Worlds Collide

The battlefield was a grotesque painting of death. Blood, gore, and mangled bodies scattered across the debris like broken dolls, strewn in angles that should never be seen by the living. Every breath I took was thick with the stench of violence. But this? This was beyond anything we had ever dealt with.

I stood there, frozen for a moment, as the tech-troopers swarmed in like ants, scrambling over the carnage. But it didn't matter. None of it mattered. The heroes, the hope they represented—they were gone, reduced to nothing but broken, lifeless husks.

"Clear!" One of the medics shouted, but it was more of a routine than a command. I could see the panic beneath their practiced motions. These weren't their usual casualties. This was a massacre.

Red Rush's body was the first one I laid eyes on. His skull was caved in, a single brutal blow that left his head barely hanging on to his neck. His body lay twisted, and his blood seeped into the ground beneath him, a pool of crimson in the dirt. Darkwing... the remnants of his face were gone. It was as though a bomb had gone off inside his skull. No eyes, no nose, just a grotesque pulp of what had been a person. Green Ghost's body, torn in half, blood pouring from the shredded edges. Her insides spilled out like a grotesque diorama, twisted in ways no human body should ever be.

Martian Man wasn't much better. His tendrils wrapped around him like a last, futile attempt at life, but his chest was crushed. His face, unrecognizable. His limbs were contorted, broken beyond repair. He wasn't coming back from this. The medics didn't even bother touching him. They knew. He was gone.

Aquarius didn't even get the luxury of a last breath. The two punches to his chest had obliterated his ribcage, splintered his bones into shards that punctured his lungs, his heart. His body sagged like a ragdoll, but it was the stomp to his skull that sealed the deal. His head caved in under the pressure, the sickening crunch audible even through the chaos. The paramedics stood frozen for a moment, unable to comprehend the savagery.

Immortal's body... Christ. His throat was pierced by a hand that ripped through him like paper. The spine snapped, audibly, and his head—his fucking head—tore from his body like it was a toy. A clean, brutal severing. There wasn't even blood left in his neck, just a spray of red that painted the dirt around him. The medics didn't even try to revive him. He was too far gone.

War Woman... she was still intact, but barely. Her wrist twisted backward like a pretzel, the bones sticking out of her skin. Her shoulder hung limp and dislocated. Her knee was shattered. She was still breathing, barely. I could hear the desperate, wheezing gasps as she fought for air that wouldn't come. But it was over for her too. She was too far gone.

And then there was him. Omni-Man.

He was still alive.

He shouldn't have been. After everything that had just happened, how the hell was he still standing? Blood coated him from head to toe, some of it his, some of it not. He looked like a walking corpse himself—his once-pristine uniform torn and stained, his face battered, with bruises forming under his eyes and his jawline swollen. His breathing was labored, ragged, but there was still a pulse beneath that bloodied exterior.

The medics approach him immediately. Omni-Man's injuries were severe, I could see them preparing to move him, to get him the care he needed.

"Get him to the hospital, now," Cecil's voice cut through the air. It was calm, but there was an edge to it. A command that left no room for argument.

Omni-Man's body was carefully lifted onto a stretcher, his battered form unconscious and broken. His breaths were shallow, and his blood soaked through the stretcher as they rushed him to the waiting transport. It was the last shred of hope they had left—getting him to medical attention before it was too late.

I watched as they carried him away, the sound of the medics' hurried footsteps fading into the distance. The destruction, the carnage, still lay heavy on my mind. The others—those who had fallen—were beyond help, but Omni-Man, against all odds, still had a chance.

The medics were doing what they could, but whether it would be enough, only time would tell. The battlefield was littered with the broken remnants of what had been heroes, but Omni-Man? He was the last one standing, and he was still alive.

---

The report was blunt, delivered with a precision only someone like Donald Sebastian could manage. He stood in the command room, facing Cecil as the room's atmosphere hung heavy with the weight of what had transpired. Donald's voice was steady, but there was an unmistakable coldness, a detachment that came with the grim task at hand.

"Cecil," Donald began, his tone measured. "I've reviewed the situation, and I'm afraid the casualties are catastrophic. The team is all but gone, and the only one still alive—barely—is Omni-Man."

He paused for a moment, gauging Cecil's reaction before continuing.

"Red Rush," Donald started, flipping through the data. "His body was the first we found. His skull was caved in. The impact was so severe there wasn't a chance for recovery. It was a single blow, but that blow ended everything. His body was left twisted in a way that... no one could survive."

He felt the weight of the words, but pushed forward.

"Darkwing," he continued, grimacing as the image of the hero's mangled remains flashed before his mind. "We couldn't even identify him at first. His face was obliterated—reduced to a pulp. A bomb going off inside his skull wouldn't have done worse. There was no recognition left in him, nothing that could be salvaged. It was beyond anything we've seen."

Donald felt a brief moment of disgust, but continued, his voice unwavering.

"Green Ghost... She was... torn in half," Donald reported, his expression hardened. "Her insides were exposed in a grotesque way. What should have been a body capable of healing was reduced to a gruesome, inhuman display. Blood, organs, all spilled out—unrecognizable, beyond repair."

The look on Cecil's face didn't change, but Donald could tell that the devastation was sinking in. He pushed forward.

"Martian Man," he said, his voice slightly strained. "His chest was crushed beyond recognition. His limbs were bent at angles no one could recover from. The medics didn't even bother trying. The body was crushed too severely—nothing to work with. His tendrils were wrapped around him in a futile attempt to survive, but it was over for him before we even found him."

He could see the tension on Cecil's face, but Donald had long been past the point of shock. He just had to finish this.

"Aquarius," he said, his voice colder than before. "Two punches. That's all it took. His ribcage was shattered. The force of it splintered his bones and punctured his heart. His skull was stomped in with such brutality that it was difficult to even recognize the remains as human. There was nothing left to save."

He let that sit for a moment before moving on.

"Immortal," Donald continued, his voice grim. "He was ripped apart. His throat was pierced—easily, almost casually. His spine was snapped, and his head was severed clean from his body. The medics didn't even try. It wasn't just a death. It was an execution. Too far gone. No chance."

Donald's eyes narrowed, his expression hardening as he finished the last of the fallen heroes.

"War Woman," he spoke with grim finality. "She was still alive when we found her. Barely. Her wrist was twisted backward, the bones sticking through her skin. Her shoulder was dislocated, and her knee was shattered. She was still breathing when we moved her, but it was a hollow, labored gasp. She died before we could even stabilize her. The body—ruined. The pain, unbearable. She wasn't going to make it."

Donald stopped for a moment, making sure Cecil took it all in. It was grim, everything he had said, but there was no time for hesitation. No time for sentimentality.

"And then there's Omni-Man," Donald said, his voice lowering. "He shouldn't be alive. He was covered in blood—most of it his own. His uniform was torn to shreds. His face... barely recognizable from the swelling. His breathing is shallow, and it's a miracle he's still conscious. The medics rushed in, but it's not looking good. His injuries are severe, and I'm not sure how much time he has left. I doubt he'll recover fully from this. But for now... he's alive. That's the one shred of hope we have left. The rest... it's a massacre. Everyone else is gone, Cecil."

There was a long pause before Donald continued, his voice quieter now.

"Cecil, we've lost the team. This isn't just a failure—this is a complete annihilation. No one has ever seen anything like this. The enemy... whoever they are... they came in with a level of violence we couldn't counter. The heroes, the ones we relied on—they're gone. All that's left is a broken landscape and one man... who might not survive."

Donald looked directly at Cecil, his face an impassive mask.

"I'll keep monitoring Omni-Man's condition, but we need to consider our next steps carefully. The team we had—their sacrifices were in vain. There's nothing left to salvage. Only one remains... and even that is hanging by a thread."

He let that last bit settle in the air.

"You asked for the truth. This is it. We've been crushed, Cecil."

--- 

The backyard was quiet except for the rustling of wind through the trees and the soft thud of sneakers against the grass. Mark hovered a few inches above the ground, the tips of his bare feet brushing the blades of grass as he practiced his aerial gymnastics, effortlessly twisting and flipping through the air. His movements were fluid, almost too graceful for someone his size, but his powers—his Viltrumite strength, his ability to fly—made it seem effortless.

Debbie watched from the kitchen window, a quiet knot of worry twisting in her gut. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something had felt off all morning. It was as though the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. Nolan didn't come home last night—something she had been trying not to think about—but the gnawing feeling wouldn't go away.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. Still early. She tried to force herself to calm down, but every time her eyes flicked back to Mark outside, the knot tightened.

She turned away from the window and walked toward the living room, trying to distract herself. The house was still and quiet. Mark's practice had always been a source of comfort—until now. But today it felt like an eerie soundtrack, a reminder that something was coming. Something she didn't want to face.

As she walked back toward the window, trying to ignore the deepening sense of dread, she froze. Through the pane of glass, she saw two men—GDA agents—walking up to the front door. Their movements were calculated, their suits too crisp and perfect. They were official. Dangerous. Their presence sent a chill down her spine.

Debbie's heart skipped a beat. She hadn't been expecting them. Not today. Not like this.

She rushed to the door, her breath coming a little faster now. Mark's voice drifted in from outside, a half-laugh as he executed a particularly difficult flip. But it was distant. A small part of her was grateful for the noise—anything to drown out the pounding in her chest.

She opened the door just a crack and peered through. The agents didn't knock. They didn't need to. Their posture, their stance said everything. They were here on business, and it wasn't good.

She stepped out, just as one of them raised his hand to knock. The agent's eyes flicked up to her, cold, emotionless. He was tall, his expression unreadable beneath the dark lenses of his sunglasses.

"Mrs. Grayson," the agent said, his voice low but firm. "We need to speak with you. It's urgent."

Debbie swallowed hard. A heavy lump lodged in her throat. "What's going on? What do you need?"

The agent glanced over her shoulder. "We need to speak with you and Mark. It's about Nolan."

Debbie's blood ran cold at the mention of his name. Her breath hitched. She didn't even need to ask more—she could feel it in the air. The moment she heard "Nolan," she knew.

"Is he—" Her voice cracked, but she steadied herself, forcing the words out. "Is he okay?"

The agent hesitated. For just a second. A single beat. But it was enough.

"We don't have time for this, ma'am," he replied curtly, his tone unwavering. "We need you to come with us. Now."

Debbie felt the walls close in. Her heart was racing now, her mind scrambling for a reason—any reason—to tell them no. But she couldn't. She had no choice.

Before she could say anything else, Mark's voice called out from the backyard. "Mom? What's going on?"

The agents turned their heads in unison, eyes narrowing. Their gaze shifted between Debbie and Mark, who was now hovering just above the grass, his eyes scanning the yard. His casual flight, the way he seemed to glide through the air like it was second nature—it made him seem untouchable, yet it made everything feel more real.

"Mark!" Debbie shouted, a thin tremor in her voice. "Get down here. Now!"

The agents didn't flinch as Mark descended gracefully to the ground, his expression still confused but growing more alert as he saw the GDA agents standing in front of his mother.

"Is everything okay?" Mark asked, trying to read the tension in the air.

Debbie turned to him, her face pale, her hands shaking slightly as she reached for his arm. "Mark... it's your father."

Mark's blood ran cold. He knew. He could see it in her eyes, the way her words hit the air like stones. He could hear the silence that followed.

"Where is he?" Mark asked, his voice suddenly low, dangerous.

"Come with us," the agent said again, his tone unyielding. "We need you both to come with us. Now."

Debbie gripped Mark's arm tighter, her fingers digging into his sleeve, a silent plea for him to understand. But Mark was already moving, walking toward the agents with purpose. His body was tense, his jaw set hard. His mind was racing.

They didn't need to explain anymore. Mark knew it was bad. Worse than bad.

The GDA agents turned without another word, leading the way to the black SUV parked on the curb. Debbie stayed close to Mark, her steps hesitant, like she was walking toward a funeral, but Mark's eyes never left the agents. The GDA was not here to protect—they were here to contain. To manage the fallout.

Mark's gut twisted. 

And everything was about to change.

---

Mark stood frozen at the threshold of the sterile, cold room. His heart hammered in his chest, every beat a heavy, suffocating echo in his ears. His gaze fell onto the figure lying motionless before him, a figure he could barely recognize as his father. The machines hummed around the room, their beeping and whirring the only sound, a sharp contrast to the quiet devastation that filled the air.

Omni-Man, once an unstoppable force, now lay in a state of unconsciousness, his body still bearing the marks of the brutal battle that had brought him to this point. His form, though battered, retained a semblance of the god-like power that had once made him the pinnacle of strength. 

His chest bore the marks of his struggle, with a few deep bruises and cuts that ran along his torso. Though his ribs had been bruised and cracked, they hadn't shattered completely. One side of his body bore the faintest indentation, a reminder of the force that had impacted him. The cuts across his chest were significant but not life-threatening, bleeding sluggishly as though his body was still in the process of healing.

His arm, though not entirely functional, remained strong and muscular, though it had been left in an awkward angle from the trauma. His hand hung limply at his side, fingers slightly curled, the skin showing only minor tears from the force of the blows he'd sustained. The deep tissue had been bruised, but there was no serious damage.

It was his face that still conveyed the remnants of his past power, even as it showed signs of injury. His once-proud features were swollen, discolored, and battered, but his identity remained undeniable. Blood had leaked from his nose and mouth, staining his chin in dark streaks, though it had slowed to a trickle. His eyes were shut, but the faint flutter of his eyelids suggested the faintest sign of life, though the coma had taken hold of him. His shallow, uneven breaths were the only indication that he was still alive, though it was clear his body was in deep recovery. 

His neck and veins appeared tense, bulging faintly with the strain of his unconscious state. Despite the damage, his form still held an undeniable presence—powerful, if not entirely invincible. His body remained unmoving, yet even in this weakened state, Omni-Man's form spoke to the sheer magnitude of what he had once been.

Mark's throat tightened as he stepped forward. His mind struggled to reconcile the image before him with the larger-than-life figure he'd spent his entire life worshipping. The man who had made Mark believe that there was nothing, no one, who could defeat him. 

Yet here he was—reduced to this. A barely breathing wreck. 

His father's face twitched, a slight wince of pain crossing it, but he remained unconscious. He was in a coma. This wasn't some brutal fight where he had been defeated by another being. No, this was something worse. This was the aftermath of a battle he had lost to his own body. The man who had stood at the top of the universe had been reduced to a fragile, battered shell, incapable of even defending himself from the wounds that had torn his body apart.

Mark's body tensed, fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, but the anger wasn't there. Not like he expected. It was something else. Something more painful, more hollow. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks—this wasn't just a defeat. This was a death sentence. It wasn't the end of a battle. It was the end of everything his father had been. And as he stood there, watching his father's weak breaths, Mark realized that nothing would ever be the same again.

---

"Cecil, we've got a situation downtown. Alien invasion incoming. Multiple contacts. Heavy weaponry. Multiple casualties. It's happening now. We're understaffed."

Mark heard those words—alien invasion—but his mind didn't process them. Not yet. Not while everything inside him felt like it was about to burst. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, the pressure of the situation too much to bear.

And then, like a weight lifting, the words hit him: Multiple casualties. His chest tightened. His breath quickened. His pulse surged. He needed something. Someone to hit.

The need for action, for release, flooded him. His eyes snapped open, his gaze hardened. He couldn't just stand here and let the rage burn him alive.

"I'm going," Mark muttered, his voice low and cold, barely a whisper.

He didn't look at Cecil, didn't wait for a response. All he could think of was getting away from this room, from the pain of seeing his father like this. From the guilt. He needed to do something.

Before Cecil could even respond, Mark was out of the door, already soaring into the air. His body trembled with a mix of adrenaline and rage as he pushed himself forward, his mind still clouded by the echoes of his father's broken body.

The alien invasion could burn the city to the ground for all Mark cared right now. He wasn't going to wait. He was going to fight, and for once, he was going to do it for himself—for the release of the fury that had been festering inside of him.

Meanwhile, Donald turned back to the tablet, his brow furrowed. He quickly relayed the situation to Cecil, his voice more urgent now, as he updated him on Mark's departure.

"Cecil, Mark's already gone. He's heading downtown. 

"Let's see what he is made of," Cecil said looking back at the monitor.