"I don't need therapy. I just need to go camping" Unknown
Mark flew back to the GDA headquarters in silence, the adrenaline from the fight slowly draining away and leaving him hollow. His hands still trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the leftover energy, the buzzing in his bones that came from pushing his body to its limits.
238 dead.
The number kept repeating in his head like a mantra. Like a condemnation.
He touched down in the parking garage, changed back into his civilian clothes in a maintenance closet, and made his way through the facility's maze-like corridors until he found his mom.
Debbie sat in Nolan's hospital room, exactly where Mark had left her.
She'd pulled a chair up beside the bed, close enough to hold Nolan's hand. Medical supplies were scattered across a nearby table—bandages, antiseptic, gauze—but they sat unused. Because what was the point? Nolan's wounds were already healing, his Viltrumite physiology knitting itself back together faster than any human treatment could help.
But Debbie needed to do something. Needed to feel useful. So, she'd cleaned the minor cuts. Adjusted his blankets. Smoothed his hair back from his forehead like he was a child with a fever instead of an alien warrior who'd slaughtered his own team.
She looked up when Mark walked in, and her face crumpled with relief.
"Mark." She stood, crossing the room to hug him. "Thank God. Are you okay? I heard about the attack on the news—"
"I'm fine, Mom. Promise."
She pulled back, studying his face with that x-ray vision all mothers seemed to have. "You're hurt."
"Just bruises. Nothing serious."
"Nothing serious," she repeated, like the words were in a foreign language. Then she laughed—a brittle, exhausted sound. "You're just like your father. Always downplaying things."
Mark glanced at Nolan's unconscious form. "How is he?"
"The same. The doctors say his vitals are improving, but..." She trailed off, wringing her hands. "I keep trying to help, but there's nothing for me to do. His body is healing itself, and I'm just... sitting here. Useless."
"You're not useless, Mom. You're here. That matters."
"Does it?" Her voice cracked. "The Guardians are dead, Mark. All of them. And your father was the only one who survived. What if whoever did this comes back? What if they come after him again? After us?"
Mark took her hands, squeezing gently. "I won't let that happen."
"You can't promise that."
"Yes, I can."
They stood there for a moment, just holding on to each other.
Then Debbie took a shaky breath and stepped back, wiping her eyes. "Tell me about the attack. What happened out there?"
Mark filled her in—the Flaxans, the dimensional rifts, the battle downtown. He left out some of the more brutal details, softened the edges a bit. But he told her enough.
"And they just... ran away?" Debbie asked. "Why?"
"Time moves differently in their dimension. They were aging too fast here. Dying." Mark's jaw tightened. "But they'll be back. And next time, I'll be ready. Next time, I'll get them."
"Mark—"
"I have to go, Mom. There's something I need to take care of."
"What something?"
"Just... hero stuff. I'll explain later. I promise." He kissed her cheek. "Call me if Dad wakes up, okay?"
"Okay. Be careful."
"Always."
Mark left the GDA headquarters and flew back to campus, his mind already racing ahead.
The Flaxans would return. He knew that from the show. They'd come back stronger, better equipped, more prepared.
And he needed to be ready.
He landed in the forest behind his dorm, changed into civilian clothes, and pulled out his phone. Found Eve's number—and typed out a message.
Mark:We need to talk. Meet me tomorrow at the old bridge near campus. 10 AM?
The response came almost immediately.
Eve:Everything okay?
Mark:Yeah. Just want to catch up. See you then.
Eve:Okay. See you.
Mark pocketed his phone and headed inside.
He still had a week before classes started. A week to prepare for what was coming.
A week to get ready.
The next morning dawned clear and cold.
Mark arrived at the bridge fifteen minutes early, dressed in jeans and a hoodie, hands shoved in his pockets against the chill. The structure was old—pre-war, maybe older—spanning a ravine that cut through the forest like a scar. It had been condemned years ago, fences put up to keep people away, but college kids still used it as a hangout spot.
Nobody was around this early, though. Just Mark and the sound of wind through the trees.
He heard the taxi before he saw it—tires crunching on gravel, engine idling.
Eve climbed out, wearing jeans and a green jacket, red hair pulled back in a ponytail. She paid the driver, waited for the cab to pull away, then walked over to where Mark stood.
"Hey," she said. "You sounded serious in your text. Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Just wanted to talk." Mark smiled. "And say thank you."
"For what?"
"Saving my ass yesterday. That shield came in clutch."
Eve's eyes widened. "Wait. That was you? You're—" She gestured vaguely at his chest. "The black and red suit?"
"Invincible," Mark confirmed. "Yeah, that's me."
"Holy shit." Eve laughed, covering her mouth. "I can't believe I didn't figure it out sooner. Did you know who I was the whole time?"
Mark shook his head. "Not really. I mean, I suspected after I saw you using your powers at school a few times, but I wasn't sure until yesterday."
That was a lie. He'd known exactly who she was from the moment she'd transferred. But he couldn't tell her that.
Eve punched his shoulder lightly. "You're a terrible liar, Grayson."
"Guilty."
They stood there for a moment, grinning at each other like idiots.
Then Eve's expression shifted—went curious. "So... what are you doing right now?"
"Right now? Nothing. Why?"
"Want to meet the rest of the team?"
Mark blinked. "The Teen Team?"
"Yeah. I mean, you basically saved our asses yesterday. Figure the least I can do is introduce you properly." She held out her hand. "Come on. Let's suit up."
They changed in the forest—Eve behind one tree, Mark behind another.
When Mark emerged in his black and red suit, mask pulled on, Eve was already hovering a few feet off the ground in her pink costume.
"Nice suit," she said. "Very cyberpunk assassin."
"Thanks. Yours is pretty iconic."
"I know." She grinned. "Race you there?"
"Where's there?"
"You'll see. First one to that water tower wins." She pointed at a structure maybe two miles away.
Mark crouched. "You're on."
"Go!"
They shot into the sky.
Eve was fast.
She flew with the kind of grace that came from years of practice, her body cutting through the air like a missile. Pink energy trailed behind her, and she threw up small shields to deflect wind resistance, giving herself extra speed.
But Mark was faster.
He poured on the speed, feeling his muscles burn, feeling the air compress around him as he approached supersonic. The world became a blur of colors. His ears popped. His eyes watered behind his mask.
He passed Eve with a grin and a wave.
"Cheater!" she called, laughing.
Mark touched down on the water tower first, landing in a crouch. Eve arrived three seconds later, shaking her head.
"Okay, that was impressive," she admitted. "You've got some serious speed."
"Just good training."
"Uh-huh. Come on, show-off. It's this way."
She led him to a bridge—not the old one they'd met at, but a newer structure that spanned a river. It looked completely normal. Unremarkable.
Then Eve tapped something on her wrist, and a section of the bridge's underside opened.
A hatch. Hidden in plain sight.
"After you," Eve said.
Mark dropped through.
The descent was slow—some kind of anti-gravity field that lowered them gently into a massive underground chamber.
The Teen Team's headquarters.
It was impressive.
The space was easily the size of a warehouse, carved out of bedrock and reinforced with steel. One wall was covered in monitors displaying news feeds, police scanners, and satellite imagery. Another section had a training area—mats, weights, sparring dummies. There was a lounge with couches and a massive TV. A kitchen. Even what looked like individual sleeping quarters.
And in the center of it all: the team.
Rex was the first to notice them. He'd been sprawled on the couch, but when he heard them land, he jumped up and immediately made a beeline for Eve, pulling her into a kiss.
"Hey, babe. Miss me?"
Eve rolled her eyes but smiled. "You saw me three hours ago."
"Three hours too long." Rex finally noticed Mark and grinned, extending his hand. "Rex Splode. But you already knew that."
"Invincible," Mark said, shaking his hand.
"Dude, you were a beast out there yesterday. Seriously. Where'd you learn to fight like that?"
"Good teacher."
"He single? Because I could use some lessons."
Dupli-Kate walked over from the training area, and Mark felt her eyes on him—assessing, appreciating. She was petite but moved with confidence, short black hair framing her face, gray eyes sharp and intelligent.
"Kate," she said, offering her hand. Her grip was firm. "Nice to meet you properly. And nice... everything." She gestured vaguely at him, not even trying to hide the fact that she was checking him out.
Rex laughed. "Subtle, Kate. Real subtle."
"I'm efficient," she shot back with a smirk.
Mark couldn't help but smile. "Thanks for getting those civilians out yesterday. You saved a lot of lives."
"Just doing my job." Her expression grew more serious. "Still pissed those aliens ran away, though. I wanted round two."
"You'll get it," Mark said. "Trust me."
Robot descended from an upper platform, his mechanical body moving with eerie silence. He stopped a few feet away, green eyes studying Mark.
"Invincible. Welcome to our headquarters."
"Thanks for having me."
"Eve tells me you're interested in joining the team."
Mark nodded. "If you'll have me."
"Your combat capabilities are exceptional. Your tactical awareness is above average. And you work well under pressure." Robot's head tilted. "Yes. I believe you would be an asset. Pending a trial period, of course."
"Of course."
"Excellent. Now, about what we discussed yesterday..."
Robot gestured for Mark to follow him to a quieter corner of the base.
They stopped beside a workbench covered in Flaxan tech—pieces of armor, fragments of weapons, scraps of that weird organic material although they were already decayed rusted metal scrap.
Robot opened a drawer and pulled out five small devices. They looked like earpieces—sleek, metallic, about the size of a fingernail.
"Flaxan-to-English translators," Robot said. "Fully functional. I've included four backups in case of damage or loss."
Mark stared. "You made these overnight?"
"I don't require sleep. And I was... curious about their language structure." Robot held them out. "I assume you wanted these for reconnaissance purposes?"
"Something like that." Mark took the earpieces, pocketing four and examining the fifth. "Thanks, Robot. This is exactly what I needed."
"What do you plan to do with them?"
Mark looked up, meeting those glowing green eyes, and smiled. "Pack them up from where they came from."
Robot was silent for a moment. "You intend to enter their dimension."
"Maybe."
"That's extremely dangerous. Time differential aside, we have no data on atmospheric composition, gravitational variance, or potential hostiles beyond the soldiers we've already encountered."
"I know."
"You could die."
"I could die crossing the street."
Robot's eyes dimmed slightly—his version of a frown, maybe. "Very well. I won't stop you. But I have a request."
"Shoot."
Robot's eyes dimmed slightly—his version of a frown, maybe. "Very well. I won't stop you. But I have a request."
"Shoot."
"If you have the opportunity, I'd like you to bring back any technology you find. Studying their equipment could give us a strategic advantage—and perhaps reveal more about their intentions."
"That's the plan." Mark pulled out his burner phone—the one he used for hero work, completely untraceable—and handed it over. "Call me the second they show up. I don't care what time it is."
Robot took the phone, studying it. "What makes you so certain they'll return?"
"Call it a hunch."
"You're remarkably confident for someone with limited combat experience."
Mark shrugged. "I've had a good teacher."
Robot was quiet for a long moment, those green eyes searching Mark's face like he was trying to solve an equation.
Then: "Be careful, Invincible. Confidence is useful. Arrogance is fatal."
"I'll keep that in mind."
When Mark returned to the main area, Eve was waiting, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.
"So? What'd you two talk about?"
"Just tech stuff," Mark said casually. "Robot's helping me with some equipment."
"What kind of equipment?"
"Translation tech. In case the Flaxans come back."
Eve studied his face, clearly sensing there was more to it, but she didn't push. "Okay. Just... be careful, alright? I don't know what you're planning, but that look in your eye? That's the look of someone about to do something stupid."
"Me? Stupid? Never."
"Uh-huh." She punched his shoulder lightly. "Come on. Rex wants to show you the training room. Fair warning: he's going to try to get you to spar with him, and his ego can't handle losing."
"I heard that!" Rex called from across the base.
Mark spent another hour at headquarters, getting to know the team better. Rex was loud and obnoxious but genuine underneath it all. Dupli-Kate was sharp, tactical, and continued to make it very clear she found Mark attractive—much to Rex's annoyance. Robot remained an enigma, watching everything with those calculating green eyes.
When Mark finally left, Eve walked him to the exit.
"Thanks for coming," she said.
"Thanks for inviting me."
"You really think they are coming back, don't you?" she asked quietly. "The Flaxans."
Mark didn't answer right away. Then: "Yes. They killed 238 people yesterday, Eve. And they'll kill more if I don't stop them."
"You can't save everyone, Mark."
"Maybe not. But I can try."
Eve sighed. "Just... don't do anything crazy, okay?"
Mark smiled. "Define crazy."
"That's not reassuring."
"I'll be fine. Promise."
He left the base and flew straight to a camping supply store on the outskirts of town.
He needed gear. A lot of it.
Mark moved through the aisles with purpose, grabbing anything that might be useful: A large military-grade duffel bag, waterproof and reinforced , MREs—meals ready to eat—enough for two weeks, Water purification tablets, A first aid kit, fully stocked, A multi-tool, Rope, A compass, Waterproof matches, Emergency blankets, A portable camp stove and fuel, Protein bars, energy drinks, electrolyte powder.
Then he hit the bookstore next door and grabbed everything he could find on survival:
SAS Survival Handbook, Bushcraft 101, Deep Survival: Who Lives, Who Dies, and Why and The Complete Guide to Edible Wild Plants
The cashier gave him a weird look. "Going somewhere remote?"
"Camping trip," Mark said. "Trying to unplug for a bit."
"Good for you, man. Have fun."
Mark flew back to campus, dumped everything in his dorm room, and started packing.
He organized the duffel methodically—MREs at the bottom for weight distribution, first aid kit easily accessible, books in waterproof bags. He double-checked every piece of gear, making sure nothing was missing.
Then he sat on his bed and started reading.
SAS Survival Handbook first. He absorbed the chapters on shelter-building, fire-starting, water procurement. His enhanced Viltrumite brain helped—he could read faster than normal humans, retain more information.
But reading wasn't the same as doing.
I'll learn by trial and error, he thought. Just like everything else.
One more stop.
Mark flew to Art Rosenbaum's shop just before closing time.
The bell chimed when he walked in. Art looked up from his workbench, glasses sliding down his nose.
"Mark! Twice in one week. What can I do for you?"
"I need another suit. A backup, in case the first one gets damaged."
Art raised an eyebrow. "Planning on getting into some rough situations?"
"Something like that."
"Well, I don't have another one of your black and red suits ready. That design takes time." Art stood, walking to the back room. "But I do have something else. Your dad actually commissioned it a while back. Said he wanted you to have options."
He returned carrying a garment bag.
"This is a bit more... traditional," Art said, unzipping it.
Mark's breath caught.
It was the suit. The one from the show. The original Invincible costume.
Blue and yellow. Bold. Bright. Optimistic.
The base was navy blue—deeper than sky blue, almost cobalt—with yellow accents that ran down the sides and across the chest. The design was sleek but uncomplicated. No unnecessary details. Just clean lines and strong colors.
The chest featured a stylized "I" symbol—not too large, not too small. Simple. Iconic.
The mask was yellow with blue trim, covering the upper half of the face and leaving the mouth exposed. Yellow goggles protected the eyes. It looked... heroic. Like something a real superhero would wear.
Not an assassin. Not a soldier.
A hero.
"I..." Mark touched the fabric. "It's perfect."
"Your dad has good taste," Art said. "You want to try it on?"
"Not right now. But thank you. Seriously."
"Anytime, kid." Art handed him the garment bag. "Stay safe out there."
"I'll do my best."
Mark flew to the location where the Flaxans had first appeared—a warehouse district on the east side of town, abandoned and quiet.
He landed in the exact spot where the dimensional rift had opened, looking around. Scorch marks still scarred the concrete. Debris from the battle lay scattered everywhere.
This was the place.
Mark found a concealed spot behind a rusted shipping container, hidden from view but with a clear line of sight to the arrival point. He stashed his duffel bag there, covering it with a tarp and some loose debris.
Everything he'd need. Right where he could grab it.
Then he stood in the center of the site, closed his eyes, and waited.
Not for long. Just a few minutes. Letting himself feel the space. Memorizing it.
This is where it starts. Where I stop being reactive and start being proactive.
The Flaxans will come back. And when they do, I'll be ready.
Mark flew back to his dorm as the sun set, painting the sky in shades of orange and red.
He showered. Changed. Made himself dinner—instant ramen, because that's all he had the energy for.
Then he collapsed into bed, staring at the ceiling.
He still had a week before classes started. A week to prepare. A week to train. A week to make sure he was ready for what came next.
His phone buzzed. A text from Robot.
Robot:Flaxan energy signatures detected. Increased activity in their dimension. Estimate 72 hours until next incursion.
Mark smiled.
Three days. Perfect.
And for the first time in weeks, he slept without dreaming.