"Baby steps count too, as long as you're moving forward." — Chris Gardner
ONE MONTH AFTER NOLAN'S DEPARTURE
MARK'S BASEMENT LABORATORY
The news played softly in the background, filling the quiet basement with the drone of familiar voices discussing familiar tragedies.
"We all remember that day, when titans touched down in Chicago. The battle. The devastation. The cost in lives." The reporter's voice was somber, measured—the kind of carefully controlled emotion that came from weeks of practice delivering the same story over and over. "For some, the pain will never fade. Two hundred and seventy-three families forever changed. Thousands more injured. An entire city traumatized."
Mark's hands didn't stop moving as he worked, his fingers manipulating delicate circuitry with practiced precision. He'd learned to tune out the constant media coverage, but it was always there—a reminder, a weight, a responsibility he couldn't escape.
"But for many others, the healing has already begun," the reporter continued, her tone shifting toward something more hopeful. "In only a few short weeks, crews have been hard at work rebuilding what was destroyed. The Guardians of the Globe have been instrumental in the reconstruction efforts, with Atom Eve's matter manipulation abilities allowing for rapid repair of critical infrastructure. Chicago is coming back, stronger than before."
Mark finally looked up from his workbench, his eyes finding the television screen mounted on the wall. Footage showed the Guardians working alongside construction crews, pulling debris, stabilizing buildings, creating temporary housing for displaced families. Eve was featured prominently, her powers turning rubble into building materials, her pink energy illuminating the screen.
"The question on everyone's mind remains: where is Invincible? The hero who stopped Omni-Man has not been seen publicly since the battle. Sources close to the GDA confirm he's recovering from his injuries, but many are wondering when—or if—Earth's strongest defender will return to active duty."
Mark's jaw tightened. He reached for the remote and muted the television, letting silence fill the basement.
The space around him looked more like a high-tech laboratory than a typical basement. When Mark had purchased this house a month before the fight with Nolan, he'd specifically chosen it for the basement—large, reinforced, and isolated enough that he could work without interruption. In the weeks since Nolan's departure, he'd transformed it into something that would make even Cecil's engineers jealous.
Holographic displays floated in the air, showing complex schematics and molecular diagrams. Advanced fabrication equipment lined the walls—some of it purchased legally, some of it... acquired through less conventional means. Tools from the Flaxan dimension sat alongside cutting-edge Earth technology, creating a hybrid workshop that existed nowhere else on the planet.
And at the center of it all, on Mark's primary workbench, sat the culmination of a month's obsessive work.
Mark stood up from his chair, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness from hours of hunching over his desk. The movement was harder than it should have been—his gravity belt, worn constantly now, was set to ninety times Earth's gravity. Every motion required deliberate effort, every gesture fought against the invisible weight pressing down on him.
But that was the point. Push the body. Stress it. Force it to adapt.
He was dressed simply—jeans and a t-shirt, his dark hair slightly disheveled from running his hands through it while thinking. He looked older than he had a month ago. Not physically—his Viltrumite healing factor ensured he looked the same as always. But there was something in his eyes, a weight that hadn't been there before.
The weight of someone who'd beaten his father half to death in front of the entire world.
He approached the workbench slowly, fighting against the increased gravity with each step. The object sitting there was deceptively simple in appearance—a triangular disk, no more than two inches across, made of what looked like brushed silver metal. It sat on a specialized charging plate, connected to the house's power grid and several of Mark's custom power cells.
Above the workbench, one of the holographic displays showed a single word in bright green letters:
COMPLETE
Mark picked up the disk carefully, feeling its weight in his palm. Even under ninety times gravity, he could tell it was surprisingly heavy for its size—the density of the nano-machines compressed within giving it unexpected heft. He turned it over, examining the nearly invisible seams where the deployment mechanisms waited.
This was it. Weeks of work. Hundreds of hours of research, fabrication, testing, and refinement. Knowledge gained from Art Rosenbaum—the best superhero costume designer in the world—combined with advanced Flaxan technology and Mark's own understanding of materials science and engineering.
A suit that could deploy at a moment's notice. A suit that could create weapons on demand. A suit that would ensure he never again found himself outmatched by an opponent with better equipment or preparation.
His fight with Nolan had been brutal, straightforward—two Viltrumites trading blows with nothing but their fists and their will. But Mark knew the timeline was fucked now. Knew that things wouldn't follow the pattern he remembered. Knew that he needed every advantage he could get.
The suit was that advantage.
Mark had spent a fortune acquiring Art's knowledge. The old tailor had been surprised when Mark showed up at his shop with a briefcase full of cash and a request for private lessons in advanced costume fabrication. But Art was a professional—he'd taught Mark everything from material selection to reinforcement patterns, from aesthetic design to functional integration of technology.
"A suit isn't just protection," Art had told him during one of their sessions. "It's an extension of who you are. It needs to move with you, breathe with you, become part of you. And for someone like you, Mark—someone with your strength and speed—it needs to be indestructible."
Mark had taken those lessons and combined them with everything he'd learned during his years in the Flaxan dimension. Advanced materials. Molecular bonding. Nano-fabrication. The result was something that shouldn't have been possible with Earth's current technology level—a suit that existed as pure potential until needed, then deployed in microseconds to provide protection, weaponry, and tactical advantages.
He'd tested the individual components extensively. The nano-machines responded to neural impulses, reading his intentions and deploying accordingly. The material was flexible enough to move like fabric but could harden to Viltrumite-resistant density in milliseconds. The weapon systems were integrated seamlessly, able to form blades, shields, projectile launchers, or grappling systems on demand.
But he hadn't tested the complete system yet. Hadn't actually deployed the full suit.
That was about to change.
Mark set the disk back down on the workbench and stepped back, giving himself space. He took a deep breath, centering himself, then focused on the disk.
The response was immediate.
The triangular device lifted off the workbench, hovering in the air for a split second before exploding outward in a cascade of silver liquid. The nano-machines flowed like mercury, spreading in all directions before suddenly snapping toward Mark's body.
The sensation was strange—not uncomfortable, but definitely unusual. It felt like being wrapped in cool water that instantly solidified into fabric. The nano-machines flowed across his chest, down his arms, up his neck, covering every inch of his body in seconds.
When the deployment finished, Mark stood in his full costume.
The suit was sleek, form-fitting without being restrictive. The primary color was a deep, midnight blue—almost black—with geometric patterns of silver running across the chest, shoulders, and limbs. The patterns weren't just aesthetic; they marked the primary deployment channels for the nano-machines, the pathways that allowed for rapid reconfiguration.
The chest piece featured a stylized symbol—not the simple design from his old costume, but something more complex. An inverted triangle with extending lines, suggesting both strength and forward motion. It glowed with a faint blue light, powered by the micro-reactors built into the suit's core.
The mask was integrated seamlessly with the rest of the suit, covering his entire head but leaving his face visible through a transparent faceplate. The faceplate could opaque on command, providing complete anonymity, but for now Mark left it clear. He wanted to see how the whole ensemble looked.
Gloves extended from the sleeves, covering his hands completely. The fingers were articulated perfectly, responding to his movements with zero lag. Built into the palms were the primary weapon fabricators—able to generate blades, shields, or energy projectors depending on what he needed.
The boots were reinforced, designed to handle the immense forces generated when he flew at supersonic speeds or landed from orbital heights. They incorporated magnetic systems that could lock him to surfaces and repulsor systems that could provide additional thrust or stability.
And perhaps most importantly, the entire suit was connected to an AI system he'd integrated into his house's network. The AI—which he'd named ARIA—could assist with tactics, provide real-time analysis of opponents, and coordinate with other systems he'd built.
Mark walked over to the full-length mirror he'd installed specifically for this purpose. He studied his reflection, turning slowly to see the suit from all angles.
It looked... professional. Sleek. Like something worn by someone who took this seriously.
This was the costume of someone who'd fought his father to a standstill. Someone who'd saved the world. Someone who was done being underestimated.
"ARIA," Mark said, his voice slightly muffled by the mask. "Run diagnostics."
A holographic display appeared in front of him, visible only through the suit's integrated HUD. Information scrolled past—power levels, system status, structural integrity, weapon availability.
"All systems nominal," ARIA's voice responded. The AI had a pleasant, neutral tone—Mark had specifically programmed it to avoid sounding too much like Milano, keeping the two systems distinct. "Nano-machine cohesion at 100%. Power reserves at maximum. Weapon systems armed and ready. Structural integrity rated for Class 100+ impacts. Flight systems online. Neural interface responding within acceptable parameters."
"Good," Mark said. He raised his right hand, palm up, and focused.
The nano-machines in his palm shifted, flowing together and hardening. In less than a second, a blade extended from his hand—roughly two feet long, gleaming silver, sharp enough to cut through steel like paper. The edge hummed with a faint vibration, molecular disruptors built into the blade ensuring it could cut through materials that would normally resist conventional weaponry.
Mark swung the blade experimentally, feeling its weight and balance. Perfect. The suit's neural interface meant it responded to his intentions as naturally as moving his own limbs.
He dismissed the blade and it flowed back into the suit. Then he generated a shield—a circular disk that expanded from his forearm, large enough to cover his torso. Then a grappling line that shot across the basement and attached to the far wall. Then a simple blunt weapon, like an oversized fist, perfect for non-lethal takedowns.
Each transformation took less than a second. Each felt completely natural.
"Combat efficiency rated at 78% above baseline," ARIA reported. "Estimated increase in tactical versatility: 340%. Estimated survival rate improvement against Class A threats: 45%."
Mark smiled slightly. The numbers were rough estimates—ARIA was still learning, still calibrating—but they confirmed what he'd hoped. This suit would make him significantly more effective in combat.
More importantly, it would give him options. He'd learned that lesson the hard way during his fight with Nolan. Raw power wasn't always enough. Sometimes you needed versatility. Adaptability. The ability to respond to changing situations with more than just your fists.
He dismissed the weapon systems and let the suit return to its default configuration. The entire process had been seamless, efficient, exactly as he'd designed.
"ARIA, return to storage mode."
The suit responded immediately. The nano-machines flowed back toward the center of his chest, converging on the triangular disk. In seconds, the entire costume had retracted, leaving Mark standing in his regular clothes with just the disk resting against his chest.
Mark picked up the disk and examined it again. Still cool to the touch. Still slightly heavy. Still completely innocuous to anyone who didn't know what they were looking at.
He attached it to a simple chain and put it around his neck, tucking it under his shirt. The disk settled against his chest, barely noticeable. He could deploy the full suit in under two seconds now—faster than most people could react. Faster than most threats could capitalize on catching him in civilian clothes.
Perfect.
Mark returned to his workbench and pulled up another holographic display. This one showed a list of projects—some complete, some in progress, some still in the planning stages.
The list was long. Ambitious. Maybe too ambitious for one person to manage.
But Mark wasn't just one person anymore. He was Invincible. Earth's strongest hero. The man who'd beaten Omni-Man.
And he'd spent thirteen years—subjective time—preparing for this. He knew what was coming. Knew the threats Earth would face. Knew that being strong wasn't enough—he needed to be smart, prepared, equipped for anything.
The timeline was already fucked. Mark knew that. Events were deviating from what he remembered. Case in point: Angstrom Levy.
Mark's expression darkened as he thought about that particular complication.
A few days after waking up in the GDA medical bay, Mark had asked Cecil to look for someone named Angstrom Levy. He'd been careful about it—casual, like it wasn't particularly urgent. Just a name that had come up, someone who might be useful for the Guardians.
Cecil had put his people on it immediately. The GDA's information network was extensive, and finding one civilian scientist shouldn't have been difficult.
But when Cecil had come back with the results, Mark's blood had run cold.
"Found your guy," Cecil had said, pulling up a file on his tablet. "Angstrom Levy. Brilliant physicist, specializing in theoretical dimensional mechanics. Multiple PhDs, published extensively in fringe journals, generally considered a genius by his peers."
Cecil had paused, his expression grim.
"Past tense, unfortunately. He was in Chicago during your fight with Omni-Man. One of the two hundred and seventy-three casualties. Crushed when a building collapsed. Died instantly, according to the medical examiner."
Mark had felt the world tilt slightly. Angstrom Levy—the man who would have become one of his greatest enemies, who would have gained the ability to travel between dimensions, who would have blamed Mark for everything wrong in his life—was dead.
Dead before he ever became a threat. Dead because of the battle Mark had fought to save the world.
"Why were you looking for him?" Cecil had asked, studying Mark's reaction carefully.
Mark had forced himself to stay calm, to keep his expression neutral. "Just heard his name mentioned as a potential science consultant for the Guardians. Thought someone with his expertise in theoretical physics might be useful."
It was a weak excuse, but Cecil had accepted it. Or at least, he'd pretended to accept it. Cecil was too smart not to notice when people were lying to him, but he was also smart enough to let it go when pushing would accomplish nothing.
So Angstrom Levy was dead. The Flaxans had been defeated early.
How many other changes had Mark's presence created? How many events were spiraling in directions he couldn't predict?
The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying.
A soft chime interrupted his thoughts. Mark looked up to see one of his holographic displays flashing—incoming call.
"ARIA, who is it?"
"Call origin: Debbie Grayson. Your mother."
Mark's expression softened immediately. "Answer it. Audio only."
The holographic display shifted to show a simple phone interface. His mother's voice came through the speakers, warm despite the underlying exhaustion Mark could hear in it.
"Hey, dear. Just calling to check in on you."
"Hey, Mom," Mark replied, walking over to lean against his workbench. "I'm doing fine. How are you?"
"Oh, you know. Managing." There was a forced cheerfulness in her voice that made Mark's chest ache. "Getting ready for my first day back at work tomorrow. It'll be good to get back to a routine."
"Mom, you know you don't have to go back to work if you're not ready, right?" Mark said carefully. "You've been through a lot. Nobody would blame you for taking more time."
Debbie laughed softly. "I think we both know I'm dying to get out of this house, sweetie. The walls are starting to close in. I need... I need to do something normal. Feel like myself again."
Mark could hear the truth in that. His mother had spent the last month essentially trapped—not physically, but emotionally. The house she'd shared with Nolan for twenty years had become a prison of memories and betrayal. Every room held reminders of the man who'd claimed to love her while calling her a pet. Every corner whispered lies that had seemed like truth.
Getting back to work, returning to a routine, reclaiming some sense of normalcy—Mark understood that need. He'd thrown himself into his projects for the same reason.
"Alright, Mom," Mark said, smiling despite himself. "Just... take it easy, okay? And call me if you need anything. I mean it. Anything."
"I will, honey. I promise." A pause. "How's your project going? The one you've been working on in that basement of yours?"
"Just finished, actually," Mark said, glancing at the disk hanging around his neck. "It's... it's good. Really good. I think it's going to help a lot."
"That's wonderful, dear. I'm proud of you. You know that, right? Even with everything that's happened... I'm so proud of the man you've become."
Mark's throat tightened. "Thanks, Mom. That means a lot."
"I love you, Mark."
"I love you too, Mom."
The call ended with a soft chime. Mark stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on him—both literal and figurative. The ninety-times gravity from his belt made every breath an effort, every heartbeat a struggle. But that was nothing compared to the emotional weight he carried.
His mother was putting on a brave face, but Mark knew she was struggling. How could she not be? The man she'd loved for twenty years—the man she'd built a life with, raised a child with, grown old with—had revealed himself to be a monster. Had called her a pet. Had tried to conquer her planet. Had fought their son and lost.
That kind of betrayal didn't heal in a month. It might never truly heal.
But Debbie Grayson was strong. Stronger than Nolan had ever given her credit for. She would survive this. She would rebuild. She would find herself again.
And Mark would be there to support her every step of the way.
Mark finally pushed away from his workbench and stretched, his muscles protesting from hours of stillness combined with the constant pressure of ninety times Earth's gravity. He looked around the basement laboratory, at all the equipment and technology he'd assembled, at the projects in progress and the plans laid out for the future.
This was his life now. This was what he'd chosen when he'd decided to change the timeline.
No more waiting for threats to emerge. No more reacting to crises. No more being caught unprepared.
He would be proactive. Strategic. Ready for anything.
Earth would be safe. His mother would be safe. The people he cared about would be protected.
And if that meant spending his nights building weapons and his days training until his body screamed for rest under crushing gravity, then so be it.
CHICAGO - DOWNTOWN INTERSECTION
The Giant was exactly what his name suggested—a colossal figure easily four stories tall, with grayish-blue skin, massive muscles, and a single enormous eye centered in his forehead. He wore fingerless black gloves adorned with silver bands and knuckles, along with black pants featuring a silver waist. His appearance was almost comical if not for the very real destruction he was causing.
Cars lay crushed beneath his massive feet. Storefronts were smashed where he'd stumbled into buildings. People ran screaming through the streets, desperate to escape the giant's rampage.
And in the middle of it all, floating at eye level with the enormous cyclops, were the Guardians of the Globe.
"I'm the Giant!" the massive being announced, his voice booming across the intersection like thunder. "And I want to be president of America! And an astronaut!" He punctuated his demands with a stomp that cracked the pavement beneath his foot.
Dupli-Kate—or rather, multiple versions of her—hovered nearby on different sides of the Giant. "Um, those are... very specific requests," one of her duplicates said, trying to sound diplomatic while dodging a wild swing from the Giant's massive hand.
Robot floated above the scene, his mechanical body processing information at superhuman speeds. "Based on his speech patterns and vocabulary, the Giant seems to have the mental capacity of an eight-year-old," he reported over the team's communication system.
Rex Splode flew past on his hover disc, his staff crackling with explosive energy. "Fuck them kids, bro," he muttered, charging up a blast.
"Rex!" Blue Rush's heavily accented voice crackled through the comms as the speedster vibrated through a falling piece of debris. "Come on, he's just a baby!"
Black Samson landed heavily on a car roof, his enhanced strength denting the metal. He was breathing hard from the exertion of evacuating civilians while fighting. "I don't care how old he is. He needs to go down. Now!" He launched himself at the Giant's leg, trying to knock the massive being off balance.
Robot's mechanical voice cut through the chaos with perfect clarity. "That's an excellent suggestion, Samson. Tactical analysis complete. There's a multilevel parking garage beneath this intersection. I can calculate and detonate precise stress points in the concrete foundation. The resulting collapse will drop the Giant into the garage structure. We can neutralize him there without endangering civilians."
Just as Robot finished explaining his plan, the Giant's hand moved faster than something that size should be able to move. His massive palm caught Powerplex mid-flight and sent him flying across the intersection.
Powerplex crashed through the glass facade of an office building with an enormous crash of shattering glass and crumbling concrete.
"POWERPLEX!" several voices shouted simultaneously over the comms.
There was a moment of silence. Then Powerplex's voice came through, slightly strained but steady. "I'm fine, guys. That did not hurt at all."
Shrinking Rae had reduced herself to insect size and was perched on Monster Girl's shoulder. Even at that scale, her concern was audible. "You sure?"
"Yeah," Powerplex replied, and they could hear him pulling himself out of the rubble. "I'm guessing this is what Mark meant when he said I could take a full punch from Omni-Man and tank it."
Atom Eve hovered nearby, her pink energy surrounding her like an aura. "Yeah, but we didn't want to test that theory against an actual giant!"
Bulletproof flew up higher, positioning himself above the Giant's head. His dark skin gleamed with a metallic sheen—his powers making him nearly invulnerable. "Regardless, as much as I'm up for Robot's plan, I'm ending this fast."
Before anyone could argue, Bulletproof moved.
He dove down toward the Giant's face, pulling something from his belt—a collection of small spheres that looked like oversized marbles. They were knockout gas grenades, specially designed for targets with unusual physiology.
The Giant's massive mouth opened as he prepared to roar another demand, and Bulletproof saw his opportunity. He flew directly at that opening, growing slightly larger as he approached—his powers allowing him to increase his density and size temporarily.
"HEY, MOUTH BREATHER!" Bulletproof shouted. "CATCH!"
He threw the knockout gas grenades directly into the Giant's open mouth, then immediately dove downward, flying beneath the Giant's massive jaw.
At the same moment, Atom Eve's eyes glowed with pink energy. She reached out toward Throwbolt—the electricity-wielding hero who'd been positioning herself on the other side of the Giant.
"Slingshot?" Eve asked.
"Slingshot," Throwbolt confirmed, electricity already crackling around her body.
Eve's powers activated. She created a construct of solidified air molecules—essentially a giant, invisible slingshot—and pulled Throwbolt back into it like an arrow in a bow. The pink energy surrounded Throwbolt, building tension, storing kinetic energy.
Then Eve released.
Throwbolt shot forward like a missile, electricity streaming behind her like a comet's tail. She flew directly at the Giant's jaw from one side.
Bulletproof flew up from below, his fist drawn back, his entire body hardening to maximum density.
They hit simultaneously.
The double uppercut caught the Giant's jaw from both sides—Bulletproof from beneath, Throwbolt from the side—with perfect timing and devastating force.
The impact was tremendous. The sound echoed through the downtown streets like a thunderclap. The Giant's massive head snapped back, his single eye rolling up in his skull.
One of his oversized lower teeth—the size of a small car—broke free and went flying through the air. Monster Girl, still in her giant form, caught it before it could crash into a building.
The knockout gas grenades exploded inside the Giant's mouth a few seconds later, releasing a cloud of specialized sedative that was designed to work on beings with enhanced physiology.
The Giant swayed for a moment, his massive body tilting backward.
"There, that should do it," Bulletproof said, floating next to Throwbolt. He'd caught her mid-air after the impact, princess-carrying her as they descended together.
"Show off," Throwbolt muttered, but she was smiling. Electricity still crackled around her fingers from the adrenaline.
Below them, Atom Eve was already in motion. Her pink energy erupted outward, solidifying air molecules and converting kinetic energy into matter. In seconds, she'd created a massive cushion—easily the size of a city block—positioned perfectly beneath the falling Giant.
The Giant crashed into Eve's construct with enough force to shatter concrete, but the cushioned surface absorbed the impact. He bounced once, then settled, his massive chest rising and falling with deep, unconscious breaths.
The Guardians gathered around their fallen opponent, everyone breathing hard from the exertion.
"Nice work, everyone," Black Samson said, wiping sweat from his forehead. His shirt was torn from where he'd been grappling with the Giant's leg earlier.
"Efficiency could have been improved," Robot's mechanical voice observed. His body floated down to ground level, scanners already analyzing the unconscious Giant. "But the outcome was satisfactory. Civilian casualties: zero. Property damage: within acceptable parameters. Time to neutralization: four minutes, thirty-seven seconds."
"Sometimes, Robot, you really need to work on your people skills," one of Dupli-Kate's bodies said, even as the other duplicates were already helping with crowd control.
Rex landed nearby on his hover disc, his staff powering down. "That was pretty fucking cool though. Teamwork makes the dream work or whatever."
Blue Rush vibrated to a stop next to them, his Russian accent thick with excitement. "Was like old days in Rodina! Big enemy, big teamwork, big victory!"
A shimmer in the air announced Cecil's arrival. The director of the GDA materialized via teleportation, already surrounded by a security detail. Behind him, GDA vehicles were pulling up—specialized containment trucks designed for superhuman threats.
"Guardians," Cecil greeted them with a nod. "Good work. We'll take it from here. The Giant's going to a specialized containment facility where we can evaluate his mental state and find out where the hell he came from. A four-story cyclops doesn't just appear out of nowhere."
GDA agents swarmed forward, bringing specialized equipment—massive restraints designed for beings of unusual size, portable knockout gas generators to keep the Giant sedated, and structural supports to safely transport him without causing more damage.
As the team started walking back toward their transport jet, Cecil fell into step beside the Robot suit.
"Robot," Cecil said casually, "have you heard from Mark recently?"
The mechanical body turned to face him, but Cecil knew the real Rudy was inside, piloting the suit remotely—or perhaps directly, depending on the setup. Over the past month, Rudy had gotten increasingly comfortable with his new human body, but he still used the Robot suit for field operations.
The suit's front panel slid open, and Rudy emerged—a young man in his late teens with dark hair and intense eyes. He stretched as he climbed out, his muscles protesting from the cramped confines of the mechanical body.
"No," Rudy replied, rolling his shoulders. "Mark's been deep in his project. I've tried calling a few times, but he doesn't answer. Whatever he's working on, he's completely absorbed in it. Even I can't get through to him."
Cecil frowned slightly. "That's... concerning. I'd like to know what he's up to. The world's strongest hero going dark for a month right after a catastrophic battle isn't great for public confidence."
"Mark's earned some time off," Rudy said, a hint of defensiveness in his voice. "After what he went through—fighting his own father, saving the world—he deserves a break."
"I'm not criticizing," Cecil clarified. "I'm just saying we should check in. Make sure he's okay. Make sure he's not..." Cecil paused, choosing his words carefully. "Make sure he's coping with everything."
Rudy's expression softened slightly. "If I do hear from him, I'll let you know."
"Appreciate it," Cecil said. Then, with another shimmer, he teleported away, leaving the Guardians to their post-battle routines.
Rudy stood there for a moment, controlling his Robot suit remotely as it walked toward the transport jet. The other Guardians were already boarding—Rex and Kate bickering about something, Monster Girl and Eve talking quietly, Black Samson coordinating with Blue Rush about patrol schedules.
Rudy gave the unconscious Giant one last look. The massive cyclops was already being loaded onto a specialized transport, a dozen GDA agents working to secure him safely.
His phone buzzed. Rudy pulled it out and saw Amanda's name on the screen—Monster Girl's real name, the one only close friends used.
AMANDA: You coming or are we leaving you behind? Stop staring at the giant.
Rudy couldn't help but smile. He pocketed his phone and jogged toward the jet, his Robot suit walking beside him in perfect synchronization.
"I'm coming!" he called out.
The jet's engines were already warming up. Rudy climbed aboard, his Robot suit following autonomously. The door sealed behind them with a hydraulic hiss, and moments later they were lifting off, heading back to Guardians headquarters.
As the jet rose above the Chicago skyline, Rudy looked out the window at the city below. Reconstruction was ongoing—cranes and construction equipment dotted the landscape, evidence of the massive rebuilding effort. The battle damage from a month ago was slowly being erased, replaced with new buildings and repaired infrastructure.
But the scars remained. In the empty lots where buildings had been completely destroyed. In the memorial sites that had sprung up for those who'd died. In the way people still looked up at the sky with fear whenever they heard a loud noise.
Some wounds took longer to heal than others.
Rudy pulled out his phone again and tried calling Mark. Straight to voicemail. Again.
Whatever Mark was working on, Rudy hoped it was worth the isolation.
GRAYSON HOUSE - EVENING
Debbie Grayson stood in her kitchen, staring at the card on her table like it might bite her.
She'd been home for less than ten minutes when Olga had arrived. Her old friend had been a constant presence over the past month—bringing food, offering companionship, providing a shoulder to cry on during the worst moments. Olga understood loss in a way many people didn't. She'd lost her own husband years ago, had rebuilt her life from the ashes of that grief.
"I brought you something," Olga had said, her accent thick with concern. She'd placed the card on the table between them—a simple business card with elegant lettering.
Dr. Samantha Rivera, PhDLicensed TherapistSpecializing in Trauma and Grief Counseling
"Olga, I appreciate it, but—" Debbie had started.
"You need to talk to someone," Olga interrupted gently. "Not me. Not Mark. Someone professional. Someone who can help you process what happened."
"I'm fine," Debbie insisted. "I'm going back to work tomorrow. I'm moving forward. I'm doing okay."
Olga had looked at her with those knowing eyes—the eyes of someone who'd seen through similar lies when she'd told them to herself years ago.
"Debbie," she'd said softly. "The man you loved for twenty years called you a pet. He tried to conquer your planet. He fought your son—your baby—and nearly killed him. The whole world watched it happen. You are allowed to not be okay."
Debbie's carefully constructed composure had cracked slightly. "I... I don't want to talk about it with a stranger."
"That's exactly why you need to talk about it with a stranger," Olga replied. "Because a stranger won't judge you. Won't tell you to be strong. Won't expect you to hold it together for their sake. A professional can help you process this in a healthy way."
They'd sat in silence for a moment, the card sitting between them like an accusation.
"Just think about it," Olga had said finally, standing to leave. "Dr. Rivera is excellent. Discreet. She's worked with families of superheroes before. She'll understand what you're going through in ways most therapists wouldn't."
Olga had hugged Debbie tightly before leaving, whispering, "You deserve to heal, my friend. Don't deny yourself that."
Now Debbie stood alone in her kitchen, the card still on the table, her reflection staring back at her from the dark window above the sink.
She looked older than she had a month ago. The lines around her eyes were deeper. Her hair seemed grayer. The spark that had always lit her face from within had dimmed.
Twenty years. Twenty years of marriage, of partnership, of love. Twenty years of building a life together, of raising a son, of facing the world side by side.
All of it a lie.
No—not all of it. That was the part that hurt most. It hadn't all been fake. Nolan had loved her, in his own way. She'd seen it in his eyes when he looked at her, heard it in his voice when he called her name, felt it in his touch.
But he'd also thought of her as a pet. As something less than him. As a temporary distraction from his true purpose.
How did you reconcile those two truths? How did you accept that someone could love you and still see you as fundamentally inferior?
Debbie picked up the card, turning it over in her hands. The weight of it was insignificant—just paper and ink—but it felt heavier than it should.
She thought about Mark. About how he was throwing himself into his work, isolating himself in that basement laboratory. About how he was coping by doing, by building, by preparing for the next crisis.
She thought about Nolan. About how he'd fled into space, running from everything he'd destroyed, unable to face the consequences of his actions.
And she thought about herself. About how she was planning to go back to work tomorrow like nothing had happened. About how she was telling everyone she was fine when she clearly wasn't. About how she was trying to move forward without dealing with the past.
Maybe Olga was right. Maybe talking to someone would help. Maybe trying to process this alone wasn't the answer.
Debbie set the card back down on the table, but this time she left it where she could see it. Where she'd notice it every time she walked past.
She wasn't ready yet. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow either.
But someday. Soon, probably.
Because Olga was right about one thing: she deserved to heal.
And healing started with admitting you were wounded.
MARK'S BASEMENT - LATE NIGHT
Mark sat at his workbench, the nano-suit disk resting in his palm, its weight familiar now even under the crushing gravity he subjected himself to.
On the television, which he'd unmuted, the late-night news was doing another retrospective on the battle. Footage of him and Nolan tearing across continents, destroying everything in their path. Eyewitness accounts from survivors. Expert analysis from people who had no idea what they were talking about.
"The question everyone's asking," one pundit said, "is whether we can truly trust Invincible. Yes, he stopped Omni-Man. But what if he decides to follow in the former hero's footsteps? What's stopping him from—"
Mark muted it again. He'd heard enough variations on that theme over the past month. Fear. Suspicion. The inevitable backlash.
He couldn't blame them, really. From their perspective, Earth's greatest hero had turned out to be an alien conqueror. His student had beaten him, yes, but that same student possessed the same powers, the same potential for destruction.
Why should they trust him?
Mark looked down at the disk in his hand—at the weapon he'd built, the armor he'd created, the tools he'd forged.
Because he wasn't his father. Because he would prove it, every single day, through his actions.
Because he was Invincible.