The afternoon sun hung heavy over Chicago, casting long, golden shadows across the sprawling cityscape. From a thousand feet up, the city was a tapestry of moving cars and bustling sidewalks, but for Mark and Dick, it was their new playground—and their first real responsibility.
Mark soared through the air, his makeshift suit fluttering in the wind. It was a "ragtag" assembly of blue and orange spandex that didn't quite fit right, topped with a pair of goggles he'd scavenged and a handkerchief tied around his face to serve as a mask. On his shoulders sat his brother, Dick, whose own face was obscured by a simple mask.
"Can you stop shifting? You're ruining my aerodynamics," Mark grumbled, his voice slightly muffled by the wind and his mask.
"Aerodynamics? Mark, you're flying by pure alien muscle, not lift-to-drag ratios," Dick retorted, adjusting his grip. "Besides, you're listing to the left. If we're going to be a legendary duo, you need to work on your posture."
The brothers continued their banter, a mix of genuine sibling rivalry and the nervous energy that came with their secret lives. For Dick, there was an added layer of surrealism. Every so often, he'd catch a glimpse of a landmark that triggered a flash of memory from his past life.
The bickering came to an abrupt halt when a thunderous boom echoed from the downtown district, followed by the sharp, rhythmic crackle of gunfire.
"Did you hear that?" Mark's voice lost its playfulness instantly.
"The Bank," Dick said(Of course it's a bank), pointing toward a plume of black smoke rising from the financial district. "Let's move."
—----------
At the Bank of Chicago, chaos reigned. An explosion had ripped through the reinforced front doors, scattering glass and debris across the street. A group of armed goons was already funneling out, clutching heavy duffel bags filled with cash.
The cause of the breach was clear. Standing among the robbers was a man who looked less like a criminal and more like a force of nature. He was a towering figure, standing six feet eight inches tall with a mane of wild orange hair that made him look like a predatory lion. His muscles were monstrous, bulging beneath his skin with veins that looked like thick cords of rope. Beside him stood another figure, equally imposing but different in composition—his entire body, from his flat-topped head to his heavy boots, was encased in a thick, grey layer of living concrete.
"Drop the bags!" a police officer screamed, taking cover behind a cruiser as a dozen sirens wailed in the distance.
The response was a hail of bullets from the grunts. The concrete man stepped forward, his body absorbing the police fire with dull thuds, the lead flattening against his stone-like skin without leaving a mark.
"Go! Into the alley!" the concrete man grunted, his voice sounding like grinding stones. He gestured for the robbers to retreat while the leonine giant charged towards the police line with a terrifying grin.
—-----------
Mark and Dick hovered above the scene, taking in the tactical layout. Dick's eyes widened as he looked at the orange-haired brute. 'Kind of looks like Mammoth', Dick thought, the name clicking into place from his memories of the Teen Titans.
"The concrete guy is heading for the back alley with the money," Mark noted, his body tensing for action. "The big guy is going to turn those cops into paste if we don't do something."
"Split up," Dick commanded, his tone shifting to one of focused leadership. "You take the alley. Don't let those bags get away."
Mark hesitated, looking at the chaos below. "What about the big guy? He looks like he eats buffaloes for breakfast."
Dick grinned behind his mask and let himself slide off Mark's shoulders, dropping through the air with practiced ease. "I've got the hairball. You wanted your moment, right? This is it. Make it count."
Mark watched his brother fall for a split second before gritting his teeth and diving toward the alley. "Right. Make it count."
—----------
Mark slammed into the pavement at the entrance of the alley, the impact cracking the asphalt. The concrete man stopped, his heavy brow furrowing as he looked at the teenager in the orange and blue suit.
"Out of the way, kid," the villain rumbled.
"Not happening," Mark said, though his heart was hammering against his ribs.
He lunged forward, throwing a punch with the full strength of his Viltrumite heritage. The concrete man didn't dodge; he met the blow with his own forearm. The collision sounded like a wrecking ball hitting a skyscraper. Mark gasped as the shockwave traveled up his arm, numbing it to the shoulder.
The concrete man swung a massive, stone fist. Mark dodged, but he wasn't used to fighting someone who moved with such deceptive momentum. The fist grazed his shoulder, spinning him around and sending him crashing into a stack of industrial trash cans.
"Is that all?" the villain mocked, stepping forward to crush the 'hero' underfoot.
Mark scrambled up, frustrated. He flew upward, trying to use his speed, but the narrow confines of the alley worked against him. He tried to grab the concrete man from behind, but the villain's skin was too abrasive, tearing at Mark's suit. In the ensuing struggle, they crashed through a brick wall and into a nearby warehouse.
It was clumsy. Mark was stronger, but the concrete man was experienced. Every time Mark landed a hit, a shower of stone dust filled the air, and the villain simply reformed the cracks in his skin. Mark eventually realized he needed to stop hitting the man and start hitting the ground. He dove low, grabbing the villain's ankles and hoisting him into the air. With a roar of effort, Mark slammed the concrete man head-first into the reinforced floor. The impact finally knocked the villain unconscious, but at a cost—half the warehouse shelving had collapsed, a car was tossed away and a water main had burst, flooding the floor.
Mark stood over the downed villain, panting, his suit torn and covered in grey dust. He looked up, hoping Dick had seen his victory.
—-----------
Back on the main street, the Big Guy was seconds away from crushing a police cruiser with an officer still trapped inside.
WHAM.
A blur of movement struck him in the chest, sending the six-hundred-pound giant hurtling backward. He flew through the air, his limbs flailing, until he slammed into a brick wall across the street, embedding himself into the masonry like a discarded toy.
Dick landed softly, shaking out his hand. "Oops," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe a little too much juice."
He turned to the stunned police officer. "You alright, officer?"
"I… yeah. Thanks," the cop stammered, staring at the boy who had just bench-pressed that monster with his knuckles.
A roar erupted from the wall. The said monster tore himself free, the brickwork crumbling around him. His eyes were bloodshot with rage, and foam flecked his lips. "You!" he screamed, his voice a primal guttural sound. "I'm going to break every bone in your body!"
"Big words for a guy who just got 'wall-papered'," Dick taunted, falling into a relaxed fighting stance. "So, do you have a name, or should I just call you 'Fluffy'?"
"I am Mammoth!" the giant roared, charging forward.
Mammoth swung a massive overhead blow. Dick stepped to the side, the fist shattering the pavement where he had stood a millisecond before. Mammoth followed up with a sweeping lariat, but Dick ducked, feeling the wind of the strike whistle over his head.
"You're slow, Mammoth. Heavy, but slow," Dick said, popping up and delivering a lightning-fast jab to the giant's solar plexus.
Mammoth grunted but didn't fall. He growled, his frustration boiling over. He raised both fists high and slammed them down in a unified strike. Dick didn't move this time. He wanted to test his limits. He braced his feet, crossing his arms over his head.
The impact was seismic. The ground beneath Dick's feet buckled and dented into a small crater. The shockwave shattered the windows of the nearby shops. But when the dust cleared, Dick was still standing, a slight grin on his face.
"My turn," Dick said.
Before Mammoth could react, Dick moved. He delivered a series of rapid-fire strikes—ribs, chin, temple. Each blow was precisely measured to incapacitate without killing. The final uppercut lifted Mammoth off his feet. The giant's eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed with a thud that shook the street.
Mark emerged from the alley just in time to see the finishing blow. He looked at the unconscious Mammoth, then at his own messy battlefield, and finally at Dick, who didn't have a single scratch on him. Mark gave a triumphant thumbs-up, trying to hide his embarrassment, but Dick just facepalmed and gestured to the wreckage behind Mark.
The brothers' celebration was short-lived. A sudden shadow fell over them, blocking out the afternoon sun. The air grew cold, and the sound of the sirens seemed to fade into the background.
They looked up.
Hovering twenty feet above them, his arms crossed over his chest and his cape billowing in a wind that didn't seem to touch anyone else, was Nolan Grayson—Omni-man. His expression was unreadable, his eyes fixed on his two sons in their tattered, unauthorized costumes.
Both brothers winced inwardly.
—---------
The roof of a certain building was silent, save for the distant sound of traffic. Mark and Dick stood side-by-side, shifting uncomfortably under their father's stern gaze.
"So…" Mark started, whispering into Dick's ear. "Do we go with the 'we were just helping' defense or the 'it was a training exercise' defense?"
"I'm going with the 'Mark made me do it' defense," Dick whispered back, barely keeping a straight face.
"You traitor!" Mark hissed.
"Enough," Nolan said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of a mountain.
The brothers went stiff. Dick instinctively snapped into a military salute, which earned him a bewildered look from Mark.
Nolan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if nursing a headache. He looked at the two of them—his sons, who had inherited his god-like abilities.
"You aren't ready," Nolan said softly. "You fought those men like children playing in a sandbox. You didn't account for the collateral damage. You didn't account for the civilians. You were lucky."
"We did it, though!" Mark argued, stepping forward. "We stopped them. Just give us a chance, Dad. We can do this."
Nolan stepped closer, his eyes searching theirs. "Are you ready to suffer, Mark? Are you ready to get bruised, to face defeat, to feel pain that makes you wish you didn't choose this path, and still get back up to fight?"
"Yes," Mark said, his voice unwavering.
Nolan looked at Dick. Dick didn't have Mark's burning idealism, but he had a quiet, stubborn resilience. He shrugged and offered a small, tired smile. "I'm ready to take a punch. I've already taken a few today."
Nolan nodded slowly. The sternness in his eyes softened, replaced by a glint of something that looked almost like pride.
"Follow me," Nolan commanded, turning toward the edge of the roof. "If you're going to be heroes, you're going to do it right. And first, you're going to need better suits."