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Mark landed three blocks from home because he needed the walk. Fresh air. Earth air. Air that had not recently been shared with Thragg while Thragg calmly explained that the Viltrumites were not invading Earth anymore, they were just moving in, settling down, and apparently turning the planet into the universe’s most violent dating show.
Mark kicked a crushed can down the pavement. It pinged off a drain cover, bounced once, and disappeared into the gutter.
“Cool,” Mark muttered. “That’s cool. Totally fine. The worst people in space are moving to Earth and I’m not allowed to tell anybody. Very normal day.”
He launched another can into a nearby hedge. The hedge threw it back with some tailspin.
Mark stopped as the bushes rustled and a huge white moustache gradually emerged attached to a huge head wearing a fedora.
Mark closed his eyes. “I swear to God, if that’s who I think it is, I’m walking directly into traffic.”
“Mark.”
Still there.
Conquest unfolded from the bushes in a brown trench coat stretched painfully tight across the shoulders. The sleeves stopped halfway down his forearms. The fedora sat precisely on his head like he’d practiced it in a mirror.
Mark couldn't take his eyes off him. His brain started to short.
“You’re dead.”
Conquest lowered his eyes briefly, almost shy. “I recovered.”
“No, I killed you.”
“And I love you for it.”
Mark physically recoiled and retasted his lunch. “Please don’t say things like that.”
“You left me intact.”
“My dad buried you.”
“Your family claimed my body.” Conquest countered stepping closer, voice low and strangely gentle beneath all the gravel. “I speared through you, pulled out your viscera and you accepted me. You defeated me. You honoured me.”
“You did not burn the remains. You did not cast me into space. You left me whole enough to heal.” Conquest nodded once, deeply satisfied as he whispered. “I accept your claim.”
“Dude, I did not claim you.”
“In my culture, laying a warrior beneath the soil is an act of intimacy. After brutally squeezing the life out of him, like you did …”
Mark took another step back. “I’m gonna throw up.” He staggered backwards clumsily, disoriented and quickly ended up on the pavement. He felt the blood pounding in his ears. Cars rolled past behind them. Someone across the street glanced over, saw Conquest standing there dressed like a jacked detective from a 1940s film, and immediately crossed the road. He crouched till their faces were at the same level, holding out a hand in a vaguely comforting, don’t run manner.
“I wrote you a poem”, Conquest pulled Mark to his chest so he could feel every word vibrate through him. He began to speak as Mark’s soul left his body.
—------------------------------------
Mark became aware of two things at roughly the same time. The first was that he was somehow sitting on Eve’s couch with a blanket over his lap. The second was that he had absolutely no memory of getting there. Tad disturbing.
Eve stared him out from the other end of the couch, slurping cereal from a bowl balanced on one knee. She wore one of Mark’s old college hoodies over sleep shorts, pink hair tied up messily, bare feet tucked beneath her. The TV flickered quietly in the background, some reality show full of screaming chefs and dramatic music.
“You back with us?” she asked.
Mark blinked stupidly. “I think so.”
He rubbed both hands down his face. “I’m having a really weird day. Like weird weird. I think I lost time.”
The cereal bowl lowered slightly. “Head trauma?”
“I don’t know, Eve.” Mark let his head fall back against the couch cushions. “Thragg told me Viltrumites are moving to Earth permanently, Conquest apparently survived being dead, and then I think he recited poetry at me until my brain blue-screened.”
Silence.
Eve blinked once. “Conquest. The dead one?”
“Allegedly.”
More silence.
“He was wearing a fedora.”
“Are you high, Mark?”
“A fedora. Brown trench coat. Detective vibe.” Mark swallowed hard. “He told me my family claiming his body counted as intimacy or something. I think he wanted to be boyfriends? I dunno.”
Eve folded in half laughing, nearly taking herself out on the arm of the couch. Spoken out loud, Mark had to admit, it sounded incredibly stupid. Maybe he’d been drugged. Maybe he was having a breakdown. This fucking day.
Then a heavy knock rattled the apartment door.
Three loud thuds.
Mark froze.
Another knock followed.
“Maaaaark.”
Even through the door Conquest sounded enormous and deeply unsettling.
Eve’s smile vanished. “Oh my God.”
Mark sank deeper into the couch cushions. “Do not answer that.”
“Mark, let me in,” Conquest called patiently. “I’ve brought gifts. For both of you.”
Eve stood shakily. “You weren’t joking.”
Another heavy shift outside the apartment. Something scraped against the wall hard enough to leave a mark.
“I was informed flowers are traditional,” Conquest announced through the door.
Mark covered his face. “Eve, do not open that door.”
“You said he was dead.”
“I know what I said.”
“And now he’s outside my apartment buying you flowers?”
Eve looked at him another second, then calmly walked toward the door with the fascinated expression of someone approaching an active chemical fire.
Mark made a desperate grab for her wrist and missed completely.
“Wait. Eve. Eve!”
She opened the door.
Conquest stood in the hallway holding an enormous bouquet crushed awkwardly in one fist. Half the flowers had bent sideways under the pressure. The trench coat was still far too small, stretched tight across his chest and shoulders. The fedora was tucked carefully beneath one arm now, exposing neatly combed white hair.
“Eve,” he said graciously, attempting a small bow. “Thank you for receiving me.”
Eve blinked up at him.
Conquest held out the bouquet. “These are for the household.”
She took them automatically, still gobsmacked. The flowers were huge, dark crimson, almost wet-looking beneath the apartment lights.
Conquest’s face softened as he watched Mark notice them.
“You recognised the symbolism,” he said quietly. “The florist showed me softer colours first, but they were wrong for you. These fit. They remind me of the inner you I met during our first embrace.”
Mark stared at the bouquet in horror.
Thick red petals folded over each other in dense layers, some almost black near the centre.
“You bought me trauma roses?”
Conquest nodded once, deeply pleased with himself. “The memory remains very precious to me.”
He bent to retrieve several bulging paper bags Mark hadn’t noticed beside the doorway.
“And as I mentioned, I also brought offerings for our lady Eve. You are important to Mark and to our future family.” Conquest held the bags out carefully. “You will be a fine matriarch. It is my pleasure to sustain you.”
Eve eagerly peered into one of the bags. Then another.
Her eyebrows climbed as a bewildered smile spread across her face. “How did you know my order from Thai Palace?”
“I observed you twice from the fire escape.”
Silence.
Mark glared at him. “You what?”
Eve lifted out another container, beaming. “Extra crab rangoon!”
“You’re welcome.” Conquest’s posture straightened slightly. “I believe I will enjoy watching you take pleasure from the food even more from inside the apartment.”
Mark looked between them with growing despair as Eve opened another container. “No way.”
Conquest nodded modestly. “The coconut cake was difficult to acquire. They had run out so I had to wait for them to make me a fresh cake. I asked them to cut a heart shape out of the centre of the cake. To symbolise my heart”
Eve looked up at him, genuinely impressed despite herself. “That’s actually really thoughtful.”
Mark’s head snapped toward her so violently his neck cracked.
“EVE!”
“Well,” she said carefully, already opening the coconut cake container, “this is probably the healthiest approach to courtship I’ve seen from a Viltrumite.”
—------------------------------------
Conquest inclined his head toward her respectfully, looming over Mark’s head to do so, intently watching every movement of Eve's jaws as she munched through the takeaway containers. At some point he had ended up on the couch with them, turning the whole thing into a deeply uncomfortable trench coat sandwich.
“As I said, you are important to Mark,” he murmured in Eve's ear. “I do not wish for hostility between us.”
Mark sat bolt upright. “You’re wrong right there. There should be hostility. Lots of hostility.”
Eve ignored him completely, stealing another crab rangoon from the carton balanced in her lap. The coconut cake was already half gone.
Conquest watched her eat with visible approval, licking his lips once. “You enjoy the offerings. Good. I was informed successful courtship requires provision.”
The word courtship seemed to spark Eve’s interest more than alarm her.
“Soooo,” she said hesitantly, “courtship?”
Conquest nodded once, completely earnest. “You would remain with Mark. I would also remain with Mark. As claimed mates, our children would benefit from multiple strong parental figures.”
Mark looked desperately at Eve, trying to communicate with his eyes that he would fix this somehow. He would save her from whatever this was.
Only to realise, with mounting horror, that she actually seemed to be considering it.
“I mean…” She swallowed slowly. “That’s a lot more direct than most men.”
Conquest edged closer eagerly pressing his face up against Eve's, encouraged by the lack of immediate rejection. One enormous arm pulled Eve closer towards him, effectively trapping both of them against his chest and turning the entire seating arrangement into a weirdly affectionate hostage situation.
Eve smiled up at their apparent new life partner and passed him one of the spare dumplings without seeming to notice she was doing it.
He accepted it in his mouth with alarming gentleness, lips closing over the tips of Eve's fingers.
Mark looked again at the organ-coloured, wet-looking, death flowers.
At Eve eating Thai food beside Conquest like this was a mildly awkward double date.
At Conquest sitting in her apartment discussing babies and impregnating his girlfriend while dressed like a detective from a 1940s noir film.
Then he screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
—------------------------------------
Mark woke up screaming.
He bolted upright in bed tangled in sheets, drenched in sweat, heart pounding so hard it hurt. His room was dark and for several seconds he just sat there breathing like he’d flown through a planet.
No Conquest.
No Eve gently encouraging him to date a resurrected war criminal.
He was in his childhood bedroom alone.
He was safe.
“Dream,” he whispered. “It was just a dream. Good nightmare. Totally normal brain response to horrible space news.”
He laughed once.
It sounded awful and crazy.
Mark threw the blankets off and stood. His legs still felt strange, like his body expected to start running at any moment. He opened his bedroom door and stumbled toward the warm morning light spilling from the kitchen.
The smell of coffee, bacon, pancakes and eggs drifted out into the hallway.
For one beautiful second, the world made sense again.
“Mom?” Mark called, voice rough. “You up? I just had the weirdest…”
Grand Regent Thragg stepped into the kitchen doorway.
He wore an apron that said KISS THE COOK in cheerful red letters and absolutely nothing else except a pair of bright red boxers.
It was Debbie’s apron.
He held a spatula in one hand and a plate of pancakes in the other.
Mark’s mouth opened.
No sound came out.
Thragg glanced back toward the kitchen calmly. “I am making your mother breakfast in bed.”
Mark gawped at the apron. The pancakes. The intergalactic war criminal apparently sleeping with his mom.
Worst day ever.
Thragg lifted one eyebrow. “You look unwell.”
Mark made a tiny strangled noise.
Thragg looked down at the pancakes thoughtfully. “Do humans prefer blueberries arranged in patterns, or is that considered excessive?”
Mark stepped backwards.
Thragg frowned slightly. “Mark?”
Mark shook his head.
“No.”
“Yes. Your mother requires rest and has earned significant sustenance.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“NO.”
Mark backed into the hallway wall hard enough to rattle a framed photo loose. Thragg watched him with mild disappointment as footsteps sounded upstairs.
Debbie’s sleepy voice floated down first.
“Mark? Honey, is everything okay?”
Then she appeared at the bottom of the stairs wearing a dressing gown, glowing, hair messy from sleep and smiling softly at Thragg.
“I see the two of you have met. This is Reggie. Reggie Thragg, we've been seeing each other for a little while and ...”
She crossed the hallway and stepped easily into Thragg’s arms like she’d done it a thousand times before. One massive hand settled over her stomach through the dressing gown while she leaned comfortably against his chest.
“I was going to take it slow introducing everybody,” Debbie continued gently. “And I know Oliver is still on the long road to recovery, but Reggie and I…”
Thragg looked down at her with terrifying sincerity.
“I think we’re going to try and make a go of it,” Debbie finished. “We hope you’ll support us...”
Over Debbie's still talking head, Mark met Thragg's triumphant gaze as the smirking warlord winked bringing his index finger to his lips in a conspiratorial hush.
Mark inhaled slowly as he fought the pending dissociation. Five things he can see.
His mom.
That fucking apron.
Plate of pancakes
The intergalactic war criminal sleeping with his mom.
The massive hand cupped over his mom’s belly.
And somewhere deep in his traumatised subconscious, the lingering psychic image of Conquest dressed as Columbo making kissy faces at him over trauma roses.
Something inside Mark’s brain finally short-circuited.
He threw his head back and screamed letting the void take him again.