GDA HQ
A small light blinked in the air, followed by the familiar distortion of teleportation technology activating. Multiple GDA members materialized in the bunker's main hangar, their boots hitting the reinforced floor in near-perfect synchronization. As the fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows across their faces as they moved with military precision, securing the perimeter even though they were already in one of the most secure facilities on the planet.
Several scientists and engineers walked up to Guardian and Cecil immediately, their white lab coats pristine despite the chaos they'd just left behind at the convoy site. One woman, Dr. Sarah Chen, according to the ID badge clipped to her coat, stepped forward with a tablet in one hand and an expectant expression on her face.
"Guardian, we'll need the Amazo android's black box," she said, her voice professional but urgent.
Mark didn't say anything. He handed the box to Dr. Chen without a word, his movements mechanical, as his mind clearly elsewhere.
She took it carefully, cradling it like it was made of glass, and immediately passed it to one of her colleagues who began scanning it with a handheld device that beeped and chirped as it analyzed the technology.
Cecil stepped forward, his eye's fixed on the scientists. "How long will it take to crack the tech and decrypt the information?"
Dr. Chen looked at her datapad while the man next to her, Dr. Marcus Webb, a specialist in advanced AI systems, continued scanning the black box. After a moment, he looked up, his expression grim.
"It could be a week, maybe two," Dr. Webb said, adjusting his glasses. "Whoever designed this was paranoid. The encryption is layered, and adaptive, so if we do this wrong..." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "If we do this wrong, the information will delete itself. Completely.
Cecil sighed, the sound heavy with frustration and exhaustion. He'd been dealing with impossible situations for decades, but that didn't make them any easier. "Give me an update every day. I don't care if it's progress or setbacks. I want to know where we stand."
The scientists nodded in unison. "Understood, Director," Dr. Chen said. Then she and her team turned and walked away, moving quickly toward the research labs deeper in the facility, the black box already being connected to diagnostic equipment as they disappeared around a corner.
Mark was about to walk away, his shoulders stiff, his entire body language screaming defeat. The cracked visor of his helmet morphed away from his face, revealing his features, the frustration in his eyes, the tightness around his mouth, the way he couldn't quite meet anyone's gaze.
But Cecil's voice stopped him before he could take more than two steps. "Hold up, Mark. I want to talk to you for a sec. And you need to be debriefed."
Mark just looked down, his jaw clenching. "Can we not do this right now, Cecil? I'm tired."
Cecil crossed his arms, his expression unchanging. "You know the rules, kid. And it was your idea to not isolate when you get stressed. Part of your treatment, remember?"
Mark stood there for a moment, his back to Cecil, and inhaled deeply. The breath shuddered slightly as he took it in, held it, then exhaled slowly. It was a technique Sandy had taught him, grounding himself, centering himself, trying to keep the rage and guilt from consuming him entirely.
He turned back around to face Cecil, his expression resigned. "Okay, Cecil. Lead the way."
Cecil nodded, satisfied, and gestured toward the corridor that led to his office. They walked through the bunker's hangar in silence, passing GDA personnel who gave them a wide berth. Everyone knew who Guardian was, and what he'd done five years ago. And everyone was smart enough to stay out of his way when he looked like this. Even when some of them knew and trusted him after the good he has been doing over the years.
Cecil's Office
The door to Cecil's office hissed open, revealing the familiar space, utilitarian, and functional room that would make someone feel like they were in the oval office. But this room had better reinforced walls, and multiple monitors displaying feeds from around the world. Donald Ferguson stood near one of the monitors, his posture was straight, and his expression neutral but his eyes sharp and observant.
And sitting in one of the chairs near Cecil's desk was Sandy.
She looked up as they entered, her bright blue eyes warm despite the seriousness of the situation. Her curly brown hair framed her face, and she wore her usual casual attire, black pencil skirt, a comfortable pink blouse, and a cardigan that made her look more like someone's favorite aunt. Than a young trained therapist working for one of the most secretive government agencies in the world.
"Welcome back, sugar," Sandy said in her thick Southern accent, standing up and gesturing to the couch against the far wall. "I saw what happened out there."
Mark, still with that somber look etched into his features, walked to the couch and sat down heavily. His arms rested on his legs as he slumped over, his head hanging low. Every line of his body showed defeat, the way his shoulders curved inward, the way his hands hung loosely between his knees, the way he couldn't seem to lift his gaze from the carpet floor.
Sandy moved to sit across from him, her expression shifting from welcoming to professionally concerned. "Mark, I'm gonna need you to tell me how you feel. I know what happened from your suit's recording, but I need to know how it made you 'feel'."
Cecil, who had moved to lean against his desk, sighed. "Kid's defeated. That's easy to see. He completed the mission, but now the League, the Titans, and soon every affiliate group they work with will know that the GDA's Guardian is Invincible. The Viltrumite alien terrorist .And who knows who's gonna come after him."
Sandy looked at Cecil with a stern face, her Southern warmth replaced by professional authority. "I was talking to Mark, Cecil."
Cecil crossed his arms and sighed in defeat. "Yes, you're right. My apologies."
Mark's voice was quiet when he spoke, barely above a whisper. "No, Cecil's right."
Sandy looked back at Mark, her expression softening slightly. She leaned forward, her hands clasped together. "Mark...."
"And everyone has a right to be angry at me," Mark continued, cutting her off. "After everything I've done."
Sandy knelt down in front of him, her hand reaching out to grab his. Her touch was warm, grounding, the kind of physical contact that reminded him he was still human despite everything. "Mark, you've changed a lot in the past five years. You're not the same angry boy I first met."
Mark shook his head, and when he looked up, his eyes were red-rimmed, glistening with unshed tears. "No, Sandy. I'm still that boy. I just haven't exploded yet."
The words hung in the air like a confession.
"Caius was right," Mark said, his voice cracking slightly. "I'm a murderer."
Sandy's grip on his hand tightened, but she didn't interrupt.
"I killed the heroes for no good reason," Mark continued, the words pouring out now like a dam had broken. "Not in self-defense. Not in protection of others. But because I believed I was so right in my superiority as a Viltrumite. Nothing I do for the next hundred years will clear the blood from my hands. And even then, it won't be enough."
Sandy cupped Mark's face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes were intense, compassionate, but also unflinching. "Mark, you 'have' changed. And some arbitrary time you give yourself won't change how what you did made you feel. You feel empathy, and you know what you did was wrong, and you choice carry that weight. That shows you have changed."
Mark's eyes started to go red as tears formed, threatening to spill over.
Sandy continued, her voice firm but gentle. "Mark, there is a difference between redemption and forgiveness. One is for your soul, and the other is for the people you hurt. And waiting for them to die won't take the weight away from your sins, it will just become easier to carry some days. The real question is: what are you seeking? Forgiveness or redemption?"
Mark's voice broke as he answered. "Both."
Sandy's expression became stern, almost challenging. "So what are you gonna do then? Sit there and feel sorry for yourself?"
Mark shook his head feeling a calm clarity wash over him, as he was wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "No. I'm gonna face this head-on. I know a sorry can't fix anything, but I can do my best to make amends." He smiled slightly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "And I'm tough enough if some of those former sidekicks want to get a little physical."
Sandy stood up, looking down at Mark with her arms crossed. "What do you need me to do?"
Mark swallowed hard, his throat tight. He squeezed his fists, feeling his nails dig into his palms. "Do you still have numbers for the victims' families?"
Sandy was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "We do. If you want, we have the family of one of your victims working in the lab unit, four levels up."
Mark's eyes widened. "Wait, what?"
He looked to Cecil, who had been watching the entire exchange with his usual inscrutable expression. "They're part of our R&D department," Cecil said. "You were technically supposed to meet them sooner, but Sandy didn't believed you were ready."
Mark paused, taking that in. His mind raced through the possibilities, which victim, which family, what they must think of him. "Who are they?"
Sandy shook her head. "No, that doesn't matter right now. You're gonna meet them after you clean up."
Mark nodded, not surprised by Sandy's boldness. She'd always been direct with him, never coddling him but was still warm, and never letting him hide from the truth. "Yeah. The normal room, right?"
Sandy nodded. "Be there in ten minutes."
Mark stood up, his legs feeling unsteady beneath him, and left the room without another word. The door hissed closed behind him, leaving Cecil, Sandy, and Donald in silence.
Cecil sighed and looked at Sandy, who had already pulled out her cellphone and was making a call. She held the phone to her ear, waiting for someone to pick up.
"Hey, this is Sandy," she said when the line connected. "You and the others need to meet in the meeting room on level four. And be mentally prepared. It's happening."
There was a pause as she listened to the response.
"Thank you," she said, then ended the call.
Cecil looked at her, his expression thoughtful. "Thank you for your help, Sandy." Then he looked at Donald and said, "Do I still have to call you that now that it's just us?"
Sandy stretched, rolling her shoulders. "You gave me that name, sugar." She paused, then added, "Or can I drop the accent and the disguise?"
Cecil nodded.
Sandy stood there with her hand on her hip, and then suddenly. Her curly brown hair straightened and became blonde, falling in sleek waves past her shoulders. Her bright blue eyes turned pink and focused on Cecil with a calmness that hadn't been there before, and when she spoke, it was without a trace of Southern accent.
"Any news on fixing my ring?"
Donald spoke up, his voice measured. " Darkwing and our engineer's said there has been significant progress, but the travel aspect can't get you to your time period."
Cecil crossed his arms. "You could just go see Superman. You said you knew him when he was younger, right? Or see any of the smart heroes. Batman. Mr. Terrific they might be able to help you. Hell I think the flash cane time travel from our reports."
She shook her head. "No. I was here to help out a friend of mine and nothing else. I hadn't planned on getting stranded, but I'm still helping out a friend. I'm just wondering why my friends why my friends haven't found me yet."
Cecil looked at her, his curiosity evident despite his usual stoicism. "Your friend is who? You never say who asked you to help out Mark. And who are these other friends of yours?"
The woman smiled, and there was something knowing in that expression, something that suggested she knew far more than she was letting on. "Spoilers."
Cecil just shook his head, somewhat annoyed. "Whatever you say, Irma."
Ten Minutes Later
Mark walked through the corridors of the GDA facility, his footsteps echoing off the reinforced walls. He'd cleaned up quickly, showered, changed into a fresh uniform, tried to make himself look presentable. But he still felt the weight of what he was about to do pressing down on him like a physical force.
As he approached the meeting room on level four, he paused outside the door. His hand hovered over the access panel, trembling slightly.
He made a quick call through his suit's comms, pulling up his mother's contact information. The phone rang three times, then went to voicemail.
Mark's throat tightened, but he forced himself to speak.
"Hey, Sorry I'm getting back to you so late, but I would like to sit down and talk, and make things right if I can with you. Please call me back, Mom."
He hung up, took a deep breath that did nothing to calm his racing heart, and opened the door. Inside, at a large table, and sat four individuals.
The first thing Mark noticed was the large, hulking, metallic bronze humanoid cyborg sitting at the far end. Steel plates covered his body, glowing red eye slits stared out from a face that looked like it had been constructed from vintage automaton parts, and visible joints creaked slightly as he shifted. He wore ripped jeans and a leather jacket that looked absurdly normal on his mechanical frame.
Next to him was a man, or what looked like a man, wrapped head to toe in multiple layers of medical bandages. He wore a trench coat and sunglasses that hid whatever was underneath those wrappings, and he sat perfectly still, like someone with a military background.
On the other side of the table sat two women.
The first one was stunning, she looked like she was in her mid to late twenties. She was slender with fair, flawless skin, chestnut hair that fell just past her shoulders, and hazel eyes that burned with controlled intensity. She wore a white lab coat, but Mark could see signs of a red dress underneath. She looked at him with a cold, stoic face, but Mark could feel the burning rage she was controlling beneath that professional exterior.
Next to her was a younger-looking woman with long black hair that stopped just past her neck. She had green eyes that held a blank, almost dissociative look, and she wore a blouse that showed her arms, and the tattoos that covered them. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something dangerous in the way she sat, like she was a coiled spring waiting to be released. Or explode.
And at the head of the table was an older-looking man. He seemed tall even sitting down, at least six feet, with a lean, athletic build. He had blue eyes, black hair, and a strong square jaw. But his most distinguishing feature was the cybernetic helmet on his head, a complex piece of technology that pulsed with faint light.
It took Mark a moment after walking into the room to realize he didn't know who he was in front of. His mind raced through his memories, trying to sort through who they could be related too.
"Hello, everyone," he managed to say, his voice barely steady.
But the stunning woman cut him off immediately.
"Stop!"
Her voice was sharp, commanding, and Mark's mouth snapped shut.
"You look like you don't even know who we are, do you?" she said, her hazel eyes boring into him.
Mark paused for a moment, then admitted, "I'm sorry. I don't know who you are or the name of your loved one I hurt."
"You mean 'killed'," the robot-looking one said, his voice distorted by his mechanical vocal systems but still carrying clear anger. "You didn't hurt him. You killed him in a brutal inhumane way. And you mocked him as you did it."
Mark exhaled slowly. "Yes, you're right. I'm sorry."
"Stop saying you're sorry," the bandage-wrapped man said, his voice muffled but intense. "Being sorry doesn't change what you did."
The stunning woman raised her hand, and everyone fell silent. "Let us calm ourselves, everyone. I know you all want to have a say, but we should be proper and introduce ourselves and our loved one so he at least is less confused."
That made everyone quiet down, though the tension in the room remained thick enough to cut with a knife.
The woman continued, "I will start. My name is Rita Farr, but my codename is Elasti-Woman."
The girl next to her spoke up, her voice flat. "Name's Kay Challis, but they call me Crazy Jane." Then her eyes suddenly glowed red, and she screamed, "You piece of shit!" before her eyes returned to their normal green color, as if nothing had happened.
The bandage-wrapped man spoke next. "Name's Larry Trainor, but I also go by Negative Man."
Then the robot man spoke in an angry, mechanical voice. "Name's Cliff Steele, but you can only call me Robotman."
The man at the head of the table said in a short, cold tone, "Mento."
Rita then looked at Mark with those burning hazel eyes. "If those names aren't familiar to you, then maybe you know us by the name Doom Patrol."
Hearing that made Mark's eyes widen. His breath caught in his throat, and suddenly he was back there, back in that moment five years ago when everything had gone wrong.
Rita's expression didn't change. "From that look, it means you know who we are and who you remembered who you killed then. Good I want that sweet boy's face burned into your mind every time you see us."
She leaned forward slightly, her hands folded on the table. "We are Garfield Logan's family. Or as you knew him, Beast Boy. So tell us, Guardian,what did you want to say?"
Mark was quiet. He'd lost his voice, his throat closing up as the memories came flooding back. He remembered the Titans Tower incident with crystal clarity now, how he'd been so cruel and cocky, so convinced of his own righteousness, so certain that they were the enemy.
He remembered Garfield transforming into a T-Rex, trying to stop him, trying to protect his friends. He remembered flying at full speed, his fist extended, his Viltrumite strength in full display.
He remembered the sickening crunch and splatter as he flew through Garfield's transformed head. The way the skull shattered, and the brain matter that had splattered everywhere. The way Garfield's body had shifted back to his human form as he fell, his green skin pale, his eyes empty, his head a ruined mess of blood and bone.
Mark closed his eyes and breathed, trying to center himself, trying to find the words.
When he opened them again, he looked at each member of the Doom Patrol in turn, at Cliff's glowing red eyes, at Larry's bandaged face, at Jane's blank expression that hid dozens of personalities, at Rita's controlled fury, at Mento's cold judgment.
"I have come to own up for my sins," Mark said quietly, his voice steady despite the tears threatening to fall. "And pay for hurting your family."
The silence that followed was deafening.