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I Told You, I'm Invinci-(Invincible SI) Chapter 4
🕑 Added 2025-04-01 03:29:05 +0000 UTC“Yeah, of course.”
That surprised him.
He had anticipated resistance. Hostility. Perhaps blackmail, depending on how much Mark Greyson truly knew. Instead, he complied without hesitation, his tone casual and sincere. This reaction was not consistent with the statistical majority of subjects confronted by unknown variables—particularly those involving personal secrets.
Interesting.
“Uh, do you want to sit or something?” he offered.
He nodded. A deliberate gesture. Though unnecessary for a being like himself, mimicking human behavioral patterns increases perceived comfort and reduces tension in social environments. He took the seat on the edge of the couch and crossed his arms, not for utility, but to conform to expected postures. People relaxed when they saw others adopt familiar body language. Illogical, but effective.
Mark hesitated. Then spoke.
“So, I’m going to say something that sounds really weird, but please let me finish before you contradict me.”
He inhaled sharply. Preparing himself. Bracing for disbelief.
“I have memories of another Mark,” he began. “A Mark that had the same powers as my dad—Omni-Man, in case you didn’t know by now. These memories gave me a view of an alternate timeline. One where things went… really bad. For a lot of people. Through these memories, I learned about you. Rudy. We… we weren’t really friends or anything. Not close. We weren’t coworkers either. Just acquaintances. We fought the same fights sometimes. But you were the smartest person I’d ever met.”
He paused. His gaze was steady, but his body language betrayed anxiety. Elevated heartbeat. Sweaty palms. Micro-facial tension.
“I’m sorry for putting your name out there on the web. But I figured either you or Cecil would detect that somehow and come speak to me. I didn’t know how else to reach you. I was desperate.”
Emotionally charged. Likely truthful.
His first instinct was to dismiss the entire narrative. Time travel was, theoretically, possible but functionally infeasible. The energy requirements are astronomical, the causal paradoxes untenable, and the thermodynamic consequences—catastrophic. But…
But he knew his name.
That alone shifted the probability matrix.
He had taken considerable measures to obscure his true identity. There were fewer than five living individuals who knew that "Robot" was a projection of the consciousness of Rudolph Conners. His mother was dead. His father was never informed of his deformed birth. Cecil’s records were edited the moment he accessed them. Every digital mention of that name was flagged by autonomous trawlers he had designed himself. Each one was cross-referenced and eliminated before it could gain traction.
Yet Mark Greyson knew. Not “Robot.”
Rudy.
That narrowed the list of explanations. Either he was telling the truth… or he was something even stranger.
He adjusted his posture slightly—subtly—and spoke.
“What about this alternate timeline,” he asked, “was so catastrophic that such knowledge—or a breach in temporal continuity—would be considered necessary?”
It took twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes of compressed storytelling. Condensed trauma. Condensed horror. He noted the details he chose to share, and—perhaps more telling—the ones he clearly withheld.
Still, the framework was there:
A coming wave of invasions—extraterrestrial and interdimensional.
Omni-Man’s betrayal and the massive civilian death toll that followed.
Multiple extinction-level events.
Angstrom Levy. Conquest. Viltrumites.
The eventual collapse of major population centers.
Even if only 60% of what he said was exaggerated, the projected loss of life… unacceptable.
He remained silent as Mark concluded his explanation.
Fear was not something he experienced. But if he were to liken his current state to a human emotional analog, the closest approximation would be… tension. A subtle constriction in his heuristic pathways. A sensation akin to pressure building at the edges of his logic structures. His decision-tree algorithms had expanded rapidly, splitting into dozens of potential branches in mere seconds. Too many unknowns. Too many variables.
If Mark was telling the truth, they had an incalculable amount of work ahead.
If he was delusional… then it was a disturbingly coherent delusion.
"...You said I was the smartest person you knew," he said at last, his voice devoid of inflection. "And yet, by your own account, I failed to provide any meaningful contribution in your original timeline. I was not present in the major battles. I was not cited as an analyst, strategist, or engineer of last resort. It appears I neither prepared you for the threats ahead nor developed technology that could stand against them. In contrast, the GDA remained relevant. I was... absent. Obsolete. Ineffectual."
He paused.
"So I must ask—why come to me at all? Was it simply to reconnect with Director Stedman?"
Mark rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, the gesture conveying discomfort or embarrassment—perhaps both.
"Well… yeah, partly. I figured you or Cecil would notice if your real name was suddenly getting pinged by some high schooler on the internet. And I was right, wasn’t I?"
He inclined his head slightly. "Correct. That event triggered my alert protocol."
Mark nodded. "But there was something else I remembered. In my timeline—you worked with the Mauler Twins. You had them help you create a clone body and transferred your consciousness into it. You used Rex Splode’s DNA—"
“I did what?”
The interruption escaped him with uncharacteristic sharpness. His voice, usually measured and devoid of tone, now carried a trace of disbelief.
“Rex Splode? As a DNA donor? For what possible reason?”
It made no sense. Rex possessed an explosive kinetic field generator—a power rooted in cybernetic manipulation of energy discharge. Useful in certain tactical situations, yes. But not desirable in a host body. Certainly not as the genetic foundation for his own. He could replicate the ability through mechanical means if needed.
Choosing Rex as a donor made no logical sense.
Mark raised a hand. “It’s a long story. A weird one. And, to be honest, I thought the whole situation was messed up too. I’m pretty sure the you I remember would agree with me if he had the chance to do it over. I’ll explain more later—just shoot me your number or something so we can text. But I don’t know how much time we have before my parents get back—”
“Your father will return in approximately fifteen minutes,” Robot interrupted, his tone matter-of-fact. “Thirty, if he assists in the post-conflict cleanup effort in Australia. Your mother will remain at her office for another fifty-five minutes. She is currently finalizing paperwork related to a property sale. Once complete, she intends to ask your father to retrieve fresh pasta from a Roman bistro to celebrate.”
Mark blinked. “That’s… incredibly creepy.”
“Efficient,” Robot corrected.
Mark shook his head. “Anyway. Long story short? You had a crush on a girl who liked Rex. Rex didn’t reciprocate. So… you used his DNA to make yourself a body she might be attracted to. You started dating her, but it was rocky.”
Robot stared at him for several seconds.
"Of all the revelations you've provided thus far," he said flatly, "that is the most irrational. Statistically and ethically, the decision is indefensible. Constructing a biological vessel for the sole purpose of emotional manipulation is not only inefficient, but morally compromising. I cannot fathom a scenario where I would consider that an acceptable course of action.”
Mark gave a half-shrug. “Yeah. It was weird. But that’s the past now, right? We’re not going to follow that same path.”
Robot leaned back slightly, evaluating him. “Then what are you proposing?”
Mark’s expression grew serious.
“I have Viltrumite blood,” he said simply. “And I’m half-human. But Viltrumite genetics are extremely dominant. Physically? I’m functionally identical to a full-blooded one. If you use my DNA instead of Rex’s… then the body you create will inherit my powers.”
Robot didn’t respond immediately. He was already running calculations.
“Theoretically,” he said after a moment, “a clone derived from your DNA would possess superhuman strength, durability, speed, flight, and regenerative capabilities, if we base it off of Omni-Man’s abilities. However, it is uncertain how your biological advantages would interface with my existing neural schema. Viltrumite physiology, in particular, might compromise my behavioral protocols.”
Mark nodded. “True. But you’re not really like other people. You’re logical. Controlled. You’d have the power of a Viltrumite, with the mind of the smartest person on Earth. I trust you not to go berserk.”
Robot’s voice was flat. “That would make one of us.”
Mark gave a small, crooked smile. “Rudy, you doubt yourself too much, you know that? I know you want to change the world. Not just protect it—transform it. Make it better for everyone. You’ve got the vision, but no one seems to listen. People get in your way. The GDA gets in your way. Even your teammates.”
He paused, watching Robot carefully.
“But with my powers? You’d be faster. More efficient. You could act, not just plan stuff. You wouldn’t be stuck in that tank. And I’d be right there with you, helping. Cecil can grumble all he wants, but when every child on the planet has food in their stomach, access to clean water, and a global education grid? When war becomes obsolete and no one remembers what poverty feels like? He’ll see it’s worth it. Everyone will.”
Robot was silent for a long moment. His optical sensors dimmed slightly, then flared back to full brightness.
“I find it...curious,” he said slowly. “You stated that, in your original timeline, we were not friends. That we were not teammates. That we barely spoke.”
He turned his head slightly, regarding Mark with the precision of a targeting algorithm.
“And yet...you know I am not an AI. You know I am deformed. That I reside in a nutrient tank. That I have no functional body. That I built the drone you are speaking to. You know I collaborated with the Mauler Twins in an alternate timeline, criminals with a body count reaching the double digits. You know I possess higher ambitions beyond crisis response or heroics.”
He paused.
“You know my ultimate goal is to reorganize society on a global scale—to remove suffering, scarcity, and disorganization through systemic intervention. You know I wish to elevate civilization. That I consider the current systems—governments, militaries, borders—inefficient constructs. And you have offered me a path toward actualizing that goal.”
His voice dropped to near-whisper.
“And yet, you say we were not even friends.”
Mark shrugged, the motion casual but sincere. “That was a mistake. One the other me made. I won’t make it again.”
He smiled, softer now.
“Robot... I don’t just want you as a teammate or a friend. I want you as a brother. When the world starts falling apart—and it will—I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have watching my back.”
There was silence.
Then, with the same neutral tone as before, Robot said, “There are seven surveillance devices embedded in your home. Five audio. Two visual. I will disable them before I leave.”
Mark blinked. “Wait, what?”
“Security oversight on the GDA’s part,” he continued. “Unacceptable.”
Then, after a slight pause, he inclined his head. “Thank you for this information, Mark Grayson. I will contact you again this evening. We have much to plan.”
He turned to leave, pausing just before the exit.
Brother.
The word lingered in his mind.
He did not have friends. He did not require them. Teen Team had been a professional arrangement—a testbed for observation, not connection. He had assumed that if any of them ever discovered the truth of his condition—his deformity, his fluid chamber, his engineered body—they would recoil. Withdraw. Perhaps even file for removal.
But Mark had known. He had known everything. And instead of judgment, he had offered trust.
Offered power.
Offered family.
A real body. A vessel capable of flight. Of strength. Of taste. Of pain. Of touch.
Of connection.
Perhaps, just this once… he would allow himself to feel something more than efficiency.
Perhaps this path—this anomalous divergence from probability—was worth exploring.
_________________________________________________________
“So… how’s it going with your dad?” William asked, cautiously.
Mark looked better than he had earlier in the week—way better. The dark circles under his eyes had faded, his skin looked less pale, and his hair was actually brushed for once. He still wore that same awful hoodie and jeans combo that looked like it had been attacked by a lawnmower, but hey—progress came in small steps.
“Yeah,” Mark said with a surprising amount of brightness in his voice. “Things are a bit better now. I got in contact with some people, and they’re working on a plan to deal with him.”
William blinked. “Oh thank God,” he exhaled. “Seriously, man—I’ve been worried. You kinda ghosted me on Tuesday and Wednesday, and I wasn’t sure if you were in full-on denial mode or, like… just running away to Canada.”
“Nah, I was busy,” Mark said. “Turns out the government’s already been watching him for a while. The info I gave them helped, so now they’re building a case. Slow and steady.”
William leaned back, eyes wide. “Dude… that’s insane. Like, this whole thing? It sounds like the plot of a Netflix thriller. I mean, I’m glad you’re okay, but... damn.”
Mark gave a tired, crooked smile. “You think I like finding out my dad’s a eugenicist? That I wake up every morning feeling blessed that my father thinks most of humanity is beneath him?”
“No, no, of course not,” William said, holding up his hands. “I’m just saying—it’s a lot. I’m sorry, man. Really.” He hesitated. “But, like… you still live with him? Is he just there, making pancakes while plotting world domination?”
“Yep. Still home.” Mark nodded. “Government’s keeping tabs. Everyone’s trying to play it cool until they can move in safely. It’s tense, but... manageable. For now.”
William let out a low whistle. “Jeez. So, just for the record—you’d rather have a boring, awkward, mustache-wielding suburban dad who yells at the TV and grills steaks on Sundays?”
“In a heartbeat.”
William grinned, eyes twinkling. “Okay, but we can both agree the mustache is the key to the whole persona, right? Like—take it away, and your dad’s just some guy. But with it? Full-on mysterious warlord energy.”
Mark finally laughed—really laughed, a sound that had been absent for days. It burst out of him unguarded, light and sharp, the kind of laugh that eased the pressure in his chest. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and shook his head, still smiling. “Yeah,” he said, voice softer now. “I think he said he was inspired by Omni-Man or something.”
William snorted. “Pfft. Now that would be a twist. Can you imagine? ‘Gee, I just thought the alien superhero had a great sense of style, while being a whole villain.’ ”
Yeah, it was a bit of a dark joke, and super insensitive, but Mark didn’t seem to mind. He chuckled again, the smile lingering. It felt…good. Like a crack of sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
Then he added, more casually, “I also made a new friend. His name’s Rudy.”
William raised an eyebrow. “Wait—seriously? You? A new friend?”
He didn’t mean to sound doubtful, but it slipped out before he could stop it. Mark had always been a bit of a closed-off introvert. Smart, funny, loyal to a fault—but socially? He wasn't exactly Mister Outgoing. Their own friendship had only started because William had decided he liked the kid with the thousand-yard stare and the beat-up sneakers, and just kept showing up until Mark let him in.
“Yeah, well… we kind of met online first,” Mark admitted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.
“Ahhh,” William nodded, adopting a sage-like tone. “Now that makes sense. I knew you didn’t have the balls to just walk up to someone in public and say hi.”
Mark snorted. “Oh, fuck you,” he said, laughing as he gave William a light shove on the shoulder.
William stumbled slightly for dramatic effect. “Hey, watch it! Hands to yourself, dipshit. Didn’t your kindergarten teacher teach you about boundaries?”
Mark rolled his eyes but kept grinning. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet, you keep hanging out with me. Who’s the real loser here?”
Mark didn’t answer right away. He just shook his head, still smiling faintly, still holding onto the warmth that laughter had stirred in his chest. For the first time in days, things didn’t feel quite so heavy. The weight on his friend’s shoulders was still there, sure—but for now, it was just a little easier to carry.
_______________________________________________________________
Punch. Kick. Haymaker. Uppercut. Right cross. Block. Retaliate. Dodge. Left hook.
The rhythm of combat flowed like a second language—one that Immortal had spoken for centuries. And right now, he was fluent. Invincible was holding nothing back, every movement brimming with raw, explosive energy.
They were deep into the sparring match, and right now, Immortal wasn’t just testing the boy—he was fighting to keep up.
To think, only a few days ago, this kid could barely throw a proper punch and couldn’t even defend himself. Now? He was pressing both him and War Woman at once, trading blow for blow with warriors who had fought aliens and monsters.
His speed was just above theirs, his strength was starting to dwarf them, and his durability… well, it was downright absurd.
So much so that Cecil had quietly added reinforcements to the training team—because two of the most battle-hardened veterans on Earth were no longer enough.
A punishing blow was coming—he could feel it in the shift of Invincible’s hips, the coil of his shoulders. Immortal readied himself to deflect or absorb it, but before the hit landed, a gust of displaced air told him someone had stepped in.
In an instant, he was on the other side of the Octagon, landing on his feet behind Invincible, while Red Rush materialized where he’d been a heartbeat ago, smiling like he’d just pulled off a clever prank.
“You alright there, Immortal?” Red Rush said with a wink. “You're looking a little slow.”
Immortal chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Thank you, Red Rush. Though you might want to tag in for War Woman—she’s getting pushed back.”
Across the arena, Invincible and War Woman were locked in an intense exchange. Her mace swung in deadly arcs, but Invincible blocked each strike with his forearms, retaliating with punches that made her feet skid back across the floor with every impact.
Red Rush blurred into motion, zipping between them. With a well-placed shove, he knocked War Woman out of the way, sending her flying backward across the Octagon like a ragdoll.
“Easy there, kid—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Invincible reached out, grabbed Red Rush’s arm—and bit him.
Hard.
A roar of pain tore out of Red Rush as he shot back to Immortal’s side, his face twisted in disbelief. When he came back into full view, he was clutching his wrist, and even with his speed-healing, a strip of flesh was visibly missing, with a few drops of blood flowing.
“He bit me!” Red Rush shouted, aghast. “He actually bit me! What the hell?!”
Immortal sighed, rubbing his temples. “Alright, time out. Invincible, we talked about this. No more biting.”
Red Rush stared at him like he’d grown an extra head. “Wait—he’s done this before?!”
Immortal shrugged, a motion that made the heavy muscles in his shoulders flex. “Yes. He’s done it to both me and War Woman now. No idea why. He’s taken to it lately.”
Red Rush stared down at the faint teeth marks on his wrist, brows furrowed in confusion. “Is this… is this part of the training?”
“Apparently,” Immortal replied dryly. “He’s improvising.”
Across the sparring mat, Invincible stood with his shoulders slightly hunched, as if expecting another lecture—but the faintest smirk tugged at his lips. A trickle of blood stained his lower lip, and the glint in his eye was a little too satisfied. Combined with the smear of red on his teeth, it made him look just shy of unhinged.
“You told me to think outside the box,” he said, not bothering to hide the smugness.
Immortal leveled him with a deadpan stare. “We meant footwork. Not cannibalism.”
“I wasn’t biting on purpose,” Invincible said quickly, then added with a shrug, “Okay, maybe just a little.”
“Next time,” War Woman said, stepping forward and tossing him a towel, “try leading with a disarming blow, not your teeth.”
Before anyone else could respond, Cecil’s voice crackled over the room’s hidden speakers, cool and professional as ever. “As charming as this little bonding session has been, I need the three of you topside.”
Everyone’s head turned.
“The Mauler Twins are attacking the White House. The rest of the Guardian’s already in motion.”
Invincible’s eyes widened behind the mask. “Wait—does that mean—?”
“Yes, Invincible,” Cecil said, the faintest edge of a smile in his voice. “The timeline starts today. Hope you’re ready.”
Comments
Reginald Sackey
Honestly, pretty sporadic. Like I said in one of my newer posts, I can promise at least one chapter a week, but I'll probably do more than that. I've just started on chapter five for Invincible, I'm a quarter of the way done for the next chapter of Turncoat, I haven't started on Gloryhound's next chapter yet, and the next chapter of the Avatar fic is half-done. So, sporadic, but hopefully by the end of this week I'll have something to give you guys.
Jon
What's the update schedule for this going to be?
Cameron Nelson
I like that this SI is seeking help, so many SI’s only tend to think about what they could do in their own to face incoming threats. It’s good that he’s willing to reach out. Plus like that he mentioned his info came from an alternate timeline rather than saying this world was a comic book.
