Kokujin19
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I Told You, I'm Invinci-(Invincible SI) Chapter 1
🕑 Added 2025-03-16 02:42:20 +0000 UTCThere was a warm cup of coffee in his hands.
The air was crisp, the early morning still shrouded in darkness. He could hear the distant hum of the city outside, the quiet rustling of trees in the backyard.
Upstairs, his wife lay fast asleep.
His son, too, though from the way he stirred, his movements restless beneath the blankets, he wouldn’t be asleep much longer.
Nolan took a slow sip, savoring the bitter taste.
Life was good.
This planet…
It's humans, it's cultures, it's funny little challenges—all of it was… perfect.
Now, he technically hadn’t conquered Earth yet, but it wasn’t as if it needed a firm hand. The nations were already doing a decent job of keeping their citizens in check. There were no serious wars, no imminent disasters that warranted immediate intervention. Earth, to put it plainly, was a well-managed planet all on its own.
Viltrum checked in on him once a year via transmitter, but as far as they were concerned, the mission was as good as completed.
The planet knew his name—or at least, his hero name. Civilians listened when he spoke. The world's governments acknowledged his power, even if they didn’t realize its full extent. He had already bred with one of the locals, ensuring that Viltrumite blood flowed through the next generation.
It was fudging the truth, perhaps, but in the eyes of Viltrum, Earth was as good as conquered.
Five hundred years. That was how long he had been given to pacify this world—a virtual vacation for a Viltrumite.
And so he had decided:
He would wait.
He would wait for Debbie and Mark to…pass before he officially started on the preparation of the Earth to join the Empire.
They were the only ones who mattered here. The only ones he cared about. Once they were gone—once time, that inevitable force, took them away—then he would do what was necessary.
He would do his duty.
Badum. Badum. Badum.
Huh.
Mark’s heart rate was elevating.
Nothing unusual. Likely a nightmare. Maybe that Mexican food they had eaten last night wasn’t agreeing with him.
Nolan sighed.
It was a shame that Mark had never developed his Viltrumite abilities. Half-human, after all. The chances had been slim.
But if he was being honest?
It was a relief.
Mark’s humanity meant that Nolan could afford to be the man they thought he was—for a few decades longer.
Maybe it was better this way.
Badum. Badum. Badum. Badum.
The rhythm spiked.
A gasp echoed from upstairs.
Nolan’s brow furrowed slightly. Faster now, but still within the realm of a nightmare. Mark had just woken up, heart racing, breath likely coming in ragged gasps.
He’d settle down soon.
Another sip of coffee.
His mind wandered back to the logistics of his eventual takeover.
Cecil.
Obviously, Cecil had to die first. The man was too clever, too prepared, too meddlesome. While there wasn’t a weapon on Earth or a hero alive that could stop him, Cecil had a way of agitating others into resistance. And resistance meant unnecessary bloodshed.
Better to cut off the snake’s head first.
Donald would be easy to deal with. A simple show of force would break him.
Then there were the world leaders.
He would have to make sure they fell in line quickly. A demonstration would be necessary. A warning.
Another sip. Another thought.
Not the President—he actually liked the United States as it was. The infrastructure was stable, the people were obedient in all the ways that mattered, and most importantly—he lived here.
Europe, then?
Hmm.
A queen, perhaps? People on this planet infantilized women to an absurd degree. He could use that strange psychological process against them.
Yes. That would work nicely.
A sudden thud from upstairs pulled him from his thoughts.
Nolan paused, his cup of coffee hovering just before his lips.
He heard Mark stumble—his feet dragging awkwardly against the floor. Then came a loud crash, the sharp bang of something slamming against the bathroom door, forcing it open.
He set his coffee down.
That was weird.
Mark was clumsy sometimes, sure, but not like this.
His mind immediately ran through possibilities. Had the boy been drinking? No—he would have smelled it on him. He had a good nose for that sort of thing, and besides, his own alcohol stash was untouched. If Mark had snuck any in, Nolan would have noticed. And he definitely would have noticed drugs, so it wasn’t that either.
Another sound—a loud shatter, followed by the distinctive tinkle of glass hitting tile.
“What the—what the actual fuck?!” Mark’s voice rang out, filled with shock and something dangerously close to panic.
Alright. Time to intervene.
If Mark kept yelling like that, he was going to wake up Debbie.
In a blur, Nolan flew up the stairs, arriving at the bathroom doorway within seconds. The door was hanging open, the light inside flickering slightly.
His son stood there, rigid, staring at the broken bathroom mirror as if he had no idea who the person staring back at him was.
Something was wrong.
“Mark?” Nolan said cautiously, lowering himself until his feet touched the cold tile floor.
Mark turned to look at him, and Nolan’s concern immediately deepened.
His pupils were blown wide, nearly eclipsing the brown of his irises. He was hyperventilating, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. Beads of sweat rolled down his face and arms, his whole body trembling as if he had just run a marathon.
And then there was the smell.
Sharp. Acrid. The unmistakable scent of fear.
Real, visceral, gut-wrenching fear.
“Mark, calm down,” Nolan said, raising his hands in a non-threatening gesture. “It’s me. Dad.”
Mark’s stomach rumbled violently—an unnatural, almost distorted sound.
Nolan’s instincts flared, warning him a second too late.
Mark lurched forward—and promptly vomited all over the floor.
“Shit!” Nolan hissed, instantly lifting off the ground to avoid the mess.
Okay. Time for reinforcements.
“Debbie!” he called, grimacing. “A little help!”
_________________________________________________________________________
“And you’re absolutely certain that he’s not drunk or on drugs?” Debbie asked, arms crossed, worry etched into every line of her face.
Nolan let out a frustrated sigh. “Yes, Debbie. I checked his room, his bag, every single nook and cranny in the house. There’s no alcohol, no drugs—nothing. The only alcohol we have is ours, and the one open bottle was sealed by me last. Mark wouldn’t be able to get into it without breaking the cap off, and I’d have noticed.”
“Then what the hell is wrong with him?” she demanded, gesturing toward their son, who lay curled up in bed, shivering uncontrollably.
Mark’s body was drenched in sweat, yet his skin was covered in goosebumps. He reeked of the acrid scent of fear, something Nolan found deeply unsettling. His heartbeat was erratic—too fast, too unstable. Worse still, he was facing the wall, his body tense, and every time Nolan so much as spoke, his heart rate spiked.
Was Mark. . . afraid of him?
Nolan suppressed the sharp pang of unease that thought brought him.
“What if it’s some kind of human sickness?” he suggested, glancing at his wife. “Maybe the cold, or the flu?”
Debbie hesitated, biting her lip. “I—I guess that’s possible,” she admitted, but her tone was uncertain. “But, Nolan… he’s never been sick for more than a few hours before. That’s something he inherited from you. He’s already past the three-hour mark where he usually recovers, and his temperature’s still climbing. If this is a human illness, then it has to be something serious.”
Her voice wavered as her thoughts spiraled further. “Oh my God… what if he’s a carrier for some kind of new, alien-human disease? What if he’s contagious? What if I’m contagious—?”
“Debbie,” Nolan said firmly, gripping her shoulders. “Take a deep breath. You’re spiraling.”
She inhaled shakily, nodding but still visibly rattled.
“Viltrumites don’t get sick,” he reminded her. “Not like humans do. A more plausible explanation is that as he’s getting older, his human side is becoming more dominant than his Viltrumite side. It’s something I’ve suspected ever since he didn’t inherit my powers.”
That last thought troubled him more than he cared to admit. Viltrumite DNA was supposed to dominate any other genetic material it merged with.
So why wasn’t it?
This planet was as strange as it was fascinating. In his short time here, he had encountered foes with an astonishing variety of abilities, powers that seemed to defy reason, cultivated by Earth in a way he had never seen before—not in the thousands of years he had lived. Some, like the Immortal, could persist beyond death. Others wielded strength, speed, or abilities rivaling even his own people.
At first, he had entertained the idea that Mark might inherit some of these extraordinary abilities in addition to his Viltrumite strength, an unexpected but useful advantage. But now, it seemed as if his son’s human DNA was not only failing to enhance his natural Viltrumite gifts—it was actively negating them. That was a problem. A very serious one.
Grand Regent Thragg wouldn’t be pleased.
It would be difficult enough to justify keeping this planet intact, delaying conquest for as long as he had already. But if Mark was evidence that human genetics could interfere with their superior physiology, the Viltrumite Council would see it as a liability, a potential contamination of their purity.
Still… Nolan wasn’t entirely concerned about that. He had long suspected that the Grand Regent might take an interest in Earth for another reason—the sheer variety of abilities its people possessed. If they could find a way to harness those abilities, replicate them without the need for reproduction, then the Viltrumites might truly become unstoppable. The potential was there—what if they could integrate the Immortal’s regeneration, or some other metahuman’s powers?
That would be worth delaying conquest for.
But Mark’s current state put all of that on hold.
For now, he had more immediate concerns.
“Give it a day,” he said, watching Debbie’s anxious expression. “If it lasts longer than that, then we’ll call Cecil and have the GDA take a look at him. If you’re worried about being infectious, you can stay home with me—we’ll take care of him together. Take a few days off work, okay?”
Debbie hesitated, chewing her lip, but slowly nodded.
“Okay… alright,” she said, exhaling shakily as she ran a hand through her hair. “That’s a good idea. Cecil has the best medical care in the world. If it gets worse, we call him.”
Then she leaned up and kissed him.
Nolan let out a quiet hum, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her close—but not too tightly. Just enough to let her feel safe.
Being with Debbie was the hardest thing he had ever done.
She was so fragile, even compared to the weaker species he had encountered in his time. He had spent years training himself to move as if she were made of glass, learning to temper his strength, to be mindful of every touch, every movement. It had been frustrating at first, but eventually, it had become second nature.
And that control had prepared him for Mark.
Mark, who had been so much more delicate than even Debbie as a newborn. He still remembered how, in the first two weeks after his son’s birth, he had been afraid to hold him.
It was the first time he had ever feared his own strength.
But he had learned. He had adjusted. He had become something new.
And now, his son—his wonderful boy—was sick, and there was nothing he could do.
All of his strength, all of his power—and the worst problems he faced were the ones he couldn’t punch through.
__________________________________________________________________________
Mark’s fever finally broke around midday, and by nightfall, he seemed to have made a full recovery. They celebrated with pizza, and while Debbie had quickly returned to her usual warmth and laughter, Nolan couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was… off.
There were little things. Things that most people wouldn’t notice—but Nolan did.
Like how Mark kept forgetting where things were. He went to the wrong cupboard to get the plates, hesitated before grabbing the cups, and even opened the freezer instead of the fridge when reaching for a soda.
Or how there was a delay whenever they called his name. Instead of responding right away, Mark would pause—just for a second—before glancing up and saying "Huh?" as if it took him an extra moment to register that they were speaking to him.
And then there was the most unsettling thing of all.
Mark wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Every time Nolan glanced at him, his son’s heartbeat spiked—just for a moment—before settling back to normal. But he never looked directly at him. Whenever he spoke, Mark kept his gaze low, focused on his plate, on the table, on anything except him.
What the hell was that about?
Had Mark done something wrong? Something that made him think he was in trouble? Maybe that was why he had reacted so badly when he woke up—guilt. Or was it something worse?
Was someone threatening him?
The thought made his fingers twitch, and he had to suppress the instinct to clench them into fists. If someone was blackmailing his son, hurting him in any way… He didn't see any bruises on Mark, but there were plenty of ways to hurt someone without leaving a mark. Psychic influence, coercion, fear—those were all very real dangers.
And Nolan had seen it before, used on other weaker heroes.
He’d dealt with it before, when clever fools tried to get an upper hand against him.
People had figured out his identity before and tried to use it against him. They had threatened his family. They had tried. And every single time, Nolan had made sure they didn’t live long enough to try again. He had personally thrown those people into space. Cecil had cleaned up the rest.
But there hadn’t been any unusual activity lately. No new threats. No strange figures lurking in the shadows.
So why was Mark so nervous around him?
“Um, I’m not that hungry,” Mark suddenly said, setting his slice of pizza down after only a few bites. “And I’ve got some homework that’s due soon. I should probably start working on that.”
Debbie frowned. “On a Friday?”
“Y-yeah,” Mark stammered. “I just wanna get a head start. My grades could be higher, you know?”
That, at least, wasn’t a lie.
Mark was a solid C student at best. It wasn’t a disaster, but Nolan had always felt that he could do better if he actually applied himself. A little extra studying wouldn’t hurt.
Debbie, however, wasn’t buying it.
“Mark,” she started gently, placing her hand over his. “You know you can tell us anything, right?”
There it was again.
Mark’s heartbeat jumped—then leveled out just as quickly.
“She’s right, son,” Nolan added, his voice steady but firm. “No matter what it is—what time, what place—we will always be there for you.”
And unlike other parents, Nolan could actually keep that promise.
Mark swallowed, his shoulders tensing slightly—but then, just as quickly, he relaxed.
“...Thanks, guys,” he said softly. “I’ll… I’ll remember that.”
But Nolan had a feeling—a deep, gut-level instinct honed over centuries of battle and war.
Mark was lying.
__________________________________________________________________________
You’d think that with the sheer number of villains out there, there would be an equal number of heroes to keep them in check, right? A balance. Yin and Yang, equivalent exchange, all that philosophical crap.
No such luck.
Sure, the majority of villains were small-time. Petty crooks barely strong enough to rob a bank, destroy a building, or cause a little chaos before they got taken down. Low-risk, high-annoyance.
But there were always outliers.
The ones who defied the usual statistics. The Mauler Twins, for example—genius-level intellects in bodies that could go toe-to-toe with tanks. Then there was Doc Seismic, the lunatic with the earthquake gauntlets, who had somehow convinced himself that society itself was a crime. And that weird alien from space—the one who came down looking for a fight with Omni-Man and got his ass handed to him.
The real threats were always insane.
They didn’t just want money or power. No, they had to go big.
Rule the world. Destroy the world. Invade the world.
Why was it always the world they wanted? Why not start smaller? Maybe conquer Iowa first? Or claim dominion over some tiny, irrelevant town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere? For once, he’d love to see a supervillain with manageable ambitions—someone who just wanted to steal cows, set hay bales on fire, or terrorize a single, unsuspecting county fair.
But no.
The megalomaniacs always had to go big or go home.
Meanwhile, a distressing number of the world’s heroes refused to work with him.
They saw him as “The Man.” The government. The fuzz. The ever-watching big brother lurking behind the scenes, pulling the strings.
Did they think he was some kind of cartoon villain?
Right now, he funded the Guardians of the Globe, had tenuous alliances with groups like Teen Team and Fight Force, and most superheroes who survived longer than a month eventually learned about him in some way, shape, or form.
But getting them to trust him? To listen to him unwaveringly?
That was the real battle.
The one no one saw. The endless war fought in conference rooms, encrypted channels, and classified briefings. The struggle wasn’t just against supervillains, but against the unpredictable, the unknown, and the inevitable.
It was in the middle of these thoughts that Donald Ferguson, his right-hand man, approached with a grim look on his face.
“Sir, I hate to bother you, but we’ve got a situation.”
Cecil sighed, already walking beside him as they made their way toward the control center of the GDA, buried deep beneath the Pentagon.
“What is it this time, Donald? The Lizard League making trouble again? Killcannon being an overcompensating pain in my ass? The Maulers trying to break into some place they really shouldn’t be?”
Donald hesitated, which immediately put Cecil on edge.
“Oddly enough, sir, this is both better than those situations… and significantly worse.”
“Of course it is.”
Donald led him to one of the main computer terminals, where three technicians sat, their faces set in grim, serious expressions. One of them, Jenkins—a former soldier with a scar over one eye that always looked slightly off-center—stood and snapped into a sharp salute as Cecil approached.
“Sir,” Jenkins said. “About an hour ago, our online surveillance systems flagged a series of highly specific keyword searches that triggered multiple alerts. Robot from Teen Team also reached out—apparently, he has a similar system in place, and he’s just as concerned as we are.”
Cecil rubbed his temples. “Jesus Christ, just show me the damn screen.”
He leaned forward, squinting at the terminal as the search queries filled the monitor. (Damn it, he really needed to either get glasses or cave and get that stupid laser eye surgery everyone raved about.)
But as he read the search history, his mood darkened.
How to get in contact with Cecil Stedman.
How to get in contact with Donald Ferguson.
How to get in contact with the Director of the GDA.
How to get in contact with Holly aka War Woman.
How to get in contact with Alana aka Green Ghost.
How to get in contact with Rudolph Conners.
How to get into GDA Headquarters under the Pentagon.
How to get into the Teen Team headquarters on a bridge.
Cecil stiffened.
Someone—somebody with either a death wish or an agenda—was actively trying to make contact with some of the most powerful individuals and locations on the planet.
Cecil’s fingers drummed against the console as he straightened, his mind already racing through possibilities.
“Track the IP address. Now.”
The string of searches was concerning enough, but the last search—the one sent just five minutes ago—sent an unwelcome chill down his spine.
I know you guys are watching this somehow. Please talk to me.
Cecil’s jaw tightened. That wasn’t a threat. That wasn’t some troll playing games. Whoever was on the other end of that screen knew exactly what they were doing, and more importantly—they wanted an audience.
“We know where these are coming from?” he asked, his voice gruff, his fingers already itching to light a cigar he wasn’t allowed to smoke down here.
“Yes, actually,” Donald answered immediately, eyes flicking between his own tablet and the terminal in front of them. “We’ve already got the address on file—it’s a Priority One address.”
Cecil frowned. That narrowed the list down considerably.
Priority One addresses were reserved for only the most important individuals in the world—people like the Guardians of the Globe or the various Presidents and Prime Ministers of the world. And those guys? They already knew how to contact him.
As for Rudolph Conners… that was Robot’s legal name, right? He’d seen it once in a classified file, back when he briefly considered inviting the kid to join the Guardians, but he ultimately decided to let him gain more experience before extending the offer.
“Whose address?” he asked sharply.
Donald hesitated. Just for a second. But Cecil caught it.
“Omni-Man’s.”
Cecil’s blood ran cold.
He turned fully to face Donald, his expression dark.
“It’s Nolan?”
Donald shook his head. “No. It’s not coming from his or Debbie’s computers.” He hesitated again before finally saying,
“It’s coming from their kid. Mark Grayson.”
Cecil’s mind blanked for a second.
Mark Grayson… Yeah, yeah, he remembered the kid. Small, took after Debbie more than Nolan, missing his front two teeth the last time he saw him, and didn’t he win a baseball game or something not too long ago?
“The ten-year-old?” he asked, frowning in confusion.
He could practically feel Donald holding back an eye roll.
“It’s been five years since you last saw him. He’s grown up quite a bit.”
Cecil grunted. Great. Another reminder he was getting old.
“Kid got a webcam? Something we can use to see him?”
“Yes,” Katrina, one of the technicians, piped up. “It’s embedded in his computer.” She hesitated. “And, oddly enough… it’s not covered. It’s like he wants us to see him.”
Cecil’s brow furrowed. That was interesting. Most people were paranoid enough to tape over their cameras these days—hell, he made sure his agents did. But Mark wanted them to look.
“Turn the camera on. I want to see the kid.”
The techies tapped away at their keyboards, and the screen shifted from the list of disturbing search queries to a grainy, low-quality feed.
A tall, Asian boy with faint dark circles under his eyes sat in front of the screen. He looked pale, sick even. The moment the feed went live, his expression flickered—first with relief, then with apprehension.
He knew. He knew they were watching.
“We got audio?” Cecil asked.
“Yeah, but it’s crap,” Smith, the third tech, muttered. “Too much static unless he speaks. Hold up—he’s doing something.”
Mark leaned forward, holding up an index card with something scrawled on it in messy handwriting.
“Jesus, this kid needs a better camera,” Cecil muttered, squinting. “Can we clean up the image?”
“Optimizing now, sir.”
The screen flickered, then sharpened, making the words legible:
If you can read this, please turn the camera on and off after you finish reading this message to confirm. I have really important information that could help save a lot of lives, but my dad cannot know. I know you have a teleporter. Can you please pick me up ten minutes before school ends in the men’s bathroom on the third floor of my school? I’ll be there. We can talk more later.
Cecil read it twice.
Information that could save a lot of lives… but something Nolan couldn’t know.
That set off alarm bells in his head.
And the kid knew about the teleporter. That wasn’t public knowledge. That alone was a red flag the size of goddamn Texas.
He exhaled sharply, stepping away from the terminal. “Give the kid confirmation that we saw the message.”
Then he turned to the room, his voice sharp and commanding.
“I want a full file on Mark Grayson. Everything. His grades, his daily schedule, his hobbies, what classes he does well in—hell, I wanna know the last time he took a goddamn shit if it helps.
“I don’t like it when a civvie knows more about us than we do about them. So let’s move, people!”
The agents jumped into action, fingers flying across keyboards.
Cecil folded his arms, staring at the screen as Mark lowered the index card, waiting.
Alright, Mark Grayson.
You wanna step into the big leagues?
Then let’s show you how we really play.
