmth. He visits planets and offers peace—not because he loves peace, but because chaos is inefficient.

He no longer fights unless he must—but when he does, he disables, upgrades, and uplifts.

“The universe is not dying,” he says, hands clasped behind his back. “It’s just outdated. I am the patch.”