Loyalty

"Darkwing, why did you call us here?"

"Me?" War Woman frowns. "So none of us signaled the alert?"

Realization dawns in their eyes.

"Oh, god," Red Rush whispers. He moves—faster than anyone else could—but not faster than me.

I swing for his head. He ducks, my fist grazing his hair, the air pressure alone blasting a crater in the floor. He retaliates with a blur of punches. They rattle my ribs, my jaw—my skull. I feel my teeth vibrate. A cut opens on my cheek.

Annoying.

I lunge again, forcing him on the defensive, herding him into the center of the room. He keeps dodging, shifting left and right, but he's getting slower. He can't keep this up forever.

I let him think he's winning. Then I feint a punch and grab his leg instead.

He gasps. I swing him like a club, slamming him against the ground hard enough to send cracks spiderwebbing across the floor. Blood splatters. His body twitches.

The Guardians react instantly.

War Woman's mace smashes into the side of my head. My vision whites out, a ringing in my skull. Martian Man's tendrils wrap around my arms, pulling me back. Darkwing jumps from the rafters, throwing devices landing along my spine, aiming to paralyze me.

I roar, twisting my torso, ripping free of Martian Man's grasp, and slamming my elbow into War Woman's ribs. She staggers. The Immortal tackles me full force, sending us crashing through a wall. He punches me over and over, each blow like a cannonball against my face. My skin splits. Blood fills my mouth. My ribs start to crack.

I grab his wrists mid-punch, snap one arm at the elbow, and headbutt him with all my strength.

His forehead splits open with a sickening crunch. He stumbles back, dazed. Before I can test his immortality, Green Ghost phases him out of my reach. 

Focusing on the remaining Guardians I blitz towards Darkwing. 

He wasn't meant for this fight. 

She panics. She can't phase to him in time. 

Darkwing vaporizes as I punch my fist through his face like wet paper. She flickers between states, struggling, eyes wide in terror. 

Eventually, she gets a hold of herself but it is already too late. Timing my strike, I quickly through his body towards her expecting her to phase back to this plane to catch her fallen command. 

"Pathetic," I mutter as I anticipate an emotional reaction. 

I split her skull open in a decisive motion. She screams as I rip her in half, her essence flickering uncontrollably. I hurl her across the room, blood painting the floor.

Green Ghost flickers one last time. Then her body solidifies, turning her into a twisted water fountain of blood, half in the floor, half out.

Martian Man's roar shakes the room. His massive form engulfs me, tendrils wrapping around my throat, my arms, my waist. They tighten, constricting, crushing. I feel something inside me crack—a rib snapping like dry wood.

I throw a punch, but War Woman intercepts, her mace slamming into my arm. Bone fracture. My bone. My right forearm hangs useless, my Viltrumite healing already kicking in—but not fast enough.

Immortal rejoins the fight with killing intent. He is everywhere at once, striking, dodging, weaving. I lash out, but he's already gone, his shadow slipping away before I can connect.

They're pressing me.

For the first time, I feel it.

A flicker of doubt.

"I am loyal to Viltrium" I mutter as I shake the previous thought

A tidal wave crashes into me, sending me sprawling across the room. Aquarius stands tall the water swirling around him with controlled fury.

Annoying.

Aquarius advances, relentless. Every movement is precise and tactical. He fights like a general, keeping me off balance, and forcing me to react instead of attack. I feint left and charge right, breaking through his guard, but before I can land a solid hit, Martian Man is on me again, his tendrils snapping around my throat like whips.

I snarl, tearing through them with raw strength, but the moment I break free, Aquarius is there. His water jets were waning, I sidestepped the wall of water and sent a lethal one-two punch to Aquarius's chest that left no room for survival. Following up with a quick stomp to his skull sealed his fate. 

"You bastard!" Immortal roars, his eyes burning with rage, with justice. "You'll pay for this!"

I grin through bloody teeth. "No."

It only took three hits to realize Immortal was just a name.

Then I drive my good hand through his throat.

His roar gurgles into a wheeze. He still tries to fight, his hands clawing at my face, but his strength is failing. I squeeze. His spine snaps.

I tear his head from his shoulders.

War Woman lunges, screaming in fury.

She swings her mace, but I sidestep, letting it whistle past my face. My broken arm is still healing, but I don't need it. I grab her by the wrist and twist—she gasps as her shoulder dislocates. I slam my knee into her stomach, lifting her off the ground.

Her eyes meet mine—full of rage, full of defiance. She tries to spit blood in my face.

I punch a hole through her chest.

She coughs once, breath hitching, then slumps forward. Dead.

Silence.

The room is a slaughterhouse. The air is thick with blood, the stench of ruptured organs, the hum of death.

I stagger. My body is broken—ribs shattered, arm barely usable, blood pouring from cuts all over my face. The Guardians fought me. They nearly had me. 

I take a breath. Dizzy. The world tilts. My knees buckle.

I collapse.

The last thing I see is the ruined corpses around me before darkness takes me.

---

The night pressed down on Mark like a weight he couldn't shake. Sleep had been a fleeting thing since that night—since his powers came, baptized in blood. He could still feel it, the way his fist had gone through that man's body like he was made of paper. The heat of the blood, the sound—wet, final. His stomach churned. 

He sat up, rubbing his face. His sheets clung to his sweat-damp skin. The alarm clock glowed.

3:42 AM.

His parents were asleep. He needed to move. 

Sliding out of bed, Mark crept to his window and pushed it open. The night air was crisp, cutting through the haze in his mind. Without thinking, he stepped onto the ledge and let himself fall. For a split second, his body obeyed gravity—then he stopped, hovering, a breath away from the ground. 

Okay. 

He didn't think about it before, but his body was different now. Stronger, faster—lighter. He wasn't just powerful, he was precise. His balance was sharper than ever like his body understood movement in a way it never had before. 

He bent his knees and kicked off the ground. Not flying, just jumping. Higher than he meant to. He twisted midair, correcting himself, and landed in a crouch. His breath came slow. Controlled. 

Mark pushed off again—higher, faster. His body rotated naturally, adjusting in the air. A backflip, but weightless. He floated at the apex, then tucked in, rolling into another flip before landing soundlessly. 

His chest rose and fell. 

He did it again. And again. 

A side aerial. A punch-front. A twisting layout. The kind of thing gymnasts trained years to perfect—he could do them instinctively, his body snapping through the air, hovering, adjusting. 

Then he went higher. 

By the time he reached the rooftop, he was moving like second nature, pushing past what should've been possible, twisting, flipping, landing without effort. He barely needed to think anymore—his body just moved, reacting perfectly, fluid, like he was meant to be in the air. 

For a moment, it almost felt good. 

Until the blood crept back in. The sound. The way it felt when he hit that man. 

Mark exhaled, shaking the thoughts away. Not now. 

His feet barely touched the roof before he jumped again.

---

Mark stepped through the school's front doors, the din of morning chatter washing over him. Three days ago, this place had felt normal. Now, the walls pressed in, the voices too loud, his senses stretched too thin. Every footstep felt heavier than before, the ground somehow more fragile beneath him.

"Dude, where the hell have you been?" William's voice cut through the noise.

Mark turned, finding his best friend grinning like he always did. The sight should have felt reassuring, but something in Mark hesitated. Was he even the same person William had last seen?

"Just—been dealing with stuff."

William studied him, grin fading just enough. "Yeah? You okay?"

Mark exhaled. "I don't know."

William didn't press. Just gave him a pat on the back and motioned down the hall. "Come on. I'll get the lunch ladies to hook us up. We're getting breakfast. You look like you need it."

The two of them moved through the halls together, Mark catching fragments of conversations. Some students threw him passing glances, murmurs of "Wasn't he out sick?" and "Didn't he get his ass kicked?" reaching his ears. He ignored them. They didn't matter.

Then, Amber Bennett leaned against her locker, talking to a friend. She caught his eye before he could look away, her expression shifting—curiosity flickering into something sharper. Interest. Amusement.

"Mark Grayson."

She said his name like she was testing it, like she could taste something different in the way it sounded now. He stopped, William hovering beside him, clearly intrigued.

"You disappeared," Amber continued, crossing her arms. "I was starting to think you moved."

Mark shrugged. "Something like that."

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing just slightly. He knew that look—like she was trying to see past whatever mask he wore. He used to be just some guy. Now, something about him had changed, and she could sense it.

"Let me guess." She tapped her chin, mock-serious. "You ran off to train in a secret underground fight club."

Mark huffed a laugh. "Not quite."

Amber smirked. "Shame. I could've used a sparring partner."

There was something about the way she said it. A glint in her eye, the slightest shift in her weight, like she was used to sizing people up. Mark felt his pulse tick up. He wasn't sure why until she added, almost offhandedly, "My sister always said knowing how to throw a punch was important. Never know when you'll need it."

That was the second time she had mentioned a sister. The first had been months ago, some offhand comment about "family business." 

He didn't say anything, but Amber watched him a second longer before pulling out a pen and scribbling something on his hand.

"Call me sometime, mystery man," she said before slipping past him, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air.

William let out a low whistle. "Dude."

Mark blinked at the number on his palm. His mouth felt dry. "Yeah."

Then, the moment shattered.

A voice—too familiar, too loud.

"Grayson."

Mark turned. Todd stood at the end of the hall, flanked by his usual crowd, his grin mean and eager.

"Didn't think you'd come back," Todd said, cracking his knuckles. "Figured you'd be too embarrassed after I wrecked your shit."

William muttered, "Christ, this guy."

Mark didn't move. The last time Todd had laid hands on him, he'd felt powerless. Weak. Now—

Todd swung.

Mark didn't dodge. Didn't flinch. The fist connected with his cheek, a dull thud echoing through the hallway. Gasps rose around them.

Mark barely felt it.

Todd stepped back, shaking his hand. He winced. Confused. "What the hell?"

Mark exhaled slowly. He could hit him. He could end this right now.

One punch. That was all it would take.

The world went red, Mark's fists clenched and the weight of his strength coiled in his muscles, dangerous and waiting. The realization made his stomach churn. He wasn't scared of Todd. He was scared of himself.

So he did nothing.

Todd scowled, shoving him hard, but Mark barely shifted. He wasn't a person to Todd anymore—he was a wall. Unmoving. Unshakable.

The bell rang. The crowd hesitated, then slowly drifted away. Todd lingered a second longer, then scoffed. "Freak."

He stormed off, shaking out his bruised knuckles.

William gave Mark a sidelong glance. "That was… something."

Mark just stared at his hands, flexing his fingers. He still felt Todd's punch—more like pressure than pain.

Amber's number smudged slightly across his palm. He traced the ink, grounding himself in the simple reality of it. Of her.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "It was."

— 

Amber's breath caught when Todd's fist hit Mark's jaw. It wasn't the sound—though that was hard enough to make her flinch—but the way Mark didn't even flinch. She could see the muscles in his neck tighten, but that was all. His stance was steady, his posture perfect, and he didn't take a step back, didn't move at all. The punch bounced off him like it was nothing, and Todd followed up with another, then another. Mark absorbed each blow with a strange sort of ease that made Amber's skin tighten. There was no panic in him, no flailing, just this... unnerving stillness.

It reminded her of the calm before a storm, like a predator waiting for its prey to make a mistake. There was something dangerous in the way he held himself. Something cold, controlled. Amber's chest tightened, the air thick with a subtle tension that clung to her skin. She swallowed hard, her pulse suddenly racing faster than it should have. Every punch Todd threw felt like it was landing on her, too. The force, the intensity, made her heart skip, and she wasn't even the one being hit.

Her fingers flexed, restless. She wanted to move. Wanted to act—but this time, there was no rush. Mark didn't need her. He was... unshakable. And Amber hated how her breath hitched in her throat, how she couldn't look away from him. Her eyes tracked the way his chest rose and fell, his steady breathing, like he was almost bored with Todd's attacks. His jaw was clenched, but not in pain. No, it was something else—a focus. His eyes locked onto Todd with a cold precision, like he was waiting for Todd to realize something she already knew: it didn't matter what Todd did, he wasn't going to make Mark flinch. Not even an inch.

When Todd stopped, backing away with a frustrated growl, Amber could feel her body flush with something she didn't quite recognize. There was a quickening heat in her belly, a flush creeping up her neck. She couldn't help the way her eyes lingered on Mark. His chest was broad, his posture... immovable. He was a wall. A force. He wasn't someone you could break. And the way he stood there, calm and collected, as though Todd's punches were nothing, it stirred something inside her—a mix of admiration, maybe even awe. But also something sharper. Something darker.

She felt the weight of his presence even as the fight ended, her senses heightened. A presence that wasn't just Mark... something else was in the air. It was a familiarity, but she couldn't quite place it. Amber shifted, eyes darting to the shadows, a subtle shift in her body—a reflex. She'd been trained for moments like this, moments when you couldn't trust the quiet. There was something else here, something lurking just beyond the edges of her perception.

But then her gaze snapped back to Mark. The way his body was still, his broad shoulders relaxed, as if he'd been waiting for something to happen. A part of her wanted to feel relief, but there was no relief when it came to Mark. Just... a strange sort of pull. A curiosity that burned low in her gut. He didn't need saving this time. He didn't need anyone. He wasn't the guy who'd stumbled in the hallway before, not anymore. No, this Mark... this Mark was something else entirely.

And she knew, in that moment, she was seeing him in a light she hadn't expected—a light that made her chest tighten with a different kind of heat, made her want to reach out, touch him, to see if he was really as untouchable as he seemed. But she didn't. She couldn't. She barely knew what she was feeling, let alone why.