A true warrior is invincible because he or she contests with nothing. Defeat means to defeat the mind of contention that we harbor within. Think not that humility is weakness; it shall supply the marrow of strength to thy bones. Stoop and conquer; bow thyself and become invincible : Unknown
The suitcase sat open on Mark's bed, half-packed with clothes he'd probably never wear and textbooks he'd definitely need. Sunlight streamed through his bedroom window—the same window he'd flown out of countless times over the past two months. The same room where he'd woken up as a seven-year-old kid with memories of a life that wasn't his.
Now he was leaving.
Mark grabbed another shirt from his dresser, folded it—badly—and stuffed it into the suitcase. His room looked smaller somehow. Less like home and more like a museum of someone else's childhood. Posters he'd never chosen. Action figures he'd never played with. A life he'd inherited.
But the past two months? Those were his. Every bruise. Every lesson. Every dawn spent getting his ass kicked in the Arctic.
He zipped the suitcase shut and grabbed his backpack—the important stuff. Laptop. Chargers. The flash drive with his serum research. A burner phone for emergencies.
And tucked in the bottom, wrapped in a towel: his black mask.
Mark took a breath, grabbed his bags, and headed downstairs.
The scene that greeted him at the bottom of the stairs made him stop.
Debbie stood by the door, arms crossed, eyes already red. She'd been crying. Probably had been since she woke up.
Nolan stood beside her, one hand on her shoulder, looking... distant. That far-away expression he got sometimes, like he was seeing something nobody else could.
And sitting on the couch, legs tucked under her, red hair pulled into a ponytail: Eve.
She grinned when she saw him. "Took you long enough. I thought you got lost up there."
"Just making sure I didn't forget anything," Mark said, setting his bags down.
Debbie moved first, crossing the distance in three steps and pulling him into a hug that squeezed the air from his lungs.
"I'm going to miss you so much," she whispered, voice thick.
"Mom, it's only two hours away. I'll visit all the time. Promise."
"You better." She pulled back, wiping her eyes. "And you call me. Every day. I don't care if you're busy. I want to hear from you."
"Every day," Mark agreed, smiling.
Nolan stepped forward, and for a moment, he just looked at Mark. Really looked at him. Then he blinked, and whatever had been clouding his expression cleared.
"You'll be fine," Nolan said, his voice steady and sure. "You're our son. You can handle anything."
Mark felt something tighten in his chest. "Thanks, Dad."
Eve stood, stretching. "This is sweet and all, but are we going to ignore the fact that I've been here for like twenty minutes and nobody offered me snacks?"
Debbie laughed—watery but real. "There's cookies in the kitchen. Help yourself."
"Finally." Eve headed toward the kitchen, then paused and looked back at Mark's parents. "You know, you guys raised a pretty decent human. Most of the time."
"Most of the time?" Mark protested.
"I'm being generous."
Debbie and Nolan exchanged a look—that married-couple telepathy thing—and Debbie's expression shifted into something Mark recognized immediately: mischief.
"So, Eve," Debbie said casually. "How long have you two been—"
"Mom. No."
"I'm just asking—"
"She has a boyfriend," Mark said quickly. "His name's Rex. They've been together for like six months."
Eve rolled her eyes. "Thanks for announcing that to everyone."
"Just setting the record straight before they start planning a wedding."
"We weren't—" Debbie started, but she was smiling.
Nolan chuckled. "Come on. We've got something to show you outside."
Mark followed them out to the driveway, confused.
And then he saw it.
A brand new Corvette C8. Torch Red. Sitting in the driveway like it had just rolled off a showroom floor.
Mark's brain short-circuited.
"What—how—what?"
"Surprise," Debbie said, holding out the keys.
"You got me a Corvette?" Mark's voice cracked. "How did you—we can't afford—"
"It's a secret," Nolan said, grinning.
"That's not an answer!"
Debbie stepped closer, pressing the keys into his hand. "We're proud of you, sweetheart. Everything you've accomplished. Your grades. Your scholarship. How hard you've worked." Her voice softened. "You deserve this."
Mark stared at the keys in his palm, then at the car, then at his parents.
"I don't know what to say."
"'Thank you' works," Nolan said.
"Thank you. Seriously. This is—" Mark swallowed hard. "This is incredible."
Eve whistled low. "Damn. Can I drive it?"
"No," Mark and Nolan said simultaneously.
Goodbyes were harder than Mark expected.
Debbie hugged him three more times. Nolan clapped him on the shoulder and told him to call if he needed anything—anything. Eve gave him a quick hug and made him promise to text her when he got there.
"And remember," Eve said, pulling back. "Finance is boring. You're going to hate it."
"It's practical."
"It's boring."
"I'll survive."
Mark loaded his bags into the car—which had that new-car smell that made everything feel surreal—and slid into the driver's seat.
The engine purred to life.
He looked back one more time. Debbie was waving, tears streaming down her face. Nolan had his arm around her, steady and solid. Eve stood on the porch, hands in her pockets, grinning.
This is real, Mark thought. This is my family now.
He put the car in gear and drove.
Two hours later, Mark pulled into the parking lot of Upstate University.
The campus was massive. Red brick buildings sprawled across manicured lawns. Trees lined walkways where students moved in packs, laughing and talking. The main quad featured a fountain surrounded by benches, and in the distance, Mark could see the library—five stories of glass and steel that looked more like a tech company headquarters than a university building.
It was the kind of place that showed up in college brochures. Perfect. Pristine. Exactly what you'd expect.
Mark parked in the student lot, grabbed his bags, and climbed out.
Immediately, heads turned.
The car was part of it—a brand new Corvette stood out in a sea of beat-up Hondas and hand-me-down sedans. But it wasn't just the car.
Mark had changed.
Two months of Viltrumite training had transformed him. He'd shot up to six feet tall, his frame packed with lean, dense muscle that showed even through his T-shirt. His shoulders were broader. His jawline sharper. His posture carried a confidence that hadn't been there before—the kind that came from getting your ass kicked by one of the strongest beings in the universe and surviving.
He looked like someone who worked out. A lot.
A group of girls near the entrance whispered to each other, one of them not-so-subtly checking him out.
Mark pretended not to notice and headed toward the administration building.
Check-in was smooth. He got his student ID, his room assignment, and a campus map that he immediately knew he'd never use.
His dorm was in North Hall—upper floor, corner unit. When he unlocked the door and stepped inside, he had to admit: it wasn't bad.
One bedroom. One bathroom. A small kitchenette with a microwave and mini-fridge. The main room had space for a desk, a couch, and not much else. But the best part?
The window.
It faced the forest that bordered the campus—thick trees that stretched for miles, dark and private and perfect for someone who needed to slip away unnoticed.
Mark grinned.
Perfect.
He spent the next hour unpacking. Clothes in the closet. Laptop on the desk. Textbooks stacked in the corner. He hung a few posters—generic stuff, nothing personal—and set up his mini-fridge with water and energy drinks.
Then he grabbed his phone and called Eve.
"Miss me already?" she answered.
"I need decorating advice."
"You? Mr. 'I Don't Care What My Room Looks Like'?"
"I care now. This place looks like a prison cell."
Eve laughed. "Okay. First: get some plants. Fake ones if you can't keep real ones alive. Second: lighting. Get some warm lamps, not just that awful overhead fluorescent. Third: posters are fine, but frame them. It makes you look less like a teenager and more like an adult."
"Frame them. Got it. What else?"
"A rug. And maybe some throw pillows for your couch. Trust me."
Mark looked around the room, already imagining it. "You're good at this."
"I know. Now go shopping. And send me pictures when you're done."
Mark hit three stores in town, buying everything Eve suggested and a few things she didn't. Plants—fake succulents that looked real enough. A floor lamp with warm Edison bulbs. Frames for his posters. A dark gray rug. Throw pillows. Even some art prints that looked vaguely sophisticated.
By the time he got back to his dorm, his phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
Unknown:Your suit is ready. Stop by whenever.
Mark's heart skipped.
He typed back immediately.
Mark:I'll be there in an hour.
He dumped the shopping bags in his room, put everything together in record time, sent eve a picture, grabbed his black mask from his backpack, and headed out.
Then, once he was deep enough in the forest that nobody could see, he took off.
Art's shop looked the same as it had two months ago. Cozy. Cluttered. Smelling of fabric and old coffee.
But when Art pulled the garment bag from the back room and unzipped it, Mark's breath caught.
The suit was perfect.
The base was matte black—so black it seemed to absorb light. Form-fitting but flexible, designed to move like a second skin. The red accents ran down the sides in sharp, angular patterns that looked like lightning frozen mid-strike. The chest featured subtle geometric lines—no logo, no symbol, just clean design that screamed speed and precision.
The mask was sleek, covering the upper half of his face, leaving his mouth and jaw exposed. The eye pieces were slightly tinted, giving him an edge of mystery without sacrificing visibility.
It looked dangerous. Modern. Like something that belonged in the future, not on a superhero team.
"Go ahead," Art said, grinning. "Try it on."
Mark didn't need to be told twice.
Five minutes later, he stood in front of the mirror, fully suited.
It fit like it had been painted on. Every movement felt natural—no restriction, no awkward pulling. The material was light but strong, reinforced in ways Mark could feel even if he couldn't see.
He threw a few punches. Kicked. Twisted. The suit moved with him perfectly.
"How does it feel?" Art asked.
"Like it was made for me."
"It was." Art crossed his arms, looking satisfied. "You're going to do great things in that, kid. I can tell."
Mark met his eyes in the mirror.
I hope you're right.
Night had fallen by the time Mark made it back to campus.
He changed into his suit in the forest, tucking his civilian clothes under a tree he'd marked mentally. Then he pulled on his mask, took a breath, and flew.
The city spread out beneath him—lights and noise and life. His police scanner crackled in his ear, feeding him updates.
—robbery in progress, Fifth and Main—
—traffic accident, Highway 9, multiple injuries—
—shots fired, downtown—
Mark grinned and adjusted his trajectory.
Time to get to work.
His first stop was the robbery. Three guys with guns trying to break into a jewelry store. Mark dropped in behind them, silent as a shadow.
"Hey."
They spun around, guns raising—
Mark moved.
He disarmed the first guy with a quick strike to the wrist. The second guy got a punch to the gut that folded him in half. The third guy got slammed into the wall, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Ten seconds. Maybe less.
Mark tied them up with their own belts and called it in on a payphone down the block.
Next was the traffic accident. A semi had jackknifed, blocking two lanes. Mark helped pull people from wrecked cars, lifting debris that would've taken four men to move. He stayed just long enough to make sure everyone was safe, then disappeared before the news crews arrived.
Then came the shots fired.
Mark touched down in an alley and found the source immediately: Killcannon.
He was huge—seven feet of muscle and cybernetics, with a massive cannon mounted where his right arm should've been. He was screaming something about society and oppression, waving his weapon at a crowd of terrified civilians.
"—and nobody listens until you make them—"
Mark landed in front of him.
"Hey. You done?"
Killcannon turned, his cannon already charging with a high-pitched whine.
"Who the hell—"
Mark punched him.
One hit. Right in the jaw.
Killcannon's head snapped back, his eyes rolled up, and he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
The civilians stared.
Mark dusted off his hands. "Someone want to call the cops?"
By the time the night was over, Mark had stopped two more robberies, helped put out a fire, and rescued a cat from a tree because the little girl crying on the sidewalk looked so sad.
And everywhere he went, people asked the same question:
"Who are you?"
Mark would smile, adjust his mask, and say the same thing every time.
"Invincible."
[POV SHIFT: Red Rush]
Josef sat across from Olga at their favorite café, trying—really trying—to focus on the conversation.
Olga was beautiful. Shoulder-length straight hair. Yellow pants. Black tank top that showed just enough to be distracting. She was talking about something—work, maybe? Or her sister?—and Josef knew he should be paying attention.
But his mind was racing. Literally. His perception of time was faster than everyone else's. While Olga spoke at normal speed, Josef experienced every second stretched into what felt like minutes.
It made normal conversation exhausting.
"—and I told her that she needs to be nicer to Aquarus," Olga was saying. "He's trying his best."
"Da, da," Josef said quickly. "I try to be nice to him. Is just... difficult sometimes."
His watch beeped.
Josef's heart sank.
"One second, lyubov," he said, already standing.(Russian for love)
On his wrist display: ALERT: KURSK - DOWNTOWN
He was gone before Olga could respond, the world slowing to a crawl around him as he moved.
Kursk was easy.
The villain wore a bright yellow suit covered in orange lightning bolt designs—tacky, but effective. He could generate and control electricity, which made him dangerous to normal people.
To Red Rush? He was a joke.
Josef zipped around him, dodging lightning blasts that seemed to hang in the air like frozen fireworks. He landed a hundred punches in three seconds—ribs, jaw, solar plexus, pressure points—and Kursk was down before he even realized he'd been hit.
Josef zip-tied him, called it in, and was back at the café in under a split second.
He slid into his seat—now in his Red Rush suit—and grinned.
"Sorry. Where were we?"
Olga's expression was ice.
"You weren't listening."
"I was! You said—"
"You weren't listening, Josef." Her voice was quiet. Hurt. "You never are."
"That is not—"
His watch beeped again.
ALERT: ALL GUARDIANS REPORT TO HQ
Josef looked at Olga. At the hurt in her eyes.
"I have to—"
"Go." She stood, grabbing her purse. "Just go."
"Olga—"
But she was already walking away.
Josef watched her go, chest tight with guilt.
Then he ran.
Because that's what he always did.
[POV SHIFT: The Immortal]
The man in the jet pack was an idiot.
"I'll blow up Denver!" he screamed, hovering a thousand feet up. "I swear I'll do it! I've got enough explosives to—"
The Immortal grabbed him mid-sentence, ripping him out of the air like plucking a weed.
"No, you won't."
He threw the man up.
Not hard enough to kill him—The Immortal wasn't a monster. Just hard enough to send him into low orbit, where he'd burn up his fuel trying to get back down and eventually crash somewhere harmless.
Problem solved.
His communicator beeped.
ALERT: ALL GUARDIANS REPORT TO HQ
The Immortal sighed.
Can't even get one quiet evening.
He took off toward headquarters.
[POV SHIFT: Aquarus]
Aquarus was dreaming of the deep ocean—dark, quiet, peaceful—when the alarm dragged him back to consciousness.
He opened his eyes, gills flaring as water rushed past his face.
His communicator glowed on his wrist.
ALERT: ALL GUARDIANS REPORT TO HQ
Aquarus grinned, showing rows of sharp teeth.
Finally. Some action.
He shot toward the surface.
[POV SHIFT: War Woman]
"With our third quarter roll-out of Haven Storm 4.0, our market share could rise significantly," Connie said, pointing at the projection on the screen.
Holly—War Woman—nodded along, pretending to care about quarterly projections and market share and all the corporate nonsense that paid her bills.
What she really wanted was a spectacular year for the world. Peace. Progress. Hope.
But first, she had to survive this meeting.
Her communicator buzzed under the table.
ALERT: ALL GUARDIANS REPORT TO HQ
Holly stood immediately.
"I'm sorry, I have to go."
Connie blinked. "But we're not—"
"Emergency. I'll call you later."
She was out the door and in her armor before Connie could protest.
[POV SHIFT: Martian Man]
At Nikki's house, J'onn was showing off.
His body stretched—arms extending ten feet, torso flattening to paper-thin, then expanding again into something that looked vaguely like a dragon.
Nikki clapped, delighted. "That's amazing! Can you do a dinosaur?"
J'onn grinned—or tried to, his face currently resembling melted wax. "Give me a second—"
His communicator beeped.
ALERT: ALL GUARDIANS REPORT TO HQ
J'onn's face snapped back to normal. "I have to go."
"But you just got here!"
"I know. I'm sorry." He kissed her forehead. "I'll make it up to you."
And then he was gone, body shifting into a streamlined form as he flew toward headquarters.
[POV SHIFT: Darkwing]
The two men breaking into the warehouse didn't see Darkwing until it was too late.
He dropped from the rafters, cape billowing, and landed between them.
"Gentlemen."
They both reached for their weapons—
Darkwing moved first. A darkrang to disarm the first guy. A punch to the second guy's jaw. A sweep to knock them both down. Handcuffs clicked into place.
"Now," Darkwing said, crouching. "Who's your boss?"
The first guy spat blood. "Fuck you."
"Wrong answer."
His communicator beeped.
ALERT: ALL GUARDIANS REPORT TO HQ
Darkwing sighed. "Lucky you. We'll finish this conversation tomorrow."
He left them cuffed to a pipe and headed for his wingjet.
[POV SHIFT: Guardians of the Globe HQ]
The headquarters was state-of-the-art—sleek, modern, filled with monitors and tech that could track threats worldwide.
The Guardians filtered in one by one.
War Woman arrived first, mace slung over her shoulder.
Aquarus came next, still dripping seawater.
Martian Man floated in, body shifting restlessly.
Green Ghost phased through the wall.
Red Rush was there before anyone saw him move.
The Immortal landed last, arms crossed, expression annoyed.
They all looked at each other, confused.
"Did anyone else get the alert?" War Woman asked.
"Da," Red Rush said.
"Yeah," Aquarus confirmed.
Darkwing's jet touched down outside, and he walked in a moment later.
"What's the emergency?"
Nobody answered.
Because none of them had made the call.
The room went tense.
Red Rush's eyes widened. His perception accelerated.
He saw it a fraction of a second before it happened—movement, too fast, wrong angle, killing intent—
"NO!"
He moved, grabbing The Immortal and pulling him aside just as a fist obliterated the space where his head had been.
The Guardians turned.
Omni-Man stood in the doorway, blood already on his knuckles.
His expression was cold. Empty.
"Nolan?" The Immortal said, confused. "What—"
Omni-Man moved.
Red Rush tried.
God, he tried.
He was fast—faster than almost anyone. He zipped around Omni-Man, landing punches, trying to find a weak spot, trying to slow him down.
But Omni-Man was faster.
He caught Red Rush by the wrist mid-punch.
"No—"
CRUNCH.
Omni-Man's hand closed, and Red Rush's skull exploded.
For red rush, it was an eternity, punching Nolan's chest as fast as he could in an effort to get him to release him making Nolan bleed from his mouth. For the rest of them, it was an instant.
Blood and brain matter sprayed across the floor.
The Guardians stared and screamed in horror.
Then they attacked.
Martian Man wrapped around Omni-Man first, his body stretching and coiling like a boa constrictor, trying to restrain him.
War Woman swung her mace with a scream of rage.
Aquarus blasted him with pressurized water.
Green Ghost phased through him, trying to disrupt his organs.
Darkwing threw everything he had—darkrangs, smoke bombs, anything to slow him down.
The Immortal charged head-on, trading blows that shook the building.
But it wasn't enough.
Omni-Man was a Viltrumite.
He grabbed Darkwing by the leg and slammed him into the floor. Again. Again. Until there was nothing left but red pulp.
He ripped through Green Ghost's skull with his bare hand, her eyes wide with shock as she died.
He used her corpse as a shield against Aquarius's water blast, then killed him with War Woman's mace after he disarmed her from it earlier—drove it through his chest and out his back.
Martian Man wrapped tighter, desperately trying to hold him, his body paper-thin and everywhere at once—
Omni-Man ripped his head apart, tearing through alien flesh like tissue paper.
War Woman and The Immortal were the last ones standing.
They fought with everything they had. War Woman's mace cracked Omni-Man's ribs. The Immortal's punches drew blood—pools of it.
But it wasn't enough.
Omni-Man broke War Woman's neck with a sickening crack.
Then he turned to The Immortal.
The last Guardian standing.
The Immortal stared at him, blood pouring from a dozen wounds, still conscious, still defiant.
"Why?" he asked, voice weak but steady. "Why did you do this?"
Omni-Man didn't answer.
He just grabbed The Immortal's head and Sliced.
The body hit the floor.
Omni-Man stood alone in the carnage, covered in blood—his own and theirs—breathing hard.
Then he collapsed.