Project ROWDY 2-24A (Patreon)

He’d run out of excuses a while ago.

To avoid going home, at least. Whether it was out of a desire to spend more time in the place where his dad had chosen to run too or just to keep away from the place where he'd already been ordered to go to...

Well, he wasn't sure which.The healing had been his first, and it only took a few days for that one to stop being useful. By day three, he was already on his feet and by day four, he'd long recovered from any and everything the Viltrumites had put him through. Physically, at least.

Unfortunately for his sleep, the memory of the metal punching clean through his chest lasted a little longer than the actual pain. That only too a full week to get over, though. After all, he’d been gored way worse before.And by an albino Thundercat, too. 

A small purple fist batted against the collar of his tunic, a squirming purple mouth gumming at the gold trim. A thousand feet over a stretch of the Eastern Seaboard he’d flown over about half a thousand times, Mark sat there in his seat as the little baby kept chewing at the alien cloth he didn’t have a name for.He’d been at it since they hit atmosphere and Mark hadn’t bothered stopping him. 

"The young prince should be careful with that."

Mark took in a breath as he turned, eyes on the pilot’s clicking carapace as the purple space-bug looked his way. 

"It's fine. He's teething, or—" The half-Viltrumite found himself frowning, unsure if the baby actually even was. He had no idea what baby Viltrumites did at all, and teething was just a guess. And he was half-Thraxan too, which brought up even more questions. "He's fine."

"It is ceremonial."

Mark blinked down at his outfit, fighting the urge to cross his legs in the little skirt. "...Okay."

"It will be remembered as such, at least.” The pilot corrected himself, nodding at the words as they left his mandibles. “It was once worn by Grand Archon Nolan."

Great. The teenager couldn’t fight the sigh on its way out, his half-brother leaning back to paw at his chest. That’s just… 

Whatever else he was supposed to feel about that bit of news, it was definitely an especially awesome thing to learn a few short seconds before landing. He’d been walking around a whole two months getting new clothes every day and had never questioned where they got clothes shaped for humans, especially with their capital city completely wrecked. Of course these were Dads. 

At least now he had a bit more context for the way people looked at him on Thraxa. Figured it was just the Viltrumite thing.

Before Mark could sigh again, the hatch at the back of the ship slid open; wind ripping in and pulling at the loin-cloth section that hung over his skirt. Earth air rushed into the cabin; hot and humid but with a breeze to it that smelled a little like exhaust, it was the same sort of Maryland autumn afternoon aroma Mark was used to. 

One hand still on the controls, the pilot lifted another long arm.

"Goodbye, Prince Mark."

Prince. Another sigh was all he had for that, too used to all the titles and whatever else the Thraxans had layered on him. "...It's just Mark."

"Goodbye, Savior Mark."

“...yeah, okay. Thanks for the ride, Nezzero.” Mark didn’t even bother sighing again as he floated up from the seat and let the ship move forward without him. Fabric fluttered against his thighs as the wind caught him in open air, the ship already a mile ahead in a second.

He tucked the baby tighter against his chest, a forearm against the kid’s back and didn’t get so much as a scream for being a thousand feet up in the whipping wind. If anything, all he got was more of the same cooing. 

Ten weeks old and he’d already been through an attack of alien supermen and an attempt on his life so a little bit of free-fall probably didn't even rate a gasp.

By the time he looked up again, the Thraxan ship was already aimed high at an angle, thrusters burning fast as it tore out of the atmosphere; not an extra second wasted on Earth. Mark didn’t blame the guy a bit.

When you only lived about four seasons, patience was probably not a strong suit. “Alright…”His eyes aimed down below him; 695 running north with an oversized eighteen-wheeler doing about eighty in the right lane and with four police cars right after it. …yeah, they’ve got that handled.

Mark angled himself and started moving forward at a safe pace for a traveler, Baltimore’s streets unfolding out under him as peaceful as the rest of the planet seemed to be. Two months of bug faces, alien architecture and wriggly alien food he’d gone through while all of Earth had just been chugging along with no issue.Sure, he’d hoped as much — honestly, with The Boys around, he’d figured as much — but it was still a little weird to see a FedEx truck again just paused at a stop sigh. It was almost enough to make the entire trip feel like a hallucination.

A noise like a wet hinge came from his purple passenger, Mark wearing a little smile at the sound. "Welcome to your new home, little guy."

His brother.God, two months later and that didn’t feel anywhere near as weird as it did day one. Part of Mark wanted to add ‘half’ every time but he always imagined that half looked like the knife-haired Viltrumite woman before punching it in the face. 

His brother.

Under all that purple was the same blood that let Mark walk away from a knife to the chest.

And the kid had no idea of any of it.

Or what Mark had to do.

Prepare Earth for Viltrumite rule.

One Eye had told him that, right after smacking him across the face for talking back. That red bionic eye had stared down at Mark’s bleeding body with an order he probably considered as simple as any other. Get milk. Pick up stamps. Commit genocide.The General… 

Krabb?Mark simply shook his head, unsure exactly what the man had said. General Krabb had been talking to him while Mark was under like a dozen concussions, a few broken bones, and a few pints of blood missing. It had been hard to hang on to every word with all the other stuff he had going on.

Granted, most of that was trying to stay alive, but still. Other stuff…

He didn't forget the order, though. Hard to forget something like that.

The neighborhood came up under him, wide highway lines giving way to neat hedges and trimmed lawns. Mark cut speed hard enough that the tunic snapped around his legs, body on an angle toward a familiar backyard.A second later, his bare feet touched down on his own lawn and Mark walked up to the sliding back door, adjusting his grip on the baby.

He slid the door open and four faces looked back at him.

Not one.

Four.

Mom sat at the table with a half-empty mug in one hand. Surrounding her, with regular plates in front of them and regular silverware in their grips, were a trio of crayon-colored kids. Boomer had half his upper body across the table as he reached for a paper towel, Butch leaning back on two chair legs as he held a fork high in his fist and Brick…

Well, Brick was Brick.“Hi.”

Nobody moved an inch, the back door still open as Mark stood there — suddenly aware of a draft he hadn’t felt hundreds feet up — in his tunic and skirt.

The kitchen smelled like Mom's chicken and rice, paprika and garlic thick in the air with three plates full of his mother’s cooking.

Boomer's arm was still stuck out over the table.

Then all of them looked at the baby Mark was palming like a football.

"Okay…" Mark held up one hand, "so I can explai-"

Mom's chair went over backward, scraping the linoleum.

"Is that a baby?!"