"You cannot dream yourself into a character; you must hammer and forge yourself one." — James Anthony Froude
The knock came at 6 AM sharp.
Not a gentle tap. Not a tentative "you awake?" kind of knock.
A firm, authoritative thud-thud-thud that said "get up, we have work to do."
Mark's eyes snapped open. He hadn't really been sleeping anyway—more like lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, running through scenarios in his head. His shoulder ached from where he'd landed wrong during last night's flight back. His body still felt heavy, sluggish from the serum's side effects.
But he was awake.
He sat up just as the door opened.
Nolan stood in the doorway, and Mark had to take a second to really look at him.
The Omni-Man suit was... something else in person.
It wasn't like the comics or the show where you could dismiss it as just another superhero costume. Up close, it was real. The white base was pristine—not fabric, but something that caught the light wrong, like it was woven from material that didn't quite exist in nature. It had a subtle texture to it, almost like scales if you looked close enough, designed to be aerodynamic, frictionless.
The craftsmanship was impeccable—Art Rosenbaum's work, though Mark doubted most people knew the name of the tailor behind the suit. Every seam was invisible. Every line purposeful. This wasn't just protective gear; it was a statement.
The red accents—the belt, the bands around his wrists and boots—provided stark contrast against the white, bold and unmistakable. Pure design, pure function.
The cape was the most striking part. It didn't just hang there—it moved, flowing behind Nolan like it had a mind of its own, defying gravity in subtle ways. The red fabric was bordered with gold trim that caught the early morning light streaming through Mark's window.
And on his chest: the symbol. A simple stylized emblem that looked like an abstract "O" or maybe an orbit. The mark of a protector. Or a conqueror, depending on who you asked.
Nolan filled the doorway completely, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You ready?"
Mark threw off his covers. "Been ready."
He grabbed the backpack he'd prepared last night—first aid kit, change of clothes, water bottles, energy bars. Everything he might need for a training session that could go very, very wrong.
Nolan raised an eyebrow. "You packed a go-bag?"
"Seemed smart." Mark slung it over his shoulder. "I know what I'm getting into."
Something flickered in Nolan's expression. Approval, maybe. Or surprise.
"Good. Let's go."
They left through Mark's window.
One second, Mark was standing in his room. The next, Nolan had grabbed him by the shoulders and they were flying—straight up, fast enough that Mark's stomach lurched.
The house fell away beneath them. The neighborhood became a grid. The city became a sprawl of lights and roads and tiny ant-people going about their morning routines.
Nolan released him about a thousand feet up.
"Alright. Show me what you've got."
Mark steadied himself, finding his balance in the open air. The wind was brutal up here—cold, sharp, trying to push him around. But he'd learned how to handle it. Months of secret practice paying off.
He adjusted his posture. Shoulders back, chest forward, arms tight to his sides. Streamlined.
Nolan circled him slowly, like a shark assessing prey.
"Not bad. You're not fighting the wind. That's good." He moved closer. "But you're too rigid. You need to flow with it, not just resist it. Think of it like swimming—you don't just float, you move through the water."
Mark adjusted, loosening his shoulders slightly, letting his body sway with the gusts instead of against them.
"Better," Nolan said. "Now, speed. You've been flying, what, a week?"
"About that."
"Show me your top speed. Straight line. Don't hold back."
Mark didn't need to be told twice.
He shot forward like a missile, air screaming past him, the world blurring into streaks of color. He pushed harder, feeling his muscles burn, feeling the air compress around him as he approached supersonic speeds—
Nolan appeared beside him. Not behind. Not catching up.
Beside him.
Like he'd been cruising at a comfortable jog while Mark was sprinting.
"Good acceleration," Nolan called over the wind. "But you're wasting energy. Your trajectory's wobbling—see that?" He demonstrated, his own flight path a perfectly straight line like he was on rails. "Every correction costs you speed. Lock in your vector before you accelerate."
Mark tried it. Picked a point on the horizon—a water tower maybe ten miles out—and committed to it completely before pouring on the speed.
It felt... smoother. Faster.
"There you go!" Nolan grinned—actually grinned—and for a moment, he looked less like a hardened warrior and more like a proud dad watching his kid ride a bike for the first time. "You're a fast learner."
They spent the next hour running drills.
Tight turns at high speed. Sudden stops and direction changes. Flying in formation. Altitude adjustments. Emergency maneuvers.
Nolan would call out commands—"Left! Now dive! Reverse!"—and Mark would respond, his body adapting, learning, improving with every repetition.
It was exhilarating.
It was exhausting.
And Nolan was taking notes the whole time, his sharp eyes catching every mistake, every inefficiency.
"You're doing good, Mark," he said finally, hovering in place. "Really good. Most Viltrumites don't develop this level of control for years."
Mark tried not to let the praise go to his head. "I've had practice."
"I can tell." Nolan's expression shifted—went serious. "Alright. Enough warmup. Follow me."
And then he moved.
Not the casual cruising speed they'd been using for drills. Not even the sprint Mark had just demonstrated.
This was something else entirely.
Nolan became a blur, a streak of red and white cutting through the sky so fast that the sound came seconds after he'd already passed.
Oh shit.
Mark poured everything he had into keeping up. His body screamed in protest as he pushed past limits he'd thought were absolute. The air became a solid thing he had to force his way through. His vision tunneled.
He could barely keep Nolan in sight.
This is what a real Viltrumite can do, Mark thought, equal parts terrified and inspired. This is what I need to become.
They flew for what felt like hours but was probably only five minutes.
Cities gave way to farmland. Farmland gave way to mountains. Mountains gave way to endless white.
When Nolan finally stopped, they were hovering over the interior of Greenland.
Mark caught his breath, looking down at the landscape below. Ice and snow stretched to the horizon in every direction—vast, empty, untouched. No cities. No people. No infrastructure for hundreds of miles.
Perfect, Mark realized. No witnesses. No collateral damage. Nothing to break except ice and rock.
If two superpowered individuals were going to fight—really fight—this was the place to do it. The isolation meant they could go all out without worrying about civilian casualties. The thick ice shelf could absorb impacts that would devastate urban areas. The sub-zero temperatures and harsh environment were an additional test of endurance. And the sheer remoteness meant no satellites, no surveillance, no one to ask questions about why Omni-Man was beating the hell out of a teenager in the Arctic.
Nolan descended slowly, and Mark followed, landing on a flat expanse of ice that crunched under their boots.
"Drop your bag," Nolan said.
Mark hesitated for just a second, then unslung his backpack and set it down carefully.
Nolan rose back into the air, and Mark joined him.
They hovered there, maybe fifty feet apart, the wind howling around them.
"Mark." Nolan's voice was different now. Harder. "Last night, you asked me to train you like a Viltrumite. Not like a hero. Do you understand what that means?"
Mark met his eyes. "I know it's not going to be easy."
"It's not about easy." Nolan's expression was grave. "Viltrumite training is brutal. It's designed to push you past your breaking point and then keep pushing. You will get hurt. Badly. And I won't hold back as much as I would if I was training you... gently."
He let that sink in.
"If you want to stop, if you want me to train you a different way, now's the time to say so. There's no shame in it."
Mark thought about the future. About Conquest. About Thragg. About watching his father nearly beat him to death on a mountaintop.
About all the times the original Mark had been unprepared, overwhelmed, broken.
He thought about the promise he'd made in the void.
Even when no one thanks you. Even when you're hated for it.
"I'm ready," Mark said firmly.
Nolan studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"Alright. Show me what Coach Rivera taught you."
Mark blinked. "What?"
"Your stance. Your form. I want to see what you're working with."
Mark dropped into his fighting stance—feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced, hands up. He ran through the combinations Rivera had drilled into him for years. Jab-cross. Hook-uppercut. Slip-counter. Basic Muay Thai kicks. Knee strikes. Elbow combinations.
His body moved on autopilot, muscle memory taking over. Thousands of hours of practice distilled into smooth, efficient motion.
He transitioned into boxing combinations—crisp one-twos, head movement drills, pivots and angles. Then grappling positions from BJJ—guard passes, sweep attempts, submission setups—all adapted as best he could for the air.
Nolan watched silently, circling him.
When Mark finished, breathing slightly harder, Nolan landed on the ice beside him.
"Not bad. Your coach taught you well." He stepped closer. "But your stance is too narrow for aerial combat—you need a wider base in three dimensions." He adjusted Mark's shoulders. "And your guard is designed for ground fighting. In the air, attacks can come from any angle. You need to be ready to defend high, low, and from behind."
He demonstrated, his own stance shifting subtly—it looked almost like a traditional fighting stance, but somehow opened up, ready to defend or strike in a full sphere around him rather than just a forward arc.
"Try again."
Mark adjusted, incorporating the feedback. It felt awkward at first—his body resisting the changes—but after a few repetitions, it started to click. He could feel how this stance gave him more options, more mobility in three-dimensional space.
"Better," Nolan said. "You adapt fast. That's good. You're going to need it."
He floated back into the air.
"Now we spar."
Mark barely had time to process the words before Nolan moved.
The punch came so fast Mark almost didn't see it.
Almost.
He got his arms up just in time, blocking with his forearms—
CRACK.
The impact sent a shockwave rippling outward, a visible distortion in the air. Mark flew backward, tumbling through the sky, his arms screaming in pain despite the serum.
He could feel it. Not as much as he should have—the serum was doing its job—but enough to know that block had nearly shattered his bones.
Holy shit and he is still holding back.
Mark stabilized himself, adrenaline spiking.
Nolan was already coming again.
This time Mark didn't try to block. He moved, using the aerial mobility drills they'd just practiced. He slipped to the side, and Nolan's punch whistled past his head with enough force to create a sonic boom.
Mark countered with a jab—fast, technical, aimed at Nolan's jaw—
Nolan caught his fist.
Mid-air.
Without even looking.
"Good instinct," Nolan said. Then he yanked Mark forward and drove a knee into his stomach.
The air exploded from Mark's lungs. His vision whited out. He felt himself falling—
No. Not falling. Flying.
He twisted mid-air, using the momentum from Nolan's strike to create distance. His mind raced, pulling from everything he'd learned. Rivera's voice in his head: Use their strength against them. Redirect. Don't meet force with force.
Nolan came at him again, and this time Mark was ready.
He didn't try to match Nolan's power. Instead, he used angles. When Nolan threw a straight punch, Mark slipped to the side and grabbed his wrist, using Nolan's own momentum to pull him off-balance—or tried to, at least.
It barely worked—Nolan was too strong, too experienced—but for a second, Mark had him.
He drove an elbow toward Nolan's temple—
Nolan blocked it with his free hand and headbutted him.
Stars exploded across Mark's vision. Blood filled his mouth.
He felt his nose break.
The pain was distant, muffled by the serum, but still present—a dull throb that told him something was very wrong with his face.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
He wrapped his legs around Nolan's arm in a flying armbar attempt—a desperation move from his BJJ training, adapted on the fly—
Nolan laughed. Actually laughed.
"Creative!"
Then he flexed his arm and sent Mark spinning through the air like a rag doll.
Mark tumbled, disoriented, struggling to find up from down. He forced himself to focus, to stabilize, and came out of the spin just in time to see Nolan diving at him from above.
He rolled in the air—a barrel roll that barely got him clear—and Nolan's strike passed through the space where he'd been a millisecond before. The displacement of air hit Mark like a physical wall.
Too close.
Mark shot upward, trying to gain altitude, gain space to think—
Nolan was faster.
He appeared in front of Mark, impossibly quick, and delivered a combination that Mark could barely track. Jab-cross-hook, each strike carrying enough force to crater concrete.
Mark blocked the jab, slipped the cross, but the hook caught him in the ribs.
CRACK.
Something broke. The serum kept him from feeling the full agony of it, but he knew. Ribs. At least two.
He gasped, curling around the injury instinctively—
Wrong move.
Nolan's knee came up, catching him in the chest, and Mark flew. Really flew—not the controlled flight he'd been practicing, but uncontrolled tumbling, the world spinning, ice and sky trading places over and over.
He hit the glacier below with enough force to crater it. Ice exploded outward. The impact drove the air from his lungs.
For a second, he just lay there, staring up at the gray Arctic sky, his body screaming at him to stay down.
Get up.
He forced himself to his feet, swaying, blood running from his nose and mouth.
Nolan descended slowly, landing twenty feet away.
"You can stop anytime," he said. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just... factual.
Mark spat blood onto the ice.
"Not done yet."
Something shifted in Nolan's expression. Pride, maybe. Or respect.
"Alright then. Come on."
They fought for what felt like hours.
Every time Mark thought he'd found an opening, Nolan shut it down. Every technique Mark tried, Nolan countered effortlessly.
But Mark kept adapting. Kept learning.
He started mixing his martial arts training with his aerial mobility. Using three-dimensional space the way Nolan had shown him. Attacking from above, below, behind. Feinting one direction and striking from another.
He wasn't winning. Not even close.
But he was surviving. And occasionally—occasionally—he landed a hit.
A quick jab that snapped Nolan's head to the side. A leg kick that actually made Nolan grimace. A spinning elbow that connected with Nolan's ribs and produced a satisfying thud.
Each time, Nolan's grin got wider.
"There you go! That's what I'm looking for!"
Every exchange sent shockwaves rippling across the ice below. The landscape cracked and shattered under the pressure of their impacts. Massive fissures spider-webbed across the glacier. Sonic booms echoed across the empty tundra, the sound carrying for miles with nothing to stop it.
Mark learned to read Nolan's tells. The slight shift in his shoulders before a big punch. The way his eyes tracked movement a split-second before his body followed. It wasn't enough to avoid everything—Nolan was still leagues faster and more experienced—but it was enough to keep Mark in the fight.
He started using his environment. When Nolan came at him low, Mark would shoot upward, forcing Nolan to change trajectory. When Nolan expected him to retreat, Mark would advance, closing distance and working inside Nolan's reach where his longer arms were less advantageous.
None of it should have worked against someone with Nolan's experience.
But Nolan was letting it work. Teaching. Adjusting his own approach to match Mark's level, then pushing just beyond it, forcing Mark to adapt or get hit.
Mark's shirt was in tatters now, barely hanging on by a few threads. His jeans were torn at the knees and thighs. Blood ran from his nose, his mouth, a cut above his eye that kept dripping into his vision.
His left shoulder was definitely broken—he'd felt it give during a particularly brutal throw, the joint separating with a pop he'd felt more than heard. It hung at a wrong angle, useless, his arm dangling limply.
His face was a tapestry of bruises, purple and black and swelling. His ribs screamed with every breath. He was pretty sure he'd dislocated a finger at some point.
But he kept fighting.
Because that's what Viltrumites did.
They endured.
They got back up.
They pushed through pain that would break normal people.
Mark threw a combination—jab, cross, hook—and Nolan blocked them all, but Mark had expected that. He used the momentum from the hook to spin, driving his elbow toward Nolan's temple with everything he had left—
Nolan caught his arm.
But for just a moment, Mark saw something in his father's eyes.
Approval.
"Good," Nolan said quietly. Then he swept Mark's legs—or would have, if they were on the ground—instead hooking Mark's ankle and using it to throw him in a spiral.
Mark managed to control the spin this time, coming out of it in a ready position—
But he was done. His body had hit its limit. His vision was starting to tunnel. His breathing was labored. Even with Viltrumite endurance and the pain-dampening serum, he'd been pushed too far.
Nolan could see it too.
Finally—finally—Nolan held up a hand.
"Alright. That's enough."
Mark hovered there, gasping for air, barely able to stay aloft. Every part of him hurt. Even the serum couldn't dull this level of damage completely—it was like his entire body was one big bruise, the pain muted but persistent.
Nolan floated closer, and for the first time since they'd started, his expression was... impressed.
"You did good, son. Really good."
Mark tried to smile. His split lip made it hurt. "Doesn't... feel like it."
"You took hits that would have killed a normal person and kept coming. That's not nothing." Nolan clapped him on the shoulder—the good shoulder, thankfully. "You've got the heart for this. The instinct. That's something you can't teach."
He gestured toward the ice below. "Get dressed. We're heading home."
Mark descended to where he'd left his bag, moving stiffly. His broken shoulder screamed with every motion, but his Viltrumite healing was already kicking in—he could feel bones starting to knit, tissue starting to repair. It was slow, nowhere near as fast as Nolan's healing, but it was happening.
He pulled on his spare hoodie, carefully working his injured arm through the sleeve. The swelling on his face was already going down, the bruises fading from angry purple to dull yellow-green. By the time they got home, he'd look... well, not fine, but not like he'd just gone ten rounds with a freight train.
Nolan watched him, arms crossed. "We'll do this again tomorrow. If you want."
Mark looked up at him, grinning despite the pain.
"You getting slow in your old age, Dad? I'll catch up to you eventually."
Nolan's laugh boomed across the ice.
"We'll see about that, smartass."
They flew home slower this time. Mark's body needed the recovery time, and Nolan didn't push it.
The flight gave Mark time to process what had just happened. His body ached, sure, but underneath the pain was something else. Progress. Growth. He'd lasted longer than he'd expected. Landed more hits than he'd thought possible. And Nolan—Nolan had been teaching him, not just beating him down.
That meant something.
By the time they touched down in the backyard, Mark's face had healed enough that the bruises were faded yellows and greens instead of angry purples. His nose was straight again. The cut above his eye was just a thin line.
His shoulder, though... that was still tender. It would be another few hours before it was fully functional. And his ribs would take even longer.
Nolan landed beside him, already back in his civilian clothes—Mark had no idea when he'd changed, but that was Viltrumite speed for you.
"Your mother doesn't need to know how hard we went today," Nolan said quietly.
Mark nodded. "Yeah. Agreed."
They walked inside together.
Debbie was in the kitchen, humming to herself as she flipped pancakes. She turned when they walked in, and her smile faltered immediately.
"Mark? Baby, what happened to your face?"
"Training," Mark said quickly. "I'm fine, Mom. Really."
"You don't look fine. You look like—" She stepped closer, peering at the fading bruises. "Nolan, did you—"
"He asked me to train him," Nolan said calmly. "This is what training looks like."
Debbie's expression hardened. "He's seventeen years old."
"He's half-Viltrumite. And he wants to be a hero." Nolan's voice was firm but not unkind. "I'm preparing him for what's out there. The world isn't going to go easy on him just because he's young."
"He's still our son."
"And I'm keeping him alive. Would you rather he learn these lessons from me, in a controlled environment, or from someone who actually wants to kill him?"
The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.
Mark stepped between them. "Mom. I'm okay. I promise. It looks worse than it is."
Debbie searched his face, worry etched into every line. Finally, she sighed.
"Go wash up. Breakfast is almost ready."
Mark kissed her cheek and headed upstairs, leaving his parents to their discussion.
He could hear them talking—voices raised but not quite shouting—as he climbed the stairs. He felt bad for putting them in this position, for being the source of conflict. But he also knew this was necessary.
Better they argue about training methods now than mourn him later because he wasn't prepared.
The hot shower felt like heaven on his battered body. Mark stood under the spray, watching pink-tinged water circle the drain as dried blood washed away. His shoulder was moving more freely now, the bone almost fully healed. His ribs still ached, but the sharp pain had dulled to a persistent throb.
By tonight, he'd be mostly healed.
By tomorrow morning, he'd be ready to do it all over again.
He toweled off, changed into clean clothes, and headed back downstairs.
Breakfast was quiet. Debbie kept glancing at him, at his face, checking to make sure he was really okay. Nolan ate in silence, reading the paper like it was a normal Sunday morning.
Mark ate slowly, savoring the simple comfort of being home, being safe, being with his family.
Even if it wouldn't last forever.
Later that night, after dinner, after Nolan had gone out for his evening patrol, Debbie knocked on Mark's door.
"Come in."
She sat on the edge of his bed, hands folded in her lap.
"I talked to your father."
"I heard." Mark set down the textbook he'd been pretending to read. "Mom, seriously, I'm fine."
"Are you?" She looked at him—really looked at him. "Because I know your dad. And I know what 'training' means to him. Heros don't... they don't take it easy."
"I know. That's why I asked him to train me that way."
"Mark—"
"Mom." He took her hand. "If I'm going to do what Dad does—if I'm going to help people—then I need to be ready. And the people I'm going to fight? They're not gonna hold back just because I'm a kid. They're not gonna care that I'm inexperienced. They're going to try to kill me."
Debbie's breath hitched.
"So yeah," Mark continued, "training is brutal. It hurts. But it's preparing me for something a lot worse."
Debbie was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was soft but firm.
"Mark, I'm not saying don't train. I'm not saying don't push yourself. But please... please take care of yourself. Know your limits. Don't let pride or stubbornness get you killed."
"I won't."
"You've only had these powers for a week. A week." She emphasized the word. "You're still learning what your body can do, what it can handle. And your father—" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Your father has had years to build up his strength and endurance. You can't expect to match that overnight."
"I'm not trying to match him. I'm just trying to be ready."
"Ready for what?"
Mark hesitated. He couldn't tell her the truth—couldn't tell her about the Viltrumite Empire, about what was coming, about the fact that one day soon, everything would fall apart.
"Ready for whatever comes next. Ready to be a hero." he said finally.
She studied his face, and he could see the worry there—the fear of a mother watching her child walk into danger.
"Promise me you'll be careful. That you won't push yourself so hard you break."
"I promise, Mom."
She pulled him into a hug—careful of his shoulder—and kissed the top of his head.
"I love you, sweetheart. So much. And I am so, so proud of you. But you're still my baby, powers or not. And if your father goes too far, you tell me. Understood?"
"Understood."
She stood, smoothing her hands over her jeans.
"Get some rest. You look exhausted."
"Yeah. I am."
She turned off the light on her way out, and Mark was alone in the dark.
He lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his body aching in a dozen places despite the accelerated healing.
Tomorrow, they'd do it again.
And the day after that.
Until he could stand beside his father—or against him, if it came to that—and not break.
Mark closed his eyes.
And for the first time in a long time, he slept without dreaming.