More Than a Suit

Mark shifted his weight, restless but trying to remain still as Art moved the measuring tape around his shoulders, his hands moving with practiced precision. The tape tightened, then loosened as it slipped over his waist. Art's eyes flicked up and down Mark's frame, taking in the details of the young man before him.

Mark was tall—at least six foot four—but still growing into himself. His shoulders were broad, the muscles just beginning to fill out. There was strength there, hidden beneath the uncertainty that clung to him. His limbs were long and lean, a little gangly but undeniably strong. Mark had the kind of presence that would only grow more imposing with time. 

Art couldn't help but take in the power beneath the surface. His eyes traveled down to Mark's hands—big, callused fingers, yet careful as he flexed them unconsciously at his sides. Hands that looked like they could crush stone, but Art had seen men like that before. Few carried their power so quietly, though.

The kid wasn't bulky—not yet. But Art knew better than to write him off. His chest, broad but still raw, would fill out in time. Mark had the frame for it. The kind of body that would command attention in a fight, and more importantly, create a hell of a silhouette under a superhero suit. It wasn't about being big. It was about being strong and precise.

"So," Art muttered, his voice cutting through the silence, "you got a name yet?"

Mark hesitated, just for a moment, but the weight of the question seemed to settle around him. "Sentry."

Art raised an eyebrow, a sly smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. "Sentry, huh? Been thinking about that for a while?"

Mark nodded, his jaw tightening as he spoke with more confidence. "Since I was a kid. It always felt right. Someone who stands watch, who protects. The Invincible Sentry." His fists clenched, grounding himself in the name. The title wasn't just something to wear—it was a part of who he was becoming.

Art smirked, glancing at Mark with a knowing tilt of his head. "Not bad. Bit dramatic, but it fits."

Mark exhaled, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I was thinking black for the suit. Sleek, form-fitting—something that doesn't get in the way. But I don't want it to be boring. Maybe some red accents. Not too much, just enough to break it up."

Art hummed thoughtfully, already picturing the design. "And the emblem?"

Mark's fingers traced an invisible shape over his chest as if seeing it there already. His eyes focused on the spot, his voice quieter but more determined. "A bold red symbol, right in the center. Strong, simple—something people remember."

Art chuckled, a knowing glint in his eyes. "You sound like your dad."

Mark's posture stiffened at the mention, his jaw clenching just a little tighter. "Yeah, I guess."

Art studied him for a beat, sensing the shift in Mark's mood. Then, he patted Mark's shoulder with a firm, reassuring touch. "Alright, kid. Let's make you something worth remembering."

The words hung in the air, a quiet promise that Mark could almost feel settling into his bones. He stood a little taller, his shoulders squared, as though the weight of the name—and the suit—were starting to settle on him. It wasn't just about looking good anymore. This was becoming something bigger than himself. He wasn't just a kid in a tailor's shop. He was becoming Sentry. 

The world would remember that name. He could see it in the way Mark held himself now. This was just the beginning.

"Alright, kid. Let's make you something worth remembering." 

---

The air was heavy with tension as Mark wiped the blood from his lips. He barely noticed the sting. His head spun, his ribs felt like they were on fire from the blow Nolan had delivered earlier. But he wasn't about to give in. Not yet. 

"You've got to move faster," Nolan barked, his tone colder than ever. "Move like you mean it."

Mark swallowed hard, forcing his feet to stay rooted to the ground. He could feel the pulse of his own blood in his ears, the weight of the memory hanging on his every movement. The first time he'd used his powers—accidentally killed someone. The man had been smaller, weaker, and Mark hadn't realized the extent of his strength. The moment the man's neck snapped, the sickening sound had made Mark's stomach churn. The blood had been on his hands, his fault.

He could still feel it. The blood, the guilt.

But Nolan wasn't giving him the luxury of time to dwell on it. The brutal training session continued, each hit a reminder of his shortcomings. Mark's fingers trembled as he wiped the sweat from his brow, the lingering terror clawing at the edges of his mind. 

Nolan lunged at him again, faster than Mark could react. His father's fist slammed into Mark's chest, sending him crashing to the dirt. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, the pain reverberating through his ribs like a shockwave. Mark gasped for air, his chest heaving as he struggled to push himself off the ground.

He could feel the panic starting to creep in, the same fear that had gripped him the first time he'd killed. The same fear that he might not be able to control himself. But he forced it back. I have to move forward.

Mark sprang to his feet with a savage roar, using the training he had honed in gymnastics—the twisting, the flips, the perfect use of his body to defy gravity. He shot upward, his body moving faster than he had ever thought possible. His muscles screamed in protest, but he ignored it, pushing past the pain.

With a twist, Mark dove toward Nolan, using his momentum to try and land a blow. He couldn't think; he just acted, relying on his instincts to guide him. His fist connected with Nolan's shoulder, a glancing blow that barely made his father flinch. Mark's eyes widened, shock pulsing through him—he was too weak. He wasn't ready.

Before he could react, Nolan grabbed his arm with terrifying speed, twisting it behind his back. Mark gritted his teeth, resisting the pain as his father held him in a bone-crushing grip. He tried to break free, but Nolan's hold was unyielding.

"Again," Nolan growled. "Again, and harder."

Mark's mind raced, but his body was already moving. The gymnast's training kicked in once more. He pivoted on his feet, using his legs to launch himself backward, flipping in midair. He didn't have much time. Nolan was coming for him. Mark reached for the air, his body spinning, arms extended like a weapon, hoping to catch Nolan off guard.

It was a risky move. But the blood from his mouth tasted like fire, the pain in his ribs was nothing compared to the anguish gnawing at his gut—the fear that this time, he wouldn't be able to stop himself.

His feet met Nolan's chest with a sickening thud. The force was enough to send his father stumbling back for a brief moment. Mark's hands grabbed the opportunity, pushing off the ground, his legs following as he soared above Nolan's head, using his height to aim a deadly elbow at the back of Nolan's skull. The strike was quick, sharp, but Nolan managed to twist out of the way at the last second. 

The instant Nolan countered, Mark was sent hurtling across the sky, his body crashing into a nearby rock formation. He gritted his teeth as his ribs cracked against the jagged stone. The pain was unbearable, but the rage surged through him. The sound of bones snapping didn't faze him anymore. The memory of his first kill, of the blood staining his hands—that was what drove him now. He wasn't afraid anymore. 

Mark pushed himself up from the debris, his legs shaking, his hands slick with sweat and blood. The power in his limbs was raw, untamed, but there was no stopping it now. His father was relentless, and Mark wasn't going to stop either.

He used every ounce of his training to move, to twist, to fly through the air. His body spun and flipped, controlled chaos in motion. He reached for Nolan, throwing a right hook—this one with enough speed to catch Nolan by surprise. His fist connected with Nolan's jaw, and the sound of bone meeting bone echoed in the air. Mark's own fist was jarred from the impact, the shockwave running up his arm, but he didn't stop. He swung again, and again, each punch driven by the memory of what had happened, by the weight of the blood on his hands. His heart was pounding. His vision was blurring. 

His body was trembling, battered and bruised, but Mark was still fighting.

A fist the size of a boulder slammed into his stomach, knocking all the air from his lungs. Mark crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath. He couldn't focus. His vision was splitting. The blood from his mouth tasted metallic. 

But through the haze, he saw his father standing above him, watching him closely, as if expecting something more. Mark pushed through the agony, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. He had to keep fighting. He had to get stronger.

"You're not done yet," Nolan's voice was low, almost affectionate—this was his form of praise, his twisted version of teaching. 

Mark swallowed, tasting blood, his body shaking. He couldn't stop now. His fists clenched, his legs tensed. He would not hesitate. The pain was nothing.

Mark pushed off the ground, throwing himself into the air once more, his body moving with a desperation he had never felt before. Every flip, every twist, every dive—it was all or nothing now.

But Nolan was already there, ready for him. As Mark flew toward him again, Nolan's hand lashed out, grabbing his wrist with the strength of a thousand storms. Mark screamed, his arm wrenched painfully behind his back as Nolan yanked him to the ground, slamming him face-first into the dirt. 

The world spun, but Mark didn't give up. He didn't stop.

---

Mark hovered above the rooftop, the sky a vast expanse of darkness around him. His body, already bruised from the brutal training, ached with every movement. But it wasn't the physical pain that kept him grounded—no, it was something far darker. His chest tightened as he forced himself to maintain altitude, muscles burning as though each one was tearing itself apart.

He could feel the power coursing through him, the raw strength in his limbs, the overwhelming speed in his flight. It should've felt exhilarating. He should have reveled in it. But all he felt was wrong. Every time he pushed himself harder, faster, higher, all he could see was the blood on his hands, the bodies he'd left broken in his wake. The guilt gnawed at him. It was his father's legacy, his *curse*, and he couldn't escape it.

Debbie's voice cut through the still night, weak but desperate. "Mark," she called, her voice trembling as she stepped into the open, her gaze locked on him. "Come inside."

Mark didn't respond, his breath ragged as he zoomed through the air, trying to push the pain away with speed, with *power*. The wind stung his face, sharp as glass. He pulled himself into a sharp dive, the world spinning around him, a blur of shadows and flashes of light. It should've felt like freedom. But it didn't. It never did.

"I can't land well," Mark grunted, his voice strained. The words barely escaped his throat, a mixture of frustration and shame. "I can't fly fast enough. I need to be better, Mom. If I'm not... if I don't get this right, I'll be useless. I'll be just like him."

"Mark, you need to sleep," she called out, her tone growing more pleading with each word. "Please, you're pushing yourself too far."

"I need to practice," he snapped, his fists clenching, the words tearing through his throat like acid. His entire body felt like a wire pulled too tight, ready to snap. "I can't stop. If I don't get this under control, if I don't master it, I'll hurt someone again. 

The night air sliced through him as he twisted and turned, performing complex aerial maneuvers, each move more desperate than the last. He pushed himself further, faster, as if the speed would drown out the memories of his own origins—the violence that ran through his blood. His hands tightened, his fingers curling into fists. He felt the strain on his body, the aching burn of overuse, but he ignored it. The only thing that mattered was being better. Stronger.

"Mark, please," Debbie's voice trembled, laced with fear. "Come down. You can't keep doing this. You're destroying yourself."

His jaw tightened, and he gritted his teeth as he flew higher into the dark sky. "Make me," he spat, voice dripping with a bitterness he hadn't meant to unleash. His words cut through the night, sharp as a blade. 

Her voice cracked with exhaustion, but the underlying pain was there, too. "Does it make you feel strong?" she asked, her gaze fixing on him with an intensity that made his stomach churn. "Knowing I can't stop you? Is that what you need? To hurt me? To prove something to yourself?"

Mark stopped midair, his body shaking as he hovered, the wind swirling around him violently. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the weight of her words pressing down on him like a thousand tons. It hurt. He hurt. The pain didn't stop. It never stopped. His hands trembled, and for a split second, he thought he might collapse right there in the air. 

But then the guilt took hold. His father's words echoed in his mind: "Power is meant to be used. Don't hesitate." It wasn't just a voice in his head

"This is important," he muttered, but it was a lie, and he knew it. He wasn't doing this for the world. He was doing it for himself. To prove that he wasn't his father. That he could control his power. That he could make himself responsible for his actions.

"Remember when you were little?" Debbie's voice cracked through the night, filled with both sadness and regret. "We'd talk every night before bed? You'd tell me about your day, about the kids at school... and I'd tell you about my day, my work. It was... normal."

Mark winced. The normalcy of those memories felt like a different lifetime. A lifetime before the powers.

"I can't talk to you while we soar through the clouds," she continued, her voice quiet but heavy with meaning. "But I'm still here. You're not alone in this."

The words hit him harder than any punch could. He wanted to scream, to punch something, to make it all go away, but he couldn't. Because deep down, he knew she was right. He was alone. He had pushed her away. Pushed everyone away. Because he was terrified of hurting her. 

"It used to be you and me," Debbie said, her voice soft but tinged with something deeper. "You and me... and that crazy, world-saving, super-powered father of yours. Now it's you and him, and your boring, old, normal mom."

"I can't be normal anymore," Mark whispered, the words tasting like poison as they left his lips. "I can't go back. I can't just... be him."

Debbie's voice softened, but there was a sadness in it that Mark could feel like a physical blow. "It's okay, sweetheart. I get it. You have to move away from the normal life with me. You have to get used to being... something more." She swallowed hard. "But that doesn't mean you have to forget who you are. You don't have to lose yourself in the process."

Mark hesitated, his fists shaking at his sides. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to be the boy she still saw in him, the one who could be something good. But every time he looked at his hands, he saw blood. Every time he flew, he saw destruction.

"I just... I don't know how to stop," Mark murmured, his voice cracking. He turned away from her, his form silhouetted against the endless, cold sky. "I thought... being a hero would feel different, Mom. I'm sorry."

The words left him feeling hollow, but the weight of them hung in the air like a broken promise. His powers. The blood. The destruction. He could still see the lifeless eyes of the man he killed. He could still hear the sickening crack of his bones breaking. His fists clenched tightly, nails biting into his palms, but it didn't erase the guilt, the regret, or the feeling that he wasn't doing enough. That he was too broken to be what everyone thought he should be. What he thought he should be.

Debbie's hand reached out, trembling, like she was trying to bridge the distance between them. "Mark, you don't have to—"

"I have to," Mark interrupted, his voice raw with emotion. He met her gaze, eyes hard, but filled with pain. "I can't ignore this anymore. The world needs someone like me. I need to be that person. Even if it... it scares me to my core. I can't keep pretending like everything's fine. I can't pretend I'm not different." 

His gaze drifted to the horizon, his thoughts spiraling. "I remember what I did. The guy I killed. I didn't mean to. I never wanted to hurt anyone. But I couldn't stop. I didn't understand my own strength. And now I feel like it's too late to go back." His voice was barely a whisper now. "I remember the blood... on my hands. The mess I made."

Debbie took a step forward, her heart breaking as she heard his words, but she didn't pull away. Her eyes were full of something stronger than worry—understanding. "Mark... those moments... they don't define you. What defines you is what you do next. You can't save everyone, but you can save the ones in front of you. And that's where your focus has to be."

Debbie stood firm, her voice unwavering despite the raw emotion churning in her chest. "You're not a god, Mark. You're human. And being human... means you have limits. But you also have the ability to change. Every single day. You focus on the ones you can save. The ones you can make a difference for. Stop torturing yourself over the ones you couldn't. You'll drown in it."

Mark's eyes flickered with a mix of anger and sorrow. "But what if it's not enough? What if I lose control again? What if I hurt more people?"

Debbie reached out, her hand resting on his arm. "Then you learn from it. You take responsibility. But you don't let it destroy you. You're not the same scared kid who didn't know his own strength. You've grown, Mark. You've already come farther than most. You're learning. Every day. To be better."

Mark's jaw clenched, a deep anger welling up inside him. Not at her, but at the world. At his powers. At himself. "I'll never be the same. I'll never forget what I've done. I'm not even sure I want to forget."

Debbie's eyes softened, and she stepped closer, her voice gentle but firm. "And you don't have to forget. But you do have to move forward. You can't change the past, Mark. But you can make every day count. You can fight. You can save the people you can. And you will. You'll get better. Every day."

Her words sank into him like a heavy weight, but this time it didn't crush him. It steadied him. He didn't know if he could ever truly forgive himself, but he could keep going. He could keep fighting.

Mark looked out at the stars, feeling the overwhelming weight of responsibility on his shoulders. But instead of pushing him down, it fueled something inside him—something that burned with raw intensity. *He could do this. He could be the hero he was meant to be. He would fight for the people who needed him—every day.*

"I won't stop, Mom. I can't. I won't let the past define me. I'll save who I can, and I'll become better. Every day."

Debbie's eyes filled with tears, but there was a pride there that ran deeper than words. "You are better than you know. I've always believed that."

Mark nodded, taking a deep breath. He didn't have all the answers, and the darkness was always there, gnawing at him. But he was ready to move forward. He was ready to fight for the people who needed him. Not for the ones he couldn't save, but for the ones he could.

With every day, he would strive to be better. To be the hero he knew he could be. And maybe, just maybe, he'd stop looking at his mistakes and focus on the ones he could still save.