Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mark arranged the Seance Dog figures on the well-used dorm desk, placing the classic costume one in the center. He sat on the bed, eying the mostly full box of assorted school supplies. He hadn’t even brought his clothes, having been unable to find a suitcase and decided at the last minute to fly back for a change of clothes the next day. He stood up, examining the figure from a different angle. His phone made an alert-noise, and he flinched– his hand reflexively going up to his ear, forgetting he’d left his com with his mask. He glanced out the window, unable to shake the feeling that something was coming after how his first day of classes had ended with a trip to an alien shuttle. His phone buzzed, the sound of an incoming video call. His heart raced to see his mother’s contact. 

“Hello? Mom?” The college dorm felt suffocating, a paper thin facade that could hide anything. He rushed over to his backpack, his suit already half unfolded in his grip. His stomach tightened, blame and guilt screaming that it was a beginner’s mistake to not have his costume on under his clothes.

“Mark? How’s your first day back?” Debbie’s voice was more or less relaxed, just a note of tension.

“It’s fine. Did something–is Oliver–” 

“Everything’s fine. It’s just that we’re almost out of baby food. I would make some, but you said you’d be back for the evening. There’s a showing that this couple I’ve been working with who wants to move the time up–”

Mark let out his breath, giving a humorless laugh. “This evening?” 

“Yes. If you could get here by four, that will leave me enough time to drive out.” On the other end of the line, Oliver shrieked. His mother, seemingly away from the phone said, “Ok Mr Grumpy Pants. Let’s try the blueberries again. Yes, yes, that’s your brother!” He smiled at her higher pitched baby-voice, but there was something less cheerful there.

Mark closed his eyes. It wasn’t her kid, not her responsibility. “I’ll be right there.”

“Mark, it’s barely lunch–”

“It’s fine. But, it would help if you could you put some makeup on him? I’ll take him back here. I mean, I still need to pack some of my stuff and I’ll just get his stuff too. Hey, do you know where dad’s old suitcase–”

“I threw it out. Sorry.” She didn’t sound sorry. She sounded acerbic, that tension bleeding through again. “I can get you another by– I’m sure there’s one lying around–” 

“It’s fine. Boxes are fine. I’ll just empty the one I brought earlier and fly right back. Maybe we’ll go see Rex?” Mark had to stop himself from babbling on. “I’ll be there in…20?” He could probably pick up lunch before going. His mom seemed embarrassed by her simpler meals these days, and well, he was supposed to be a college student. Learn to be independent, eat cheap food.

…and be a babysitter. Yeah, he’d make it work.

Mark had complicated feelings about being a hero. At first, he was ecstatic. It had been his dream ever since he was a young child, but the charm wore of quick.

The Flaxan Invasion showed him the reality of hero work, the all too real frailty of the human body.

And then he’d thought he had the hang of things again, and his mom and dad could steer him right.

And then. Well. He hadn’t known his father at all.

He agonized over his decisions he’d made in those early days, searching for signs that he thought of regular people as somehow less. He replayed that moment with his mom berating him about feeling strong by disrespecting the woman who had always spent the most time actually doing the work of raising a child. 

Had he been going through teenaged growing pains when he ignored William’s plea for help looking for Rick? Allowing himself to wallow in a doomed relationship while a literal madman played god, ripping into Rick’s flesh.

He was nearly too late. The blade at William's arm had already cut into him. Untreated, the blood loss would have been fatal.

That was the kind of hero he was. Those were his real colors. He’d even thought of hanging up the suit until he’d seen his own father being tossed around by the kaiju. 

Darkwing’s successor thought he was like his dad. Not the Omni-Man lauded for being the most productive superhero for nearly two decades, but the villain with the highest death count of the decade. 

Even after all of that, he’d all but forgiven Nolan. Stayed to help the Thraxans, he’d said, but had he done enough to make Nolan pay?

Was it enough that Nolan would pay for a different reason, the offense of turning against the empire? Omni-Man had been a hero. Until he wasn’t. He’d been an admired, accomplished soldier of the empire. Until he wasn’t. 

Mark didn’t know how to feel about him, what he was even allowed to forgive. He couldn’t absolve Omni-Man of all those deaths. No single person could. 

So he should be happy, right?

Flying through the sky, doing flips made the edge of restlessness fade a little. All thoughts of well-meaning William and beautiful, good Amber’s ‘talks’ seemed secondary up here in the wide, blue sky. Without Cecil in his ear and yet another world- threatening mission, he could just think. Or decidedly not think about his makeup school work. Clouds stretched out before him, and he wondered at the outside temperature. Higher above where the airplanes flew would be well below freezing, but he couldn’t even notice these days. The warmth of sunlight kept tricking him into thinking it must be warm– as pleasant as the lower altitude he flew when carrying passengers. 

He stopped by a fast food restaurant, paid in cash, and sped over the neighboring suburbs. His family home didn’t look any different from the others in the neighborhood. His stomach flipped, thinking about his mother talking about all of the changes since– since his father left.  She had been dazed, explaining how she watched from the GDA office. 

“Donald was there. Spying on us,” her tone dark, her hand not shaking, but white knuckled around her wine glass. “From the house across from us. Cecil said they ‘had to keep the yield down.’ And then he tried to gaslight me about Donald being there.”

“Donald? Cecil’s right hand guy.” Concerns about the GDA spying on them forgotten, he thought about Donald and Rick talking. 

Pushing thoughts of the GDA interfering in their lives, he landed in the back yard. He paused at the back door,  trusting it to be open. He didn’t look around, idly wondering if his neighbors were all quietly saying nothing about the long-time superhero Omni-Man’s family, or if they were actually government-adjacent employees under strict NDAs. Either way, worrying about his identity being blown or his mother being targeted by xenephobic bullies was only just now something starting to edge in on his consciousness. 

“We’re in here,” his mom shouted from the living room.  “You brought lunch? Great. Help yourself to anything in the fridge.” 

“How’s school? Did you bring your homework? Or is it all essays these days.”

“Mom, I’m not staying home to study. I just want to grab my stuff and Oliver.” Mark gestured with the box, the food tilting to one side. 

His mother’s eyes narrowed. Her lips turned down, and he had a brief moment of regret when he realized maybe he’d let his feelings get the better of him.

“Look at you. My college boy. Make sure you eat before you leave.” Debbie sighed. “We used to be a family… eat together. Food from everywhere. These days my freezer is full of supermarket meals.”

Mark looked down, carefully putting the box on the ground and not crushing anything around him. He took a breath and waited for his mom to finish, chagrined.

“Cecil keeps dropping by with prospective nannies and work is asking about my new hour requests–” she shook her head, frowning still and a far cry from the mother he remembered from the start of his senior year. She was unflappable, poised, and had a wicked sense of humor. Now, she– she was about to shake apart from Cecil calling her, wasn’t she?

He shifted again, shoulders raising unconsciously. “You don’t have to raise him by yourself. And I’m helping.” Nevermind nobody seemed to think he was enough. He tried not to shout.  “It doesn’t matter if dad’s not here–”

“Who even said we want him here!” Debbie shot back, stiff-backed and too fast. Her cheeks were flushed. 

Mark bit his lip, remembering how he had wanted to beg his father to come home with him on Thraxa. Being on the edge of tears, with that little-kid instinct to ask for things to go back the way they were. Before he realized how messed up his father was. 

“He’s… trying to make things better.” His voice was quiet then. He looked from his mom to where Oliver was supposed to be napping.  “Or I mean, he was. On Thraxa. He said he regrets–”

“He regrets murdering all those people?” Debbie didn’t let him retreat. Nevermind he was a full head taller than her and heavier, she held her ground and lifted her chin in a way that let him know exactly where he could shove that comment. “He turned out to be one of the biggest threats to the country. In a few hours, Omni-Man got himself one of the biggest kill counts of all the super villains, but it’s ok because he’s trying?” Her voice was quiet too, but for an entirely different reason. “On some alien planet where he replaced our family?” Debbie scoffed and shook her head.

Mark winced, slinking past her to peer at where Oliver built towers of blocks. “Yeah. It doesn’t really change anything.” To Oliver more than Debbie, he added, “He said he can’t come back. I shouldn’t want him to.” 

The words dropped like stones into still water, and Mark wished he could take them back. Did he have to make the conversation about his hurts every time? His mom was struggling. She didn’t owe anyone, least of all Nolan and his new baby.

“I need to be able to do my work.” Debbie’s voice was falling flat. She moved slightly farther away from Mark, but instead of going toward Oliver, she was moving back toward her home office. Her movements were tight and controlled, her arms folded over her middle. “This is supposed to be about us discovering ourselves– you at college, making plans for the future… me and my middle aged Renaissance…” she trailed off. “I’ll help with Oliver, I will. We can make it work. I’ll get us some plates.”

Mark struggled with the urge to grab his younger brother. He didn’t go after his mother, but he didn’t move entirely into the living room either. He was caught out not knowing at all what to do. 

He was still standing uselessly, too far from Olvier to move blocks together, and too far from the door to leave on impulse. He squatted down,handing Oliver a block. He felt lighter, a little less lost and as determined as ever to look after his baby brother.

“It’s not going to be forever,” Mark offered, lightening his tone and trying not to make anyone angry. 

“Mmm,” she said noncommittally. 

“You said Cecil’s calling? What exactly does he want?” Mark asked carefully.

“He wants to ‘make our lives easier.’” She arched an eyebrow and sped past him, collecting something from the table. “To ‘give you both a break.’ He said he has a homeschool teacher in mind and everything.” Her nose wrinkled and she glanced back at him with a tiny smile. “Maybe we should take him up on it. Let you…be you.” 

“No! Not yet.” He was talking too fast and too loud, and he should probably slow down but the words kept spilling out of him. “We don’t need GDA babysitter spies for this. Oliver grows fast. I can handle him for a couple of weeks, and then we need a teacher.” 

When he looked at his mother, she wasn’t angry, wasn’t disappointed. It was her poker face, her mom face. Her smile was carefully controlled and she started to serve out the lunch into two portions. She didn’t look like she was listening to him at all, and that just made him keep talking.

“You said he’s about a month older every five days, so he’ll be a year older in 2 months!” Mark said quickly. “He’ll be what, three? Two and a half? He’ll be six years old before next Halloween! The GDA can have their spy then.” 

Debbie’s smile dropped when she started to turn away. She was rummaging for napkins and wet wipes, not meeting his gaze. “He could age a year every month, Mark. We just don’t know. We could have a six year old on our hands before May. Why not accept some help before then?” She made it sound so reasonable. 

Mark didn’t want that. He didn’t want her to take on a nanny and write him out of his baby brother’s life like he was just a normal college student. He wasn’t. He never would be. 

“I don’t see the problem!” Mark struggled to keep his voice even. “As long as we take care of him, he’s a part of this family. He needs somebody, so it might as well be me.” If his voice broke a little, well, no it didn’t.

“You’re eighteen years old, Mark.” She was in and out of the kitchen then, moving so briskly it was hard not to think of how mad she was.  “And Oliver is going to be a little kid who sucks up knowledge about everything, learning from the people around him. He needs balance, and good role models. You need to focus on–”

“What? School?” Mark shot back. He could smell the takeout from his spot in the living room, but he wasn’t hungry at all. “I don’t know anymore. I just can’t make everything fit. It would be easier to drop out.” He stepped into the living room, reaching for a baby brother that maybe didn’t even need him in that moment. 

“You don’t know that! The Viltrum empire left Earth alone for twenty years, Mark. Their lives move at a different scale. I don’t want you throwing away your chance to–” 

“I know! You think that doesn’t keep me up at night?” Mark turned away from Oliver. He seemed to be engaged in one of those big-puzzle games that were probably way too advanced for a human kid his size. But Oliver was precious, and Oliver needed more, not less. Mark moved back.  “What if this is the only chance I get to be a college student? To be a brother? I could die trying to defend the Earth against someone as strong as dad, and that’s for ONE attacker. A ny one of them could be his match. If they come in bigger numbers I don’t know if I–” 

“Don’t even say that. Don’t say it. Nolan never mentioned an army, he never mentioned troops or even battalions. They’re loners,” Debbie’s voice caught on the words, and lunch was forgotten. She moved swiftly back toward him, a hand extended to touch his cheek. 

Mark moved back, and she froze. “You’re right, you’re right. They look down on us. On Earth. They won’t send more than one,” Clenching his teeth, he cut the distance between them and put an arm around his mother, biting his lip. “I’m sorry.”

“So what's this about quitting college?” Debbie asked slowly, her voice mellowing as she spoke. “You were so determined to go before, to try and balance everything. You were talking about days off from heroing and–” her voice shook with more than nerves. 

“It’s not working out.” Mark felt like he was floating. He looked down to check. “I don’t know. Cecil complains if I leave Earth, if I do anything not on his say so, but he still calls me. 

“It seemed like Dad was on call every other day, and that was with the Guardians, the experienced Guardians taking care of half of the things. There’s a big hole to fill.”

Oliver whined, tugging at the box of toys. He was too small to drag it out properly, and Mark went toward him.

When the kid was situated, Mark gave him a pat on the back and settled onto his heels. “It’s fine. I’m going to get the GDA to get me out of college so you don't need to worry. They want me more available, so I’m sure some agent can handle it.”

“Don’t— Mark, just take a minute. Don’t–just. No. Let’s both cool off.”

Mark glanced at his mother out of the corner of his eyes. He couldn’t tell if he was manipulating her the same way Omni-Man had, or if he was just too tired and spitting everything out. “I’m going to go visit Rex anyway.”

“...at least eat something.” She pushed the plate forwards,

“Yeah.” He said quietly.

***

When Mark visited the New Guardians, he wasn’t actually expecting Rex to be good with kids at all. But Rex, having heard about the all-alien kid from the Guardian grapevine, took the little kid, winked, and started talking about weird facts and silly stories about various parts of the facility. It was weird. It was charming. 

“And here is where Robot hid an entire shelf of Robot supplies without anyone noticing for weeks.” He went on.

Oliver’s eyes never left Rex. He was fascinated.

“...do you like kids?” Mark eventually blurted out.

“Love kids!” Rex grinned back at him. “They’re little people who haven’t learned to hate everyone yet.” 

Mark smiled at Oliver, wondering if that would hold true for long. 

“...babies are easy. Boring, but easy. They got nothing to say, so I run out of stuff to do after…eh? Twenty minutes?”

“No way.” Mark laughed, shifting his hold on Oliver as the baby squirmed. “You let them do their thing and they do it better than–”

“Boring!” Rex insisted. “I hate infants in comparison to kids. And they’re so…breakable.” 

Oliver, Mark found out, hadn’t been wiggling with no purpose. He’d reached into the baby bag somehow, and when Rex got close enough to ruffle the toddler’s hair and try to pull Mark into an adult conversation, he got a solid whack! on the head for his efforts. 

“What?! Careful little guy! Head injury!” Rex laughed. “Are you trying to give me that?”

Oliver hefted the– was that a dinosaur toy? – and squinted at Rex. 

“Oh my god, can you understand me?! Hella smart baby!” Rex was fascinated. “Oh. My. GOD. Toddler time!! Let’s have FUN, little mister!” 

Mark had to laugh.

“Squeak once for yes, twice for no.” Rex instructed. “You liked the stories.”

Oliver chirped once.

“Your brother here is the strongest, coolest guy ever.” 

Oliver side-eyed Mark for a moment. He clung closer, but stubbornly gave a long, warbling chirp. 

“Is that a maybe?” Mark laughed, incredulous. He beamed down at the kid.

“This is the exit.” Rex quizzed.

Two sharp chirps. 

“CORRECT, this is the way to the showers! Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner! I bet your buddy Invincible had no idea, and he’s way older than one. Terrible sense of directions, that guy.” 

Mark frowned. “Hey.”

“...seriously though, why is your baby brother smart?! OK, I take it back. SOME babies are cool. You and me? We’re going to the gym.” Rex made ‘gimme’ hands for Oliver.

Mark stubbornly held on to his brother. 

Rex continued on, unperturbed. “You’re gonna learn the balance beam, and we’ll start you on forward rolls when you have…enough bone and less cartilage or something.”

Oliver gave a high, contented sound and snuggled farther into Mark.

“….wow, that was a turn about.” Mark muttered as they made their way toward the gym. (Probably. What? Mark was thinking about real problems, not the tour!) 

Rex hummed and started for where they probably kept a balance beam. 

“Rex?” Mark called out. “It’s a low balance beam, right?” 

“Yeah, we’ve got one for Monster Girl to practice not squishing.” Rex was already wrangling something out of the storage space. 

“I can hold his hand, right? He’s tiny, Rex.”

Rex shrugged. “It’s just walking practice!” 

“On a beam.” Mark worried.

“Worst case scenario, he tumbles and gets a bruise.”

Mark grimaced. “Or he could pull his hands out of socket, or crack his skull open, or–” 

“Yeesh, I get it. He’s a little guy. We’ll be careful. You can hold his hand.” 

“I thought you were turning over a new leaf!” Mark laughed. “You hold his hand too.” 

“Eh. Well, the new me is doing pretty good. How’s the new you going? Sorted through all the,” Rex gestured vaguely. “Anti authority stuff?” 

“I don’t have any anti-authority thing.” Mark said, frowning.

“Sure you do. It makes sense, after what your dad did.”

Mark might have stumbled, might have gasped, he wasn’t sure. Or maybe he just froze.  

Omni-Man. What he’d done in Chicago was unforgivable. His father was trying to make a point– and he’d done so by tearing off the act of civility not even a year into Mark’s hero career. It’d been sudden, violent, and unflinchingly cruel.

Images of Chicago were never far behind any sudden mention of Omni-Man. He almost felt like he pulled them up on purpose, trying to stab at the wound, wallow in guilt. A half dozen buildings shaking, falling down after one hit from his dad. The clouds of dust, the screams of hundreds of people.

That horrible moment where he thought he saved someone only to find that he hadn’t.  Her hand, still warm, disconnected from her body, and he’d– dropped it. Her little girl was crushed. 

Mark gasped and shuddered, pulling himself out of the memories.

Breathe.

Breathe.

He released the breath shakily and looked around.

Oliver chirped at him, long and low.

Mark didn’t say anything. He couldn’t smile if he wanted to.

He could admit that it was bad. So much so it might give him nightmares for the rest of his life, but Thraxa? Meeting other Viltrumites? There was so much he didn’t know about his dad’s culture. Finding out they weren’t perfect after Chicago should have been easy– but he was still in shock at their reaction to Oliver. He was just a baby. And the Thraxans looked weird, but they were so smart.

And yet. The Viltrumites had been so bent on executing any ‘lesser’ life, completely dismissing all of it. It made the threat of a Viltrumite Invasion seem apocalyptic. The other two, the ones who arrested his dad, were heartless. Their ready demonstration was more than enough to teach him that. 

Oliver made another noise, and Mark focused. He was in his gym, heart hammering and shaking. He’d knocked the assortment of gymnastics stuff  and books completely off the rack, the balance beam implausibly rocking before it edged off the taped line on the ground. Mark looked around wildly, afraid that he had dropped Oliver, had somehow hurt him while reliving the memories. But no, Oliver was safely in Rex’s grasp, reaching for Mark.

Mark floated back over to them, righting the beam and picking up the stuff. He was fine. Just a flashback. You’re fine, Oliver’s fine. Nothing’s happening. 

Rex waved a hand in front of Mark’s face. “You okay there?” 

“I should go home…” 

Oliver beat a little hand on Mark’s chest. He took in a deep breath, taking in the scent of baby shampoo.

“Just sit down before you fall down, geez. Nobody expects you to have perfect mental health after your dad turned into the most infamous villain–”

“He’s not a villain. He’s not a good guy, but–”

“I don’t think anybody wants to acknowledge all the good stuff he did after Chicago, Vince. Too many fresh dead.”

Mark blanched. “...I saw him, you know.” he said quietly. “He’s trying to change…he wants to be better but.”

“Really.” Rex frowned. “Riiiiight.”

“Seriously!” Mark shouted, and Oliver winced. Mark toned it down. “He accepted the death penalty from the other Viltrumites…but Rex? I think he wants us to win.”

“He’ll have to do a hella lot more than ‘show us support’ after that stunt.” Rex scoffed. “Your daddy was a big meanie,” he told Oliver. “He hurt a lot of people and messed up their homes.”

Oliver started to cry.

“...he saw that happen on Thraxa.” Mark explained numbly, picking up his brother and patting him gently. “Half the city died that day. There were three of them, Rex.” 

Rex sighed. “Sorry little guy. I’m sure your daddy was trying to protect everybody.” But his eyes were doubtful, shifting from the baby to Mark with such frequency that Mark knew he didn’t believe Omni-Man had tried to help anyone.

“He gave himself up for you.” Mark said quietly. “For you, Oliver, so you could live here with me.”

“Well.” Rex smiled. “That’s lucky. Your brother’s pretty alright."

“...that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Mark rolled his eyes hard. 

“Don’t push your luck.” Rex smirked.

“We… are going back to my dorm room. I need to pack.”  

“Ooof. Packing. Rough dude.” Rex said in the way that suggested he didn’t want to talk about it. “Why don’t you take the little bugger to the Midnight City? They have so much weird shit going on there nobody will notice a purple baby.” 

“We’ll think about it.” Mark promised. His still shuddering baby brother could use a break, after all.

***

“You’re back!” William grinned. “Rick’s here!”

“Hi.” Mark replied quietly. “Oliver fell asleep on the way back.”

“Hi,” Rick said gently, his voice warm and welcoming. 

Mark smiled and moved to sit on his bed, but William distracted him with another bit of news.

“Great. So. The hall monitor came by again.”

“Ugh. I’m so glad I won’t have to deal with that guy again.” Mark muttered.

“...are you moving out?” William asked. “You don’t have to. So long as they stop sending aliens to our dorm, we’re good.” He didn’t seem to know what else to say, and his motor mouth caught up with him. “One was a surprise, but two?! Allen may be chill, but we can’t keep having—” William waved his hands about for emphasis, looking to Rick for backup. 

Rick just looked apologetic. “It’s going to be hard to keep that kind of secret,” he said after a pause, and to William, he added, “Well, I don’t know. I liked Allen and Donald.”  

William leapt on to the first part of that statement. “But I’m telling you— one of them is going to mess up and blow your cover.”

Mark had a feeling they were right. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I’ll try telling them about boundaries.”

Try to write down what he remembered of Thraxa, of Andressa. Try to master the clicks and trills of Oliver’s language, try to not be late for the endless training with the GDA. 

He closed his eyes, attempting now to focus on his purple baby, and not the wreckage left behind after only three Viltrumites landed on Thraxa. Broken bodies and pools of alien blood, flashes of a battle that only took minutes to decimate the population. Mark felt the hitch in his breath, the familiar dread that linked that day under an alien sky to the worst day of his life. 

Chicago. 

‘What’s seventeen more years.’ 

He rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear away the complicated feelings about his father. Nolan had beaten him so badly, but then he went and had another family and Mark was just too messed up for all of this.

He could still see his teeth scattered on the mountainside, little white shards amongst too much blood in little flashes. Hear the horrible noise of metal and people splitting open in front of him, taste— 

How had he forgiven Nolan? 

How couldn’t he keep from forgiving him? His own father, who learned little league rules for him, who had told him endless stories about his adventures on Earth, reassuring him again and again Mark too would have powers. 

‘I want to be just like you, Dad. I want to help people.’ He’d said. What a laugh. 

Mark felt his throat constricting, the burn of tears in his eyes. He cleared his throat. “Dinner time! We’re going to try the Midnight City place– something new. Applesauce I don’t have to make, coming up.”

“Uh, really? Where’s that then? What kind of crazy diversity positive place that won’t lead to viral videos of your purple baby brother?”

“Burger Mart! Outside of Midnight City. They don’t bother us.” Mark declared in a cheery tone.

“Uh-huh. I’ll be sure to tag you when that plan goes south. I’m sure someone will be very impressed by your baby daddy skills.” 

“It’ll be fine.” Mark grinned.

***

Chapter Text

It was not fine. 

The red and white of the fast food joint never seemed so inauspicious as it did at that moment. He froze.

Before him was a young Viltrumite woman floating opposite of his Burger Mart booth. He stared, shocked at her sudden appearance of a stranger looking down her nose at him. Her fists weren’t raised to fight, he noticed, even as he froze. She could have ended Oliver’s life right there, or taken him down with a blow to the neck or between his eyes. But she simply examined him with a blank expression. 

“I am Anissa, agent of the Viltrum Empire.” There, her lips twitched the tiniest amount into a frown.  It was strange, hearing the imperial language from anyone but his father. He’d barely grown accustomed to it as a child, and while he and Nolan were on Thraxa for a few weeks, he’d only just managed to speak easily, but he was more fluent than before. “You will speak with me.”

Mark stared, unable to comprehend what she was saying.

“Invincible. Come with me.” There it was– the impatience, the derision of all the Viltrumites he had encountered. Viltrumite as a language was built for that, wasn’t it? He was just another obstacle to her.

“Why should I?” he asked slowly. “You’re just going to try and kill me and everyone here.” No matter how young she appeared, she was still one of them. The invading force his dad had turned against at the last hour. 

“I will not harm you, or the…child, provided that you speak with me someplace more private.” 

Mark wished his communicator wasn’t in his bookbag. He wished he left it on, wished he had a watch like the Guardians. No one knew she was here, and he had taken Oliver out so far from home. He couldn’t abandon his little brother— wouldn’t he be arrested for abandoning a baby? But he equally could not trust the woman to just talk. 

She could see the indecision on his face, couldn’t she? “If you think you can escape me before I tear this,” again she hesitated, “infant’s head from its body, you’re welcome to run.” So much for Viltrumites having compassion for young. Even the youth had their limits. 

“I’ll talk to you! Just, just, give me ten minutes. I’ll drop Oliver off— I need to— I need to change.” Mark wanted to believe her. He had to believe that there was one Viltrumite who was even marginally capable of reason, of empathy. 

Cecil would be thrilled if the empire was willing to negotiate, wouldn’t he? Mark wanted to laugh. Not that Ceicil would trust a one of them. But if I extended the olive branch first… he had to try. He attempted a smile.

Anissa remained at attention, her expression severe. “See that you do. If you do not appear above this city quickly, the infant will be the first to die.”

She moved so fast that he wasn’t sure if anyone had seen her. Heard her? Is that how his mother felt, when he and dad had stormed in and out of the house, whether it was with takeaway or to grab a spare uniform, did she feel a chill, not knowing if it was her husband, or an enemy? She may not be screaming threats like Lucan, but could he dare believe she was sparing the non-combatants?

“Come on,” Mark pulled the top of the high chair out of the way and scooped Oliver into his arms, still thinking about the threat of his cover being blown. When he’d first arrived at the restaurant, the surrounding patrons seemed innocuous, safe enough to join. With her there, everything seemed like too ridiculous a risk to have ever considered taking. What if someone heard her threatening him? Heard her call him Invincible. 

Nobody is looking at you. There’s no film crew, no spies.

Mark fumbled his phone, then nearly dropped it as he changed his mind and went for the earpiece. Could he get to it before he put the mask on, or would he crush it with his superstrength? 

Can’t even figure out how to warn the world about a second Viltrumite battle, he thought, despairing. What do I do with Oliver?

He abandoned his barely started hamburger meal and applesauce, knocking his thigh against the tabletop in his hurry. The table cracked. He paid it no mind as he slung the diaper bag over his shoulder and pushed his way out. 

Mark speed walked, then hovered into a side street. He leapt to the top of a building, set Oliver down, and changed while he fumbled the com. 

“Cecil! Cecil, there’s a Viltrumite. She– I’ve got Oliver–”

The answer came quickly. “We’ll send someone for him,” the earpiece crackled. “You need to stall the threat. Get some information without fighting.”

“No, no, Oliver’s all alone. Can you get him to mom, or, or to William?” Mark was panicking. 

“What did the Viltrumite say, Mark? How long do you have before she starts using you like a wrecking ball?” Cecil’s voice was calm, grounding him.

“A couple more minutes,” Mark said, looking to his brother, and then back to the sky. “She’s waiting for me above the city.”

“Get into position. We’ll see to Oliver.”

Mark clenched his fists, hating how helpless he felt. He couldn’t look at his brother as he took to the sky. Those scared eyes, the reaching hands, he wouldn’t be able to go at all. How could he leave him? You’re as bad as dad. 

“You’re late.” Anissa called to him when he soared into the sky. Above the outskirts of the city, she was barely illuminated by the setting sun. Twilight was already upon them, and in the distance he could see Midnight City draped in its unnatural darkness. 

“Sorry,” Mark muttered, and again, instead of going for a headshot, she only looked at him. “So, what is this? A…parole check?” Mark couldn’t think of the Viltrumite, and if she was here, surely she spoke the language.

Only she didn’t. She stared at him, her nostrils flaring. He was surprised at the amount of emotion she displayed, but then again, his father had always been an open book. He wore his irritation on his sleeve, and when he disliked someone, everyone knew it. 

“What?” She asked reluctantly, like an older child unwilling to admit she wasn’t omniscient. He realized then that she was…not much older than him. Compared to the crew who’d come to collect Nolan on Thraxa, she was youthful. 

Maybe closer to his age than any of those generals. 

“You will listen, and you will act on my words.” Anissa said calmly. She probably thought she was hard to read, too, but the stiffness of her shoulders and the way her eyebrows arched was just like Nolan’s. 

“You want me to kill my friends.” Mark stumbled through the words. “But I won’t. You know that, don’t you? So what’s the problem? Why aren’t you heading the execution?” 

“I don’t need to fight you,” she said imperiously, “I only need you to see what the Empire needs of you. Your true people demand it of you.” 

“Fuck that!” Mark shouted, not caring if she understood him. “I won’t kill thousands, millions or billions of humans because some general said so!” 

“So you have not made any progress on your mission. I thought as much.” Anissa frowned. Her whole demeanor said she thought she knew who was boss, and it would never be him. 

“What is she saying,” Cecil chimed in on the ear piece.  

“I won’t ‘make progress’ on the takeover.” Mark muttered, and louder he said, “I never accepted that mission.” 

For several moments, nobody said anything. In his ear, Cecil was getting linguists from other departments, and Mark knew the game was up. She’d show him her fists and he’d taste blood– where should I go? Are there fields anywhere close to here? 

He had to find someplace less populated, but Oliver– he hadn’t seen a flash of teleportation. What was taking them so long?

Instead, she surprised him. “We want what is best for the world.” She shook her head minutely. “Today, your planet remains a cesspool of greedy politicians and heartless conglomerate businesses, all steering the world to destruction. Even the humans know what is at risk. Their scientists tell them so again and again, and even set their flesh on fire.” Her tone was even, her visage bored, seemingly uncaring of the looming promise of climate change disasters. 

Just words in her playbook. She doesn’t really care, does she? Mark thought, but then again, he wanted her to. If she did…Mark could use that. 

“You could stop them from killing our planet?” He took a gamble, guessing she understood some English if she knew about ‘conglomerates’ and ‘business.’  

“Yes,” she said, continuing to speak in the Imperial language. “So could you. Destroy the machines they use to seek endless growth, punish their overharvesting of resources. The Viltrum Empire is fair and just. Money would not save those that harm the whole.” Her brow was twitching, but otherwise her toned body was held entirely too still. 

In his ear, Cecil was ordering more scans of the Viltrumite, telling Mark to stall for time. “When the hell did you start speaking another language? Is she threatening the city?”

Mark shook his head. Everything she said had been said before. The rich took advantage of the poor, used up more than their share of resources. He snuck a look down below them, and saw Oliver’s baby seat in the same position. 

“How far will you let them go? Would you let them destroy the very world they should cherish?” Her eyes glittered knowingly. “If you can do something and fail to act, it’ll be the same as if you had killed them.” She told him. 

His stomach clenched. Why was Oliver still there? He couldn’t concentrate. This was too much.

“Do not tell me otherwise; you know it is true.”  Mark frowned, thinking of his language lessons. That word for true, it sometimes means Justice. 

Mark shook his head. “I can’t trust Viltrum. How do we even know you have the answers to climate disaster or to kaiju?” He repeated himself in Viltrumite, he added, “Dad never did anything like– the first I ever heard of his mission was once he started killing off heroes.” Mark scoffed. “Where’s the proof? Show me how Viltrum will help Earth at all, and not just be one more demanding army?” The English spilt off his tongue, a reckless urge to taunt the first Viltrumite that might be a peer. 

She just stared at him, eyes narrow and lips thin. Was she using the alien language because she know about Cecil? “Did Nolan teach you nothing? We have greater technology. Your so-called heroes stand in the way of progress.” She tilted her chin up, her voice taking on more emotion, “The heroes prevent firm leadership, and stand against good rulers. The masses need structure, Invincible. You could show them the error of their ways.” Her voice was soft. Coaxing.

He might have been proud, once. That he understood her at all, knowing a language that previously only he and his father had spoken. Debbie herself only had a handful of sayings; the same ones that Dad knew in Korean. Now, he was just…disappointed. He felt dirty, knowing everything she tried to convey.

“I can’t trust you.” He said again.

“Don’t you want to be your father’s son?” She asked him, as though she could sense where his thoughts were going.

And that was that. Mark was no longer willing to stall for time. 

“I’m not my father!” he shouted at her in English, and his whole body trembled with the anger that was always under the surface these days. 

Anissa growled, her hands curling into fists. Mark felt himself move into a ready position.

“Mark,” Cecil warned at the same time as he heard another voice. “Teleportation is blocked–” 

“You’re just like the others, you’ll take what you can’t get by force.” someone said, floating in the air too high up. The voice niggled at him– familiar, but not overly so.

Mark didn’t have time to be scared for that man. Even if he had no idea the chaos two titans clashing could make, he should know better, right? Then again– if he let the man be pulled into the impending fight– would he be any better than Omni-Man? 

Mark angled his body to move forward, looking at the dead zone between suburbia and the distant Midnight City. 

“Coward!” came chasing after him. That strangely familiar voice. 

Then Cecil’s warning came back to him, and he froze. At once, he remembered those pilots falling. How his father was distinctly uninterested, how callous he’d been. 

Mark couldn’t take it. He rerouted his course, aiming for the voice in the sky. “You can’t be here–” he started to say, but it was too late. How was he supposed to know the foolhardy man would disappear as soon as he got close? 

“Was that man not one of yours?” Anissa asked even as her eyes narrowed. 

Mark shook his head, too upset to talk.

The com crackled to life. “There’s a shadow monster in Midnight City. Get your brother– transportation is blocked. We’ve barely got eyes on him as it is.” Cecil suggested. 

“I need to get my brother.” He interrupted. “Please, if you want what’s best for this planet, then you want him unharmed. Right?”

“Very well.” She allowed.

He sped back to the roofs near Burger Mart. At Oliver’s fragile expression, his wide eyes and trembling all over, Mark felt worse. So, so much worse. How could he have left the baby alone? Even assuming Cecil could transport in– he should have handed him off directly.

I’m a terrible hero who can’t even babysit one kid, he thought. 

“It’s okay,” he told Oliver, and for Anissa’s benefit, he added in Viltrumite, “I’ve got him. He’s still a baby; don’t hurt him.”

“You have a monster to eradicate.” She reminded him. “Show me.”

Mark nodded and left with Oliver clutched in his arms as he looked for some kind of shadow creature he’d never set eyes on before. He was wondering if it was a giant from fairy tales or a wavering ghost, but whatever it was…he’d be happy to pit her against it. Wear her down. 

Why here? Hasn’t this city had enough tragedy to last a lifetime? 

The monster, as it turned out, was easy to find. “There!” He called, pointing it out.

She turned to look at it.

It was full of arms and many heads, taking the shadows of buildings and pulling itself out from under them like some kind of ode to childhood terror. Mark might have tried to strangle it with its own necks, but the warm baby in his care stayed his hand.  

It was going to snap a bus in two

He watched it on its collision course, could imagine the driver’s expression 

He braced for the hiss of breaks, for the crash and scream of tearing metal. 

It never came. 

Anissa was there, lifting the vehicle like it was nothing. She set it down and turned to oppose the thing.

She flew straight for it, lopping off one head and then the other, blood spurting up as she came.

She spun too fast to make out. The blood flung itself off her in a wave. The shadow monster was disintegrating back into nothing but color, and it was sucked back under the building from which it’d come. 

Darkwing would have known what that was about. Mark thought numbly. What if we just delayed the inevitable? With no Darkwing or Nightboy, was there anybody who’d be able to keep the Midnight City in check? 

She was before him again, and he was forgetting everything. Seeing her with as stony an expression as ever reminded him of what Nolan had done. His face before he held Mark by the skull, forcing him to watch as he, in slow motion, was kept in place. Seeing everything pull apart, one body at a time– the skin stretching until it ripped (how much force!) and the bone–

“Invincible. Keep it together.” Cecil wasn’t who he needed to hear, but Cecil was all Mark had. 

“-- accept our mission? Will you be what your people need of you?” Anissa asked. She didn’t go so far as to reach a hand out to him, oh no. But she wasn’t beating him bloody either.

Mark shook his head. He held Oliver between his elbow and his hip, using the strap of the baby bag (may it rest in pieces, he thought hysterically) to pin the child to him a little more sturdily. One hand, no hands, he’d still fight. He’d keep Oliver safe because he had to. 

“Make the right decision. Take their folly and turn it into pride. Put this planet–” Anissa urged him, moving forward. She led with her shoulders, and it was such an aggressive, Viltrumite thing to do that he remembered at last what she meant. 

“NO! We need to make our own decisions–” Mark can barely move with Oliver. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and the useless strap is going to tear with the first punch, but he’s gotta–

“You care for these people.” Anissa interrupted. Her scowl was back, and he was reminded of young teachers at school. Easily flustered by a plan no longer fitting the situation, and they had two options: let it go, or go get a higher authority. 

Anissa was clinging to her logic. She must really want a younger Viltrumite around– if he even counted as ‘true blood.’

“If you can leave your naivete behind you, you’ll find that Viltrum rule will benefit them far more than any individual's actions; even that of Nolan’s son. You will learn that your true people, the Viltrumites, will provide better.”

The laughter was trying to bubble up again. You want to eat us up and spit the bones out. He thought. He could see it, even. The mass graves on Thraxa, the inevitable deconstruction, rebuilding, the fear that it was all going to happen again. 

He has to protect himself, he has to protect everyone– 

“Never,” he laughed, wheezing. “No–” 

–he barely saw her coming. One moment, she was glaring down on him, and the next she had him under her. It was a flying kick, and he barely had time to cover Oliver’s head. 

They were going down, and fast.

He curled around the baby, feeling the pavement and rock beneath it cave under him. He was dazed, struck too hard on the back of the head, and Oliver was crying so quietly.

His baby brother wanted to wail, to scream and protest, but he knew to be quiet. He’d suffered like this before. It hurt so much to hear him like that.

“Tell her you’ll do it!” Cecil urged him. 

She landed next to him, and dimly he realized the crater was nearly as deep as she was tall, but she was small and slender like Mark. She was not built like Nolan or the others, and the way she presented herself spoke of worlds of difference. 

Oliver still wasn’t screaming, though he trembled.

Anissa’s foot went down on Mark’s throat.

“NO.” Mark breathed. “I will never betray my people!” 

Her snarl was as honest as any Nolan had given. She was childishly upset at his choice, and she added more force than she had yet. He flashed back to the other Viltrumites who had pressed him into the ground, a knee to his jugular or hands fisted around his neck. 

They always go for the throat, he thought manically, but there was no air for giggles. 

His vision went black.

“It is not my task to kill you.” She said dismissively. “Another will come.” 

“You should go,” Mark asked, his voice low, but all traces of fear for his brother and the civilians had fled. He’d stand against her, and die trying if necessary, but…he had to wonder if it was. He couldn’t guess her playbook anymore. 

She left. 

It was as close to an understanding as he’d gotten with the Viltrumites, and god if he didn’t hate it. He ran his hands against Oliver’s soft cranium, his fluffy hair and his chubby arms and legs, feeling for wounds.

He was whole. He was unhurt. 

Then he heard the coms, which might have been pinging in his ears for minutes now. “What were you thinking?” Cecil berated him. “You should have told her yes. We can plan against them, gain time–” 

“I can’t.” Mark said, checking Oliver for bruises, but there was nothing. Nothing, his baby brother was fine. Scared stiff and in need of a change, but he was fine. “She wouldn’t have believed me anyway. But she didn’t kill me. Said someone else is coming.”

Finally, Cecil gave the all clear. “We’re not detecting her in the atmosphere, or near any of our satellites. It’s over, kid. But for Pete’s sake, Mark, next time? Just lie. You didn’t need to take those hits.”

A sudden burst of rage billowed up inside him. Just lie, he says, lie to her face when you can see the bodies Nolan made every time you close your eyes. 

Nolan’s eyes had been bloodshot, his arguments a scream. Every argument, every violent motion hiding all his feelings but anger. Who were you angry with, dad? Me, or you? 

Had Omni-Man wept for the sight of the broken homes, the blood in the streets? Or had he just felt an all-engulfing anger until he stumbled upon the peaceful Thraxans? 

What do I do with all the rage? How does it help me help them?

Aloud he asked sourly, “Can I go now?” He flinched, his mind finally remembering the person most dependent on Mark. “Is the threat over?”

“Now that the one person you’re afraid is gone,” someone said mockingly,  putting all the nonchalance he didn’t feel in his voice, “it’s time to run, is it? No great feats of heroism from you now, is there?” 

Mark’s mind was spinning. “You’re the guy from before.” 

The villain laughed. Mark couldn’t always discern silence, and that perfect frame of time that should have given him everything he needed to know and how to act. Omni-Man always knew what to do, how to put the bad guys on their ass and keep their fantasies from coming true. Mark, though, was distracted by the pageantry and the window dressings, and he couldn’t tell. He had to look.

Mark was pulling himself up from the crater slowly. He looked up, and there above the lip of the hole, he saw him. That strange presence in the nearby boundary of the midnight city seemed to shiver. The voices there seemed to blur, to split and settle into one body. The man with brains cascading down his back stood, is hands clasped behind his back.

“It’s you,” he said numbly. “You– you killed all of those clones–” 

“You killed my family.” the guy said.

“I didn’t.” Mark said quietly. He held Oliver close, looking at the mutated man walking before him. 

Chapter Text

“You really don’t remember me?”

The Viltrumite woman had left, declaring it not her job to discipline Mark. He hated to think of who they would send, whether or not he could be ready to defend the Earth in that time. 

But now, there was a man before him, his voice dangerous, and his eyes wild. 

“I’m sorry— I’m sorry.  I remember now. You were trying to save me?" He choked. "The accident, maybe it messed you up, but you were a good person—”

“Save you? After all the pain and suffering you have caused? I don’t think so. You deserve death.”

The man, somehow both victim and villain, was named Levi Angstrom– the name popped into his head with more details from before. 

The ringleader was not the same as before. Instead of a nondescript, inconspicuous man with a quiet voice and a nervous demeanor, he had anger and otherness stapled to him. His cranium had bloated and stretched to accommodate the twins he’d created, and he looked so unbalanced, so hurt. 

Could you survive a wound like that? The making and unmaking of your body, your brain…was that even the same person anymore?  He was entirely unknown– a villain by association, the reason all those Maulers died, but also, hadn’t he shouted for them to not fight Mark? Now, none of that leniency remained. No recalcitrant tears, no heartfelt explanations. 

Remade, he stared over at Invincible with nothing but malice. “And this little abomination?” Angstrom’s voice was harsh, like he couldn’t get enough breath. Every word was a punch. “Some alien hybrid meant to be what? A better killer than you?”

No. No, he couldn’t let Angstrom touch his little-brother. If Mark was right, the baby would be nothing more than a weapon in his eyes, expendable. Easier to kill than Invincible.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Mark tried to soothe. He didn’t have time– 

Distraught, he moved. Reaching out for Oliver was the simplest thing he’d ever done. He may not have been able to save anyone else in that warehouse of clones, but he’d save his family. He picked up the baby. Oliver was so soft, a peach in his hands and just as fragile, and his little breathes came in scared hiccups.  

“You’ll pay for what you did. Murderer.”

There was a light shining behind them, and it was a sickly green color. It made Oliver squint and cry out, and Mark had a bad, bad feeling about everything. 

He thought about his brother’s soft, sweet babbling. Any attack that was meant for Mark would hurt him terribly. He moved on instinct, flying away from the light. 

Barely a second had passed, but Angstrom was shouting in triumph and anger, and Mark knew something was wrong.

He felt his eyes widen, some instinct telling him there was something behind him. A second portal, right where he meant to retreat. 

Light consumed them both.

*** 

He didn’t hurt. Whatever the light had been, it was over, and instead of the darkness but otherwise abandoned cursed city, he smelled smoke, stale air and panic.

There were so many people– it was like Chicago all over again, and for a moment Mark froze.

“Breathe.” He told himself. Breathe.

There was no Omni-Man. There was no soft, disdainful voice telling him to give up. There were only people, unfamiliar accents but familiar words. 

“Not again,” someone whispered as they flung themselves into a car that was going to get stuck in a pileup if they weren’t careful.

He heard “Shit, shit, shit!” as someone discovered their routine was well and truly interrupted. 

Something was coming for them.

Mark clutched at Oliver, looking from left to right, thinking to fend off the next onslaught. There was… nothing. No more light portals, no menacing figure, no Midnight City. 

Had he somehow been teleported? 

“I have no idea where we are.” Mark admitted to Oliver, staring at the unfamiliar skyline. All around him was chaos.

He flinched at the sound of someone running towards them. People were rushing to get off the streets in every direction. A woman veered, turning heel and sprinting back the way she’d come when she’d seen Mark fall out of the sky and land on his feet.

Did they know? Could they recognize him? His heart thundered in his ears, a fast, reckless beat that had his skin prickling and muscles seizing.

Oliver whimpered. He clung to Mark, those wide, mauve eyes watering and imploring. 

“No worries.” Mark assured him. “We’ll be home soon.” 

He prodded his com, but only got static. Were there channels on the thing? He could fly to the pentagon, but first he needed to get Oliver some shelter. He didn’t have anything with him. No baby bag, not even a spare diaper. 

“Cecil may even find us before I find a pay phone or something. You’ll be seeing mom and your babysitter again soon.”

It was already getting dark out, and around him shutters were being pulled down over shopfronts, the whole city hunkering down. It was a strange mix of buildings— high rise apartments, and a number of commercial skyscrapers were visible in what must be downtown, but wherever he and Oliver had ended up seemed to be more like four story buildings. 

“Whatever,” Mark muttered, “this is fine.” But he was getting a lot of stares in a full costume and mask. People noticed them, and he needed less attention while he tried to figure out his situation. 

A man seemed outright suspicious, glaring at Mark in his blue and yellow suit. He remembered how the woman had run from him, and had the sinking idea that people were drawing the conclusion that he was the problem. And yet, there was no way nobody recognized the Invincible suit, not after Chicago. 

“Guess the costume’s gotta go,” he said as lightly as he could for Oliver’s sake. The baby gurgled unhappily in his arms. 

He cast about for something that might maybe hold his things until he needed it– even if he replaced the goggles often enough that he had spares at home. He quickly stashed the mask and gloves into a drifting plastic bag. 

“Now all we need is a change of clothes.” 

Why hadn’t Cecil been able to teleport someone in to take care of Oliver? The portal didn’t seem to have any side effects, but landing in the middle of some emergency was not where he would have chosen to bring his brother. Trying to keep his expression anxiety free, he made a face at Oliver. Oliver was too smart to be distracted by his silly faces. Instead, the child huffed and buried his face into Mark’s chest.

“Oh-kay then,” Mark enunciated. “Let’s go…” Holding a plastic bag and a purple baby, he thought he looked less suspicious (hopefully). 

He started to pick his way through the street, avoiding cars and keeping to a human pace– but whenever he had the good fortune to catch sight of someone, they’d already spotted him. 

“Why are they running?” Mark grumbled. “We didn’t even do anything.” 

He weighed the pros and cons of flying out of the danger zone. Then again, he thought with a growing sense of dread, if the portal only reappears near where that guy sent us, I better stay close. 

After I check out the Pentagon… He couldn’t believe his best bet was ‘wait and hope that the madman will want to try and defeat Invincible himself.’ Because, he thought sourly, what if this guy's plan is  ‘abandon the hero in some random war zone’ instead? 

He had to keep hoping. This wouldn’t be the end to Invincible– his dad had entrusted Earth to him. 

Memories of Nolan’s gentle expression while holding Oliver, the light touches he gave Andressa side by side the memories of the man in his hero costume. The man he had seen on the alien planet was entirely unlike the angry, violent villain he had been in Chicago. Was it right to forgive a man like that? What would he tell Oliver about their dad?

Not the time for agonizing about my genocidal father. Mark shook his head and spotted someone who hadn’t immediately run. Lucky! he thought gleefully. Then he was mortified and immediately calmed his inner-voice down. Be. Responsible, empathetic and understanding of normal people, he coached himself. 

“What’s going on?” He called out as he jogged alongside an older man. “What’s the emergency?” 

“Arkham breakout. Get you and your kid home or to a shelter,” the man breathed, his shoulders rounded aggressive. “Don’t follow me. We don’t let strays in our building.” He made a fist and raised it threateningly as he walked backwards up the narrow stairs of an apartment building.

“Okay, okay. You don’t have to threaten us. Watch where you’re going, why don’t you,” Mark snapped. He frowned, no longer caring to interact with the guy. If he tripped and broke something, it’d serve him right, he thought darkly before he guiltily thought that it was better for everyone if nobody got hurt. 

He forcibly turned away. “Guess it’s time to go,” he said to Oliver. 

But go where? He didn’t know how to contact the GDA without his com. 

For a while, he jogged aimlessly, already lost in the twisting alleys of the dark city.  “Better hope that portal isn’t something he can only use for short-range,” he joked, “or Mr-Green-and-Mirror-y won’t find us again. We need him to get home, right?” 

Oliver whimpered and Mark slowed. He had no idea where he was. Shelter? Would they even let him in? He wondered if he was kidding himself about his suit looking like exercise gear. These people had to think he was a villain. 

With no better idea than when he’d started, and suddenly choked with anxiety about the bigger problem, he walked down an alley at random. He went behind a dumpster mostly because he thought at least I won’t have to feel people staring at me.  

“Shhhh,” he murmured to Oliver. He held the baby close, taking comfort in his warmth and soft, familiar form. Mark hadn’t lost him; he was still alive and here.

Oliver was a smart baby. He didn’t start crying, he didn’t squirm when Mark was clearly freaked-out, but he didn’t fall into cute-baby-babble mode either. For some reason, this just made Mark feel worse. Why does he know to be quiet? So he hummed a little, shakily trying to keep the child at ease. If his own heart rate was any indicator, it wasn’t working. 

They listened to the sounds of the city. Somewhere, doors slammed, horns blared and tires screamed. Mark felt bad for leaving everyone to their own devices, but without knowing what was going on, he’d be blamed at the least, and he’d get someone hurt at worst. 

Something about this place is strange. Stranger than the architecture, than no one calling me Invincible. Mark bit his lip, looking for something useful like a newspaper with the date, the name of the city or any clue for what he thought might have happened. Don't jump to the worst case scenario. It could just be a fluke. No one expects to see Invincible walking around, so they see me and assume it’s somebody else. Chill… chill…

He was brought back to reality by the sound of feet pounding down the pavement. 

Someone was coming down the alley, and they didn’t have the look of a civilian. The guy in the orange jumpsuit  wasn’t a threat to them, even with a blunt weapon but what about regular people? 

Should I…? he wondered, but how could he put his baby brother in danger just because some threat was right there? Two seconds of indecision later, and the guy was out of sight. He heard a door being forced open– and the criminal was inside. 

“Shoot.” He said, cradling baby Oliver tighter.

Oliver whined quietly. 

Mark relaxed his grip.  “Sorry buddy.”

For better or for worse, the invader didn’t stay put. He was running out again with a…full bodied, black tactical gear? And what looked like a canister of…oxygen or something. 

Mark frowned. What’s the odds of that being the oxygen the crummy prison wasn’t giving him, and he’s now on his way to live out his days peacefully at a hospital…?

It was only too apparent that wasn’t the case. The terrorist was dousing the place with something that smelled foul. Ignition fluid or something?

What do I do? What should I do??

There was a guy and his tank of ignition fluid lighting up the surrounding buildings. His armor had wings, and he was getting away, getting up. 

God, if only Eve were here. She would be able to make water from the air or something. Would some other hero team come? 

Mark tried wafting air at one of the smaller fires, but that just caused the flames to jump. He gave up. The flames were higher than when he’d started.

Oliver oooohed appreciatively, obviously not understanding that fire was bad. 

Mark groaned. “Yeah, that’s not at all like birthday candles,” he said to Oliver.  Then he started thinking about how to do something without endangering them. “I have no idea how to put out fires. Should I… like… find that guy and kick him …? Sure, there’d still be lighter fluid everywhere, and he already fucking lit a match… but…”

Oliver only coughed, and that decided him. He couldn’t fight bad guys with a baby, and he couldn’t just put Oliver down where anyone could take him. Mark decided to abandon the street level. He pretended to climb up a building by ‘bouncing’ at a semi-super-human speed, and then he finally (finally!) had a bird’s eye view.

“We’re safe here,” he told Oliver, wishing he had something to wrap the baby in. With luck, he’d find something while they moved. Bug people had a hard time regulating their temperatures, he’d found. in a temp controlled spaceship? No problem. In a tiny dorm room with two humans and two computers? Plenty warm. 

He’d just have to…hold on. Maybe find a blanket or something, and if he was lucky, maybe find a section of the city that was both not burning and not unwelcoming. As soon as he had a chance to check the internet, reassure himself that he was just in some backwater island that didn’t care about national news. 

Mark let out a shaky breath. What was happening? The portal guy, Angstrom, why had he just sent them here? Wasn’t he trying to kill them, like some sort of villain of the week? 

What was going to happen to his mom? His city? Was this even the same world? He didn’t want to confirm, didn’t want it to be another dimension entirely. Would the Viltrimites come while he was huddled here in the dark? If just one Viltrumite could kill so many in Chicago, an invading force surely would be so much worse. Visions of people split apart like so much fruit, blood running in the streets were behind his eyes every time he dared to close them. Phantom echoes of buildings collapsing after a mere glancing blow, windows shattering at the speed of a superhuman’s takeoff echoed in his dreams. 

If Mark wasn’t there when they came, it would be over. Omni-Man had killed the Guardians. The new Guardians were still getting used to the job. With Invincible gone, the world would be defenseless. 

Mark tried to keep his breathing even, tried not to shake with sobs, or let out any distressed noise. Oliver was watching, taking cues from Mark. He had to keep it together. Nothing was confirmed. This could just be some weird, cursed city. A city without Wi-Fi he could access, and somehow he was completely out of Cecil's sight. They’d come when they knew he was there… or he could just fly up, look for the GDA headquarters. Just not now. Not right now when Oliver needed sleep. He could put off that unwelcome possibility until after they’d rested. 

***

A little while later, Mark sat hidden between two gargoyles, looking down at the police sirens. He’d migrated up to one of the taller buildings, seeking shelter from the smoke. He was getting closer to desperate, needing something for his kid brother. 

The rolling smog should have disgusted him. The city sprawled across the island like it would never be taken by the waves. And the air quality certainly left something to be desired. It wasn’t exactly rotten, but he got the feeling that this was what people meant when they said city air used to be worse. 

Everything from the skyline to the types of cars looked unfamiliar. The lamps lighting the pavement looked like they hadn’t changed since the days of gas lamps despite the fluorescents installed in them. The city had a problem with garbage too; overflowing like this was New York where the rent was cheap(er), and grime and dirt where you shouldn’t expect it. 

And then there were the Gargoyles. 

Trying to get away from the stink, he’d dared to get a higher look, and yeah, there were a few sleek modern buildings, and the stark contrast between that and the strange, old looking architecture made him uneasy. Like someone had tried to dress up a cursed, forgotten body with glass and modern doors, when clearly it was stuck in a time where poppers and princes never crossed paths.  

Eve would know what kind of buildings those were. Rex would know, maybe, with his love of interior decorating magazines. Did those cover gargoyles? Who even had gargoyles? Why were there gargoyles? This one didn’t even look old!

Oliver was too quiet. Mark was hungry too, but the baby surely was worse off. And how long could they stay out without Oliver getting sick?

Vrrrrng! 

Mark startled so badly he jostled Oliver. He whirled to look for the sound, and sure enough, there was a somewhat softer echo shortly after. It was…some kind of propulsion gun, because there were now two masked (hopefully) heroes stealthing around where nobody had been before. 

Mark wasn’t trying to spy. He was biologically wired to pay attention when somebody flung shuriken (?) at attackers. Whoever they were, they were skilled.

Across the way, the taller of the figures secured his propulsion gun higher up, and on a signal, he swung up and through a window. The smaller figure followed after. 

“...wow,” Mark said to nobody in particular.

Whatever altercation was going down, it was getting loud. 

Mark went closer, peering in and wishing he had better night vision. Better smog vision?

…yeah, that was a judicious amount of punching. Mark was impressed. 

He snuck closer. Maybe he could grab somebody’s jacket or something– or the heroes would recognize him? Give him a shock-blanket? He was suddenly a lot more hopeful.

The conversation was indistinct, but it was becoming more and more clear that the two window-crashers were on their own.  

The all-black with pointy-ears guy was clearly a brawler, but he was undoubtedly better at dealing with street level crime than Mark was. Honestly, Mark had one strategy: punch the villain as gently as possible, and let Cecil’s guys pick them up.

This guy? He had flare. He used his mass, sure, but he also used the surroundings. That gun-zip-line thing lifted him out of tight spots more than once, and he used the red-yellow-black outfitted small person as a distraction. He took down the bad guys quickly. 

How? Seriously, Mark wasn’t that fast, and he was powerful. 

But instead of waiting for the cops…the guy left. He tied up the goons, bagged some stuff, and…left through the window he’d broken earlier. 

“Batman!” somebody from far below roared into one of those sound-cone-things. “Stand down!”

But the pair didn’t so much as acknowledge the order. Was this guy a vigilante?  Mark felt his stomach drop, anxiety at seeing the unfamiliar figure. Another clue that says ‘alternate dimension,’ he thought. 

Mark flew inside for a moment, casting around for something that might help him and Oliver. The soon-to-be-arrested guys didn’t look like anything special…but he also had to know if big, black, and domineering had left anyone dead. 

“Oh goodie,” Mark breathed, “they’re just sleeping.” By which he meant passed out, but his mother insisted word choice around baby Oliver was important. 

He scanned the room before he spotted the prize. In seconds, he pulled the faded Gotham Knights sweatshirt off of a computer chair and high-tailed it out of there. He gently wrapped Oliver in it, and back he flew into the dark. 

Gotham Knights. What did that even mean? Was it a hero team, a sports thing or…? The lack of familiarity was like something out of a Black Mirror episode. Another reality? Different dimension, or some strange version of the world straight out comic book weirdness where everyone had an elemental alignment or something. He thought. He wished he was just a comic book reader at this point, just consuming the story and hoping for satisfying villains to show how awesome the main character was. 

Instead, he was in an unknown city trying to get out of a building a vigilante had just broken into, worried about baby diapers and food sources while not fighting any of the bad guys. 

Yeah, not even the crazy gun-propelled zipline could keep his attention. After the night he’d had, the police sirens and traffic in the area were all too loud. It felt like something was trying to crawl out of his ears. 

He flew close to the cloud cover, found a quieter spot to try to sleep. 

He found a gargoyle and curled up behind it, thankful he at least had a blanket for Oliver. He slept fitfully, blearily checking the sky and his surroundings every time some unfamiliar noise jolted him awake. 

Chapter Text

(Tim Drake)

Tim thought he was desperate before, when he begged Dick Grayson to be Robin, to take the Batman’s grief and rage and mold it, to swallow it up and turn it softer. Yeah, the goal was to make Bruce the valiant knight he’d been before, with Dick’s Robin, and he stood by that decision. 

If that was desperation, it was from the outside. Now, after tasting the training period and watching the Dark Knight pry himself apart and shove his grief up criminal’s throats for ‘their own good,’ Tim thought he understood why Batman had changed. Clearly Batman was grieving. Bruce Wayne had lost his son, Batman his partner. 

Nightwing hadn’t wanted to return to Robin. Tim still had to leave the silent, brooding man who turned away all suggestions of taking the first Robin back, and had to go back  to an empty house. 

He hadn’t. 

He went to Bludhaven instead, the first of many such trips. Then the worst happened, and he found himself without the fallback position of blood family. 

Once again, Tim was asking his predecessor to step in. “You have to!” Tim said. “Please, he’s better with you. You make him kinder.” 

Dick just smiled tiredly at him. He wasn’t wearing designer jeans and pressed jackets anymore like in the tabloids; he was in what had to be hand-me-downs from his gym. His easy grace was the only thing that made him look, well. Attractive. If it were Tim in those bottom-rack-designs and ill-cut clothes, he’d look like a slob. 

“He doesn’t want me there.” Dick said firmly. “I really can’t just swan in and say ‘hey, I know how to handle this!’ You know Bruce wouldn’t take it well. Whether I like it or not, you’re Robin now.” 

Tim wanted to open his mouth and scream. “We are so over my taking on the third Robin mantle. You even helped train me. You told me–” He rolled his eyes, dropping it. 

Tim was always the self-proclaimed Robin when Dick was in a bad mood, or when Dick was too tired to play fair. 

“But we’re short handed now. The police are less than useless, and we have no idea what happened to the Riddler.” Tim snapped. 

Dick’s shoulders slumped. “Stretch with me,” he invited, and they moved back onto the gym’s matted surface. Dick swung his body down and then out, forcing his muscles to stretch and relax. 

Tim followed suit. “Why?”

Dick’s smile was lopsided and his eyes were bright. “You’re tense.” 

Of course he was tense. Tim was up to his eyeballs in case reports, getting passive-aggressive remarks like, ‘Ah. You forgot the folder again,’ or ‘No, I told you. That is not a viable option,’ as though Bruce’d taught Tim half of the ‘obvious better solutions’ instead of leaving it all to Nightwing. Tim was being chided for not being Bruce’s first or second Robin, not for forgetting something Batman had never gotten around to teaching. 

“Breathing is important,” Dick added lightly, and he dropped to the floor in a smooth expression of splits that made Tim’s thighs cramp just looking at it. “Here, put your hands on my shoulders and feel the way I breathe, ‘kay?”

Focusing on something else was easier, at least.

Then, Dick was up again and Tim was on his butt, reaching for his toes. “Breathe in,” Dick said and had him stretch for ages.

He couldn't even remember the rest of the routine, but he couldn’t argue with the results either. He actually…felt better. A little less raw, a little more ready. 

“Okay,” Dick said as he heaved a breath out and danced on his toes, “now tell me what you’ve got so far. You’ll probably make a connection just by talking it out– you know that’s what Bruce does, too, right?”

Tim’s heart lifted. Talking? He could do that.

It turned out to be true, too. He had an idea and a hope, and that might just be what they needed to bring the Riddler and whoever was pulling his strings in. 

Two weeks later, Tim was in his parents house— his father’s house. While Tim had frequently been alone in the house when school wasn’t in session, his mother’s absence was glaring.

“Mom?” he said, half asleep and trying to get ready for morning when all he wanted was to go back to sleep.

There. Tim sometimes caught a whiff of Janice’s perfume– it could only be his father, right? He wondered if Jack would buy another when he used up the rest of her stash. He wondered if he’d resent it.

Tim hadn’t felt neglected, exactly. He had a lot of space, independence and trust that he would use his time well and to further himself and his pursuits. Now that Jack was home, more aware than ever of Tim’s coming and goings, the house felt strange. More empty somehow. 

“Your mother would be so proud of you,” Jack sighed, closing his laptop. “You’re… more than we ever imagined.” 

Tim nodded, swallowing hard. 

“So, would you like to spot my exercise? Sit down and stand up four times, flex the calves, you know.” Jack chuckled. 

“Sure,” Tim sputtered. “Do I like, stand next to or in front of you? Is this homework or has the physical therapist called in sick?” 

“Ah. Homework.” his father admitted.

Tim nodded, throat too tight to actually say anything. He was glad, really, happy to help.

It’s just…he never used to spend time with his mother or father. It hurt that this was what brought them closer. 

“Thanks,” Jack huffed after they completed the repetitions. “We really are very proud of you.”

Present tense. He didn’t like that– didn’t trust it. 

So he nodded, and they went about their days.

His mother may be dead, his father badly injured, but he couldn’t give up Robin.  Tim was eager to prove that Robin is still the best decision left for him. 

The news emergency alert tone sounded. It was high pitched and long, stopping for a calm voice to say “Gotham city red alert, Arkham breakout.” The message repeated for two minutes, names beginning to scroll across the screen. 

Jack put his head in his hands, sinking into the armchair. “We’ll need to shutter the windows.” 

“I’ll do it.”

“Stay safe, Timmy.”

It was stuff like that made him wonder– how much did Jack know?

He might feel guilty, but they had multiple escaped Arkham convicts, and they needed Nightwing’s help, and Robin’s too. Even if the Batman wouldn’t admit it.

“Nightwing,” Tim said over the coms, speaking fast, “there’s been a breakout from Arkham. Somebody is probably heading over to the mainland– be on the lookout, and when you catch them, please. Please put it behind you and get your butt over here– none of us need six of them at once. Batman thinks it’s the new rogue— a guy calling himself Bane.” 

He’d ask for forgiveness later. 

*

(At the Batcave)

“You shouldn’t have missed that thug,” Batman said, his voice gruff. 

Tim winced as he noticed Batman still by the Batmobile, leaning heavily on the car. Apparently he needed to take a moment before he came over to the medbay or the computer.

Tim would place a bet that Bruce was heading for the computer rather than the medbay. While the man might have been consulting Dr. Shondra Kinsolving, Tim still wouldn't expect miracles of self awareness and self-care from the man who made it his personal mission to protect Gotham. 

Back when Tim had been photographing Batman and Robin, the rogues– even the ones who had no qualms about targeting children– hadn't seemed like a threat. Tim saw them through the lens of the camera and still wholeheartedly believed that Batman would always win. Batman was more myth than man to most junior high students, and Tim was no exception. He’d blissfully been lost in the conviction that nothing could stop him or Robin. So while Tim may have seen them take hits night after night, neither was injured for long, and even the villains never seemed seriously hurt.

When he’d been an observer, the Mad Hatter seemed like a cartoonish joke, no matter that the girls he abducted had been in very real danger of being trafficked. He’d been naive; now he didn’t have that luxury. Tonight the villain had grabbed first responders, but he hadn’t been able to enact whatever he’d been planning before Batman and Robin found him.

As a kid, he hadn’t known about the rift between the former Robin and the Dark Knight. He’d thought the second Robin’s push for independence would be tempered by the mentor. Instead, they were all left with the gnawing hope that maybe, just maybe, the teen’s last moments hadn’t been too bad. 

Now, instead of watching his birds with a brother’s fond, exasperated good humor, Robin had to deal with Batman’s ire at the most basic mistakes or imperfection. It chafed. He yearned for what the first Robin must have accepted as commonplace; too everyday to even notice. 

“Don’t you trust me yet?!” Tim scoffed. “I had to make the call. It was run after that guy or leave you to face half a dozen guys after we’d been taking a beating all night.”

“You need to stick to the plan,” Batman growled, stalking over to Tim. 

“The plan went to hell two minutes after we found those guys. It was our fourth confrontation tonight. Neither of us was up to form–”

Nightwing, always swift to put himself in between Batman when he got too overbearing, radioed in just in time. It was like a sixth sense.

“Hey, just turned in Stirk over to Gordon’s guys. You want me to debrief in person?” 

“We’ll see you at the cave.” Batman responded.

“Stirk,” Tim said with distaste. “At least he’s off the street. We do not need two fear themed villains on top of Joker, Firefly and Ivy…Not to mention the hench with the falcon,” Tim said, his eyes gleaming. 

The man orchestrating the chaos was both too ambitious and far too patient. With so many escapees from Arkham, he rightly assumed Batman and Robin would be too busy to track him down.  The  falcon spying on them was too much– they had to target the second in command before the newest threat could make his mark on the Gotham underground. 

Tim was going to track the hench. He was confident in his tech skills, in his ability to cyberstalk the man, possibly even find Bane’s plan before it came into fruition. The rush of anticipation, the taste of excitement was almost enough to keep him from sneaking to his stash of energy drinks. 

“Bane is threatening you in particular.” Batman interrupted him dourly. 

Which, true, Bane had definitely implied that he wanted to be the next rogue to kill a Robin. Tim chewed his lip, feeling an echo of guilt at the thought. He stood by his words; he did think Batman needed a Robin, and Batman had become more cautious after bringing Tim into the field. 

That didn’t mean he was suicidal though.

“ETA thirty minutes.” Nightwing called in.

“Copy,” Robin replied just as swiftly. 

Batman flinched and sat down to start in on the report (as predicted).

“Tea?” Tim inquired awkwardly. Never mind Alfred had probably gone to bed for the night. Alfred would be up in a moment if there were any injuries, but Bruce’s father figure was waging a silent protest against Batman's refusal to lighten his patrol schedule. The headaches and fatigue were bound to lead up to something more serious, if they didn’t lead him to getting injured while on the job. If Bruce wouldn’t take a break on a regular patrol, he knew better than ask him to take it easy when the highest security Arkham residence had been set loose.  He’d make Bruce the tea himself if it would help. 

“No.” 

Tim watched Bruce carefully, wary of Bruce pulling away. What had been companionable silence in Tim’s early days, felt more like a cold shoulder. Honestly, he’s always been this standoffish. I just didn’t take it personally before, and now everything feels like criticism. Tim sat at his own spot at the second computer, filling out his report using a number of shorthand codes to get in the rough outline of the night’s event. 

Bruce’s posture was tense. His breathing was shallow, too.

“You okay?”

Bruce only ignored him.

It hurt to see Bruce so tired, so worn down. He had gone on patrol as Gotham needed, but he was slipping. Even Bruce Wayne was noticeably ill, dropping out of many social obligations. When had it started? Was it Tim’s fault, getting his family involved in the Dark Knight’s business? 

Tim’s father had needed careful handling, and much more carefully framed excuses to get Tim Drake out of his family home. Even Bruce could only take so much. 

That stress, and the awful events of Doomsday. It was a kind of heartbreak after his dearest friend on the League was taken down by a Kryptonian monster engineered to end all life. Nobody could have guessed that Superman could have died. He was the man of steel. He was supposed to be invulnerable. 

Not that Tim could voice his concerns. He was still trying to work out what he should say when he heard the soft chink of glasses.

Tim startled visibly.

Apparently Alfred had lost the stalemate. “I’ve set the refreshments here,” the elderly gentleman’s voice was chilly. 

“Aw, thanks Alfred.” Tim said hopefully. “Great idea. After workout nutrients for everybody. Um. Nightwing is joining us in…a little bit? He’s usually good with milk and a banana though.”

Ugh, he thought. I sound like a babbling, awkward kid.

“I’m sure.” Alred sighed. “Not that I’m eager to see the back of you but,” and here he sighed, not looking at Tim but staring daggers at Bruce, “Please mind your volume at your own home, Master Timmothy. Your…father may wake and notice your whereabouts,” he said gravely. With that, the butler took his leave, shoulders back and looking every month of his years. 

It wasn’t like Tim didn’t worry about his dad. He and Steph were always worrying about him– but the reminder made his stomach flip.

“I could–”

“Go ahead.” Batman returned in his usual dour, monotone wording. He was already looking at the screen.

Tim shut his mouth. He didn’t want to be cut off completely– he could help. Especially if that meant Batman got an extra hour of sleep.

“I’ll file the first two reports,” he muttered, knowing the Bat would go over and nitpick both of them.

He’d almost finished outlining the second one when Nightwing entered the cave. He’d abandoned the bike a ways off, so his friendly voice was the only giveaway that he’d come closer. “Stirk was a freak, as usual.” 

And yeah, Tim had jumped. What? He wasn’t expecting the older teen vigilante so soon.

Neither Batman nor Robin could get a word in before the first Robin moved on. 

“No, I don’t seem to have any more hallucinations than usual, thanks for asking.” Nightwing dismounted with a long stretch, cracking his joints noisily. “How do you feel, Bruce? Any breakthrough from your holistic doctor?”

Batman scowled, still methodically clicking away on the computer.

Tim gave Dick a look, annoyed at him bringing Bruces’ doctor up. 

“I’ll take that as a no.” Nightwing leaned over Bruce’s computer chair, smiling with all of his teeth and scrutinizing the monitor. 

On a good day, Nightwing’s humor could get Batman to loosen up, to crack open his shell. On a bad night, however, the two prodded each other's sore spots until they were screaming at one another.

“So, what’s the plan?” Dick asked easily, like it was all up to Bruce.

Tim frowned quietly. Something about that grated…it wasn’t exactly subtle flattery or anything, but it wasn't a hostile question either. 

“Write up your report.” Batman ordered. “We all need to sleep; the rest will have gone to ground.” Meaning, if it weren’t pointless, we’d all still be out there. 

“Sleep sounds good,” Dick smiled, and it was a real smile. “I’ll dictate a report after a shower…Shrike, you know?” 

Batman seemed to twitch at that. Did he not like speech-to-text, or did he not like Nightwing one-manning Shrike? Or…was it the speech-to-text part? Bruce was disinclined to speak much of the time. Did he think it was a barb?

Maybe all of the above, he decided. Tim fiddled with his own report while Nightwing washed up. He was a pro at quick showers, though, and he was wearing flannel PJs that looked too old and soft to be anything Bruce favored. It was funny– his preferred sleep shirt at his Bludhaven apartment seemed to be Bruce’s old t-shirt. But here, he was covered from collar to ankle, as though afraid to show too much vulnerability.

Stop reading into it. Tim told himself. Over analyzing was just exhausting on this little sleep. 

“They’ve got all the fires under control,” Dick said as he waltzed over. “Still a lot of smoke, but the firebug’s gone…but yeesh, how many more are there?”

“Enough.” Batman said through gritted teeth. “I’ll hear you now.” 

Dick launched into a cheeky, if factual, accounting of his evening. It was casual but structured into the various different parts Batman asked for, and Tim was almost sick with jealousy. How easy it must be, if you were the original half of the Dynamic Duo.

“So,” Dick finished up, “we should sleep. Maybe call in the League if you’re still worried. Superman w–”

“Superman is dead,” Batman barked. 

Dick stilled. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I meant to say that Clark wouldn’t have wanted–”

Tim wanted to groan. To sink into his hands and spitefully tell his senior vigilante that was the wrong thing to emphasize. Dick had ruined all the good stuff he managed to drag out of Bruce, and he was too stubborn to apologize and drop it.

“I can handle Gotham,” Bruce exhaled slowly as he removed the cowl, his gaze flinty. “I just need to regroup.”

“Can you though? Are you really ok? Bruce Wayne has been having headaches. We need to regroup,” Dick worried his lip. The easy comradery was gone, leaving only a tired and stressed young man. “The Titans–”

“Gordon said the mayor wants to call in the national guard?” Tim glanced at Batman. “We need to rest and get back out there. We’ll make his deadline, or the national guard will be starting a war in Gotham. They may usually want to start out of Gotham, but they’ll use it as a message for the rest of the country.” Tim might have flinched a little when Batman turned slowly around to glare down at him.

“To bed,” Bruce rumbled.

Tim was afraid. Not of Batman, who’d never lifted a hand against him in anger, who was so gentle in sparring. But he was afraid that everything that gave his life meaning would all vanish if he looked away, and that he’d be left alone and unable to ever return to this almost-family. 

“Come on,” Dick said quietly, and he was bare footed, so Tim hadn’t heard him approach. He must have been cold.

“But–”

“Bed time for Robins.” Dick insisted. He gently pushed Tim toward the stairs, and with Bruce staring up at them with an unreadable expression, still unchanged and in his Bat suit, Tim felt foolish.

“I need to wash–” 

“You’re already decontaminated. I can tell.” Dick flicked the collar of Tim’s suit. “Get outta that fresh suit and into your civies.” 

Bruce wasn’t budging, and with both of them ganging up on him…Tim sighed and acquiesced.  He was halfway up the stairs when he heard Dick call down, “Don’t stay up too late.”

Bruce must have grumbled something. Tim waited, heart in his throat.  

Dick lingered in the doorway, looking inward and outward, seemingly just as unsure as Tim was. 

Neither Bruce nor his alter ego called for them. 

“You’ve got school,” Dick murmured softly.  “If you want a shower…” 

Tim shrugged. “I can take one in the morning.”

“It could help you sleep?” Dick offered.

“Nah,” Tim closed his eyes. “I’ll just brush my teeth and wash my face…” 

Dick nodded wordlessly. “Well. You know where to find me.” 

Tim blinked, but Dick was already gone, vanished into the house. He didn’t get a chance to say that, no, didn’t know. But he was halfway to knowing.

***

In the early hours of the morning, Tim thought he understood the purpose of this mass breakout. It was dumb, and maybe basic, but he had been thinking ‘business as usual.’ Aside from the Joker, whom had been built up as a terrible boogie man, he’d been thinking about it like a civilian. Had assumed there was some sort of gentleman’s agreement between the bat and the rogues. 

Bane didn’t mean for them to survive. He wanted to crush Batman, and this was how he’d do it….by sending a hundred rogues at the same time, wearing them down until they could not stand. 

Batman may be used to the dark turn since Jason’s death, or maybe things had always been as dire, but Bruce wasn’t well. He was supposed to be seeking treatment.

Of course that wouldn't be his priority now, not when they had a dozen rogues on the loose.

Chapter Text

(Day 2, early morning)

By morning, Mark had a much better grasp on the geography. Which is to say, it sucked, and he had no idea where he was, but it  wasn’t actually a warzone. It was, in fact, just a city that happened to be on fire, and there weren’t even signs of bombs or anything. Just multiple dangerous prisoners on the run apparently. 

Vigilantes were running around trying to take care of everything as the scattered police… didn’t. The fire department seemed to be concentrating on population-dense areas, at least. They seemed slightly less useless. 

He thought back to the zipline duo. The brawler and the bright distraction. But why was the big guy dressed like a demon? And how old was the other guy, the one dressed in red and gold? He was so short and thin that Mark thought he was probably a kid. 

“Time to look for breakfast,” Mark said to Oliver. The baby didn’t respond, sleeping listlessly. 

Fortunately, Oliver was a very bright baby, and had already started potty training, so their one diaper had been usable for the night. It was now full, though. Setting his brother on the ground and changing him was first on the to do list.

Mark flew only a bit, going from roof to roof. He was trying to stay out of range of the smoke, and avoid detection by the cops. He wished he had his phone, and he wished his earpiece was working. 

“Not sure anybody’s open,” he admitted to the still sleeping child. That worried him, if he was being honest. He wanted to hear a healthy, happy, babbling child, but instead he got a tired, silent burr clinging to him at best, or the little guy lying limp at worst.  

It was time to hit the streets again. Even though it was after dawn, he didn’t see a lot of people on the street. Many people were still sheltering, but some were obviously running around. For instance, the newsie wannabe with a smartphone camera and a death wish, and somebody who obviously thought car frames were sturdy enough. That older guy was listening to the radio from his car.

Mark paused to listen in. 

“--with only six major threats still at large, the state of emergency has been lifted.” The radio declared. 

Mark was incredulous. There were still… six … major threats, and people were expected to just…go to work. 

“What hellscape is this?” He wondered to Oliver. 

Thankfully, Oliver cooed in response, but he was half asleep. Without a constant food source to match his seemingly ever-increasing appetite, he was nearly comatose. “Do you think there’s a food truck or something?” Also, would they take alternate dimension money? “...or a charity?”  Honestly either would be good, if only they could find someone willing to open. 

As a kid, he’d always dreamt of flying, but that had been before. He couldn’t be like his dad. 

Nolan, reluctant friends with the strongest on the earth, observer and bystander to Earth customs and familiar bonds. 

Invincible was his answer to the indomitable Omni-Man; the stoic, the superhuman nobody ever saw bleed. Ironic, really, since all Mark ever seemed to do was leave his mark like a stain on the ground, in the crushed buildings and lives wrecked.

He managed to spot a small group of older men, brazen and brash as survivors of ‘much worse,’ if he’d ever seen any, and he hastily made his way that way.

“The Bat’s still out,” one of the men cautioned. “You sure you wanna be out?”

Mark did a double take. “You talking to me?” he asked.

“Who else?” his friend scoffed. “Is Batman looking for you or not?”

“Not.” Mark said firmly. He edged forward, placing them in the open definitively. Under their obtrusive eyes, Mark sidled up closer, feeling bolder out of necessity. He wanted even a scrap of the warmth they might be able to offer Oliver, still wrapped in the stolen sweatshirt. Mark had added the mask and gloves to the pockets, hoping that it’d help with insulation, so he just looked. Weird, probably, hugging his stuff to his chest like that, but at least the baby was warm.

“...so that guy is actually Batman. Not the Devil-May-Care?” Mark tried for a smile. He was certain there was a better hero name than… the bat man. 

“Sure.” The third guy was rolling his eyes something fierce. “Laugh it up. See where it gets ya.”

Mark couldn’t help it. He smiled wider. “Is the kid called Traffic Light?” 

The three men blanched. One of them even flipped Mark off with an angry scowl.

Mark habitually covered Oliver’s eyes, but he was still fast asleep. “What? I thought that was the naming scheme— super on the nose.”

“What are you, new? This is Gotham!” they were offended, obviously. “It’s Batman and Robin.” 

The second guy was muttering, “He’s much better with Robin back.”

Snarky number three just looked incredulous. “The new Robin, you mean.”

They exchanged morose looks.

“...what happened to the old one?” Mark asked hesitantly.

“Dead, probably.” Unlucky three said with a stern look. 

Mark flinched back. “No. Same role? He’s a kid right? And the other one died?” He felt his eyes widen, his shoulders rising. “And the Batman just… replaced him?” Mark flinched back, feeling lightheaded. 

‘What’s another seventeen years?’ His mind supplied. ‘I can always start again.’ 

Oliver moaned. He was probably reacting to Mark’s skipping heartbeat. 

Mark tried to calm his breath, but it was too late. A purple hand thrust toward him, little fingers grasping for connection. 

He was supposed to be over that. His dad was making an effort, had admitted to caring for his family. Mark had fought alongside him, been saved by Nolan when Thulla choked him. 

Oliver gave a little cry and struggled out of the bundle of sweatshirt and gloves, and then his blotchy, tear-streaked face was freed. 

The guys obviously noticed. 

Unlucky three covered his eyes. Number one and two just exchanged shifty glances and turned their shoulders inward. 

“Shhhh,” Mark said to the kid, rubbing his hands around the baby’s skinny arm and trying to get him back into the warmish bundle. He clucked and warbled a little in imitation of the boy’s native language, but his attempt was as pathetic as always. 

Oliver did irritably click back at him, the same as ever. 

“Wha’cha got there, huh?” Unlucky demanded. “That kid yours?”

“Yeah,” Mark snapped, and finally he managed to fold Oliver up, bundled once more. “I’m uh, looking for somewhere to eat breakfast.” He scanned the men’s eyes hopefully. “We just need some help. Some time to get on our feet.”

That wasn’t the right thing to say. Three was already moving away, his feet too fast to be anything but frightened. “You get outta here if you know what’s good for ya!” he called by way of explanation.

Mark blinked. All that for…what? A purple kid? Were they afraid it was catching or something? 

“I ain’t judging.” Two was a mellow guy apparently. “Everyone is just two acquaintances from a rogue in this city. Who you work for?” 

What? Mark was having trouble following. He just stared. 

He’d been told his ‘blank stare’ was scary before, and this guy apparently agreed because he backtracked hastily. “Or are you trying to get your own gang?”

Meanwhile, one started to inch the way of unlucky three. 

Mark was inclined to leave  as well. “He was born like this,” he said in a low voice.

“Sure, sure,” two said easily, placatingly. “Purple though. Two Face?”  

“No.” Mark said numbly, wondering what he was being accused of. Rogue? Gang? Fuck, what do they think I’m trying to– they think I’d do something to Oliver??

One shoved a twenty at Mark, already looking away as he muttered, “Just don’t start it here. You need to get on your feet, right? Just don’t do it here.”  Then he started fast talking, giving directions to a shelter. “It’s open to metas even if the Bat ain’t.”

Throughout all that, Mark stared at the crumpled cash. It was slowly sinking in. One was paying him…to run in another direction. 

“Thanks,” he said tightly, “I guess.”

Mark wished he didn’t understand their caginess, their suspicion. If Gotham was like this on the regular, it wasn’t just him who knew how bad a day could get. He’d just walk away, try and be the bigger person. 

The shelter did have a number of people lining up. From the outside, it didn’t seem any bigger than the guy whose building ‘didn’t take strays.’ But it seemed legit with pamphlets for services. At the counter there was even a sign saying, ‘ask about our personal hygiene sets.’

They waited. And waited.

A harassed looking young adult was eying Mark as the superhero considered whether or not he should bother asking. What if they’d run out of space? Of supplies? 

“Uh, hi.” Mark said, unwrapping his brother at the counter, letting Oliver breathe the warmer air. 

“Hi,” the volunteer replied, looking haggard. 

“Uhm.” Mark looked around, trying to find his feet. There were people coming in and out like they were looking for someone, or undecided about whether or not to stay or go. They were lucky to have a choice.

We could fly away, Mark thought to himself, but he didn’t know exactly what had taken him to the dimension. Did Angstrom have any constraints around sending him back?

If he left Gotham and missed his ride home, where would that leave his world? Would they be punished  for another Viltrumite abandoning his post?

He had to try and stay put, no matter how unwelcoming the people were. 

“We need someplace out of the cold,” he muttered. 

“Yeah?” the young adult asked. The teen had to be one of those bleeding heart types like Amber, but he seemed to be less than trusting at the moment. Mark wondered if a supervillain had targeted the area the night before. 

“...and I’d really appreciate a shower?” Mark added hopefully. “Can we get one of those hygiene sets? And do you have a baby bath?”  

“All out.” They poked the computer and ran a few numbers. 

‘Moooah,’ Oliver said indistinctly. He gave a wobbling cry, before reaching out of the bundle and toward Mark, who grabbed him by the waist, lifting him high enough to give a kiss on the cheek. His skin was so soft. 

Mark smiled. 

The attendant looked between Oliver and Mark, eyebrows raised. “Cute baby.”

Mark shrugged. “The cutest,” he agreed, though he couldn’t help but doubt the sincerity of the other. 

“Come on, we might have an unofficial spot for you both. I’m John, by the way.”  

They went to a place with long tables pushed to the side. A few people huddled in groups along the wall. 

“All the beds are filled, but you can stay here. I know it’s not much, but you can stay a few days. After that, we gotta report your… baby to social services, y’know?” 

Mark winced. He had absolutely no documentation for his literal alien little brother. He wasn’t human, let alone legally his. “Thanks?” because didn’t you need to report kids immediately? Fuck if he knew. 

He should probably know. Heroes should know that stuff.

“Down that hall and to the left is your next stop. Get some clothes? Looks like you could need ‘em.”

Clothing was being handled by the next group of volunteers— a tired middle aged pair who both spoke as little as required. The man gestured to a much-rifled-through box of clothes, and the woman eyed them like a hawk. “Two clothing items per person. No more.”

“It’s been a long night. Our stock is low,” the man said, his expression politely apologetic, but his monotone didn’t help the delivery. 

Mark tried not to feel nervous or guilty. “Is there anything we could eat? I can change later, right?”

“Breakfast starts from eight. No sooner.”

Mark nodded, head spinning. “Okay.” He prepared himself to awkwardly shuffled through the pile of discarded clothing. “...do you have anything in his size?”

After spending the early hours in the shelter, Mark was realizing two things. Not everyone in the common space wanted to chat, and some people didn’t want to chat with him.

“What are you bringing a meta into Gotham for?!” more than one person demanded.

Mark winced every time he heard it, and he got it tossed around like an accusation even from the people who seemed nice at first. “It’s bad luck to have metas, even kids. Do everyone a favor and move.” 

“Right.” Mark replied vaguely. “We’ll keep it in mind.”

They called people Metas, and absolutely no one recognized his own superhero name. Everyone referenced completely different heroes and villains, and Mark had never even heard of Gotham. He wondered how to ask about people with dimension-accessing powers without sounding like a megalomaniac.  

“The bats caught the Madhatter,” someone said dully as they came in. “Anybody heard about the Joker? No word on half the other madmen. Poison Ivy, Scarecrow, Amygdala and Killer Croc are still at large.”

The… bats. They seemed to be the only Superheroes willing to enter Gotham.

“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” Mark said as cheerily as he could to Oliver. But how does that Oz character get back home? Sure, she’d had an adventure, Probably… Too bad real life adventures were very rarely good. 

Mark felt his eyes sting, emotions welling up in his exhausted state. He’d had to keep moving all night, wary of the unknown threats and it was just too much. He was all on his own, responsible for his baby brother with only begrudging charity from a hostile city. 

He just wanted some food, and to be able to sleep without having to worry about Oliver being shot over some local feud he didn’t understand. Did Batman really enforce the no meta rule? Why? 

Powers had always been something Mark had seen as pure luck— something to set you apart, to give otherwise normal people the chance to help people in grand ways. Sure, firefighters and paramedics were heroes, but Omni-Man was on another level. He’d admired his father, the Guardians and even the Teen Team for their world-saving heroics. 

Once Mark joined the novice hero ranks, he learned that powers didn’t keep you from losing. He lost, and lost often, or worse, couldn’t save people. His father had urged him to look at the big picture, and been oddly distant. It wasn’t anything like he’d imagined. Nothing like his cherished stories. 

His first six months was loss after loss in spite of super powers or ‘meta abilities.’ His father was distracted and cold at times, then warm and welcoming. The superhero team most associated with his dad was dead. Being a hero was so obviously more than Mark could handle, but his mom believed in him. He thought his dad would support him. 

Unbeknownst to him, his mom and Cecil had been investigating Nolan. And no one came when his father nearly beat him to death  on that mountain top. 

The appeal of powers and the life of a government superhero had faded.

He finally understood what Titan meant about being useless with dealing with the smaller, street level picture. Sure he could help fight the kaiju, or Magmamites, but what was he supposed to do about gangs? He knew nothing about all the social issues. He was just a pawn, positioned by more powerful players like Cecil, and even his dad. 

Was it the same in this dimension? Were the bats just cogs in the machine, or had they somehow found a way to make life actually better for people in their city? 

And why don’t they want ‘metas?’

Moving to a corner to try and smooth Oliver back to sleep, Mark quietly freaked out until the receptionist John tapped him gently on the shoulder. 

“It’s breakfast time,” the guy muttered. “I’m out. Good luck ok?”

Mark blinked and got up. “Thanks,” and he lined up.

Breakfast turned out to be granola bars and a paper cup of water. Oliver was given a single bottle of formula.  Mark took the bottle and laughed. It sounded a little too high pitched. 

“Wait, wait. He has a fast metabolism. He needs another bottle every half hour, or every hour. Please, you can have my granola back, whatever! But my brother needs—”

It was barely enough. Oliver needed more, not less.

“Cool it. If you keep on about that,” an older woman threatened, “we’ll call the police.” 

A younger man spat and called him useless. 

“This isn’t enough.” Mark said, hands clenching.

Nobody replied. They were given a single diaper. 

That was it. Mark was done. He took the bottle, and let Oliver drink. He refilled it with water, trying to be unobtrusive for just long enough. 

Finally, the chance presented itself, Mark snuck into the back with a burst of speed, snagged two formula canisters and a couple liters of water into the rude old man’s backpack. 

They needed it, okay?

He ran. He wasn’t proud of it, but he ran.

***

Huddled in the maze of alleyways near where the portal had appeared, once again Mark was considering the benefits of the rooftops over the street-level stoops. As the city was starting to wake up, he opted for the roof. 

Nestled against some air conditioning unit, he mixed the baby formula with water, hoping some other shelter would help him wash the bottle, even give him a spare later. Maybe there were better places. More accommodating ones. 

With the day brightening more and more, Mark decided to take another nap. Even that tiny amount of food and water in his stomach was enough to let him move around. 

He looked around, scanning the surroundings with a more keen eye. He wasn’t feeling particularly charitable toward a city that’d deny his little brother food, so he would scavenge more stuff from wherever possible. 

He saw something that might make a good shelter— a tarp nailed across a door. He weighed his options. Oliver was fast asleep, and it was within line of sight, so he thought setting Oliver down for a moment would be alright. A little bit of prying up the staples and the doorway made a decent wind block and roof. When he flew back to Oliver, he let himself  look at his brother. 

The kid was tiny, barely a little lump in the hoodie bundle, just a bit bigger than his backpack. 

Finally, Mark felt like he could relax, be a little less vigilant. He punched the staples into the poured-cement outline of…whatever was up there. Central heating? Ventilation? to make a tent. 

After a nap, he’d see about mixing up some more formula. “C’mon little guy,” he said as he cuddled the baby into his arms. “Time for a power nap.” 

*

He should have known sleeping directly on the cement would hurt, but it was mostly his neck? And weirdly, his lower back. So he only nabbed another hour or two (how was he supposed to tell exactly? His phone was long gone), but Oliver started fussing as soon as he started messing with the bottle. 

“Yeah, yeah, hurry up, I know.” Mark smiled down at him. 

He picked up the water and made another bottle for Oliver. He didn’t look thrilled about cold formula, but the one year old (going on three months) was too hungry, so. 

He listened to Oliver and closed his eyes while his brother had his meal. It was almost comfortable if he was sitting up and with a warm kid in his arms. He started to drift– 

And Oliver started coughing. 

Mark’s eyes flew open. He stood up, ducked out from under the tarp, and moved Oliver into the sunlight. “Yeah, let’s have a nice burp,” he mumbled, and very, very gently patted the baby’s back, and when the boy was willing to stop guzzling, laid the baby down on his back, moving his legs to promote gas movement. “Froggy, froggy, frog…who’s a frog…?” like a frantic caretaker or something while Oliver beamed up at him sunnily, and burped. 

Mark sighed with relief. “Hey, did you hear that?” And, uh, yeah. That was definitely somebody directly below their scruffy little shelter making a lot of noise.

It turned out to be a gaggle of kids. 

“Are they…dumpster diving?” Mark wondered, aghast. It seemed so…unhygenic.  His mom would have words with him if he was any older than six and touching that, and under six he would never have been left alone near a trash pile to begin with. 

Oliver cooed. Then he did his little clicky-click-whirrrr that probably meant something like, ‘I’m bored. Play with me.’ 

So Mark went back to their lean-to and practiced lifting his little brother up in the air with his legs, going, “UP!” and “Down….” as the tiny guy giggled. 

It was really cute. 

After several minutes of this, though, Mark got worried about the kids. What if the dumpster’s lid got stuck? What if something broken and pointy mashed into the kids’ way-too-soft skin?

So he picked Oliver back up again and flew inconspicuously to the closest fire-escape. It (unfortunately) made a clatter and a thud as part of the ladder extended, and well, there went his stealth approach. 

“Who’s there?!” The oldest demanded. He wasn’t more than twelve, probably. 

“Hi,” Mark called down. “We uh, didn’t mean to scare you. I just uh, my mom would kill me if I went into a dumpster without a lookout, you know?” Or into a dumpster at all, but. That was neither here nor there.

“We ain’t got nothin’ for ya.” The kid replied stoutly. “Not a cent!” 

“Yeah, no, that’s fine.” Mark said slowly, thinking fast. “We’re new here… I had a question. You can answer that, and we’ll call it even. I’ll watch your back while you’re in there, open the thing up if it slams shut, and you answer with as much as you can.” 

“What do you wanna know?” The kid was suspicious. 

“Is it…illegal to be a meta here?” Mark asked slowly, taking the stairs down and gesturing with his free hand at the decidedly purple baby in his arms. 

“Ahhhhh-k-y.” Oliver said pointedly. Which. Icky? 

“Yeah, trash is icky. Not for babies,” Mark replied in his you-need-to-know-this voice. 

The kid below seemed only a little at ease with the emergence of a tiny bundle of delicate, lovable baby. “Ok, questions after though. Can’t have you running away.” 

Mark murmured his assent and diligently turned away from the kids to watch the mouth of the alley. “Holler if something hurts you,” he said calmly. 

Then he murmured, “Let’s count to ten. One,” and let Oliver watch his mouth move. He’d have preferred to play with the boy’s fingers and toes too, but they could always do a repeat up on the roof. “You’re gonna be a pro at this number thing,” he said, glancing down at the enraptured baby.

Oliver was looking at the mouth of the alley too, though. “Mmmm?” 

“Uh, guys?” Mark called. “One of those under-cover police cars passed by. They were going really slow– you think he’s going to turn around and come back?”

“What’s the plate?” a smaller, scruffier voice asked. That kid had an unfairly round face with a splash of red hair coming out from a ratty beanie. 

“...can’t see from this angle.” Mark said. 

“It’s probably Gordon!” one of the kids said excitedly. “He might trade us a twenty for the bottle!” 

Mark blinked. “Oh. So a. Good cop.”

“He’s alright,” the leader said slowly. “I’ll handle it.” 

And wasn’t that weird? A kid taking charge.

The leader walked confidently to the mouth of the alley, and Mark decided to watch the kids still rifling around in the trash. Then he subtly shifted. Viltrumites, he thought, might have better than usual hearing, if he just tried. 

“...anything on Scarecrow?” apparently-Gordon asked a few minutes later. 

“Nah,” the leader said in a gruff voice that made Mark think he was probably a boy.  “We did find this though. Sus, right?”  

“Hmm,” Gordon said and there was a quiet moment between the two. Presumably he was checking the quality of the ‘evidence.’ 

Wait, what if it’s actually evidence?? Mark wondered. 

“Thanks.” There was a rustling noise and he was probably pulling out a wallet. Maybe some cash. “Stay out of the sewers though, alright? Croc has been known to attack people in his ‘territory,’ and he’s still at large.”

“I heard Ivy’s in the park! Making a fortress.” The little boy said loudly. “Can I get a reward for that too?”

“Common knowledge.” Gordon said with a tired chuckle. “The department treasurer would never allow it. But…there’s a couple more.” 

“Is Arkham even trying?” One of the other kids complained loudly, a serious expression on his face. “That’s more than six serious threats like they said on the news. And the Commissioner is on the streets asking kids for tips.” 

“There’s a man,” Gordon continued, his shoulders going up. “He’s got tally mark tattoos all over his body. If you see him, hide. If you can’t hide? Run.” 

The little redhead decided to run past Mark at that and join the more-interesting conversation. Mark dutifully kept his eyes on the kids still in ‘danger.’ (He was pretty sure he could save them at this distance. And maybe the lid wasn’t heavy enough to really hurt someone.) 

The boss-boy sniffed loudly at that. “We’re not gonna get caught by the likes of a tattooed guy.” 

“You forgot Firefly. And Amygdala,” the scrawny redhead piped up. “They’re on the poster.”

“Poster?” Gordon seemed amused. “Is this on social media?”

“Yup! Someone did their headshots and names and stuff. People were joking about guess who…” Red continued excitedly.

Invincible snickered at that. Gothamites were alright. 

“Firefly’s been harassing the North End.” Gordon admitted after a moment. “The fire department is looking for tips.”

The children exchanged glances before changing the subject. 

“Hey, is there any rogues with purple skin powers?” Boss-boy thought he was acting sly. More like obvious. 

“What?” Gordon asked, befuddled. 

“Like, makes people turn purple?” Red added dubiously. She didn’t seem to think Mark was ‘rogue’ material. 

“Hey! I’m not a rogue. I’m offended,” Mark hollered, casting an irritated look at the kids. “There won’t be anything in the police system about me because I’m not a bad guy.”

“Hi! Who’s up there?” The police commissioner’s shoulders were drawn tight, his hand near his gun. 

“Just a homeless teenager and his purple baby.” Mark added hastily. “Who is this color naturally. Don’t shoot. Or try to arrest me.” Mark still hadn’t turned to face them, but the kids seemed to think it was time to get behind the dumpster instead of in it, and yeah. That was safe enough.

Mark turned around slowly.

Boss-boy was scowling at him. 

Gordon was looking at him with something like apprehension. And no small amount of ‘please, no more.’ 

“I’m really not a villain.” Mark said brightly. “I just saw some kids in a dumpster and thought they could use a grownup keeping it from falling on their heads.”

“Which is it? Teenager, or grownup?” Boss boy mocked. 

“Uh, it’s eighteen, kid. Both. Obviously.” Mark said with as much disdain as he could muster. William would’ve said it so much better, he thought. 

Oliver cooed helpfully, and Gordon tensed. “Purple baby? Do you need–”

“The shelter kicked us out. Just leave us alone and go find your bad guys. And, um, don’t arrest us. Is that meta thing really illegal? Being meta? Being purple… god, I’m hungry.” Mark muttered the last part.

Gordon sighed, but his hands were more than full. He turned away from the two kids who were only trying to help (and get paid), and from Mark, who he obviously couldn’t trust but couldn’t bother with, all things considered. “Unfortunately I do need to go. We are still looking into the escaped convicts. Don’t cause any trouble.”

“...being meta ain’t illegal.” Boss-boy added. “That’d be racist.”

“Xenophobic or Speciesism , actually.” Mark supplied helpfully.  

Gordon heaved a sigh. “Please call the hotline if you hear anything.” 

He sounds even more tired than me, Mark thought. 

“Zen-what?” Red said at the same time. 

“Don’t have money for a phone call.” Mark informed him. “And, uh, xenophobic means…like afraid of people who aren’t from the same place as you. Afraid of foreigners and stuff.”

Oliver laughed and clicked. 

“You think I’m funny, huh? Yeah, you’re gonna be smarter than me…” Mark was surprised he could laugh at the silly expression Oliver was making. He was still tired, but the edge had been taken off.

“Stay safe.” Gordon said, and Mark nodded, watching him go.

“...so what about meta abilities? I read a comic once where you’re not allowed to use them?” Mark said as soon as the police officer was gone. 

“Uh, no?” Red said. Their little face was twisted up with something like distaste. “But Batman won’t like it. I hear he chases them out.”

“Right,” Mark looked down at the soft bundle of baby and sweatshirt. “So it’d just be painting a target on us for a guy who doesn’t follow the law.”

“Batman and Robin are good.” Red insisted. The kid even stomped their foot for emphasis. 

“Really good at punching people,” Mark agreed, watching the kids’ expressions all turn exasperated. “And so helpful in tying them up for the cops.” He wanted to laugh, but Batman…kind of scared him. He was scary efficient despite being one guy and a kid in a cape. 

Red stared at him balefully. “Do you want the crazy rogues running free as the next guy?”

Boss-boy crowed his agreement. “Now are you actually a lookout or what?” 

Mark looked at the kids pointedly. “Well, I would but it seems like you guys are done for the day. Maybe take your money and go shelter in place again. Or you can keep looking in the dumpster, and I’ll hold the lid for you.” 

“Five more minutes!” Came the instant reply from behind the trash heap.

“What are you gonna do with the baby?” Red wondered. The kid looked curious– maybe even sweet. 

“...hold him?” Mark said distractedly. “I don’t need both arms to hold something open.” 

So it was that he was roped into babysitting a small gaggle of kids until they ran off for lunch. 

Maybe he’d get lucky. Maybe the worst of it was all over. 

***

“I’m so hungry,” Mark groaned. “I could eat that gargoyle's face.” He frowned at the thing, feeling resentful at the unusually well kept gothic architecture. 

If they had funds for whimsical architecture, why couldn’t they spend more on stocking the food pantries?  He should have stolen more.

Oliver laughed, naturally. At (nearly?) one year old (at Mark’s estimation), he was getting better at understanding stuff. And big brother’s “So hungry!” counted as peak humor. 

That was kinda nice, actually. 

“You lookin’ at me?” Mark teased the baby a little by talking at the gargoyle some more. “Take the good ol’ one-two!” He jumped in the air and flew around the gargoyle a little.

Oliver reached out to try and touch the thing’s nose. 

Mark let him. “Pick that guy’s boogers!” He cheered.

Oliver gleefully pawed at the statue for a while. He seemed pretty entertained despite the dwindling light. He gave a little shriek. 

Mark laughed quietly.

Then, from behind, a window opened. “YOU!” somebody yelled. “You can’t be here!” 

Mark startled. “What?!” Was the roof on fire? 

He checked. It wasn’t. He went slightly away from the bottom to peer suspiciously at the bottom part of the building.  It too was fine.

“Get outta here!”

Another window opened. “I already called the cops. So SCRAM or go in for questioning!” 

Mark’s mouth dropped open.

Why did people even care if he flew? He was just trying to get an idea of where to go. 

They had a guy dressed like a bat. What room did they have to complain about somebody flying around in broad daylight?

“I guess we’re done here,” Mark said sourly to Oliver. Behind the baby’s back, he flipped the bird to his crowd of two.  

“C’mon little guy,” he said to his brother. “We gotta go.” 

Oliver let out what probably was his first word– it sounded remarkably like “NO!” 

Outpacing the complaint was a simple matter. If they couldn’t see him, they couldn’t send police to his location. Surely there were better uses of police time during a breakout? They had to have teams divided to handle each dangerous rogue or their hero team was understaffed, right?

Only he didn’t know Gotham well enough to know where he could land. So he went out of the frying pan, so to speak, and into the fire. 

He heard the sound of someone handling a weapon, the metallic noise distinct from anything he was familiar with from cop shows. It sounded way too dangerous for a pistol. “Now I don’t know who you are,” the perp said dangerously, “but you’re obviously dangerous.”

Mark couldn’t tell where the person was even talking from. That meant he didn’t have eyes on where to keep Oliver, with his decidedly not invincible skin, away from. It pissed him off more than it made him nervous. 

“We’re not on your property,” Mark growled. “And you could hurt yourself, shooting at me.” Mark let his gaze go blank and threatening. 

Oliver went quiet. He stopped wiggling and hunkered lower in Mark’s hold.

“You now,” The voice was rough. Dangerously calm. “You fly different than any human with powers I’ve ever seen.”

Mark cradled his little brother, muscles tense in case he needed to move fast.

“You one of them aliens?” the cool, calm voice continued. “The ones claiming to be supermen.”