Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Grayson house, for all the chaos that had swept through it, remained remarkably untouched—aside from the gaping hole carved into the ceiling and a back door that hung loosely on one hinge, its glass fractured like a spiderweb.

The neighborhood surrounding it lay blanketed in an eerie stillness. Serene. Peaceful. Abandoned. Not even the rustle of wind or chirp of a bird dared to disrupt the silence. That stillness only made the arrival of the ten Invincibles more jarring.

One by one, they descended through the sky, their silhouettes painted red with dried blood. Their uniforms, all slightly torn in different ways, fluttered faintly in the high altitude wind. They hovered above the Grayson house in a loose cluster—some with arms crossed, others fidgeting or scowling. Their expressions were a mixed bag: annoyance, unease, indifference.

“I hate coming back to this place,” Omni-Mark muttered, his voice flat and cold. His arms folded across his broad chest as he gazed down at the house, the very tone of his voice contradicting the words. He looked like he’d already left in his mind, drifting in thought, detaching from the moment.

“Not all of us killed mom here,” a voice shot back—similar in pitch, but whinier, emotional. The masked Invincible stood stiffly in the air, shoulders slightly hunched. Though his face was obscured, the way he stared at the ruined rooftop made it obvious he was lost in memory.

“I liked it here. It reminds me of playing catch with Dad,” the masked one added, quieter this time. His voice trembled on the edges, brittle and barely held together, like a spiderweb ready to snap.

A sudden groan of frustration broke the stillness. Heads turned toward the source—another Mark, this one unmasked, with a short mohawk and a face twisted in exaggerated irritation.

“Agh—WHAT IS TAKING HIM SO LONG!” he whined loudly, both hands yanking at his hair as he kicked his feet like a child mid-tantrum.

“Yeah, the dude’s taking forever. So not cool,” said another Invincible, one with no goggles and an exasperated tone. He blew out a sigh and looked off to the side.

“Exactly. Can we hurry it up? Some of us have places to be,” Empire Mark chimed in with a sneer.

“Like where?” Omni-Mark asked dryly, not even bothering to look at him.

“Like at my empire? Or I don’t know—anywhere but this dumb, sorry excuse for a planet,” Empire Mark snapped, gesturing broadly to the neighborhood below like it offended him just by existing.

“It’s not that bad,” offered a bald Invincible with mottled burn scars down the side of his head. “Got a lot of fresh air. Kinda nice.”

Empire scoffed, folding his arms with a roll of his eye. “Nice? Oh, please.”

But before the debate could spiral further, a green portal tore open midair with a shimmer and a buzz. Out stepped Angstrom Levy, his oversized head bobbing with the weight of his entrance. One or two of the Invincibles seemed mildly intrigued by the arrival—except for No-Goggles, who let out an appreciative whistle.

“Sorry. I prefer to make an entrance,” Angstrom said with practiced cool, striking a pose. Nobody responded. Except No-Goggles, who gave a slow nod.

“Dude, I get it,” he said.

Omni-Mark scoffed quietly, eyes still fixed ahead. “Those who make the strongest impression are the ones who don’t try.”

“Okay, shut up Shakespeare,” grumbled another Mark, this one wearing a full cap pulled low.

“Who’s Shakespeare?” the burnt man asked curiously, glancing around.

“He’s like a super smart guy or something. I don’t know. I dropped out of school when I was twelve. I didn’t need to learn about some dumb human guy who writes poems,” muttered a Mark in the traditional Viltrumite uniform with a lazy shrug.

“Right, gentlemen, can we please get back on track,” Angstrom interjected, trying to steer the chaos back under control.

“On god, these humans and their stupid poetry,” the Emperor Mark added, looking deeply offended by the mere concept.

“Gentlemen,” Angstrom repeated, louder this time. The crowd of floating clones turned to look at him, some visibly rolling their eyes. “Right, where was I? Not only have you destroyed this planet—you’ve also destroyed him. And everything—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, dude. Did you script this out?” asked Sinister Mark, tilting his head and raising a brow in disbelief.

“Excuse me?” Angstrom blinked—or tried to. His scorched eyelids barely moved, the knobs above his eyes twitching slightly.

“He definitely did,” Omni-Mark added, shaking his head with a smirk.

“This is just sad,” Viltrumite Mark chimed in with a disapproving shake of his head. “Don’t you have anything better to do than get revenge on me—like a twenty-five... thirty-year-old me? Us?” he paused, trying to remember his own age, but ultimately shrugged it off. Time blurred when your lifespan stretched over millennia.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding. You really did drop out of school. Twenty-five? How on earth would that work?” Omni-Mark asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Wait, what’s wrong with the math?” Prison Mark cut in, squinting.

No-Goggles stood in silence, brow furrowed. “Beats me, man,” he admitted after a moment.

“Holy shit, you’re all dumbasses,” Sinister Mark muttered, snickering as Mohawk let out a wheezing laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. Can we get back to what we were doing?” Emperor Mark huffed, visibly losing patience.

“Right. Where was I…” Angstrom sighed, rubbing his temple as though that would help his massive head feel lighter. “Skip the speech,” Prisoner Mark barked.

“Very well. All I need for you to do is find Mark, bring him to me. It’s time we learn—wait, what are you doing?” Angstrom’s voice rose in pitch as he squinted at Mohawk, who was scribbling something into a worn notebook.

“Hmm? Oh, just keeping track of all your cliché lines. I’m about to reach bingo,” he said casually.

“Oh, what? Dude, not fair! You already started?” No-Goggles cried in protest.

“I thought we all agreed we weren’t playing this! Come on, guys, we can at least try to pretend to have manners!” begged the masked Invincible, clearly overwhelmed by the group’s dysfunction.

“Can you guys please focus and get Invincible so we can meet face to face?” Angstrom pleaded, trying—desperately—to keep to his script.

“OH, I GOT BINGO!” yelled the Mark in the cap, holding his hand up victoriously.

“How about we don’t,” Sinister Mark muttered, drifting forward with arms folded tightly across his chest. He floated directly in front of Angstrom, his expression hardening.

“Your stupid plan got most of us killed,” he growled, narrowing his eyes with a bitter edge. A sudden chuckle escaped from behind him, followed by a stifled snort. Sinister Mark’s gaze snapped to the side, brow twitching.

The air was still with tension, dust swirling around the broken foundation of what was once the Grayson backyard. Cracked pavement and dead grass surrounded the bloodstained group, their boots leaving faint imprints on the earth as they hovered slightly above it, like predators waiting for a signal to pounce.

Mohawk Mark gestured wildly, throwing his hands up as his eyes rolled back with exaggerated annoyance. “Who cares? They were weak. I would have murdered them myself eventually,” he scoffed, his fingers slicing through the air with every word, dramatic and unapologetically arrogant.

Viltrumite folded his arms, his tone brimming with irritation as he glared at Angstrom. “Besides, haven’t we done a lot for you? The deal was we help you, and you help us conquer other dimensions.” The words came out sharp, accusatory.

“Dude, he totally scammed us,” No Goggles Mark hissed, his stance tense, fingers twitching at his sides like he was barely holding back from punching something.

“We didn’t all make the same deal, man,” Mask said softly. The others turned toward him, their interest piqued just enough to pause their bickering. His voice dropped an octave, weighted with quiet emotion. “I came here to find Mom and bring her back with me.”

“Oh, gag me,” Sinister muttered under his breath, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Aww, someone misses their mommy,” Mohawk cooed mockingly. He leaned closer to No Goggles, jutting out his bottom lip and flapping his hands like a toddler. “Aw, does baby need his bottle? Goo goo gaga?” His face contorted in faux sympathy.

“We’re all the same person. I’m sure I’m not the only one who misses someone,” Mask said, the honesty in his voice slicing through the mockery. For a moment, everything went still. A brief silence fell, awkward and heavy.

“I miss William,” a Mark said quietly, his arms folded over his chest, eyes distant with nostalgia.

No Goggles sighed, his voice tired but fond. “Man, hate to say it, but I really miss Rex. That dude was a freak.” He chuckled, shaking his head with a small, sad smile. “Always a blast talking to him. Damn. Fuck.”

The silence returned—longer this time, heavier. Even Angstrom opened his mouth as if to say something, but was immediately cut off by Sinister.

“Whatever. It’s all pointless if we’re dead, right?” he snapped, fanning the flame of discontent with a careless shrug. The others nodded awkwardly, some more hesitant than others.

“Jesus, I hate you guys,” he grumbled, then turned on Angstrom with laser focus. “We’re done. Give us dimensions now, or we’ll kill you.” His tone wasn’t angry—it was cold, calm, and final. Not a threat. A fact.

“Don’t be stupid,” Mohawk barked, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly annoyed. “If we kill him, we’ll be stuck in this shithole forever.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Mask muttered under his breath.

“Shut up,” Omni snapped.

“Let’s just torture him later, duh,” Mohawk said casually, giving a light shrug like he was suggesting ordering takeout.

The bald, prison-marked version of them grinned viciously and floated forward, cracking his knuckles as his eyes gleamed with malicious anticipation. “I can get behind that.”

They began gliding toward Angstrom slowly, the motion synchronized and deliberate, a united wall of quiet menace. It was a display—a show of power, clearly meant to intimidate.

Angstrom didn’t flinch. Instead, a portal burst open behind them. They all paused, brows furrowing in confusion as a small fleet of floating robots emerged, arms extended to shove them through.

It failed miserably.

The machines were obliterated in a flash of motion—explosions echoing around them as scrap metal scattered across the grass. A smoking limb skidded to a halt at Omni-Mark’s feet.

“Seriously?” Sinister said, sounding offended more than anything else.

“I have never been more insulted in my life,” Empire seethed, brushing a fleck of ash from his shoulder. “You’ve seen us destroy buildings at the speed of light—why on earth would you think these robots would be fast enough to push us in?”

“Well, I—” Angstrom began, flustered.

“And even then, these are pretty light,” Mark without a mask added, holding a dented robot torso in his hands, inspecting it with disinterest. “We’ve been hit by, like, fifty-ton people with super strength at full speed and haven’t moved an inch. Doubt this would do anything.”

Omni-Mark raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. “You didn’t think this through, did you?”

“Of course I have. Everything was meticulously planned,” Angstrom insisted, puffing up.

“Clearly not planned enough,” Mohawk snorted.

“Bro should’ve followed his script,” No Goggles muttered with a chuckle.

“Fool. Do you really think my only plan was this?” Angstrom let out a laugh, trying to regain his theatrics.

“Uh yeah, kinda. I mean, you used up all your tricks,” No Goggles replied, unimpressed.

“Ugh, he’s doing the thing again,” Mohawk groaned, rubbing his temple.

“Obviously, I have a backup!” Angstrom shouted, his voice rising—just before a flash of motion silenced him.

Sinister Mark floated beside him, holding Angstrom’s now-severed head in one hand. He stared at it a moment, before spitting out a chunk of something with a grimace.

“Dude, that was so gross,” Mask said, wincing.

At the same time, No Goggles burst into laughter, doubled over in the air.

“All that head and yet there wasn’t a single brain cell in there,” Omni-Mark said, voice dry.

“Pause…?” muttered Full Cap Mark, glancing around.

“Guess he wasn’t as big a brain as we thought,” No Goggles added.

“And you are clearly mentally compromised,” Empire huffed, already bored with the banter.

“So, um, what now?” Maskless asked, looking around uncertainly. All eyes shifted to him, and then to Mask, whose expression softened.

“I know what I’m doing,” he said, a quiet certainty in his voice as he descended slowly into the Grayson home.

“Oi, dumbass, you realize she’s not there, right?” Mohawk called after him, exasperated.

“I know. I’ll just wait for her to show up,” Masked Mark replied from below, settling into the ruins with a sigh.

They all hovered there a moment, looking at each other, each waiting for someone else to suggest something better.

“What, you guys got a better idea?” he called up.

There were a few groans. One by one, they begrudgingly followed.

“Seriously,” muttered Sinister, landing last. He bumped shoulders with Maskless as he shoved over to sit on the dusty, collapsed couch.

And so, in a tangle of blood, irritation, and silent grief, they sat—half-gods turned squatters in the ruins of a childhood home, waiting for something they could no longer name.

Chapter Text

Debbie had been tired for a while now. Not the kind of tired that a nap or a cup of coffee could fix, but the soul-deep exhaustion that settles into your bones and refuses to leave. Maybe it started when Mark first got his powers—or maybe a little before that, when she started waking up in the middle of the night with this gnawing sense of dread curling in her chest like smoke. Paranoia and worry had become her companions, old friends who refused to leave the guest room.

She never wanted her son to be a superhero. She wanted him to go to college, get a job, find a nice partner, and maybe adopt a golden retriever. Instead, she'd married a man who was Earth’s last line of defense in a cape, and of course, their son was destined to follow in his footsteps. Fate had a messed-up sense of humor.

Debbie wished she had stood her ground. Wished she had raised Mark differently. She wished she had found the right words to change Nolan’s mind or at least delay the inevitable. 

But mostly, she wished she were a better mother.

Maybe then…

Maybe her son wouldn’t have ended up at war with versions of himself across the multiverse. She was certain that in every other dimension, every other Debbie was thinking the same thing—but apparently, she was the only one who had managed to raise a Mark who wasn’t trying to destroy the world like a discount space god. Her Mark—the real, flesh-and-blood, slightly emotionally repressed Mark—was the only Invincible still fighting for humanity.

The only one still fighting to save it.

She should be proud of that. She wanted to be proud. But it was hard to feel anything close to joy when the news kept showing twisted versions of her son—laughing as they slaughtered cities, grinning over fresh corpses. 

And she couldn’t help. She couldn’t do a damn thing.

Instead, a nineteen-year-old with too many scars and his barely one-year-old(?) brother were out there, once again tasked with saving the world. And her? Debbie was on the couch, wrapped in a fuzzy throw blanket with two bottles of cheap wine in her system. 

Debbie felt useless; she felt like a terrible mother.

She couldn't keep her eyes off the TV. Her gaze had been glued to the screen for hours now. The chaos had ended, supposedly. The versions of Invincible tearing each other apart had all vanished, Mark had survived (again), and the only things left were the smoldering ruins and some truly bad news commentary.

Paul was behind her on the couch, rubbing her back in slow circles. He had the patience of a saint and the stubbornness of a bulldog—qualities that, on most days, drove her up a wall. Today, she appreciated it. Sort of. He gently pulled the wine bottle out of her hand like he was diffusing a bomb.

She must’ve fallen asleep at some point, because when she blinked awake, the world was still intact, Paul was smiling, and her youngest was vibrating with energy like a soda can shaken too hard.

“All the Invincibles are gone,” he said quietly. “Except our Mark.”

She barely registered the words until Oliver flew into view, hovering in front of her like a little rocket-powered puppy.

“Can we go home now? Pleeeeeease?”   He asked excitedly, bouncing in midair. “Is Mark coming too?”

Debbie blinked, trying to focus through the haze. “He’s… staying the night at the hospital,” Paul said gently. “ Watching over Eve…she’s…in bad shape.”

Debbie nodded slowly, her body heavy and numb. “Alright,” she whispered, forcing herself up, fumbling for her keys. “I’ll drive.”

She didn’t get far before Paul’s hand wrapped gently around her wrist, his voice soft but firm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Going home,” she said, her voice hoarse, a little slurred.

Paul frowned. “Debbie. You’re drunk. You can’t drive.”

She blinked at him, then at the keys in her hand, then back at him. “I mean… I’m technically not drunk drunk. I’ve reached the tired, contemplative philosopher stage.”

“You tried to FaceTime the microwave earlier, demanding ‘Cecil return Mark- or angstrom won't be your only threat,’ ” Paul reminded her gently.

Oliver chimed in proudly, “It was kind of impressive. You almost got it to answer.”

“Thank you, Oliver,” Debbie muttered, annoyed.

Paul held Debbie's hand sweetly. “Maybe you should rest and drive back in the morning.’ Paul offered, “ I don’t want you getting into a car crash with no one there to help you.” Paul clarified, tracing over the small scars littered over Debbie's palm.

Oliver zipped to her side, practically vibrating. “Don’t worry, I got this! I’ve got super speed and super healing. If we crash, I’ll get Mom out of the wreckage before she even realizes it happened!”

Paul stared at him nervously. “That’s... not the comforting argument you think it is.”

“ It is!” Oliver  expressed, “How isn’t it?” He questioned, genuinely confused.

Debbie groaned softly, the implications finally sinking in. “No, no—Paul’s right. I shouldn’t be driving.” She slumped back into the couch, burying her face in her hands.

Oliver frowned, arms crossed. “So… we’re not going home?”

Debbie shook her head, eyes closed. “Not right now.”

The pout on Oliver’s face was instant and dramatic. “But what if I fly us there?” he suggested, his eyes lighting up again. “It’ll be quick! I’m super fast and—”

“No.” Debbie raised her hand, silencing him without even looking. “You’ve done enough today. You should be resting.”

“I am rested! Kinda! I only got a few scrapes—”

“It’s a no, Oliver,” Debbie said, dragging herself up and toward the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face, trying to will the exhaustion out of her bones.

Behind her, Oliver’s voice whined again. “But why not?”

“Because I said so,” Debbie snapped, her glare sharp enough to cut steel.

“That’s not an answer,” Oliver muttered, floating sulkily a few inches off the ground.

Debbie shot him a look that could curdle milk. Oliver deflated mid-air, mumbling and slowly rotating like a disappointed ceiling fan.

“I can drive,” Paul offered. “If you want to go, I’ll take you both.”

Debbie paused in the hallway, blinking at him. “That’s sweet, Paul, but—”

“It’s fine. Really. Not a problem. Besides…” He glanced at Oliver, who quickly looked away, trying to act innocent. “If I don’t, I think someone might sneak off the moment we’re not looking.”

Oliver coughed awkwardly into his hand, pretending to inspect the ceiling.

Paul smiled. “See?”

Debbie sighed, her shoulders slumping in surrender. “Alright. Okay.”

Oliver fist-pumped in the air. “YES. Shotgun!”

Paul blinked—and suddenly they were standing in front of Debbie’s car, Oliver having zipped them over like a gremlin with zero respect for gravity or personal boundaries. Paul stared at it blankly for a second, catching his breath. “Okay,” he mumbled, brushing off his jacket. “Yeah… let’s go.”

Debbie slid into the passenger seat with all the grace of a woman who had not slept, stress-sipped her way through a bottle of wine, and just learned her son wasn’t dead. Her hair was doing its best impression of a bird’s nest, her eyeliner had migrated halfway down her face, and her oversized hoodie was probably Mark’s. She tugged it tighter around her shoulders anyway, sinking into the seat like it might swallow her whole.

Outside, the world looked like it had been chewed up and spit back out. The road ahead was cracked and broken in places, chunks of asphalt curled up like dried skin. Still, it was quieter now—no screaming civilians, no evil doppelgängers throwing tanks like baseballs.

Oliver kicked his feet in the backseat, practically vibrating. “Can I play something on the radio? Pleeeeease? Just one song?”

Paul glanced at Debbie, who raised a hand lazily without opening her eyes. “Whatever keeps him from trying to fly the car again?”

“Sweet,” Oliver grinned, leaning forward and fiddling with the old car stereo until a bouncy pop song came on. “Yesss, this is my jam—oh wait, no it’s not—skip—okay, now it’s my jam.”

“Baby shark dooo dooo do do do dooo,” it played. 

Paul chuckled awkwardly and turned the volume down just a bit, then reached over and gently pulled Debbie’s head onto his shoulder.

“You can rest, you know,” he said softly, his thumb brushing a loose curl from her cheek. “I think I can handle Oliver for a few hours.”

Debbie cracked one eye open. “It’s a thirty-minute drive, Paul.”

“Right. Except that all the roads are destroyed, unless Oliver decides we should take the scenic route. Through a volcano. It’s going to take a few hours.”

Debbie snorted, then glanced ahead at a chunk of road that looked like it had been gnawed on by a kaiju. “Well, in that... you’re on your own.”

She yawned, a deep, soul-weary sound, and let her head rest on his shoulder again. “Wake me up if we crash into anything sentient.”

“No promises,” Paul said with a grin, adjusting his grip on the wheel like it would make a difference if a rogue alien suddenly drop-kicked the car.

As soon as Debbie’s breathing evened out, Oliver leaned forward as if he wanted to sell Paul drugs. “Psst,” he whispered, cupping his mouth like he had state secrets. “I can fly us there in, like, one minute. Maybe two if I loop-de-loop for fun. I just lift the car and vrrrrrrrm —bam—we’re home!”

Paul didn’t even look over. “I specifically remember your mom saying you aren’t allowed to lift or fly cars. Especially not while she’s in one.”

Oliver groaned and flopped back in his seat like a deflated balloon. “You’re no fun.”

“I’ve been told,” Paul said, adjusting the mirror and catching a glimpse of Oliver pouting in it. “But at least we won’t end up in a news headline. An Alien Child, and One Very Tired Mom Found in Flaming Crater; Local Authorities Blame the Stepdad.”

Oliver huffed, muttering under his breath. “I’d catch us before we hit the ground.”

Paul smirked. “And that, my friend, is exactly the kind of logic that puts people in neck braces.”

There was a brief beat of silence before Oliver mumbled, “I would make a really cool neck brace, though. With, like, flames. And rockets.”

Paul just laughed. “Not helping your case, kid.”

From the passenger seat, Debbie groaned without opening her eyes. “If either of you puts me in a neck brace, I’m haunting you from the hospital.”

Oliver’s eyes went wide. “You can do that?” Paul and he said in unison.

“Don’t tempt me,” she muttered, already drifting off again.

“Ughhh, what’s taking them so long?” whined Mohawk Mark for what had to be the tenth time. He was currently floating upside down above the couch, slowly spinning like an indecisive ceiling fan. His boots tapped a rhythm against the air, irritatingly offbeat.

“Will you stop ?” Omni Mark muttered, arms crossed, as he focused on the TV screen. “You’ve been saying the same thing for three hours.”

“That’s because I’m bored . This is boring.” Mohawk Mark flopped dramatically onto the armrest, making the couch creak.

“He’s right. It is boring,” Empire Mark added, head buried deep in the open fridge. He stared at its contents as if he glared hard enough, maybe the food would get scared and cook itself. It didn’t.

“You guys are only complaining because you’ve been in last place for the past ten rounds,” snickered No-Goggle Mark from the beanbag chair, controller in hand.

“Oh no, I lost in a game for children. What a tragedy,” Mohawk said, rolling his eyes.

“Sounds like something twelfth place would say,” Viltrumite Mark mumbled without looking up from his comic. He lounged in the recliner, a thick Séance dog issue in hand.

Above him, Maskless Mark floated lazily, reading the same comic, without asking. He flipped a page just as the Viltrumite Mark tried to read it.

“Seriously, dude?” Viltrumite, Mark said, annoyed.

“What?” Maskless replied, pretending innocence.

“Daaaamn, that was a nice bath,” came a new voice as Prison Mark stepped into the room, glistening and wrapped in at least three towels. He radiated floral fragrance like a walking perfume commercial.

Sinister gagged immediately. “Why do you smell like a goddamn garden center?”

“I just tossed in a bunch of bath bombs. Lavender, cherry blossom, eucalyptus—don’t judge me.” Prison Mark growled, trying to be intimidating. 

“You smell zesty as hell,” Head Cap Mark said, fanning his face. “Like if a soap commercial and a rave had a baby.”

“ He smells like a faggot,” stated Sinister, crinkling his nose. Maskless flinched, avoiding eye contact—killing his character in the process.

“WOOOOO!” No-Goggle Mark cheered from the beanbag, raising his arms. “And once again, the reigning Mario Kart champion is—your boy, Mark!” He made confetti motions with his hands. No one cared.

“Wait, who’s still playing and who gave up?” asked Maskless Mark. He dropped the controller and flopped face-first onto the rubble-strewn floor. The concrete shifted with a crunch beneath him.

“I’m done,” Empire Mark said proudly, arms crossed. “I don’t need to waste time on childish games when I’m clearly above them.”

“Right,” Omni Mark drawled. “Totally nothing to do with you getting beaten twelve times.”

“ I didn’t lose; I just failed to win.” Empire said.

“ If you aren’t mature enough to accept losing over a video game, how in the world can you expect not to run your empire into the ground?”

“What did you say to me?” Empire asked, “Just because I didn’t want to play this dumbass doesn’t mean nothing.”

“That’s not what. I meant,” Omni-mark sighed

Mohawk let out another long, dramatic groan. “Ugh, where are they?”

As if on cue, the group turned toward the window at the sound of a car pulling into the cracked driveway. Headlights flashed across the living room, cutting through the dust and chaos.

Two figures stepped out. A man's voice carried through the air. “Come on, Debbie. You’re home. You can at least pretend to walk properly, right?”

“Hard to walk when my body feels like jelly, ” Debbie grumbled. There was a snort from her. Followed by a sharp yelp.

“I got you!” Oliver said brightly as he tried to hold her upright.

“Oliver—” she groaned. “I can walk; I just need a second.”

Paul opened the front door, flicking on the light, and instantly froze. His smile faltered as he blinked into the living room, taking in the crowd of identical men scattered across every surface.

“Debbie,” he said slowly. “Tell me something real quick. Mark isn’t secretly... part of a set of—what’s the word—quintuplets?”

Debbie blinked, rubbing her temples. “No. Why?”

Paul pointed wordlessly into the room.

“Who the fuck is that?” murmured Masked Mark with a glare that could cut diamonds.

“Cecil, maybe?” Viltrumite, Mark whispered, stroking his chin in thought.

“Are you blind? It doesn't take a fucking genius to see that is not Cecil!” Mohawk Mark mocked, waving his hand back and forth in front of Viltrumite Mark's face, who shoved the man away with a scoff and a roll of his eyes.

“It could be. This is a different dimension, after all,” politely offered Maskless.

“Yeah, but isn’t Cecil bald in, like, every dimension?” asked Prison Mark

 “Dumbass,  if that were true, we’d be bald in every universe.” Head cap, Mark said, smacking Prison Mark's head.

“Cecil with hair is kinda fine though,” muttered No Goggle Mark, who whistled, staring at the scared, confused Paul up and down. He wiggled his eyebrow, which made Paul grossed out on top of all the other horrified emotions he was feeling.

“That is definitely not Cecil,” muttered Omni Mark with a shake of his head.

“I swear all of you are retarded,” Sinister said with a click of his tongue. 

“Hey! Don’t lump me in with these imbeciles,” demanded Empire Mark.

“Paul whats wrong?’ asked Debbie as she placed a hand on Pauls trembling  shoulder. Masked Mark jumped up excitedly, and the  moment she  peeked her head inside, she was immediately tackled .

“MOM!” cried Masked Marks. He spun her in a hug so tight she squeaked. “Oh, I missed you so much!”

He planted a kiss on her cheek and set her down like she was made of glass.

Oliver immediately kicked him in the shin. It didn’t do much. Mark laughed, picked him up, and spun him too.

“Wha—hey—put me down!” Oliver shouted, flailing. The mark complied, tossing Oliver away like nothing, as the masked Mark’s eyes crinkled brightly.

He slammed into the car with a thud . Debbie rushed over, scooping him protectively into her arms.

“Oliver, are you okay?” She asked, Paul rushing over to check as well, the two cradling the struggling  child.

 “I’m fine!”  he shouted at them. “ Let me at him. I can take him!” Oliver said, the kid clearly had a death wish as he struggled out of their grasp.

The room was silent for a beat. Then Mohawk waved, a maniacal grin spread across his face. “Hi, Debbie.”

She stared at the group of Marks with wide eyes. “Why are you all still here ?”

“To see you,” said the masked Mark excitedly, who looked and sounded exactly like her son.

“Actually, I came here to see Wil—”  Maskless started, but was interrupted by a Viltrumite.

 “Wait, hold on a sec— I thought we all agreed we were staying here because Debbie’s the only person who can reason with Cecil.”  He said, scratching his head.

Empire shook his head up and down  “ yeah and once that settles, we conquer this planet like originally planned.”  He said, crushing a rock in his hand, it was turned to dust blowing in the wind.

Prison Mark shrugged. “I’m willing to stay regardless; this place is way nicer than the Viltrumite base.”

Head Cap added, “ Don’t worry, we cleaned the bathroom for you,” while floating over to the door as he tilted his head with a grin.

“No, we didn’t,” Omni Mark muttered. “What are you on about? Why did you say that?”

“ I thought it sounded intimidating. Get off my back, man,” Head Cap said, glaring daggers at the unimpressed other version of him.

“And I thought the momma's boy version of me was the loser.” No Goggle whistled.

“Why is it lame to love my—our mom?” Mask asked, flabbergasted.

“He’s right guy.“ Sinister Mark stepped forward. “What’s wrong with wanting to make sure  our dear loving mother is okay?” He cooed fakely.

Debbie blinked at them—dozens of identical faces, some tired, some smug, one still sparkling like a bath-time prince. Her arms tightened around Oliver.

Fate sure was cruel, wasn’t it?

Chapter Text

Mark had been through pain before—real pain. He’d survived betrayal by his own father, left bleeding and broken, barely clinging to life. He’d watched planets crumble into dust, stood in a dominion where the dead refused to stay buried, where zombies clawed through dimensions and nightmares bled into reality. He’d tasted madness, been electrocuted until his vision whited out, and been beaten black and blue until he truly believed death would be a mercy.

But nothing—none of that—hurt as badly as this.

Watching Eve’s chest rise and fall, slow and shallow, in that hospital bed.

The waiting. The silence. The gnawing uncertainty. His lungs burned with every breath, his heart ached like it was being squeezed in a vice, and unease curdled deep in his stomach. He was technically fine—aside from some probable internal bleeding and a healing fractured rib—but his body didn’t matter.

It was Eve who lay still beneath sterile sheets, her face pale, her wounds mending too slowly for his liking.

And yet Mark felt like he was the one falling apart.

He hated it. He hated the way his thoughts spiraled inward, how he made everything about himself. Even now, as he sat beside her and held her limp hand in both of his, clutching it tightly like it might slip away if he didn’t hold on hard enough, he was venting again. Spiraling. Begging.

“All that time…” he whispered, voice ragged, almost a secret meant only for her ears. His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard. “All that time, I thought I killed Angstrom.”

He lifted her hand to his forehead, pressing it there as if pleading for her to forgive him. He could almost hear her voice—calm and clear—telling him it wasn’t his fault, that he had to stop blaming himself, that she knew what she was signing up for when she chose to fight alternate versions of her boyfriend.

But that didn’t stop the words from pouring out of him like a confession.

“All the torture I put myself through…” he muttered, his grip tightening slightly on her fingers. Memories flashed behind his eyes—sleepless nights, tears soaked into pillows, and night terrors that left him gasping. He remembered the way Eve would hold him after every attack, soothing him with whispered reassurances. He remembered rushing home one night, heart pounding from the sound of his mother screaming—only to find it was Oliver, laughing like a maniac after scaring her with a prank.

“And now…” he murmured, brushing her forehead gently and tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. He stared at her healing face, at the faint scars that hadn’t yet faded. “All I can think about is how I should’ve killed him when I had the chance.”

The door creaked open behind him.

Mark didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He already knew who it was.

“You probably should have,” Cecil said from the doorway, voice calm but weighty. He leaned against the wall, then made his way across the room. “Would’ve saved a lot of lives.”

Mark’s jaw clenched. He didn’t respond. He wasn’t in the mood for Cecil’s half-worn speeches.

Cecil crossed the room slowly, hands in his coat pockets. He stopped beside Mark and sighed, resting a hand on his shoulder. “But you can’t blame yourself for being a good person.”

Mark shook his head, the guilt heavy in his eyes. “What if he comes back?” he asked quietly. “What if there are more of him—more of me—out there?”

Cecil didn’t answer immediately. He shifted his weight, clearly thinking it over. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

Mark blinked, finally glancing up. “What do you mean?”

Cecil hesitated, then smiled grimly. “Considering he’s dead on your lawn.”

Mark stood so fast the chair scraped the floor with a sharp squeal. “What?” he choked, disbelief crashing into his chest like a wave.

Cecil gave a small shrug, as if it was just another piece of paperwork he’d filed. “Dead. Bleeding out about five feet from the rose bushes.  Kid from the lab found the camera footage this morning and screamed bloody murder.”

Mark stared at him, eyes wide, lips parted. “Are you—are you sure it’s him?”

“Positive,” Cecil replied. “Face smashed in, but the techs confirmed the DNA. Angstrom’s gone.”

Mark swayed slightly, his mind struggling to catch up with the words. A part of him felt like it should bring relief. Closure. But all he felt was… empty.

“That doesn’t mean another version of him won’t appear,” Mark said dejectedly. “He could find more of them… more of me.” He finally looked at Cecil. Tears should’ve been leaking out, but Mark couldn’t be bothered. He just felt tired.

“Yeah, he could.” Cecil stared, slipping his hand into his pocket. He turned to look at Eve. “Which is why we’re going to rebuild. Find new talents. Put the team back together. Fund new researchers.” Cecil listed it off. Mark didn’t feel relieved. It just felt like a repeat—like this would go on forever and ever.

“You sure as hell brought the world together on this,” Cecil muttered. It should’ve made Mark feel something, but it didn’t. It wasn’t pride. Maybe it was relief that he did something good. Or maybe it was the feeling of being slightly less guilty.

“And we still got you,” Cecil continued.

Mark paused for a second, mulling it over. Did they still have him? Was one of him enough to save this world?

It sure as hell didn’t feel like it. If anything, it proved that one Mark wasn’t enough—and never would be.

“Yeah,” Mark muttered with no enthusiasm. Just hatred.

“ I’m remaking the League,” Cecil said.

Mark couldn’t bother talking about this. He couldn’t even muster up the energy to ask about the others—about Rex, or Monster Girl, or anything else. Instead, his mind drifted somewhere else.

He remembered what Cecil had said earlier about Angstrom and his house—where he lived. It was anxiety-inducing.

Mark looked up. “Is Mom okay?” he asked, because he needed to know.

Cecil nodded. “She was at her boyfriend’s house the whole time,” he said. He paused a little longer than necessary. “Most of the suburban areas weren’t hit, thankfully,” he added. Yet it felt irrelevant—like he had strung together a different sentence to avoid saying something else.

Cecil turned to look at Eve again. “Eve’s parents are on their way in too,” he said.

Mark stiffened at that.

“Mark, we could really use some help in New York. Oliver seems...” He paused. “Busy protecting Debbie. Most of the other heroes are in the hospital.”

“After this is over, we’re still not working together,” Mark stated, shoving past Cecil, who didn’t seem surprised by the Viltrumite glare.

“Yeah, I perished the thought,” he said as they both headed out the door, letting it shut behind them.

Two days later.

Mark had been cleaning non-stop for two days. The only time he stopped was to visit Eve in the hospital. Then he’d fly back and clean as much as possible. He hadn’t bothered calling his mom—couldn’t muster up the courage. He wanted to trust the fact that Cecil wasn’t lying. He couldn’t have that on his conscience.

Same reason he hadn’t called Will yet. Maybe that was selfish of him, but he tried to argue it wasn’t—because he was too busy cleaning to worry about his personal life.

“Immortal and Dupli-Kate are retiring. Darkwing is missing and presumed dead. Monster Girl is in intensive care. Most of the heroes are injured or out of action. And I don’t think our enemy is going to be kind enough to take a break,” Cecil sighed.

“What about Rex?” Mark asked.

Cecil waved him off. “He just underwent another surgery to replace his limb. He won’t be fighting anytime soon.”

“I don’t know what you’re proposing, Cecil,” Mark said, clenching his fists.

“I want you to lead the Guardians,” Cecil said.

Mark looked at him, then glared. “What? No! I told you two days ago—that’s not happening. There’s no way I’m qualified for that.”

“In fairness, I don’t think anyone here is qualified,” said Shapesmith.

Mark sent him a glare.

“Your eyes are squinting angrily.” Shapesmith noted, “ I’m guessing that’s the ‘yeah, shut up’ cue, right?” Shapesmith said.

“See? That’s exactly what I mean,” Cecil said. “You stood up to me, Mark. That means something.”

“It means I’m the wrong guy for the job,” Mark pointed out. “And Eve’s still recovering.” He stood there for a second, then took a shuddering breath. “Look—if something big happens, call me. Otherwise, I’ll be cleaning up.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Cecil offered.

Mark glared. “No need.” And as fast as he could, he slammed through the window.

Cecil stared at it with a sigh as the bulletproof glass shattered into dust.

Mark landed—and as quickly as he did, got to work. Without question.

He felt overwhelmed. There was still so much going on, and it felt like he could hear every single voice, every heartbeat—including the angry, hungry ones.

“Stand ready for my arrival, little worm.”

The figure floated over Mark, who was trying not to throw up. He looked up at the buff, older man.

“You were given orders. You were given time. You were given more leeway than most,” the man said. “And yet I find this planet unprepared for the arrival of our Viltrumite Empire.”

Mark shuddered, holding back his anger. “This isn’t a good time,” he said.

“The Empire anticipated your resistance, which is why they sent me,” the older man said, staring down at Mark. “I am Conquest. And I am your last chance to fulfill your duty.”

Mark was going to have a brain aneurysm at this rate. “This really isn’t a good time—”

And just like that, he hurled over, gagging at the smell of blood, body odor, and a million other foul, rotting stenches.

“Disgusting,” Conquest muttered as he charged at Mark, who dodged.

Mark felt sick. Tired of this. And to be honest, his frustration had long passed the boiling point—it was steam now. Burning, hot steam was flying out of his ear.

So, of course, Mark charged right back.

Their fists collided, and moments later, Mark found himself on the ground. He could hear Conquest speaking, but his head was spinning, his ears ringing—it was hard to make out a single thing.

Still, Mark got up. Charged again. Fight after fight. Punch after punch.

The Grayson house was, surprisingly, immaculate. Despite the crude patchwork job on the roof—duct tape and mismatched shingles fighting a losing battle against gravity—everything else gleamed with an unnatural level of cleanliness. The floors were scrubbed spotless, the furniture dusted and aligned with military precision, and even the cluttered corners looked curated. 

Seven alternate versions of Mark sat scattered across the living room, the scene resembling a multiversal support group gone sideways. Two others lingered in the kitchen, awkwardly helping a very tense Debbie slice vegetables. One more: Mark was outside, locked in a so-called “sparring session” with Oliver that had devolved into midair dodgeball with tree branches.

Inside, the television blared a colorful jingle.

“Why are we watching this dumb children's show?” Emperor Mark snapped, scowling from where he lounged on the couch, legs draped over the armrest like a bored aristocrat. His perfectly tailored blazer shimmered even in the dim light. He jabbed a finger at Viltrumite Mark, who sat stiffly beside him, clutching the remote like it was the key to planetary salvation.

“Because it’s my turn,” Viltrumite Mark replied flatly, flicking the remote back and forth like a metronome, eyes never leaving the screen.

“Dude, this show is so lame,” muttered No-Goggles Mark, adjusting his oversized borrowed shirt and jeans that had been aggressively torn and re-stitched into something resembling streetwear. “Can’t we watch something good? Like Euphoria?”

Omni Mark, dressed in a sharp red tee and slacks, crossed his arms. “We are not watching Euphoria.”

“Honestly, this is fine,” Mohawk Mark chimed in, his punk shirt—he mysteriously got it and refuses to tell Debbie how—looking oddly comfortable on him. “At least it’s not My Little Pony.” Mohawk Mark declared from the recliner, his voice loud enough to rattle the cabinets in the kitchen—though with super-hearing, yelling was unnecessary. He glared at the screen like it had personally insulted his masculinity.

“My Little Pony is good ,” protested Masked Mark from behind his surgical face mask. Debbie had handed it to him earlier when he’d kept sneezig due to pollen, and he’d worn it ever since.

“It’s a pansy show for pansy girls,”  Mohawk told him.

“Agreed,” Emperor Mark sneered, smoothing his already immaculate hair. “Honestly, I can’t believe you’re all supposed to be me .”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Maskless Mark shrugged, giving Masked Mark a supportive nudge. He was wearing a pink shirt that seemed to be left over by William months ago. He had latched onto it immediately and called dibs—not that anyone else wanted it. “It’s kinda fun and sweet.“

“Thank you,” Masked Mark said, nodding with all the solemnity of someone defending fine art. “It’s heartwarming. And emotional.”

“Still would’ve preferred literally any other show,” Maskless admitted.

“Anything is better than that pastel garbage,” Emperor muttered, arms crossed dramatically.

Viltrumite Mark finally looked up, eyes twinkling with dry amusement. “So...  Star vs. Force of Evil it is then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Emperor looked scandalized, mouth opening in indignation before sputtering for a retort.

“Quiet,” Prison Mark suddenly cut in, his gravelly voice slicing through the bickering. He sat hunched in the corner, arms draped over his knees like a predator too tired to pounce. “I’m trying to watch. ”

All eyes flicked to him. Prison Mark didn’t care what show was on—he just appreciated having something to do that didn’t involve blood or conquest. Not that he minded murder; it was just nice to have other forms of entertainment. For a moment, he looked almost peaceful, his usual scowl softened by the flickering cartoon light.

“See?” Viltrumite Mark gestured at him. “He gets it.”

Mohawk Mark whistled. “I still think we should’ve voted.”

“That’s not how that works, dipshit,” Viltrumite Mark snapped, clutching the remote with an iron grip. 

Mohawk raised a hand lazily and called out, “All in favor of taking a vote on what to watch next, raise your hand!”

One by one, hands went up. Headcap raised his with a smug grin. Masked Mark followed with a reluctant shrug, and even Emperor raised his gloved hand with dramatic flair. No-Goggles, lounging backward on the couch with his modified jeans and too-tight borrowed shirt, tossed his hand up halfheartedly.

Everyone except for two.

Prison Mark was entirely distracted, eyes glazed over as he watched with such intent he couldn’t even blink. Omni-Mark didn’t even turn around.

“I’m not participating in this stupid conversation,” Omni-Mark muttered, arms crossed, forehead resting against the cool windowpane as he watched Sinister Mark outside. Sinister was gleefully spinning Oliver around like a tornado, his maniacal laugh echoing across the yard while Oliver demanded to be put down.

Then, like a shadow, Headcap darted forward.

“And yoink!” he cried with mischievous delight, snatching the remote straight from Viltrumite’s stunned hand.

“You little—” Viltrumite Mark gasped, launching himself after Headcap. The two tore around the room at breakneck speed, blurring past furniture and knocking over cushions like a pair of chaotic tornadoes.

“Hey, hey!” No-Goggles shouted, grabbing one of Viltrumite’s arms. Mohawk joined in from the other side. “We voted, man! You have to respect the democratic process!” Mohawk teased, laughing as Viltrumite struggled in their grip.

“I swear to God, I will shave that mohawk off your head while you sleep!” Viltrumite roared, glaring at Mohawk with fire in his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, keep dreaming,  Bitch boy,” Mohawk giggled, not remotely intimidated.

Headcap, already surfing Netflix menus, muttered, “So many options… and yet, so much garbage…”

Just as the new show was about to start, the screen flickered to breaking news. Most groaned in unison.

“Again?” Headcap groaned. “They call it ‘breaking news,’ but it breaks every three hours.”

But then the screen showed someone familiar—an older man ruthlessly beating a version of Mark into the dirt. Blood sprayed across the camera.

“Wait,” No goggles, Mark blinked, leaning forward. “Isn’t that... the other you?” he asked Viltrumite Mark.

“Us, it’s other us. You’re not excluded from this just because you think you’re a badass.” Viltrumite Mark glared.

“I am a badass, thanks.” Respond, No goggles, the Viltrumite glare harden. God, he wish he had laser eye to blast that smug fucker.

“Wow,” Sinister chimed in, suddenly back in the room, his arm still smudged from wrestling Oliver. “I knew we were soft, but damn. That’s embarrassing.”

A screech sounded from the hallway. Oliver stormed inside, panting and red-faced. “Get back out here and fight me, coward!”

He tugged on Viltrumite’s cape as if he could drag him back outside.

 Debbie stepped inside the living room, food in hand and dark circles under her eyes. “Okay, lunch is ready. Please, can we not have another fight over the good chair?”

Then she looked up and saw the screen.

The food hit the floor.

“Oh God,” she whispered.

Masked Mark immediately flew in at the sound and as soon as he saw her distress, he stepped over and wrapped an arm around her shoulder gently.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, though his own eyes were glued to the screen.

Oliver’s breath caught. “That’s not far away—I can help!”

He darted for the door, but Debbie’s voice snapped sharply and fast.

“Oliver, no!”

The boy froze.

“But—!”

She stepped forward, brushing hair from his face, eyes filled with fear. “I can’t lose you, too.”

Mask-Mark pursed his lips, his fist tightening slightly before he sighed and stepped in front. Pushing Debbie's arm away from Oliver and to his face instead. “I’ll go,” he said quietly. “If it’ll stop you from crying, I’ll do anything.”

Debbie blinked. “Really?”

Before he could answer, the Viltrumite Mark spoke up with a scoff. “Seriously? Conquest is like a bajillion million trillion times stronger than any of us. You’ll get smeared into paste.”

“He’s not that much stronger,” Omni-Mark added with a thoughtful frown. “Still… none of us could beat him one-on-one.”

“Is that a challenge?” Mohawk’s eyes gleamed.

“It’s not,” Omni- Mark muttered without even looking up.

No-Goggles grinned. “Kinda sounds like a challenge.”

“It’s not,” Omni- Mark protested louder this time.

Sinister crossed his arms, grinning. “Sounds fun to me. I’m in.”

“How dare you doubt me!” Emperor, he declared, dramatically slapping a hand to his chest. “I could totally kick his ass!”

“Aight, bet,” said No-Goggles, extending a hand.

“Well, I guess we’re all in,” Mohawk said cheerfully.

“Only four of you agreed,” Omni-Mark deadpanned.

“And stop stealing my spotlight,” Masked Mark grumbled. “You’re just doing this for fun,  heartless creature.”

“You’re only doing it because you’re a mama’s boy,” Mohawk teased. “Besides, I’ve conquered entire planets. Dominated other creatures that claim to be the strongest. I’m pretty sure I can dominate conquest.”

“Pause,” No-Goggles called out mid-sentence.

Prison Mark finally looked up, shaking his head slowly. “Count me out. You guys are psychopaths if you think you could beat Conquest.” He shuddered at that.

“Oh no, the bald-man trauma’s kicking in again,” Mohawk cooed mockingly, and half the room laughed.

 “ Fucking pussy.” The emperor spat out.

 “Any other pussy here or,” Mohawk trailed off, rolling his hand to drawl it out.

“I’m in,” Headcap declared, cracking his neck. “It’s been too long since I painted something in blood.”

“Dude. Stop. You sound like a try-hard,” Omni-Mark groaned.

“We can’t betray our people,” Viltrumite Mark said, trying to reason with the group.

“Uh, Yeah I can,” Said Sinster smugly.

“Who’s to say Conquest didn’t do the same?” Maskless added.

The Viltrumite hesitated, doing the math. “…Shit, you’re right.”

“Ignoring the stupidity of that, “ Omni-mark said with a sigh, “ you’re all giving me a migraine,” he muttered under his breath. “ Are  all of  you going on a suicide mission?” Omni - Mark asked, exasperated.

“I’m staying,” said Maskless calmly, sipping tea. “Only three of us have brains, huh?”

“Nah, it’s not a suicide mission,” Headcap said, standing tall. “If we jump him together, we’ve got this.”

“I like how you think,” No-Goggles grinned, clapping Headcap on the back.

“Perfect. Let’s roll!” Mohawk whooped.

“Wait—use the—” Debbie started to shout, but her warning was cut short as a squad of Viltrumites blasted through the roof.

“—door,” she finished with a deadpan sigh. “Damn it.”

She rubbed her temple and sat at the dining table. Maskless place he teacup down eebrow furrowing.

“You want some Tea?” he asked gently.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”  Debbie said with a small grateful smile watching him enter the kitchen.

She paused, looked around, and frowned. “Wait. Where’s Oliver?”

“Oh,” Prison Mark muttered, eyes back on his tablet. “He went with the rest.”

“You let him?” Debbie cried out.

Omni - Mark shrugged. “What’s the problem? There are eight of us with him. He’s fine.”

Debbie buried her face in her hands. “I think that’s the opposite of fine…”

Maskless gently patted her hand, setting the tea in front of her.

Debbie sighed, god, she thought, as if raising Oliver wasn't already hard enough.

Chapter Text

It had only been a few days, and yet screams filled the city of Chicago once more. A loud soundwave sent people flying, rubble scattering. People took cover as they cowered in fear, wondering what on earth was happening now and why the nightmare wouldn’t end.

Invincible and Conquest fought, locked in a stalemate. Mark’s body quivered. He felt exhaustion like never before, and yet he felt this burning flame—hatred, pure rage—that made him want to keep going. It coursed through his veins, and you’d think it would heighten his senses, but instead it dulled them until he couldn’t hear or see properly. All he could do was feel it—like how he felt Conquest’s head crash into his, hard and harsh, sending Mark crashing into the ground.

His body ached, and his ears rang once more. It was all so familiar. At one point, Mark was trained for this. It was normal. This was just his life—and would always be his life, no matter what.

He tried to breathe, tried to focus on anything. It just so happened that what he had to listen to was Conquest rambling. “Right about now, Anessa would be telling you how the Viltrum Empire would turn this wretched planet into a utopia,” he said, standing in front of Mark, arms held out wide. “How you’d be stupid to resist.” He paused, as if waiting for Mark to register it.

And maybe Mark was stupid. He definitely wasn’t as smart as Eve. Maybe he was a fucking idiot for fighting a whole entire planet’s worth of people—but goddamn it, Mark knew it was the right thing to do. So it didn’t matter how stupid he was or how little he feared for his own life. Why would it ever matter when he was doing the right thing?

“I’ll tell you no such thing,” Conquest said proudly, high and mighty, head raised as he closed his eyes. He opened them, turned to the destroyed city, and licked his lips. “The truth is,” he paused and hummed, “I want you to resist.”

“I’m not here to save you.” He took one step forward. “I’m not here to spread the greatness of the Viltrum Empire.” He stared, then took another step.

“I’m here because I enjoy this. I enjoy feeling the warmth of my fist drenched in blood.”

“Dude, same,” a voice stated above, causing Conquest to look up. Sinister Mark floated above, seemingly the first one to arrive.

“Who doesn’t love a good bloodbath while listening to the wails of screams? Honestly.” He started the charge forward as fast as possible, fist colliding with Conquest. The two were at a standstill. Rubble flew, every scream and cry and car wail echoing in the distance as Sinister laughed at Conquest.

 “It’s my favorite pastime,” he started.

 “My second would be kicking your ass.” And he slammed his foot into Conquest, sending him flying into a building. It crashed down on him, burying him in it.

Sinister turned to the other version of him, still hunched over. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, man. Get up already. You look pathe—” Sinister stared. However, he was interrupted as Mark’s fist slammed into him, hand wrapped around his neck. Sinister smiled and chuckled, “Oh, finally, you did  something that wasn’t lame,” he taunted with a giggle.

“Why aren’t you dead?” Mark demanded," Then, before Sinister could respond, Mark cut in again. “You know what? It doesn’t matter, because I’m going to fix that,” Mark threatened as he crashed into a building on the other side of Chicago.

“Oh, a threat! I like that. Hey, how about we play a game? Winner gets the final kill,” Sinister said, his neck red, blood running from his nose—but his eyes were crazed with life, opposite of Mark’s, empty and tired.

“I thought we were supposed to be fighting Conquest, not the other version of us,” Masked Invincible protested, causing Mark to turn in horror.

“We should beat the shit out of that no-good fucking traitor,” hissed Viltrumite Mark.

Masked blinked. “What? No, that’s not why we—” he stopped, then groaned. “It’s for Mom. We’re supposed to be killing Conquest for Mom,” he spelled out.

“I’m not doing shit for that whorebag,” Emperor Mark stated with a huff.

“Watch your mouth,” both Regular Mark and Masked Mark said.

“Oh? Or what?” asked Emperor Mark. Regular Mark glared, preparing to attack him—but before he could, Masked Mark was already slamming into Emperor.

“You little shit,” Emperor roared.

“Sorry, I—wait, no I’m not. You totally had it coming. I have zero regrets,” Masked Mark corrected himself. Emperor slammed into him, and like that, the two were at it.

“Whoa, what did we miss?” asked Headcap, with a giggle.

“Hell yeah! Now that’s what I’m talking about. Some real good stuff,” Mohawk said, watching them fight.

No-Goggles pulled out his phone and started recording, following after them.

Regular Mark furrowed his brow, trying to figure out how and why they were alive. “Wait—you guys are supposed to be dead,” he stated, with what should have been anger but was just tired disappointment. Because of course Cecil fucking lied to him. He probably struck a deal with all of them, and this was the first time he sent them out here on their first mission.

“Well, as you can see, we’re not,” Mohawk stated. Mark’s eyebrows furrowed, but he was punched in the jaw by Sinister. 

“Forgetting someone?” he whispered, cackling as they whirled around, passing a building.

Conquest pushed away rubble, staring at the scene before him in mild confusion. “Well, okay. This just got more interesting,” he stated with a smile.

“Oi, baldy! Come over here and fight us, yeah?” Mohawk demanded, as Headcap peeked behind the other Invincibles’ shoulders, seemingly giddy.

“ We got a bet to win.” head cap added.

“Okay,” he said. And like that, they flew at each other, fighting and clashing and slamming. The two tag-teamed him back to back—not that it did nearly as much damage as it should have.

“Yes, this—I want more,” Conquest said maniacally as he grabbed Headcap by the neck.

Headcap moaned jokingly, “Harder,” he teased. Conquest smiled, tightened his grip—just as Mohawk kicked into him. Mohawk stared at Cap for a second with a chuckle.

“You’re a freak of nature, anyone ever tell ya that?” he asked.

“I’m you,” Headcap pointed out, but held no offense.

Mohawk hummed. “Yeah, I guess It’s in our fucking DNA or some shit.”

Oliver flew through the city, eyes scanning over it as he tried to find Mark— his Mark, that is, which was hard when all of them were wearing similar-looking suits. He perked up just as his Mark crashed through a building.

“All right—found him,” Oliver stated as Mark went flying.

“…And lost him.” Oliver frowned, flinging himself forward in a dramatic leap—only to be body-slammed midair by two other Marks crashing into him. All three were sent tumbling through the air, yet somehow managed to stop themselves; all three were now floating, staring at other.

“I’m going to kill you and wear your fucking skin as clothing,” Emperor Mark snarled.

“That’s a horrible idea,” Masked Mark pointed it out, completely unfazed. “We have the same skin tone; It’ll just look like you’re naked.”

“Yeah, and honestly? It’d look terrible,” No, Google Mark added with a shrug as he caught up.

Emperor Mark paused, actually considering it. “Oh. Yeah. No, good point,” he admitted, nodding. “Fine. I’ll just turn you into furniture.” 

Oliver furrowed his eyebrow “ I don’t know I think it could be cool,” he shrugged a tad 

Masked Mark furrowed his brow. “Seriously, I know you’re trying to be threatening, but—”

“Okay, how about I drink your blood and eat you inside out?” Emperor offered instead, eyes gleaming.

“ Oh shit, this just got gooood” No goggle, said Wiggling, wiggling his eyebrows and smiling.

“Dude. Gross. There’s a child here,” Masked Mark snapped.

“Hey! I’m not scared of cannibalism,” Oliver huffed proudly, arms crossed.

“That’s not what he meant,” Masked Mark muttered.

“That’s exactly what I meant,” Emperor Mark interrupted. “ What the fuck else could I—?”  he trailed off in thought, staring at No google who winked and blew a kiss, causing Empo to recoil in horror. “Ugh. Ew. Jesus—fuck, dude. No.”

“What?” Oliver blinked, clearly too invested in the conversation to remember they were mid-battle.

“What is wrong with you?” Emperor asked, face scrunched with disgust.  “You think I’m that  messed up?” Emperor hissed out, betrayed.

“Excuse me,” Masked stated, jamming his finger into Emperor’s chest, “but you’ve murdered millions, enslaved entire planets, and ruled with an iron fist. Forgive me if I thought you might be open to a little—” He paused, side-eyeing Oliver. “Actually, never mind.”

“What? What?!” Oliver asked eagerly, eyes wide. “C’mon, I wanna know!”

“ I’ll tell you when you’re older.” Masked, stated oliver huffed that. Masked then turned to Emperor 

“ I can tell you." No Goggle said, bending over. Oliver grinned and said, "Really?" but both eyes were fixed on the yelling Emperor, who was creating a commotion.

“Okay, ignoring the major hypocrisy of that and blatant ignorance,” Emperor said, pointing at the masked mark with a roll of his eyes, “I would never fuck another version of me, I wouldn’t fuck anyone. Period. I’m totally aroace and second—have a little faith in me, man.”

“Oh,” Masked Mark muttered. “Bit of a stereotype, but alright. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, whatever, fuck off. “ he waved the comment away “I was just going to eat your jaw and all that, you know, like a cannibal. Nevermind. That’s still super fucked up,” he added, staring at nothing in particular.

“Yeah. It is,”  Masked Mark agreed.

Emperor Mark sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know what? Can we just… come back to this later? I need to go think of better threats. This whole thing totally killed my vibe.”

“Oh yeah, I totally get it,” Masked Mark said. “Personally, I think when we were fighting earlier, your insults were pretty solid. It’s just—”

“Yeah, of course they were. They were from me,” Emperor Mark said, proud.

Their conversation hit a lull as  Masked Mark squinted in confusion. “Wait. What were we even fighting about again?”

Emperor Mark waved his hand vaguely. “Fuck if I know. You say so much stupid, obnoxious shit it’s hard to keep count.”

“Dude, you’ve  known me for like three days,” Masked Mark stated.

“Nah, no cap, man, you're like super annoying,” no goggle stated. “ and hella boring, like I wouldn’t want to be you ever.” No Google stated.

“Rather get my head snapped off by conquest,” he then mimicked the motion.

“OH MY GOD CONQUEST!” Masked Mark  shouted just as Oliver shouted, “Mark!”—and the two took off into the sky.

Emperor Mark just stood there with a huff, glaring up at them.

He pulled out his phone and started typing.  

Threat Ideas (Better Ones):

1. Skin suit – no.  
2. Blood thing—gross.  
3. Jaw collection? Too cliché.”  

He frowned, deleted the last threat from his phone with a swipe, and muttered, “God, I miss when threatening people was easy.”

“Tell me about it,” No Google called from nearby—lounging mid-air like it was a pool float and he was sunbathing with a Red Bull. Then, as another explosion crackled, shaking his screen, he blinked and added, “Actually, don’t. Something way more interesting’s happening over there.” With a lazy roll and a flap of his arm, he veered away from Emperor Mark, whose eyebrow twitched dangerously.

“Hey! There’s nothing more interesting than me!” Emperor Mark snapped, flying after him in outrage. “Come back and film me, you little shit!”

—--

Meanwhile, regular Mark stood amidst the chaos, overwhelmed. It wasn’t just the flying fists or cratered city blocks—it was the other Marks. One of them, oddly cooperative, was shouting helpful strategies while beating the hell out of Conquest. Mark didn’t know who this version was, but he knew more about Conquest’s weak spots than Mark ever had, and frankly, his tactics were really solid.

A glimmer of movement caught his eye—Viltrumite Mark hovered beside him, glaring daggers.

“For the record,” Viltrumite Mark growled, “I still think you’re a traitor.”

“But at least you’re not a fake,” he added, with a resigned exhale. “You stick to your dumb ideals. Respect, I guess.”

“For the record” Mark muttered, “I Couldn’t care less.”

For some reason, that was enough. Viltrumite Mark gave a low, approving hum and seemed to subtly shift to Mark’s side. Mark didn’t question it. He didn’t have time to. He’d just take the help.

“Although your brother is definitely smarter than you,” Viltrumite Mark added flatly.

“Thanks!” Oliver chirped, beaming. Mark couldn’t help but smile at how happy he looked.

Wait a second.

Mark’s stomach dropped. “Oliver, get out of here!”

“What? Why? We can totally beat this guy—I know we can!” Oliver insisted, eyes sparkling with misplaced confidence.

Viltrumite Mark huffed, “Oh, no. We are absolutely fucked.”

“What? No we’re not! We’ve got this!” Oliver cheered, fists up.

“No. Conquest could definitely kill us.” Viltrumite Mark nodded. “Unless we do my plan,” he added, only to get cut off by Mark

“Oliver, Go now! ” Mark screamed just as Conquest slammed into him like a goddamn meteor.

Mark flew across the battlefield, the impact cracking pavement and sending a shockwave through the block. Conquest’s hand clamped around his face, suffocating him mid-flight.

“You need all the help you can get,” Conquest snarled, slamming him through a parked car, then through two buildings, shattering glass and bending steel.

Elsewhere, Mohawk scanned the skyline of what remained of Chicago. “Where the fuck did he go?” he muttered.

Headcap shrugged. “Think we hit him so hard he flew into the Earth’s core or something?”

Mohawk blinked. “Okay, I didn’t hit him that hard,” he muttered—but scratched his chin in thought. “Did I?” he asked afterward.

Suddenly, a blur zipped past them.

“Wait, was that him?” Headcap asked, craning his neck.

“Fuck if I know, man,” Mohawk replied, completely unfazed.

Just then, they saw No Goggle, floating mid-air with a fresh camera in hand, casually tossing his cracked phone aside.

“Where’d you even get that?” Viltrumite Mark asked, dropping in behind him. Emperor Mark floated down beside them, waving at the camera.

“No time for questions,” No Goggle said, grinning. “We need to get this on tape. Real footage, none of that shaky cam bullshit. We’re gonna look awesome.”

“You’re right! This could send a message—show people the Viltrumites are kind and Saviors,” Viltrumite Mark said proudly.

Mohawk groaned. “Hate to break it to you, but it won’t.”

“Hey guys! Pretty sure they’re in another country by now.” Headcap muttered, only to be interrupted by Sinister flying past them in a blur, Oliver spinning in his wake like a top.

Masked Mark caught him with a sigh. “Can we please do what we came here to do? Am I the only one taking this seriously?”

“Hey, I’m serious,” Viltrumite Mark barked. “I’m probably the only one who still gives a damn about the Viltrumite Empire!”

“You are, ” everyone said in unison.

“Wait, what?” Viltrumite Mark looked horrified. But before he could argue, the battle roared back to life. Sinister, oddly enough, seemed to be helping Mark—or at least hitting Conquest instead of Mark.

“Okay, plan time,” Viltrumite Mark began.

“Jump his ass,” Headcap suggested immediately.

“Yeah, let’s get him,” No Goggle added with a grin.

“No—yes—I mean, listen! We can’t just go in willy-nilly! ” Viltrumite Mark shouted as Oliver flew past him to join in the fight.

“Don’t worry, I got this,” he shouted. He infact did not.

“Willy nilly?” No, Google echoed with a snort. “Bro, what even is that word?”

“Shut up! We need to coordinate! Use Viltrumite code—anyone remember the attack formation codes?!” Viltrumite Mark

Everyone blinked. Silence.

“That might just be a your universe thing,” Mohawk Google said with a shrug.

“Yeah,,” Headcap added. “Also, not taking orders.”

“FINE! Then just aim for his goddamn limbs! ” Viltrumite Mark! shouted. ”And immobilize.” 

Sinister was knocked aside just then, and Emperor Mark swooped in beside Viltrumite.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Emperor grinned, cracking his knuckles.

“Hey, we all agree he’s one of the worst versions of us, right?” Viltrumite Mark asked",

“Oh, definitely,” No Goggle replied without hesitation. “Now. Get in there and kick some ass.”

“What about you—” Viltrumite Mark began, but No Google already  wung him forward. Viltrumite Mark cursed, reciting his mantra under his breath to make sure he doesn’t go insane from all the other obnoxious versions of himself.

He was doing this for the empire. For unity. For sending a message. And also—he really hated Conquest.

Which made this a little personal.

The wind whipped around them, debris tumbling through the air like nature's confetti as Conquest stood, bloodied but grinning, teeth red with someone else's effort.

"You all really thought this —" he gestured at the mess of variant Marks and company, "—could stop me ?"

Regular Mark groaned from the crater he was currently embedded in. “Can someone hit him with a building or something?!”

“Way ahead of you.” Mohawk cracked his neck, lifted a taxi with one hand, and flung it like a frisbee. Conquest batted it aside with a grunt, only for it to explode into a fountain of hubcaps and confused pigeons.

“I didn’t mean it literally.” Regular mark hissed out, tired.

“Everyone—FIGHT FORMATION SEVEN!” Viltrumite Mark yelled, joining in, hoping the other variant might have the code memorized.

“WE DON’T HAVE A FORMATION SEVEN!” yelled Regular Mark as he peeled himself out of the ground.

Viltrmite mark groaned, “then just “ he sighs “  try to immobilize him by removing his limbs or spine or something!”

The sky split with the crack of thunder as Viltrumite Mark launched himself at Conquest with everything he had. The others followed.

Emperor Mark hit first, his punch spinning Conquest’s jaw around with a sickening snap, but the old warlord just laughed and swung a backfist that sent him crashing through an apartment complex. Dust and brick erupted as Emperor Mark tumbled out the other side, groaning.

“Formation Seven, my ass,” Mohawk muttered—but he dove in anyway, flying low with a rising uppercut that caught Conquest across the jaw.He actually winced but recovered quickly as he caught Mohawk by the face and slammed him into the asphalt hard enough to buckle it. Then he spun, tossing the limp body at Headcap, who ducked just in time.

No Goggle swooped in next, dodging rubble and glass as he unloaded a flurry of punches. “Smile for the camera, bastard!” he shouted, slamming Conquest with a double-fist to the temple

“Too soft,” Conquest muttered—and then Masked Mark struck from above, driving both fists into Conquest’s shoulders. There was an audible pop as something dislocated, and Conquest roared, blood splashing from his mouth.

“ Why do you guys need to announce yourself?  Sneaking up is much better.” Mask muttered. 

Conquest stumbled, blood trailing from his nose—but he grinned, teeth streaked red. “This is more like it.”

That’s when Sinister made his move, coming from  behind Conquest mid-snarl, driving a blade of compressed air into the side of his ribs. He hummed and licked his lips “Hmm, I think tonight we should have ribs for dinner,” he stated.

Conquest twisted, grinning through the pain; he seized Sinister’s arm and, with a bone-snapping crack, ripped it off.

Sinister  cackled and laughed at the pain.

As Emperor Mark arrived in a blur, grabbing Conquest’s arm before he could follow through.  Regular Mark lunged forward despite the searing pain in his ribs, slamming his fist as hard as he could in the head.

Spit came out and the emperor gagged, releasing, “Ugh, ew, gross,” he stated as his clothes were covered in saliva.

“Anyone get tissue?” he ask 

“Left mine at Debbie's place; sorry.” Viltrumite mark shouted  frown the ground as he kicked the rubble off of him and shook it out of his hair.

“Yeah, over here,” Mask waved with a tired groan.

No one seemed to notice or care more about Conquest, who had a hand around regular Mark's throat and  one in his gut. “You, I’m slightly disappointed. Where is your rage mark? That fire you had earlier? That divine strength,” he moaned as regular mark gagge and coughed for air.

And then he dug his thumbs in—crushing something internal. Mark couldn’t even scream, his body convulsing violently. A fountain of blood spurted from his lips. The world spun. Limbs flailed but found no purchase.

“No!” Oliver shouted, launching forward. “Let him go,” he houted hitting  Conquest in the side of the head with a flying kick that actually staggered him.

“You want him? Take his pain.” He prepared to grab Oliver; regular mark gasp “No,don’t touch him,” he pleaded.

"Everyone, now!" Viltrumite barked.

And for once, they listened.

Viltrumite Mark was the first to recover—plummeting from the sky like a comet, his elbow slamming into the back of Conquest’s skull with a wet, sickening crunch.

No-Goggle followed next, seizing Conquest’s leg mid-air and yanking him down, leaving him vulnerable as Headcap came crashing in with a concrete slab, driving it into Conquest’s ribs with a shattering crack .

The city shook.

Conquest dropped—cratering the earth beneath him. He tried to rise— almost did—until Sinister drove a jagged spike through his shoulder.

Emperor grabbed the other arm, twisting it back until sinew tore and joints snapped out of place.

"You're done," Emperor said coldly.

And still, Conquest grinned.

"Not yet," he rasped, jerking his head up—just in time for Mohawk to slam his fist into Conquest’s face. Again. And again.

He didn’t stop until his hand dripped with blood.

"Will that shut you up, old man, or nah?" Mohawk sneered, grinning.

Blood ran from Conquest’s mouth. His body convulsed, spasmed. Then, unbelievably—he rose. One final time.

Regular Mark stepped forward, chest heaving. "Don’t."

Conquest’s eyes met his.

Then Masked Mark appeared behind him—silent as death—and snapped his spine with a clean, decisive motion.

The battlefield froze.

Conquest collapsed, gasping, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Blood pooled beneath him—dark and thick. He wasn’t dead.
But he couldn’t move.

His finger twitched.

Masked Mark leaned over and whispered, "You lost. So stay down."

Conquest coughed—wet and bloody. That was his only answer.

They stood over him now. Bruised. Shaking. Breathing hard.

"That was fucking great, " Sinister cackled, spinning around with a grin, "but really, I could’ve done without you guys ruining my moment."

The Emperor scoffed. "Please. I could’ve beaten him without you idiots."

"Really?" Viltrumite Mark raised a brow. "Because last I checked, we only won because we teamed up."

Masked Mark hummed in agreement.

"I just texted Mom the good news. Should we grab dinner on the way or—?" he started.

"Already got it," Sinister replied, patting a conquest triumphantly.

"Absolutely not," Emperor growled.

"I think someone owes us money," Headcap chimed in, swaying slightly. "Shit, who was it again?"

"The version of us who’s a total daddy’s boy," Mohawk smirked.

"And I got it all recorded," No-Goggle giggled, waving the camera like a prize. "He can’t deny how wrong he was."

"Aw, hell yeah! " Mohawk cheered, throwing an arm around No-Goggle and ruffling his hair. The younger man squawked, laughing, half-heartedly shoving him off—neither caring about the blood smeared across their suits.

Oliver wobbled slightly, then beamed. "See? Told you we could beat him." He turned in celebration, arms in the air.

Regular Mark gave a shaky laugh—and collapsed.

"MARK!" Oliver shouted, catching him before he hit the ground.

Viltrumite Mark rushed over, eyes wide as he stared into the face of a version of himself—it was uncanny, surreal. "He’s still breathing," he murmured calming oliver down as mask mark patted oliver shoulder. 

"Ribs are probably dust," Viltrumite added grimly. "And internal bleeding. He tanked a lot. "

"We all did," Masked Mark muttered. Emperor scoffed, Sinister rolled his eyes, and Mohawk blew a raspberry. Mask glared at the other version of himself  momentarily before speaking loud enough for them to hear, "But he took the worst of it."

Oliver gently laid Regular Mark down, clutching his hand, trembling.

"I’m okay," Mark rasped. "Mostly. That... sucked."

"You think that sucked?" Mohawk chuckled, blood in his teeth. "We just beat Conquest. With a team of idiots! Imagine being him.”

"I’m right here," Emperor muttered.

"Same," Headcap added.

Mark smiled faintly. "I have... so many questions—"

His eyes fluttered open and shut as exhaustion overtook him.

"Yeah, well... let’s get you to a hospital first. Mom’ll be pissed if her original son dies," Masked Mark muttered begrudgingly.

"Yeah, you heard him!" Mohawk said, turning toward the man standing nearby with the hero team.

"So hurry up and get us out of here, Cecil. "

Chapter Text

The third cup of tea trembled in Debbie’s hands as she sat at the kitchen table, her eyes fixed on the window where the sky was beginning to dim. The soft rustling of trees outside should’ve been calming, but her mind wouldn’t stop spiraling. Worry sank its teeth into her skull, clawing through every thought she tried to have. She hadn’t turned on the TV again—not after Maskless saw how anxious it made her. And Omi-Mark had decided to be the one on guard duty—God, she couldn’t even look at him.

He still sat on the couch, flipping through a book, too composed. It was unbearable. Every time she looked at him, all she could see was Nolan.

Before all this—before things got complicated and tense and unbearably quiet—Debbie used to smile at how much her son resembled his father. Same strong nose, same stillness when he read. Now it made her stomach twist. 

She groaned softly and stood, heading toward the cabinet, the one high above the stove. Her fingers curled around the handle, already knowing what waited behind it: a gleaming bottle. Just one glass to settle herself, maybe—

The cabinet door slammed shut.

The sudden clatter of glass inside made her heart leap. She stumbled back a step and turned.

Maskless was standing there, hand still pressed to the cabinet. His eyes were vacant, hollow even. He wasn’t really looking at her. More like he was staring through her.

“Breathe,” he whispered. “One... two... three... four...” He inhaled and exhaled in measured cycles, counting softly to himself. “...three... four... one...”

“Are you alright?” Debbie asked, voice low, nearly brittle. The fear hadn’t left her chest yet.

“I—ain’t—yeah. Sorta. Um...” Maskless rubbed his face. His words trailed into silence, and then, gently, he reached out and guided her back to her chair.

“Sit. I’ll make you more tea. A different blend this time, I’m sure we can find one that works,” he said, already turning to the cupboards.

Debbie winced. She hated how that sounded—like he was the parent and she was the child. She hated how easy it was to feel small lately.

“No, it’s fine. I got it,” she said quickly, moving to stand again. “Besides, I’m very particular about my tea blend.” She offered a tight smile, trying to pass it off lightly, even as she judged herself for it. Or maybe she was judging Maskless. She couldn’t tell anymore.

He stared at her as she moved around the kitchen, pulling down her usual tin and setting water to boil. She worked in silence for a moment, until the kettle began to whisper. She looked up. Maskless was still watching her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, finally meeting his gaze.

He blinked slowly, like surfacing from deep water. His chest rose and fell once before he shook his head.

“Huh? Nothing. No—it’s just...” His eyes flicked to the steam curling above the kettle. “You look like her. But you’re nothing like my mom.”

Debbie’s breath caught in her throat. Her hand trembled just slightly as she poured the hot water, but Maskless saw. His reflexes were sharp—even now—and he winced at how quickly he’d said it.

“Oh, sorry. That must’ve been really rude of me. I’m sorry,” he said immediately, holding up his hands in surrender. “It’s not a bad thing or anything. I think you’re... um... neat?” he offered, his voice unsure.

Despite herself, Debbie let out a shaky chuckle. His quick attempt to soften the blow felt clumsy but sincere.

She poured another cup and handed it to him. “I don’t think I’ve heard any of you guys talk about your mom,” she said. “What was she like?” she offered.

He declined, but Debbie lowered her gaze and tried again.

Maskless accepted the cup, though he didn’t drink. He just stared at the surface for a moment, studying his own reflection. Eventually, he spoke.

“Well, for one... she wouldn’t have forced me to have tea,” he said, and Debbie blinked as he moved toward the very chair he’d led her to earlier. “The moment I said ‘no,’ she would’ve left me alone.”

He sat, cradling the cup but not drinking from it.

“And that would’ve been our whole conversation for the day,” he added, almost bitterly.

Debbie stared at him, lips parting, but she didn’t know what to say yet.

Maskless took a sip finally, blowing gently on the steam first. He didn’t grimace, so maybe it wasn’t too awful.

“She wasn’t cruel. Not loud. Just... absent. Emotionally. Like talking to a wall, except the wall seemed to quiver if you were near it,” he continued. “She’d put on makeup before school drop-off. She smiled at teachers. But she never asked how my day was. Not once.”

“I’m sorry,” Debbie murmured. She meant it.

He shrugged. “Nah, it’s fine,” He said.

“Is it?” Debie asked, his lips pursed as he shook his head and ignored it.

“ She was constantly scared of me and refused to look me in the eye,” he stated, then turned to Debbie, who stared back completely enigmatically, waiting for him to finish. “Not like you,” he added with a hum before darting away nervously from Debbie. “And her eye’s—it looked like she had nothing left, at least by the time I showed up.”

Debbie set her tea down. Her hands folded on the table in front of her. She felt the sting of tears behind her eyes but refused to let them fall.

“I know that kind of tired,” she whispered. “I didn’t—used to. But I do now.”

He really didn’t know what to say here.

They were quiet for a long moment.

Then he glanced at her. “Do you miss Nolan?”

The question hit her like a punch. She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

“I don’t know,” she finally said, honestly. “Sometimes I miss the man I thought he was. Sometimes I hate him for leaving this behind.”

“Yeah,” Maskless said. “Sounds about right.”

Another silence passed, this one gentler. The tea cooled between them. Maskless seemed to drift off into the window, and she knew that look—because despite what dimension he came from, it seemed all Marks had the same pattern of focus.

“You know,” she said softly, tapping Maskless’s shoulder gently—and he jumped just a tad, hesitantly turning to her as if he didn’t want to scare her away. And Debbie fell for that—then she felt slight disgust at feeling bad for a murderer. “I do miss moments like these, though. Before the whole superhero thing. Just... enjoying each other’s company,” she admitted.

He gave a faint, tired smile. “Yeah. me too.”

They both sipped their tea in peace.

—--

Omni-Mark liked to think he’d been doing a pretty decent job at keeping his temper under control. He hadn’t yelled, hadn’t screamed, and most importantly, hadn’t beaten up any of his other selves—which, honestly, deserved a medal.

Even when he found out this Debbie had started dating some dude named Paul, he’d managed to keep his cool. Slightly offended, yes—but nothing that warranted a nuclear meltdown.

But right now?

Omni-Mark was at his rope’s end.

He could hear it. That cursed nursery rhyme, playing from a phone speaker with all the grace of a dying animal. The tune was abysmally off-key, layered with the tinny screech of cheap children's music.

“Let’s together bath, let's together bath!”

It looped, mocking him with its terrible English and broken melody. His eye twitched. He slowly turned to face the source of his torment: one of his alternate selves, bald-headed and scar-faced, seated cross-legged on the floor like a five-year-old.

Omni-Mark stared. Stared hard .

He was starting to think he deserved this. All of this. Maybe this was penance for the mass genocide he committed. But there was no other explanation for being trapped in a house with this .

After five more unbearable minutes, the video shifted—without pause, without shame—to something even worse: Elsa giving birth to Spider-Man’s child. The visuals were a fever dream of moaning sound effects, glitchy animations, and deeply unsettling facial expressions.

Omni-Mark, watching his other self laugh — cackle , and he felt something inside him snap.

“Absolutely not,” he  muttered, snatching the phone from Prison-Mark’s hands.

Prison-Mark scowled. “Dude, what the fuck?” Prison Mark barked, scowling. The contrast was almost comedic. A grizzled, foul-mouthed version of himself watching the worst content ever produced by mankind. Omni-Mark was sure his alternate selves would find this hilarious—but all he felt was horror. And disgust. And... disappointment.

Omni-Mark stared at the phone in disbelief, face locked in deadpan horror. “How on earth can you watch this?” he asked, flatly. His voice was hollow, void of all emotion.

“That’s the good stuff,” Prison-Mark grinned, unfazed. “Now hand it back before I cram my fist through your ear.”

He leaned forward threateningly, breath hot and minty. Too minty.

Omni-Mark shoved him—not out of fear, but to get away from the nauseating wave of peppermint death. It was like being assaulted by ten different types of wintergreen.

“How many mints did you eat?” he asked, recoiling.

“Just like… ten,” Prison Mark shrugged, casually tossing an empty box aside.

Omni-Mark caught it. “The box says twenty. Did you eat all of them?”

“Yeah, who cares?” 

Omni-Mark pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply. ” You know what? You’re right, it doesn’t matter.”

A pause.

He looked down at the variant still lounging on the couch like a gremlin.

“Sit down. I’m going to teach you how to identify numbers.”

Prison-Mark blinked. “Psh, dude. I already know numbers. Like, five plus five equals two, and all that junk. So hand it over.”

Omni-Mark was struck speechless. Somehow, this man—this thing —was another version of him. And for that alone, he absolutely deserved prison. “You are... a disgrace to multiversal intelligence.”

“Sit down ,” he barked, chest puffing up in authority.

A flicker of something passed between them. The angle of Omni-Mark shoulders, the grim set of his mouth—it was like staring into the glare of Omni-Man himself. Prison Mark blinked, then slowly sat. 

His bones tingled.

“Okay, calm down,” Prison Mark muttered, raising his hands. “It’s not that serious.”

Omni Mark sighed tapping on the wall where Debbie was.

“Oh—Mark,” Debbie paused, visibly uncomfortable with the name. The word hung between them, awkward and stale

Omni-Mark tensed. He didn’t like it when she called him that, and judging by her expression, she didn’t like it either.

“Invincible,” Omni-Mark corrected with a shrug, leaning against the doorframe. “ Just… Invincible.”

“Do you have any flashcards?” Omni-Mark asked.

Debbie raised a brow. “Yeah... but why?”

“I’m teaching the idiot over there how to count,” he said bluntly.

Across the room, Prison Mark slammed his palm against the table. “I’m not an idiot! Come say that to my face!”

“Shut it,” Omni-Mark snapped, and the room went eerily silent. Maskless tapped his teacup a bit too hard, and Debbie blinked several times as though she had to reset her thoughts. Then, with a quiet hum, she stood up properly.

“I think I left them in Oliver’s room,” she murmured. “Come on.”

Omni-Mark floated after her, drifting silently like a shadow—until she suddenly turned with a sharp look and tapped her foot on the ground. “No flying in the house.”

He raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed. She crossed her arms, her foot tapping faster in defiance until he sighed and let himself lower to the floor.

“Fine.”

Satisfied, Debbie smiled and led the way up the stairs. Omni-Mark followed a step behind, still slightly baffled that this woman—this persistent, grounded, quietly intimidating human—was the same person who had given birth to him in some version of his life.

As they reached the top of the stairs, something else struck him: he didn’t remember there being three bedrooms in this house. And yet, here it was—a third door, painted a bright navy blue and covered in a smattering of superhero stickers and random Decor. Had Cecil rebuilt this place? Or maybe this version of their dimension had always had it? The idea made his head buzz.

But not as much as him  having to finally come to terms with the fact that another version of him had a brother.

The room they entered was a chaos of toys, books, and stray socks. The floor was nearly invisible beneath scattered clutter. Debbie barely stepped inside before she yelped, stumbling back as a plastic frog toy leapt at her unexpectedly. Omni-Mark caught her with one arm before she could hit the floor. She clung to him instinctively, one foot lifted as she hissed through her teeth.

“Oliver! I keep telling that boy to clean his room, but he never listens!” she huffed, steadying herself.

Omni-Mark glanced down at her foot—it was red from where she’d stepped on something sharp.

“Watch your step. He’s got a lot of junk and sharp toys around. I don’t want you getting cut,” she warned as she began rifling through shelves.

“I’m not going to get hurt by plastic,” he said dryly.

She paused, half-laughing, half-serious. “Well, he’s also hiding a knife somewhere here. I haven’t been able to find it, and he refuses to admit it’s his, so just… be careful.”

Despite himself, Omni-Mark raised an eyebrow.

“If you’re just going to stand there, you can help me find the box.“  Debbie calls out as she looks through the toy box.

“It’s a black and white striped cardboard box,” Debbie explained. 

He nodded and scanned the room. Posters leaned against the wall; toy cars plastered with stickers were scattered near a flickering nightlight. He paused at the bed, eyes landing on a well-worn plush dog resting on the pillow. He reached out and picked it up gently.

“You guys kept this,” he murmured.

Debbie looked up from where she was crouching near the closet. “Oh. That. Yeah. I wanted Mark to throw it out years ago, but he insisted on keeping it. It didn’t do much, just sat rotting in the attic, so I decided to give it to Oliver.”

She smiled, leaning against the wall.

“He keeps saying he’s too old for stuffed animals, but every night, he curls up with that dog like it’s a lifeline,” she said, fondness softening her tone. “He’s such a handful.”

“How old is he?” Omni- Mark asked, still turning the plush gently in his hands.

Debbie exhaled slowly. “I think... eight? Maybe ten?”

He blinked. “You don’t remember?”

She shrugged, sheepish. “He’s technically only a year old in human time, but he’s half-Thoraxian, half-Viltrumite. He ages way too fast.”

“That must be exhausting,” Omni-Mark muttered, setting the plush back down.

“You have no idea,” she groaned. “Thank god Mark and Paul are here or I’d lose my mind.”

Omni-Mark tilted his head. “You’re thankful for Mark being around?”

“Shouldn’t you hate him for being your ex-husband’s son?” he added, curious.

Debbie placed a hand on her heart. “Not even close,” she said, with a certainty that left no room for argument. “He’s my child. And even if he were a world-class conquering maniac, I could never hate him—or any version of him.”

He stared at her for a moment, long and hard, trying to find a crack in her sincerity. He didn’t. He hummed and returned to his search.

A few minutes passed in silence. Debbie was halfway into the closet when she spoke again, almost absently. “Did your version of Debbie... hate you?”

She didn’t hear him answer at first. He was quiet for a long while.

Then he stepped beside her and held up a box. “I think this is it?”

She peeked inside to confirm. “Yep. They’re all here—some bent, but still usable.”

Omni-Mark gave her a brief nod and turned to leave, pausing at the doorframe with his hand on the wood.

“I don’t know,” he finally said, his voice quieter. “She probably did.”

There was something in his tone—something unguarded and worn. For the first time, Debbie didn’t hear Nolan in his voice at all. For once, he sounded exactly like Mark.

Her heart clenched as she watched him disappear down the stairs.

It took her a few moments to pull herself back together, her thoughts drifting like fog until a voice—familiar but softer than the rest—cut through the haze. Maskless Mark, she realized. She could always tell it was him. The others spoke like battering rams or broken glass. His tone was more like worn velvet: tired, but calm.

“Maybe you should ask Debbie,” he said, thoughtfully. “She did school us for a few years… or was that just my dimension?”

From the stairs, Debbie descended, her steps quiet against the wood until the creak of the fourth step betrayed her. She paused at the landing, peering into the living room just in time to see Omni-Mark flip over a large white flashcard with theatrical flair.

“What’s this?” he asked with the energy of a teacher trying very hard not to lose his last nerve.

Prison-Mark squinted at the card like it had personally insulted him. “A rectangle,” he said flatly.

Omni-Mark’s eye twitched. “It’s the number one.”

“Oh.” Prison-Mark’s voice carried no enthusiasm.

Another card was flipped.

“What’s this?” Omni-Mark asked again, slower this time.

Prison-Mark barely glanced at it. “Two rectangles,” he said, bored beyond belief.

“It’s the number two.”

“I’m sensing a theme,” Maskless murmured from the kitchen, rubbing his chin with one hand while the other lifted a delicate porcelain teacup to his lips. He looked far too elegant for a man watching an educational meltdown.

“You’re going to learn,” Omni-Mark growled through gritted teeth.

“Why should I?” Prison-Mark shot back. “None of this is going to be useful.”

Omni-Mark's hand froze in the air, flashcard still between his fingers. “Are you serious?”

Their eyes locked like clashing swords. The air grew thick with tension.

Debbie stifled a laugh behind her hand, reminded of the many failed attempts Mark had made to teach Oliver basic math when he was four. Some things, it seemed, never changed across dimensions.

Omni-Mark cleared his throat, clapping his hands like a man trying to reset a group of kindergarteners. “Right. let me reiterate. We’re learning to count . I say the number, you repeat the number, and then you identify the number on your own. Ready?”

Prison-Mark gave a dramatic yawn and leaned back in his chair like a man awaiting death by boredom. “This better help me get into Space Costco.”

“It’s kindergarten math , not a galactic license exam!” Omni-Mark snapped, shoulders stiff with frustration.

“There’s no way you’re getting into Space Costco,” Maskless muttered without looking up he seemed more drowsy, probably from the tea he was drinking.

Debbie blinked as she lowered herself onto the couch. “Costco? Like… the store?” she repeated, unsure if she’d stepped into a fever dream.

Maskless hummed in confirmation, scooting his chair slightly closer. “Yeah, after we colo—” He paused, catching Debbie’s skeptical glare. “— helped the human race avoid total destruction, we started helping them expand to other planets. Costco was the first mega-store to open off-world.”

“Ah,” Debbie said slowly, nodding along. “And let me guess—they only allow certain people in?”

“People above a certain intelligence level,” Maskless confirmed, then added with an apologetic shrug, “...after a few blood-related incidents.”

“Say no more,” Debbie replied, folding her legs under her as she watched Omni-Mark sigh for what had to be the twentieth time.

Omni-Mark pressed a hand to his temple like he could physically push back the migraine forming. “Okay. Fine. Let’s try again. What’s this?” He held up a flashcard marked with a bold, simple 3.

Prison-Mark leaned forward, sniffed the card, then licked the corner thoughtfully.

“Tastes like... cardboard,” he said, smacking his lips.

“ DON’T LICK THE NUMBERS! ” Omni- Mark exploded.

“I’m learning through taste,” Prison-Mark said calmly, licking his lips. “I think that’s a six.”

“ It’s a three! ”

“No one knows what numbers look like!” Prison-Mark argued, throwing his hands up. “They’re just little squiggles society agreed on!”

“YES. WE AGREED ON THEM. THAT’S WHY YOU NEED TO LEARN THEM.”

“Boy, quiet down, please,” Debbie said softly, more amused than stern. Her voice had the grounding effect of a warm blanket. She couldn’t remember the house ever being this alive. It was chaotic, yes—but she was beginning to think she didn’t mind it.

“He licked the number three!” Omni-Mark barked in disbelief. “How on Earth can anyone calm down after that?!”

“He has a point,” Maskless said in a whisper, almost to himself. “If I were me… I’d probably ki— unalive him,” he amended with a polite smile toward Debbie.

“Hey, look, I’m not the one yelling,” Prison-Mark said smugly, arms crossed.

“I barely yelled,” Omni-Mark muttered, already losing the will to argue.

Prison-Mark lifted  something with ease “So is this is a… four?”

Omni-Mark blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “That’s a chair.”

“Oh. I wondered why it had legs.” he hummed with smug smirk.

“That’s not even a flashcard! That’s a piece of furniture! ” Omni-Mark shouted,  pushing said chair back down

Prison-Mark leaned back on it with a lazy smirk. “Ahhh. That makes more sense. I was wondering why the numbers were getting so detailed .”

By this point, it was painfully obvious Prison-Mark was just screwing with him. But whether Omni-Mark noticed—or had simply chosen to ignore the reality of the situation—remained a mystery.

Omni-Mark collapsed into a chair and groaned, “How did you survive prison?” It wasn't a question ment to be answered if anything it was more of him pondering out loud.

“Easy,” Prison-Mark said with a shrug. “I learned my lesson and realized I shouldn’t side with stupid humans.”

“You are the stupid people!” Omni-Mark snapped, throwing his arms in the air.

Debbie walked calm as ever, and handed Omni-Mark a juice box like he was a frustrated toddler. “You’re doing great, sweetie,” she said with a straight face, though a laugh threatened to break through. Omni-Mark wrinkled his nose at her.

“Debbie,” he whispered behind the box. “He thought four was a chair.”

“Everyone learns differently,” Maskless called out from the kitchen, rinsing a mug.

“He licked three,” Omni-Mark hissed back.

“I said differently. Not correctly,” Maskless replied without missing a beat. He clinked a plate into the drying rack, his voice dry with amusement.

“Thank you for the emotional support,” Omni-Mark muttered, sarcasm dripping like syrup.

Debbie hummed. “Yes, well, you’re quite welcome.” She reached out and ruffled his hair in a gesture so familiar it stunned him—and then, without a second thought, kissed his cheek. It was casual, offhanded, as if he really were her Mark. She left the room before he could react.

He blinked. Once. Twice. His hand slowly rose to touch his cheek.

“She’s weird, right?” Maskless said from the couch, now curled up under a blanket like a sleepy cat.

Omni-Mark hummed, still dazed. “She’s the strangest woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Including Anessa?” Maskless asked, raising a brow.

Omni-Mark visibly shuddered. “I said strange" he corrected Maskless quickly " Anessa isn't strange, she’s just creepy.”

“I think you mean she's a baddie, ” Prison-Mark whistled, resting his chin in his hands.

“Oh yeah,” Maskless muttered, voice suddenly hollow. “We’re definitely dumb and traumatized.”

When Debbie returned, she held up a small whiteboard with "Oliver" written in large, clear letters. Omni-Mark squinted. “What’s that supposed to be?”

“I was thinking,” Debbie began, rifling through a packet of blank cards. “Do any of you remember the gold star board? Y’know, from school? Every time you did something good, you got a gold star, and if you got enough, you earned a reward?”

“Never did that,” Maskless admitted, but he leaned forward with mild curiosity. “Sounds interesting.”

“It sounds childish.” Omni-Mark huffed.

But Prison-Mark’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “Wait. Do I get stickers too?!”

Debbie raised an eyebrow. “Maybe. But only if ...” She trailed off dramatically, then pulled a gold star sticker from the pack and held it up. “Only if you identify this number correctly.”

She flashed a card.

Prison-Mark leaned forward, tongue sticking out slightly like a determined toddler. “That’s…” He squinted. “Definitely not a rectangle.”he hummed dragging this on longer then he needed to.

“Good start,” Maskless murmured, deadpan.

“Could be a backwards chair,” Prison-Mark added thoughtfully.

“Less good,” Maskless said under his breath.

“Oh wait—I think it’s a… four! ” Prison-Mark shouted.

“ YES! ” Omni-Mark slammed the table with both palms. “YES! FIVE! GOD EXISTS. I NEVER DOUBTED HIM.”

Debbie clapped. “You did it, honey!” The joy in her voice was real, but it was undercut by a strange ache. A man his age struggling with numbers. A man once brilliant, now proudly recognizing the number five. She felt a chill settle in her chest. Just how long had he been in that prison? And how young had he been?

Prison-Mark stood on the couch like a victorious gladiator. “I AM THE MATH CHAMPION!”

“You got one number right,” Omni-Mark hissed.

“And that’s one more than I had before,” Prison-Mark shot back with a smug grin.

Debbie peeled the gold star off the sheet and handed it over. Prison-Mark stuck it directly to his forehead with the solemnity of a knight accepting his medal.

Omni-Mark groaned and slumped in his chair. “We still have to go through five to ten.”

“I thought we were stopping at four,” Prison-Mark said, instantly alarmed.

“No. That was just your first success,” Debbie said gently.

“Why are there more numbers?!”

“There are infinite numbers!” Omni-Mark shouted, his voice cracking slightly.

“That seems excessive. Can we vote on this?” Prison-Mark asked.

Omni-Mark started muttering.

Prison-Mark flopped backward onto the couch. “Can we at least take a break?”

“No,” Omni-Mark snapped.

“I’m losing blood sugar,” Prison-Mark added.

“You drank three sodas and an entire tube of frosting,” Maskless pointed out, one eyebrow raised.

“Exactly. I need real food,” Prison-Mark insisted.

Omni-Mark held up another flashcard, his hands trembling slightly. “What number is this?”

Prison-Mark barely glanced at it. “Snail.”

“It’s eight, ” Omni-Mark sighed.

“Could be a snail,” Maskless teased.

Omni-Mark slowly pressed the flashcard to his forehead and screamed into it.

Debbie re-entered, carrying a plate of cookies and a bottle of water. “Okay, maybe we do need a break. We can try again tomorrow. Besides, it’s getting late.”

She ruffled Omni-Mark’s hair again as she passed, and he froze.

“You do know we’re grown men, right?” he asked again voice low. Pondering why on earth she was treating them with so much care. 

Debbie looked at them for a long moment—one curled up in a blanket, another slumped in exhaustion, the third proudly wearing a sticker on his forehead.

“Of course,” she said. But in her heart, she couldn't help it. Maybe that’s why she wanted to hold them so badly—because she couldn’t imagine what their childhood had been like, or if they even had one at all.

Chapter Text

"Huh," Cecil said flatly, eyes fixed on the swarm of Marks scattered around the battlefield like a multiversal infestation.

He wasn't necessarily surprised that they were still here. Most of his hidden cameras at Debbie’s house had been destroyed—some of them very deliberately—but a few had survived. One was even tucked inside the microwave. Though, judging by the identical hidden microwave setup at Paul’s house, it wasn’t nearly as discreet as he'd hoped. Either Debbie was catching on fast, or he was getting sloppy. Probably both.

"‘Huh’? That’s all you have to say?" Head cap Mark asked, clearly disappointed. He crossed his arms, frowning like a child denied dessert. “I expected something more snarky.”

"Who cares what he says as long as he moves his ass?" Mohawk,  Mark muttered. He rolled his eyes at Head Cap's whining, already annoyed. Viltrumite Mark agreed. He was cradling the half-unconscious body of the Original Mark, who looked pale and dangerously limp.

"Yeah, can we get him to a hospital before he dies?" Masked Mark said, concern laced in his tone as he helped hoist Original Mark more securely onto Viltrumite’s back.

"Nah, no need—he’s been dead inside for years," Google Mark quipped, drawing a cross dramatically over his chest like he was mourning at a funeral. Headcap Mark smacked his hand in response.

“You’re all cringe,” muttered Sinister, who then spat out blood.

"We should also get the version of us to a hospital," Empire Mark added with a hiss, gesturing vaguely at Sinister Mark, who was barely conscious and definitely not standing. “Not that I care or anything—I just don’t want to watch myself bleed out.”

"Just call me Sinister. Easier to remember," the injured Mark mumbled with a blood-streaked grin.

There was a beat of silence.

“Dude, We’re not going to call you Sinister . ” Head cap, Mark said.

“On God, you’re not him,” Google Mark muttered in disgust.

“CAN WE GO?” Mohawk Mark shouted, throwing up his hands. “I’m getting sick and tired of standing around here next to bootleg Justice League.” 

"And why, exactly, do you think I’d bring  you guys to a top-secret military base just to offer free medical aid?" Cecil replied coolly, unbothered by the heat. As usual, he looked composed, even as several of these superpowered Marks could crush him into paste in less than a second.

“I think I’m—he’s—you’re Invincible—is hallucinating from the blood loss,” Viltrumite Mark muttered as the Original Mark moaned softly against his shoulder.

A few feet away, Oliver landed clumsily in front of Cecil. “You can help him, right? So help him!” he pleaded, his eyes wet with tears and worry.

Cecil tilted his head, looking the boy over, then flicked his gaze to the others. Most of them were exhausted, bruised, bleeding, or still riding the high of interdimensional adrenaline.

He sighed. "Explain why you’re all still here, and then we can talk about medical help."

“Someone Killed Angst Storm,” Empire Mark grumbled, narrowing his eyes at Sinister Mark.

Sinister blinked, still staring at the stump where his arm used to be. “Yeah... guilty,” he giggled weakly before passing out cold. Empire Mark barely caught him before he hit the ground.

“And now we’re stuck here with no way back,” Viltrumite Mark added, sighing heavily. “Great job, team.”

"We came here with a deal," Mohawk Mark said, floating over toward Cecil but unable to get too close thanks to Cecil’s teleportation tech. "We help you. You help us build a portal to get home."

Cecil adjusted his tie, having freshly teleported behind them. It always got a little askew when he jumped, a minor annoyance in an otherwise flawless image. "And why exactly would I trust a room full of evil alternate versions of Invincible? If I just wait long enough, statistically, one of you will die off anyway." He looked directly at Sinister Mark’s unconscious body.

“You fucker—” Headcap Mark growled, stepping forward as if to punch him, but Cecil vanished again, reappearing in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by Bulletproof and a few other loyal supers who moved instantly to defend him.

"But fine," Cecil relented, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. "I’ll help you. In return, I make you into top-tier heroes. Clean up your mess. Prove your worth."

"Boss, are you sure?" Bulletproof? asked quietly, leaning in close.

Cecil raised one hand and waved him off. Bulletproof didn’t look thrilled but didn’t argue.

“I have seven inquiries about this,” Robot’s voice cut in flatly over the speakers. He didn’t elaborate further, as someone else shouted:

“Wait—is that Robot? He’s still alive in this timeline?” Headcap asked. Several heads turned toward Robot.

Viltrumite Mark raised a brow. “So let me get this straight. You don’t trust us because we’re ‘conquerors,’” he said with air quotes, “but you’re fine with a Robot conqueror ? Sounds like hypocrisy to me.” 

“Robot did what?” Mask Mark said, confused.

“You accidentally let one thing live and they start a revolution,” muttered viltrumite.

“I fell that.” Mohawk agreed, nodding 

Empire looked baffled as he turned to the Viltrumite. “You let him live?”

"I didn’t mean to. He had a backup no one knew about. Next thing we knew, he had an entire robot army. I’ll give him credit—he played the long game. Still lost, but points for trying." Viltrumite Mark hurriedly tried to defend himself.

“Note to self: check for any surviving AI when I get home,” Empire Mark muttered, typing into his phone.

“Seriously?” Bulletproof grumbled, arms crossed. “These are the guys you want to turn into heroes?”

“I’m well aware they can’t be trusted,” Cecil said. “But do we have a better option right now?”

Bulletproof paused. Then, reluctantly, he nodded.

“Alright. You got me there.”

“No, but seriously—can we go ?” Viltrumite Mark groaned, readjusting Original Mark in his arms as Oliver fluttered in to try and help support the other side.

“He’s got a lot of internal bleeding,” Viltrumite  said, his voice tight with panic. “And his eye? It’s red—like, really red. I don’t know if it’s from an infection, dust, or if something snapped in his socket, but it should probably be checked out. Viltrumite eyes take longer to heal than the rest of our body.”

“Wh-What” Oliver said, horrified. Viltrumite looked at Oliver with pity. 

Masked flew to correct it. “But he’s not going to die, right?’ Masked, ask the Viltrumite with a warning glare.

“OF course not,” he said and Oliver sighed while Masked  patted his head, “...Probably.” Viltrumite began to think, calculating the likelihood of it” ... If his human blood is as weak as ours...” he was jabbed in the side by Mask, who shook his head While oliver panic became clearer.

“But he’s going to be fine, right?” Oliver asked, and the Viltrumite cracked an awkward smile.

“Yep, totally, if we get the help we need.” Viltrumite placed the Oliver situation on to Cecil pleadingly.

Cecil sighed and waved them forward, tapping something into his phone. “Fine,” he muttered.

In a flash of light and sound, the entire group suddenly vanished from the suburban wreckage and reappeared inside a massive, sterile military base.

“WHOA,” Google Mark yelled, stumbling forward and immediately spinning in place to take it all in. “Okay, I have to say—our Cecil didn’t have cool teleportation high-tech shit like that . Damn! This is  awesome .”

He whipped out his phone and immediately began taking selfies, grinning wide with the smoldering remains of a jet engine behind him. “Also, it didn’t look this fucking cool. Like. I’m Jealous.”

“Can you not ?” Masked Mark muttered, ” It’s rude,“  shoving Google’s phone down as they marched forward, following Cecil.

The balding man led the bleeding Mark, still groaning softly, to a clean white infirmary. An assistant arrived moments later with a clipboard and a stack of papers.

“Please sign your names here,” she said, placing the documents on the table.

The Marks all reached for pens—except Mohawk, who actually paused to flip through the pages.

“I mean, yeah, it’s government paperwork, but you should read these. Could be giving up your soul, your DNA rights, or your firstborn child.” He skimmed a few more lines, then grunted. “Oh. It’s just the standard Guardian induction form. Guess they never updated the boilerplate since I joined years ago.” With that, he signed without further protest.

They passed the clipboard back to the assistant. She raised an eyebrow as she looked it over, her eyes darting from signature to signature.

“Sir?” she called out, brisk heels clicking across the sterile floor as she pulled Cecil aside by the elbow like a panicked school administrator dragging a principal into a room full of delinquent clones. Her clipboard trembled in her hand.

“This is going to be a problem.”

Cecil turned his head slowly, giving her the kind of side-eye. “Why?” he asked, already bracing himself.

She lifted the clipboard and flipped it around. “They all have the same name,” she whispered like it was a forbidden curse. “First, middle, and last.”

Cecil stared at the paperwork in front of him. Then at the eight almost-identical men loitering across the room, most of them looking like they either wanted to fight, nap, or start a podcast.

He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, the sigh that followed echoing through his sinuses like the ghost of every bureaucratic headache he’d ever had. “Right. Of course. Multiversal duplicates.” He looked at the group like a fed-up teacher on the last day of school. “You’re all going to need to change your names. Legally.”

“We can’t have eight guys,“ he started but was cut off by masked.

“Actually, Eleven, there are three more at home,” he corrected. 

“Eleven guys named ‘Mark Grayson’ running around in government databases,” he added dryly. “It breaks too many systems. ”

Mohawk mark flipped on his sunglasses, which he definitely didn’t have before they arrived here.  He leaned back in the infirmary chair. “I already gave myself a new name. Mohawk.”

From across the room, Empire Mark stood up so fast his chair skidded. “You are not naming yourself fucking Mohawk,” Empire Mark snarled. “It’s wretched, horrible, and ghastly!”

“Someone pulled out the thesaurus,” muttered another, No Goggle mark from behind his phone. His screen glowed far too bright to be good for his eyesight.

“Not legally,” the assistant clarified, raising her voice above the incoming chaos. “We’ll need full legal designations for recordkeeping, insurance, and emergency response. Something unique for each of you.”

No goggle put down his phone. as he realized what the conversation was, he jumped up excitedly. “Finally. I can change my name to what it should’ve been from the start.” He raised his arms like a prophet. “Turbo.”

“Denied,” Empire Mark snapped instantly.

“Why?!” No Goggle demand, aghast.

“Because it sounds like a Fast and Furious sequel and you know it.”

“That’s what makes it badass!”

Masked Mark, who had been holding and skimming through the hospital pamphlet, raised a hand. “Can I be ‘Mark with a C’? Like, Marc?”

Viltrumite Mark groaned as he shifted the unconscious Original Mark on the bed beside him. “That’s just too confusing,” he said. “Besides, if he’s anything like me, he’ll haunt you for picking that name.” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “And if he doesn’t… I will.”

Masked Mark lowered his hand. “Okay, jeez. Marc is a no. Got it.”

Cecil stepped back in, arms crossed and one brow twitching ominously. “You need proper names and identifiers, or this turns into a logistical nuke, which means no naming yourself after a hairstyle.”

Mohawk gasped offendedly, Nobody told me this universe was so fucking lame. he shook his head.

Empire Mark scoffed, folding his arms. “I’m not changing my name to jackshit.”

Head Cap Mark, always ready with a solution and mild violence, stepped behind him and yanked Empire’s ear like a crab pinching a balloon. No, Google held Empire back by the shoulders while Head Cap handed him a form with a self-satisfied grin.

Empire read it with the solemnity of a man signing away his villain origin story. “Sebastian Markus Grayson,” he muttered. Then paused. “…Actually, not that bad.”

“Dude, seriously?”  No Goggle frowned.

“Shut it. I don’t want to hear it from a guy named Turbo ,”  Empire hissed.

“Turbo’s a pretty badass name!” No, Goggle protested, tossing his phone down dramatically.

Without fanfare, Empire grabbed another form and scribbled out “Majesty” in glitzy cursive. The assistant side-eyed him with the expression of someone silently calculating how many aspirin she had left.

“ Are you certain this is the name you want?” she muttered.

“Absolutely , ” Majesty replied, somehow making it sound like a royal decree.

“I’ll be Zack,” said Head Cap Mark suddenly, writing like he was racing the clock.

Empire looked genuinely confused. “Why, Zack ?”

“Yeah, that came out of nowhere,” added Masked Mark.

“Because and I won’t take any further questions,” Head Cap replied solemnly as he sealed the form like it was a war treaty.

“I’ll go with Marek,” Viltrumite Mark offered. “Keeps it simple.”

Mohawk Mark blinked. “Why are your names so boring ? Where’s the pizzazz ?”

Cecil exhaled while keeping his composure. “It’s fine. For now, just differentiate enough to keep the system from melting. Later, we’ll work on cover IDs and training.” He snatched the last clipboard.

Mohawk Mark, eyes sparkling with chaos, calmly wrote, Mo Mohawk Grayson. Then he handed it over with both hands like he was presenting Excalibur.

Cecil stared.

Mohawk grinned wide, all teeth and menace.

Cecil blinked, then shrugged. “Whatever. We’ve got bigger problems.”

“You’re still serious about turning us into heroes?” Masked Mark asked, finally setting down his pamphlet doodles. “Because I’m 60% sure that’s going to end in disaster and 40% deeply unfit for mentorship.”

“I’ve worked with worse,” Cecil replied, completely deadpan. “Your powers are the same. Your brains? Not even close. That might actually work in our favor.”

“That,” Google Mark said, standing with arms crossed, “sounds like the start of a CW show. I call theme music rights.”

“Can we circle back to the whole medical thing?”  Viltrumite Mark asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose like it had aged fifty years since entering this room. “Original Mark’s not waking up.”

A nurse finally bustled in, pushing a cart loaded with equipment. “We’re stabilizing him now. His vitals are weak—surgery’s needed. Likely multiple organs.”

“You guys are lucky we’ve got alien surgeons on standby,” Cecil muttered, glancing at his assistant. “Get D.A. Sinclair to assemble the trauma team. Viltrumite-grade. Diamond-tipped scalpels only. I don’t want a repeat of last time.”

“Yes, sir.” The assistant saluted and stormed out like someone on a side quest with very high stakes.

Masked Mark tilted his head. “You have a surgeon for aliens?”

“You think we don’t prep for this kind of multiversal circus?” Cecil sighed. “Welcome to Earth. You’re heroes now.” He looked over the ragtag squad, rubbing his temples again.

“Try not to blow it.”

There was a pause.

Empire Mark coughed before asking, “Does this hero status come with dental?”

Cecil didn’t even look up. “Let’s get your I.D. sorted first. Then we’ll talk benefits.”