I Told You, I'm Invinci-(Invincible SI) Chapter 10

“World War Zombie drops this Friday,” William announced, slapping his tray down at the lunch table like it was breaking news. “And guess who’s playing the lead? Chad Pitt. We’re going.”

Mark raised an eyebrow as he bit into his BLT, chewing thoughtfully. “William, you know I support you in all your questionable life choices. But I’m not spending two hours watching a mediocre zombie movie just so you can drool over an aging actor’s ass.”

“First of all,” William said with a scandalized gasp, “Chad Pitt is not just an actor. He’s a multi-Platinum Globe-winning national treasure. Every year, the man reinvents cinema. Watching him is a masterclass in raw, emotional brilliance.”

“He’s also pushing fifty,” Mark deadpanned. “That’s basically ancient in Hollywood years. He’s old enough to be your dad.”

“Please,” William sniffed. “He’s in his mid-forties. That’s peak Hollywood prime. And I would absolutely call him Daddy.”

Mark made a strangled sound and set his sandwich down like it had personally betrayed him. “Great. Lost my appetite. Thanks.”

“Oh, stop being such a delicate flower,” William said with a dismissive wave. “If I have to sit through your hormone-induced rants every time some girl so much as looks in your direction, the least you can do is tolerate me worshipping my favorite silver fox.”

“There’s a difference,” Mark replied, narrowing his eyes. “I’m not gross about it. I don’t list the things I want her to do to me, especially not in public.”

“That’s because you’re a prude.”

Before Mark could fire back what was undoubtedly a devious comeback, a hesitant voice interrupted them.

“Um… is this a bad time?”

Both boys looked up. Standing in front of their table was Amber Bennett.

William blinked in surprise. “Uh… hi?”

Mark looked equally confused, though he recovered quicker. “Amber. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, fidgeting with the strap of her backpack. “I just… was wondering if you guys had room for one more?”

Mark gave a small shrug and gestured to the empty seat. “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

William watched—no, observed—as Amber hesitated just a beat… then sat down right next to Mark.

His internal gossip engine revved up instantly. 

Well, well, well. 

Wasn’t this just a page out of a classic rom-com? High school hero saves girl from a jerk, and suddenly the lunch table dynamic shifts.

Amber cleared her throat after a few minutes of awkward silence. “I wanted to thank you again. For, you know… helping me with Todd.”

Mark gave her a sheepish smile. “No problem. He was being a jerk. Anyone would’ve stepped in.”

“No, not everyone does,” she replied softly. “But you did.”

William was practically vibrating with secondhand excitement. Oh yeah. This had all the makings of a high school slow-burn romance—and for once, it wasn’t just happening on TV. It was unfolding right next to him, live. Front-row seat, popcorn optional, smug grin included.

“It wasn’t anything big,” Mark said, shrugging with forced nonchalance. “Anybody else would’ve done the same thing.”

Amber shook her head slowly, her voice quiet. “No, they wouldn’t have. No one else did anything. It was just you two. Everyone else just stood there and watched. One of my friends even pulled out her phone and recorded it. But she didn’t say anything. Not a word. I haven’t spoken to her since.”

Mark was quiet for a moment before he spoke. “...People are complicated,” he said. “We’re social animals. We take cues from the people around us, and when something bad happens, we assume someone else will step in. That’s called the bystander effect. It sucks, but it’s real. Your friend didn’t speak up, no—but her video helped keep me from getting expelled. So… maybe she couldn’t call him out to his face. But she did something that mattered.”

Amber blinked at him, then tilted her head slightly, watching him with a new kind of curiosity. “So what makes you different, Mark Grayson?”

Mark grinned. “I’m weird. Ask William—he’ll tell you.”

“Oh, he’s deeply weird,” William jumped in, nodding solemnly. “He pours milk into the bowl before the cereal. I honestly don't even know how we’re still friends.”

Amber mock-gasped. “You’re one of those people?”

Mark raised his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, listen. I hate soggy cereal. Can’t stand it. I also hate cold milk. So I microwave the milk first, pour the cereal in after, and boom—warm, crispy, perfect breakfast.”

William looked genuinely betrayed. “The Founding Fathers did not fight for this country just so you could commit breakfast crimes against humanity.”

“Didn’t realize cereal protocol was in the Constitution,” Mark shot back with a smirk.

He was about to deliver what would surely have been a devastating rebuttal when Amber’s soft laughter cut through the air. She was smiling now—really smiling. And Mark’s eyes lingered on her just a second longer than they should have.

“You guys are hilarious,” she said, grinning as the laughter faded. Then her expression turned thoughtful. “Hey, we’ve got that geography test coming up in Mr. Smithers’ class. I was thinking… maybe we could study for it together tomorrow?”

She said we, but the glance she sent William’s way made it very clear who she was hoping would say yes.

William didn’t even hesitate. “Ah, shoot, actually I’ve got this thing tomorrow. Real important. Super time-consuming. Tragic, really. But hey—Mark should be free.”

Mark, that was the cleanest pass I’ve ever given you, William thought, mentally sending prayers to the gods of teenage romance. Do. Not. Screw. This. Up.

But Mark, ever the avatar of tragic timing, just smiled apologetically. “Sorry—I’ve got something with my dad tomorrow. Maybe we can reschedule?”

William internally facepalmed so hard he nearly gave himself a concussion. Why, Grayson? Why?! 

Then he remembered: 

Right. Government surveillance. Cultist superdad. Active investigation. Kind of a deal-breaker.

Amber looked genuinely crestfallen, disappointment written all over her face.

But William wasn’t about to let this train crash completely. 

He leaned forward with a casual grin. “You know what, Mark? That’s actually a great idea. Why don’t we swap numbers with Amber so we can reschedule later?”

Mark gave him a look—somewhere between reluctant amusement and "you traitor"—but he rattled off his number anyway. William followed suit, and Amber’s smile returned like a sunrise. 

It wasn’t a full recovery, but the moment was salvageable.

“I’ve gotta make a call,” Mark said, standing up. “Talk to you guys later?”

Sit your dumb ass down and get a date with the girl who's literally throwing signals at you like it's a baseball game and you're standing there without a mitt.

Out loud, William just flashed a thumbs-up. “For sure, man! Catch you later!”

As soon as Mark disappeared through the cafeteria doors, Amber turned toward him, all subtlety gone.

“Is Mark dating anyone?” she asked bluntly.

William sighed and rubbed his temples. “God, I wish. Maybe he’d actually get out more if he had a girlfriend.”

“So... does he just not like me? Was I weird or something?”

William shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that. Mark’s just... kind of an idiot.”

Amber raised a brow.

“I mean that affectionately,” William added quickly. “He’s smart about some things—grades, moral dilemmas, whether or not wearing a certain top is a good or bad decision—but when it comes to romance? Clueless. Completely. You’ve gotta be direct with him. Like, billboard-level obvious.”

Amber chuckled. “That explains a lot. I actually tried to blackmail Todd into apologizing to Mark and giving him my number.”

William blinked. “Wait—what?”

She waved it off like it was nothing. “Well, turns out Mark already handled that. Punched some fear into Todd or something. So now Todd just sprints the other way whenever he sees me.”

William raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “What kind of blackmail are we talking here?”

Amber shrugged, casual as anything. “Just some pictures of him ‘experimenting’ with a couple of his middle school friends. It’s not a big deal.”

William’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “Wait—Todd’s gay?”

“Technically? Curious. There’s a difference,” Amber said with a sharp look. “And please don’t tell me that suddenly makes him redeemable. He’s still a meatheaded jerk, even if he does like to kiss boys sometimes.”

“I-I didn’t say that changes anything!” William stammered. “And besides, I’m seeing someone? I’m spoken for, kinda!”

But internally? 

A little voice whispered: Could I fix him?

He quickly shook the thought away. “Anyway—back to Mark. He’s got a lot on his plate right now. His dad’s stuff is... a lot. I’d like for him to have a girlfriend—someone to talk to, someone who makes him laugh, all that mushy stuff—but I don’t think he’s in the best headspace for that right now. Another friend, though? That couldn’t hurt.”

Amber’s expression softened. “You’re a really good friend, you know that, William?”

He shrugged, hiding a small smile. “I try.”

____________________________________________

Money was everything to Henry.

It always had been, ever since his powers came in. It wasn’t about respect, or control, or putting fear in people’s eyes—it was about the zeros on the check. From the first time he’d teleported, he knew exactly how he’d use that power: not for justice, not for revenge, but for profit.

He started small—moving packages for corner crews, dealing with neighborhood dealers, lifting crates for low-rung gunrunners. But he rose fast. By the time he was twenty-three, he was ferrying cargo for major players.

Bloods. Crips. Cartels. 

He moved drugs, weapons, and even bodies when needed. He didn’t care. None of it mattered as long as the price was right.

And then Machine Head showed up.

The guy didn’t knock. Didn’t send a message. Just showed up one day, sitting in Henry’s apartment like he owned the place, sipping scotch and acting like they'd known each other for years. The offer he gave wasn’t something Henry had ever heard before.

One million dollars a month.

Just to keep him on retainer.

Deliveries. Escort jobs. Relocations across countries and continents.

No one else was offering that kind of money, not even close.

Henry didn’t ask questions. He signed on. And for five years, he moved through the world with more money than he knew what to do with. He could’ve quit three years in, retired comfortably, maybe even faded into obscurity. But the greed? That never really goes away. It just whispers louder the more you try to ignore it.

And now, for the past week, it had been screaming in his ear.

One billion dollars a year.

That was the new offer.

Same job. Better pay.

 More secrets, more risks—but a payday so big it didn’t even sound real.

And it wasn’t just the money. It was the promise. 

“Come work for me,” the new guy had texted him, “and I’ll show you things Machine Head never even dreamed of. You’ll stop babysitting gangsters and start seeing the real world—the freaks, the monsters, the hidden wars, all with a hefty check that I know he can’t match. In two hours, you’ll get a notification from your bank that shows that you’ve received your yearly salary under Machine Head. Take it as a token that I’m serious. ”

A billion dollars wasn’t just life-changing money. That was vanish off the grid money. Build your own country money. That was the kind of wealth that made seven generations of your bloodline rich without lifting a finger, even if they lived like royalty. Henry didn’t have a family—didn’t want one either—but just the idea of that kind of abundance? That level of indulgence? 

That was spiritual.

Truth was, the street life was starting to bore him. Too many shootouts, too many kidnappings, too many “make an example outta this guy” executions. And for what? A few more bricks moved? A couple more scared dealers handing over tribute?

No. He was tired. Tired of the same recycled drama, tired of being someone else’s glorified mule.

But being a government spook? That had appeal. Clean suits. Black ops missions. Jet-setting across the world with diplomatic immunity and the power to disappear people into deep-sea trenches or lava pits if they crossed the wrong line.

Now that sounded like an upgrade.

So yeah. He’d take the deal. Machine Head had been good to him, sure—but the world was bigger than a chrome-faced crime boss in a high-rise office. It was time to cash in and step up.

One billion dollars.

He could already taste it.

For now, though, he was sitting at a beat-up bus stop in the cold morning air, pretending not to care. He was dressed low-key—no five-hundred-thousand-dollar suit today, no flashy jewelry, no flashy anything. Just a hoodie, jeans, and a pair of knockoff sneakers. Couldn’t risk drawing attention.

Machine Head had eyes everywhere. Junkies, squatters, runaways—half the homeless population in Chicago worked for him. All it took was a bag of pills or a couple hundred bucks and they'd rat out their own mothers. The man didn’t trust the cloud or security cams, but he trusted desperation. Desperation was cheap, loyal, and always hungry.

According to the follow-up texts he’d gotten, the spooks were finally making their move. GDA types, government operatives. Heavy hitters. Maybe the Immortal, maybe War Woman. Someone who could walk through the meat grinder Machine Head had on payroll and come out clean on the other side. That’s why Henry—Isotope—was here: to meet with the feds, talk through the plan, and hand over the keys to the kingdom. 

By sundown, Machine Head would be in chains, and Henry would be halfway to his new life.

He heard the rustle before he saw him.

Someone dropped onto the bench beside him, broad-shouldered and stiff in a dark sweatshirt, the hood pulled low. There was something off—a familiarity in the shape of his frame, the weight of his presence.

“You the contact?” the man asked gruffly.

Wait a damn minute.

 He knew that voice.

Henry turned, eyebrows raised. “Titan? That you?”

The man tensed like he'd been slapped. He stood up fast, stone cracking along his knuckles, his body language defensive and full of warning.

“Isotope?! The fuck are you doing here?”

Henry’s grin spread slowly, like a cat catching a mouse mid-scamper. “Nah, the fuck are you doing here, Stonehenge?” he said, voice thick with mockery. “No fucking way. You flipped, didn’t you? Joined up with the feds to take down Machine Head? Tsk tsk. Naughty, Brickhead. You know what they say in our line of work—snitches get stitches.”

Titan’s jaw clenched as more stone crawled up his arms, fists now fully armored. “Not if I put you through a wall first.”

Isotope didn’t even flinch. He just leaned back lazily and raised a glowing hand, green energy pulsing across his palm. “Try your luck, pebble-boy. I’ll teleport your ass so far into orbit NASA won’t find you for decades.”

“That's enough, both of you.”

The voice cut clean through the tension like a blade. Young, sharp, and irritated.

Both men turned. Standing a few feet away was a teenager—Asian, maybe sixteen or seventeen, arms crossed, eyes cold.

Henry squinted. “Hey, kid. Fuck off. Grown-ups are talking.”

Titan didn’t take his eyes off Henry. “Go home, brat. You don’t want to get caught up in this.”

The kid didn’t flinch. His posture didn’t shift. His face remained unreadable, cold and calm, like he was deciding which of them he’d drop first if things went sideways.

“Isotope. Titan. Sit down,” he said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. “We’ve got thirty minutes to make our move.”

Henry stared at the kid, the cogs in his head turning, then let out a loud, incredulous laugh.

“Wait—hold on,” he snorted. “Are you the contact? No way. The feds are sending kids to do black ops now? Who the hell read Alexei Rider and thought, ‘yeah, that sounds like a solid government strategy’?”

“Will you shut the hell up?” Titan hissed, shooting Henry a sharp look before turning his attention to the boy. “I don’t know how I feel about this. You look barely older than my daughter.”

“Too bad,” the boy snapped, still not raising his voice. “I’m not here to soothe your feelings. I’m here to do a job. So if the two of you could stop acting like children, I could finish said job a hell of a lot faster.”

With a begrudging grunt, Titan took a seat. Henry flopped down beside him, still chuckling to himself. The kid dropped into the spot between them, now wedged between two men who could fuck him up in completely different ways—and didn’t seem remotely fazed by it.

“Alright,” the boy began briskly. “We’re short on time, so I’ll be direct. Titan—you and I are hitting Machine Head’s headquarters. We’ll neutralize his guards while the GDA locks down his systems. The GDA is offering you a clean slate: official employment, a generous salary, relocation benefits, and full coverage for your wife and daughter. A fresh start.”

Titan frowned, jaw tight. “I’ve already told you. That’s not enough for me. Machine Head ruined this city. If I’m going to fix what he broke, I need control. His empire, his people, all of it—”

“And why the hell would we let you have that?” the kid cut in, finally turning to look him in the eye. “Everything Machine Head owns—his money, his tech, his properties—it’s all being seized. There’s not going to be an empire left when we’re done. We’re cleaning this shit uo, not letting another person take over. And by the way, you seriously think we’re going to let a guy whose only power is turning into a rock play kingpin?”

Titan’s eyes narrowed, but the kid kept going, relentless.

“We’re giving you a way out. A legal one. Safe. Structured. For your family. You don’t like the terms? Fine. Walk. But don’t pretend we owe you more than that.”

Henry raised a hand lazily. “Not that I give a damn about Machine Head’s fate, but… the guy was a buffer. You do realize that, right? The only reason the Order hasn’t taken a bigger bite out of America is that they knew this territory was his. Take him off the board, and you’re basically lighting a flare for every cartel, black-market dealer, and superpowered psycho in the hemisphere.”

He wasn’t exactly an expert on the Order—no one sane was—but he knew enough to stay the hell out of their way. Every single leader in that organization was a monster, each with their own twisted specialty. And at the top of that food chain? Mr. Liu. The guy who could turn into a dragon on command. Not metaphorically—literally. Starting shit with someone like that on U.S. soil wasn’t just reckless, it was fucking suicidal.

“Let us worry about that,” the kid said flatly, his tone hard as steel. “No one’s building a fucking empire on our watch. Take the deal, or rot in prison Titan. I couldn’t care less.”

Titan gave a sharp huff of frustration but didn’t argue. He crossed his arms, simmering.

The kid turned to Isotope. “You’re going back to Machine Head like nothing happened. Act like it’s business as usual. When the fight breaks out, you teleport in his superpowered goons, and then you vanish. Leave him behind. That’s when your new gig officially starts.”

Henry raised an eyebrow, but he shrugged. “Fine by me. As long as I’m not expected to throw myself in front of a laser beam for some noble bullshit, we’re good.”

Titan scowled. “Alright, but how the hell are we supposed to even get inside? Machine Head’s building is stacked—top to bottom—with goons packing everything from AKs to grenade launchers. We’ll be dead by the fifth floor if we don’t take this seriously.”

For the first time, a grin spread across the Asian kid’s face, sharp and gleaming like a switchblade.

“You ever heard of a Fastball Special?”

__________________________________________

I fucking hate this kid.

That was the only thought running through Michaels’ head as he soared through the air at what felt like highway speeds. Wind screamed past his ears, and the city blurred below him—just before he crashed through the top-floor window of Machine Head’s high-rise like a living wrecking ball.

Glass exploded in every direction, and the next thing he knew, he was landing square on top of one of Machine Head’s goons. He heard ribs crack beneath the weight of his rock-hard body, followed by a wet, pig-like wheeze as the man crumpled beneath him.

Oops.

The rest of the room reacted about as fast as you’d expect from underpaid criminals. Five more assholes scrambled for their pistols and opened fire in a panic. Michael barely flinched. Pistol rounds were nothing. He could take a mag full of them to the chest and still keep moving. It was the anti-tank rifles he worried about—that shit would punch through even his armor if they got lucky.

He charged the first thug, delivering a punch that launched the man into the far wall with a crunch that didn’t sound survivable. The second barely had time to aim before Michaels was on him, grabbing his arm and twisting until the bone snapped like dry wood. The scream that followed was almost satisfying.

He was ready to take the rest, but he didn’t get the chance.

The kid—the one who’d launched him through the damn window in the first place—came swooping in. He looked different now, armored up in what was basically a sleek, leotard-style version of GDA gear. It made him look ridiculous. But the way he moved? There was nothing funny about that.

In a flash, the kid grabbed two of the remaining thugs by the collars and threw them hard enough that they crashed straight through Machine Head’s expensive reinforced doors, vanishing in a shower of splinters and sparks.

The last thug, trembling, squeezed off a wild shot. It struck the kid’s helmet—full coverage, matte black, no expression. The bullet pinged off the metal with a loud crack, ricocheting into the ceiling. The kid slowly turned toward him, silent.

There was no expression on that helmet. No face to read. But something about it radiated finality.

“Two choices,” the kid said coldly. “Leave with a broken arm... or leave without one. Choose.”

The man dropped his gun like it was on fire and bolted for the elevator, nearly tripping over his own feet.

Then the kid turned to Michael. “You ready for this?”

Beneath the rocky plates of his armored skin, Michaels grinned.

“Boy, I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”

Machine Head. That smug bastard had humiliated him more times than he could count. Forced him to break bones, crack skulls, and spill blood for scraps. Always under the guise of his unpaid debt. Always with that smug, modulated voice and sneering grin.

Not today.

Today, the debt gets paid back—with interest.

They walked side-by-side through the wreckage, stepping over broken furniture and shards of glass, heading straight toward Machine Head. The crime boss sat there calmly, head tilted slightly, glowing eyes unreadable behind that polished chrome mask.

Isotope stood just behind him, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised as if watching a show.

Michael narrowed his eyes beneath the layers of rocky armor shielding his face.

You better not screw us over, you teleporting two-faced son of a bitch.

Machine Head sat reclined in his absurdly expensive custom throne, chrome fingers steepled as he regarded them. His voice whirred with digitized sarcasm.

“Titan. And… who the hell are you?” he asked, tilting his metal-plated head toward the GDA operative standing next to him. “Too skinny to be Immortal. Too masculine to be War Woman. Too short to be Red Rush. You’re not a Guardian, not local enforcement, and you sure as hell aren’t Omni-Man. So seriously, who the hell are you? And more importantly, what’s the GDA doing messing with my business?”

The boy in the dark armor didn’t flinch. His voice came distorted, mechanical, like he was using some kind of vocal scrambler.

“You made it our business, Machine Head. The moment you joined the Order. That puts you on a global radar. Which means, surprise—you're under GDA jurisdiction now. We’ll be bringing you somewhere you can actually be of use.”

Machine Head groaned, actually dragging a metal hand down the smooth surface of his face. “Unbelievable. Who the hell snitched? I spent millions covering that up. Was it Embrace? Insomniac? I bet it was that smug bastard Liu. Damn it—assassination’s back on the table! I knew I should’ve gone through with it last quarter!”

Titan turned sharply to the armored boy beside him. “Wait—what?! You told me he was going to jail!”

“I never said that,” the boy replied with a nonchalant shrug. “I said his empire wouldn’t survive today. That’s not the same thing.”

Machine Head chuckled. “See, now that’s clever. You chose your words right, kid.”

Titan looked between them, increasingly unsettled. “So what—what the hell does that mean? What are you doing with him?”

“Oh, come on,” the boy said, as if it were obvious. “You think we’d waste a predictive algorithm like Machine Head’s on prison time? He’s useful; he can see the future. He’s going to work for us.”

Machine Head gave a mechanical shrug, his expression unreadable beneath polished metal. “Yeah, it’s not like I can see all the futures,” he said casually. “But I knew ol’ Rock-for-Brains here was going to betray me eventually. Didn’t think he had the guts to do it himself—and guess what? He didn’t. He brought a hero. Not just any hero—a government-trained, freshly-minted mystery man.”

His synthetic voice took on a mocking edge as he leaned forward.

“Honestly, I thought I was gonna be dealing with Fight Force. That would've been way easier. But you? Going to the government? That outcome barely cracked a three percent probability. And the GDA sending a rookie instead of a veteran?” He made a faux-impressed sound. “That brought it down to negative one-point-five percent. I love being surprised.”

Then, with deliberate slowness, Machine Head began a condescending golf clap. The echo was like a slap to the face.

“But hey—credit where it’s due. You caught me off guard. Bravo.”

The smug tone in his voice vanished as he raised one hand.

“But now it’s my turn.”

Green rings of teleportation energy spiraled to life around Isotope’s forearms, flaring brighter with each pulse. One by one, figures began materializing in the penthouse—hulking silhouettes flickering into existence like phantoms from a nightmare. Crackling weapons. Glowing eyes. Metallic footfalls. With every new arrival, Michael felt a fresh spike of dread clench his chest tighter.

Fuck.

He started counting threats like a soldier in a war zone.

Tether Tyrant? Maybe. If I can keep my distance and bait out his line, I’ve got a shot. Magmaniac? No goddamn way—his body’s too unstable and dnagerous. Furnace I can probably handle if I close the gap fast enough, but… shit—Kursk?! Kursk fights Red Rush for fun!

Then his eyes drifted toward the towering feline figure at the back—white fur, rippling muscle, gold-plated weapon gripped tightly in massive claws, and a grin sharp enough to bleed. The kind of grin that came from someone who liked what was coming next.

And I don’t even know who the fuck that guy is… but anyone smiling before a fight usually means one of two things: either they’re crazy—or they’re strong enough that being crazy doesn’t matter. Hell, probably both. 

Shit. 

I might not make it out of this one alive.

Before the spiral of panic could take him further, the kid’s voice cut through the air like a blade, calm and curious.

“Hey, quick question before we start,” he said, stretching like someone about to go for a jog—not into a deathmatch. “How’d you find him?”

He gestured casually toward the white-furred brute in the back. The lion-man didn’t speak, but his grin widened—teeth flashing in the light like polished ivory.

Machine Head leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming with synthetic boredom. “Weird thing to ask, considering you’re about to die, but sure. Why not? I’ll humor you.”

He gestured lazily toward the group.

“You remember that three-day shitshow in Chicago? When those green bastards tried turning the city into paste? Third day in, Guardians were throwing buildings at each the fuckers, chaos everywhere—and my guys found this one.” He nodded at the lion-man. “Landed in a busted little pod in the lake near my turf. Made some waves. Literally.”

Machine Head chuckled to himself.

“Figured he was worth checking out. Had Isotope port him in. Dumbass tried to rip my throat out until I offered him something better: stronger prey. Told him Earth was crawling with freaks who thought they were strong. He liked that. Guess he’s been mine ever since. That’s story time. Ready to die now?”

The kid finished his stretches and rolled his shoulders once. “Thanks. Explains why no one noticed—everyone was too busy fighting aliens to look at the lake.”

Then his tone dropped like a blade.

“Now… I’ll only say this once.”

CRACK.

A sonic boom tore through the room as every window exploded outward, glass screaming into the air. There was a flash of black and green—a blur of motion so fast it left afterimages in its wake—and then chaos.

Screams. Bones breaking. Sparks. Shattered walls.

The whole thing took less than three seconds.

When the dust settled, the kid was standing in front of Machine Head’s desk. Calm. Composed. Not even breathing hard.

Around him, the room was carnage.

Tether Tyrant lay tangled in his own tentacles, twitching. Furnace’s armor was torn open, the man inside slumped against the wall like spilled liquid fire. Kursk was embedded in the floor, smoke rising from his back. Magmaniac was—somehow—bisected, his molten torso crawling toward the shattered door.

Michael stared in horror.

The kid wiped the blood from his knuckles on the lapel of Machine Head’s pristine white suit, leaving a smearing streak across the silk.

“Surrender,” he said flatly, his voice ice-cold. “Or I bury you next.”

“How impressive.”

The voice came from the cat-man.

Gravel laced with iron—The thing’s voice wasn’t something you heard so much as felt, thrumming in your ribs like the growl of an engine.

“I’ve never seen such speed,” it said, stepping forward, the weight of him making the ground creak under his massive feet. “And such restraint. You forced them all to sleep instead of killing them. That’s discipline. You have been trained, unlike this rabble.”

He tilted his head, silver mane rippling in the breeze. “Tell me, warrior—what is your name?”

To Titan’s surprise, the boy hesitated. Just for a second. Then he turned toward the towering cat-beast and pressed a button on the side of his neck. A hiss of air escaped as the seams of his mask split open. The metal faceplate retracted with a soft click, revealing a lean jawline, a firm mouth, and a cowl that framed the upper half of his face. Green-tinted goggles glowed faintly over his eyes.

“My name…” the boy said, voice quiet but steady, “...is Invincible.”

A low, rumbling sound built in the lion-man’s throat—a satisfied growl, primal and pleased.

“Invincible,” he repeated, savoring the syllables like a predator tasting fresh blood on the air. “A bold name. I will be happy to test the truth of it.”

His massive mace slid into his hand like it had always been waiting there.

“Come then, boy,” it growled, his jagged fangs gleaming with anticipation. His voice carried the certainty of a predator, deep and thunderous. “Show me the strength of your planet. I am Battle Beast—and I will grant you a glorious death!”

Michael made the mistake of believing he had a chance.

His thoughts raced even faster than his fists: I haven’t done enough. Not for the GDA, not for my family. The kid’s done all the heavy lifting. If I can’t get Machine Head’s empire, the least I can do is prove I’m worth something. One good hit. That’s all I need.

He launched himself forward, fists coated in stone. He drove a brutal left hook into Battle Beast’s side, followed by a right cross that had once caved in a grown man’s skull like papier-mâché.

Battle Beast didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

“Adorable,” he purred.

Then came the backhand.

A blur of motion—Michael didn’t even see it. One second he was upright, the next his vision exploded into white-hot pain. His stone armor cracked and crumbled like pottery, and he flew through a concrete wall into the next room with the force of a wrecking ball. Dust and rubble rained down on him. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

Couldn’t think. 

For a full two minutes, he wondered if he were already dead.

But then the sound hit him.

The thudding impact of fists striking flesh. The snarling of two titans locked in violence. And beneath it all, a deep vibration that made the floor tremble—walls groaning, lights flickering.

He forced himself up, every muscle screaming, just in time to see Invincible.

The kid was holding his own—for now. He was bleeding from a gash above his eye, his lip split and his ribs bruised, but he didn’t back down. He charged, slamming his shoulder into Battle Beast’s chest, sending both of them crashing through another support pillar. Concrete dust filled the air like fog.

“You need to leave!” Invincible shouted mid-swing, dodging a savage claw swipe. “Now! Before we bring the whole building down!”

Then he disappeared in a blur of motion—only to reappear behind Battle Beast, latching onto the alien’s neck. His teeth sank in hard, desperate, futile.

Battle Beast let out a deep, guttural chuckle. “Oh? You’re trying to bite me?”

With terrifying ease, he reached back, seized Invincible by the throat, and slammed him to the floor. The impact cratered the concrete beneath them, the sound echoing like a bomb going off. Invincible gasped, stunned. He barely had time to cough before Battle Beast hoisted him up again—massive arms coiling around him like a bear trap.

“You call that a bite?” Battle Beast sneered. “This is how you bite.”

He sank his teeth into Invincible’s shoulder, deep—too deep. The boy’s scream wasn’t human. Blood poured from the wound, staining the creature’s fur, and still Battle Beast bit down harder, shaking him like a wolf with a carcass.

Michael—Titan—watched in stunned horror. Dust floated through the flickering lights. The room smelled like iron and ash. And in that moment, through the haze of pain and the sound of bone cracking, one thing became absolutely, terrifyingly clear:

This fight wasn’t going to end well.