Chapter Text
Mark thought being a Superhero would get easier.
After getting his body launched at 150 kilometres a second through buildings, he’d try and convince himself that it was just a learning curve, that it would somehow get better with time. Eventually, he had his eyes set on “levelling up” in life. A made up incentive would sure do the trick, imbedding himself in fantasies that involved a free smoothie for every 5 people he helped, or even an intergalactic punch card that’d earn him a solid “Hey! Thanks Invincible!” instead of a “Dude! Learn to fly better! You made me spill my coffee!”
Instead of sipping on said-smoothie, he was now standing right outside Art’s Tailor Shoppe for the third time this month, failing to dismiss the foul stench erupting from his beloved blue and yellow clinging to the fabric in his hands. Its supposed bright, purple hue contrasted the slimy yet chunky texture that remained as if it still wanted a round 2; surviving three heavy duty cycles, some bleach, and even the motherly help of Debbie, in which all attempts had failed.
He himself may have survived that alien attack, but his own patience couldn’t survive such aftermath.
He’d wondered if Art had any hazmat-destruction bins for this kind of stuff, and at an inconvenience of tonight, he was hoping, really hoping that the old man wouldn’t tease him too hard for being a stain magnet.
Using a secret entrance to make it past the dry-cleaning front, he walked downstairs to the basement floor of the shop, a darkened industrial warehouse quite unlike the dress-filled gallery upstairs. Art made his presence known by sitting at a desk right at the foot of the steps, only this time it was empty, remnants left of other fabrics and a large sewing machine still illuminated. Even with Art absent, someone was there.
As he took another step, a bell jingled lightly to signal his appearance, making himself feel so out of place for a dry clean run. Mark could faintly hear the footsteps of someone from deeper into the warehouse drawing closer.
Ah, maybe he was just getting some fabric from the back. Typical tailor stuff.
But instead of hearing Art’s gravel, a female voice reached out from behind a navy curtain of unfinished suits.
“If you’re bleeding, get off the carpet! Do it somewhere else!”
Mark immediately paused in between his steps.
No. Not Art. That definitely wasn’t Art.
Mark straightened himself up to the more feminine voice coming from the curtain, looking down at his sneakers and hopping off the grey carpet as if he was bleeding; in which he checked himself once over for any bloodstains of his own.
A young lady emerged from the darkness, poking at a red pin cushion nestled on her wrist as she kept her gaze right on it. She looked like she was his age, her hair slightly disheveled and her eyes half-lidded.
Preoccupied with her belongings, she hadn’t even noticed the superhero standing in the doorway before glancing. He was tall, far younger than her father’s clients, and holding a suit drenched in what looked like the melted remains of Grimace. Mark gulped, blinking once at her.
”Uh, hello?”
”You’re new, aren’t you?” The girl said abruptly, cutting off the little train of thought Mark had. “And you’re getting your muck on the carpet.”
He held the suit closer to himself, stepping onto the stairs before realizing it was too dangerous to get the alien blood on his clothes, holding it outward again almost comically. “Sorry- I mean, kind of? It’s usually Art who deals with my-”
She stepped towards him, hands behind her back as she tilted her head down slightly to inspect him without the use of her glasses. That jawline, the black hair..
The girl whipped off her glasses aggressively, an eyebrow perched as she spoke slowly. He could tell that her eyes were just fighting an ounce of desired sleep trying to get her brain to connect the dots. “You’re Nolan’s kid, aren’t you?”
Mark had never been referred to as Nolan’s kid before, it was always Omni-Man. He didn’t know whether to feel refreshed or intimidated by her so far.
”Um. Mark. Hi.”
He felt his consciousness slap himself for such a dumbfounded response to her statement, clearing his throat abruptly as he shook around the suit in his hands. “So I have this suit here, and-”
“Ohhh!”
Her mouth had rounded in surprise, her eyebrows raised and her arms crossing. “You’re that guy who keeps crashing into different billboards.”
Mark opened up his mouth to try and deny it before closing back up again, pursing his lips in denial.
”What? No- I.. Yeah.. That was me..” He shrugged, feeling a twinge of embarrassment as he scratched the back of his neck incessantly.
“But it was only one time-”
“Three, actually.”
She smirked, pointing her index finger upwards in satisfaction. “I don’t skip on watching the news, billboard boy.”
Right, the news. They’re quick on trying to document and report on Mark’s screw-ups then turn a blind eye to when he does something heroic. He held the thought, rolling his eyes internally before looking down at the neglected, goopy suit.
”So, Is there a chance that you’re the least bit forgiving as your dad?”
A grin rolled onto her lips as she inspected the piece, her gaze falling back onto his face once more. She saw what everyone did in Mark, his father. He had a strong jaw, the same broad forehead, and a more youthful take on Nolan's thick brows. But his attitude was quite unlike him, finding fragments of his mother in the way he spoke.
”Not even the slightest.”