I Told You, I'm Invinci-(Invincible SI) Chapter 13

Visiting hospitals wasn’t Cecil’s thing.

There were three places he avoided whenever possible—graveyards, prisons, and hospitals. In his experience, nothing good ever happened in any of them. Going there usually meant something had gone very wrong, and Cecil didn’t like being reminded of things that went wrong. 

Normally, he sent Donald to handle hospital visits. 

Donald had the face for it. The temperament. People didn’t hate him on sight. But for certain groups of people—people who wouldn’t appreciate flowers or a fruit basket—Cecil had to show up in person. Whether they wanted him there or not.

He pushed open the door to the first recovery room.

“Hey there, you two.”

“Fuck you,” Magmaniac spat.

Case in point.

All things considered, Magmaniac and Tether Tyrant looked pretty good—if “good” meant “alive after being torn in half” for one and “alive after having his skull introduced to several pounds of concrete” for the other. The GDA employed the best surgeons in the world and had access to medical tech that most hospitals would kill for. They could pull off the kind of miracles you only saw in bad sci-fi shows. 

Not that either of these two ingrates cared.

“Okay, I deserve that,” Cecil admitted, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “But in my defense, I didn’t think he’d go that hard on you.”

“Deserve? Oh, you deserve plenty,” Tether Tyrant rasped, his voice still thin and strained from the damage. “This is the least of it. You told us it’d be a simple job. Show up, look scary, play the bad guys for a couple of hits, and then take the dive. You left out the part where we’d get absolutely wrecked by Omni-Man’s kid.”

Cecil winced. “So everyone knows already, huh?”

“You kidding?” Magmaniac grumbled. “The whole damn world knows. Omni Man was screaming loud enough for satellites to hear when he dove in, like he was trying to score a touchdown. You’re lucky the media’s been blurring his face. That’s you, isn’t it?”

He wasn’t wrong. The GDA had made it very clear to every network: show Invincible’s face, and you’d get an unannounced visit from Omni-Man. And nobody wanted that on their calendar.

Of course, no one would be getting a visit from Nolan anytime soon…

Cecil had actually thought the fight would be a terrible debut for the kid. Instead, it had been the opposite. People saw a rookie hero, first day on the job, going multiple rounds with an opponent who had just trashed downtown Chicago, dismantled the Guardians, handed Omni-Man his ass, and torn through the Teen Team—though they’d somehow walked away without a scratch. Mark had lasted longer than the Guardians, longer than his father. He’d fought Battle Beast alone, then teamed up with the Guardians before they fell, then fought alongside Nolan until both went down.

The talking heads were already chewing the footage to death, arguing over every punch and counter, picking apart exactly who contributed more to bringing Battle Beast down. But amid all the noise, one point kept coming up, over and over.

Mark was stronger than Nolan.

And while the circumstances that proved it had been a complete mess, Cecil was quietly relieved to have that confirmation. A little victory wrapped in a catastrophe—just the way the job seemed to work these days.

“Also, why did no one tell us we were working with what is essentially a cat version of Omni-Man?” Magmaniac demanded, jabbing a finger toward Cecil. “If I’d known that fucker was that crazy and that strong before we agreed to take the fall, I would’ve stayed as far away from him as humanly possible. Like—other hemisphere far.”

“That guy was an unknown,” Cecil lied smoothly, his voice flat enough to pass for truth. “We’re still trying to figure out where he came from and if he can come back from where Nightboy sent him.”

Privately, he doubted it. Very much. Nightboy’s after-action report had been sparse, but Immortal had filled in some of the blanks, and the picture wasn’t promising. If the boy’s account was accurate, Battle Beast was likely gone for good. Probably.

And yet… Mark had said Battle Beast was on par with Nolan’s leader—someone who could dismantle Nolan with the same casual ease Nolan used on a human. Cecil had seen that power for himself. Battle Beast had torn through the Guardians, put Mark and Nolan in the dirt, and wiped out every single Reaniman they had in reserve. Even drenched in blood and carrying a few injuries, the alien had been eager for more—bellowing for fresh opponents while Mark and Nolan were there at his feet, bloody and bruised as they fought to keep breathing.

A guy like that? Dying in some shadowy pocket dimension? Hard to buy. Cecil couldn’t picture Nolan dying that way, so it was hard to believe Battle Beast would either. And honestly, if he was being real with himself, this was the better outcome. The idea of “bargaining” with that creature to take care of Earth’s problems had always been a fantasy. 

Battle Beast wasn’t a soldier you could point at a target; he was a hurricane with fur and a vocabulary. Bloodlust ran so deep in him it was practically a fact of his existence, like the fact that his fur was white and that his teeth were sharp. It was a miracle he’d stayed in Machine Head’s employ for so long without burning the city to the ground just for fun.

And while Earth had its fair share of monstrous threats—kaiju, alien incursions, the occasional god-tier lunatic—they didn’t happen every day. The rest of the time, the problems were… people.

Squishy, fragile, crazy people.

Cecil doubted Battle Beast would bother to make the distinction.

“Look,” Cecil said, injecting just enough sincerity into his tone to make them lean forward. “I really am sorry, you two. How about this—ten grand in hazard pay, and when you’re reinstated as prison guards, you’ll get a raise. Consider it recognition for your… extreme inconvenience.”

Magmaniac and Tether Tyrant exchanged a long, weighted look.

“You’re still an asshole,” Tether Tyrant muttered. “But we accept.”

“Good,” Cecil said, leaning back. “Rest up. I’ve got two first-class tickets on the next plane out—champagne, hot towels, steak and lobster, the works. On me.”

___________________________________________

The next visit, however, was not as smooth.

For one thing, Rex Splode and Atom Eve were planted outside the hospital room door like sentries—Rex leafing through a home décor magazine of all things, Eve scrolling on her phone. They weren’t speaking to each other, but both of them looked up the moment he approached.

“Hey, it’s Scarface!” Rex greeted with a grin, tossing the magazine onto his lap. “Didn’t think we’d see you here today. How’s tricks?”

Cecil exhaled through his nose. The beginnings of a headache were already settling in behind his eyes.

“Hello to you too, Rex. Eve.” His voice was flat. “May I go in?”

The fact that he had to ask to enter one of his own private hospital rooms—this facility was funded and operated by the GDA—was already absurd. The fact that a pair of teenagers were the ones physically blocking him from doing so was even worse. He could, if he chose, have a squad of agents here in less than a minute, clear the hallway, and walk in unopposed.

But that would anger Mark when he woke up. And right now, keeping Mark cooperative, especially with Nolan’s return looming, was more valuable than asserting authority.

“Eh,” Rex said, dragging out the sound, “Robot hasn’t said to let you in, so…” He left the sentence hanging like bait.

Cecil turned to Eve. “Eve, can you please check if it’s acceptable for me to go in?”

She stood, tucking her phone away. “I’ll ask him,” she said seriously. “But don’t be surprised if he says no. They only finished surgery less than an hour ago.”

The surgery.

It should have been done by GDA surgeons—his surgeons. That would have ensured Mark got the most advanced care available… and provided the agency with certain contingencies, should the kid ever turn on them. But, in hindsight, he should have expected this.

Mark had already shown he preferred his own contingencies. And this wasn’t the first time he’d been badly hurt. Not by a long shot.

______________________________________

“Jesus Christ, this is a fucking mess.”

Downtown Chicago was barely recognizable.

Whole blocks were cratered or burning, skyscrapers sheared in half, cars crumpled like paper.

Rubble and blood soaked the streets, and the Guardians were wrecked—Green Ghost and Aquarius were the only ones still on their feet. And as strong as the two of them were, they were definitely not the Guardians he needed for the upcoming fights.

Green Ghost was a non-combatant, more containment and defense than offense. And Aquarius, for all his precision and stealth, wasn’t built to take or deliver the kind of punishment they’d just faced. He was a strike-and-dip specialist— made for disruption, not devastation.

Battle Beast had dismantled them.

Omni-Man, as shredded and bloodied as he looked, would heal faster than anyone else. That much was obvious. The few times Nolan had taken damage in the past, the bruises vanished in under an hour. Mark, though… Mark was worse off. He’d taken the brunt of it all, lasted longer against Battle Beast, and looked barely alive by the end of it.

But Mark had an edge. One that Cecil had confirmed with the techs and his own eyes.

The kid was adapting by taking the DNA of those around him.

Cecil had made sure to slip him some blood samples—Bulletproof, Powerplex—in that super health drink he’d given the kid, along with some tracking nanites that would be very helpful in the future. A long shot, but based on what they’d seen, there was a pattern. Mark got stronger after exposure to viable DNA. Not just stronger, but also faster, tougher, more durable. He didn’t heal like a normal Viltrumite. He evolved. Today’s speed feats? That was Red Rush-level speed. He’d blurred past Battle Beast and Omni-Man like they were standing still.

Cecil hadn’t seen his bout with Allen the Alien, but after watching today’s fight, he was sure of it—Mark’s powers spiked after each fight, when he’d managed to take a chomp out of them. Immortal. War Woman. Red Rush. All of them. He was incorporating their strengths, assimilating them, and making their powers his own. Not immediately, no, but within a short window. A day, maybe less.

And it explained a lot. His progress during that first sparring session with Immortal and War Woman had been suspiciously fast. Now it made sense. He lived with Nolan. Getting a DNA sample from dear old dad would’ve been child’s play.

So now, he had the powers of a Viltrumite, Red Rush’s speed, Immortal’s durability, War Woman’s strength, and now, potentially, Bulletproof and Powerplex’s offensive capabilities.

One kid, five power sets. Maybe more.

Which begged the question: why stop there?

Robot. Dupli-Kate. Atom Eve. All of them had abilities worth coveting—especially Eve and Kate. With Eve’s matter manipulation and Kate’s ability to create infinite clones, Mark would be unstoppable. A one-man army. The war would be over before it started.

So why hadn’t he?

Sure, biting people to get their powers wasn’t exactly subtle. But there were other ways. Loose hair. Fingernails. Toothbrushes. A spoon off the breakfast table. He didn’t need to go full Hannibal Lecter to get what he needed.

Was it restraint?

Guilt?

Or was he trying to keep Robot on his side?

That last one made Cecil’s brow furrow. If Mark was playing the long game—winning over Robot to get closer to the others—it was a smart move. But if that were the plan, why wait? Why not grab every power he could now, before it was too late?

Something wasn’t adding up.

Cecil didn’t like unknowns.

He was pulled from his thoughts when Donald jogged up beside him, his face tight with urgency.

“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt again, but we have a situation with Invincible.”

Cecil Temple tightened his jaw, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. Of course. If it wasn’t one goddamn thing, it was another with that kid.

“Status report,” he snapped, already moving through the wreckage. Around them, GDA agents scurried like ants, hauling wounded heroes onto stretchers and ferrying them toward evac points.

“We’ve recovered all the Guardians,” Donald said briskly, keeping pace. “Red Rush sustained the worst of it—compound fractures in both legs, possibly permanent damage. Immortal’s in rough shape too: multiple broken ribs, fractured clavicle, and he’s missing a hand. Darkwing got off light in comparison—just a few broken bones and lacerations from being thrown through a high-rise window.”

Cecil cursed under his breath. “I told that idiot not to engage in close quarters. I told him. That’s how he got killed the first time. But what do I know, right? I’m just the powerless asshole who doesn’t fight gods, aliens, or interdimensional monsters for breakfast. Now our fastest goddamn hero’s about to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.”

Donald hesitated before continuing. “Sir, there’s more. Civilian casualties. A lot of them.”

Cecil’s steps faltered. “How bad?”

“It’s too early for a full count—”

“Donald,” Cecil snapped, turning sharply to face him. “Just fucking spit it out.”

Donald swallowed. “We’re estimating… at least five hundred dead. And that number’s climbing.”

Cecil stood there, silent. The roar of sirens, the buzz of helicopters, the groans of the injured—it all faded under the weight of that number.

“...Fuck,” he muttered.

Five hundred lives. Innocent people. Dead.

Because he couldn’t do his fucking job.

He closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, exhaled, then opened them again and kept walking.

The scene ahead sharpened with each step: Mark—pale and battered—stood with Robot and the Teen Team arrayed around him. Two Dupli-Kates held a gurney steady, Mark’s limp body secured upon it, while a squad of GDA agents faced them down in a stiff formation.

The air was taut, every movement deliberate. The kind of tension where one wrong twitch could set everything off.

As he drew closer, Cecil began to make out the exchange.

“—got orders to take this kid back to headquarters,” one of his agents was saying in a clipped, authoritative tone. “You can meet us there after the operation, but we need to get him to the hospital and let the docs take care of him.”

“And as I said,” Robot replied, his voice calm but edged with finality, “I understand you have been given orders. However, I will be the one to operate on him. Invincible has explicitly stated that he wishes me to be his primary care provider. That means he will not be removed from my supervision.”

“Last I heard, you were a superhero, not a surgeon,” another GDA agent interjected, a sneer curling her words. “You can’t exactly fix this with some WD-40 and welding a few plates together.”

Robot tilted his head a fraction, the green optics of his drone body narrowing slightly as he stepped forward. The agents’ rifles rose an inch, their fingers tightening on the triggers.

“I can understand,” Robot began, his tone as level as an autopsy report, “why a simple human such as yourself might find it difficult to master more than one discipline. However, I am not similarly limited. I am a practitioner—competent or expert—in nearly every human art and science. What I do not know is a matter of hours away from mastery. While biology is not my principal field, my proficiency exceeds that of the average practicing surgeon. The only reason I do not hold a medical license is because I have not elected to sit for the examinations. Therefore, please do not behave as if the ability to aim a rifle and appear menacing to unarmed civilians grants you even a fraction of my intellect. Are we clear?”

Cecil decided that was his cue. “All right, that’s enough.”

He stepped directly between Robot and the GDA line, forcing both parties’ focus onto him.

“Robot,” he said evenly, “what the hell is going on here?”

“Sir!” The agents snapped to attention with stiff salutes.

“Report,” Cecil ordered.

“Robot is refusing to allow us to take Invincible to the hospital, sir!” the lead agent said.

“No,” Robot corrected, his voice cutting like a scalpel, “I am stating that if Invincible is to be transported anywhere, I will accompany him—and I will be the one to perform any necessary procedures.”

“Robot, you’re not a surgeon,” Cecil said, trying to pull him back from the brink. “You need to acknowledge that. Let my people take him. We’ll handle it.”

There was a faint, sharp whir as the drone’s head rotated a fraction to the left. The green lenses flared, just slightly, like a warning light before dimming again.

“Is no one listening to the words I am speaking?” Robot said, his tone clipped but no longer purely mechanical. Irritation was bleeding through, subtle but sharp. “I said I am not stopping your men from taking him. I said that I have to come along with him, and that I have to be the one to operate on him.”

One of the agents behind Cecil shifted uncomfortably. “We have no confirmation that Invincible even wants you to operate on him—”

“Robot.”

The voice was barely there. Hoarse. Tattered.

Cecil’s eyes flicked toward it automatically, and everyone else followed a half-second later.

Mark Grayson was awake. 

Technically. 

Both of his eyes were swollen shut, his face a mess of bruises and dried blood. His ribs rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. Wounds covered him like someone had tried to paint him in violence.

But the kid still managed to speak, his words slurred and wet with blood.

“I want… Robot. Only… Robot.” His head twitched slightly toward the drone. “Only trust… Rudy. No doctors… just Rudy.”

Then his head lolled back, and he was gone again, sinking into unconsciousness like a stone through dark water.

Robot’s green lenses fixed on Cecil. “Does that convince you?”

Cecil kept his jaw tight. He could argue. Hell, he could make a damn good argument. The kid was delirious from blood loss, in shock, and nowhere near his right mind. This kind of decision shouldn’t stick—not when it meant putting him in the hands of someone like Robot. Not when the GDA’s best surgeons were a comm call away. And certainly not when Robot wouldn’t listen to  Cecil and slip in something “extra” into his patient if the man asked him.

He was ready to say as much(excluding the last part)—until he caught something in his peripheral vision.

Dupli-Kate.

Not just one—dozens. Maybe a hundred of her, scattered across the wreckage. Some were clearing debris, others were hauling civilians from collapsed storefronts, and more still were working with emergency crews to put out fires or stabilize the injured. One was kneeling in the street giving CPR to a man whose face was steadily turning purple.

And then, like someone had flipped a switch, every single Dupli-Kate stopped, stood still and turned to look in the same direction. 

His direction.

Cecil’s eyes swept the scene. 

Rex Splode, standing a few feet away, was palming a quarter that was beginning to glow faintly at the edges. The tips of his gloves lit in warning, a wild grin creeping up on his face.

Atom Eve’s hands had started to shimmer with pink light. No overt aggression yet, but it was there—potential energy wrapped in a thin layer of restraint, her expression grim as her eyes watched him and his agents like a hawk.

And then there was Robot, standing motionless, lenses trained on Cecil. He didn’t speak, didn’t press. Just… waited. Like he was giving Cecil the opportunity to make the wrong call.

His men could handle Dupli-Kate. Multiplying powers or not, she was still just a teenager. The trick wasn’t in overwhelming her numbers—it was in breaking her nerve. Kill her clones in ways so excruciating that she felt the pain in full, and eventually she’d pass out from the feedback. Once she was unconscious, the fight was over.

Rex Splode would be more of a problem—his power was flashy and dangerous in close quarters, and he was reckless enough to make it count. Still, with a little planning and a coordinated push, he could be taken down.

Robot, on the other hand, was a different matter entirely. You didn’t just “take down” Robot. That required precision, strategy, and an attack on multiple fronts—because you weren’t really fighting the man. You were fighting every machine, every contingency plan, every weapon he’d built and hidden away for exactly that kind of situation. Without flawless coordination, he was damn near untouchable.

And then there was Atom Eve. That was where the planning board went blank. The only thing keeping her from declaring herself a goddess and carving out her own empire was her morality. She had a good heart, an infuriating sense of justice, and—thankfully—a surprising lack of imagination with her powers. She wouldn’t weaponize her gifts the way she could. 

She wouldn’t, for example, turn the air around you into radioactive particles. 

She wouldn’t seal a head in a seamless coating of lead. 

She wouldn’t transform the air into microscopic glass shards that sliced your lungs with every breath.

 But the horrifying truth was—she could. 

And if she ever decided to… there wouldn’t be much anyone could do about it.

So for now, he had to admit defeat.

“Fine, go ahead,” Cecil said, his tone somewhere between irritation and resignation. “But that means it falls on your head if you screw up something important in the kid.”

“I will endeavor to avoid ‘screwing up,’ as you so eloquently put it,” Robot replied, his voice flat but with the faintest inflection of dry sarcasm. “I would prefer you prepare a fully sterile operating environment for the procedure. Two additional drones under my control will rendezvous with us there. They will assist.”

He grunted in acknowledgment, already pulling out his phone to make the call.

As if a silent signal had been given, the Dupli-Kates abandoned their readied stances in perfect unison, scattering back to their prior tasks with the mechanical efficiency of an ant colony returning to work. The tension in the air didn’t evaporate so much as sink beneath the surface—still there, but no longer visible.

Rex, muttering something under his breath, rolled his eyes and tucked the quarter back into his pocket, the faint glow fading from his palm as he did so. Eve exhaled sharply, crossing her arms over her chest, her posture heavy with restrained exhaustion.

Cecil filed the observations away without comment. The Teen Team might lack the raw, headline-making firepower of the Guardians, but the coordinated readiness he had just witnessed showed him that they could be a bunch of scary bastards when they wanted to be.

_________________________________

“So, if you don’t mind me asking,” Rex said, leaning back in his chair with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “how does the son of Omni-Man end up playing government errand boy?” His tone was casual, but there was an edge under it—a deliberate poke to see if he could get a reaction. “Figured a guy like that would want his kid under his own wing. Omni-Man’s not exactly the ‘team player’ type, and he sure didn’t look thrilled that his kid was walking around dressed like a GDA uniform ad.”

Cecil didn’t bother looking up from the file in his hands. He gave a short grunt, the kind that could mean anything from I’m ignoring you to you’re dangerously close to stepping over a line.

Rex kept going. “Look, all I’m saying is this—yeah, I’m not the smartest guy in the room, but even I can tell something’s off here. We thought he was working for you, turns out he’s Omni-Man’s kid, and he’s not in the Guardians, even though he’s strong enough to wipe the floor with most of them. That just screams ‘the GDA’s up to some shady shit,’ you know?”

“We’re always up to shady shit,” Cecil replied without missing a beat. “That’s the job. We do the shady shit so other people don’t have to. So they can live their lives without knowing what’s out there. That’s how the world stays saved. You of all people should understand that… considering your former occupation.”

That landed. Rex stiffened—a tiny flicker, gone almost as soon as it appeared—but Cecil noticed. He always noticed.

“...Not exactly a fair comparison,” Rex said after a beat, his trademark grin sliding back into place like armor. “I didn’t know the details of the people I was… ‘dealing with’ back then. All I knew was they needed to be taken care of. If I hadn’t started thinking for myself, wondering why I was taking orders from people who operated in the shadows—people who experimented on me—well…” He gestured loosely at Cecil with the magazine in his hands. “You wouldn’t be here talking to me now, would you?”

Cecil finally looked up, and the smile he gave was small, sharp, and almost predatory. “Guess I should thank them, then.”

Before Rex could come up with a retort, the door to the hospital room swung open. Eve stood there, her expression caught between concern and something else—something harder to read.

“You can come in,” she said to Cecil. “He wants to talk to you anyway.”

Cecil’s brow ticked upward, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he stepped through the door, eyes immediately sweeping the room with the practiced sharpness of someone who’d been in too many situations where details meant survival.

Three Dupli-Kates were stationed in one corner—one on a phone, another working a laptop, the third tapping away on a tablet. They glanced up in eerie unison as he entered, the motion so perfectly synchronized it might’ve been rehearsed, before returning to their tasks without a word.

Near the far wall, three of Robot’s drones were methodically wiping blood from their metallic arms. Before they could finish, Eve stepped forward, her hands glowing faintly pink. She gave a casual flick of her wrist, and a shimmering wave of energy swept over them. The blood turned pink, flaked into dust, and dispersed into the air as though it had never existed.

Jesus, Cecil thought, watching it happen. That never stopped being unsettling.

The drones inclined their heads in a gesture of thanks before turning their full attention to him.

Mark lay on the operating table, surprisingly intact. His bruises were gone, his eyes clear, and his breathing steady. In fact, he looked more like he was taking an afternoon nap than someone who had looked like a slab of ground beef less than two hours ago. The transformation was almost unnerving in its completeness.

“Director Stedman,” one of the drones greeted in Robot’s even, almost sterile cadence. “Welcome, and thank you for granting us access to the operating room.”

“It’s fine,” Cecil replied, nodding toward Mark. “How’s he doing?”

“He is recovering well. This procedure was less a surgery and more the extraction of foreign objects from his body. Mark possesses exceptional regenerative capabilities, but his physiology does not prioritize the removal of debris during the healing process. As such, we were forced to operate in direct competition with his regenerative speed, removing shrapnel and embedded materials before the tissue sealed completely. In certain instances, we were required to reopen wounds using monomolecular scalpels—designed in collaboration with Atom Eve—so we could extract the foreign matter. His fully healed dermal tissue is virtually impenetrable, but newly regenerated tissue remains vulnerable for approximately 2.7 seconds before closing entirely. The process has been… both challenging and fascinating.”

Before Cecil could respond, the Dupli-Kate at the laptop looked up. “Uh, Robot? Just got an email from a tech company—big one. They’re offering… whoa, that’s a lot of zeroes. They’ll pay us one hundred thousand dollars a month, for a year, if we put their logo on the hoverbike. Notebook-sized.”

“Accept the deal,” the drone to Cecil’s right said immediately. “Request the full contract for review. Have we received a response from the sportswear manufacturer seeking Rex Splode’s endorsement?”

The Dupli-Kate frowned slightly. “Not yet. And, um… you told me to say that we’d only accept a two-year, one-million-dollar deal with Rex getting a cut of merchandise sales. You sure they’ll bite?”

“They will,” Robot said without hesitation. “Teen Team is currently ranked as the fourth most discussed subject on social media, behind Invincible, Omni-Man, and the Guardians. This gives us market leverage we have never possessed before. We can make demands we previously could not.”

“It’d be nice if I got some cool offers,” the Dupli-Kate with the tablet muttered. “So far, all I’ve got is that toy company that wants to make ‘Build Your Own Dupli-Kate’ dolls. Eve gets a perfume deal, the California tech bros are begging to collab with you, sports brands are fighting over Rex, and I get… a doll. Don’t get me wrong—it’s fine, I’m not ungrateful. But still. One offer? Really?”

“Kate, it’s only been a few hours,” Eve said gently, resting a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Give it a week. I bet you’ll have hundreds of offers from people lining up to work with you. You were amazing in that fight. Just… don’t stress about it yet, okay?”

“What are the current view counts on the videos posted to the official Teen Team social media accounts?” one of Robot’s drones asked, voice precise and clipped.

The Dupli-Kate holding the phone perked up instantly. “We’re averaging about two million views per post and around fifty thousand reposts,” she reported, her tone rising with excitement. “Wait—oh my god—we just hit number three on trending! We’ve never been this high before!”

Cecil gave the drone a flat look. “Seriously? You’re doing social media fluff right now?”

“You are speaking,” Robot replied evenly, “as if the GDA’s own PR department did not actively push posts while the battle with Battle Beast was still in progress. Teen Team is a privately funded group. Operational budgets require income, and each of my teammates willingly engaged a Guardian-level threat with zero hesitation or guarantee of survival. The minimum I can do is ensure they receive both the recognition and the financial compensation such risk deserves.”

He paused, sensors swiveling toward Kate. “Do not concern yourself, Kate. Based on my projections, I anticipate several companies will contact us—specifically in regard to you—within the next forty-eight hours.”

All three Kates lit up at that, their expressions softening in unison.

The drone nearest to Mark’s sleeping form extended a jointed arm, retrieving a sealed red container marked with a prominent biohazard symbol. It tossed the cylinder to Cecil, who caught it with one hand. The object rattled noisily on impact, the sound sharp in the hum of the operating room.

Cecil raised an eyebrow. “Why the hell are you giving me bio-waste from Mark?”

“That container does not hold biological material from Mark,” Robot replied evenly. “It contains metallic fragments recovered from Battle Beast’s mace. As loathsome as it may sound to frame this as a form of… victory, that weapon succeeded where few have: it inflicted grievous wounds on Grayson, withstood repeated strikes from War Woman’s mace, and survived the entirety of the engagement intact. The primary weapon could not be located, but these fragments are sufficient for metallurgical analysis. From them, we may develop an alloy capable of similar performance. Such a material will be essential in the conflicts to come.”

Cecil’s gaze shifted from the container to Robot’s drones, the implications settling in. Right. This was the same weapon that had beaten a Viltrumite bloody and pierced their skin—an incredibly rare feat. If they could replicate its composition, it could be the key to leveling the playing field.

“I have already retained several samples for my own research,” Robot continued. “Once the current crises stabilize, I will begin the synthesis process. Integrating this material into a new drone chassis will be challenging… but the strategic value would be considerable.”

Cecil exhaled through his nose. “...Thanks.”

All three drones swiveled their lenses toward him in unison, green optics catching the light.

“We remain on the same side, Director Stedman,” Robot said slowly, his tone carrying the weight of deliberate emphasis. “Despite our… differences, our goals align: to ensure Earth’s survival, and to protect the individuals we deem valuable.”

Cecil hesitated before replying. “Yeah. I guess we are, aren’t we?”

He didn’t believe it—not fully. That was the thing about alliances: they looked solid on the surface, but beneath, there were always factions. And it was obvious to him that Mark Grayson was already plotting something.

Mark hadn’t let much slip, but Cecil had been in the game long enough to know—nobody gets information from the future and doesn’t start shaping events to their advantage. The kid was already lying about how he got that knowledge, which meant he had details he didn’t want anyone to know.

And then there was Robot. In a matter of days, Mark had forged a connection with him strong enough to bypass the usual cautious distance. Now he had Robot’s intellect, the entirety of Teen Team, and—by extension—a powerhouse like Atom Eve in his corner. Normally, that wouldn’t worry Cecil much. Teenagers could be manipulated, steered, and tested. But Robot wasn’t just any operator; he was calculating, ambitious… and with Mark at his side, he was starting to look like someone who wouldn’t be content as the leader of a youth team for long.

And why would he? With someone like Robot managing the strategy, and Mark—the strongest man on Earth—at the front line, it was an easy sell. Mark had the courage, the charisma, and the raw physical ability to protect people. People followed that. They always had. Give them someone who can be a wall when needed and a hammer when the time comes, and they’ll follow him straight into hell.

Cecil’s jaw tightened. The question wasn’t if people would rally behind Mark.

It was what Mark—and Robot—intended to do once they did.

“Tell me when the kid wakes up,” Cecil said, already turning toward the door. “I’ll send you a message if we find Battle Beast’s mace, maybe you and the eggheads can figure out how to make some ReAnimen that don’t crumple like tissue paper the next time some super-strong psycho shows up.”

“Again?”

Cecil stopped and glanced back. He’d forgotten Atom Eve was still in the room. He’d been thinking about her—mostly in the context of how much easier she’d be to handle if she’d been a few years older when they met. She had the brains and power for the Guardians, but not enough history under his umbrella to be molded. A missed opportunity.

“You’re talking like attacks like this are going to be common,” she said, suspicion in her voice. “But this was a one-time fluke, right? I mean… this is the first time ever we’ve seen someone the Guardians couldn’t handle on their own. But you’re acting like there’s more coming. Like we need to get ready for something.”

He hated it when the smart ones weren’t working for him.

Before he had to cobble together an explanation, Robot’s voice cut in. “The creature—Battle Beast—was an extremely powerful opponent. Omni-Man’s strength is not common, and this creature exceeded that. Yet, we won. Considering he is an extraterrestrial, it is highly probable that other factions have been observing him. Once they learn we defeated him, we will be viewed in a different light. For better or worse, Earth has demonstrated it can repel armies from other dimensions and alien titans of unimaginable strength. We have painted a target on our backs. Strength invites challenge, and we have shown that we are strong.”

“So, what? Does that mean we might have more aliens showing up—and they might want to fight us?” asked one of the Dupli-Kates. All three duplicates wore the same anxious expression. “And they might be as strong as this Battle Beast guy?”

“Maybe,” Cecil said, smoothly reclaiming the conversation. “We’re just discussing hypotheticals. Besides, you’re acting like we don’t already have enough homegrown menaces to worry about. Earth’s got its own brand of ugly. We need to get stronger just to handle the mess humans create. Forget aliens for now—focus on the kaiju and the supervillains.”

The four girls exchanged a long look, then reluctantly nodded.

“Good,” Cecil said. “I’ve got more visits to make. Robot, until next time.”

“Indeed, Director Stedman,” replied all three of Robot’s drones in unison. “Until next time.”

__________________________________

Now, as irritating as it had been dealing with Rex, and having to surrender part of his own hospital wing to a gaggle of teenagers, this next visit was less annoying, more… unsettling. Sadder, too.

And far more dangerous.

Which was why Isotope was accompanying him this time. Some might call it a waste of resources to pull Isotope from his new duties.

In the few short hours the teleporter had been working for Cecil, he’d drastically increased the efficiency of FEMA supply transfers through the Flaxan portal. What used to be sporadic, insufficient drops—sometimes months apart for the Flaxans—had become routine, near-excessive shipments every few weeks. Food, water, clothes, medical supplies—enough that the Flaxans were beginning to live as if the shortages had never happened.

Still, Cecil had decided it was worth diverting him. Because this wasn’t just any hospital room. This was Nolan’s.

Seeing Nolan for the first time since the battlefield was… jarring.

The bleeding had stopped, but that was about the only improvement. His skin was a topography of wounds, cuts both deep and shallow, crisscrossing his face and torso, raw and angry-pink where they’d begun to knit together. A tube protruded from his throat, and a mask covered his mouth and nose. Stitches and staples patterned his upper body like the seams of a patchwork doll. The bruises on his face had mostly faded, but his right eye was still a swollen, deep purple. The left… was gone entirely. The socket sunken and hollow, a brutal claw mark carving down through where the eye had once been. Even with his Viltrumite durability, he looked like a wreck.

Debbie… hadn’t been in the fight, but she didn’t look much better. Her hair was a tangled halo, her eyes bloodshot and raw, with deep shadows carved beneath them. Mascara tracks scored her cheeks, the evidence of tears shed long after exhaustion should have claimed her.

Isotope remained by the door, silent, keeping Cecil in his peripheral vision. Cecil took the chair next to Debbie, the movement deliberate and slow, as if any sudden motion might shatter the fragile quiet between them.

For a full minute, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the soft whir of medical machinery and Nolan’s uneven breathing.

“...We can fix his eye,” Cecil said at last, voice low and even. “We have people on staff who’ve done extensive work with cloning technology. They’ve already begun growing a replacement. The optic nerve’s still intact. The surgeons are confident they can connect the new eye and restore at least partial function. His vision might be slightly foggy, but it’ll be usable—”

“Why,” Debbie cut in, her voice like a blade, “was my son wearing your uniform, Cecil?”

Ah. Shit.

“That’s… complicated,” Cecil said slowly. “And classified.”

Debbie’s head turned toward him with whip-like precision. The look in her eyes was molten, sharp enough to cut. Cecil felt the instinctive urge to recoil—but forced himself to stay still. The message in her glare was clear: That was the wrong answer.

“My son is not one of your disposable soldiers you send out to die, Cecil,” she said, her voice low and trembling—not from fear, but from fury contained just enough to keep it from erupting.

Then the containment shattered.

“My son isn’t some pawn for you to push across a chessboard! He’s not some weapon you can point at your enemies when it’s convenient!”

“If it wasn’t for your son, Nolan and the Guardians would be dead,” Cecil replied evenly. “Debbie, he saved lives today.”

Her laugh was short, harsh—humorless.

“And what about Mark, huh? How many times has he nearly died for you? How many times has he been hurt just to get that fast, that strong?” Her voice cracked, not from weakness, but from the strain of shouting the truth no one else wanted to say. “I know how the Viltrumite body works better than anyone else on this planet, Cecil. All the injuries fade, sure—but every gain the body makes, it keeps. For him to be faster and stronger than his father, he must have been pushed to the brink of death over and over again!”

Debbie was on her feet now, yelling in his face, her hands trembling at her sides, clenched into fists. Cecil just sat there, taking it—because he knew he had earned every word.

“How long,” she demanded, her voice breaking into something rawer, more wounded, “have you been making my son lie to me? How long has he been working for you? And then you have the audacity to tell me it’s ‘classified’? That whatever hell you’ve been putting him through is none of my business?”

She slammed her palm against the wall, leaning toward him.

“This is my family, Cecil!”

He stayed silent. Not because he didn’t have an answer, but because any answer would make it worse.

“I should have known,” she said bitterly, voice lowering but losing none of its venom. “That day he got sick… that must’ve been when it started. That’s when he got his powers. Of course. That’s when he started acting strange, when he stopped talking to us the same way.”

Her breath hitched, but she powered through it. “And you—you must have contacted him not long after that, right? Slipped in behind our backs, sunk your hooks into him.”

She began pacing, one hand gripping her opposite arm like she was physically holding herself together.

“And then the fight happened. At the school. Nolan told me not to worry, told me boys fought sometimes… but that should have been the first sign that something was wrong.” She turned back toward Cecil, her expression not just angry now, but pleading.

“Why? Why my son? You have the Guardians. You have Nolan. Why did you need my boy?”

Her voice cracked mid-sentence.

Cecil had expected anger—had prepared for it. He’d half-braced for her to hit him, even run the risk of a slap across the face. That, he could handle. But this… the pleading, the tremor in her voice, the way her eyes were glassy and wet, but she was too furious to let the tears fall—that hit harder than he’d anticipated.

It made him feel… awkward.

 And, though he’d never admit it aloud, ashamed.

“I’ll explain everything to you when Nolan wakes up,” he said curtly, rising from the hard plastic hospital chair. His voice was clipped, neutral, the kind of tone he used when trying to end a conversation before it went somewhere dangerous.

On the bed beside them, Nolan didn’t stir. Not even a twitch. Whatever cocktail of drugs the doctors had pumped into him, it had him completely under.

Cecil had just turned to leave when he felt the tug—Debbie’s hand clutching the back of his jacket. It wasn’t desperate, not quite, but it was enough to make him stop.

Isotope, standing by the door, arched an eyebrow at the contact, silently asking if he should intervene. Cecil gave a small shake of his head.

“I want to see my son,” she said, low and lethal. Her fingers curled tighter into the fabric. “Every time I ask someone—the doctors, the orderlies—they tell me they don’t know, or that his case is ‘still progressing.’ No one will tell me anything. Not if he’s going to be okay, not if he’s scared, not if he’s even awake.” Her voice was trembling now, but the words were sharp enough to draw blood. “Cecil, if you have a single ounce of empathy left in that cold little heart of yours, you will tell me where my son is. And you will take me to him. Now.”

There was a pause. Cecil kept his eyes on the door rather than turn back to face her.

“…I can’t take you to him,” he said finally. The words came out quieter than he meant them to, but they were steady.

In all the years he’d known her, he’d never seen Debbie look so small, like the weight of everything had finally pressed her down.

There was no fire behind her eyes now, only exhaustion and something close to grief.

“But,” Cecil continued, “he’s two floors above you. Just finished surgery. No permanent injuries. Nearly healed already.” He allowed himself the smallest exhale. “His friends are with him— the Teen Team. I’ll send word. One of them will bring you up in a little while.”

It took her a moment, but her grip on his jacket loosened. Her hand dropped away.

Isotope laid a hand on Cecil’s shoulder, ready to go. But before they could leave, Debbie’s voice came again, shaking but fierce:

“You have no idea what it’s like,” she said, “to see your husband and your son—your powerless son—fighting for their lives on national television. When Olga called me, told me to turn on the TV, I thought she was joking. I called Mark’s school, his friends, his job—trying to convince myself that the boy I was watching get beaten within an inch of his life wasn’t mine.”

Her hands were trembling now. “To see Nolan hurt like that was one thing. But to see Mark… my child…?” She shook her head, unable to find a word sharp enough. “Fuck you, Cecil. I hope you burn in hell for this.”

For a long beat, there was only the sound of Nolan’s slow, mechanical breathing.

“…I already know where I’m going, Debbie,” Cecil said at last, his tone carrying the weight of something old and unshakable. “And I know I’ll have earned my stay there.”

A green flash filled the room, and they were gone.

___________________________________

Isotope’s teleportation was as abrupt as ever—a blink-and-you’d-miss-it distortion of light and space. One moment he was standing in the hospital room, the next he was in the Pentagon’s control center, green flare fading as every technician instinctively looked up from their stations.

“Isotope—resume your prior assignment. Donald, status on the Guardians,” Cecil said without missing a beat.

Isotope gave a short nod and vanished again, replaced by Donald, who approached with a tablet in hand, already scrolling.

“Darkwing’s in the best shape,” Donald began. “A few broken bones, minor lacerations from the glass he was thrown through. He's already stitched up, just a bit sore. War Woman—three broken ribs, dislocated arm, assorted bruises. Martian Man’s muscles tore under stress, with the pain and shock knocking him out. Immortal—cracked jaw, heavy bruising, missing a hand. He’s regenerating it now, but it'll take a while before he can use it again. Red Rush… is the worst off. Surgeons had to amputate both legs. The Mauler Twins say they can clone new ones with his powers intact, but they’ll need to start immediately to have them ready for the next procedure. Green Ghost and Aquarius are unharmed, but I don’t see them holding the line for the two months it’ll take the others to recover from their wounds.”

Cecil closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose.

Two months. Two months without his primary team, with Mark and Nolan both out of commission.

Forget Viltrumites—Earth’s own lunatics could turn half the planet into a war zone in that time.

“Is the Flaxan clinic operational?”

“Yes, sir. Shall I arrange transport?”

“Yes. Immediately.”

The Flaxan clinic was their insurance policy for situations exactly like this—a fully equipped, off-world medical facility staffed with some of the best surgeons anywhere. Time dilation worked in their favor: weeks or months for surgery and rehab there translated to less than half an hour passing on Earth. Heroes returned in peak condition with no downtime. Every GDA operative and their families had access to it—an unmatched healthcare incentive and a useful bargaining chip in negotiations.

Donald hesitated. “Should we send Omni-Man as well? His healing would be accelerated—”

“No,” Cecil cut in. “Keep him here. The longer it takes him to get back on his feet, the more time we have to prepare.”

Pieces were moving into position. Mark’s recovery was almost complete. Once the Guardians were back from the Flaxan world, every heavy hitter would be in place.

The endgame was coming.

And Cecil could feel it in his bones.

“Understood, sir. I’ve also retrieved the remainder of the information on Angstrom Levy that you requested,” Donald said, handing the tablet over.

Angstrom Levy — thirty years old, occupation: arborist. Last confirmed sighting was boarding a bullet train bound for Osaka, Japan, several months ago. That train never reached its destination. A kaiju attacked along the route, tearing into the cars with enough force to shred steel and concrete. Omni-Man had arrived minutes later, killing the creature. By then, every passenger on board was confirmed dead.

Every passenger except Angstrom Levy.

According to forensic reports, his body was never recovered. Local investigators had theorized he might have been thrown clear of the train during the attack, his remains lying somewhere beyond the search grid. But no blood, tissue, or DNA trace was ever found. Not a single hair.

Donald’s tech teams had combed through hours of station surveillance footage. For days, nothing surfaced—until they found it. One second of visual data.

The still frame showed Levy on the platform, moments before the kaiju struck. A faint ripple in the air bloomed open behind him — a green-edged portal. From it, a dark-skinned hand shot out, seizing him by the collar and yanking him inside. The portal collapsed instantly, leaving no trace.

According to Mark, Angstrom Levy was the only known individual with the power to travel the multiverse. Yet here, in this single frame, someone else was pulling him through. Someone who had reacted in the milliseconds before his death, with precision too perfect to be accidental.

Worse, Levy’s personal history was immaculate. No strange disappearances, no suspicious financial records, no accounts from friends or co-workers of him speaking about strange worlds or impossible places. None of the anomalies one might expect from a multiversal traveler.

Which left two possibilities—both troubling. Either their Angstrom was never the traveler at all, or he had hidden his abilities with absolute perfection.

And if this wasn’t the one with the power…

Then where was the version who was?

_______________________________________

Two weeks after his brutal defeat at the hands of the alien warrior Thokk—better known across the galaxy as Battle Beast—Nolan Grayson, the man Earth knew as Omni-Man, stirred from his medically induced coma.

Less than a day later, the world was drenched in blood. 

Cities lay in ruins. 

Over one million lives had been extinguished in less than fifteen minutes. 

And Omni-Man, leaving devastation in his wake, was last seen streaking through the upper atmosphere—his trajectory set for Viltrum.