I Told You, I'm Invinci-(Invincible SI) Chapter 6

The message arrived at precisely 11:52 AM.
Wat r u doing rn?

Rudolph Conners paused mid-calibration, the micro-servo in his hand still humming faintly as he diverted a portion of his neural interface to parse the incoming text. Mark Grayson—his third unsolicited message within the hour.

He responded within 0.7 seconds through his implanted interface, directing the reply through a phone emulator he maintained for human interactions.

I am creating the tachyon sensor system for early detection of the Flaxan dimensional incursion. Additionally, I am constructing a modified Geiger array capable of identifying the residual temporal radiation emitted by their portals.
You previously described their origin dimension as existing in a state of accelerated temporal flux. If accurate, the tachyon particles should oscillate at a higher baseline frequency than our own, allowing us to predict an invasion with a lead time of approximately ten minutes.

It was imprecise, relying heavily on anecdotal intelligence provided through a secondary source—namely, Mark’s alternate timeline recollection. Nonetheless, it was sufficient. For all its subjectivity, it offered a remarkable advantage: foreknowledge. That alone warranted adaptation.

Mark’s reply came seconds later.
Don’t frgt tht to stop their weird little timebands is to use 49,000 hertz on their second atak. I dnt exactly know how u did it, but tht’s what u said.

He parsed the message immediately.
A focused sonic pulse at 49 kHz. An auditory disruption, high-frequency—potentially used to disable the temporal-stabilizing armbands the Flaxans employed. An elegant solution, if simplistic. He logged it.

Acknowledged. I will incorporate the acoustic dispersal unit into the countermeasure array.
Should you not be in class at this time?

Bro, I’m at lunch.

Your school’s timetable indicates that your lunch period ended five minutes ago. Your Algebra instructor is administering practice SAT assessments. You should be present.

Bro, don’t be such a killjoy.

Your academic performance may influence your ability to function in civilian life. You may one day choose to retire from heroics. It would be unfortunate to lack even a high school diploma.

Dude, chill, I’m like a grade A student.

Your GPA reflects a consistent C-average. Statistical analysis suggests that only 14% of students with that academic trend are admitted to top universities.

Dunt do dat.

He experienced a small amount of amusement. Mark’s informal, irreverent tone might be grating to some, but not to him. In fact, it had become... familiar.

Mark messaged frequently. He asked frivolous questions:
Had he seen Seance Dog? (No.)
Favorite film? (Rise of the Sprinting Dead—a surprisingly competent allegory about transhumanism.)
Favorite food? (Irrelevant—though he retained faint sensory memory of orange soda from before his confinement in the nutrient tank.)
What did he do for fun? (Code. Build. Read. Construct. Improve.)
Where had he traveled? (Germany. France. California. Nevada. The stratosphere. Ohio.)

Their compatibility was, at a glance, improbable. 

And yet, they aligned. 

Mark was curious. Receptive. He absorbed complex information with genuine interest, occasionally demonstrating surprising comprehension for his age. In return, Robot found himself willing to engage further—sharing details he would never have released to the Teen Team. Not to Rex. Not to Eve. 

Not to anyone.

And it raised a question. One he continued to ponder.

When Mark had offered to view him as a brother, was it merely a symbolic gesture? A reflexive human expression? Or had he meant it?

Because in all the years of his life—spent isolated in nutrient solution, encased in synthetic avatars, regarded as merely artificial intelligence or a highly advanced drone—Rudolph Conners had never possessed what could reasonably be classified as a sibling.

Until now… perhaps he did.

Can I hang out with you later this week?

The message came without preamble, casual and unassuming. And yet, it startled him more than any tactical ambush or unexpected variable in a simulation.

To hang out.

He had never hung out with anyone. The Teen Team hosted biweekly social events—typically movie nights on Tuesdays and Thursdays—but he had been disinvited from attending after multiple instances of “ruining the experience.” He did not believe this was entirely fair. The logical inconsistencies in the films warranted critique. 

For example: if one is being pursued by a homicidal individual wielding a sharp weapon, emitting constant high-volume vocalizations (i.e., “screaming”) would only serve to deplete one's oxygen reserves and increase detectability. A superior strategy would be to acquire a makeshift weapon, position oneself tactically, and engage the attacker with the intent to injure or disable them. This not only improved the chance of survival but ensured posthumous forensic evidence in the case of one’s demise.

Nevertheless, such analysis had been… poorly received.

His first instinct was to decline Mark’s invitation. Their interactions thus far—text-based communication and a brief in-person exchange—did not meet the standard criteria for establishing a close interpersonal bond. He feared that prolonged exposure might reveal his more alienating traits, which could compromise the possibility of lasting camaraderie.

But Mark did not seem deterred by his social inadequacies. In fact, Mark had even expressed mild confusion at social norms himself, albeit in less extreme degrees. He did not appear to require normalcy—only honesty, intention, and shared purpose.

It would be… agreeable, perhaps, to have someone willing to share space with him voluntarily.

That would be fine. Shall I pick you up this Friday? You possess a general understanding of Teen Team's headquarters but not the exact coordinates.

There was a pause. Then, Mark responded.

Awesome! Yeah, that’d be cool. You mind if I come in costume, tho? Had Cecil make one for me to disguise my civvie ID so I can fly around town without alerting my dad.

Rudolph considered. There were no operational drawbacks to the request. It would, in fact, provide a secure context for their meeting, minimizing outside observation.

Yes. That will be satisfactory. Now please return to class. Your grades are slightly below optimal projection.

There was a curious sensation—a dissonance in his chest cavity that was neither a warning signal nor a diagnostic failure.

It felt… like anticipation.

Not calculation. Not protocol.

Just the idea that perhaps, this Friday, he would not simply be Robot, the strategist, the builder, the silent observer.

He might just be Rudy.

And for once, that might be enough.

“Hey, Robot!” Rex called from across the room, his voice echoing faintly through the high ceilings of the Guardians’ HQ. “You done fucking with that thing yet? I need someone to keep score when I finally smoke Kate in ping pong.”

Robot did not look up from his workbench. His fingers continued their precise operations, adjusting nanoscopic circuits inside the tachyon detector. “I am currently preoccupied, Rex. I estimate forty-five minutes before this calibration cycle is completed. Additionally, given Dupli-Kate's present score of eighteen compared to your three—and acknowledging that all three of your points were indirectly facilitated by Atom Eve’s powers—I calculate your chances of victory to be less than six percent.”

A pause.

“Uh… English, please?” Rex asked.

The green lens of his drone flickered slightly, almost imperceptibly. “You will have to wait forty-five minutes for me to be done. And you will lose anyway. Because, statistically speaking, you suck at this game.”

“Hey!” Rex barked, indignant.

“Ha! Thank you, Robot!” Dupli-Kate called from across the room, flashing a grin as she adjusted her paddle.

“You are welcome, Dupli-Kate,” Robot replied, his tone even. Then, without hesitation, he added, “On a separate note, as those of us who reside here most frequently, I felt it appropriate to inform you both in advance: I intend to host a guest this Friday afternoon. A friend.”

There was a moment of silence. Then—

Rex snorted. “You? A friend? What is it—a new toaster? Are we getting a talking fridge this Friday?”

Kate promptly delivered a sharp jab to Rex’s upper arm, making him wince. “Don’t be a jerk, Rex. Robot, that’s lovely. I can’t wait to meet them.”

Robot inclined his head, almost imperceptibly. “Thank you, Kate. I believe you will find them… agreeable.”

And though he was not able to smile, not outwardly—somewhere deep within, in a place he rarely let himself acknowledge, a part of him did.

__________________________________________________________________

You know, Cecil had always understood on some level that Nolan was dangerous. He’d seen the man tear through giant monsters like paper and withstand attacks that would atomize any other person on the Guardians besides Green Ghost. But it wasn’t until Mark started breaking down the Viltrumite strength rankings that the full weight of it really hit him.

“So,” Mark said, hands folded on the table like he was presenting a school report. “At the top, you’ve got Grand Regent Thragg. If he shows up this year, we might as well just surrender.”

Cecil blinked. “That bad?”

“Worse. He’s not just a fighter, he’s the fighter. Trained from birth, probably genetically modified. I'm like... 60% sure he was bred in a lab or something. He fought me in the sun.”

Cecil raised an eyebrow. “The sun? As in... our sun? The giant glowy yellow thing that gives us light and heat?”

Mark nodded grimly. “Yeah. It took me years before I was strong enough to survive that, though. And I didn’t even win that fight alone; Robot sent me a suit so that I could survive that fight, and Allen—he’s a good guy, we’ll have to talk about him too—Allen pulled me out of the sun after it was all said and done. When my dad defected to help Earth in the other timeline, Thragg nearly killed him with one hit, and even when he got medical help, he still died. Thragg does not come to play. He killed Battle Beast, who I’m pretty sure can kill Dad.”

“That’s... encouraging,” Cecil muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “All right. So if the Grand Regent shows up, we’re toast. Who’s next? Your dad?”

Mark shook his head. “Not yet. Before Dad, we’ve got Conquest.”

“Right. I remember that name. You mentioned it once. Give me the short version.”

“Conquest is a sadistic bastard. He doesn’t care about the Viltrumite Empire or honor—he enjoys the fight. When the Empire sends Conquest, it means they’ve stopped pretending to be nice. He drags fights into cities on purpose. Collateral damage is half the fun for him.”

“Great. And what would it take to stop him?”

Mark let out a long breath, almost like he was forcing the words out. “If I had twenty Reanimen, a sound grenade with a Depth Dweller screech loaded in, and Hail Mary pumped full of enough steroids to trample a city... then maybe—maybe—it’d be even odds.”

Cecil gave him a deadpan look, eyes heavy with exhaustion. “... you know, joining the Viltrum Empire doesn’t sound that bad. Do we at least get benefits if we surrender early?”

“Noted, but no, no benefits,” Mark said dryly, offering a half-smile. “Should I keep going?”

Cecil grunted. “Might as well. Who’s after the Murderous Joyride?”

“My dad,” Mark said, tone dipping grim. “Third strongest. You already know what he did. Slaughtered the Guardians. Ragdolled me across continents. Tore through Earth’s defense grid like it was made of paper... We lost. Badly.”

Cecil rubbed his forehead like he could massage the knowledge away. “Still think there’s a chance we can rehabilitate him without a fight. You mentioned he defected to Earth’s side eventually, right?”

Mark grimaced. “Yeah. Eventually. But only after a mountain of corpses. Chicago got flattened. A cruise liner got sunk. A small mountain town got erased. Two fighter jets taken out. A train full of civilians obliterated. He used my face as a battering ram to kill people, Cecil. My face. Then he flew off to another planet, married a bug queen, had another kid... and that’s not even the weird part—that was something he told me he’d do while he was beating me half to death; replace me with a new kid.”

“Alright, alright,” Cecil muttered, waving a hand. “Redemption arc shelved. We talk him down, not up.”

“Exactly,” Mark said, nodding. “We can try, but we tread lightly. He knows Earth has changed him. But if he ever thinks he’s slipping, if he starts feeling like he’s ‘gone soft,’ he might lash out just to prove he hasn’t. And Earth will pay the price for it.”

Cecil exhaled slowly. “Fine. Who’s next?”

“General Kregg,” Mark said. “Tough guy. Missing an eye. When the Viltrumites couldn’t take Earth by force, they got creative.”

Cecil raised a brow. “What does that mean?”

“They started rebuilding their numbers. Quietly. Sent agents to mate with humans. Blend in. Kregg had, like, ten wives and a dozen kids. Eventually, he turned on the Empire—stayed on Earth for his family.”

Cecil’s voice rose. “Wait—you’re telling me we won and they still got what they wanted?!”

Mark gave him a look. One of those really? looks. “Come on, Cecil. I told you what my dad did to the Guardians. That wasn’t a fight. That was a demonstration. A warning. At the time, there were thirty Viltrumites left, ready to descend on Earth. That’s all they needed. Thirty of them could’ve split this planet like an egg, no question. So we cut a deal. Coexistence. They stay out of global affairs, and we don’t get annihilated.”

“And that actually worked?”

“For the most part,” Mark said. “They kept their word. Didn’t interfere. But when real danger came, they eventually sided with us. The weird part? My dad was harder to convince than the rest of them. Less than six months, and they all folded. My dad’s practically still loyal even after seventeen years. ”

Cecil sat back in his chair, expression distant. “So what—you want to try that deal again?”

“No,” Mark said firmly. “This time, we’re gonna be the ones holding the cards. No hiding in plain sight, and us acting like they’re invisible. No secret love children and ruining our lives in the process. If they’re coming, they come on our terms, after we’ve whooped their asses.”

Silence lingered for a few moments. Then Cecil muttered, “This is going to be a long year.”

“You have no idea.”

Cecil pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright. Next one.”

Mark’s expression turned cold. “Anissa. She’s next. We don’t negotiate with her. We don’t try to convert her. We don’t wait for her to hurt someone first. We kill her. Fast. Clean. No speeches.”

Cecil blinked. “That bad?”

“I’m not going to go into details, but just know that what she did to me was very personal, and very fucked up. There’s no redemption arc for her. Just a countdown.”

__________________________________________________________________

Back when Mark had first ventured off into the strange and often chaotic world that was kindergarten, Nolan had been... skeptical, to say the least.

"Why do human children need school?" he had asked Debbie with a furrowed brow, genuinely confused. “Wouldn’t it be more efficient to begin physical conditioning now? His body must be prepared for when his powers manifest.”

Debbie had just smiled, kissed his cheek, and told him to let her handle the education part—for now.

So, they’d come to an agreement. Debbie, with her demanding editorial job, would handle the emotional and academic side of things, while Nolan, whose “job” allowed for more flexibility—if anything serious ever happened, he could just end whatever threat he was neutralizing and fly home—would take care of the house. Cooking, cleaning, and, more importantly, discipline.

Not that Mark ever needed much. He was a good kid. Bright, kind, obedient. For the most part.

The rare times he did act out, Nolan had toyed with the idea of using the discipline methods from his own upbringing—though obviously toned down for a half-human child. Nothing extreme, of course. Just things like enforced calisthenics, long-distance runs in the cold, temperature resistance training, and bone conditioning—standard Viltrumite childhood corrections. Back on Viltrum, strength wasn’t just a virtue. It was a requirement.

That was why, by the age of two, Viltrumite children were already on hyper-caloric nutrient serums designed to rapidly develop muscle density, bone resilience, and organ function. By the age of five—when most children began to manifest their powers—they were already biologically primed to become walking weapons.

The powers acted as a multiplier, amplifying the subject’s baseline traits a hundredfold. A child who could bench-press a boulder before manifesting could shatter a mountain afterward. And the late bloomers? The ones who didn’t manifest until adolescence?

They were the monsters. Legends. Nightmares in physical form.

It was rumored Conquest had been one of those late bloomers, and he had half hoped Mark would become one of them, especially since his powers still hadn’t manifested. It was one of the reasons why he had kept Mark in sports until he hit high school.

But Mark had never needed that kind of discipline. A harsh scolding, a few groundings, and a glare were good enough to keep him in line.

Which made it all the more surprising when Nolan received a terse voicemail on his cell phone while flying back from the Caribbean (superpowered pirates trying to conquer the seas):

“Principal Winslow needs to speak with you. There’s been… an incident. Your son is at risk of expulsion.”

Expulsion.

From high school.

Nolan landed hard enough to crack the sidewalk outside the school, and five minutes later, after a quick change, he was in a cramped administrative office, sitting beside Mark. His son had his arms folded across his chest and a stormy expression on his face.

Debbie was going to kill them both—Mark first for getting expelled, then Nolan for letting it happen.

Nolan folded his hands, his tone level but edged. “Alright. Just walk me through what happened again.”

Principal Winslow, a tightly wound man with a receding hairline and a permanent air of disappointment, cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly.

“Well, it seems that Markus here had an altercation with another student—Todd Anderson. From what we've gathered, Markus struck Todd in the diaphragm, hard enough that he collapsed and began experiencing difficulty breathing. We discovered through this that Todd has asthma, something even he didn’t know. He’s currently in the infirmary, and we may need to call an ambulance. Todd’s parents are very upset, and his father is already discussing pressing charges.”

Nolan nodded slowly, as if mulling it over.

Then he turned to Mark.

“Alright,” he said flatly. “What really happened?”

Winslow frowned. “Mr. Grayson, with all due respe—”

Nolan cut him off with a raised finger and a calm stare that carried the weight of someone used to commanding attention. “You told me what you think happened, which—frankly—sounds like bullshit. Now, I want to hear what actually happened. From my son.”

Mark gave his father a wary side glance, but nodded. He let out a sigh and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Todd grabbed a girl in the hall. Amber Bennett. She told him to let go—he didn’t. Said someone told him she liked him, and that she needed to stop ‘playing hard to get.’ She tried to pull away. He held her tighter. She told him he was hurting her.”

Mark’s voice didn’t rise, didn’t shake, but there was a quiet fury simmering underneath every word.

“William and I stepped in. Told him to let her go. He called us fags, and asked us what were we going to do about it. I told him if he wasn’t a bitch, he could let her go and see what happened. So he did.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“And then he threw the first punch. I dodged, hit him once in the chest, or diaphragm, or whatever. He collapsed, and then he threw up. I pushed him onto his side so that he wouldn’t choke on his own puke. Then Mr. Goldsmith showed up and dragged us in here. Amber, William, and a bunch of others in the hallway saw everything. Someone even got it on video. I didn’t start it—I ended it.”

A heavy silence settled over the office, broken only by the dull whirring of the ceiling fan overhead. The tension in the room crackled, thick as smoke.

Principal Winslow leaned back in his chair, hands folded across his chest, expression unreadable. “Markus, violence is—”

“That’s it. I’ve heard enough,” Nolan Grayson said, voice calm but firm, turning away from his son and fixing the principal with a piercing glare.

He stepped forward deliberately, placing both hands on the edge of the desk. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Mark gets a week’s suspension. We can live with that. But if Todd’s parents decide to press charges, I’ll be more than happy to return the favor. We’ll cite the video, multiple witnesses, and the fact that their son physically grabbed a girl after she said no—which, in case you need reminding, is assault. Add in the fact that he used slurs against both my son and his friend, and we could argue hate crime. And then, of course, there’s the matter of who threw the first punch.”

Nolan didn’t even know if what he was saying was one hundred percent accurate, he was just citing a bunch of stuff he’d seen on television shows and movies. But his natural presence in addition to sounding like he knew what he was talking about made him sound more dangerous, that much he knew.

Winslow opened his mouth, looking indignant.

“If they didn’t want their kid laid out in the infirmary, maybe they should’ve taught him better manners.” Nolan’s voice dropped into something cold, almost guttural. “We’re done here.”

The principal looked like he wanted to argue, but then Nolan crossed his arms. Not threateningly—but the effect was immediate. There was something predatory in the way his eyes narrowed, a quiet fury lurking just beneath the surface.

Winslow swallowed, a bead of sweat forming at his temple. His voice wavered slightly. “W-we will accept a two-week suspension. There will be a disciplinary note on his—”

“No black mark on his record,” Nolan interrupted sharply. “Two weeks, and that’s it.”

Winslow nodded too quickly. “Yes, of course. I’ll speak with the other students and collect testimony to corroborate Markus’ account. And I’ll… I’ll reach out to Mr. and Mrs. Anderson personally to encourage them not to pursue legal action.”

Nolan gave a thin smile, not amused. “That’s what you should have done before you called me.”

He turned back to Mark. “Grab your things. Say goodbye to William. We’re leaving.”

Mark stood, casting a quick glance toward the principal, then back to his father. “Yes, sir.”

And just like that, the meeting was over. As they left, Winslow sagged behind his desk, relieved to still be in one piece.

_________________________________________________________________

“Am I in trouble?” Mark asked, his voice carried by the wind as they soared through the sky.

Nolan didn’t answer right away. The city shrank beneath them as he cradled his son in his arms, their speed blurring the edges of the buildings below. Most people wouldn’t have even been able to spot them—not unless they had satellite tracking or Cecil’s surveillance.

He finally shrugged. “I don’t see why you should be. You did what I do every day—stop the bad guy, protect the innocent, and leave the mess for someone else to sort out. Frankly, I’d rather the kid learn to control himself now than later—before someone decides the right response is a bullet.”

Mark frowned slightly. “That’s kind of dark, don’t you think?”

Nolan gave a quiet chuckle, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Maybe. But not on this planet. Not in this universe. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? Monsters crawling out of the ocean. Villains with more tech than sense. Eldritch creatures slithering through cracks in reality. Every other week, something new tries to rip this planet apart. I was sent here to bring order.”

He said it so plainly. So casually. Like saying he’d been asked to mow a neighbor’s lawn.

Nolan looked out over the horizon like he was searching for the next threat. “I’ve saved this world more times than I can count. And yet, it never stays saved. It’s like Earth has a death wish.” He sighed, then glanced at his son with a warmer expression. “But enough about that. Taking someone down in one punch? Now that’s impressive. Looks like you’re finally taking after your old man, eh?”

Mark laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not really like that. I’ve been watching a lot of boxing matches and MMA fights online. Sparring with some guys at school, too.”

Nolan perked up. “You’re getting into combat sports? That’s fantastic. You’ll do great. And I’ll be there at every match—you’ve got my word.”

As they neared the house, the wind whipping a bit gentler now, Mark turned his head to look at his father more closely. There was something cautious in his eyes.

“You really love me, don’t you?”

Nolan’s brow furrowed, the question catching him off guard. He slowed their descent, hovering just above the backyard.

Of course I do, Mark,” Nolan said, the weight of the moment settling into his voice. He slowed his pace, his gaze softening as he turned to face his son more fully. “You’re my son. My firstborn. You and your mother… you’re the first people I’ve ever called mine.”

He said the word mine deliberately, like testing something unfamiliar on his tongue.

“Not because of orders. Not because of some imperial obligation. I chose you. I chose both of you. You’re mine to protect. Mine to care for. Mine to…” His voice hitched—just slightly—before he continued, quieter now. “Mine to love.”

The word didn’t come easily. It never had. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

“Viltrum doesn’t really have the concept of personal belongings,” Nolan continued after a pause, searching for the right words. “Everything exists for the Empire. You don’t own anything. Not even yourself. Your body, your time, your strength—it’s all to serve. We don’t have keepsakes or private homes. Quarters change. Assignments change. Even the people around you change.”

Mark’s expression shifted with curiosity. “Did you have any friends on Viltrum?”

The question made Nolan falter.

“What’s with all the questions about Viltrum today?” he asked, deflecting with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Mark shrugged, unbothered. “You never talk about it. All I know is you guys have superpowers and fly around saving planets.”

Nolan exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t live with my parents. Saw them on leave sometimes, but mostly, I was raised in a training cohort. There were four of us—Vidor, Lucan, Kregg, and me. We gained our powers young, and from there, we were thrown into competition. Not play. Not teamwork. Combat, strategy, endurance drills. Thula, our mentor and my eventual sparring partner, was effective—but distant. She trained soldiers, not children.”

“Sounds lonely,” Mark murmured as they landed in the backyard, his words barely audible over the wind.

Nolan didn’t respond immediately. He opened the sliding glass door, letting the warmth of home spill into the quiet.

“It was what it needed to be,” he finally said. “Serving the Empire meant something. Still does. We fixed what others couldn't. Earthquakes. Volcanic eruptions. Rebellions. Dangerous tech gone wrong. We were the solution to problems that scared entire civilizations.”

Problems Earth would one day face. Problems he would have to solve permanently—when Mark and Debbie were gone.

But not yet.

“So I’ll tell Mom about the suspension at dinner,” Nolan said, breaking the silence. “That way she doesn’t completely lose it. I figure it’ll sound better coming from me.”

As they stepped inside, Mark grimaced. “Do we have to? Can’t this just be a guy secret?”

Nolan folded his arms, leveling him with a fatherly glare. “Your mother and I don’t keep secrets from each other, Mark. We’re open and honest with each other.”

Mark’s incredulous look was almost comical—and a little too sharp.

Nolan said nothing. There was no point in arguing—not now. Mark didn’t know the full truth. Not yet. He didn’t know what Nolan had buried beneath every calm smile and soft-spoken reassurance. And for the time being, that ignorance was a gift. A buffer. A temporary peace Nolan wasn't ready to shatter.

The earpiece in his right ear crackled suddenly, sharp with static, followed by the familiar gruff voice of Cecil, sounding both irritated and exasperated.

“Nolan, you busy?”

“A little. What’s going on?” Nolan replied, already walking toward the edge of the porch.

“We’ve got a situation in downtown Chicago,” Cecil said. “Looks like an interdimensional invasion—giant red portal in the street, green-skinned bastards pouring out with plasma rifles. Thirty-two casualties in the last five minutes. The Teen Team’s already on the ground, and the Guardians are en route, but some backup would be really fucking great right now.”

Nolan’s brow furrowed. “Wait, did you just say the Teen Team is there? Why the hell are children being deployed to an active war zone?”

If they were Viltrumite children, he wouldn’t be worried, but Earth children were very squishy, and the randomness of their powers meant that most of them were glass cannons.

“Robot picked up the dimensional energy signature a few minutes before the portal opened,” Cecil explained, his tone clipped but not defensive. “They were already starting evacuations when the first wave hit. They’ve held the line so far, but they’re outnumbered.”

Nolan sighed, already moving into the backyard. “Fine. I’ll be there soon.”

He turned back to Mark, who had come out onto the deck, drawn by the faint sounds of static and conversation.

“Alien invasion,” Nolan said with a half-shrug. “I’ll be back later. We’ll finish this talk soon, alright? Get some rest, Mayweather.”

Mark gave him a lopsided grin, one so genuine and boyish it made Nolan pause. It had been weeks since he’d seen that kind of light on his son’s face. That kind of happiness.

“Have fun saving the world, Dad. Love you.”

A beat passed. Just a second. And then Nolan smiled.

“You too, sport.”

With a controlled flex of his legs, he shot into the sky, the ground beneath his feet cracking slightly from the launch. Within seconds, he was gone, a streak across the clouds.

______________________________________________________

She had been fighting since she was twelve. In the five years since, Katherine Cha had died more times than she could count—at least five hundred, by her best estimate.

She had been stabbed through the heart, shot in the head, torn clean in half. She’d been burned alive, melted down to charred bone, frozen until her limbs shattered like glass. She had drowned in water, in concrete, in sand—and once, memorably, in a bloom of fast-growing seeds. She remembered every slash of a blade that hadn’t killed her instantly. Every bullet wound. Every instance of her skull being stomped until her brain spilled out like a cracked egg. Pain was a constant. Death was the punctuation.

Katherine Cha was only seventeen years old, and she had experienced every death imaginable. She had suffered through tortures devised by both men and monsters.

And somehow, she kept coming back.

You’d think she'd become numb to it. That eventually, her mind would dull the edges of the pain, forget the burn of flesh, the crunch of bone. In a way, she had. Her pain threshold was absurdly high—unnaturally so. She could say, with disturbing confidence, that she wouldn’t break under torture for at least two hours, even under waterboarding, bone-deep acid injections, or deliberate, precise cuts meant to prolong agony rather than end her. But there was a limit. Her nerves were still human.

Her brain still screamed when her body burned.

That was why, after five of her had been vaporized at once by one of the Flaxans’ massive laser tanks, she dropped to her knees. Her body trembled, slick with sweat, her breathing ragged. She could still feel the fire licking at her skin, still feel asphalt scraping against exposed intestines that should no longer exist. God, she hated it when her clones didn’t die right away.

Gunmen, she liked. Gunmen gave you mercy—headshots were clean. Bullet holes didn’t linger long. If she was lucky, she only had to choke on her own blood for a second or two before fading out.

But lasers? Lasers were cruel. Their heat cooked her from the inside out, boiling her blood and melting her organs. Even when death was swift, it felt slow. They always made her body die screaming.

She snapped back to the present at the sound of an inhuman snarl. Her blurred vision cleared just enough to make out a Flaxan towering above her. Its beetle-black eyes were filled with revulsion as it leveled its weapon at her head.

She froze for a fraction of a second—just long enough for instinct and training to take over.

When death is certain, divide.

One clone remains.

Two others split—one veers left, the other right. Three versions of her. Three moving targets. Let the enemy choose.

Whatever it picks, it picks wrong.

The heat lanced through them first as their sister on the floor died to a blast to the head—a searing line of agony splitting skull from spine, but they didn’t falter. Pain wasn’t an obstacle. Pain was familiar. One clone rammed her fist into the alien’s gut, doubling it over. The other crashed a right hook across its jaw, teeth and blood spraying into the air.

Don’t ever fight fair. Her instructor’s voice echoed in her mind like an old scar aching in the cold. Everyone who faces you should be facing a mob—five, six, seven of you. A hive that knows each other better than siblings.

Three more selves burst from her, surrounding another Flaxan, beating it to the ground in a blur of fists and knees and rage. She twisted limbs until joints cracked, drove her heel into sternums until the chests caved in. She broke spines, snapped necks, crushed windpipes. And every time she landed a killing blow, another version of her fell too. Burned. Blasted. Beaten.

She saw herself die—again and again—and she didn’t stop.

It was kind of morbid, realizing she had more in common with the Flaxans than she cared to admit. They came in waves, interchangeable, faceless, barely worth noticing until they were swarming you. No tactics. No flair. No grace. Just cannon fodder in armor.

Just like her.

She was a little better trained, maybe. A little more vicious. But ultimately? She was the expendable one. The hero villains could kill guilt-free. Nobody wept when Dupli-Kate died—they couldn’t even tell which one had. And her team? Her teammates didn’t mourn the deaths either. They were used to her dropping like flies, and as long as one of her stood back up, the show went on.

Rex was loving it—laughing, that wild grin on his face as he hurled supercharged coins like grenades, reveling in the mayhem now that no one had to hold back. Eve looked like a goddess of war, floating above them, raining pink energy like judgment from heaven. Her blasts vaporized weapons, her constructs impaled soldiers like spikes of divine wrath.

And Robot… Robot was terrifying. Methodical. Efficient. Unstoppable. He flowed through enemy ranks like a current around stones—silent, surgical. His metallic hands glistened red. Every strike a kill. When he lifted a fallen Flaxan rifle, he fired it with perfect aim, never missing. Every shot—clean, precise, lethal.

Teen Team was in their rhythm now. They were a symphony of violence.

But they were tiring.

Eve had landed, pink shields fizzling in and out of existence as she backed up, her expression tight with strain. Rex had taken cover behind a wrecked squad car, one roll of quarters left in his hand, breathing hard. Robot was still slicing through the crowd like the machine that he was, but the tide of Flaxan’s were never ending and slowly pushing him back—fractional, incremental, but still noticeable.

And her?

She was running on fumes.

‘Peak human’ meant she could go toe-to-toe with Olympic athletes on a good day. But in a warzone like this, ten minutes of full-contact combat was her limit. After that, her reactions dulled. Her punches softened. Her clones became slow, sluggish—targets, not threats. When they died, she felt it, and when they died tired, it hurt even more.

She was faltering.

Every breath came sharp, her muscles screaming from overuse, her vision blurring at the edges. She was bleeding time, bleeding stamina—and the relentless tide of Flaxans showed no signs of thinning. If anything, they seemed to grow more aggressive, more coordinated, each wave crashing harder than the last.

They were heroes. Titans, even. But even heroes weren’t unstoppable.

They needed to end this. Now. Either that, or retreat before this battlefield turned into a graveyard.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos. Casual. Confident. Unfamiliar.

“Well, looks like I beat the Guardians here,” the voice drawled from above. “Can’t wait to see how pissed Immortal gets when he finds out I wiped out the entire army before he even showed up.”

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked up.

There, floating effortlessly above the battlefield, framed by sunlight and smoke, was Omni-Man.

The strongest man on Earth.

Unchallenged. Undefeated. The gold standard by which all other heroes were measured. Fast enough to break the sound barrier without breaking a sweat. Strong enough to punch a kaiju into a crater. A walking nuclear deterrent who hadn’t lost a single battle in his entire career.

If the Guardians of the Globe were the pinnacle of heroism, then Omni-Man was the myth. The impossible benchmark. The dream every hero quietly reached for but knew they’d never grasp.

She almost laughed, relief blooming in her chest like a second wind.

They weren’t going to lose.

Not today.

Not with Omni-Man here.

“You kids did surprisingly well,” he said, his voice calm but edged with a note of pride. “Get the rest of the civilians out of here. I’ll take care of the rest.”

And with a deafening roar, he launched forward like a living missile, tearing through the Flaxans like paper dolls. She watched, awestruck, as he grabbed one of their massive laser tanks—easily the size of a city bus—and hurled it into another, the resulting explosion lighting up the battlefield. He made it look so easy, like tossing a trash bag into a bin. Effortless. Casual. Devastating.

Then came three thunderous impacts behind her, heavy enough to make the tarmac crack. She spun around instantly, already summoning three clones to form a defensive wall between her and the unknown threat—

Only to freeze when she recognized the figures stepping through the smoke.

War Woman. The Immortal. Martian Man.

Her mouth dropped open.

Holy shit. This is the coolest moment of my life.

War Woman smiled at her—warmly, like a commander greeting a fellow soldier. Her eyes swept the battlefield, then rested on the clone bodies scattered around.

“Well done, battle sister,” she said, nodding. “You’ve fought bravely. It’s good to see more women holding the line.”

It took everything Dupli-Kate had not to beam like a starstruck cadet.

The Immortal, meanwhile, didn't spare her so much as a glance. His focus was locked on Omni-Man, eyes narrowed.

“I told you we shouldn’t wait for Darkwing,” he muttered to War Woman as he passed. “Now we’re late, and that show-off got here first.”

Martian Man gave an amused grunt at his teammate’s irritation, then turned his attention to her.

“Red Rush, Green Ghost, Aquarius, and Darkwing are already working on evacuation,” he said, his tone calm and reassuring. “You and your team held the line admirably. Rest now, young one. You've earned it.”

And then, like the others, he lifted off and joined the fray, soaring into the chaos with practiced ease.

She just stood there for a moment, blinking.

“Wow,” she whispered to herself. “They’re so cool.”

“They are certainly admirable,” said a voice beside her.

She startled slightly. Robot stood at her side, unreadable as always. She hadn’t even noticed his approach.

Damn it. That’s the third time in the past hour someone’s gotten the drop on me. I’m slipping.

Then she caught herself.

She didn’t have to think like that anymore. This wasn’t a black ops drop zone. She wasn’t a government operative anymore. No more psych evaluations before breakfast. No more blindfolds, barking orders, or soldiers firing rubber rounds while she summoned clones in the dark just to see which ones flinched. No more missions that ended in silence, pain, and bruises that didn’t make it into the after-action report.

She could go home after this.

Home. A real one.

Rest. A hot shower. A couch she could sink into without keeping one eye on the door. Maybe even pizza. Greasy, bad-for-you, extra-cheese pizza.

One of the things she was grateful for in this new life as a superhero was that she could basically do whatever she wanted, even if it was something as small as indulging in bad food.

"Yeah, I mean, they’re the Guardians," Kate said, watching as the legendary team cut through the Flaxan army like paper. "The best of the best. That’s what everyone says, right?"

"Indeed," Robot replied, his voice calm, almost clinical, as his green optics tracked the carnage. "Dupli-Kate, do you think we could ever reach their level?"

She blinked, caught off guard by the question. “You mean, like… us? On par with the Guardians?”

Robot didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. She could feel his attention locked on her, waiting.

She frowned, arms crossing. “Eve, definitely. She’s already halfway there. And you? Maybe. You’re smart enough to stand toe-to-toe with someone like Darkwing. Strategically, at least. But me and Rex?” She shook her head. “We’re not exactly heavy hitters.”

Robot didn’t respond right away. His gaze stayed locked on the battlefield. Less than three minutes had passed, and already over half the Flaxan force was either dead or fleeing. The Guardians weren’t just winning—they were making it look effortless.

"From here on out," Robot said finally, voice low and even, "things will become… more difficult. The threats we face will escalate in scale and lethality. What we saw today was only a preview."

Kate felt her stomach twist. She didn’t like where this was going.

"So?" she asked cautiously. "What are you saying?"

He turned to her, expression unreadable behind that polished metal faceplate.

"I’m saying that if we’re going to survive—if we’re going to make a difference—we’ll need to evolve. Adapt. Some... upgrades may become necessary."

Kate stared at him, a chill running down her spine.

She wasn’t sure if he meant gear upgrades, combat training, or something more... invasive.

But from the way his mechanical voice lingered on the word, she had a feeling it wasn’t just new suits and gadgets.

And suddenly, the thought of pizza didn’t sound quite as comforting.