"Sometimes, the aftermath is more devastating than the storm." Unknown.
The Guardians were dead.
Their bodies lay scattered across the headquarters like broken dolls—limbs at wrong angles, blood pooling on the pristine white floors, faces frozen in expressions of shock and pain and betrayal.
And in the center of it all, collapsed among the carnage he'd created: Omni-Man.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths. Blood covered him—some his own, most not. His suit was torn. His face was a mess of bruises and cuts.
But he was alive.
The door hissed open.
Invisible agents moved in first, their forms barely visible as distortions in the air—GDA tech, cloaking fields that bent light around their bodies. They swept the room with weapons raised, checking corners, scanning for threats.
"Clear!" one of them called, voice muffled by their helmet.
A second team rushed in—paramedics in white hazmat suits, faces pale behind their visors as they took in the scene.
"Go, go, go!" the lead paramedic shouted. "One team per casualty! Move it!"
They scattered, each team rushing to a different body.
"Jesus Christ," one of them muttered, kneeling beside what was left of Darkwing. "What the hell happened here?"
A female paramedic crouched next to Green Ghost, her hands shaking as she applied aqueous sealant to the gaping wound in the hero's skull. "Is that part of her brain?"
"It's the Green Ghost," her partner confirmed, voice hollow.
"Did you find all the pieces?"
Across the room, a male paramedic stared down at Red Rush's body—or what remained of it. "I used to worship this guy as a kid," he said quietly.
"Get those on ice," someone else barked.
Another team worked on War Woman. "Cut in the neck now. Watch out. Sometimes it affects the spinal—"
"Beginning nano-resuscitation," a female voice called. "Locking in neural stabilizer."
The machines beeped, desperate and futile.
Then, from the center of the room: "Omni-Man's alive!"
Everyone turned.
"Get out of the way!" A male paramedic shoved through the crowd, dropping to his knees beside Nolan. "Hurry up!"
"It's all we can do here. Get ready for transport. Go, go, go! Careful. Don't bump her."
They moved with practiced efficiency, but their faces told the story. Horror. Disbelief. Grief.
"Never seen anything like this," one of them whispered.
Cecil Stedman walked into the room like he owned it—which, in a way, he did.
He was middle-aged, lean, with shoulder-length silver hair that had been blond in his youth. The most striking thing about him was the long scar that stretched over his left jaw—a souvenir from a career spent dealing with things most people didn't know existed.
He stopped at the edge of the blood pool, hands in his pockets, and just... looked.
Donald Ferguson stood beside him—fair-skinned, blue-eyed, short light brown hair, wearing a suit that somehow still looked crisp despite the chaos. Cecil's right-hand man. His fixer.
"I've never seen anything like this," Cecil said, his voice quiet but hard.
He walked to the nearest table and slammed his fist down.
The sound echoed in the silence.
"Find out who did this," he growled. "I don't care what it takes. Find them."
[POV SHIFT: Debbie Grayson]
Debbie woke up to an empty bed.
Again.
She reached across the sheets—cold, untouched—and sighed.
Another patrol. Another emergency.
She couldn't even be mad about it anymore. That's just who he was.
Debbie dragged herself out of bed, went through the motions. Shower. Coffee. Breakfast she didn't really taste. She got dressed, did her hair, and put on her makeup.
Normal. Everything was normal.
Except Nolan still wasn't home.
She pulled out her phone and called Mark.
Two rings. "Hey, Mom."
"Morning, sweetie. Is your father with you?"
"What? No. Why would Dad be—"
"He didn't come home last night. I thought maybe he stopped by campus or—"
"Mom, I haven't seen him. Is everything okay?"
"I'm sure it's fine. He probably just got caught up with something. You know how he is."
"Yeah. Okay. Let me know if you need anything."
"I will. Love you."
"Love you too."
Debbie hung up, staring at her phone.
He's fine. He's always fine.
She walked to the front door, keys in hand, ready to run errands and pretend everything was normal.
She opened the door.
Three agents in black suits stood on her porch.
Debbie's heart stopped.
"Mrs. Grayson?" the lead agent said. "We need you to come with us."
[POV SHIFT: Mark]
Mark had just hung up with his mom when someone knocked on his dorm door.
He frowned. He'd only been here two days. Nobody should know his room number yet.
He opened the door.
Two agents in black suits. Earpieces. Expressions that gave nothing away.
"Mark Grayson?"
Mark's stomach dropped.
Looks like Dad finally did it.
"What's going on?" he asked, keeping his voice steady.
"Your father," the lead agent said. "There's been an incident. We need you to come with us."
"What kind of incident?"
"We'll explain on the way. Please, Mr. Grayson. It's urgent."
Mark grabbed his jacket and followed them out, his mind racing.
The Guardians are dead. Dad's either dead or captured. And I'm about to walk into the GDA's headquarters.
This is it. The story's starting.
[POV SHIFT: Debbie Grayson]
The Global Defense Agency headquarters was nothing like Debbie expected.
It was underground—deep underground—accessible only through a private entrance that required three security checkpoints and a biometric scan. The facility was massive; all concrete and steel and technology that looked like it belonged in a science fiction movie.
Donald Ferguson met her in the lobby. He was polite. Professional. And clearly exhausted.
"Mrs. Grayson. I'm Donald Ferguson, assistant director. I'm so sorry to bring you here under these circumstances."
"Where's Nolan?" Debbie demanded. "What happened?"
"This way, please."
He led her through a maze of corridors, past labs and armories and rooms full of screens displaying data she couldn't begin to understand.
"We have a lot of technology here," Donald said, gesturing around. "Some of the most advanced—"
"I don't care about a tour," Debbie snapped. "Where is my husband?"
Donald's expression softened. "This way."
They turned a corner, and Debbie saw him.
Mark. Being escorted by another agent.
"Mark!"
She ran to him, pulling him into a hug. He was so much taller now—when had that happened? —but he was still her baby.
"Mom, what's going on?"
"I don't know. They won't tell me anything."
Donald cleared his throat. "If you'll both follow me."
They were led to a hospital room.
Debbie's breath caught.
Nolan lay on a bed, hooked up to machines that beeped and hummed. His face was bruised. Bandages covered his chest. He looked... small. Fragile in a way she'd never seen him.
"Oh my god. Nolan!"
She rushed to his side, grabbing his hand.
Mark stood in the doorway, staring.
"Dad!"
A voice behind them: "He's gonna be okay, right?"
They turned.
Cecil Stedman stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back. He looked tired. Older than his years.
"We hope so," Cecil said. "Our doctors are doing their best, but we don't get a lot of Viltrumites in here."
Debbie's voice shook. "Who did this?"
"We have no idea. Not yet, anyway. But we'll find out, and when we do, they're gonna look a hell of a lot worse than your husband over there."
He stepped into the room, extending his hand.
"Cecil Stedman. Director of the GDA. Deborah, I'm so sorry."
Debbie ignored his hand. "You've got a lot of nerve."
Cecil lowered his hand slowly. "I understand you're upset—"
"Someone tried to kill my husband, and you're standing here making promises you probably can't keep. So yeah, I'm upset."
"Mrs. Grayson—"
"What happened?"
Cecil took a breath. "Someone murdered the Guardians of the Globe last night."
Debbie's world tilted. "Oh my god."
"All of them," Cecil continued. "Tore them limb from limb. We tried like hell to bring them back, but Nolan was the only survivor."
Mark felt something cold settle in his stomach.
"How is that even possible?" Debbie whispered.
"We don't know yet. We also don't know why your husband was at Guardians' HQ." Cecil's voice was careful. Measured. "Working theory is, whoever killed the Guardians lured him there. Tried to wipe them all out at once."
"Why? Why would anyone—"
"That's the easy part. There isn't a super-villain alive who doesn't want Omni-Man and the Guardians six feet under." Cecil looked between them. "Now, we're keeping this all hush-hush for now, but news will break. I wanted you and Mark to know first."
Mark cleared his throat. "Mark Grayson. Also known as Invincible." He managed a weak smile. "But I'm guessing with all the agency stuff, you already knew that."
Cecil's expression didn't change. "We did."
Debbie looked at Mark, something flickering in her eyes. Surprise? Concern? But she recovered quickly, turning back to Cecil.
"I need materials," she said firmly. "Bandages. Antiseptic. Whatever you've got. And I'm not leaving."
Cecil raised an eyebrow. "Mrs. Grayson—"
"I've been patching him up for twenty years. I think I know what I'm doing."
Mark thought that was probably a bad idea—Viltrumite healing worked differently than human healing—but he kept his mouth shut.
Cecil nodded. "Donald will get you whatever you need."
A knock on the door. An agent leaned in.
"Sir... There's some kind of attack happening downtown. Numerous contacts. Heavy weaponry. Multiple casualties."
Cecil's jaw tightened. "Now? We're a little understaffed in the hero department."
He looked at Mark.
Mark nodded.
"Go," Cecil said.
Mark hugged his mom. "I'll be back soon."
"Be careful."
"Always."
Mark didn't bother going back to his dorm.
He ripped open his shirt.
The black and red suit was underneath. He'd started wearing it constantly—just in case.
He pulled on his mask, took a breath, and flew.
The facility's roof cracked as he shot through it, alarms blaring in his wake.
Sorry, Cecil. I'll pay for that later.
Downtown was a war zone.
The air reeked of smoke and ozone. Explosions tore through buildings, sending debris raining down on the streets below. Gunfire—not the sharp crack of Earth weapons but the high-pitched whine of energy weapons—lit up the sky in streaks of sickly green light.
Civilians screamed and ran in every direction, tripping over rubble, dragging injured friends, parents clutching children. Some were frozen in shock, staring at the chaos unfolding around them like their brains couldn't process what they were seeing.
And in the middle of it all: an army.
They poured through dimensional rifts that crackled and sparked with green energy—dozens, maybe hundreds of them. They were humanoid but wrong in ways that made Mark's skin crawl. Green skin stretched too tight over too many joints. Their limbs bent at angles that shouldn't have been possible. Their armor looked less like metal and more like something grown—organic plates that pulsed faintly, ribbed and segmented like insect carapaces.
And their weapons. God, their weapons.
Rifles that hummed with barely contained energy. Cannons mounted on their backs that fired bolts of compressed... something. Not bullets. Not lasers. Something in between that left scorch marks and melted concrete wherever they hit.
Flaxans.
Mark hovered three hundred feet up, taking it all in for exactly two seconds.
Let's do this.
Then he dropped.
He hit the ground in the center of their formation like a meteor.
The impact cratered the asphalt, sending a shockwave rippling outward. Flaxan soldiers flew in every direction—some slammed into buildings, others tumbled across the street like bowling pins. The ones closest to the impact didn't get up. Their armor cracked. Their bodies crumpled.
Mark rose from the crater, fists clenched, and moved.
The first soldier barely had time to raise his weapon before Mark's fist caved in his chestplate. The alien flew backward, smashing through a parked car hard enough to flip it.
The second soldier fired—Mark tilted his head, the energy bolt screaming past his ear close enough to singe his hair—and closed the distance in a blink. His elbow caught the alien's jaw, snapping his head around with a sickening crack.
Three more rushed him from the left. Mark swept low, his leg scything out and taking them off their feet. Before they hit the ground, he was already moving—grabbing one by the ankle and swinging him into his companions. The impact sent all three tumbling across the street.
Four down. A hundred to go.
A cluster of Flaxans formed a firing line, and weapons trained on him. Mark saw the barrels light up green—
He moved.
Not flying. Just running. Viltrumite speed on the ground, feet pounding craters into the pavement with every step.
The first volley of energy bolts cut through empty air. Mark was already past them, a black and red blur weaving between buildings. He came around from their flank, and by the time they realized he'd moved, he was on them.
Punch. Block. Counter. Grab. Throw.
His body moved on autopilot; every technique Rivera had drilled into him flowing seamlessly. He wasn't just stronger than them—though he was, God he was—he was better. Faster. More precise. Every strike hit exactly where he aimed. Every movement had purpose.
A Flaxan swung a bladed weapon at his head. Mark ducked under it, drove his fist into the alien's gut hard enough to lift him off his feet, then grabbed his collar and threw him into three more soldiers. They went down in a tangle of limbs and armor.
Another group tried to surround him. Mark jumped—not flying, just a standing leap that carried him twenty feet straight up—and came down on one of them boot-first. The Flaxan's helmet crumpled under the impact, and the force drove him six inches into the concrete.
Mark rolled off the body, came up swinging, caught an alien in the ribs with a spinning backfist that sent him flying into a storefront window.
Civilians were still running. Still screaming. Mark could hear them even through the chaos—parents calling for children, people crying out for help, the wounded moaning in pain.
Keep them safe. That's the job. Don't let them die.
A building to his left groaned. Mark looked up and saw it tilting, one of the support pillars blown out by a stray energy blast. It was going to collapse right onto a group of civilians huddled in the street.
Shit.
Mark blurred across the distance, planted his feet, and caught the building.
The weight slammed down onto his shoulders—thousands of tons of concrete and steel and glass—and his knees buckled. His boots cracked the pavement. His muscles screamed.
But he held it.
"Move!" he roared at the civilians. "Get out of here! Now!"
They scattered, stumbling and running and dragging the injured with them.
A Flaxan soldier saw his opportunity. Raised his cannon. Took aim at Mark's exposed back.
The energy bolt was halfway to Mark when a pink shield materialized between them.
The blast hit the shield and stopped, energy dissipating harmlessly across its surface.
Mark glanced up.
"Thanks!"
"Don't mention it!" Eve called from above.
Atom Eve floated above him, hands glowing with pink energy. She wore a form-fitting pink suit with an atomic symbol at the center of her chest, concentric rings radiating outward, and a matching pink cape that billowed in the wind.
The civilians cleared the danger zone. Mark adjusted his grip, muscles burning, and threw the building.
Not away from people. Not into the sky.
He threw it at the Flaxans.
The structure tumbled through the air like a brick, shadow growing larger and larger as it fell. The aliens scattered—too late. The building hit like the fist of God, crushing dozens of them under tons of rubble and sending up a mushroom cloud of dust and debris.
Mark landed, breathing hard, and dove back into the fight.
A tank rolled around the corner—massive, tracked, bristling with weapons. The main cannon swiveled toward a group of fleeing civilians.
Oh no you don't.
Mark shot forward taking some stray shots, crossing a hundred yards in under a second. He hit the tank low, shoulder-first, like he was tackling a linebacker.
The tank lifted off the ground, all twenty-plus tons of it, flipping end over end. Mark grabbed it mid-air, spun once to build momentum, and hurled it into a cluster of Flaxan soldiers.
The explosion was massive. A fireball that reached three stories high. The shockwave shattered windows for two blocks.
When the smoke cleared, there was nothing left but a crater and scattered pieces of burning metal.
More tanks rolled in to replace it.
"You've got to be kidding me," Mark muttered.
Three tanks. Main cannons charging, barrels glowing that sickly green.
Mark crouched, ready to dodge—
Pink energy materialized around all three tanks, lifting them off the ground.
Eve floated down beside him, hands glowing, face set in concentration. "Little help here?"
"On it."
Mark flew up, grabbed the first tank by its barrel, and ripped the cannon clean off. Sparks flew. Fluid leaked. He tossed the barrel aside and punched through the tank's armor, ripping out whatever passed for an engine in Flaxan tech.
The tank sputtered and died.
He moved to the second one. Third one. Systematically dismantling each with brutal efficiency.
By the time he was done, all three were smoking wrecks.
Eve lowered them gently to the ground, breathing hard. "Show-off."
Mark grinned. "Says the girl who just lifted three tanks."
"Fair point."
Behind her: the rest of the Teen Team finally descended.
Robot descended on jets built into his frame—a tall, orange machine with segmented limbs, a robust chest cavity, and a human skull-shaped head with glowing green eyes. A cylinder protruded from the upper-back of his head like a spinal jack.
Dupli-Kate multiplied as she landed, splitting into five identical copies. Each was a young Chinese woman with short black hair, gray eyes, and fair skin, wearing a gray and black suit with a number emblem.
And Rex Splode touched down last—tall, muscular, olive skin, green eyes, dark red hair tied in a bun with shaved sides. He wore a tight-fitting jacket with red shoulders and a yellow front, brown gloves with hook-and-loop fasteners, and a red mask that covered his head except for his chin and mouth.
Robot landed first, jets cutting off with mechanical precision. "Eve, two and a half seconds after this sentence, three enemy tanks will align fifty degrees to your right."
"I got it," Eve said, already moving.
She threw up a shield, and three energy blasts hit it simultaneously, the impacts sending visible ripples across the pink energy.
"Rex, civilians in danger to your left."
"Uh, yeah, I got eyes too, Robot," Rex muttered.
He charged forward, hands glowing. Every surface he touched exploded—small, controlled blasts that took out Flaxan soldiers without bringing down buildings. He moved through the battlefield like a wrecking ball, leaving destruction in his wake.
"Dupli-Kate—" Robot started.
"Focus on evac," Mark cut in, landing beside them. "Get the civilians out. Rex, cover her. I'll handle the frontline."
Robot's head turned toward him, green eyes calculating. For a moment, Mark thought he might argue.
Then: "Acknowledged. Adjusting strategy."
Dupli-Kate split into five copies, each one grabbing civilians and rushing them toward safety. Rex followed, covering their retreat with precision explosions that forced the Flaxans back.
And Mark?
Mark became a storm.
He stopped thinking. Stopped planning. Just let his body move the way Nolan had taught him—efficient, brutal, unstoppable.
He tore through the Flaxan ranks like a force of nature.
A soldier raised his weapon—Mark ripped it out of his hands and beat him dead with it.
Three more charged with bladed weapons—Mark caught two blades barehanded, crushed them, and used the broken pieces to take out the third.
A group tried to retreat—Mark cut them off, herding them back toward the Teen Team's position where Rex could finish them.
He grabbed a Flaxan by the legs and swung him in a wide arc, using him as a battering ram against his own allies. When the body went limp, Mark tossed it aside and kept moving.
Punch. Kick. Grab. Throw. Block. Counter.
His knuckles were bloody. His suit was torn. His body ached.
But he didn't stop.
Can't stop. Not while there are still people in danger.
Then something changed.
The Flaxans started dying.
Not from injuries. From age.
Mark watched in real-time as their bodies withered. Skin sagged. Eyes sank into skulls. Flesh decayed. Within seconds, they looked ancient—centuries old—and then they crumbled to dust.
The ones still alive panicked.
They abandoned their weapons. Abandoned their formation. Scrambled desperately toward the dimensional rifts that had brought them here.
One Flaxan—older than the others, covered in scars, wearing what looked like officer insignia—stood his ground.
He locked eyes with Mark across the battlefield.
For a moment, they just stared at each other.
The Flaxan's expression was unreadable. Not fear. Not anger. Something else. Recognition, maybe. Like he was filing Mark's face away for later.
Then he turned and jumped through the rift.
The remaining Flaxans followed, and the portal snapped shut with a sound like breaking glass.
Silence.
The battle was over.
Mark landed slowly, breathing hard, fists still clenched.
The street was a disaster. Craters. Burning vehicles. Collapsed buildings. Blood—some red, some green—pooling in the cracks of broken pavement.
But the civilians were safe.
That was what mattered.
Eve landed beside him, lowering her shield. "That was... intense."
"Yeah."
Robot descended, scanning the area with his green eyes. "Casualty count: 238 confirmed dead. 400-plus injured. Could have been significantly worse."
Mark's chest tightened. 238 dead.
Better than the original timeline's 338.
But still not good enough.
"Who are you?" Robot asked, turning those calculating eyes on Mark.
Mark turned, just enough to show his masked face. "Invincible."
"Cool name," Rex said. "You always punch that hard, or was that a special occasion?"
"Depends on the day."
Dupli-Kate's copies merged back into one. "Thanks for the backup. We were getting overwhelmed."
"No problem."
Robot studied him for a long moment. "Your combat efficiency is impressive. Have you considered joining a team?"
"Not yet but am still thinking about it."
"Understood."
The others started to leave, but Robot lingered.
"Can I ask you a favor?" Mark said.
"That depends on the favor."
"I need a translator. Something small. Flaxan to English."
Robot's head tilted. "Why?"
"Studying purposes."
"Studying."
"Yeah."
Robot was silent for a moment. "Very well. Consider it payment for your assistance today. Without you, casualties would have been significantly higher."
"Appreciate it."
Robot turned to Analise the alien tech, then paused. "You have potential, Invincible. Don't waste it."
Then he was gone.
Mark helped with cleanup for another twenty minutes—moving rubble, pulling people from collapsed buildings, making sure the wounded got to ambulances.
By the time the GDA arrived, most of the work was done.
Cecil stepped out of an armored vehicle, surveying the damage.
"You did good, kid," he said when Mark landed beside him.
"238 people died," Mark said quietly. "Doesn't feel like good."
Better than the 338 from the original timeline, he thought. But still not good enough.
Cecil's expression softened. "You saved a lot more than that. Remember that."
Robot approached, carrying a piece of Flaxan tech. "The aliens called themselves Flaxans. I reverse-engineered their language using recordings from the battle and I have six theories about why they retreated."
"Let's hear them," Cecil said.
"Later. Right now, I'd like to analyze this." Robot held up a piece of corroded metal. "This tank alloy should take years to oxidize. But it's already degraded significantly. Which suggests—"
"Time runs faster in their dimension," Mark finished.
Robot's head turned toward him. "Correct, that brings my theory to one"
Cecil nodded. "I'll need your help with this, Robot. Full report by tomorrow."
"Understood."
Cecil walked away, barking orders into his comm.
Robot lingered. "Your translator will be ready in two days."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
After Robot left, Cecil reappeared, walking toward Mark.
Mark stood alone in the wreckage, staring at the blood on his hands.
238 people.
I need to get better.
I need to be faster.
A hand landed on his shoulder. Cecil.
"You did good, kid."
Mark didn't answer.
Because 238 dead didn't feel like good.
It felt like failure.
Cecil almost smiled. "Get back to your family, kid. They need you."
Mark nodded and took off.
[POV SHIFT: Cecil Stedman]
Cecil stood alone in Guardians HQ, staring at the blood-soaked floor.
Donald appeared beside him. "Sir?"
"Give me some good news, Donald."
Donald's expression said it all. "Whoever did this cut the power and the backup. Killed the cameras and the security systems. Forensics is... stumped. I told them to start over and try harder."
"That's not good news, Donald! That's not good news at all!" Cecil's voice echoed in the empty room. "Get the hell out. Everyone!"
The agents scattered.
Cecil waited until the room was empty.
"Come on out," he said to the shadows. "I know you're there."
A figure materialized from the darkness—red skin, yellow eyes, gray hair, wearing a cream raincoat and a fedora.
"Wasn't hiding," said the demon like figure, his voice like gravel.
Donald stared. "Sir, who the hell—"
"Damien Darkblood. Demon detective," the creature said, tipping his hat.
Donald took a step back.
Darkblood walked through the room, his tail swishing behind him, bare feet silent on the blood-slicked floor.
"Seven superheroes murdered," he muttered. "Strongest man on the planet almost dead. No suspects. No leads."
"If you're asking if we need your help—" Cecil started.
"Wasn't asking."
Cecil sighed. "Fine. Knock yourself out. Help us solve the case, oh Great-horned Holmes."
"Sir," Donald said quietly. "Are you sure?
"You got a problem with the demon? I thought you were an atheist, Donald."
"I am. That doesn't mean I'm comfortable with—"
"Then get comfortable. We need all the help we can get."
Darkblood crouched beside a bloodstain, sniffing. His yellow eyes narrowed.
"Just one thing that does not make sense to me"
"What is it?" Cecil replied
"Whoever did this...Did not want do to this" He said as he gave Cecil a frown.