I Told You, I'm Invinci-(Invincible SI) Chapter 2 (Patreon)

"Mark, get a move on!" Nolan shouted, his voice carrying through the house. "You're gonna be late!"

He was already suited up in his superhero gear. There was some kind of monster rampaging through Norway, and while the Guardians were on the case, Nolan figured they’d need him to help finish the job.

He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips as he thought about his teammates.

His friends. 

The word still felt a little foreign, especially when it came to thinking about the Guardians. On Viltrum, there were no friends—only subordinates, leaders, and the Grand Regent. But here, with the Guardians, things were different. They were more than just colleagues. They were comrades, and despite the oddness of the idea, Nolan couldn’t help but feel a genuine bond with each of them.

He liked to mess with Immortal. The guy was probably around the same strength as a low-level Viltrumite at best, but he always tried his best to outdo Nolan, especially when it came to things like races or arm-wrestling contests. Nolan would let Immortal think he had the upper hand, only to pull a little surprise boost and win at the last second. The look of disbelief that crossed Immortal’s face always cracked him up, and Nolan appreciated how the guy never backed down. He kept coming back for more.

Then there was War Woman. She was a powerhouse, and every time Nolan watched her fight, he couldn’t help but be reminded of a softer version of Thula—his old training partner back on Viltrum. War Woman had a timeless quality about her, coming from another era, but unlike Immortal, she embraced the modern world and its technology. She was sharp, beautiful, strong—and sometimes, Nolan couldn’t help but wonder if things might have gone differently if he’d met her first before Debbie.

But no. There was no point in dwelling on that. He was happy with Debbie, and he was pretty sure War Woman had her eye on Immortal anyway. They shared some history, after all.

Martian Man, on the other hand, was a little more serious when it came to his Guardian duties, which Nolan respected. At first, Nolan had been wary of whether Martian Man truly understood what a Viltrumite was, but the other alien explained that his species was roughly on the same level of technology as Earth—just a decade ahead at most. He was an isolationist species, and despite their differences, Martian Man had earned Nolan’s respect. A good guy, all things considered.

Black Samson had been a bit of a wildcard when he'd been on the team. He was always cracking jokes, though sometimes he didn’t know when to dial it back. And worse, he’d gotten involved with one of the villains—of all people, Iguana from the Lizard League. Nolan rolled his eyes at the thought. Couldn’t Samson have picked someone a bit more formidable? Someone who didn’t spend her time dressed like an animal and fighting for a band of losers?

Aquarius, though, was an interesting one. The guy had a good sense of humour, and his kingdom had some truly powerful creatures that gave Nolan a decent run for his money—though, to be fair, he’d been holding back a little. His culture was fascinating, and he always showed up with the most bizarre snacks. Nolan could never quite figure out how the guy found them, but they were always entertaining.

Red Rush, on the other hand, was a bit of an enigma. Nolan had never quite understood him, but he appreciated the man's speed. Red Rush moved through life in fast-forward, his entire existence a blur, and even though Nolan could catch up with him at top speed, the two of them still had an unspoken connection. There wasn’t much strength to Red Rush, but he’d saved Nolan’s skin countless times, helping him dodge powerful hits that would have otherwise landed.

But it was Darkwing that really confused Nolan. The man was basically just a regular civilian with a set of special tools, much like the GDA agents, but he refused to be sidelined. Darkwing was smarter than Nolan had originally given him credit for, constantly surprising him with his intellect. Nolan couldn’t help but respect the guy’s sharp mind. He saw Darkwing as an intellectual equal, though he wasn’t sure Darkwing realised it.

As much as Nolan knew it wasn’t realistic, he couldn’t help but hope that the Guardians would meet their end soon. Or at least, that they would age and die at the same time as Mark and Debbie.

The thought of having to put down his friends was a concept he didn’t even want to entertain, but it lingered in the back of his mind, haunting him nonetheless. If he ever had to face that day... it would hurt more than anything he could imagine.

"Mark! Get a move on! You're going to miss the bus, and Mom can't give you a ride! She left early for work today!" Nolan called out as he walked toward the backyard.

Even though Mark was upstairs in his room, on the second floor of the house, Nolan could hear him clearly, as if they were standing in the same room.

"Dad, can I use your hairbrush or comb?" Mark’s voice drifted down.

"Where’s your hairbrush?" Nolan called back.

"Can’t find it!" came the reply. "Can I just borrow yours?"

Nolan rolled his eyes, sighing. "Check my bathroom, second drawer to the right. Look, I’ve got to run! I’ll be home in a little while. Love you!"

"Love you too! Thanks, Dad!"

Nolan stepped outside, gazing up at the sun with a smile before launching into the air faster than most people could blink.

Ah, even after a thousand years, flying was something he would never get tired of. There was just something liberating about it—the wind in his face, the sky at his back. It was freedom in its purest form.

However, if Nolan had decided to go back inside, he would have witnessed something strange. He would have seen Mark walking into his bathroom with trembling hands, picking up Nolan’s hairbrush. His son’s fingers gripped the handle tightly as though it was something foreign to him. Nolan would have seen Mark take a few hairs from the brush, staring at them with a strange, almost reluctant expression before putting them in his mouth. He would have watched in bewilderment as Mark gagged, the hairs sticking to his throat as he choked them down with a swig of water from the tap.

It would have been completely incomprehensible to Nolan. The action was bizarre, unsettling even. And yet, what would have confused him even more was the tired, almost satisfied look that came over Mark’s face after the ordeal. It was as though he’d just achieved something monumental.

But Nolan never went back inside.

And so, he remained unaware of the strange, unsettling ritual his son had just completed.

_________________________________________________________________________

William liked to think that he knew Mark Grayson pretty well. They’d been friends for a couple of years now—good friends. The kind of friends who could sit in silence for hours, or argue about the dumbest things, like whether the new Guardians of the Globe movie was going to be better in 3D or standard.

Mark was, without question, the best friend William had ever had. He didn’t care that William liked to take care of his skin, or that he paid a little too much attention to fashion. He didn’t care when William drooled over guys or rated them on a scale of one to ten. Mark never blinked an eye at any of it.

In fact, William hadn’t even needed to come out to Mark. One day, Mark just kind of…figured it out.

“You’re into guys, right?” he asked casually, like they were talking about the weather.

William, caught off guard, had just stared, and after a very long minute, nodded.

Mark had nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah, that makes sense. Hey, you wanna catch the new Seance Dog movie? It’s in 3D.”

And that had been it. No awkwardness. No questions. No weird tension. Just acceptance.

William would never tell him, but that moment had meant more than anything. Not having to explain himself, not having to justify who he was—it had been one of the most relieving experiences of his life. Coming out to his parents had been a battle. 

Extended family? Even worse. 

But with Mark? It was like a breath of fresh air.

And maybe, just maybe, that was why William considered Mark one of the best people in his life.

Which was why, when William saw Mark on Monday morning, walking across the school courtyard wearing a baggy grey hoodie, faded blue jeans, and the ugliest, most hideous yellow boots that had ever been cursed upon human feet, he damn near had a heart attack.

Because this wasn’t Mark.

Mark didn’t do ugly boots. Mark didn’t do baggy hoodies. Mark didn’t do ‘I just rolled out of bed and threw on whatever I found on the floor’ fashion disasters.

Mark did preppy. Mark did polished. He wore sharp, ironed shirts with crisp collars, sweater vests layered over them, a sleek watch on his wrist. His hair was always neatly combed, his smile annoyingly perfect, and his whole vibe screamed “trust fund kid who had life figured out.” He was the rich, charming kid everyone loved to hate in movies. But in real life, it only made hanging around him more fun.

Defying stereotypes. The rich kid and the gay nerdy kid. Best friends.

It was their thing.

Which made today… weird.

Really weird.

William blinked as he walked up, squinting at the figure walking across the school courtyard. His steps slowed.

Mark was wearing boots. Ugly, worn-out boots. And a hoodie that looked like it had been dragged through a laundromat and lost the fight. His hair was a mess, sticking out at odd angles, and his face—God, his face. 

Pale. Drawn. Eyes red-rimmed like he hadn’t slept in days.

And even from here, William could feel it. Something was… off.

“Mark?” he called cautiously, stepping closer. “Dude, what are you wearing?”

Mark looked up slowly. His eyes widened, unfocused, and for a second, William thought maybe Mark didn’t recognize him. Then his friend blinked rapidly, as if snapping out of a trance.

“William,” Mark said, his voice scratchy and raw. “You’re… William.”

William frowned, a cautious laugh escaping him. “...Yeah. And you’re Mark Greyson. Are we done with the introductions now?”

There was something brittle about Mark’s smile. Forced. Like it was glued onto his face and might crack at any second.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I… I just got sick over the weekend,” Mark said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Really nasty cold. Still recovering.”

William didn’t buy it. Not for a second.

“Okay. Sure. That explains why you look like death warmed over,” he said, waving a hand vaguely at Mark’s appearance. “But it doesn’t explain why you’re dressed like you just rolled out of a dumpster.”

Mark flinched, glancing down at himself like he was only now realizing what he was wearing. “They were comfortable,” he muttered. His eyes darted away, and his voice dropped, guarded. “Since when do you care about my clothes?”

“Since you started dressing like a dockworker heading for his midnight shift,” William shot back, crossing his arms. “Seriously. Did your wardrobe catch fire or something?”

Mark didn’t respond. His jaw tightened.

The school bell rang, cutting through the silence like a knife. William sighed, glancing over his shoulder.

“Look, whatever. We’ll continue this at lunch,” he said, already stepping back. “See you later, alright?”

But Mark hesitated. His hands twitched at his sides.

“Uh, William?” he called, almost hesitant. Almost… afraid.

William turned. “Yeah?”

Mark shifted, uncomfortable. His fingers played with the hem of his hoodie, tugging it down. “I… I don’t know where my classes are. Can you help me find them?”

For a second, William just stared.

The words didn’t compute. Like Mark had just spoken in another language.

“You’re… sorry, what?”

Mark’s shoulders tensed. His jaw worked, but no words came out at first. He looked like a man about to bolt.

“If this is some kind of joke—”

“It’s not,” Mark cut in sharply, though his voice trembled. “Look, if you don’t want to help me, that’s fine. I’ll go to the front office, get a copy of my schedule. It’s… whatever.”

There was a hard edge under the words, but it didn’t match his expression. Mark was squirming, uncomfortable, looking anywhere but at him.

“Look, I’m not feeling too good, alright?” Mark said, voice lower now, brittle. “I just need a bit of help. That’s all.”

William stared for another second. His thoughts raced. His gut twisted.

Something was wrong.

Mark wasn’t this skittish. Wasn’t this defensive. And Mark sure as hell didn’t forget where his classes were.

But looking at his friend—really looking at him—William saw it. The exhaustion. The tension in his shoulders. The bags under his eyes.

And yeah, maybe there was a deeper story here. Maybe there were questions he wasn’t ready to ask.

But right now?

Right now, Mark looked like he was barely holding himself together.

William sighed heavily, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Calm down. I’ll help.”

Mark blinked, as if surprised by the offer.

William forced a grin. “You’re lucky we basically share the same classes. Come on, follow me.”

Mark gave a tight, grateful smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

They started walking, side by side down the hallway. And William didn’t say anything more, even though a thousand questions burned in his throat.

Because this wasn’t normal.

Because Mark didn’t forget his schedule.

And William didn’t miss things like this.

Yeah. He definitely needed to figure out what the hell was going on.

_________________________________________________________________________

So far, William had crossed drugs and alcohol off his mental list.

Mark looked like he was strung out—disheveled hair, pallid skin, dark circles under his eyes like bruises that refused to fade—but the evidence didn’t add up. The guy had aced their calculus pop quiz that morning. He hadn’t even hesitated, flipping through the questions with the kind of casual ease that only came from actually understanding the material. Same with their other classes. History tripped him up a little, but honestly, it did the same to William. Who cared what some dead guy did a hundred years ago?

Well, besides Immortal. That first costume of his had been scandalous, but hey, the man had been around for literal centuries. He probably owned stock in the concept of history.

Anyway. Mark didn’t look like he’d spent the weekend drinking or shooting up whatever the hell people shot up. Plus, William had met Mr. and Mrs. Grayson. Sure, Mr. Grayson seemed like the kind of dad who wouldn’t freak out over a sip of beer at a party, but Mrs. Grayson? She’d go nuclear if she even suspected Mark was talking about drugs. Forget disapproval—William was pretty sure she’d personally drag her son to a rehabilitation center, even if it meant chaining him to the hood of her car.

No, it wasn’t that. Which meant the mystery continued.

Lunchtime took forever to roll around. By the time the bell rang, William’s stomach felt like it was trying to chew through his ribs. He spotted Mark by their lockers and waved him over.

“Hey man, you wanna get something from the A la Carte line?” he asked, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

Their school technically served lunch, but the “free” food tasted like it had been dug out of the ground and left to rot for a few days. The A la Carte line, though? It wasn’t gourmet, but it was tolerable. Burgers, fries, pizza, vanilla milkshakes. Grease, salt, and sugar—basically everything growing teenagers weren’t supposed to eat, but craved like addicts anyway. The school got a kickback from the profits, which made it a win-win, except for their arteries.

Mark blinked at him slowly, like the question had taken longer to process than it should. “I… don’t think I brought money with me. Sorry.”

William frowned. That was another odd thing; Mark was the kind of guy who always had spare change in his pocket, ready to split lunch or cover a soda.

“It’s cool,” William said with a shrug, already reaching for his wallet. “I’ll spot you. I owe you a bunch anyway. What do you want—pizza, fries, shake?”

“I’ll have a burger,” Mark said after a pause, his voice subdued.

William chuckled as they fell into step toward the line. “With how much you eat at your job? Figured you’d be sick of them by now.”

Mark’s only response was a wry smile, something distant flickering behind his eyes. Not quite humor. Not quite sadness. Just… something.

William filed it away in his brain as another piece of the puzzle.

The A la Carte line was long, but efficient. It only took about ten minutes to shuffle to the front, grab their food, and hand over a few crumpled bills. Mark mumbled thanks, but his gaze kept drifting—out the window, to the crowd, to nowhere in particular. Like he wasn’t really here.

Okay. Definitely weird.

William scanned the lunchroom, then led them toward a corner table tucked behind the vending machines. It was secluded enough that they wouldn’t be overheard. Mark didn’t protest, just followed with that same distracted air.

They sat. William unwrapped his burger and took a massive bite, savoring the grease and salt. Mark peeled his wrapper slower, almost hesitant, before picking at the edges of the bun like he wasn’t really hungry.

More weird.

William watched him for a moment, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Alright, dude. Spill. What’s going on with you?”

Mark blinked, like the question caught him off guard. “What? Nothing.”

William gave him a look, eyebrows raised. “Seriously? Man, you’ve been acting… off. Like, really off. You barely looked awake this morning, you didn’t even touch your fries, and you forgot your schedule, which, by the way, you’ve had memorized since the first day of school. What gives?”

Mark’s fingers tightened around the edge of his tray, knuckles white against the faded plastic. For a second, William thought he wouldn’t answer. That the conversation would hit a wall, like it always did when Mark got cagey. Mark had a talent for shutting down, folding himself into silence until the words died.

But then Mark sighed. Long. Low. Like the weight of it was crushing him.

“...I found out that my dad is involved with some really shady people,” he admitted, his voice rough and low, like sandpaper dragged across his throat. “And I don’t know what to do about it.”

The words hit William like a punch. His mouth went dry.

Oh. Oh, shit.

He’d thought this was about drugs. Maybe booze. Maybe something dumb—like Mark screwing up a test or getting caught shoplifting. Not this. Not serious stuff.

“How shady are we talking?” William asked, trying to keep his voice light, even though his stomach was twisting into knots. “Like… selling a dime bag of weed behind the corner store shady?”

Mark let out a snort, humorless but sharp, like he’d been holding it in for too long. “Shadier,” he muttered, then took a bite of his burger. His hands trembled, just slightly.

William swallowed, his throat dry. “Okay… uh. Shaking down the corner store for cash shady?”

Mark shook his head. “Shadier,” he said again, voice tight.

Hot damn. William’s heart started thudding faster. This wasn’t just neighborhood trouble. This wasn’t just some sketchy guys running low-level crime. No, this was bigger.

“Dude…” William leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Gang stuff?”

Mark’s gaze flicked up, dark eyes shadowed under messy hair. He shook his head again. “Worse than that.”

Worse than gangs?

William’s pulse spiked. His brain raced through possibilities, but there wasn’t much above that. His gut twisted, heavy and sharp.

“Mafia?” he asked, almost breathless. He’d seen the movies. The heavy suits. The gold rings. The quiet whispers about people who disappeared.

But Mark shook his head again, slower this time. The look on his face was enough to chill William to the bone.

“Worse,” Mark said simply.

William’s mouth went dry. His mind skittered for an answer, but there weren’t many layers left above that. The words came out before he could stop them, low and shocked.

“...Supervillains?”

Mark nodded.

And the world tilted.

William just stared. For a second, he thought his heart had stopped. That it couldn’t handle what it had just heard. Supervillains. Not petty crime. Not thugs. Supervillains.

“Holy fuck, dude,” he breathed, hands pressing against the table. He looked around the lunchroom like someone might be listening, but nobody cared. Nobody heard. Just students laughing, eating, living their normal lives. Blissfully unaware.

“Supervillains? Wait—like supervillains supervillains?” William hissed, his pulse hammering in his throat. “Because there’s a difference, Mark. Like, there’s The Elephant, who just robs banks and looks weird, and then there’s the Lizard League. One of them is just sad, and the other is a complete psychopath.”

Mark’s expression twisted. Worn, tired, resigned. “The Lizard League is… actually a pretty perfect representation of the kind of people my dad’s… associated with.”

William’s stomach flipped. His hands went cold.

Holy. Fuck.

He’d been joking, kind of. Tossing out examples to make sense of the impossible. But that? That wasn’t just bad. That wasn’t “call the cops” bad. That was nightmare fuel.

The Lizard League wasn’t a joke. They weren’t just about robbing banks or blowing stuff up for attention. They were real villains. The kind that kidnapped random people off the street. The kind that killed for fun. The kind that didn’t leave witnesses. They recruited through violence and cult tactics. Hypnotizing people, brainwashing them, turning scared civilians into devoted followers.

And once you were in, you didn’t get out. You didn’t leave. Not alive.

“Shit. Shit.” William ran a hand through his hair, heart hammering in his chest. “Wait, is it actually the Lizard League your dad’s involved with?”

Mark shook his head, chewing through another bite of his burger. His jaw was tight, his posture wound up like a spring. “Nah. But they… they operate the same way.” He paused, looking down at his food like it held the answers. “They train people from a young age to believe that might makes right. That only those strong enough to take control deserve to have a say in how the world is run. If you’re weak, you’re nothing. If you’re strong, you deserve everything. It’s… a lifestyle. A way of thinking.”

William’s stomach twisted. He could feel his pulse in his throat, heavy and fast. “What… like some cult?”

Mark shook his head, his eyes dark and sharp. “No. Worse. It’s… systemic. Generational. People are born into it. Raised in it. And they believe it. Really believe it.” His hands tightened around his burger, knuckles going white. “Dad was sent here as a sort of… undercover spy, I guess? He’s supposed to gather intel. Watch for threats. Keep tabs on anyone who might be a problem. He feeds them information. And if he disappears, they’ll know. They’ll come looking.”

Jesus Christ. William could barely breathe. His mind spun, thoughts racing in wild, confused circles. This wasn’t just some petty villain plot. This wasn’t small-time crime.

This was huge.

It sounded like something out of a Guardians of the Globe movie. A massive, secret organization. Spies. Cult mentalities. Whole lives built around strength and power. The kind of evil that didn’t just punch holes in buildings—it punched holes in entire countries.

And Mark’s dad—Mr. Grayson. The friendly guy who waved to neighbors. Who flipped burgers on the grill at neighborhood cookouts. Who laughed with his wife and son like an average dad.

That guy… was evil.

Actually, now that William thought about it, the mustache should’ve been a dead giveaway. All the best supervillains had immaculate mustaches. Like it was some universal rule.

Who knew stereotypes could be helpful?

“Does your mom know?” William asked, his voice low, cautious.

Mark’s eyes snapped up, hard and sharp like flint. “No,” he said, voice tight. “And she’s not gonna know. Not anytime soon. Got that?”

William raised his hands in mock surrender. “Yeah, yeah, of course, man. No problem.”

He didn’t need to ask why. Some things were too painful to speak out loud.

But still… his stomach twisted. How could Mark carry that alone?

“What are you gonna do?” William asked quietly. “You going to the cops?”

Even as he said it, it sounded stupid. The cops couldn’t handle this. What were they going to do, throw handcuffs on a supervillain spy? But what else could Mark do? Who else could help?

Mark gave a hollow laugh. “Sort of. I’m leaving school ten minutes early today. There’s someone I need to talk to. Someone who knows more about… this kind of stuff. I managed to contact them last night. They’re gonna pick me up and ask me some questions.”

William frowned. “Wait. Just like that? You trust them?”

Mark’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t have a choice. They already suspect my dad, but over the years, they sort of relaxed on him. They’re the only ones who can do anything to stop or help my Dad because they have the people and the tools who can actually do something about this messed up situation.”

The words landed heavy. William could only nod. Because honestly? Yeah. That made sense. It was terrifying, but it made sense.

“What about your job?” William asked weakly, like the question would somehow pull this whole thing back to reality. To something small and simple.

Mark shot him a dry look. “Dude. I think Burgermart ranks a little lower on my list of priorities right now.”

William’s cheeks burned. “Right. Yeah. Fair.” He laughed, awkward and breathless. “Sorry. Just—trying to keep things normal, I guess.”

Mark gave a small, tired smile. “I get it.”

The words fell into silence, heavy and thick. William couldn’t stop staring at his friend. At the shadows under his eyes. At the tight lines around his mouth. Mark wasn’t just exhausted—he was scared.

And Mark didn’t scare easily.

“...So,” William said, breaking the silence. “Not that I’m not glad to figure out why you look like a zombie extra, but… why tell me? Why not keep it to yourself?”

Mark paused. He looked down at his burger again, fingers tracing idle patterns on the table. His shoulders were hunched, drawn in like he was trying to fold himself smaller.

“I guess because you’re my friend,” Mark said quietly. “And right now… you’re probably the only normal person I’m gonna talk to for a long time.”

William blinked. The words struck something deep inside him, something raw.

“I trust you,” Mark continued, his voice low but steady. “Might sound cheesy, but… you’re a good guy, William. You’re an annoying little shit sometimes,” he added, and there was the faintest glimmer of a smile, “but I know you’ve got my back.”

William swallowed hard. His throat felt tight, his chest heavier than it should’ve been.

“...That was so touching,” he said lightly, forcing a grin. “I’m gonna ignore all the mean and untrue stuff you said, just ‘cause I’m such a good friend.”

Mark chuckled, but it sounded thin. Fragile.

God, he was such a sap for emotional reveals. He hated how his eyes stung.

The bell rang, sharp and loud, cutting through the quiet tension like a blade. Mark pushed himself to his feet, grabbing his tray. William followed suit, standing a little slower.

They didn’t say much as they cleaned up. Didn’t need to.

But as they walked toward the doors, heading back to class, William glanced at his friend.

And he made a silent promise.

Whatever happens… I’ve got your back.

__________________________________________________________________________

You know how they say scents can take you back to the past? How a whiff of perfume can conjure up memories of your mom, or how the aroma of an old family dish can drag you back to lazy Sunday afternoons in your childhood?

Yeah, well, standing in the boys' bathroom of Reginald Vel Johnson High School, the only memories this place brought back were the ones he’d rather forget.

The sharp, acrid stench of stale piss clung to the air like a curse. The kind of smell that dug into your nose and refused to leave. It was the same smell from his own high school days, back when he was the scrappy kid who loved picking fights, despite knowing damn well he'd lose most of them. He could still feel the bruises from those memories.

So yeah. No nostalgic childhood flashes here. No pleasant walks down memory lane.

Just piss and pain.

"Jesus," he muttered into his earpiece, glaring down at the grimy, cracked tile floor like it had personally offended him. "Can none of these kids aim for the damn bowl? How hard is it?"

He turned his head, eyeing the door. Still no sign of the kid. His fingers tapped impatiently against his thigh.

"And where’s Grayson?" he continued, voice low, sharp. "He’s late. If he doesn’t show in two minutes, I’m gone. I’m not dying in a high school bathroom that smells like a sewer."

As interesting as last night's escapade had been, trust wasn’t exactly something he handed out. Mark Grayson had been lucky enough to get this meeting. If it wasn’t for the strange circumstances—and the even stranger questions—he wouldn’t have agreed at all. This could be a trap. Some play. Some setup.

And he hadn’t survived this long just to end his life in a piss-soaked restroom, waiting for a teenager who might be a traitor.

"Actually, sir," Donald's voice crackled in his ear, calm and efficient, "the clock in Mark Grayson’s classroom is one minute and ten seconds behind."

There was a pause, then:

"He should be there right about now, actually."

He rolled his eyes, scanning the bathroom one more time. Faded tiles. A sink that looked like it’d spit rust if you so much as turned the tap. An old radiator hissing in the corner. Lovely place for a clandestine meeting.

Any second now.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. The door creaked open, hesitant, as though even it didn’t want to be here. Mark Grayson stepped in, glancing around the dingy restroom like a skittish animal stepping into a trap.

He looked rough. Worse than rough. His shoulders were hunched, his skin pale under the harsh fluorescent lights. Dark circles framed his eyes, and his lips were pressed into a tight, nervous line.

Good. He should be nervous.

Mark’s gaze swept the room, landing on him. For a second, neither of them spoke. The silence was thick, heavy with expectation.

Then Mark shut the door behind him with a soft click, leaning against it like it might hold him up.

"You came," Mark said quietly, his voice rough. Tired.

He scoffed, his mouth curling into a wry smirk. "I don’t make a habit of standing around in school bathrooms for fun, kid."

Mark’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t really a smile. More like a grim acknowledgment—an understanding that neither of them wanted to be here, but the world didn’t always care about preferences.

“I’m sorry," Mark muttered, voice low and cautious. "I just… I kinda expected you to send someone else. An agent or something. Not… yourself. Isn’t that risky?”

Cecil’s eyes narrowed slightly, though the smirk never faded. "When the son of the strongest superhero on Earth starts lighting up the internet like a fireworks display, trying to get everyone’s attention except his superhero dad’s, it kinda makes me want to see what I’m dealing with in person. Especially when that son’s talking about people that should be ghosts."

He let the words hang in the air for a moment, watching the weight of them settle onto Mark’s shoulders.

"Plus," Cecil continued, stepping closer, lowering his voice, "I’d really like to know how you know the names of all those people you typed about."

Mark’s jaw tightened. He didn’t flinch, but there was something guarded in his eyes. Something resigned.

"I’ll tell you," Mark said finally. "I’ve got a three-hour shift at work tonight—well, I was supposed to, anyway. My mom and dad will think that’s where I am after school. So we’ve got three hours. You can wring as much info out of me as you can."

Cecil’s brow arched slightly. Hmph. Well, at least the kid understood how to play the game. A good start.

"Smart." Cecil’s voice was low, approving. He pulled out his earpiece, tapping it once. "Send us in, Donald."

Technically, he didn’t have to speak the words. The small, discreet implant behind his ear did most of the work. It was a neat little piece of tech, directly interfacing with his neural impulses—one of the perks of being in the GDA’s inner circle. All it took was a thought to activate the teleporter.

But the kid didn’t need to know that.

Mark barely had time to react before Cecil’s hand clamped down on his shoulder. The grip was firm, steady—just enough pressure to remind Mark who was in control.

And then the world disintegrated.

It wasn’t like movies, where teleportation was all flashy lights and smooth transitions. It was violent. It was disorienting. It was like being pulled apart piece by piece, like his body was a puzzle that someone had just scattered across the cosmos and then tried to put back together without looking at the picture.

Mark stumbled as they rematerialized, his knees buckling slightly, but Cecil didn’t give him time to recover. He stepped back, letting Mark take in his surroundings.

The White Room.

Mark’s eyes went wide, his breath catching in his throat. The walls were pristine, seemingly untouched by time or wear. Perfectly blank. Perfectly sterile. The kind of place that made you feel like even your thoughts were being scrubbed clean.

Cecil watched Mark take it in, watched the awe flicker across his face.

“Holy shit,” Mark breathed, his voice barely a whisper. “This is the White Room. The White Room.”

The excitement was almost enough to mask his fear.

Almost.

Mark looked around, his gaze flicking across the sterile white surfaces. His hand came up, brushing through the air as if trying to find the edges of the room itself.

"Hey, is it really the fluoride in America’s water that keeps people from seeing everything in here?" Mark asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. "Like, would someone from outside the U.S. be able to see it?"

Cecil allowed a thin smile. Smart question. Too smart for a kid who should be keeping his head down. Too smart for someone his age.

Too smart for someone who shouldn’t even know this goddamn room even existed.

"Yeah, it’s the chemicals in the water," Cecil replied evenly. "And technically, yes. Someone from outside the U.S. could see what’s in here. But everyone drinks something. Water. Milk. Juice. The compounds find their way in eventually. Nobody's immune for long."

Mark nodded, still looking around, still fascinated, but his eyes were cautious now. Like he knew that this room, this whole experience, wasn’t just for show. It was a test.

From Mark’s perspective, the room was unsettling in its simplicity. An endless stretch of sterile white walls, floor, and ceiling, all without shadow or texture, as if the room itself had been plucked out of existence and placed in some infinite void. In the center, two unassuming chairs stood side by side, their stark presence the only interruption to the room’s oppressive emptiness. It was the kind of place that felt wrong, like it wasn’t meant for people to exist in, but for secrets to be buried.

But from Cecil’s perspective, it was anything but empty.

His high-tech contact lenses painted a very different picture. The lenses—experimental GDA tech, sleek and almost undetectable—didn’t grant him superhuman sight, much to his irritation. No zoom, no night vision, no thermal optics. What they did offer, however, was access to one of the most secure layers of the GDA’s defense systems.

It let him see the soldiers.

They lined the walls, shoulder to shoulder, clad in black tactical armor. Silent. Still. Invisible to Mark. Every man and woman armed with next-gen energy rifles, their barrels sleek and humming with restrained power, pointed directly at Mark’s head. Invisible lasers marked his skull, a dozen kill-shots ready to fire at the first sign of aggression.

The GDA wasn’t big on second chances.

Mark didn’t know. He couldn’t know. That was the whole point. The chemicals in the water, the subtle traces in milk and juice, had done their job—masking the soldiers, hiding them in plain sight. To Mark, it looked like he and Cecil were alone in the world’s most clinical interrogation room. To Cecil, it looked like they were standing in a kill zone.

Because that’s what the White Room was. Not just an interrogation chamber. Not just a place to ask polite questions and jot down answers. It was the GDA’s last line of defense. A place where threats were dissected. Controlled. Neutralized.

Cecil didn’t take his eyes off Mark. Didn’t let the smallest twitch or breath escape his notice.

Because if Mark Grayson so much as flinched wrong, the White Room would ensure that the only thing left of him would be ash.

He’d figure out what to tell Nolan later.

"So," Cecil said, stepping back and motioning to one of the two chairs. "Sit. Let’s not waste time."

Mark hesitated, just for a moment, then crossed the sterile white expanse of the room. He dropped into the chair opposite Cecil with the kind of heavy, uncomfortable thud that said more than words ever could. It was the sound of someone carrying the weight of too much on their shoulders. Someone who didn’t know where to start.

Cecil watched him, eyes sharp, leaning back into the chair with a posture that screamed calm and casual—though it was a lie. He wasn’t calm. He wasn’t casual. Every muscle in his body was tensed, alert. Every inch of his attention honed in on Mark. Years of dealing with dangerous men, with monsters disguised as allies, had taught him how to read more than just words. It was the little things that mattered—the twitch of a muscle, the dart of a gaze, a swallow that came half a second too late.

He saw everything.

"So," Cecil said, clasping his hands in his lap, voice cool and controlled. "Let’s start from the top. How’d you learn about the names?"

Mark let out a huff of air. Not quite a sigh, not quite an exhale. More like a breath meant to push down nerves, to bury fear. His fingers fidgeted on his tray, knuckles white from tension.

“To explain that… we have to get into some stuff that sounds… weird.” His voice was low, uncertain. “Everything I’m about to say is going to sound strange and unbelievable but please, let me finish talking before you decide whether or not I’m insane.”

Cecil didn’t blink. “Kid, weird is my day job. I deal with aliens, gods, monsters, and more interdimensional threats than I can count. Hit me with it. Don’t leave anything out.”

Mark hesitated again, swallowing hard. He took a deep breath, as though preparing for impact, and finally said:

“Two nights ago, I woke up with… memories. New ones. Of me, but… not.” He looked up, his eyes dark and conflicted. “A version of me that had powers. Superpowers. I was a hero. Called Invincible. I had all of my dad’s powers—flight, strength, speed. All of it. Just… on a smaller scale.”

He paused, studying Cecil for a reaction, but the man gave none. Just a slow, subtle nod for him to continue.

“But in that… I guess the best thing to call it is an alternate timeline? In that timeline, things went bad. Really bad. From the day I got my powers.”

"Bad how?" Cecil asked, keeping his voice flat, even as his mind raced. Alternate timelines? Versions of himself? It sounded like bullshit. Something a kid made up after binge-watching too many sci-fi movies. But then again… They’d dealt with stranger. Aliens. Interdimensional warlords. Hell, one of their top heroes was a goddamn Martian.

This wasn’t even in the top ten of weirdest things he’d heard.

Mark's next words, though, wiped the amusement from Cecil’s mind.

“My dad killed the Guardians of the Globe.”

The words hit like a hammer. And for a moment, Cecil didn’t process it. It didn’t click. It couldn’t. Because Mark had just told him that Nolan Grayson—Omni-Man, Earth’s greatest hero, his friend—had slaughtered the world’s most powerful protectors.

And Mark said it like it was a fact. Like it was a truth carved into stone.

Cecil’s voice was quieter when he asked, "Why?"

Mark didn’t hesitate. “To weaken Earth. For the Viltrum Empire.”

Cecil felt the breath leave his body. It was instinctive, how quickly his mind tried to reject the idea. Nolan? Nolan, who had fought beside them, who had saved the world countless times? Who’d stood by the Guardians and risked his life on multiple occasions to help innocents?

He wanted to dismiss it. Wanted to scoff and shake his head. But he didn’t. He listened.

Because sometimes the worst truths came from the people you trusted most.

“My dad lied to you,” Mark said, voice steady. “There is no such thing as the World Betterment Committee. The Viltrumites… they’re a warrior race. Conquerors. They take over planets, strip it of all the resources they can get, and usually either kill the current inhabitants or enslave them. A long time ago, after a disease called the Scourge Virus wiped out a huge chunk of their population, they decided only the strongest deserved to survive. They culled half of their own people—wiped them out to strengthen the gene pool. And now there’s only around fifty pureblooded Viltrumites left.”

Cecil clenched his jaw, but said nothing. He needed more.

“In that other timeline, my dad… seeing my powers manifest triggered something in him. He realized it was time to finish his mission. The mission Viltrum gave him.”

Cecil’s stomach twisted. “What mission?”

Mark didn’t blink. “To subjugate Earth. Make it ready for Viltrum’s invasion. Earth is… we’re a nursery, Cecil. Our genes mix well with theirs. Viltrumite genes are dominant—they overpower everything else. I’m proof of that. In that timeline, I was a half-Viltrumite, but I could fight on par with the pureblooded ones, and other Human-Viltrumite kids were able to do the same. Plus, Human-Viltrumite kids seem to be the strongest kind of Viltrumite hybrid. As soon as the Viltrumites figure that out, they’re going to conquer Earth by any means necessary.”

Cecil didn't breathe for a moment, his body as still as stone. His fingers laced together, and he stared at the kid sitting across from him. The White Room felt colder now. Heavier. The air itself seemed to weigh down on his shoulders. The silence between them wasn’t just silence—it was a statement, thick and suffocating.

Mark’s words didn’t sound like paranoid delusions. They sounded like dark, ugly truths that slotted into place, like the final pieces of a puzzle Cecil hadn’t wanted to solve.

He had seen Nolan’s power firsthand. Had watched him split mountains with a good punch, tear through threats that would cripple any other hero. And he had always wondered—always questioned—what why Nolan was so good at fighting. How he learned to be so ruthless.Why it took so long for him to grasp things like mercy and due process.

And what would happen if Nolan ever decided to use his monstrous strength against the world.

Now, he knew.

Just like how he’d known the World Betterment Committee was bullshit from the beginning. He’d known that Nolan was lying. But over the years, with Nolan showing unquestioning loyalty and even starting a family on Earth, he’d figured that whatever shadowy mission his planet had given him, he’d been turned into an agent for Earth.

Apparently, he was a fucking idiot for believing that.

Cecil exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. “So… what you’re saying is that Earth isn’t just a target. It’s a farm. A potential breeding ground. A stockpile for their war machine.”

Mark nodded, his expression grim. “Yeah. If they conquer Earth, they don’t just get another planet. They get an entire generation of warriors. Stronger than they could ever breed anywhere else in the galaxy, probably. And we’re just… cattle to them. Breeding stock. Resources.”

Cecil’s jaw clenched, his mind whirling. The implications were monstrous. “And Nolan?”

“In that timeline?” Mark’s voice was flat, almost dead. “He didn’t hesitate. He killed the Guardians of the Globe first. Took them out fast. Because they were the only ones strong enough to stop him. They actually put him in the ICU for a week or so, I think. And after that, it was just… slaughter. He told me I was supposed to help him. That I was meant to lead with him. To take Earth. To rule it.”

Cecil’s stomach twisted. “And what did you do?”

Mark’s mouth pulled into a humorless smile. “I fought him. I tried. But I wasn’t strong enough. I was nothing compared to him. He—” Mark’s voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “He used me as a weapon. Slammed me through buildings. Smashed my face into the ground. Into people. Into cities. We ended up destroying Chicago in our fight. He—he used me to kill people. I couldn’t stop him. All that strength that I had, and he just wiped the floor with me. ”

For a moment, Mark looked so much older than his years. Tired. Hollow. 

“I think… I think something held him back. Not enough to stop what he did, but enough that, in the end, he left before he actually ended up killing me. Flew off into space and disappeared for six months. I think Earth changed him. Or maybe it reminded him of what he didn’t have. Viltrumites… they don’t have love. Or family. They have orders. They have strength. And they survive by crushing everything weaker than them.”

Mark’s eyes darkened, distant. “But that wasn’t enough for him. Not anymore. When he left Earth, he went to another planet and had another kid, and made another family. I think once he had a taste of it, he just couldn’t let it go; the idea of having people love you, care for you, and caring for them in turn.”

Cecil’s fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair. His mind processed the information, grinding through every detail. Every implication. “And the others? You said there were fifty left?”

Mark nodded. “Yeah. And they're scattered, fighting a war they can’t afford to lose.It sounds like a decent portion of the galaxy is dedicated to wiping them out. That’s why Earth matters so much. We can give them numbers. Strength. They can rebuild their Empire from scratch, and all they have to do is conquer the planet.”

Cecil felt the weight of the world settle onto his shoulders. Fifty of them. Each as dangerous as Nolan—maybe worse, from what Mark was saying. And if Earth fell, if they took what they wanted…

It wouldn’t be just the end of Earth. It would be the end of everything.

“And Omni-Man? If this is true, and he’s here to start that invasion…” Cecil trailed off, his jaw tight.

Mark looked down at his hands, his knuckles white. “I don’t know. I don’t think he’s made up his mind yet. In that other life, it was my powers that made him choose. Maybe because I was his first success, and proof that humans were good hosts for Viltrumite powers? Maybe because it meant his mission could actually begin? But here, I don’t think he’s decided. He might be waiting until my mom and me die. But I really think he can be convinced to help defend Earth. We just can’t let him get the upper hand this time.”

“And if he decides to side with Viltrum, like he did in the alternate timeline?” Cecil asked quietly.

Mark’s eyes were haunted. “Then a lot of people are going to die in very nasty ways.”

The words rang in the silence like a bell.

Cecil looked away, his mind already working. Plans within plans. Strategies and countermeasures. He’d thought Nolan was the key to Earth’s safety. That as long as Omni-Man stood with them, nothing could touch this planet. But now…

Now, he realized Nolan was the greatest threat of them all.

And worse still—there were fifty more just like him, waiting in the dark.

Cecil rubbed his temples, the beginning of a headache already pressing behind his eyes. “Why not side with your dad? Why tell me at all?”

Mark hesitated. “I don’t understand why, but he decided to raise me as a human, not as a Viltrumite. I didn’t have any connections to Viltrum beforehand, and thanks to those memories, the few connections I do have aren’t any good. This is my home, and I won’t let anyone destroy it.”

There was no fear in Mark’s voice. Only grim certainty.

And it was that certainty that struck Cecil hardest. Mark wasn’t speculating. He wasn’t afraid that Nolan might choose the wrong path.

He was expecting it.

Cecil let the silence stretch between them before finally nodding. “Alright. Let’s start figuring out how to kill your dad.”

__________________________________________________________________________

Thankfully, according to Mark, they weren’t completely screwed. Earth actually had some decent defenses against the Viltrumites, and Mark already had some in reserve.

“War Woman and the Immortal were the only ones to really put my dad on the back foot and give him serious injuries,” Mark said, his voice low but steady. “They were the last two standing when the Guardians fought. Red Rush was able to save the other Guardians at first, and he was fast enough to blitz my dad when the others were fighting. He bruised my dad and made him cough up blood when he hit him at superspeed before Dad, well, you know—”

“Murdered him?” Cecil asked flatly.

Mark nodded sheepishly. “Yeah.”

Cecil didn’t flinch. The fact that Nolan had been pushed to bleed meant something. Maybe not much, but it meant that Nolan wasn’t invincible. Not completely.

Mark continued. “Uh, you guys also have this thing called the Hammer, a sort of satellite gun thing? It only gave him a nosebleed, but it still knocked him down for a sec.”

Cecil filed that away. The Hammer was designed for orbital strikes against high-threat targets. If it had made Nolan bleed, it meant it worked—just not well enough. But that single second of vulnerability could mean the difference between victory and annihilation.

“Aquarius is the king of the ocean, right?” Mark asked.

“Atlantis, but close enough.”

Mark nodded quickly. “He has some kind of giant monster chained in his kingdom called a Depth Dweller? Its screech does something to mess with a Viltrumite’s inner ear—basically paralyzes them. I had to fight it after Dad killed Aquarius, and it hurt me pretty badly. You made a recording of it or something like that afterward.”

Cecil blinked. So Aquarius just has Kaiju capable of hurting people like Nolan in his backyard and just neglected to tell anyone that? Awesome.

Mark pushed on. “Uh, there’s this kid, D.A. Sinclair! He goes to Upstate University. Total psychopath, but he made these things called ReAnimen that messed me up and annoyed Dad.”

Cecil raised an eyebrow. “Annoyed him?”

Mark nodded. “Well, he killed them like a few minutes later, but when they were working together, they were able to beat him down into a crater.”

“And you said he’s a college kid?” Cecil asked, barely hiding his disbelief. A college kid making weapons that could stagger Nolan? That was seriously fucking impressive.

And dangerous.

Mark nodded eagerly. “Yeah. Uh, please bring him in as soon as possible, because he’s experimenting on living people when he could just use dead bodies to make ReAnimen.”

Cecil’s lips thinned. Another psychopath villain.

 “Noted.”

“Awesome, awesome,” Mark said, his words tumbling over themselves. “Uh, what else, what else… the Mauler Twins made some kind of nerve gun that paralyzed me? I fought it off after a bit, but it put me on my ass.”

Cecil’s eyes narrowed. A nerve weapon that could immobilize a superpowered version of Mark? That was something he needed to track down. He’d make the Maulers an offer, the next time they got beat up by the Guardians and thrown into jail.

Mark’s hands were already gesturing again, his voice urgent. “There’s also—holy shit, I forgot. There’s a guy who’s coming to Earth soon who can actually rip apart a Viltrumite with his bare fucking hands!”

That made Cecil’s heart thud. Finally. That was the kind of information he wanted—real firepower. Not a collection of half-measures. A weapon.

“Who?” he asked sharply.

“Battle Beast!” Mark said, eyes bright with intensity. “Machine Head hired him—I don’t know how, considering the guy’s an actual alien—but he absolutely fucked me up. I had to go to surgery and everything. But when he and my dad were in Viltrumite prison, Battle Beast fought in space and ripped apart one of the Viltrumite executioners.”

Cecil froze, processing that. Nolan went to Viltrumite prison? What the hell for? And if Battle Beast could kill a Viltrumite in space, which he basically figured was their playground as a spacefaring race, that wasn’t just power. That was experience and ruthless, precise strength.

But one thing mattered more than anything else.

“And when’s he coming here?” Cecil asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

Mark winced. “Uh, I don’t have an exact time or date, but I know the signs that show he’s in town. Machine Head had a black metahuman called Titan working for him—he could cover his skin in some kind of stone surface; I broke it in a few punches. Anyway, Titan was burning down buildings so Machine Head could get insurance money, and he was fighting gangs that belonged to Mr. Liu.”

Cecil’s brow furrowed, confusion evident on his face. “Who the hell is Machine Head?”

It wasn’t Mark who answered.

Donald’s calm voice buzzed in Cecil’s earpiece. “Machine Head is a minor crime boss based in Chicago. Known for leveraging advanced technology, including high-level probability and combat analysis. He’s been off our radar for a while but has some major influence over organized crime in the area.”

Minor crime boss my ass, the guy has aliens on speed dial.

Cecil nodded subtly, filing that away, but Donald wasn’t done.

“However, Mr. Liu is actually on our files already,” Donald continued. “He’s a significant player in the global crime circuit. Fought Omni-Man on several occasions. One of their fights went on for almost ten hours in Japan. Our records indicate Liu can either summon or has control of a dragon, but we’ve always suspected he also has access to enhanced tech, possibly stolen or custom-made.”

Oh yeah, he remembered Liu now. He’d been left alone because he mostly just played around in Japan and left the rest of the world alone.

“And Titan?” Cecil asked, his gaze never leaving Mark.

Donald hesitated for half a second. “Local villain. Operates mainly in Chicago’s underground. Known for his ability to generate and manipulate a durable stone armor over his body. His strength and durability increase significantly when in this form, but so far, we’ve never connected him to Machine Head. If what Mark’s saying is true, it hasn’t happened yet.”

Cecil’s mind raced, calculations firing off like bullets. Machine Head. Mr. Liu. Titan. Battle Beast. The puzzle pieces were shifting, new edges appearing with every revelation, and the image they were forming wasn’t pretty.

“Okay, okay,” Cecil said, cutting through the fog in his mind. “You said Machine Head hired him. You know for how much?”

If it was just about money, that could be handled easily. Machine Head was a crime boss—he’d have some decent cash lying around. But Cecil had the GDPs of several countries at his disposal, earmarked for one thing and one thing only: keeping Earth safe. He’d throw a few million at Battle Beast just for a meeting if it meant keeping the planet intact.

But Mark’s shook his head, his brow furrowing. “From what I remember, it wasn’t money. Battle Beast doesn’t care about that. It sounds like he was promised something better.”

Cecil’s brow creased. “Better than money?”

Mark nodded. “A fight. A worthy opponent. That’s all he cares about. He’s a battle junkie. Actually cursed, if I remember correctly.”

Cecil blinked. “Cursed? Aliens can get cursed?”

Mark shrugged, grim. “Apparently. He’s cursed to fight endlessly or something like that. Fighting is all he cares about. It’s how he eventually died; fighting for a week against the strongest Viltrumite.”

Cecil tapped his fingers against the table, thinking. That made it simpler. Hell, easier. This planet had more monsters and powerhouses per square mile than most civilizations probably had in their entire star systems. He could promise Battle Beast a fight damn near every week.

“And when he found out he could fight a Viltrumite…” Mark continued, his voice trailing into a grim tone. “It was like Christmas came early. He was practically jumping for joy.”

Cecil’s lips pressed into a line. That was it then. If he could promise the guy a decent scrap on a regular basis, Earth could gain one hell of an ally. And since the Viltrumites were apparently planning to conquer the Earth, then Battle Beast might as well be on the payroll for the foreseeable future.

“Done,” Cecil said firmly, nodding. “We’ll increase surveillance on Machine Head. The second Battle Beast shows up, we’ll make him the offer.”

Mark’s shoulders sagged, just a little, like he’d been holding his breath the entire time. A small, relieved smile crept onto his face. “Thank God. If we can get him on our side, we might actually have a chance. We can contain Dad. Minimal casualties. We can do this!”

Cecil’s eyes narrowed. He hated dousing hope, but better Mark learn now than later.

“Don’t get too happy,” he warned, voice cold and sharp. “This isn’t done. This isn’t even close. I’ve got your ass for two more hours, kid. We’re definitely not stopping here.”

_________________________________________________________________________

As it turned out, three hours wasn’t nearly enough to go through all the information Mark had on the future. And thank God for that. Because while the incoming Viltrumite invasion was top of the list, there was plenty more on the horizon that needed immediate attention.

Apparently, the Mauler Twins were planning to make a move on the President soon. Mark had marked that moment as the beginning of the rough timeline—like the first domino in a long, bloody chain of events. That alone would have been enough to keep Cecil up for weeks, but that wasn’t all.

There was also an invasion from a race called the Flaxxans—three separate invasions, actually, all within a week, and them coming back stronger every time. And then, because this world was apparently a goddamn beacon for cosmic bullies, there was another looming threat from the Sequids. Some sort of parasitic hivemind.

(And seriously, why the actual fuck was everyone trying to take over his planet? There were nine other planets in the solar system. Why not go mess with them? Hell, go take Mars—it’s already populated, have fun. But no. Everyone wanted Earth. Why? Because it had humans? Because it had oceans? Was Earth that damn appealing?)

Cecil rubbed the bridge of his nose. The stress headache was going to be a real bastard when this meeting ended.

Still, there was a silver lining. Mark’s knowledge wasn’t just doom and gloom. He’d also provided intel on potential resources—tools Cecil could start preparing to bolster Earth’s defenses.

For one, there was Isotope. Apparently, he could teleport individuals and groups of people with his mind. And unlike the high-energy teleporter the GDA relied on, Isotope didn’t need a billion-dollar setup or months of research and maintenance. Cecil would definitely be poaching him from Machine Head the moment he could. Reliable teleportation could make or break their chances when the fighting started.

Then there was Hail Mary—a name Cecil grudgingly admitted was brilliant. Some kind of Kaiju, heavily drugged, pumped with enough performance-enhancing drugs to kill a lesser creature. Its pain receptors had been shut off entirely, turning it into an unstoppable, mindless juggernaut. Mark described it as one of the few things that actually had Nolan on the ropes for a while. The idea of unleashing something like that wasn’t exactly pleasant—but it certainly sounded effective.

If it kept the planet alive, he’d weaponize it in a heartbeat.

Robot was another unexpected ace. Mark recalled how the android genius had created some kind of dark-energy beam cannon. It wasn’t enough to kill Nolan—hell, not even close to bruising him—but it pushed him back. Put him down for a couple of seconds. Which, in Viltrumite terms, was apparently a goddamn miracle.

And then there was Doc Seismic.

Cecil had always thought of him as a nuisance, but if Mark’s memory was right, Seismic had the ability to communicate with underground creatures—titanic beings that could fight a Viltrumite and actually hold their own.

That made him pause.

Doc Seismic… that annoying little bastard with his earthquakes and his stupid desire to destroy society… might actually be a key asset. The irony was almost painful.

But as promising as some of these resources sounded, the reality still left a sour taste in Cecil’s mouth. Because when it came down to it, most of Earth’s defenses—if they could even be called that—were just ways to stagger Nolan. Slow him down. Maybe put him on his ass for a few precious seconds.

And that was it.

A few seconds. A nosebleed. A moment of hesitation. That’s all they had.

Mark kept insisting that Nolan was one of the strongest of the Viltrumites. A legend among his people. A warrior so formidable that even his peers treated him like some unstoppable force of nature.

But damn it, it still made Cecil sick to his stomach to realize that the best his planet could do was buy time. Just time. No guarantee of victory. No guarantee of survival.

And time, Cecil knew, was the one thing they didn’t have enough of.

Every second that passed brought them closer to decisions they weren’t ready to make, battles they weren’t prepared to fight. Every moment wasted was another step closer to Earth falling under Viltrumite control.

It was when they were down to the last thirty minutes of their conversation—when the weight of what lay ahead pressed the hardest—that Mark brought up something… unexpected.

“Can you get the Immortal and War Woman to teach me how to fight?” Mark asked.

Cecil stilled. He could feel the headache forming before the words had fully settled in the air. He sighed, already knowing where this conversation was headed and already dreading it.

"Kid, I can't in good conscience ask you to fight your own dad."

Mark's jaw clenched, his eyes sharp with determination. "He's planning to conquer the planet!"

"And you also said he used your face to decimate the streets of Chicago!" Cecil shot back, voice sharp. "In this case, having your knowledge is a setback. You'll be trying to fight with strength you had to build up, not the strength you have now. The last thing I need is for War Woman to get distracted and get herself killed when you get thrown into an apartment building."

But Mark didn't back down. His eyes burned. “Things are different now. My powers are different. There's a reason why I called this an alternate timeline; my powers have changed along with my memories. And this time, I might be able to help you take down my dad instead of being bounced around the world like a ragdoll. The only reason I lost before was because I wasn’t trained. I didn’t know how to fight. I didn’t have technique or skill—I was just a brawler. I was strong, but I didn’t know how to use that strength.”

The words hit harder than they should. Cecil wanted to shoot him down, to tell him that fighting his father was suicide. That there was no preparing for a Viltrumite who had centuries of bloodshed under his belt. That a few sparring sessions with War Woman and Immortal wouldn't close the gap.

But there was one uncomfortable fact he couldn’t ignore.

Nolan hadn’t killed Mark in the alternate timeline. No matter how badly he’d beaten the kid, no matter how far he’d gone, Nolan had stopped short of killing his own son. That meant something. It had to.

And if there was even a slim chance Mark could buy them time—if he could hold Nolan back, if he could survive—then they had to consider it.

Cecil crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. “Hmph. We’ll see. I’ll have you come in tomorrow, and we’ll repeat this process—get more intel, refine our plans. Then we’ll see about getting you some training.”

He stood, grunting as his knees popped and his spine protested the movement. The old aches were sharper these days, but there wasn’t time to rest.

Too much bullshit coming his way. Too many fights to win.

"I’m too fucking old for all the bullshit coming my way," he muttered under his breath.

Mark didn’t say anything, just stood with him, the set of his jaw determined. There was something in his eyes—something hard. Like steel being forged under impossible pressure.

Cecil clapped him on the shoulder, his grip firm. "Alright, come on," he said, waving him closer. "Let’s get you home."

The room was still. The weight of their conversation hung between them, silent but heavy.

Cecil pressed his hand to Mark’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. A gesture that wasn’t just about guidance, but reassurance—though neither of them would say it aloud.

“Get us out of here, Donald,” Cecil said aloud.

The air shimmered slightly, the tech already preparing for transport.

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Is your teleporter not working properly? Because I could’ve sworn you just willed it to take you wherever you wanted."

Cecil let out an annoyed sigh, his lips twitching in reluctant amusement. “I hate that you know so much.”

The kid just grinned. The first real grin Cecil had seen from him all night.

And with that, they vanished.

They appeared outside a Burger Mart, one just a few blocks from Mark’s home but in the opposite direction of the one he actually worked at. The night was cool, the flickering neon sign casting a sickly glow over the pavement.

Mark glanced around, confused. “Uh, why’d you bring me to Burger Mart?”

Cecil didn’t bother sugarcoating it. “You said your parents think you’re at work. Nolan has super senses. If you go home smelling like the GDA instead of grease and fry oil, he’s gonna be suspicious. And I don’t feel like being thrown into space tonight.” He reached into his jacket, pulling out a crisp twenty and handing it over. “Chill out here for about fifteen minutes. Order something, eat, let the smell stick to you. Then walk home.”

Mark accepted the bill with a sheepish nod. “Oh… yeah. Guess a bite wouldn’t hurt.” He hesitated, then added, “See you tomorrow, Cecil.”

“See you.” Cecil turned to leave, but paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “Oh, and Mark? Try not to give William too much detail about our meeting tomorrow, will ya? Kid doesn’t seem like a blabbermouth, but better safe than sorry.”

Mark froze, his brow furrowing. “How’d you—how’d you know about my conversation with William?” His voice was tight, guarded. “Did you bug our lunch table? How’d you even know we’d sit there?”

Cecil rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mark. We couldn’t have known where you’d sit.” He let the pause stretch for just a moment, just enough for Mark to start relaxing. “Unlike you, the GDA doesn’t have access to the future.”

Mark sighed, shoulders sagging in relief.

And then Cecil dropped the hammer. “We bugged William.”

He had just enough time to catch the way Mark’s eyes widened in horror before the teleporter whisked him away in a flash of green light. Damn, but he loved messing with the kid.

He rematerialized in the GDA’s control room, right next to Donald. The man didn’t even flinch. He was leaning against the console, arms crossed, his expression serious.

“How much of that was true, and how much of that was bullshit?” Cecil asked, not missing a beat.  “Give me the breakdown.”

Donald tapped a few keys on the console, and several files flickered onto the screen display. “Analysis indicates that Mark believed ninety-eight percent of what he was saying. Our agents have already confirmed some of his claims. Isotope’s teleportation abilities are verifiable—he’s now flagged in our system. And D.A. Sinclair? He’s now under surveillance. His college file is littered with disciplinary marks for starting arguments about, and I quote, ‘the evolution of mankind and technology.’ We have a team waiting to catch him in the act and bring him back here when he messes up.”

Cecil nodded. That was good. Verifiable. The kind of facts he could build a plan around. “And the bullshit?”

Donald hesitated, then said, “That’s where it gets interesting. The only time we detected a clear falsehood was when Mark talked about his memories being from an alternate timeline.”

Cecil chuckled, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Yeah. Figured that was a load of crap.” He rubbed his jaw, the rough stubble and wrinkled skin scraping against his palm. “The way he talked about Omni-Man killing the Guardians… the way he described that prison, the beatings, the details—it didn’t sound like a story he heard second-hand. It sounded like a first-hand account.”

Donald was silent, but his gaze sharpened.

Cecil glanced up. “Keep verifying everything else the kid said. I don’t give a damn about his time-travel fairytale. As long as the intel is good, I don’t care where he got it.”

Donald nodded once. Efficient. Focused.

Cecil turned back toward the screen, watching the lines of data scroll by. He hated loose ends, hated mysteries he couldn’t solve. But right now, their world was hanging by a thread. And whatever Mark knew, however he knew it, was their best shot at surviving what was coming.

Because if Nolan ever decided to start the war Mark described… no amount of lies would save them.