"All things are ready, if our mind be so," William Shakespeare
Two months.
Sixty days of hell disguised as training.
Sixty days of waking up at dawn with muscles screaming. Of flying to remote locations across the globe. Of getting hit so hard his teeth rattled. Of hitting back harder.
Sixty days of learning what it really meant to be Viltrumite.
And now, hovering three miles above the Arctic Circle, Mark was finally starting to keep up.
Nolan came at him fast—not full speed, but fast enough that two months ago, Mark wouldn't have even seen the punch coming.
Now?
Mark slipped to the side, the wind from Nolan's fist whistling past his ear, and countered with a quick jab-cross combination aimed at Nolan's ribs.
Nolan blocked both strikes but had to actually move to do it.
Progress.
"Better!" Nolan called out, grinning. "You're reading my movements!"
Mark didn't waste time responding. He pressed forward, using the three-dimensional combat principles Nolan had drilled into him. Attack from above. Feint left. Strike right. Never stay in one plane of movement.
He came in high with a superman punch—Nolan raised his guard—then Mark dropped low at the last second, sweeping at Nolan's legs with a Muay Thai kick that had enough force behind it to crack concrete.
Nolan jumped over it, but Mark was already adjusting, coming up with an elbow strike that actually connected with Nolan's shoulder.
The impact sent a shockwave rippling outward.
Nolan's grin widened. "Now you're thinking!"
He countered with a spinning backfist that Mark barely ducked, then followed up with a knee strike that Mark had to block with both forearms. The impact drove Mark back fifty feet through the air, arms aching despite the pain-dampening serum.
But Mark didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
He'd learned something crucial over the past two months: Nolan wasn't just strong. He wasn't just fast. He was efficient. Every movement had purpose. Every strike was calculated. He never wasted energy on flashy techniques or unnecessary force.
And that efficiency? That's what made him one of the best.
Because Viltrum didn't send random soldiers to conquer planets. They sent their elite. The strongest. The smartest. The most capable warriors their empire had to offer.
Nolan was one of those warriors.
And Mark was learning from him.
Mark came in again, this time using a combination he'd been working on—boxing footwork adapted for aerial combat, closing distance with quick directional changes that made him harder to track. He threw a jab to establish range, then a cross, then slipped inside Nolan's guard and drove an uppercut toward his chin.
Nolan caught his wrist—but Mark had anticipated that. He used the grip as an anchor point, swinging his body around and driving a knee into Nolan's side.
Thud.
Nolan actually grunted.
"Good!" He released Mark's wrist and they separated, both hovering, both breathing hard. Well, Mark was breathing hard. Nolan looked like he'd just finished a light warmup.
"You're keeping pace now," Nolan said, pride evident in his voice. "Two months ago, you couldn't even track my movements. Now you're predicting them. Countering them."
Mark wiped blood from his lip—when had that split?—and grinned. "You're still holding back."
"Of course I am. You're not ready for full speed yet." Nolan's expression grew serious. "But you're getting there, son. Faster than I expected."
They went another round. Then another.
Each exchange was a lesson. Each impact a test.
By the time Nolan called it, Mark's body was a roadmap of bruises, and his shirt was shredded, but he was still flying. Still fighting.
Still standing.
"Come on," Nolan said, floating closer and clapping Mark on the shoulder. "Let's get you cleaned up. We've got somewhere to be."
Mark blinked, confused. "Where?"
Nolan's grin was mysterious. "You'll see."
They flew back to civilization, slower this time, giving Mark's body time to heal. By the time they touched down in a quiet alley behind a row of shops in downtown, Mark's face had mostly recovered. The bruises were faded yellows. The split lip was sealed.
His body still ached, but he'd gotten used to that.
Nolan led him down the street to a small, unassuming shop wedged between a deli and a bookstore. The sign above the door read: ROSENBAUM'S TAILORING
Mark's heart skipped.
Art Rosenbaum.
The man who made costumes for half the superheroes in the world. The man who'd designed Omni-Man's suit. The Guardians' suits. Dozens of others.
And now, apparently, his suit.
"Dad—"
"You've passed every test I could throw at you in two months," Nolan said quietly. "You've earned this."
He pushed open the door.
The shop was exactly how Mark had imagined it from the show—cozy, cluttered, smelling faintly of fabric and old books. Mannequins lined the walls, some dressed in street clothes, others in partially completed superhero costumes. Bolts of fabric were stacked everywhere. A cutting table dominated the center of the room, covered in patterns and measuring tape.
And behind the counter, adjusting his glasses as he looked up from a sketch: Art Rosenbaum.
He was shorter than Mark expected. Maybe five-foot-seven, with a slight build that suggested he'd spent more time behind a sewing machine than in a gym. His hair was steel gray, thinning on top but still thick around the sides. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He wore a cardigan over a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms marked with old scars—probably from years of working with needles and shears.
But his eyes—sharp, intelligent, assessing—those were the eyes of someone who saw things others missed.
"Nolan!" Art's face split into a warm smile. "Good to see you. And this must be—" He turned to Mark, tilting his head. "Mark, right? Your father's told me a bit about you."
"All good things, I hope," Mark said, shaking his hand.
Art's grip was surprisingly strong. "Mostly. Though he did mention you're almost as stubborn as he is." He winked. "Come on back. Let's talk about what you're looking for."
They moved to the back of the shop, where Art had a consultation area set up—comfortable chairs, a table with sketches and fabric samples, and a full-length mirror.
"So," Art said, settling into his chair and pulling out a sketchpad. "Your father says you're ready to start hero work. That means you need a suit. Something that'll protect you, move with you, and—most importantly—represent who you are." He tapped his pencil on the pad. "Tell me: what do you want people to see when they look at you?"
Mark thought about that. In the original timeline, Mark's suit had been bright—blue and yellow, optimistic, hopeful. The costume of someone who wanted to inspire.
But Mark wasn't that person.
He'd died once. Been given a second chance. Trained for months in brutal conditions. He knew what was coming—the pain, the loss, the impossible choices.
He wasn't here to inspire.
He was here to survive.
"I want something... sleek," Mark said slowly. "Functional. Not flashy. Something that says I'm serious."
Art nodded, sketching as Mark talked.
"I'm thinking black as the base color. With red accents—not bright red, more like... deep crimson. Almost blood-red." Mark leaned forward. "And I want it modern. Sharp lines. Maybe geometric patterns? Something that looks fast."
Art's pencil flew across the page. "Like this?"
He turned the pad around, and Mark's breath caught.
The sketch showed a suit that was perfect.
The base was matte black, form-fitting but not restrictive. The red accents ran down the sides in angular, lightning-bolt patterns that drew the eye and emphasized movement. The chest had a subtle geometric design—no symbol, no logo, just clean lines that suggested speed and precision.
The mask covered the upper half of the face, leaving the mouth and jaw exposed. Sleek. Intimidating.
It looked like something from the future. Something that belonged in a cyberpunk anime, not a superhero team.
It looked like him.
"That's..." Mark swallowed. "That's exactly what I was thinking."
Art grinned. "Good. I was pulling inspiration from some of my more experimental designs. Aggressive. Modern. Designed for someone who doesn't need to announce their presence—they just are." He made a few more notes. "I'll use the same material I used for your father's suit. Viltrumite-compatible. Nearly indestructible. Moves like a second skin."
"How long will it take?" Nolan asked.
"Few days. Maybe a week if I run into complications." Art stood, already moving toward his fabric storage. "But for a Grayson? I'll make it a priority."
They left the shop twenty minutes later, Mark still buzzing with excitement.
"Thank you," he said as they walked down the street. "Seriously. That's... that's incredible."
"You earned it," Nolan said simply. "The past two months... Mark, I've trained a lot of people in my life. And you've absorbed more in sixty days than most do in years."
Mark thought about those two months. The hell of those two months.
The drills weren't just sparring. Nolan had put him through scenarios—disaster response, hostage situations, aerial rescues. He'd taught Mark how to prioritize threats, how to protect civilians while fighting, how to make impossible decisions in seconds.
And occasionally—occasionally—Nolan had let Mark tag along on actual hero work. Always away from cameras. Always in situations where Mark could observe without being seen.
Mark had watched his father stop a runaway train. Disarm a bomb. Pull people from a burning building.
He'd seen what it meant to be a hero.
But he'd also felt the cost.
Every night, he'd come home in pain. Bruises that wouldn't fully heal before the next training session. Bones that ached. Muscles that screamed.
He'd trained in space—learning to fight in zero gravity, learning to hold his breath for inhuman lengths of time, learning to navigate by stars alone.
He'd worked out with asteroids—pushing them, pulling them, lifting chunks of rock the size of Cities until his body adapted, grew stronger, more durable.
His physique had changed dramatically. He wasn't bulky—Viltrumites didn't bulk—but he was dense. Lean muscle packed onto his frame. His shoulders were broader. His core was solid. He looked like someone who could take a hit and give one back twice as hard.
He looked like a hero.
Or at least, he was starting to.
They made it home just as the sun was setting.
Mark's phone buzzed as he walked through the door. A text from Eve.
Eve:Hey! Can't make it to the library today. Got stuck helping my parents with something. Rain check?
Mark typed back quickly.
Mark:No problem. I'll find something else to do. Good luck with your parents.
He pocketed his phone just as Nolan's watch—a sleek piece of tech that looked like a normal watch but definitely wasn't—started beeping urgently.
Nolan glanced at it, and his expression shifted immediately. Serious. Focused.
"The Guardians need me. Mauler Twins attacking the White House." He was already moving toward the door. "Stay here. I'll be back soon."
And then he was gone, a gust of wind the only evidence he'd been there at all.
Mark stood in the living room, heart pounding.
The Mauler Twins. The White House.
This wasn't just any mission.
This was the mission. The one from the show. The one that led to—
No. Not yet. That comes later.
But still.
It was starting.
[POV SHIFT: Third Person]
The White House lawn was chaos.
Civilians screamed and scattered as the Mauler Twins tore through security like it was nothing.
Each Mauler was physically identical, with no noticeable differences to distinguish one from the other. They were blue-skinned humanoids with highly pronounced muscular bodies, easily dwarfing most humans and sentient beings around them. Standing at least eight feet tall, they towered over everyone on the battlefield. Each had impossibly broad shoulders and a completely shaved head with square, brutal facial features that looked like they'd been carved from stone.
Their only clothing was a black, sleeveless leotard featuring a prominent white "M" that stretched from their massive chests down to their legs. The suits did nothing to hide their intimidating physiques—muscles rippled with every movement, veins visible beneath their blue skin.
And they moved with terrifying synchronization, like two parts of a single organism. Which, in a way, they were—each claiming to be the original, each viewing the other as the clone.
"Move!" Darkwing shouted, tackling a paralyzed civilian out of the way just as one of the Twins lifted a tank over his head like it weighed nothing.
CRASH.
The impact shook the ground. The civilian was safe—Darkwing had gotten them clear—but now Darkwing was pinned, the edge of the tank crushing his leg, his cape tangled in the treads.
"Should've stayed home, little bat," the Twin sneered, his deep voice rumbling like thunder. His blue hand, easily twice the size of a normal human's, reached down. "This is way out of your league."
He raised his massive boot, ready to finish the job—
WHOOSH.
A blur of red and white slammed into the Twin, sending all eight feet and several hundred pounds of blue muscle flying backward through a concrete barrier like it was paper.
Omni-Man touched down beside Darkwing, effortlessly lifting the tank off him with one hand and tossing it aside like it was made of cardboard.
"You alright?" Nolan asked.
Darkwing groaned, clutching his leg. "I've had better days."
"Get him clear!" Nolan barked to nearby agents, then turned to face the Twins. "You two picked the wrong day."
The second Twin charged, his footfalls like earthquakes, but before he could reach Omni-Man, a figure dropped from the sky and landed between them.
The Immortal.
He was massive—six-foot-four, built like a Greek statue come to life. His jet-black hair was slicked back, and his steel-blue eyes burned with barely contained fury. His costume was a striking blue jumpsuit covered with white and yellow stripes, circular patterns encircling his knees and shoulders. A single yellow stripe ran vertically up his chest, and a solid yellow circle surrounded his neck, creating the illusion of an "I."
Even standing at over six feet, he looked small next to the Mauler Twins.
"About time someone showed up," Immortal said, cracking his knuckles. "I was starting to get bored."
"Bored?" The Twin laughed, his voice echoing across the lawn. "You're about to be dead."
"Been there. Didn't stick." Immortal grinned, then moved.
He was fast—not Omni-Man fast, but fast enough. He closed the distance and drove a punch into the Twin's jaw that sent the massive blue giant staggering back several steps.
The rest of the Guardians arrived in quick succession.
War Woman descended from above, cape billowing behind her. She was striking—two large braids tied with gold, armor that covered her from neck to toe except for her shoulders and upper arms. Her gauntlets, greaves, breastplate, and belt were primarily gold with brown trim, while the armor around her thighs and abdomen was white. She carried a massive mace that crackled with energy.
"Why can't you people just take a day off?" she called out, swinging her mace at the first Twin's knee. "It's not our style to let you kill the President!"
The mace connected with a crack, and even the massive Twin went down, clutching his leg and howling.
Green Ghost phased through a wall, her entire body glowing with ethereal green light. She was humanoid but clearly not human—her skin, hair, clothes, everything was varying shades of green. A dark green bracelet on her wrist seemed to pulse with energy as she solidified just long enough to land a punch to the second Twin's temple, then phased out before his massive hand could swat her away.
Aquarus burst through a nearby fountain, water trailing behind him like a cape. He was an anthropomorphic fish—blue skin, fins growing from his back and arms, gills visible on his neck. His armor was a mix of green and white with yellow outlines, clearly Atlantean in design. He hurled a concentrated blast of water at the downed Twin, the pressure strong enough to keep him pinned to the ground.
"Stay down there!" he shouted.
Martian Man floated down, his light olive skin and rectangular-shaped head making him immediately recognizable as extraterrestrial. Unlike most Martians, his eyes were purely yellow—no pupils, no iris, just solid yellow orbs. His suit was light yellow on his chest and middle arms, while his upper and lower body was light purple, each section outlined in white.
His body suddenly stretched, becoming impossibly elastic and wrapping around the second Twin like a python. His arms extended twenty, thirty feet, coiling around the massive blue torso and arms multiple times, restricting movement despite the Twin's enormous size and strength.
"Stay. Down," Martian Man said, his voice calm and commanding. His body flattened, becoming paper-thin to avoid the Twin's desperate attempts to grab him, then expanded again to tighten his grip even more.
And finally, Red Rush appeared—or rather, he had been appearing for the last thirty seconds, moving so fast he was barely visible. A skintight red suit with stylized "RЯ" initials on his chest, transparent, red-tinted visors over his eyes.
From his perspective, everyone else was moving in slow motion. He zipped around the battlefield, disarming weapons, moving civilians to safety, landing dozens of precise strikes to the Twins' pressure points before they could even process what was happening.
"Is everyone always this slow?" he muttered in his thick Russian accent, grinning as he landed another combination of strikes to nerve clusters.
The Guardians moved like a well-oiled machine.
War Woman and Immortal handled close combat, their combined strength and skill more than matching the Twins' raw power without breaking a sweat.
Green Ghost phased through attacks and struck from unexpected angles, never giving the massive blue giants a solid target.
Aquarus used water to limit the Twins' mobility, creating slick surfaces and barriers that made their massive forms clumsy and off-balance.
Martian Man's shapeshifting made him nearly impossible for the Twins to counter—stretching to avoid their powerful strikes, wrapping around limbs to immobilize them, flattening to paper-thin to slip through their defenses and strike from behind.
Red Rush was everywhere, moving faster than even the enhanced Twins could track, disrupting their coordination with surgical precision, landing hits faster than they could heal.
And Omni-Man? He was the hammer.
When the first Twin tried to make a break for it despite his injured leg, Nolan intercepted, slamming into the eight-foot giant with enough force to create a crater in the lawn and send shockwaves rippling outward.
"You're not going anywhere," Nolan growled, pinning the massive blue form down with one hand.
The fight was over in minutes.
Both Mauler Twins were down, restrained despite their enormous size and strength, unconscious. The Guardians barely looked winded—this had been a workout, not a challenge.
The Guardians stood together, surveying the damage with casual confidence.
"Good work, everyone," Immortal said, brushing dust off his suit. "Clean, efficient. That's how it's done."
War Woman nodded, checking her mace for damage. "We should celebrate. Drinks?"
"I'm in," Aquarus said.
"Me too," Green Ghost added, her form solidifying fully.
Red Rush was already vibrating with excess energy. "Da! We should—"
"I'll pass," Nolan said, brushing dust off his suit. "Got to get home. Family dinner."
Immortal raised an eyebrow. "Family man through and through, huh?"
"Something like that." Nolan smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
He took off into the sky without another word, leaving the Guardians to handle cleanup.
[POV SHIFT: Back to Mark]
Mark was sitting on the couch when Nolan walked through the door, still in his Omni-Man suit.
"How'd it go?" Mark asked.
"Mauler Twins are in custody. No casualties." Nolan sat down beside him, relaxed but satisfied. "Just another day."
Mark nodded, but his mind was racing.
The Guardians are together
For now.