I Told You, I'm Invinci-(Invincible SI) Chapter 5

He’s going to be here.

He’s going to come in, pretending to be a hero—swooping in with that smug smile, playing the savior, basking in cheers like he isn’t planning to turn this planet into a graveyard.

We should kill him. Here and now. Before the act drops and we’re too late.

Those were the thoughts hammering through the Immortal’s skull, red-hot and sharp-edged, even as his fist connected solidly with one of the Mauler Twins’ faces. The clone staggered back, crashing through a metal barrier with a guttural curse, blood spurting between his fingers as he clutched his now crooked nose.

“The hell?!” the Mauler barked, stumbling upright, only to catch a brutal gut punch that doubled him over. “What’s your problem, Immortal?!”

“You tried to assassinate the President,” Immortal said coolly, driving his knee into the clone’s face with enough force to send him sprawling again. “I’d say that warrants a little extra enthusiasm.”

The area was clear—civilians evacuated, threats contained. That meant he could work out his fury, blow by cathartic blow, with no need to pull punches.

Normally, they didn’t go too hard on the Maulers. Annoying as they were, they had a habit of crawling out of the woodwork to help when global annihilation loomed large. Like when Doc Seismic nearly triggered a supervolcano a few years back—sure, the Maulers had helped, but only because ruling a world reduced to cinders didn’t appeal to them.

But today? Today, Immortal didn’t want their cooperation. He wanted their faces broken.

Ever since Invincible had gone from glorified training dummy to someone who could press him and War Woman in a real sparring match, the pent-up tension had only built higher. The boy had improved, not just in strength, but explosively in speed and resilience. He still had gaps—his stance was too high, his guard sloppy, he didn’t utilize flight angles efficiently, and his crowd control was poor—but none of that seemed to matter when he could tank punches like a brick wall and return them twice as hard.

Hell, he even bit Red Rush during their most recent spar. Bit him. (Note to self: remind Invincible that biting in a formal bout is discouraged. Acceptable in the days of gladiators, sure, but today we have rules, and a hundred better ways to win.)

Still, the growth was undeniable. Immortal had lived a dozen lifetimes and seen warriors rise and fall, but this child? In mere days, he’d become something dangerous. Maybe—just maybe—dangerous enough to take down Omni-Man.

But right now, Immortal needed a release. And the Maulers? Tough enough to last a few rounds, dumb enough to keep coming. Perfect.

He threw a brutal right hook that sent blood flying, followed it with two gut shots that made the clone wheeze, then capped it off with an uppercut that launched him skyward before he crashed to the ground in a heap.

Yet even then, the Mauler spat blood, forced himself upright, fists clenched, growling like an animal.

Good. He wanted more. So did Immortal.

He surged forward with a roar, ready to bury the Mauler into the concrete—

But then a red-and-white blur streaked through the air like a thunderbolt.

The impact kicked up a thick plume of dust, cutting off his momentum and throwing grit into his eyes. He skidded to a halt, fists clenched, breath heavy.

And when the dust cleared?

Of course.

There he was.

Omni-Man.

Standing there like nothing, boots planted on the Mauler’s unconscious neck, hands on his hips, wearing that insufferable smirk like a crown.

“You good there, buddy?” Nolan said with mock concern, voice casual. “Saw you having a bit of trouble with this guy, thought I’d lend a hand.”

That voice.

That smile.

It took every ounce of discipline not to hurl himself at Nolan right then and there.

Because no matter how convincingly he played the part of the noble protector—Immortal knew better now.

He remembered the intel. The truth of Nolan’s mission. Why he was here, pretending to be a hero. What his plan was for the planet he had spent centuries protecting.

And he also knew that the moment Omni-Man saw that they knew? All bets were off.

He couldn’t punch him.

Not yet.

But oh, how he wanted to.

“I didn’t need your help,” he snarled, forcing the words past clenched teeth. “I had it under control.”

Omni-Man gave a light chuckle, folding his arms casually. “You say that, but the other guy dropped five minutes ago. Figured I’d save you the trouble. Not all of us have time to play hero all day, you know?”

His fists trembled at his sides. “You’re so damn arrogant.”

Nolan’s brow lifted, a note of confusion slipping into his voice. “Is… everything okay? You look angrier than I expected. Did something happen?”

Calm down. Do not lose it. Not here. Not now.

Before the tension could boil over, a gust of wind swept through the street as War Woman landed between them, mace slung casually over her shoulder, an easy smile on her lips.

“Friend Immortal’s just being grumpy because I finally bet against him in the annual charity race,” she said breezily. “Honestly, you’d think he’d be used to it after losing ten years in a row. My company can’t keep taking the hits.”

Nolan laughed—loud, genuine, and irritatingly warm. “Oh, that’s what this is about? Immortal, come on. You know it’s for charity. I’m sure if we actually raced, you’d win. Maybe. Once I’m old, feeble, and missing a leg, it’ll be a fair race.”

A savage grin crept onto his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t be so sure. I’ve got a few tricks left that might surprise you.”

Omni-Man clapped him on the shoulder with the same easy arrogance that made Immortal’s blood boil. “Looking forward to it. Can’t wait to claim my eleventh win. See you at the race, champ.”

And with that, he launched into the sky, a sonic boom trailing behind him.

Immortal stood in place, jaw tight, hands curled into fists. Only when Nolan was a speck on the horizon did War Woman finally let the smile drop.

She turned to him—and punched him hard in the shoulder.

“Ow! Damn you woman, what was that for?” he snapped, rubbing the sore spot.

“Me?” she said incredulously. “What did Cecil specifically tell you? Do. Not. Provoke. Him. Are the gears in your head finally rusting? Did you really think you could take him in a street brawl?”

He glared at her. “Don’t tell me you’re not angry too. Seeing him walk around, smiling for cameras, pretending he’s Earth’s golden boy—it makes me sick.”

“Of course it does,” she said, tone sharp but steady. “But think, Immortal. What if we’re being misled? Not by Cecil—but by this supposed precognitive source. What if we’re training this new child to kill Omni-Man for the wrong reasons?”

He blinked. “You really think Nolan might be… innocent?”

War Woman crossed her arms, her gaze drifting to where Nolan had flown. “I don’t know. But I do know there have been moments—real ones—when he’s risked everything for us. For Earth. I have my doubts, yes, but I also have memories. And they don’t vanish just because a stranger whispers ‘betrayal.’”

Immortal looked away, jaw clenched. “You think I’m just bitter. Because he took my title as the strongest.”

“I think,” she said gently, “that your pride’s always been your weakest spot. And maybe… maybe you see him as everything you used to be. Strong. Celebrated. Unquestioned.”

She turned to face him directly. “I’m not saying don’t be cautious. I’m saying don’t assume. We don’t have all the facts. And if we start treating Nolan like the enemy too early… we might just create the very threat we’re trying to stop.”

He exhaled slowly, the fire in his chest dimming—just slightly.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe.”

But in his heart, he knew that when the time came—if the time came—he would be ready to finish what no one else could.

_________________________________________________________________

Damn it all.

They’d lost—again.

And yes, fine, they usually lost. That was practically tradition by now. But this? This was humiliating. A beatdown of epic proportions. These past few years had seen their defeat rate climb higher, their escape windows shrink smaller, and their prison sentences grow longer.

Once upon a time, it had taken the entire Guardians of the Globe to bring them down. They were feared, respected, loathed.

Now?

These days, Immortal and War Woman could mop the floor with them solo while the rest of the team focused on evacuating civilians.

And Omni-Man? Don’t even get him started.

Of course, in his professional opinion, there was one very obvious reason for their streak of humiliating failures.

“This is YOUR fault!” he shouted from his cell, fists clenched as he glared through the reinforced orange glass.

Across the hallway, his clone sneered back at him, lounging like this was a vacation spa and not a high-security GDA prison.

“Oh, please,” the clone snapped. “I was up against Red Rush, War Woman, and Aquarius. Alone. No backup. And I held my ground for a solid five minutes. You? You couldn't even handle the goddamn Immortal. The man’s so ancient dust flies out of his mouth when he breathes!”

“I was fighting the Immortal!” he barked. “And Omni-Man jumped in! TWO against ONE, genius! And I held my own!”

“Held your own?” his clone scoffed. “I watched Omni-Man swat you like a mosquito. Pretty sure he was yawning while doing it, too. Face it—classic inferior clone behavior.”

“Oh, I’m the clone now?” he snapped back. “Who was the bright bulb that thought assassinating the President was a good idea, huh? Only a bootleg knockoff could come up with something that suicidal—”

“Christ above, do you two ever shut up?” said an exhausted voice from down the corridor.

Cecil Stedman approached, flanked by two GDA goons and carrying a pair of thick folders under one arm. He looked about five hours of sleep short of competent and ten seconds away from detonating something.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Crypt Keeper himself,” the clone smirked. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Delivering bedtime stories? Or just here to bless us with that beautiful mug of yours?”

“Charming, as always,” Cecil said dryly, sliding one folder into each cell’s food slot. “Here I am, bringing you the offer of a lifetime. And what do I get? B-grade roast comedy.”

The original Mauler scoffed. “What’s this? Another sad pitch to join the Guardians? I told you before—we’ll work with the Guardians the day they kneel at our feet.”

“Which they will, once we take over the world,” the clone added helpfully.

Cecil ignored the posturing. “I’m not offering you the world. But I am offering you an island.”

That shut them both up.

“…what?” they echoed in unison.

“The folders have the details,” Cecil continued, rubbing his temple. “An island, roughly the size of Manhattan, located just off the coast of Hawaii. Newly formed from the remnants of the undersea caldera Doc Seismic tried to trigger a few years back. Remember that mission? You helped stop it from going nuclear.”

They did. That had been a fun one. Giant spouts of lava and random earthquakes causing the ground to rumble as they fought the mad doctor with the Guardians. 

Good times.

“The land’s stable now. Fertile,” Cecil continued. “Fruit-bearing trees, natural springs, thriving herds of pigs, deer, rabbits—you name it. I’ve got two hundred volunteers ready to act as your ‘subjects,’ worship you, clean your toilets, whatever. More sign up daily.”

“You’re kidding,” said the original, voice low with disbelief.

“Nope. And it gets better. Half a billion dollars in initial funding for infrastructure, weaponry, research, whatever your twisted little hearts desire—as long as you occasionally build something for me. Nothing ethically horrifying,” he added with a meaningful glance. “Well, mostly nothing.”

The clone was staring now. “This is… You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack. Oh, and if you want to stay sharp, I’ll schedule monthly ‘invasions’ of the island. Friendly skirmishes. You’ll get fresh rookie heroes looking to prove themselves, sanctioned by the GDA. Spar, smash, humiliate—whatever keeps you entertained.”

“…This is bullshit,” the clone muttered. “There’s no way this is real.”

Cecil stared at them, his gaze as cold and unyielding as ever. “Then tear up the contracts,” he said, voice like gravel. “Enjoy rotting here for the next twenty life sentences you both earned. Your choice.”

The Maulers didn’t respond immediately. Instead, they scanned the documents—twice—using their genius minds, cross-referencing every clause, every signature, every embedded contract ID. And, much to their disbelief, everything seemed to check out.

It wasn’t just a real offer. It was insane.

A private island. Unlimited Wi-Fi. Air conditioning that actually worked at their enhanced body temperatures. Hot tubs scaled to their size. Heated indoor swimming pools. Statues of gold and silver carved in their likenesses scattered throughout the villa. A population of two hundred loyal servants, hand-picked to praise their genius and tend to their needs.

It was, in every way, a dream scenario. Comfort, recognition, security. They’d be fed well, supplied with rare materials, given lab space, and—best of all—left alone to tinker without interruption.

Still, experience had taught them caution.

“What’s the catch?” the original asked, folding his arms with suspicion.

“No catch,” Cecil replied with a shrug that bordered on boredom. “I want you off the streets and somewhere I can keep an eye on you. That’s it.”

He raised a hand before they could interrupt.

“There are rules, obviously. No killing the people who serve you—no matter how annoying they get. They’re being paid to worship you, not be sacrificed on a whim. You want to ‘wet your beaks’? Fine. I’ve got twenty women and five men who’ve volunteered to be concubines. Use only those who consent.”

The Maulers exchanged a glance.

“No creating radioactive devices without prior approval. No bio-engineering anything that can breed. And for the love of everything, do not create a sentient anything that might decide to question your authority and conclude humanity should be exterminated.”

“So you want us to build you a few trinkets now and then in exchange for paradise?” the original asked, incredulous.

“Essentially, yes. You stay on your island, build the weird shit you like, and I leave you alone—mostly. I’ll have a few surveillance bugs and maybe a couple of disguised agents on the island just to keep you honest, but hey… think of it as a game. A scavenger hunt. If you can find them, you’re free to disable them. Keeps things interesting.”

The clone frowned. “...My inferior duplicate and I will need time to examine this paltry proposal.”

“I’m not the clone, you are,” his counterpart snapped. “But… he’s right. We’ll need to review the specifics. Ensure you aren’t trying to trick us with hidden or buried clauses that indebt us to you like slaves.”

Cecil raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Internally, though, the Maulers had already come to an unspoken agreement.

We’re taking this damn deal.

___________________________________________________________________

Becky Duvall figured she had a pretty good life.

She had always been that girl—the quiet, intense one in school. The kind who crushed hard and fast, the kind who poured everything into the people she loved until it became suffocating. She didn’t mean to be overwhelming, but her devotion had a way of burning too hot, too fast. It scared people. Drove them off. Over time, she found herself mostly alone, resigned to the idea that maybe she just wasn’t wired for lasting connections.

Then she met Scott.

He was funny in a dry, clever sort of way, kind without being patronizing, and disarmingly smart. When she latched onto him—when her affections began to crowd the space around them—he didn’t flinch. He didn’t leave. He leaned in. He understood her, maybe because he was lonely too. His family had been reduced to just him and his sister, and he had trouble letting people in. Somehow, they fit.

From that moment on, Becky had devoted herself to him. She became his anchor. When Scott didn’t get the scholarship he needed for engineering school, she sold her car and picked up a second job. She cooked. She cleaned. She cheered him on when he came home exhausted and dead-eyed after twelve-hour shifts under a boss who thought empathy was a weakness. She did it all without complaint—until one day, Scott got the offer at the GDA, and everything changed.

When he said he wanted a family, she said she did too. Maybe she hadn’t been as enthusiastic at first—maybe the idea of motherhood still scared her more than she let on—but she trusted him, and that trust carried her through.

The point was, Becky had given Scott everything—everything—and to her joy, he had returned it all. He had delivered. Again and again. She had feared ending up like her mother—trapped in a marriage built on one-sided devotion, used and unappreciated. But Scott proved her fears wrong every day. He saw her, truly saw her, and loved her in the way she had always dreamed someone could.

Even his sister Jessica approved of them both, and Jessica didn’t like anyone.

So yes, Becky thought she had a pretty good life.

But she had no idea her husband was about to outdo himself yet again.

It was a perfectly ordinary afternoon. She’d just put Jack down for his nap and had started prepping dinner when she heard the front door open. Scott stepped inside, his face slack with disbelief, a manila folder clutched tightly under his arm like it might fly away if he let go.

Becky wiped her hands on a dish towel and stepped toward him. “Scott?” she asked gently, curious but not alarmed. “Everything all right, love?”

He blinked, as if shaken out of a trance, and focused on her. His eyes were wide—excited, almost shaken. “Yeah. Yeah, I just…” He paused and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since leaving work. “Wow. I have a lot to tell you.”

Something in his tone sent a thrill through her. Something big had happened. “Something good at work?” she asked, turning back toward the fridge. Her hands moved on instinct—carrots, tomatoes, red and green bell peppers. Soup or stew? Stew had depth, but soup was faster.

Scott needed food in him quickly, she decided. Soup it was.

As she reached for the cutting board, Jessica glanced at him again. Whatever was in that folder—whatever had him breathless, practically vibrating with nerves—it wasn’t bad. Not to her. There was something shining in his eyes. Not fear. Not doubt.

Wonder.

Something extraordinary had happened.

“Yeah, actually,” Scott said, still running a hand through his hair, the other gripping the folder like it might vanish if he let go. “So, Donald Ferguson—you know, Cecil’s right-hand guy? He called me into his office today. At first, I thought I was getting fired. You know how it is—‘come to my office’ usually means bad news, right?”

She nodded, knife paused mid-slice.

“But then…he tells me they know,” Scott said, his voice dropping, almost reverent. “About my thing. My power.”

She arched a brow. “I thought you didn’t even put it on your application. You said you didn’t think it was good enough.”

He gave a small, sheepish smile. “Yeah, well—they’re the GDA. Wouldn’t surprise me if they found some old footage of me sparking up in the backyard as a kid. They noticed. And they want to bring me in. Not just as some desk analyst. For real.”

Jessica put down the knife completely now, turning to face him. “What do you mean for real?”

He opened the folder and turned it toward her. The label read: PROJECT POWERPLEX. Inside was a full schematic—sleek red and black suit, detailed sketches with notes along the edges. Her eyes scanned it quickly, taking in the circular energy disks embedded along the arms and back, the reinforced gloves, the aerodynamic boots.

“They’re working on this suit,” Scott explained, his voice low and fast, barely able to contain himself. “It uses energy-storing disks—kind of like batteries. The idea is, when I absorb kinetic force, the suit collects and focuses that energy so I can release it in controlled bursts. Electricity, propulsion...they think I could even fly if I gather enough.”

Jessica blinked. “Wait. Are you saying…”

He nodded, grinning now, the nerves melting into awe and pride.

“They want to train me. Suit me up. Pair me with someone called Bulletproof—apparently, his powers are pretty similar to mine. They’re building a two-man team. If I say yes… I won’t just be helping the GDA from behind a screen anymore.”

Jessica stared down at the folder, at the mock-up of the suit, and then back up at her husband.

“You’d really be out there,” she said quietly. “Like…a superhero.”

Scott took a breath, then smiled wide. “Yeah. Babe… I’m going to be a superhero.”

She didn’t say anything at first, but the way her hands trembled as they reached for him said everything. She dropped her forehead to his, breathing in his excitement, his hope.

“Then I guess I better start learning how to patch up a super suit,” she murmured.

He laughed, and this time, it was full and free—like the sound of a man on the edge of something incredible.

___________________________________________________________________

“Alright, Donald. Give me some updates. I want to hear good news for once.”

Donald didn’t miss a beat. “The Mauler Twins have accepted the proposal. They'll be relocating to the island as soon as the central facility is completed—should be done in two weeks. The palace structure is nearly finished.”

“Good,” Cecil said, leaning back in his chair. “As long as they don’t blow the place up first. What else?”

“Scott Duvall has agreed to become Powerplex. Bulletproof’s also signed on with us—but he’s asking for a one-million-dollar salary, annually.”

“Done,” Cecil replied immediately. “But make sure he knows he better be worth every damn cent.”

Donald gave a brief nod and continued. “While R&D finalizes the suit, Duvall’s been enrolled in a high-intensity physical training regimen. Objective is to get him on the same athletic level as Bulletproof so his body can keep up with the demands of the suit.”

“Good. If the tech doesn’t kill him, the training will toughen him up.”

“D.A. Sinclair has accepted our terms. He’s nearly finished with the first Reaniman prototype, using the body of Corporal Adams. Progress is ahead of schedule.”

Cecil rubbed his chin. “That creepy bastard works fast. Keep a leash on him. Anything else?”

“Yes sir. I’ve contacted Robot regarding modifications to the Hammer. He’s agreed to refit the weapon with the Null Energy Core—should increase its destructive potential significantly.”

Cecil raised an eyebrow. “And what’s he asking for in return?”

“He wants permission to speak with the Mauler Twins privately. Something about a project.”

“Did he mention what kind of project?”

“No, sir. Not even a hint.”

“Of course not,” Cecil muttered. “Keep eyes on him. Robot's too damn smart for his own good, and the last thing I need is three Mauler-grade intellects working off-script.”

“Understood. Surveillance is already in place.”

“What about Machine Head?”

“We’ve confirmed sightings of Titan entering and leaving his building. Patterns suggest he’s working for him now.”

Cecil’s eyes narrowed. “Then Battle Beast is on his way.”

“Most likely. Surveillance teams are standing by for any signs of his arrival.”

“Good. From what Mark tells us, that guy could crack a mountain in half just by snarling at it. Anything from Isotope?”

“We’ve sent out a discreet offer. He’s interested but wants incentive.”

Cecil didn’t hesitate. “Offer him a billion a year, tax-free.”

Donald blinked but didn’t argue. “Yes, sir.”

“That teleporter I use costs $7.3 billion every time I press the button. If Isotope can cut that down even slightly, he pays for himself in a week.”

“Agreed. As for Tech Jacket, we haven’t been able to locate him. Mark mentioned he spends most of his time in orbit. However, a Zach Thompson was reported missing a month ago under unusual circumstances—we’ve got feelers out in case he returns.”

Cecil nodded. “Keep digging. What about Mark himself?”

“He’s doing fine in school, all things considered. However, we’ve lost all surveillance feeds from his house—cameras, audio, sensors, everything. Went dark three days ago.”

Cecil sighed. “Fantastic. Any idea how?”

“No, sir. Possibly interference, or someone found them and removed them.”

“We’ll send a crew to reinstall new surveillance gear before the week’s out. Use agents Mark won’t recognize. I want full coverage again—kitchen, hallway, bedroom, everything.”

“Yes, sir,” Donald replied crisply, already jotting the order down.

Cecil leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes closed as his mind churned.

There was something off. He could feel it—like a rattle in a machine that hadn’t broken yet, but was well on its way.

“Donald?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You notice anything strange about how Mark fights?”

Donald hesitated. “Not particularly, sir. He’s... inexperienced. Sloppy. Still relies too much on brute force over technique.”

Cecil snapped his fingers and pointed. “Exactly. That’s the problem. According to him, he’s been in the thick of it—fighting stronger enemies, surviving hopeless odds, dodging death left and right. And yet, he moves like a damn amateur in sparring. No improvisation. No developed form. Where are all the combat instincts you’d expect from someone who’s supposedly lived through hell?”

“Well, sir,” Donald said carefully, “we did confirm that Mark was lying about the ‘alternate timeline’ theory. Based on his recounting, most of those memories seemed like they came from an outside perspective, not first-hand.”

Cecil’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, that’s what bothers me.”

He stood, pacing slowly.

“You’ve noticed it, haven’t you? That’s three people he’s bitten now—Immortal, War Woman, and just this morning, Red Rush.”

Donald blinked. “Bitten, sir?”

“Bitten,” Cecil repeated flatly. “Drew blood each time. On each occasion, the next day, his performance jumped. First he took hits from Immortal and War Woman, making them somewhat even. Next day, after the respective bites? He floored them. Today, he sunk his teeth into Red Rush. Swallowed a strip of flesh like it was lunch. Now I want to know what happens next.”

“Sir…” Donald frowned. “Are you suggesting he’s…absorbing their powers somehow?”

“I’m suggesting we don’t know enough about what Mark is,” Cecil said coldly. “And I don’t like mysteries walking around with the power to level continents.”

He turned back to his desk.

“Get me blood samples from Scott Duvall and Zandale Randolph,” Cecil said, his voice low and measured. “I want to test something. If my hunch is right…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

Donald swallowed and nodded. “Understood.”

Cecil sat again, fingers drumming softly on the desk.

Mark Grayson was becoming less of a boy and more of a variable.

And variables had to be understood—or controlled.

Preferably both.