Inconceivable Ch. 1 (Invincible AU) (Patreon)

(Every character depicted in the story below is a consenting legal adult over the age of 18)

A/N: Yep, I know. Please let me know what you think!

Summary: This story is basically ‘what if Thragg had a son but that son was more of the mindset that Viltrum was its people rather than a place’, ala Thor: Ragnarok. Put simply… keeping an Empire running with less than fifty people for a thousand years is a herculean task to ask of anyone. Is it any wonder that something eventually has to break?

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Argall’s Fortress stands quiet, a monument to Viltrumite Power that has gone silent in the wake of the desolation of its creators. For a thousand years the streets of Planet Viltrum have been all but noiseless, the world’s architecture maintained by the sheer speed and stamina of one or two Viltrumites.

And yet… Argall’s Fortress does not stand empty.  Within its walls resides one man, a man who sits upon the throne that Emperor Argall once sat upon. Not as Emperor, but as his Grand Regent, a role that was only ever supposed to last until Argall’s heirs could be found.

The Scourge Virus had put quite the pin in that. With the Viltrumite Species reduced to approximately fifty, the odds of anyone of Argall’s blood surviving were next to nothing. And so Grand Regent Thragg had led his fellow remaining Viltrumites these past one thousand years, doing everything in his considerable power to keep the Viltrumite Empire together and to maintain the ironclad belief in Viltrumite Invincibility.

Grand Regent Thragg is one of only a handful of Viltrumites who should even be on planet at this time. The others all have their tasks to complete and if any were to be found slacking, it would not end well for them.

Which is why it’s quite the surprise when the doors to the throne room are thrown open and a Viltrumite that is not supposed to be on planet comes stalking in.

Grand Regent Thragg rises from his throne, eyes narrowing and jaw clenching as his brow furrows into a look of consternation.

“Argan. You should be tending to your mission on Falcia. What are you doing here?”

The younger Viltrumite, though one still centuries old, holds his head high as he stops at the foot of the throne’s dais. He looks up at Thragg with a set jaw of his own, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. One look between the two of them and the familial resemblance is downright impossible to ignore. But then… they are father and son.

“Grand Regent. I heard the news of Konan’s death. Another Viltrumite gone. And still you persist in this foolishness.”

Thragg’s face shifts instantly into anger, his veins popping and his mustache bristling as his nostrils flare. In an instant he has crossed the distance between the two of them, leaving only a handful of inches between their chest as he hovers before his son.

“You dare to call it foolishness? To carry out the Emperor’s Will, to maintain the glory of the Viltrumite Empire? You grow far too bold my son.”

Argan shows no signs of intimidation as his father looms before him. He remains where he is, shoulders squared and back straight.

“I grow weary, father. I grow worried. This cannot be what Emperor Argall would have wanted of us. Surely you must see that?! We waste so much time on pointless gestures designed to maintain a façade of power, when we should be doing everything we can to regain that power instead… including rebuilding our population over trying to hold onto a crumbling Empire!”

The tension in the room grows thick between the two men. Thragg looks like he’s one moment away from attacking. But then… just as the silence is building to a crescendo… the Grand Regent turns away. He clasps his hands behind his back, even as he looks at a massive fresca of their people conquering that lines one of the throne room’s inner walls.

“When you were born, the first pureblooded Viltrumite born after the Scourge Virus ravaged our people, I knew you would be special, Argan. Not just because your weak mother failed to survive your birth, but because you represented our future. That is why I named you after our late Emperor… to inspire you to never stop grasping for more.”

Argan gives no reaction to the insult towards his mother. Instead, he simply bows his head.

“And I haven’t, father. I have never stopped moving forward. I have done all you asked of me, focused my everything on growing as strong as our people need me to be. But strength… strength is not everything.”

Thragg whips around with a fresh glare.

“No! That is where you’re wrong. Strength is everything. Our strength is what gives us the right to rule over this galaxy. Our strength is what sets us apart from the lower races scraping by. I have done everything in my power to make sure our species stayed strong. As Argall would have wanted.”

But Argan shakes his head in response.

“No, father. You’ve done everything you can to keep the Empire strong. But our species has never been weaker.”

In a flash, Thragg crosses the distance between them again. This time his hand closes around Argan’s neck… but at the same time, Argan’s hand closes around Thragg’s wrist. Both Viltrumites squeeze hard, looking one another in the eye. Neither is willing to back down, even as Thragg’s fingers dig into Argan’s throat and Argan’s fingers begin to press into the space between the bones in Thragg’s wrist.

Finally though… Thragg pulls back, letting go. And Argan lets him.

“Viltrum is the Empire. The Empire is us. That is what you have always failed to understand, my son. Without the Empire, we are little more than refugees, a handful of survivors of a plague designed to eradicate us. They will pick us off one by one until there are none left.”

“They are already picking us off one by one, father! Konan is just the latest Viltrumite to die on mission. Remember when Karna died on her mission to the Savage Planet alongside Nolan? That should have been the wake up call we needed then! A female Viltrumite with a fertile womb, lost in a single instant to some fucking beast! Even now we refuse to utilize those female Viltrumites we have remaining. Anissa, Thula, Elix, and more! You send them out on missions where they might die as Karna did and you fail to see the problem, even as we lose people, one by one, a century at a time!”

By the time Argan is done speaking, he’s breathing a bit hard, his broad chest contracting slightly with the sheer emotion he’s feeling. There can be no denying that he means every word. Thragg watches him for a moment in silence before slowly shaking his head.

“And what would you have me do my son? Besides your insistence on putting some of our finest warriors out of commissions for months on end while our enemies nip at our heels.”

Argan scoffs.

“That is precisely where I would start. Forget the Empire, father! Forget the territory! Forget this damned planet, even! It is time to stop acting like we are still ascendant and admit that we have been brought low! It is time to retreat, to find a place where the rest of the galaxy cannot hunt us down and begin recuperating. Our population must grow. We must find a species that is genetically close enough to reproduce with so that we might save ourselves from extinction!”

Thragg’s face contorts, going through a variety of negative emotions as his hands clench and unclench at his sides, his knuckles whitening each and every time.

“If you were not of my own loins, I would already have torn your jaw off for the inanity you are spouting. None of what you just described is remotely acceptable. The Emperor would roll in his grave.”

Argan’s own fists squeeze all the tighter at his sides, the sound of his flesh pulling tauter audible to both men across the quiet throne room.

“Or maybe he would have adapted better than you have, father. Maybe if Emperor Argall were still alive, he would have already recognized what you seemingly cannot… that to survive, we need to evolve.”

Thragg scoffs.

“We are already the apex of evolution, boy.”

“Tell that to the mountains of skulls buried under our streets, father.”

There’s a moment between them that ironically doesn’t seem half as tense as some of the other moments in their exchange. Ironically… because Argan takes a breath and then both are fighting. No further warning, no build up. In an instant, they are exchanging blows in midair in the center of the throne room.

The air itself explodes with every punch and kick. The power that both Viltrumites are wielding is beyond what most beings in the galaxy can even comprehend. In truth… it is beyond what even most Viltrumites can comprehend.

Grand Regent Thragg is not a normal Viltrumite. He is the apex of their species, designed and built rather than occurring naturally. Thragg was subjected to rigorous conditioning and combat training from an early age, to develop him into the strongest Viltrumite in history.

And it worked. He was beyond powerful. He was to your average Viltrumite what your average Viltrumite was to most other sentient species in the galaxy. He moved faster, he was stronger, and he could last longer than any other living member of his race.

… Save for one. For if it had worked for Thragg, why would he not in turn make sure the same was true for his son? Argan, born in the wake of the Scourge Virus to Thragg and a Viltrumite woman who did not survive the birthing bed, had also been subjected to the same rigorous training and conditioning that his father experienced.

Except, Thragg knew what worked and didn’t worked. More importantly, he believed his son could become the future of their people, hence naming him after the late Emperor himself. And so he had gone beyond what his own handlers and trainers had done to him. He had pushed Argan past every imaginable limit, forcing him to be strong, teaching him to be powerful, and removing every shred of weakness from his body.

The blows that the two most powerful Viltrumites in history exchange are powerful enough to send out shockwaves that crack and shatter the tempered walls of the throne room. Argall’s Fortress, which has stood for thousands upon thousands of years, begins to come apart around them as they fight.

“What do you think you’re doing, boy?!”

“… I’m doing what I must, father. Succeeding you.”

Thragg’s eyes widen in disbelief for a moment before narrowing into slits as he redoubles his attacks.

“You are out of line, Argan! It would seem I must teach you your place once more!”

“I cannot stand by any longer and watch as you lead our people down the path of ruin, father!”

They come together, hands grasping at each other’s shoulders, fingers digging into corded muscle and flesh as they glare at one another. And then, quicker than lightning, Thragg goes for a headbutt directed right at Argan’s nose. But where any other Viltrumite would utterly fail to react in time… Argan responds. He interposes his own forehead in the path of his father’s, meeting skull with skull.

The resulting shockwave reduces what little remains of Argall’s Fortress to rubble. The ceiling caves in around them, but they both just fly up, the rock breaking upon their impossibly durable bodies.

When they come apart… there is a trickle of blood from both of their foreheads where they impacted one another. Yet neither are dazed, nor are they incapacitated.

Thragg pauses for a mere fraction of a second, staring down at the destroyed palace beneath them… and Argan does not. As such, he takes the initiative, his fist slamming into his father’s cheek and breaking bone… the first true injury that Thragg has taken in thousands upon thousands of years.

As the Grand Regent is thrown backwards, tumbling end over end, Argan follows him… only to receive a hidden knee to his sternum for his troubles. The younger Viltrumite coughs blood… but doesn’t let that stop him from grabbing hold of his father’s leg and twisting as he squeezes with all his might.

An ear-splitting crack resounds through the air as the leg of Viltrum’s Grand Regent is shattered into a dozen different pieces. Thragg roars in rage rather than screaming in pain, his anger only growing as he reaches for his son with clawed hands.

But Argan swerves out of the way, correctly recognizing that he now has the upper hand. In terms of injuries, Thragg has taken some serious ones while Argan is more or less intact. From there on out, it’s more or less maintaining his own health while dismantling his father the rest of the way. A block here, a dodge there, and a fresh, incapacitating blow whenever an opening presents itself.

Those openings come more and more frequently the more injuries the Grand Regent accumulates. Until eventually, Thragg pulls back, unable to continue fighting. He remains in the air, but his limbs are broken, his appendages shattered, and his every breath is like glass as shards of his ribs perforate his lungs.

“You… would kill your own father…”

Argan’s eyes narrow, his blood-covered fists dripping at his sides.

“I never wanted it to be this way. But you left me no choice. You’re too rigid, father. Your obsession with Argall and his Empire would mean the doom for us all. No more.”

To his surprise, Thragg doesn’t get angry once more. Instead… a slight smirk appears beneath his mustache.

“Heh. You have… beaten me. I cannot stop you. Finish it… finish me.”

Argan does not hesitate. He is well aware that showing even a single second of weakness here could lead to his death even now. And so he puts all of himself in one final move, lancing forward at speeds even his father can barely follow.

And then he grabs his father by the scalp with one hand and Thragg’s shoulder with the other… and pulls, ripping the Grand Regent’s head clean off of his destroyed body.

Blood spurts through the air, covering Argan’s entire front. But he remains unfazed, even as he slowly turns around… just in time for the scant few other Viltrumites on the planet to finally arrive. Even moving as fast as they could, none of them reached the battle in time to do anything about it. Then again, those among them who could feel who was fighting might have been a bit slower about things, just so they didn’t get caught in the middle.

Argan sweeps his gaze across the shocked faces of his people, from the Viltrumite Councilors to those who kept the planet’s infrastructure from falling apart. Dropping his father’s headless corpse into the rubble below and holding Thragg’s head high, Argan lifts a bit further into the air so he’s looking down upon all of them.

“The Grand Regent is dead! I… have succeeded him! All is ours!”

There’s a mere heartbeat of hesitation that his father might have taken issue with, but Argan is not nearly so concerned about. And then…

“““ALL IS OURS!”””

A smile does not spread across Argan’s face. Considering the circumstances, it is not an occasion worth smiling over. However… he would be lying to himself if he did not admit that a certain cold satisfaction fills his chest at the response.

Finally… they could begin saving their people.

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A/N: Yes, this is another story I’m considering making into a Free Write. And yes, it would probably replace Apex Resistance for the time being if I chose to do so, simply because I’m not sure Apex Resistance is speaking to me as much at this idea currently is.

In case it isn’t immediately obvious, most of the story would probably wind up taking place on Earth, especially once our boy Argan finds out that the Great Nolan has successfully bred with a human to produce a pretty decent Viltrumite Son… and oh yeah, there’s literally billions of humans.

Anyways, tell me what you think please! Your feedback will be huge in me figuring out what I’m going to do next.

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Google Doc Link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1gAErnq0VWlYyNJQ_3Poxuc7VLqJ2KdjAMIwxSchoOdM/edit?tab=t.0