I Told You, I'm Invinci-(Invincible SI) Chapter 14 Part 1

Mark stirred awake nearly three hours after the operation ended.

 Kate and Eve had stepped out to fetch dinner for the group, leaving Rex stationed outside the door. Strictly speaking, Rex didn’t need to be there—two of his drones were already patrolling the far ends of the hallway—but his presence was more than symbolic than anything else. 

People often underestimated Rex. 

They mistook his easygoing banter and laid-back posture for weakness, assuming he’d fold quickly in a fight. 

They’d be wrong. 

Rex was the kind of man who would happily blow himself to pieces if it meant taking the other guy with him. Not that such a sacrifice would be needed tonight, but with Rudy’s vigilance and Rex’s quiet readiness, the hall radiated a kind of unspoken security.

Security Debbie Grayson desperately needed.

When Rudy’s drone had brought her to Mark’s hospital room, she’d been on the edge of collapse. Relief had broken across her face when she saw her son lying there—unconscious, yes, but far better off than his father. 

She’d feared the worst: paralysis, crippling injuries, something that would change Mark’s life forever. It had taken ten minutes of steady reassurance from Rudy, Eve, and Kate (as Rex watched awkwardly in the back) to convince her that Mark was stable, healing quickly, and expected to wake soon. There was little else she could do but wait.

Still, Debbie had taken quiet comfort in knowing that Mark wasn’t alone outside the GDA’s reach, that he had friends like the Teen Team, people who cared. Of course, she hadn’t held back her feelings about Cecil. Even under her breath, the things she muttered carried heat. For now, her anger was banked by the reality of her husband and son’s injuries, but Rudy could practically see the pressure building. It wouldn’t stay contained forever.

 And while Mark’s recovery had been remarkable, it had not come without…surprises.

When Rudy measured him using his scanners, the numbers didn’t lie; Mark had grown six full inches since the end of the fight. From five foot-eleven inches tall to six feet-five inches tall in the space of an afternoon, his frame now stretched with sharply defined muscle, his skin taking on a denser, more resilient quality. His canines had lengthened into short, predatory fangs. During his surgery, a closer look at his eyes revealed brown irises now laced with flecks of gold, the pupils drawn into faint slits. Even his nails had grown harder, more like claws than human fingernails.

It was as if some part of Battle Beast had imprinted itself onto him, or infected him. But how?

A check of the many, and frankly excessive, spy cameras in Omni-Man’s recovery room (twelve, because apparently paranoia had did not have a budget) showed nothing unusual. The elder Viltrumite’s body was a map of raw, angry scars, but there were no alien traits, no strange new physiology. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t affecting his father. This was unique to Mark, and Mark alone.

Which made it all the more fortunate that he woke when he did, because Rudy had questions. A lot of them.

There was a low groan as Mark shifted under the sheets. His eyes fluttered open—gold-flecked now, catching the sterile hospital light—and he blinked blearily around the room.

“Rudy?” His voice was rough and scraped as he spoke. “You’re here. And we’re… in a hospital?”

“A private GDA-operated facility,” Robot corrected. His tone was as precise as the hospital instruments around them. “They possess medical equipment most hospitals do not, along with advanced prototypes of standard tools. I intend to scan several of them for replication—Teen Team’s new arrangement with the GDA will not last forever, and it will take some time before I can replace Director Stedman.”

Mark gave a tired, dry chuckle. “If you’re being that blunt, I’m guessing we don’t have to worry about anyone listening in.”

“Correct,” Rudy said, his drone gliding closer to the bed. “Every camera and microphone in this room has been disabled and destroyed. We can speak freely.”

“That’s… good,” Mark murmured, letting his eyes drift shut for a moment. “Did… did we win?”

“Yes,” Robot replied. “Battle Beast was neutralized by Nightboy and the Immortal. Nightboy opened a gateway into his personal shadow dimension, and the Immortal forced the three of them through before escaping back here. Battle Beast remains trapped and is presumed dead.”

Mark’s eyes opened again, the weight of that settling in. 

“…So even with me and Dad together, we couldn’t beat him.” His voice dropped to a near-whisper. “That guy’s supposed to be on Thragg’s level—the leader of the Viltrumites. We hurt him, sure, but we couldn’t put him down. And now he’s gone…” He trailed off, jaw tightening. “Fuck. Did I just make things worse for everyone? Should I have just let him beat me bloody and walk away? In the other timeline, when I wasn’t a threat to him, he just beat my ass, fucked up the New Guardians, and left. He still ended up helping in the war. And now—now I might’ve screwed it all up, just because I got cocky.”

“You could not have predicted this outcome,” Rudy said evenly, the drone settling beside him like an unmoving sentinel. “You acted with the information available. The result was not ideal, but the advantages you’ve provided with your knowledge outweigh the setbacks. The balance remains in our favor.”

“...How many people died in that fight, Rudy?” Mark’s voice was low, his head turning to face the inventor. “How many innocent people died because I thought I was hot shit? I know some of the Guardians were on evacuation duty, but there were only so many they could pull out in time. We were in downtown Chicago during rush hour. Kids were heading home from school, and parents were getting off from work. The streets were packed when I went in. So tell me... how many people did me being a jackass kill?”

“Mark, it is illogical to assign all of that blame to yourself,” Rudy said, his tone clipped but steady. “Battle Beast was an uncontrollable variable. You acted within the best parameters available. You saved far more lives than the ones lost as an indirect result of your actions.”

“Rudy. Please. Just tell me.”

Rudy hesitated, long enough for Mark to realize the number was not insignificant.

 “...One thousand, one hundred and seventy-five confirmed dead or severely injured,” he said at last. “Approximately two hundred people more remain unaccounted for. Not all fatalities occurred during the battle; some succumbed to injuries in hospitals, and others suffered medical complications worsened by the destruction. You and the Guardians contained the worst of it. It was Omni-Man and Battle Beast who shattered buildings, weaponized vehicles, and deliberately maximized structural damage in order to get an advantage over each other. You cannot take ownership of every death that occurred, Mark.”

Mark drew in a slow breath, letting it out in a shaky exhale. His eyes glimmered, wet with tear that refused to spill. Rudy’s drone, not built for warmth but trying anyway, placed a hand on his shoulder and gave what he calculated to be a reassuring squeeze.

“Any heroes killed?” Mark asked quietly.

“No,” Rudy replied immediately. “Red Rush sustained horrible injuries, yes, but everyone is alive, including your father.”

A bitter half-laugh slipped from Mark. “At least I didn’t fuck that part up. What’s the date? How long’s it been since the fight?”

“Approximately six hours.”

Mark’s now-slit pupils widened.

“Wait—seriously? I thought I’d been here for weeks. You’re telling me I healed in the same day? Holy shit, I’m not even sore. I feel... stronger than ever, if I’m being serious.”

“Yes, which is something I was hoping you could explain,” Rudy said, the green lenses of his drone flaring. “You are now five inches taller, possess fangs, claws, and altered pupils. This suggests potential cross-species contamination, since you now bear a faint resemblance to Battle Beast. If Battle Beast’s claws or teeth introduced a foreign agent into your system that is causing this transformation, quarantine may be necessary.”

“No, no—it’s nothing like that.” Mark held his hands up, studying his nails with a mix of fascination and disbelief. “It’s... Jesus, I’ve never told anyone this before.”

He bit his lip in thought—only to flinch when his new fangs pierced skin. A bead of blood welled, and before Rudy could comment, Mark had licked it away, revealing that the wound had sealed over instantly.

Mark touched his lip again, his expression shifting to awe. “That’s... faster than I’ve ever healed. Way faster. And you said my eyes were affected too, right? Damn, I’m gonna need to wear contacts for a while.”

Mark looked up at him, eyes sharp and steady, as if he’d just crossed some invisible threshold in his mind.

“You’re absolutely sure no one can overhear us? Not even by accident?”

Rudy’s sensors flicked to the drones stationed in the hallway. Both were focused on Rex, who sat sprawled in a waiting chair with a glossy Italian-inspired home décor magazine open on his lap. He had earbuds in, head bobbing in lazy rhythm, lips moving in silent accompaniment to whatever was blasting through his playlist.

Next, Rudy checked the trackers embedded in Eve and Kate’s phones—a precaution they didn’t technically know about, but one he justified as necessary for their safety. Both signals still pulsed from the restaurant they had decided to pick dinner from. Given that they’d gone out in costume, it wouldn’t surprise him if they were still stuck signing autographs or posing for pictures with overeager fans.

A rapid sweep of every camera feed in the hospital confirmed it: no one in a position to listen in, no unwanted movement in the halls. Debbie was still tending to her husband, and Director Stedman had returned to the Pentagon.

“We have a decent amount of privacy,” Rudy concluded. “We can speak freely.”

“Alright,” Mark said, drawing in a breath. “Here goes. And, just a warning, this is going to sound just as insane as the alternate timeline thing I told you when we first met.”

“Considering almost everything you’ve told me so far has been accurate, I doubt you’ll have much trouble convincing me,” Rudy replied.

Mark hesitated, then let it out.

“The powers I’m using right now… they aren’t my Viltrumite powers,” he said. “They were given to me by…something else, something way beyond anything I’ve ever fought or met. In order to come back and change things, I had to give up something in exchange. I wasn’t about to give up my memories—what would be the point of coming back if I didn’t remember anything?—so I gave up my Viltrumite side. My strength, my heritage, everything that came with it.”

He let the words hang there before finishing.

“I’m one hundred percent human now. Not a trace of Viltrumite genetics left in my body. I’ve still got Mom and Dad’s DNA, but whatever advantage I would’ve had from Dad’s side is gone. My human side… it basically smothered it out.”

Rudy said nothing as Mark continued to speak, his expression perfectly neutral. Inside, however, his mind was a torrent of calculations, cycling through possibilities at inhuman speed. If he was interpreting this correctly, some entity—something powerful beyond conventional measurement—had stripped Mark of his Viltrumite physiology and heritage, replacing it with an entirely different ability set. Along with that came knowledge of an alternate timeline.

The implications were staggering. Who could wield that kind of power? And why target Mark specifically? If they possessed the capability to reshape a Viltrumite at the genetic level, surely they could have confronted the Viltrumite Empire themselves. Was this an act of necessity, strategy… or something far more personal?

Rudy’s mind branched into a thousand scenarios at once, each leading to new questions that refused to resolve. If this being’s goal was to change the course of history, why involve Mark at all? Unless… Mark was some kind of integral key to this being’s plans.

“My power’s… weird,” Mark began, scratching at the back of his neck. “It comes with a bunch of conditions. Basically, my body can absorb the powers and abilities of any humanoid creature, as long as I can get a sample of their DNA. Blood, hair, toenails, saliva, doesn’t matter. If I can get it, my body breaks it down and integrates it over a few hours.

“But I’m still human. My power just rewrites my genome, layers the new abilities into it, and connects everything so they work together. It’s like building one big, upgraded package out of all the parts I collect. When my memories came back, the first thing I did, once I’d gotten used to everything, that is, was snag some of my dad’s hair and… eat it. Which was gross as hell, by the way, and made me feel all kinds of wrong, but it worked. I got my Viltrumite abilities back.

“That doesn’t make me a Viltrumite, though. There’s no Viltrumite DNA in my body, just human DNA with the same powers. Cecil got me training with the Guardians, and through that, I managed to pick up DNA samples from the Immortal, Red Rush, and War Woman. Then I ran into an old friend—Allen the Alien—and scraped some of his skin and blood. That’s how I got his adaptive regeneration. The problem is, it only triggers when I’m near death. Guess Battle Beast dragging my face through the dirt counted, because it kicked in. That’s why I’m buffer now, and taller too. Same thing happened to Allen, just… way more extreme.”

Mark’s eyes flickered. “I even tried biting Battle Beast during the fight, but I didn’t get blood or skin. Apparently, the bits of fur I got still counted. That gave me some of his physical traits—fangs, endurance, that kind of thing.”

There was a long silence while Rudy processed this, his expression unreadable. Mark shifted in his seat, uneasy.

“…That’s a lot to take in,” Rudy said finally. “But this ability… it changes everything. If you can absorb the abilities of any humanoid, the possibilities are endless. If I can get you the DNA of Atom Eve and Dupli-Kate quickly, and we could hit all of our goals in under a year—”

Mark was already shaking his head.

“That’s where the conditions kick in,” he said. “The first DNA sample I take sets the template my body works from. I chose my dad’s power because I knew it, and because there are a lot of ‘flying brick’ types out there. If I’d taken Eve’s DNA first, I’d have a much harder time absorbing physical powers like Dad’s, but anything molecular or energy-based, like Kursk’s lightning form, would’ve been easy.

“If I’d started with Kate’s DNA, I’d have had an easier time absorbing magic-based abilities—stuff like Nightboy’s Shadowverse travel. But once the template’s set, every new power gets reshaped to fit it. If I took Eve’s DNA now, it would twist her abilities into something that fits the flying brick mold. Maybe atomic armor manipulation, maybe something else—I don’t know. It could boost me, or it could mess up my whole template. Magic’s basically off the table right now.

“I didn’t get anything magic from War Woman besides her physical edge. Same with Battle Beast—no bloodlust cravings or weird mental shifts. So, for now, I’m locked into biological, strength-based, flight-based, regeneration-based powers. There’s still some wiggle room. I’ve got my eye on a few people whose powers brush up against my limits—elemental stuff, but with enough durability and muscle that it still falls under my template.”

“You know, the more I learn about you, the more enigmatic you become,” Rudy stated, modulating his tone to convey mild exasperation. “First, you claim to possess memories of another timeline. Now you attribute your altered abilities to some mystical benefactor. You reveal information selectively. For every disclosure, it seems you conceal another truth.”

Mark chuckled softly, as though conceding the point. “You’re not wrong. I do keep a lot to myself. I’m sorry about that, but some things I need to hold back, just in case. Trust me, though, you already know more about me than most people ever will.”

Rudy paused, processing the claim. “I suppose that is one benefit of being… brothers,” he said carefully. The word still felt unnatural, but Mark’s reaction—a wide, genuine smile—suggested it was the correct response.

Then Mark shifted topics without warning. “Rudy, one more thing. Did you collect any of my dad’s blood from the battlefield?”

“I have blood samples from everyone present,” he replied evenly. “Darkwing. War Woman. Red Rush. Omni-Man. And you. Why do you ask?”

Mark hesitated, raising an eyebrow as he digested it. “…I’m not going to ask why you thought it appropriate to harvest samples from combatants who were fighting for their lives, but I won’t question it either, because I trust you. What I want is this: use my dad’s DNA to create your new body.”

If Rudy’s drone were capable of raising an eyebrow, it would have. “Pardon?”

“My own DNA won’t work for this. I’m fully human now,” he explained. “When I absorb someone’s blood, it just adds their powers to my genome, but it doesn’t change me fundamentally. Even Battle Beast’s DNA didn’t alter me beyond some minor cosmetic shit. But my dad’s blood is… different. It’s special and extremely valuable to the Viltrum Empire. I don’t know if being human has diminished what I would’ve inherited from him, but just in case, we should have a backup. Having a pureblooded Viltrumite on our side could make all the difference.”

“I assume this is one of the matters you prefer to keep ‘close to your chest,’” Rudy observed.

“Yeah,” Mark admitted, his tone apologetic. “For now, it’s safer this way.”

“Very well. But I expect you to remember my compliance here when I begin to keep secrets of my own,” Robot said, his voice flat, but the intent was half in jest.

“That’s fine, dude,” Mark replied with a small, almost relieved smile. “Brothers don’t share everything. You’re allowed to have a normal life where I’m not a part of it.”

“…A normal life,” Rudy repeated, testing the words. “Do you actually believe such a thing is possible for people like us?”

“Of course. Our definition of ‘normal’ won’t match anyone else’s, but that’s what makes it half the fun!”

Rudy would store the words in his long-term memory. 

They would matter later. 

Mark’s phrasing implying that their “normal” would be unconventional, even fractured, yet still meaningful, was something that would help him keep going later in life. 

And those words would help them rebuild their lives into something stronger, after Omni-Man tore it all down.

_____________________________________________

Coming back to wakefulness was a slow, uneven climb.

The first sense to come back was sound. 

Nolan drifted in and out of it like waves on a distant shore. Debbie’s voice, soft but tired, speaking to him even though he could not respond. The deeper voices of doctors and nurses, murmuring in tones that mixed brisk efficiency with the occasional note of concern. The rustle of sheets being changed around his inert body. The scrape of a chair dragged close to his bedside—always Debbie, her presence steady, the intervals between her arrivals and departures stretching into what must have been hours.

Next came smell. 

His wife’s perfume—rich, floral, the scent that had driven him mad in the best ways—clung faintly to the air whenever she was near. The acrid sting of antiseptic and bleach permeated everything, the sterile signature of hospitals everywhere. From higher floors drifted the coppery tang of blood, the sharp bite of metal instruments in use. And when GDA soldiers passed his door, he caught the ozone reek of ionized air, the faint burn of power cells, and laser rifles.

Then came sensation. 

The thin hospital sheets brushing his skin, layered beneath the heavy blanket Debbie had brought from home, because of course she would, she knew he preferred warmth to chill. He loathed the cold with a deep intensity. There had been no winter on Viltrum. Give him the blaze of a merciless sun, a dry desert wind, and he was content. But this damp Earth chill, this hospital sterility, he despised. Beneath the blanket he felt every wound, each ache and sharp protest of muscle. The deep, grinding soreness reminded him of his most brutal training sessions under Thula’s command, when her regimen pushed him and his cohort until their bodies trembled and broke.

And then, one morning, sight returned.

White.

The harsh glare of fluorescent panels overhead, stark against the ceiling. He squinted against it, cursing silently at the choice. Couldn’t they have used something softer? A warm yellow glow, like the lamps in his home with Debbie? Efficiency over comfort—typical of government facilities.

But what shocked him most was not the ceiling. It was the fact that he saw it with both eyes.

Blinking carefully, he lifted a hand to his face. His fingers traced where there should have been ruin, where there should be a gaping hole where the Leonid’s strike had landed. Instead, he felt scar tissue: a jagged line starting above his brow and cutting down to his cheekbone. Pain pricked faintly as he pressed, but the eye beneath it opened. It was functional. 

Whole.

Had the blow been less devastating than he’d believed? Or had Cecil pulled some miracle from the GDA’s vault of hidden technologies? The organization hoarded advancements the world wasn’t even ready to glimpse; repairing him might not have been beyond their reach. But still…even Viltrum couldn’t replace body parts. To think Earth had come so far…

With effort, gritting through the pull of stiff muscles and battered flesh, Nolan forced himself upright. His body protested, but he sat.

Debbie was slumped in the awful plastic chair beside him, asleep. Her head lolled at an uncomfortable angle, strands of hair falling into her face. He frowned—her neck would ache terribly when she woke.

“Debbie,” he whispered, his voice rough from disuse. “Deb… wake up.”

Her eyes flew open instantly. He saw the redness rimmed around them, the heavy shadows beneath. Exhaustion carved into her features. His chest tightened.

But all of that seemed to vanish the moment she saw him, awake and alert.

“Nolan?” she breathed, her voice cracking with disbelief.

“Hey there, love. What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost—oh!”

He didn’t get to finish. Debbie launched herself at him with the force of a torpedo, nearly knocking the air out of his chest. He caught her as gently as he could, arms wrapping around her with a wince as his still-healing body protested. Her frame trembled against him, her tears warm as they trailed down his neck.

“I’ve never seen you that hurt before,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I’ve never seen you bleed before. And then you were in a coma, and I thought… I thought that was it. That I’d never see you again. You and Mark—”

“Mark’s alright?” Nolan asked sharply, his heart stuttering.

“Yes,” she said quickly, pulling back enough to meet his eyes. “He’s fine. He recovered the same day as the fight. It only took him a few hours to heal.”

Nolan was grateful she couldn’t see his face fully, because the grin spreading across it was far too wide, far too inhuman.

Mark had healed faster than he had. Faster than any baseline Viltrumite should have.

Mark had powers.

A late bloomer, perhaps—but a Viltrumite nonetheless.

As much as he despised the circumstances under which he’d discovered it, Nolan couldn’t suppress the surge of exhilaration that coursed through him. Pride, relief, triumph—it was all tangled together.

In mere months, Mark had gone from an untrained civilian to a warrior who could stand beside him. During their battle, there had been moments where Nolan’s own vision had struggled to track him, where he’d had to trust his son to act when he created openings. And Mark had delivered. Every time.

The evidence was undeniable: they had survived. Cecil wasn’t dragging him out of bed to throw him back into combat, which meant the fight was over. And the last thing Nolan remembered was his body finally giving out after being slammed into shattered concrete. Which meant…

Mark must have landed the final blow.

Of course he had. His son’s strength was staggering, well beyond expectation for a Viltrumite his age. Was Conquest himself ever this strong at the beginning of his ascension? Capable of trading blows with one of the upper echelon of their empire?

Nolan’s chest swelled with something rare—an unfamiliar warmth that spread from his chest to the tip of his toes. For the first time in centuries, he found himself on the edge of tears.

He had found it.

The Holy Grail for his people. The impossible prize every Viltrumite had dreamed of for generations. A race that could integrate seamlessly with their blood, producing offspring even stronger than the generation before.

And Mark was the proof.

Without even realizing it, Nolan had accomplished what countless Viltrumites had failed to do—he had saved the Empire. He had secured its future. The Empire would not dwindle or stagnate, like the Coalition of planets hoped they would. Instead, Viltrum would thrive.

He could already see it: Thragg himself, the Grand Regent, lauding his name before the assembled legions of his people. Nolan, savior of Viltrum. Even Vidor, that arrogant bastard, would have to grit his teeth and watch in silence as his own mediocrity was overshadowed by Nolan’s triumph, as it usually was. 

Oh, the sight of his old rival’s seething jealousy would be delicious.

Everything would change for Earth. Humans were frail, yes—too soft for space, still fumbling about their own moon like toddlers with toys—but with Viltrumite blood, they became so much more. The Empire wouldn’t just take the risk of moving humans through space and possibly losing or injuring them. Rather, they would move here. Conquering Earth would be swift, simple, and almost merciful with how quickly things would go. It would only take a day, perhaps less. There would be no need to raze the cities to ash—not if a few leaders were executed, a few armies dismantled, and a few symbols crushed beneath their fists. Show the world that resistance was pointless, and everyone would fall in line.

And then—

And then…the Guardians would resist. 

The GDA would fight back. 

Mark… Mark would fight back.

And Debbie… Debbie would never look at him the same way again. She wouldn’t call his name with warmth and love like she did now. She would not see the man who made her feel safe and protected. She would see only another invader, a monster wearing her husband’s face.

The same thing that every other world he had conquered saw.

The thought hollowed him; everything he had built here, every fragile thing he had come to value, would shatter when he told Viltrum.

No. 

He couldn’t allow that. He had to stop it. 

He had to make them see reason. 

The Grand Regent needed to understand that Earth wasn’t just another colony to be bled dry. It was unique, valuable, and needed to be pampered, as foreign as the word was to Viltrumites in general. Killing the people that Nolan cared about would be wasteful, because each of them offered something incredible to the Viltrum Empire.

He needed a plan. A real plan. A way to keep everyone alive, to appeal to Thragg and make him see reason.

Immortal… yes, Immortal could be useful. As strong as a lower-tier Viltrumite—not Nolan’s equal, certainly, but capable enough to conquer a planet on his own. He was strong enough to prove his worth as more than cannon fodder. Vidor, lazy and half-trained as he was, would struggle against him, and Immortal was more creative in how he used his powers than the other man. 

And even if he was not chosen to become a soldier, he would be a good mate. Among the few surviving Viltrumite women, strength was always valued. They would see the potential of Immortal, and when they saw his kindness and the other strange things that made him part of humanity, they would accept him.

And in return, Immortal would gain what humanity could never give him—a people who never aged, never died, who would fight beside him for millennia. A brotherhood of eternal knights. A family that never died, and would never be forgotten.

Darkwing would be simple enough to repurpose. His intelligence was considerable, and that alone ensured his usefulness. He could easily be folded into the cadre of scientists Viltrum traditionally spared on each planet, the thinkers who kept conquered worlds producing weapons and technology for the Empire. Nolan would see to it personally—no one would question an extra scientist being shuffled into the ranks. He would disappear into their systems without notice, working for Viltrum whether they realized it or not.

War Woman would require greater concessions. 

Her mace would be the first sacrifice—no doubt Thragg would claim it for study. Beyond that, she would be expected to yield the location of her sisters, and perhaps even their service to Viltrum. Those concessions would show just how valuable she was. Her physical strength rivaled Nolan’s own, if slightly less than Immortal’s, and her otherworldly heritage introduced the possibility of bloodlines worth cultivating. Lucan was one of the few Viltrumites that Nolan knew would welcome her as a mate and treat her kindly; any offspring born of her union with Viltrumite genetics would almost certainly inherit her gifts for wielding magic. The Empire would gain access not only to another powerful warrior but also a foothold into the mysticism that clung to her people. 

Magic, properly harnessed, would be irresistible to Thragg, and he would let her live.

Red Rush was weaker by comparison, but his speed had its own merit. His velocity matched Nolan’s and perhaps even surpassed his flying speed for short bursts. If the mechanism of his speed could be isolated—whether it be scientific, magical, or genetic—then humanity could be refined into a more efficient warrior class. For his biology alone, Red Rush would be spared.

Green Ghost required the least persuasion. She was a reluctant fighter, unlike Alec, who had relished the chaos of battle. All she would need to do was surrender the stone, and in exchange, she would be rewarded with a lifetime of luxury and honor for her family. The stone’s magic would enthrall Thragg more than her continued service. Nolan suspected Ghost would give it up gladly, if only to remove herself from the battlefield once and for all.

Aquarius, on the other hand, presented both problems and opportunities. As sovereign of the oceans, he could not surrender outright without first posturing for his people’s sake. But Nolan was confident: one decisive defeat, and Aquarius would bend. Thragg might see no inherent value in Atlantis—indeed, his instinct would be to erase them, since he would refuse to allow Viltrumites to breed with them—but Nolan could argue for their survival. As shock troops, the Atlanteans could thrive in Viltrumite armies, perfectly suited for the few aquatic worlds awaiting conquest. Their assimilation would not only preserve a resource but also send a message of inevitability to the rest of the world that might think of resisting.

Cecil would resist, of course. He would spit venom at them and threaten retribution. Nolan wouldn’t even be surprised if he tried to attack them, just to see if he could. But in the end, Cecil understood reality better than most. He knew the scale of Viltrumite power. He would submit once it was clear Earth’s survival depended on it. And in doing so, he would become useful, directing Earth’s compliance, managing resources, perhaps even aiding in the integration of humanity into the Empire’s structure. He practically ruled the planet already; with the GDA on their side, no rebellion would last long.

Mark and Debbie… those were different matters. Mark had to be convinced, and as soon as possible. He had to see the inevitability, the strength Viltrum could offer Earth. With his youth, his isolation, his lack of deep human ties, persuasion was possible—perhaps even easy. If Mark could be brought to understand, then his future was secure and his loyalty to Viltrum would be assured. 

Debbie… Debbie would be hurt. She wouldn’t resist since she wasn’t a fighter, but she would cry betrayal. But she was his mate, the mother of his son, living proof that humanity and Viltrum could intermix successfully. She would be sheltered, kept safe, protected, until she came to see the truth. In time, she too would understand.

There would be battles, yes. The Guardians would try and fight back,  the civilians would panic, and armies would flail against the inevitable. He would put them down—personally, if necessary—detaining them until Earth bent to the Empire’s will. They might hate him in the short term, revile him, even call him traitor. But time would wear down that anger. Time would teach them to see what he saw. And when Earth was stable beneath Viltrum’s flag, when humanity had been reforged into something greater, his companions would live in peace—not as enemies, but as allies.

Nolan could still have it all.
He could serve his people, uphold his mission, and yet still keep his family safe—his comrades, his wife, his son. It wasn’t impossible. He just needed to play it carefully. Do it the right way.

The thought unraveled as the sound of approaching footsteps broke through the quiet. Heavy boots thudded steadily down the hallway, paired with the squeak and shuffle of sneakers. Voices carried with them, faint at first but sharp enough to catch his ear.

“—sure my dad is awake?” A voice he knew better than his own.
Mark. But deeper now. Rougher, with a weight that hadn’t been there before.

“Yes. Director Stedman thinks it best for you to go in first, soften the blow before the rest of the conversation begins.”

A pause. Then Mark again: “And I’m guessing Cecil won’t be making an appearance?”

A low chuckle answered. “I think Director Stedman’s in the doghouse with damn near everyone right now. He’s found himself a very convenient reason to stay far away.”

Nolan’s jaw tightened, a flare of heat burning through his chest. Of course. Cecil would slither out of consequence as always. A man built for shadows, lies, and running when the truth finally caught up. Nolan doubted he’d see him again any time soon—not unless Cecil was forced into the same room. And if that day came… Nolan wasn’t sure if he’d be calm enough to resist tearing the man apart, stripping him piece by piece until there was nothing left but the snake’s own skin shoved down his throat.

And yet—he had to admit, however grudgingly—Cecil had trained Mark well. Out of the fight, with his mind cleared of battle haze, Nolan could recognize the echoes. His son’s movements against Battle Beast hadn’t been raw improvisation. He had seen pieces of others stitched into Mark’s style: Immortal’s savage brawler’s rhythm, War Woman’s precise, structured strikes, even Red Rush’s irritating dive-and-dash momentum, slipping in and out of range like a gnat.

Red Rush. That one he’d take care with. The man had clearly been involved in Mark’s training, and Nolan would need to remind him—gently—what betrayal cost. War Woman and Immortal, though? They could take the punishment he had waiting. He was already tallying Cecil’s crimes. Adding a few more names to that ledger would not trouble him.

The door opened.

And then Mark stepped into the room.

Nolan’s breath caught. His son looked… different. Taller. Broader. Had Mark always stood this way, or had Nolan simply not seen it until now? He could have sworn the boy had once been shorter than him, smaller, softer. But now… Mark loomed just slightly above him, shoulders filling the frame of the doorway, muscles corded and defined beneath the fabric of his shirt.

When had this happened? Had the baggy clothing been a disguise, or had Nolan simply been too distracted—too arrogant—to notice? His son stood like a warrior now.

A late blooming. A sudden growth. Nolan found himself wondering: had Conquest looked like this, once upon a time, in his youth? Before the fire hardened him into a living weapon?

Nolan’s hand, still absently stroking Debbie’s back, stilled. His son was no longer just his son. He had become something else.

 A warrior, ready to fight for Viltrum and it’s cause.

Debbie noticed it immediately—the subtle way Nolan’s body went rigid the instant Mark stepped into the doorway. She shifted away from him instinctively, confusion written across her face, only for her eyes to widen when she registered who was standing there.

“Nolan, Mark is—”

Nolan lifted a hand. The gesture alone stopped her words cold. Normally, that kind of abrupt silencing would have earned him a glare from Debbie, but even she seemed to sense the heavy current hanging in the air.

Despite the ache in his battered frame, Nolan rose from the hospital bed. Slowly. Deliberately. Each step toward his son seemed to carry a weight greater than his injuries.

And it was an odd thing, he thought bitterly, for a father to have to look up at his child. Pride warred with annoyance in his chest, alongside a rush of joy… and yes, even a flicker of jealousy he couldn’t quite suppress. Mark’s posture was straight, his stance sure, his expression uncertain but not afraid. Anxious, yes—but not cowed. Not broken.

For half a minute, the room was silent but for the hum of hospital machinery, father and son locked in a wordless exchange. Then Nolan let out a short, amused huff. A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“How’s the weather up there, beanstalk?” he asked dryly.

Debbie exhaled in relief as Mark’s lips twisted into a half-snort, half-laugh. Then Mark closed the distance in an instant, pulling Nolan into a crushing embrace. Pain flared through his ribs and spine, forcing a grunt from him, but he returned the hug with as much strength as he could summon.

When they finally broke apart, Nolan caught the glassy sheen in Mark’s eyes. Tears, maybe? His son had always been sensitive. That softness would need to be tempered soon. Hardened. Because the world—the universe—would not forgive weakness.

“Alright,” Nolan said, forcing an almost cheerful tone into his voice. Too cheerful. “Now where’s Cecil?”

Mark’s expression shifted again, that nervous look flickering back across his face.

“Why?”

Nolan’s smirk sharpened, the glint in his eyes hardening into steel.

“Because,” he said evenly, his voice calm but edged like a blade, “I would like to have a word with him.”

His fists itched at the thought.

A very violent word, involving my fists against his face.

The GDA agent who had been hovering nervously in the hallway finally stepped into the room, his face pale, his uniform darkened with sweat.

“Oh, h-hello,” the man stammered, voice cracking. “I’m Agent Mallory, and—”

“Where is Cecil?” Nolan interrupted, his voice flat, deadly. “I will only ask so many times. The more I have to repeat myself, the worse it will be for him—and for anyone else who thinks to waste my time.”

Mallory audibly swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, before fumbling into his pocket and pulling out a small pod-like device. His hand shook as he dropped it onto the floor and bolted for the door, the sour stench of fear clinging to him as he fled.

Nolan arched an eyebrow, curious despite himself. The pod glowed, flickering once before projecting a life-sized hologram. Cecil stood within the shimmering light, arms folded, his expression carved from stone.

So. They’re not wasting what they stole from the Flaxans, Nolan thought, faintly impressed despite the anger roiling inside him. Holographic comms already? At this rate, they’ll be catching up to Viltrumite tech sooner than I’d like…

“Can you refrain from terrifying my staff?” Cecil asked dryly, the hologram’s voice crackling faintly. “It’s me you’ve got beef with, not them.”

“Then give me your location,” Nolan said, stepping forward. His tone was a growl, restrained only by sheer will. “We can settle this—quickly.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m tied up with urgent business in a very far away, highly undisclosed, definitely-not-on-your-map location.”

“Nothing is too far for me, Cecil,” Nolan replied darkly, menace dripping from every word.

The director actually chuckled. “Yeah, I don’t doubt it. But I still owe you some answers.”

“I think you owe us a hell of a lot more than that,” Debbie cut in, her voice shaking with fury as she moved to Nolan’s side. Her eyes were hard, shining with grief and rage. “Considering Chicago is still covered in a decent portion of my son’s and my husband’s blood.”

Cecil’s face didn’t flinch. “As bad as it went, I don’t regret sending Mark in against Battle Beast. Things would’ve been so much worse if he hadn’t been there.”

“Oh, you’re not sorry about that?” Nolan snapped, fury bubbling up again. “Then how about going behind my back and indoctrinating my son? Turning him into your little black-ops puppet because you couldn’t convince me to do your dirty work? How about nearly getting him killed because your so-called Guardians of the Globe can’t even protect a single city?”

Cecil’s hologram tilted its head, gaze steady. “I’m sorry for how you found out,” he said sharply, “but not for how it started. Because the truth is—I saved your kid.”

The words hit Nolan like a spark to dry tinder. Rage surged, boiling up so fast his vision blurred at the edges. He had to inhale, then exhale, several times in measured bursts to keep from exploding through the hologram in front of him. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

When he finally spoke, his voice was ice, every syllable sharp enough to cut.

“…The fuck do you mean, you saved my son?”

Cecil’s hologram flickered once, then rotated its head toward Mark.

 “Mark, leave the room please.”

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet.

“The last thing you are going to do,” Nolan growled, voice rising to a roar, “is give my son orders right in front of my fucking face.”

“This isn’t about authority,” Cecil replied evenly. “It’s about sparing the kid from hearing things he really doesn’t want to hear. Trust me—he doesn’t need to be here for this.”

There was a taut silence. Mark’s gaze darted between his father and Cecil, caught between two immovable forces. Debbie’s hand tightened on her son’s shoulder before she finally exhaled.
“Mark…just step out for a few minutes, okay, honey? We’ll call you when we’re done.”

Nolan’s jaw flexed. He clearly wanted to argue, but forced himself still. If this led to answers about how his son had gotten tangled in Cecil’s operations, then he would tolerate this—for now.

Mark gave them a strained smile and slipped out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Cecil clasped his hands behind his back. “Alright. He’s gone. Let’s get to it. I’m sure you’re eager to know what excuse I’m about to pull out of my ass.”

Nolan’s teeth bared in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Damn right. So go on, Stedman. Convince me.”

“You already know I’ve been watching you,” Cecil said, tone dry, as if stating the obvious.

Debbie’s eyes widened, her face flushing in outrage. “Uh, no. No, we did not know that. Why the hell would you do something like that?”

“Because,” Cecil said flatly, “your husband is an alien from another planet, and your family makes a very tempting target. My job is to keep the number-one hero’s very squishy wife from ending up in a morgue. You’re welcome.”

“I can take care of my family, Cecil,” Nolan snarled, fists tightening. “I don’t need your men spying in my house.”

“You say that now, but in the past year alone we’ve foiled over fifty assassination attempts, not to mention bugs planted by foreign governments and assorted lunatics. You didn’t even notice.” Cecil’s tone carried the weight of iron certainty, as if daring Nolan to call his bluff.

Nolan’s eyes narrowed. “How many of your bugs are in my house right now?”

“Zero, actually.” Cecil didn’t even blink. “We pulled them all years ago. Truth be told, after overhearing you two ‘bonding’ for the tenth time in a single day, my people begged me to stop surveillance. Turns out the Graysons don’t talk shop much when they’re otherwise occupied.” He turned to Debbie with a crooked half-smile. “Side note, Debbie—you couldn’t wait two weeks to heal after giving birth?”

Her face turned crimson, eyes wide in horror. “Oh my god. You were watching us!”

Nolan chuckled, the sound low and mocking. “From how she acted when we first got together, you’d think she was on a mission to drain me dry—”

“NOLAN!” Debbie’s shriek cut him off, equal parts fury and mortification.

Cecil’s tone sharpened, the faintest trace of weariness cutting beneath the calm.
“Anyway, back to the matter at hand. We’ve been keeping an eye on you, same way we keep tabs on all high-value individuals. The Guardians aren’t exempt from that either — you weren’t being singled out. Most of it was low-level observation, nothing invasive: cameras around your neighbourhood, workplace and Mark’s school, routine tracking of your phones GPS coordinates. Then something happened. Something worth paying attention to.”

The hologram glitched, shifting into grainy security footage. The angle came from behind a Burger Mart. Mark, still in his uniform, dragged two oversized bags of trash toward the dumpster. He struggled with the first, heaved it up, then reached for the second. With a grunt of effort he swung it upward — and the bag rocketed sky-high, vanishing into the clouds like a missile.

Onscreen, the recorded Mark froze, staring upward in disbelief, before breaking into a whoop of pure joy. He jumped once, twice, and hovered for a fraction longer than gravity allowed.

“...why didn’t he tell me?” Nolan muttered, his voice caught between confusion and wounded pride. “He’d just gotten his powers. He was happy.”

“Far as we can tell,” Cecil replied evenly, “he wanted to figure things out for himself first. Wanted to join you in the field on his own terms. He’s wanted this for years. Not exactly surprising that he’d want to try proving he could do what you do.”

The hologram glitched again, flipping to another feed. This one from a narrow alleyway.

Dust exploded as something slammed into the wall hard enough to leave a crater. A man staggered in view, his body sheathed in jagged rock that cracked apart under the force. Shards fell away, revealing bruised skin beneath. Some small-time powered thug, nothing remarkable.

Then a voice, cocky but unsteady, came from off-camera:

“Give up, dude. I’m Invincible.”

So that’s where he got the name.

The camera caught Mark dropping down from above. His costume was atrocious: an orange-and-white shirt, ill-fitting pants, a scarf wrapped over his lower face, goggles too big for his head. 

Amateurish, but earnest.

The criminal groaned, clutching his ribs. “Fuck you, kid. Think you broke something.”

Mark rolled his eyes, visible even in the poor resolution. “Boo hoo. Mister Bank Robber’s got a rib bruised. Cry me a river. Let’s get you cuffed and call it a night.”

He reached out — too casually. The rock-skinned man lashed out with a wild punch. The blow turned Mark’s head to the side, rock cracking apart from the force of impact.

Nolan leaned forward , eyes narrowing. He recognized the subtle shift in his son’s posture. 

The stiffening shoulders. 

The tightening jaw underneath his handkerchief mask. 

The anger flared hot behind Mark’s eyes, burning away thought.

He grabbed the man’s arm with one hand—too tight, too fast.

 Oh no.

His other hand curled into a fist, trembling with force.

 Oh no.

And then, with too much strength, with too much speed, Mark struck.

The sound was sickening—like thunder wrapped in wet fabric. A spray of warmth. A crunch that echoed against the brick walls of the alley.

Blood.

The alley was filled with it. Dark, slick, metallic.

Mark stood frozen, staring down at the ruin in his hands. He wasn’t holding a man anymore—just a body. A headless, twitching corpse, drenched in its own blood, and in his.

“Jesus Christ,” Debbie whispered. Her hands flew to her mouth, her voice trembling as though the words themselves hurt to leave her.

Mark killed a man.

The holographic projection flickered, and for a moment the boy on-screen didn’t look  Invincible at all. He looked like a terrified child. He dropped the body, stumbled back, his boots slipping in the spreading pool of red. His chest heaved, his eyes wide, his lips shaking.

“Oh God. Oh no. No, no, no, no, no, please—” The words tumbled out of him, frantic and broken. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to hit that hard. It was an accident, I swear—it was an accident—I swear. I-I hit you harder than that before and you took it—you took it just fine, I didn’t—didn’t mean to—oh God I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

The holographic feed shimmered. A flash of sterile white light filled the alley, and Cecil appeared behind Mark, his expression cold, hard, unreadable.

“Mark.”

The boy spun, nearly tripping, blood-slick pavement betraying his footing. His eyes darted, wild and wet. “Who—who the fuck are you?”

“Right now?” Cecil’s voice was quiet, measured. “I’m a friend. And you need to come with me.”

“No—I—I need to call my parents. I need to call my dad, he’ll know what to do—he’ll know how to fix this—”

Cecil didn’t blink. His gaze dropped briefly to the headless corpse at their feet. “Mark. You just killed a man.” His voice was sharp, cutting through the boy’s panic like a blade. “You really want your dad to see this? Is that how you want your hero career to start? With a murder charge hanging over you?”

Mark’s throat closed. The tears came freely now, his words ragged. “It was an accident,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know, kid.” Cecil’s tone softened—barely. “But right now, I’m the only one who can help you.”

Mark froze, staring. The gore around him painted the alley in red shadows, every drop a reminder of what he’d done. His hands shook as he lifted them, as if they didn’t belong to him anymore.

Slowly—so slowly—it seemed to take the strength of every bone in his body, he walked toward Cecil.

A hand settled on his shoulder, firm, grounding. A father’s hand, if you squinted at the memory.

And in a burst of white light, they were gone.

The recording ended. The holograph shimmered once more, and Cecil’s figure returned, his usual stone-faced composure softened by something that looked almost like regret.

Mark had killed a man.

It explained everything—the strange morning when Nolan had found his son pale and trembling, vomiting after one look at him. The way Mark had seemed hollow-eyed that evening when he finally came home. The shift in his clothes, the fight at school, the growing distance from his family. All of it pointed back to that single moment.

“You lied to him,” Nolan said at last, his voice low and edged with anger. “He could have come to me. We would have figured it out together. I would have helped him.”

The death of a human—especially a criminal—was no great loss in Nolan’s eyes. But humans clung to their ideals. They convinced themselves that every life was sacred, even when their kind slaughtered each other in droves. It was no wonder that the act had scarred Mark so deeply. And Cecil, sharp as ever, had taken that wound and twisted it into leverage, pushing Mark beneath the GDA’s umbrella.

Very clever, Nolan admitted to himself. Manipulative, yes, but clever. The kind of ruthlessness that explained how a mortal man had survived so long in a world of monsters, gods, and aliens.

Beside him, Debbie sank into a chair, her hands trembling. Her face was pale, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Mark… he killed someone.” Her eyes were wide with disbelief.

“It was an accident,” Cecil said firmly. His tone carried none of Nolan’s judgment, none of Debbie’s horror—only a hard, measured certainty. “Kid misjudged his punch. He was right earlier—he did hit Titan harder, but that was to the chest. His armor and ribcage took the brunt of it. This time, Mark hit him in the head, where the armor was damaged and the skull already fractured from the fight. Wrong place, wrong time. The blow finished it.”

Nolan’s eyes narrowed. “So that’s how you bound him to your leash. You blackmailed him.”

Cecil’s own eyes sharpened. “I saved that boy from a murder charge. I got him the training he needed to control strength that could flatten a city block. You think that’s blackmail? I call it protecting him. I’m sorry I kept this from you, but Mark wasn’t eager to tell you either. Once he calmed down, he chose to be silent. That alone should tell you something.”

Debbie buried her face in her hands. Nolan let out a long breath, controlled but tight with frustration. This was not ideal. Cecil had played his game well. 

I’ll speak to him. When we’re home.

“You’re off the hook for now,” Nolan said, his voice even but edged with promise. “But I’m still taking my pound of flesh when I can.”

Cecil only shrugged. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

The hologram fizzled and winked out, leaving the little pod on the carpet to fall silent and dark.

“Nolan.”

Debbie’s voice was small, but it carried. He turned to see her looking up at him, despair etched in every line of her face. Her hands were clenched tight against her chest, and for a moment, she seemed so much smaller than the woman who had conquered his heart on her own years ago.

“Mark… he… how do we help him?”

Nolan crossed the space between them in two steps and sank to one knee. He wrapped her in his arms, holding her close against the storm in both their chests. His voice was steady, deliberate.

“We support him. We love him. And we make sure he knows it was an accident. He hit too hard, that’s all. Back on Viltrum, if my peers hadn’t been as strong as me, we’d have killed each other a dozen times over by mistake. This isn’t the unforgivable sin he thinks it is.”

His jaw tightened as the thought flickered through him, unbidden: the man Mark had struck down had been a villain, a parasite who had contributed nothing but suffering. His death wasn’t a loss. If anything, it was a net gain for the world. But he kept that part to himself.

Debbie pressed her face against his shoulder, her breath shaking. “I don’t know how I’d do this without you,” she whispered, voice almost breaking.

“You’ll never have to,” Nolan murmured, his hand smoothing down her back. “Not now. Not ever.”

____________________________________________

“You think they bought it?” Donald asked as the transmission fizzled into static. His tone carried that rare trace of unease, the kind he usually buried under layers of calm.

“I fucking hope so,” Cecil muttered as he dropped into his chair, fingers rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Otherwise, we just burned a million dollars on the world’s best acting coaches and a special effects team for a show no one was supposed to see twice.”

Truth be told, Cecil hadn’t had the faintest idea what excuse he could give Nolan for why he was monitoring Mark in secret. Not until Darkwing, clever bastard that he was, suggested the obvious: make it look like an accident. Stage a video of Mark losing control, killing someone by mistake, and Cecil swooping in to clean up the mess—pressganging the kid into the GDA before Nolan could intervene.

It was exactly the sort of thing Cecil would have done if it had really happened. Exactly the sort of trap Nolan would expect him to set. And just plausible enough to buy them time.

The execution had been meticulous. They put Mark and Titan through intensive acting sessions with instructors who trained Oscar winners. They built a full-scale replica puppet of Titan, rigged with blood packs and squibs that would detonate on cue, his head exploding in a grotesque ballet of gore and blood. The editing team had gone frame by frame, stitching the illusion so seamlessly that even Nolan’s eyes would struggle to catch the switch.

It wasn’t just a lie. It was a performance designed to fool a Viltrumite.

“Tell Mark we do it tonight,” Cecil said, voice flat with resolve. “Everything’s in place for stage two.”

Donald hesitated, the rare crack of worry creeping through his usual loyalty. “Are you certain, sir? If this goes sideways—”

Cecil cut him off with a sharp look. “This is the weakest Nolan’s ever been. Period. We don’t get another shot like this. No more waiting. No more contingency planning. Send word to Mark.”

He leaned back in his chair, letting the weight of the moment settle like lead in the room.

“Tonight,” Cecil said, almost to himself, “we take down Omni-Man.”