The Parkers treated prom like a sacred ritual.
Helen practically floated around the living room, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from Morgan's tux lapels, fussing with his tie, lamenting that his hair "just wouldn't lay down" before deciding it was "very handsome actually." Arthur hovered with the old camera he insisted on using instead of his phone, muttering about aperture and "real pictures."
"Stand by the fireplace," Helen said. "No, a little to the left. Arthur, get his good side."
"I only have good sides," Morgan said, deadpan.
Helen swatted his arm lightly. "Don't smirk in all of them."
Click. Click. Click.
He endured it, though, hands folded, posture straight. It wasn't his first prom—technically. But it was the first where the people behind the camera looked like they actually cared how the pictures turned out.
"Twice," he thought, as Arthur made him pose at the front door, on the porch, by the mailbox. "Two lives, two proms. Not bad for a glitch in the system."
The limo pulled up—an older model that had seen a dozen graduating classes but had been washed to a respectable shine. The driver stepped out, opened the door with practiced flourish.
"You look sharp, kid," he said.
"Blame them," Morgan replied, jerking his thumb back toward the house. "They paid for everything."
"That's what we're for," Arthur said, shuffling down the walkway, camera at the ready. "Tux, corsage, transportation—the works. It's a proper prom night or nothing."
They'd insisted. Morgan had tried to argue, tried to say he could go simple, that he didn't need all the trimmings.
Arthur had cut him off. "Let us do this," he'd said. "For you. For her."
Now Arthur was taking pictures of the limo itself, of Morgan stepping in, of the car pulling away. Helen waved until they turned the corner.
In the back seat, Morgan let himself exhale.
He checked his phone. A text from Amber from earlier:
Amber: i'm definitely overdressed
Morgan: impossible. see you in a few.
He smiled.
At Amber's house, the picture gauntlet reset.
Her mom met him at the door, eyes bright, making a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob when she saw him standing there with the corsage box in hand.
"Come in, come in," she said. "She's almost ready."
"Almost ready" translated to "another ten minutes," which Morgan spent standing in the living room under the framed family photos, making awkward small talk and trying not to think about the fact that in another timeline, another life, he'd seen this house on a TV screen instead of from the inside.
Then Amber appeared at the top of the stairs.
For a second, the world narrowed.
Her dress was a deep, rich color that made her skin glow, simple lines that fit her like it had been made for her instead of pulled off a rack. Her hair was swept up, a few curls left loose on purpose, earrings catching the light when she moved.
She was beautiful in that sharp, real way that had nothing to do with airbrushed covers and everything to do with the way she smiled when she saw him.
"You clean up okay," she teased, voice a little shaky.
"You don't," he said. "You look like a problem I'm not qualified to solve."
She laughed, near tears already. "Shut up and put the corsage on me before my mom passes out."
Round two of pictures began. Her mom with her phone, her stepdad with a DSLR he clearly didn't fully understand. Poses on the stairs, in the doorway, on the small patch of lawn out front.
Morgan took it in stride.
He didn't even mind when Amber's mom insisted on "one more, just in case."
Amber's eyes were suspiciously shiny by the time they slid into the limo.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
"This is perfect," she whispered, leaning close as the car pulled away. "Just…let me have this."
"I'm glad you're happy," he said.
"Me too," she replied.
Round three waited at Lincoln's gym entrance.
The school had gone all in: archway of balloons, a banner with PROM in big letters, a rented photographer snapping shots of couples as they arrived. Friends called Amber's name, whistled, teased. Eyes flicked to Morgan—some with curiosity, some with recognition (that's the guy from the hallway, didn't he throw Tyler into a locker?), some with envy.
They posed under the arch, the photographer counting down. Amber's hand tightened on his arm just before the flash.
Inside, the gym had been transformed as much as a gym could be—lights dimmed, disco ball spinning, streamers and glitter, a DJ trying his best to keep the playlist from derailing into pure chaos.
They danced.
At first, it was the awkward sway everyone defaulted to, a shuffle with foreheads almost bumping and feet occasionally misstepping. Then, as the songs blended and they found a rhythm, it became something else. Not graceful, exactly, but comfortable.
Halfway through a slow song, Amber leaned in, lips brushing his ear.
"This is perfect," she whispered. "Thank you."
"I'm glad you're happy," he said again, and meant it.
He felt the energy in the room—laughter, nerves, hormones, cheap perfume, the thud of bass. For once, it felt almost normal.
He should've known it wouldn't last.
The ceiling exploded.
One second, the disco ball was casting specks of light across the floor. The next, it shattered in a spray of glass as something tore through the roof, sending chunks of plaster and metal raining down.
Students screamed. The DJ ducked. Lights flickered.
Invincible hit the floor hard enough to crack the polished wood, knees bent, one fist braced on the ground, cape trailing.
He landed behind Morgan.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then chaos.
"Invincible?!"
"Oh my—"
"Is this a bit? Is this, like, part of the prom?"
Morgan didn't waste a second.
He turned, instinct snapping into place—not to attack, but to shield. He pivoted his body between Amber and the new entrance in the ceiling, one arm automatically coming up to pull her behind him.
"Dude, are you crazy?!" Invincible shouted, eyes wild, chest heaving. "Take your hands off her!"
Morgan blinked. "What?"
He barely had time to register the hurt in Mark's eyes before the hero moved.
The punch was wild—telegraphed, fueled more by emotion than technique—but it was still coming from someone who could bench‑press a tank.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Morgan's body made the choice for him.
His hand snapped up.
He caught the fist.
The impact shuddered up his arm, but he held firm, fingers closing around Invincible's knuckles like a vice.
The gym went dead quiet.
To the students, it looked like a death sentence—like Invincible was about to pulp some random classmate in a tux.
Instead, the impossible happened.
Morgan didn't go flying.
Invincible's arm stopped mid‑swing, bones and tendons straining. The floor under Morgan's feet cracked a little, but he stayed rooted.
"What the—" Mark breathed.
Morgan's eyes were calm.
"Prom's not a great place for a fight," he said evenly. "Bad lighting. Terrible music. Too many witnesses."
Invincible snarled, yanking his hand back, then lunged again.
Punches, kicks—another flurry, this time less wild but still fueled by anger and something painfully like betrayal.
Morgan moved.
He didn't hit back.
He ducked, sidestepped, parried. A forearm deflected a blow that would've caved his chest in. A pivot turned a kick into a glancing hit that shattered the edge of the stage instead of his ribs. His hand slapped away a grab, redirecting it so Mark's shoulder clipped a support beam instead.
To everyone watching, it looked like choreography gone wrong: their golden boy hero throwing everything he had at a classmate who kept not dying.
"Stop," Amber shouted over the screams. "Mark, stop!"
"See?!" Invincible yelled, voice cracking as he swung again. "He has powers! He's going to do the same thing!"
"The same thing as who?" Morgan asked, slipping aside so the fist whooshed past his ear instead of his jaw.
"You know who!" Mark snapped. "Shows up out of nowhere, gets close, pretends to care—then uses people. Hurts them. That's what they do."
His eyes flashed to Amber and back, the accusation not entirely about Morgan.
The skylight—that fresh, jagged hole in the gym roof—brightened with a familiar pink glow.
Atom Eve floated down through it, her constructs catching stray debris and gently nudging it away from the students below.
She landed on the remains of the stage, taking in the scene in a heartbeat: Invincible, breathing hard, tuxed kids huddled by the walls, a dent in the floor where a punch had missed, and Morgan standing there with his fists open and his shoulders set.
"I knew it," she said, eyes locking on Morgan. "I knew you weren't normal."
"Congratulations," Morgan said. "You get a prize later."
"Mark," Amber shouted again, stepping out from behind Morgan now, putting herself dangerously close to the line between them. "What are you doing?"
"I'm protecting you," Mark said, not taking his eyes off Morgan. "From him."
Morgan laughed once, short and sharp.
"I'm not the hero," he said.
The words cut through the gym like a blade.
"You are," he added, looking at Mark. "You're the one with the suit and the brand and the earpiece. You're the one who jumps when the man on the other end says 'jump.'"
He lifted his chin slightly, voice steady.
"You're Cecil's lapdog. He calls, and you go running. That will never be me."
There was a murmur from the students—Cecil? Who's Cecil?—nearly drowned out by the pounding in Mark's ears.
"How do you—" Mark started.
The gym doors at the far end burst open.
Agents swept in, weapons drawn—not pointed at anyone yet, but held with that coiled readiness that said they could be in a heartbeat. Boots thudded on polished wood. The room smelled suddenly of gun oil and authority.
Cecil Stedman walked in behind them, hands in his coat pockets, expression hard to read.
He looked almost out of place amid balloons and glitter, like someone had pasted a government file photo into a yearbook.
"Never say never, young man," he said mildly, eyes on Morgan.
The students fell silent, instinctively recognizing the gravity in his voice even if they didn't know who he was.
Amber's hand found Morgan's back, fingers curling in the fabric of his jacket.
Morgan smiled.
It wasn't friendly.
"So you were pulling his strings this entire time?" he asked, tone conversational. "That headset must get heavy. What will Omni‑Man say about you manipulating his son?"
That landed.
Mark flinched.
Eve's posture shifted, tension sharpening.
Cecil's eyes, cool and flat, flicked to Mark's earbud for the briefest of seconds before sliding back to Morgan.
"You've been doing your homework," Cecil said. "Interesting."
"And you've been doing your usual," Morgan replied. "Using kids as assets. Dressing it up as 'saving the world.'"
Gasps rippled through the crowd—Omni‑Man, Cecil, manipulating. It was a lot of words for a prom to absorb.
Morgan didn't look away from the man at the door.
He'd come to prom to give Amber a perfect night.
Instead, he'd ended up standing between her and the first cracks in a story that was finally starting to fracture in public.
Viltrumite versus Viltrumite would come later.
For now, it was something more dangerous: narrative versus narrative.
And Morgan had just chosen, out loud, which one he refused to play anymore.