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I Told You, I'm Invinci-(Invincible SI) Chapter 3
🕑 Added 2025-03-21 06:07:40 +0000 UTCBreaking the news to the Guardians was both harder and easier than Cecil expected.
The hardest part was dealing with Green Ghost, Martian Man, and Aquarius. They flat-out refused to believe that Nolan was capable of such atrocities, digging their heels in and vouching for his integrity. Even when Cecil told them that a precog had warned the GDA that Omni-Man would betray them, they stubbornly clung to the belief that their comrade-in-arms would never turn on them.
"You expect me to believe this?" Green Ghost snapped, sounding uncharacteristically angry. "Nolan has fought beside us for years. He's saved lives, gone toe-to-toe with the worst of the worst, and you think he’s just pretending to care? I refuse to accept that."
Martian Man was even more skeptical. "Someone as strong as Omni-Man would have no reason to play such a long game," he reasoned, arms crossed tightly over his chest. "He is direct and prideful. If Nolan had intended to conquer Earth, he would have done so long ago."
Aquarius simply shook his head. "He has fought for us, bled for us. You have no evidence beyond paranoia and the say so of an untested source."
Cecil held his tongue, unwilling to waste energy convincing those who clearly wouldn’t budge. He wasn’t here to win hearts—he was here to prepare them for war.
Luckily, Immortal, War Woman, Red Rush, and Darkwing saw the truth immediately.
War Woman spoke first, her voice steady and solemn. "Omni-Man was obviously a warrior when he first arrived on Earth. You only had to watch him fight for a few minutes to realize he was born for combat. I always thought it was strange—his people, I mean. Why send a protector to a world that never asked for one? And why send someone so obviously blooded? You don’t send a soldier to keep the peace—you send them to enforce it."
Immortal’s expression darkened. "I always knew something was wrong with him," he muttered, hands clenched into fists. "It’s in the way he looks at people—like they’re insects. Like they’re beneath him. He always treated fights like they were a game, even when they weren’t. There's a darkness in him, and I never once saw him push himself. Not really. Why hide your strength unless you didn’t want people to know your limits?"
Darkwing’s reasoning was different. "I’m not one hundred percent sure about outright villainizing Nolan without hard proof," he admitted. "But what you told me about how Nightboy would react in my absence? It tracks. He’s… unstable. He hears voices sometimes, sees things that aren’t there. He’s schizophrenic, and his access to the Shadowverse makes it worse. I do what I can to help, but if I died and he had to protect Midnight City alone? I could see him deteriorating—quickly. If Nolan is capable of that kind of deception, then it’s better to prepare for the worst than be caught unawares."
Red Rush only shrugged, his usual humor absent. "I’ve worked with people who I thought were my friends, only for them to stab me in the back years later," he said quietly. "I do trust Nolan... but if it turned out he was hiding something? I wouldn’t be terribly surprised. He always seemed to be at his best when he knew violence was imminent."
Cecil nodded. "Well, it’s good that you guys are split anyway, because out of all of you, only three actually put up a fight," he said, pointing at Red Rush, Immortal, and War Woman. "You three were the only ones who managed to hurt him. Everyone else? They went down so fast that Nolan actually used the shock of their deaths to throw the rest of you off your game."
Darkwing frowned. "Even me?" he asked, incredulous. "I’ve trained in several martial arts, my exoskeleton can lift hundreds of pounds, and I—"
"You got killed in two hits," Cecil interrupted grimly. "With your brain splattered all over the floor."
Darkwing swallowed loudly, his jaw tightening.
Cecil continued, voice flat and unwavering. "Red Rush died first, but only because he got cocky. Our source says he was the reason the rest of you lasted as long as you did. He saved you multiple times—dodging for you, pushing you out of the way, keeping Nolan off-balance. He got caught because he stopped running and thought he could punch Nolan out." Cecil exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "And when you try to punch a guy who can bodyslam the Maulers with one arm tied behind his back, well… you don’t get a second chance."
Mark hadn't wanted to go into detail about the Guardians' deaths, but Cecil had forced him to spill everything. Every bloody detail, every brutal second. If they had any hope of stopping Nolan when the time came, they had to know exactly how he had dismantled the world's strongest superhero team.
Cecil had a plan: tell the Guardians what happened, brief them on countermeasures, and most importantly, ask Aquarius for access to the Depth Dweller and its shriek.
But it looked like Immortal wasn’t in the mood to sit and strategize.
"When are we taking him down?" Immortal demanded, fists clenched at his sides. His voice was taut with barely restrained rage. "We can't let a monster like that keep roaming free, putting innocent people at risk."
"That's exactly what you're gonna fucking do," Cecil shot back, his voice like a whipcrack. "Unless you want him to rip a hole through your sternum before chopping your head off with his bare fucking hand." He let the words sink in, staring Immortal down. "We already know what triggers Nolan to lose it, and we’ve got it under control."
War Woman folded her arms, clearly unconvinced. "You did say we gave him the most trouble. If we banded together and hit him now, we could capture him, interrogate him about his planet’s strength and numbers."
"Or he murders all of you," Cecil snapped, his tone completely devoid of patience. "With a lot more effort this time, sure, but you still die gruesome fucking deaths.
"The Nolan situation is currently under control. Do. Not. Interfere." His voice was like steel, final and immovable. "You barely talk to him outside of battle as it is. Keep it that way. There is no reason for any of you to interact with him beyond standard team business.
"That means no cryptic warnings, no heated glances, no dirty shoves—and Immortal," Cecil pinned him with a sharp glare, "I'm talking about you. If he even gets a whiff that we know the truth about him, we are fucked."
The room fell into heavy silence.
Immortal’s jaw was clenched so tightly Cecil could hear the faint grind of his teeth. His knuckles had gone white, fingers twitching like he was seconds away from punching something—or someone. War Woman exhaled slowly, measured, controlled. She didn’t like it, but she nodded. Red Rush stayed neutral, watching everything with that unreadable intensity of his. Darkwing’s expression was impossible to read behind his mask, but the fact that he wasn’t arguing was enough.
Good. Cecil didn’t need them to like this. He just needed them to listen.
“I cannot just sit here and do nothing whilst a monster roams free,” Immortal finally snarled, his voice a low growl of frustration. “What use is my strength if not for the pursuit of justice?”
Cecil smirked. He’d expected that. “If you just wanna stretch and get some tension out, I’ve got a way for you to do that safely,” he said, eyes flicking toward both Immortal and War Woman. “We’ve got an asset our source says will be a real contender against all the shit that’s about to hit the fan. Strong. Fast. Can fly. Basically indestructible. You two were determined to be the best mentors for him.”
It was a calculated move. Give them something to focus their frustration on, to channel their energy in a way that actually helped rather than blowing everything up before they were ready.
And no, he wasn’t about to tell them that Mark Grayson was their inside source. He didn’t need Immortal flying off the handle and busting into the Grayson house to interrogate a seventeen-year-old.
“Cecil,” Green Ghost spoke up, tone pleading. “Is this really necessary? Please, let’s talk to Nolan. Let him defend himself—”
“No.” Cecil cut her off immediately. His tone was sharp, final. “Look, I get it. You’ve got a soft spot for the guy—half the fucking world does. But we cannot compromise the safety of the planet because of personal feelings. You want to give him the benefit of the doubt? Fine. Technically, right now, he’s still on our side. The trigger for him going rogue hasn’t happened yet. We’re not planning to kill him. Hell, if this all plays out the way I hope it does, we won’t even need to fight him at all. Maybe we can talk him down.”
He let that hang in the air for a beat before continuing, voice even but firm.
“But I don’t plan around hope. I plan around reality. And the reality is, Nolan Grayson—Omni-Man—is most comfortable when he’s in a fight. That’s where he feels the most in control. We cannot go into this thinking we’ll be able to just sit him down and talk things through like this is a fucking intervention. We prepare for war because if it comes to that, we cannot afford to be caught flat-footed.”
Silence stretched through the room.
Then, in a slightly quieter voice, Cecil added, “After we get everything in place—after we talk to him, if I’m wrong? If this turns out to be the biggest mistake of my career? Then I’ll personally apologize to every single one of you for sowing doubt between you and your friend. Hell, I’ll even send him on a nice little vacation. But until that happens, I need you all to trust me. Do not jump the gun on this. The world might literally suffer if we fuck this up.”
_______________________________________________________________________
Cecil’s next meeting with Mark was once again held in the White Room, though this time, only half the soldiers from their first session were present. He was tentatively beginning to trust the kid—not fully, not yet, but Mark had been very forthcoming with information. No dodging, no half-truths. Aside from that little lie about the alternate timeline nonsense, he’d been brutally honest.
And so far, the intel was proving useful.
Take Sinclair, for example. The sick bastard hadn’t even lasted twenty-four hours under observation before trying to kidnap some freshman and drag him into the fucking sewers—where, as it turned out, he had a rudimentary lab already set up. They had his ass in a cell now, sweating him out, seeing what else they could squeeze from him before putting him to work. The fact that he got caught that fast only made it clearer just how screwed up in the head the kid was.
But right now, Sinclair wasn’t the focus.
Right now, Cecil had more information to wring out of Mark.
And today’s session? Very informative.
Mark had given him the names of two potential assets—heroes who, if they played their cards right, could be incredibly useful in the fights to come.
The first was Bulletproof, real name Zandale Randolph.
The second? Powerplex, aka Scott Duvale—who, funny enough, was already working for the GDA.
That little revelation had nearly made Cecil choke on his own spit.
Apparently, both of them were kinetic energy manipulators, and together, they could work off each other to a terrifying degree. According to Mark, Scott’s powers were originally too weak to do anything meaningful—until he got his hands on some energy storage discs that R&D was, quite literally, in the process of developing right now. With those discs amplifying his abilities, the man had apparently turned a Viltrumite to fucking ash in that other timeline.
What the fuck was someone like that doing in a goddamn lab?
That wasn’t even the end of the good news. Apparently, Magmaniac and Tether Tyrant were looking to get out of the villain game and into something more… gainful. Honestly, between the two, Magmaniac seemed like the better investment. Tether Tyrant had some baggage, but whatever. If Mark’s intel was accurate, then having both of them under his employ was a hell of a lot better than having them out in the streets making trouble. They wouldn’t work well in a hero team—too much history with the major players—but maybe stationing them as guards somewhere? Yeah, that could work. Either way, they were assets now.
Mark had also flagged someone named Angstrom Levy for him. A multiversal traveler who might be insane.
Great. Just what I needed.
An hour passed before Cecil finally cut the interrogation short. As much as he wanted to keep digging into the future, there was something Mark had said the day before that had been nagging at him.
He leaned forward, studying the kid.
“What did you mean when you said your powers were different?” he asked.
Mark looked at him in surprise. “I’m surprised you remembered that.”
“Kinda my job to keep a close eye on the details, kiddo.”
Mark hesitated for a second before shrugging. “It’s nothing major. I’m stronger than when I started off, and I’m way more durable than before. I can fly faster, take hits better, that kind of stuff.”
Cecil barely let the words settle before Donald’s voice crackled in his earpiece.
"He's lying, sir."
Cecil sighed. Of course he is.
“Kid, I can’t help you properly if you hide things from me,” Cecil said, his voice turning solemn. “If you give me a clear idea of what you can do, I can get you mentors—people who can actually teach you how to handle it.”
Mark was quiet for a moment, his fingers tapping against his armrest. Then, his lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a frown.
“You know,” Mark said, his voice unnervingly casual, “I trusted you a lot back in my old timeline. After my dad attacked, you were one of the few constants in my life. I think I even looked up to you when he was gone. You didn’t want me stressed out. You wanted me to take care of myself, to be smart about fights. When I went up against a Viltrumite who had me dead to rights, you were the one who told me to say whatever she wanted to hear—to lie and say I’d conquer Earth, just so she wouldn’t keep breaking me apart.”
Mark tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes pinning Cecil in place.
“That’s why I came straight to you. Because I knew you’d use this information to help as many people as possible.”
Cecil had the vague, sinking feeling that he wasn’t going to like where this was going.
Mark leaned forward slightly.
“But I also know you’re the type of guy who’d order GDA surgeons to put a bomb in my head after I got out of a fight to protect people.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Cecil didn’t need his special lenses to tell him that every unseen soldier in the room had just tightened their grips on their rifles. They couldn't hear the conversation; their helmet's blocked out the audio, but they could still recognize aggressive body language.
Mark didn’t even blink, probably not even aware of how many high-powered rifles were aimed at his head. Or...did he?
“I know you’re the type of guy to bug my house and spy on me for months, after I’d already proven my loyalty to Earth dozens of times.”
Mark’s arms crossed over his chest, his posture unreadable.
“And I know that you’re the type of guy to take my blood without permission and experiment on it, trying to find a way to hurt me. Well, technically, that was Donald, but you approved of it.”
Cecil let out a long, slow sigh, rubbing his forehead.
“Look, kid,” he said finally, his voice weary but firm. “The only thing I can possibly say in my defense is that, yeah, I’d be paranoid as hell if something like that happened. I trust Nolan with my life, and he lied to me for years, then slaughtered his closest friends in a single night.” He exhaled sharply. “So yeah, I’d be wary of any Viltrumite. Even you.”
Mark’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Oh, I get it. I understand completely,” Mark said, voice even. “But…” His expression darkened, something steely settling behind his eyes.
“I’m not gonna put myself in that position again. A position where you have absolute power over me.”
And just like that, the conversation had shifted.
This wasn’t Mark coming to him for guidance anymore.
This wasn’t a kid reaching out for help.
This was Mark drawing a line in the sand.
And as much as it complicated things… Cecil had to respect it.
He let out a slow breath, leveling Mark with a careful look. “You do realize this means I’m limited in the kind of help I can offer you, right?”
Mark merely shrugged, completely unfazed. “That’s fine. More than fine, actually. I know enough about my powers now that I can maximize them however I want. The only reason I’m telling you about the changes is so that if you see me doing something that Viltrumites technically shouldn’t be able to do, you won’t freak out.”
Cecil scoffed, shaking his head with a smirk. “You’re a real pain in the ass, kid. You know that?”
Mark grinned. “I try.”
Cecil rolled his eyes and pushed himself up from his chair, making his way toward the exit. “Alright, let’s go.”
Mark hesitated for a second before standing, eyes narrowing slightly. “Uh… where exactly are we going?”
Cecil didn’t slow his stride. “You wanted training, didn’t you? Well, I got you the two tutors you asked for. You’re suiting up first thing. And I’d make it quick if I were you—because for immortal beings, those two sure as hell aren’t known for their patience.”
____________________________________________________________________
Betrayal always stuck in his craw.
The idea that someone could look you in the eye, share a drink with you, laugh at your jokes, break bread at your table—only to drive a knife into your back the moment it suited them? It disgusted him. There was something fundamentally rotten about that kind of treachery, a deep flaw in a person willing to betray those who had placed their trust in them.
One memory in particular had burned itself into his mind, refusing to fade with time: Julius Caesar’s murder.
It wasn’t just that Caesar had been assassinated—it was who had done it. Not foreign invaders, not enemies at the gates, but his own men. His allies. His friends. Men who had once sworn loyalty to him.
And among them was Brutus, a man Caesar had personally favored and supported, a man he had seen as almost a son. A man who had, in the end, chosen duty over friendship, fear over loyalty.
Caesar had been no saint, that much was true. He had been a warrior, a conqueror, and a dictator. But he had also been a builder. He had expanded Rome’s influence, passed reforms that helped the poor, and changed the course of history forever. Had he lived longer, he might have truly solidified his rule and reshaped Rome into something even greater.
But instead, he was stabbed to death by the very people he had once trusted.
Maybe that was why Omni-Man’s betrayal burned so badly.
He had always known Nolan had his flaws. The man was arrogant, flashy, and too used to getting his way just because he was the strongest person in the room. But despite that, he had respected him.
More than that—he had trusted him.
He had seen Nolan as a battle-brother, a warrior from a foreign land who had chosen to stand beside them, to lend his power in defense of his new home.
But it had all been a lie.
Omni-Man hadn’t been protecting Earth—he had been preparing it. He had been biding his time, waiting for the right moment to turn on them all.
Just like Brutus had turned on Caesar.
The thought gnawed at him, a bitter, festering wound. His blood boiled with righteous fury, his body thrumming with the need to fight, to strike, to hurt. To let the invader feel just a fraction of the betrayal and pain that he was forcing him to endure right now.
And yet, as much as every muscle in his body screamed for action, for vengeance—he knew he had to wait. That was why, despite everything, he was grateful for men like Cecil.
Leadership had never been his strength. He had tried it, here and there, across the centuries. His stint as Abraham Lincoln had been the closest he had ever come to getting it right, but even then, the burden had been heavy. It had worn on him in a way that battle never did. He preferred being The Immortal, the eternal defender of truth, justice, and freedom. It was easier when someone else handled the logistics, the politics, the endless bureaucracy of leadership—when all he had to do was take down the bad guys and make the world just a little bit safer.
War Woman, however, did not share that perspective.
This was not their first time meeting, in their shared history.
He had crossed paths with her before, long before the world had given them capes and costumes. He had fought her as a Greek soldier, as an Egyptian pharaoh, as a Mongolian warlord. She had been on the other side of the battlefield more than once, a fierce and unrelenting opponent. But she had also been an ally when their goals had aligned, and though they had never seen eye to eye on everything, there was always respect.
She had embraced this new era in a way he never had, throwing herself into the modern world, building an empire of her own—not through war, but through business, through industry, through influence. She sought to change the world beyond violence, beyond bloodshed.
He did not begrudge her for it. He admired it, even. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t frustrating as hell when their ideals clashed.
Right now, he wanted nothing more than to put Omni-Man in the ground—to make him pay for his betrayal, for the lies, for every drop of blood that would be spilled because of his deception.
She, on the other hand, wanted to trust Cecil’s plan. To play the long game. To put their faith in this newbie, this child who, somehow, could supposedly go toe-to-toe with the strongest being on the planet.
It was infuriating.
It should be the three of them—him, War Woman, and Red Rush—taking down the scum that was Omni-Man. Not some fresh-out-of-the-water neophyte who hadn’t even proven he could hold his own in a real fight.
They should be out there, in the heat of battle, fists against fists, warriors facing a warrior, instead of wasting time training a student who—no matter how strong—undoubtedly wouldn’t be able to hack it.
He clenched his fists, grinding his teeth as his boots thumped heavily against the metallic floor.
"Can you please calm down, old friend?" War Woman’s voice held a trace of amusement. "You’re going to wear a hole in the floor with all that pacing. Literally."
He waved her words off with a sharp motion. "Cecil spent over a billion dollars designing this room. None of us have ever made a dent in this place."
And it was true.
The Octagon was one of a kind—a simple, stark room one hundred feet wide and fifty feet tall, designed to contain beings who could level entire cities. Every surface—the floor, the ceiling, the walls—was lined with one-foot-wide tiles, forged from some insanely advanced kinetic-absorbing metal.
The more you hit it, the stronger it became.
It had been reverse-engineered from an asteroid, some alien alloy Cecil’s team had scavenged from deep space. No one—not War Woman, Red Rush, or even himself—had ever left so much as a dent in the place.
There were no weapons here. No tools. No fancy gym equipment.
This was purely a sparring ground.
A place where warriors could go all out—no holding back, no restrictions, no collateral damage—and see who was left standing.
And right now?
He was supposed to waste it training a child?
He took a deep breath, his knuckles cracking as he clenched and unclenched his fists.
Cecil better be right about this.
The heavy door to the Octagon slid open with a mechanical hiss, and the man in question strolled in—flanked by someone much younger than Immortal had anticipated.
The boy was clad in a sleek black bodysuit, fingerless gloves, and a simple domino mask that did little to obscure how young he looked. No stubble. No hard edges to his face. Just smooth skin, round cheeks, and wide eyes that still held onto youth. When Immortal had called the newbie a "child," he hadn’t expected it to be literal. He’d assumed at least someone of legal age—someone who could enlist, vote, drink, not someone who still looked like they should be worried about gym class and homework.
Cecil walked forward like this was all completely normal.
“Cecil,” War Woman said, arching a brow with mild incredulity. “Are you sure this is the one we’re supposed to train? I don’t object to mentoring younglings, but I’m fairly certain America has laws against putting children into combat situations.”
Immortal folded his arms, scowling. “Is this a joke? Are you just wasting our time so we won’t go after Omni-Man and bring him to justice like he deserves?”
Cecil sighed, clearly already done with the dramatics. “Look, I get it. He’s young. But you of all people should know—when it comes to powers, age doesn’t mean squat. Atom Eve can rearrange matter with her mind, and she’s still got an English Lit test coming up Monday. This is just how the world works now.”
“I’m not weak,” the boy said, stepping forward to insert himself into the conversation. His voice was steady. Confident. “I get why you’re skeptical. If I were in your shoes, I’d feel the same way. But the truth is, without me, you don’t have a real shot at taking down Omni-Man.”
Immortal turned to Cecil, frown deepening. “Does he even know what the mission is? What we’re really preparing for?”
“He knows enough,” Cecil said, a little heat bleeding into his voice. “And listen, if this is going to be a problem, I can have ten of the world’s best martial artists here by tomorrow morning. I didn’t come to you two because I needed warm bodies—I came because our source says your power sets are the closest match to Omni-Man’s. If he can hold his own against the two of you, he’ll have a real chance when it counts. You,” he pointed to Immortal, “are one of the few people alive who can teach 360-degree aerial combat.”
Cecil’s voice was sharp now, authoritative.
“So either help the kid learn how to survive, or walk away. That way I can scratch your names off the list and get back to the other hundred and one things I have to do to keep this planet intact.”
The soldier in Immortal—the general, the king, the gladiator—bristled at the disrespect. He was the sixteenth president of the United States, for god’s sake. He had worn crowns and marched with legions. A part of him wanted to take Cecil by the throat and remind him exactly who he was speaking to.
But another part, the one tempered by centuries of watching worlds crumble, understood. Cecil bore the weight of the world, quite literally. Sleep was probably a luxury he hadn’t had in years. Every second he spent arguing was another second he couldn’t spend preparing.
So Immortal let it go.
War Woman chuckled, placing a hand on his shoulder to calm him. “Peace, friend Cecil. Peace. We’re not turning the boy away. Give us time, and we’ll make a warrior of him. Songs will be sung of his strength—like Leonidas, like Perseus.”
Cecil nodded curtly, already turning to leave. “Good. I don’t care about legends. Just make sure he’s not turned into red paste the moment Omni-Man lays a hand on him.”
With that, he walked out. The door hissed closed behind him, sealing them in.
Finally.
Silence settled over the Octagon like a held breath, the tension crackling in the air like a live wire.
Immortal rolled his shoulders with a grim frown, sizing up the boy in front of him once more. The kid was smaller than expected. Lean, wiry, but not frail. He looked like he should be prepping for a school dance, not standing across from two of the strongest heroes on the planet.
War Woman stepped forward, giving the boy a warm, appraising smile as she cracked her knuckles. “Well then,” she said with a touch of amusement. “Let’s see what you’ve got, kid.”
“Um, hi. Hello. It’s—uh—it’s really nice to meet you,” the boy stammered, giving an awkward little wave. “My name—well, my callsign—is Invincible. So you guys can call me that if you want. Before we start, I just wanted to say I’m a really big fan of yours—oof!”
He didn’t get to finish the sentence.
Immortal blurred forward with terrifying speed and drove a fist straight into the boy’s stomach. The impact sent a shockwave through the room, pushing the kid back several feet.
To Immortal’s surprise, Invincible stayed standing.
He stumbled, yes, but he didn’t fall. His knees buckled for a moment, but his eyes stayed focused, his breath steady.
Huh. Hitting him felt like punching reinforced steel.
Good. That meant he’d last longer than expected.
“Was that really necessary?” War Woman asked, folding her arms as Immortal followed up with an uppercut to the boy’s chin that snapped his head back with a brutal crack!
“We could’ve at least introduced ourselves first.”
“Do you think Omni-Man’s going to introduce himself before he tries to cave the boy’s skull in?!” Immortal barked. His voice echoed through the Octagon like a war drum. “Do you think Nolan will give him a warning before the slaughter begins?!”
Another punch—this time a brutal haymaker to the jaw.
Then a strike to the floating ribs.
A follow-up kick to the kidney.
“No!” Immortal roared, slamming his elbow into the boy’s collarbone. “So we train him for war. Not a schoolyard brawl. Not a sparring match. War.”
War Woman let out a breath—half sigh, half laugh—and shook her head. Still, she picked up her mace.
And with a burst of flight-fueled speed, she dashed behind the boy like a blur of gold and crimson, raising her mace high—and slamming it down on the back of Invincible’s skull with enough force to make the entire room ring like a bell.
For the next five minutes, they attacked him with the kind of ferocity usually reserved for actual threats.
They didn’t hold back.
Immortal came from below with a punishing uppercut, while War Woman dove from above, hammering his face into the floor with her mace. When Immortal landed a clean right cross, War Woman was there a heartbeat later to swing her weapon from the left, catching him in the temple.
A knee to the spine drove Invincible to one knee—and then War Woman soared in with a flying knee to the face that would’ve shattered a lesser skull.
It was vicious.
Brutal.
And it was pointless.
Immortal could see now why Cecil had brought the child in.
He was tough. No, scratch that—he was unreal. He had taken everything they threw at him—every bone-breaking, building-leveling blow—and didn’t even have anything substantial to show for it. No swelling. No cracked ribs or shattered bones.
Only a few drops of blood from his nose, and a light bruise on his chin from his first strike.
They had hit him with enough power to kill a man a hundred times over.
And he just stood there and took it.
But that was the problem.
That was all he did.
The boy didn’t fight back. Didn’t block. Didn’t dodge. His punches were slow, weak, and untrained. His footwork was clumsy. His reactions were delayed. No instincts. No killer edge. Just raw durability and a brave face.
He’s not ready.
That thought echoed like a drumbeat in Immortal’s head, louder than the thud of fists or the rattle of breathless air.
If this was Earth’s best hope against Omni-Man, then they were well and truly screwed.
“I was right,” Immortal growled, fury lacing every word. “This was a complete and utter waste of my time! This child has no talent, no discipline, no skill! This is—”
A fist slammed into his face with the force of a missile, breaking his nose with a sickening crunch and launching him backward into the wall. The impact rocked the Octagon, and the aftershock rolled through the air like thunder.
He didn’t move.
For the first time in a long while, Immortal was dazed.
The boy’s demeanor had shifted entirely.
Gone was the hesitant child, all flinches and clumsy footwork. What stood in his place now was a fighter—confident, aggressive, eyes sharp and burning with raw focus. He was moving with intention, his every step calculated. He wasn’t blocking anymore—he was dodging, weaving through War Woman’s furious strikes with an ease that made her look slow.
When he did meet her mace, it wasn’t to deflect—it was to drive it back with punches so fierce they knocked her weapon off balance.
“It took me a while to memorize your fighting patterns,” the boy said casually, sidestepping a downward slam from War Woman and punishing her with a vicious roundhouse that sent her spinning mid-air.
“To figure out how you moved. How you punched. How you used your flight to chain attacks together. You guys are awesome!”
That last word was accompanied by a wild grin, teeth bared like a wolf’s, and before Immortal could brace himself, the kid shot toward him like a bullet, fist drawn back.
Instinct saved him. Immortal surged upward with a burst of flight, flipping mid-air to evade the blow.
But the punch didn’t stop.
CRACK!
The boy’s fist shattered through the reinforced wall, burying itself up to the wrist in the kinetic tiles that lined the Octagon.
Immortal stared, blood running from his broken nose, barely registering War Woman pulling herself upright across the room.
He couldn’t believe it.
He’d hit these walls before. Full strength. So had War Woman. They were designed to absorb blows from beings who could level cities—and neither of them had even left a dent.
But this kid—this supposedly unremarkable child—had punched through it like it was drywall.
The room was silent again.
Only now, the silence wasn’t from tension.
It was awe.
And beneath that awe—just the faintest whisper of fear.
The Immortal laughed, a deep, full-bodied sound that echoed through the Octagon like a siren’s call. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t bitter.
It was genuine, rich with exhilaration.
He wiped the blood from his split lip and gave the boy a wide, bloody smile. “I owe you an apology,” he said, voice rumbling with hard-earned respect. “I dismissed you too quickly. Guess that’s a lesson I still needed to learn—never underestimate Cecil… or the people he believes in.”
He rolled his shoulders, limbs crackling with tension and renewed vigor.
“But now that you’ve stopped holding back—let’s see what you really have to offer!”
With a roar that could shake mountains, he launched himself forward like a missile. Invincible answered without hesitation, rising to meet him midair, the faintest grin curling at the corners of his mouth.
Two titans, one a legend of a hundred battles and the other a rising force, soared toward one another with fists cocked, hearts pounding, and eyes locked.
And when they collided—the Octagon shook.
_____________________________________________________________________
Debbie Grayson was still at her office.
Nolan Grayson—codename: Omni-Man, alien, superhero, Guardian of the Globe Reservist Member—was currently neutralizing a Class-5 biological threat in the Australian continent. The local time in Sydney placed him at least six hours ahead, and telemetry suggested he was engaged underground with the soldiers of the giant arachnid swarm.
Estimated engagement duration: twenty five minutes remaining.
That left Mark Grayson.
The subject had just entered the family residence—alone. His gait was casual but slightly stiff at the shoulders.
Fatigue? Emotional stress?
Unclear.
He removed his shoes near the door.
A polite habit. Predictable. Normal.
He had requested information from Director Stedman multiple times—each inquiry returned with deliberate deflection. Non-answers. Partial truths. Irrelevant files. He found that kind of behavior inefficient. Irritating. But expected.
So he had investigated on my own.
Accessing GDA systems was, in a word, trivial. They prioritized containment and counterforce. Physical solutions to abstract problems. They employed some encryption, but very little obfuscation. It was the digital equivalent of placing a lock on the front door while leaving the back door wide open.
He had found something… unexpected.
His name.
His name.
Rudolph Conners.
Not Robot. Not the anonymous pilot. Not the assumed shell or mechanized avatar. But him. Someone had searched for him specifically—someone who should not have known he existed in the first place.
The search came from this house.
From this boy.
So now, here he was. Standing in the Grayson family living room. The synthetic shell he operated moved forward with its usual precision. Behind Mark, the secondary drone slid the front door shut with a mechanical hum. Soft. Non-threatening. But firm.
Mark froze. Recognition flickered across his face. Surprise, yes—but not fear. Not confusion.
Recognition.
Confirmation.
“Oh my god,” he breathed, stunned. “It’s you.”
He knew him.
Not the public image. Not the metal shell. Him.
He stepped forward, maintaining optimal personal space—enough to show respect, not enough to allow for sudden escape.
“Hello, Mark Grayson,” he said evenly. “I apologize for entering your home uninvited. Director Stedman did not respond to my messages, nor did he fulfill my request for information on the subject at hand. As such, I was forced to take initiative.”
His expression was hard to read. A mixture of confusion, awe, and something else… guilt?
He tilted my head slightly. An affectation he’d learned from human interaction. It tended to put people at ease.
“I would like to speak with you,” he said. “Specifically… about how you know my name.”
His internal systems registered his rising heart rate. Shallow breath. Sweat increase.
Subtle, but clear. The boy was hiding something.
He would have answers.
Whether Mark Grayson wanted to give them or not.
