Chapter 1369 - 3

Chapter 1: The King of L.A.

You ever notice how villains always pick scenic locations to get their asses kicked?

Rooftops. Bridges. Beach piers. It's like they're auditioning for their own funeral.

Take tonight, for example. Sunset on the Santa Monica Pier. The Ferris wheel's glowing like a Christmas tree, tourists are screaming, and I'm currently dodging a barrage of mustard packets fired at supersonic speed.

Yeah. Mustard.

Because the guy trying to kill me?

Condiment King.

"You've met your match, false king!" he yells, brandishing what looks like a dual ketchup-and-mustard Uzi. "No one escapes my tangy wrath!"

I hover in the air, arms crossed. "You said that like it's supposed to be intimidating."

He fires again — splatters of yellow and red paint the air like a food fight from hell. I lazily pivot, letting the streaks whiz past me. One hits a trash can and sizzles through the metal. Okay, mildly impressive. Still stupid.

"Is that… acid mustard?" I ask, genuinely curious.

Condiment King grins beneath his helmet, the kind of grin that says 'I practiced this in the mirror.' "Secret recipe!"

"Right," I mutter. "Because that's what the world needed. Diabolical Dijon."

He yells and fires again, this time unloading both barrels in a glorious spray. Behind me, the Ferris wheel crowd gasps — phones are up, recording everything. I catch sight of myself in a dozen live streams on the reflection of the pier's windows.

Gotta give the algorithm something to chew on.

So I go for the flourish.

With one hand, I catch both ketchup streams midair — a ripple of heat flashes off my palm as I vaporize the sauce. The air smells like burnt tomatoes and ego. Then, just because I can, I spin forward in a clean arc, drop low, and sweep his legs out from under him.

He hits the pier with a satisfying thud, condiment tanks clattering.

"Look, man," I say, crouching beside him. "You're clearly committed. I respect the brand. But maybe next time, pick a theme that doesn't make people crave fast food? Obesity's an epidemic in this country."

He tries to lunge. I tap his chest — not hard, just enough to knock the wind out of him — and he's out cold.

Cue the applause from the bystanders.

I stand, brush a streak of ketchup off my armor (platinum gleam, by the way — custom job, took forever to source), and turn toward the crowd.

A few kids are cheering. Someone shouts, "KING!" and another, "DO THE POSE!"

I sigh through my helmet. "They really love that pose."

Still, I give it to them — one knee bent, fist to the ground, cape fluttering in the sea breeze. The classic. Every camera flashes at once.

Can't lie. It feels good.

...​

You know, I didn't mean to become the hero of L.A. It just sort of happened.

City didn't have one — Superman's got Metropolis, Batman's got Gotham, Flash has Central City. L.A. had Instagram models and traffic cops.

So, I filled the void. Mostly because I live here now. Not for fame. Not for money.

…Okay, maybe a little for fame.

But I do the job right. Keep the property damage under a million per fight, no collateral, smile for the kids. All in a day's work for the guy who can break the sound barrier before breakfast.

Speaking of which — my armor? Custom-made. Platinum alloy mixed with a few trace elements I found mining asteroids in the Kuiper Belt. Took months. No Beskar, no Vibranium. Just me, a plasma cutter, and way too much time to think about my ex.

Visually? Think Mandalorian, minus the T-visor. I ditched the vertical bar — stretched the horizontal one instead, mirrored finish. I also added a crest to the helmet in the shape of a crown. Looks sleek. Intimidating. Reflective enough to fix my hair if I ever needed to.

The cape's overkill, sure, but it photographs beautifully.

...​

I hover above the pier now, watching the cops finally roll in — sirens screaming, lights painting the water red and blue. That's my cue to go.

The LAPD and I have an understanding: they don't chase me, and I don't stick around for photo ops.

Besides, mystery builds brand awareness.

So, with one last look down at Condiment King (who, by the way, is now being tackled by three officers — poor guy's going to smell like vinegar for a week), I tilt my head back, push off, and boom — the air cracks open as I rocket skyward.

Wind screams past me. The city lights blur beneath me. For a moment, it's just me, the stars, and the soft hum of absolute silence.

That's the part people don't get to appreciate. The quiet.

They think being a superhero is all about punching and posing and moral speeches. And it is. But up here? No bad guys need pulverizing, no people need rescuing. It's just… space. Breathing room. Metaphorically, of course.

Sometimes, I stay in orbit just to think.

About what?

Oh, you know. Existential bullshit. Movies I haven't written yet. How to tell my parents I can fly without giving my mom an aneurysm, or send my dad over the edge.

Sorry, I should probably introduce myself.

My name's Luke Grayson.

And, no, don't worry. There's no relation. Unless you mean between me, Omni-Man, and Invincible. Then, yes, some relation there. Although, Mark doesn't have his powers, so he's not technically Invincible, yet.

What I meant is that there's no relationship between me and Robin. I think. Probably?

Look, my dad didn't have a last name, so when he married Mom, he took hers. Which means I took hers, too. So it's possible that I have some distant relationship to The Boy Wonder, but I'm pretty sure that Mom would have mentioned if she has a brother/sister/cousin who was killed in the circus.

I'm definitely sure she would've taken Dick into our own home, if she did know.

Unless she found out he was adopted by a billionaire.

Unless she found out said billionaire was using him as a child soldier. Then, she might've fought for custody. And, you know, my Dad can beat up his Dad, so she definitely would have won.

Since that never happened, I'm guessing that the last name is just a coincidence.

I suppose it could be worse. Having an amazing family, unimaginable powers, a cool reputation, and popularity. Didn't really care for the downsides, like the wider implication that somehow Invincible merged with DC.

I'm still not sure if that's going to make it bloodier, or cleaner. I guess time will tell.

Not that I had much of a choice.

I didn't ask for any of this. Not for the name, or the powers, or the PR team that decided "King" was the right hero moniker. Personally, I would have gone for something sleek, or epic, like Sovereign or Royal.

But here I am.

Los Angeles's very own overpowered bastard with a camera-ready smile and a crippling sense of irony. Might as well make the best of it.

...​

You ever try to act like you're not acting?

It's harder than it sounds. Especially when you're doing it for a living and in your day-to-day life. Half my job is pretending to be someone else. The other half is pretending to be normal.

But here I am — on set, surrounded by about a hundred people who think I'm the second coming of Hollywood. Cameras, cranes, a dozen bright lights pointed right at me. The big, fake "STARK INDUSTRIES" logo glows behind me like a neon halo.

They say write what you know.

So I wrote a cinematic universe about a billionaire genius with daddy issues.

Not exactly an autobiography, but close enough.

"Alright, Luke," calls the director, a wiry guy with too much coffee and not enough sleep. "From the top! You're in the workshop, right? You've just realized what your tech can really do. Big moment. Go for inspired, not smug."

"Got it," I say, flashing my best "smugly inspired" smile.

The cameras roll. I pick up the fake arc reactor prop, spin it in my hand like it's the Holy Grail, and deliver the line I've now heard a thousand times in my sleep:

"Sometimes you've got to run before you can walk."

Cut. Applause. Someone yells, "Perfect!" The director gives a satisfied little nod, and the lighting crew breaks into easy chatter. My assistant — sweet girl named Kelly who's been with me since my first short film — hands me a bottle of water and a towel like I just finished bench pressing the plot.

"You nailed it, Mr. Grayson," she says with genuine warmth.

"Of course I did," I reply with a wink. "I wrote it."

That gets the usual polite laughter. The kind that says, you're charming, but also a little unbearable. I thrive on that energy. Fame runs on the same fuel as nuclear fusion — just enough ego to light a city, but too much and you melt the core.

...​

We break for lunch.

Hollywood lunches are weirdly formal — plastic trays, craft-service buffets that could feed a small country. I grab some sushi and a black coffee, and sit with the stunt coordinator, Darius, who's built like a brick wall and eats like one too.

"You ever gonna let me do one of the flying stunts myself?" he asks through a mouthful of protein bar.

I grin. "Sure. When you figure out how to break the sound barrier without breaking your ribs."

"Cocky bastard."

"Correct."

He laughs, and it's the kind of genuine laugh that almost makes me forget I'm lying to all these people. Almost.

Because here's the thing — I could do all my own stunts. All the flying, all the fighting, every explosion. I could do it without CGI. Without wires. Without even trying. But that would mean questions. Questions lead to attention, and attention leads to cameras pointed at the wrong version of me.

So, instead, I let my better-half do the heavy lifting. Let King be the one breaking sound barriers. Luke can be the one breaking box offices.

My phone buzzes. A news alert.

KING SAVES PIER CROWD FROM CONDIMENT KING — CLASH OF KINGS CONTINUES

I can't help but snort.

Before Condiment King, it was Clock King. Before him, it was King Shark. Color me suspicious, but I'm getting the impression that they were getting a little territorial.

"Man," Darius says, catching my reaction. "That guy's a legend. You think he's real?"

"Of course he's real," I say with a straight face. "You can't fake condiment-related terrorism. That kind of evil's homegrown."

He laughs again, shaking his head. "If I had powers like that, I'd be halfway to the moon by now."

"Eh," I shrug. "There's better food here."

That gets a chuckle, but my mind's already elsewhere. Because yeah — King's "real." He's sitting here, eating discount sushi under a fluorescent light, and wondering if he remembered to incinerate the mustard off his boots before flying home.

I'm good at pretending. Always have been. I had to be. Part of the reason I got into acting.

You don't exactly get to grow up in a new timeline with all your memories intact and not learn to fake it till you make it. I started this life at zero again — diapers, kindergarten, puberty, the works. Try explaining to your parents why you can read at three and quote Tarantino by five.

Graduated high school at fourteen, college at sixteen. The world called me a prodigy. I called it déjà vu.

By the time I turned twenty, I had a script in my hand, a production deal, and a studio exec offering me enough money to pretend I wasn't a walking continuity error. So, I said yes. Wrote Iron Man, cast myself as the lead, and produced the whole thing under my own label — Grayson Productions.

Because if you're going to cheat the system, at least do it stylishly.

...​

We wrap for the day around sunset. The studio lot glows gold in the fading light. Assistants scurry, grips unload equipment, someone's blasting old AC/DC from a speaker — appropriate.

I linger at the edge of the set, watching the artificial skyline they built for Stark Tower. It looks real enough from this angle. Maybe that's the trick — if you light anything right, you can make it look true.

Kelly walks up, handing me my jacket. "Heading home, Mr. Grayson?"

"Yeah. Gotta catch a flight tomorrow."

"Back to see your family?"

I nod. "Yeah. Mom worries if I go too long without pretending to be normal."

She smiles, waves, and leaves me to the quiet.

For a moment, I just stand there, breathing in the California air, half salt, half exhaust, and all illusion.

The world thinks I'm a genius, a star, a hero.

And I guess, technically, I am. I'm also technically a plagiarist. Which I didn't exactly have a huge problem with. Sure— I didn't invent Iron Man.

But I did bring him to life.

And in a world without Marvel, that's close enough to godhood.

...​

Why do airports make everyone look like they've given up on their dreams?

I swear, the moment you walk past TSA, you can see it in people's eyes — that blank, thousand-yard stare of someone who's realized they're about to spend six hours sitting next to a man who eats tuna salad with his bare hands.

That's my current fate.

Gate 47B, boarding for Chicago, middle seat, no upgrades.

Why? Because normal people don't fly themselves home at Mach 5.

"Imagine Mom spotting me from the backyard," I mutter under my breath as I shuffle through the boarding line. "'Oh look, Luke learned to fly! Wait—Luke learned to fly?!' Yeah. That's not a conversation I'm ready to have."

Because here's the thing: in this universe, there's already one Viltrumite who thinks he's the main character. Two of us would be a problem.

And if Dad — you know, that Dad — ever figures out Viltrumites can reproduce with humans without losing any of the power scaling… well. Let's just say "Invincible" would suddenly look like "a cautionary documentary."

So, for now, I fly commercial.

I wedge myself into my seat — 14B, the middle seat of sadness — between a sleeping businessman who smells faintly of despair and a baby whose lungs are apparently powered by the sun.

"Hey there," I say, smiling as the tiny gremlin locks eyes with me and immediately lets out a shriek so high-pitched I think I felt it in my spine.

Her mother gives me an apologetic look. "She's usually not like this."

"Oh, no, it's fine," I say, putting on my best celebrity smile. "I'm great with kids."

I'm not.

I try jingling my keys. She stares at them like she's trying to decide whether to cry or explode. So I pull out my phone, flick through the camera filters, and hand it to her.

Instant silence. She starts tapping the screen, giggling at her reflection with dog ears.

Another child lost to the allure of cellphones.

"Well," I murmur, "guess I'm part of the problem now."

Her mom laughs softly. "You're a natural."

"Don't tell anyone," I reply. "Ruins my brand."

The flight takes off, and soon enough the cabin settles into that strange limbo of half-sleep and recycled air. I pop open my laptop, pull up THOR: GOD OF THUNDER – Draft 3, and try to remember why I thought writing a mythic space opera with dialogue like "I SAY THEE NAY!" was a good idea.

They say write what you know. Which I do try to live by. But "lightning hammer alien prince with sibling issues" might be a little too on the nose.

The baby drools on my sleeve somewhere around page four of Thor: Draft 3. I take that as an early review.

Still, she's quiet now, and the engines are steady — white noise with a boarding-pass rhythm. Gives me room to think. Dangerous, I know.

It's been a while since I visited home. I tell myself it's the schedule — production, post, interviews — but really, I just like keeping the worlds separate. Hollywood here. Family there. One place where I'm a big deal, another where I'm just the guy who still can't figure out how to unclog a sink without breaking it.

Closet I can really get to normal these days. Not that I mind.

Mom—Debbie—she never cared about the hero stuff anyway.

When I told her I was producing a superhero movie, she got that same worried-mom squint and asked, "Does it have explosions? You know how your father gets." And I do know, he's incredibly offended by the lack of realism. My movies probably won't help, but they're a lot closer to the B-Tier that Hollywood's currently making.

Even still, my mom told me how proud she was, and made me promise to get her premier tickets when it was finally released to theaters. Then she sent me home with six containers of lasagna "for the crew," which I definitely ate alone.

Debbie Grayson: savior of souls and arteries.

Mark's great too. Kid's got that big golden-retriever energy — all heart, no sense of self-preservation.

Last time I saw him, he tried to spar with me. Threw a punch, missed, hit the fridge instead. Apologized to the fridge. Then apologized to me for scaring it.

I swear, if virtue were a superpower, he'd be unstoppable. Unfortunately, physics still applies.

And Dad… Nolan's—well… yeah, he's my dad.

People expect me to say "intimidating," but honestly? He's just loudly confident. He's the kind of guy who can make mowing the lawn sound like an act of heroism. The fact that he could have it done in under a minute with his bare hands definitely helps.

Once, when I was ten, he helped me build a model jet for a science fair. He did ninety percent of the work, and when it won first place, he told everyone, "My son designed this entirely on his own."

Then winked at me like we'd pulled off a heist.

That's the thing about Dad — he's larger than life, but he never makes you feel small.

I admire that. I want to be like that… and I really don't want him to change his mind.

The baby gurgles beside me, clutching my phone like it's a Teddy Bear. A rainbow filter flashes across her face. She giggles. I smile despite myself.

"Careful, kid," I whisper. "You play with the lights too long, and people are going to start following you on Instagram."

She burps. Philosophical type.

...​

There's a smell you only get in real homes.

Not apartments. Not condos. Homes.

It's this impossible cocktail of laundry detergent, dinner leftovers, and something intangible — like safety with a dash of judgment.

That's Mom.

"Luke! Get the salad out of the fridge before your father eats straight from the bowl again!" she calls from the kitchen, tone bright and familiar.

"That happened one time," comes Dad's voice from the living room.

"Three," she corrects.

I grin and grab the salad. "To be fair, he's a man of great appetite and zero shame."

Dad's reading on the couch — glasses perched on his nose, pen tucked behind his ear, the picture of suburban domesticity. Which, considering he's a cosmic-level powerhouse who's bench-pressed battleships, is sort of hilarious.

Mark's on the floor, flipping through a comic with the energy of someone pretending they're not waiting for something. Specifically, powers.

I drop onto the couch beside Dad. "You know, I think this might be the longest you've gone without saving a bus full of orphans."

He glances up, smirking. "Some of us take days off, Luke."

"Days off are for mortals." I nod solemnly. "But yeah, I respect the bit."

He chuckles, then gestures to the coffee table — a manuscript sits there, its edges worn, title scrawled across the top in bold letters: "Through the Cosmic Veil."

I raise an eyebrow. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Old sci-fi thing I wrote before you were born," he says. "Didn't sell. Too… 'out there,' apparently."

"Dad. You literally are out there."

He smirks. "Ironic, right?"

Mark looks up. "Wait, you wrote sci-fi?"

Nolan blinks at him. "You've been alive for fifteen years, and you never asked about what kind of books I write?"

"I didn't think I had to!"

"You also didn't think to do your math homework, and yet here we are," Mom cuts in, setting down a tray.

I swear, Debbie could diffuse a nuclear argument with nothing but tone and timing. She hands me a glass of iced tea and gives me that smile — the one that says you're home, and I'm proud, but if you put your feet on the coffee table I will end you.

"So," she says, settling in. "How's the new script coming?"

"It's going," I say, stabbing a fork into my salad. "The studio loves it, the director wants to make it darker, and I'm somewhere between 'sure' and 'please stop talking.'"

Mom chuckles. "Typical Luke."

Dad leans back. "He's underselling himself. He's good at this writing thing. Better than I ever was."

That gets me. Coming from him, that's like a papal blessing.

"Wow. Mark, you heard that, right? Dad just endorsed me. Write that down. Frame it."

Mark grins faintly, but his eyes drop again. He's been doing that a lot lately — the "don't look at me, don't ask about it" routine.

I sip my tea. "Still nothing, huh?"

He doesn't answer right away, then shrugs. "Nah. Guess I'm just… normal."

There's a beat of silence. Dad's expression softens — it's subtle, but it's there. He puts down his book, thoughtful.

"You know," he says, "normal isn't a bad thing. Gives you perspective."

I glance at him. For a second, I see it — that faint, quiet relief.

The kind of look that says thank you for not inheriting my baggage.

And for a heartbeat, I feel guilty.

Because I did.

"Normal's underrated," I say lightly, nudging Mark's shoulder. "I mean, you don't see me complaining. Besides, I think you'll get there. You're a late bloomer. Or, I don't know, a dramatic one."

He laughs, halfhearted but genuine. "What, like I'll just wake up and start flying one day?" More like chuck a garbage bag halfway across the world.

"Eh," I grin. "Stranger things have happened."

Mom's phone buzzes, she excuses herself, and the moment she's gone, the living room settles into an easy quiet — three Grayson men sitting in the golden-hour calm, pretending we're not all waiting for something to change.

Dad closes his book and leans back with a content sigh. "This," he says, "is nice."

And for once, I don't disagree.

Because before the world tilts, before capes and battles and blood in the sky — there's this. Dinner. Laughter. A family. The kind of thing you never realize is perfect until it's over.

… shit, did I just jinx it?

...​

Rich entitled people exist in every dimension I've been to. Granted, I've only been in two, but as far as probability goes, this one's a constant, not a variable: everyone riding in first class pretends they deserve to be there.

Truth is? They probably don't.

Like, statistically, half these people probably committed tax fraud. The other half married into it. And then there's me — technically self-made, if you count "being reborn into a race of space tyrants with a Calvin Klein jawline" as merit-based success.

Still, I fit in. Champagne flute, cashmere blanket, dead-eyed smile. Nailed it.

I probably blended in more flying in the coach department, but I really don't want to do that again. Honestly, do you have any idea how boring it is to take a plane when you can fucking fly? It's like being a racer for Formula 1, then taking the bus home.

If I had to fly in a small, enclosed space, for several hours longer than I needed to, I was going to take every creature comfort I could get.

The plane happily hums along somewhere over Kansas, lights dimmed, stewardesses whispering like we're in a library instead of a flying metal tube full of anxiety and digestive noises.

I generally avoid flights over Kansas, because of You Know Who, but I have to admit, it's peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Which, as a rule, is when things explode.

The first bang rocks the cabin hard enough to spill a few overpriced martinis and, somewhere in the back, a scream that could shatter crystal.

The captain's voice crackles over the intercom, way too calm to be reassuring.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we seem to be experiencing some minor—"

BOOM.

"—turbulence."

Right. And I'm mildly human.

The plane tilts, alarms blaring. Passengers freak out. A businessman tries to pray but gets distracted by his Wi-Fi dropping. I, meanwhile, am trying very hard to look concerned without being helpful, which is harder than it sounds.

Because the thing about being the secret Viltrumite in coach—or in this case, slightly fancier coach—is that you can't exactly rip your shirt open and go full superhero without ruining your whole low profile thing.

I glance out the window. Something just zipped past the wing. Something wearing… kites?

Oh no.

No.

It's him.

"Kite Man," I mutter, rubbing my temples. "Fucking seriously? What the hell is happening today? Did the D-Listers get kicked off of Twitter, again? Or—What's it's stupid name these days? X? Ugh.

I hate rebranding… What was I mad about, again?

Oh! Right. Kite Man.

He's latched onto the fuselage with some kind of magnetic boots and what looks like dollar-store glider tech. Which means someone out there actively decided, "You know what the sky needs? More idiots with hobbies."

Okay. Priorities:

One, don't expose yourself. (Not that way, perverts.)

Two, don't let a homicidal hang glider crash 200 innocent people.

Three, finish your drink before it spills again.

The plane rattles.

All right, step one's out.

I unbuckle, grab my carry-on, and pretend I'm going to the bathroom like a normal passenger—not like someone about to leap into subzero airspace.

Inside the lavatory, I crack open my suitcase. The interior's a mix of cashmere shirts, cologne, and one folded platinum alloy suit that cost more than most small nations' GDP. TSA didn't even blink.

Which, honestly, is more of a security breach than anything I'm doing.

I sigh.

"Man, 9/11 didn't even happen in this timeline and security's still this bad?" I guess it had more to do with the presence of heroes acting as a deterrent, than a few out-of-shape guys with a nightstick.

Speaking as a hero, we are pretty intimidating. And to that point, wardrobe change: shirt off, armor on, cape billowing… I fucking love this costume. Let's see how Kite Man feels about getting up close and personal with it.

I open the lavatory door—zooming towards the exit—and immediately get sucked out of the plane.

The world goes full IMAX: roaring wind, stars like needles, and below me, the endless black void of Kansas. Which, coincidentally, is also how Kansas looks from the ground.

I stabilize midair just in time to see Kite Man trying to unscrew one of the engines.

Seriously. Like it's a bottle cap.

"Hey, dumbass!" I shout over the wind. "You know that's not how planes work, right?"

He whirls, goggles reflecting starlight. "You don't understand! They laughed at me at the Legion of Doom orientation!"

"I mean, probably for good reason!"

He fires a grappling hook at me. I sidestep it, grab the wire, and yank. He screams as he rockets toward me like a human yo-yo.

I punch him—lightly, for me, so terminal velocity instead of instant paste. He vanishes into the clouds below, trailing a sad little "Hell yeah!"

I hover by the wing. There's a nasty gash where he'd been fiddling. Sparks spit out. Flames start licking the engine.

Crap. Okay. Engineering mode.

There's no way to "gently land" a 747 midair without headlines, so I improvise.

I rip off a section of the luggage compartment paneling—thankfully unlabeled, hopefully not holding anyone's emotional support peacock—and slap it over the hole.

It's not pretty, but it holds.

For now.

I jog over the wing, slapping out small fires with my hands like an interstellar Smokey the Bear.

The pilots are probably losing their minds up front, trying to figure out why the engines are fixing themselves.

Finally, with one last kick to knock loose some debris, I take a breath and glance around.

Nobody saw.

Good.

I reenter the cabin through the emergency door, super-speeding past a few terrified passengers mid-panic… and back to the laboratory, to change back into my civies in a hurry. Probably wouldn't do for King to ride First Class.

By the time anyone blinks, I'm back in my seat, in a shirt that was missing a few more buttons than it was before, champagne in hand, pretending to have slept through the whole thing.

A flight attendant hustles down the aisle, out of breath. "Sir! Are you okay?"

I yawn. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"The plane just—uh—experienced some turbulence."

"Yeah, I noticed," I say, pointing to my spilled drink. "Can I get a refill?"

She stammers something and rushes off.

I lean back, stretching, the engines humming steady again.

Another crisis averted.

Another secret safe.

Out the window, far below, I spot a tiny parachute drifting lazily earthward. Kite Man, wobbling and shouting into the night. "Hell yeah!" he screams faintly.

I sigh.

"Well… at least I didn't kill him."

I close my eyes, sip my champagne, and think about writing a movie based on tonight. Then again, no one would believe it.

Too realistic.

...​

Chapter 2: And the Award Goes To…

If you ever wanted to see the world's most expensive cult gathering, attend the Oscars.

I'm standing on the red carpet, surrounded by enough flashing lights to give God epilepsy, watching grown adults in ten-thousand-dollar suits pretend humility while praying their names get called by a washed-up sitcom star. Hollywood: the only religion where the miracles are performed by marketing teams and the sins are measured in box office returns.

And the special guest star of tonight's main event: me. Luke Grayson. Actor. Writer. Director. Occasional superhero demigod, depending on the day.

Tonight, though, I'm just another worshipper at the altar of cinematic self-importance.

A reporter sticks a mic in my face. "Luke! Luke! How does it feel being nominated for Best Actor?"

I smile, because cameras feed on sincerity and sarcasm looks bad in HD. "It feels great," I say. "Really grateful. Especially considering I invented the movie I'm getting nominated for."

That gets a polite laugh. She thinks I'm kidding. I'm not.

Most people still don't realize I wrote Iron Man.

To be fair, I wasn't sure about using it, anyways. There's a lot of movies and shows that exist in my universe that don't exist here. I could've picked any of them.

But, about three years ago, I had a dream about a billionaire who builds a flying metal suit to fight terrorists and corporate corruption. That billionaire was me, and the suit was my early design for King. Still, it reminded me so much of something else that it gave me this huge bout of inspiration.

The next morning, I woke up, wrote the script in two days, and bam—Iron Man. Critics called it "genre-defining." I called it plagiarism across universes. Same difference.

The movie's a hit. I'm rich, famous, and now, standing on this carpet, pretending I didn't steal my magnum opus from Robert Downey Jr.'s IMDB page.

That's what you get for sleeping in bushes, Robbie.

Across the street, a crowd of fans screams my name. Half are holding phones; the other half are probably holding emotional support water bottles. My security guy, Frank, keeps them from getting too close. He's a good guy—former Marine, thinks I'm just a lucky one-hit wonder or something. He's not entirely wrong.

After all, once I hit something, I also wonder if it'll get up again.

"Luke!"

I turn. It's Chris Evans, smiling that perfect toothpaste-commercial smile. He's in a blue tux. Of course he is. "Man, your movie was incredible," he says. "Kinda jealous you beat me to the superhero punch."

"Don't worry," I tell him, straight-faced. "I'm sure you'll find a shield someday."

He laughs. He doesn't get it. None of them do. That's the fun part.

Further down the line, Scarlett Johansson is talking to Zendaya, who's pretending she's not used to being the youngest and coolest person here. Timothée Chalamet is brushing nonexistent lint off his glittering suit while Jenna Ortega checks her phone like she'd rather be anywhere else. Millie Bobby Brown waves when she sees me—she's sweet, grounded, still has that wide-eyed energy that Hollywood hasn't crushed yet.

Give it five years.

Every camera follows me as I walk by. My powers give me perfect balance, perfect posture, perfect everything. The suit I'm wearing costs more than a small moon, black with a subtle silver sheen, and my tie is tied so immaculately it might be a crime in some countries. I don't need a stylist; I just need good vision and molecular-level precision. One tug, one microscopic adjustment, and—boom—flawless Windsor knot.

It's weird, though. For someone with super strength, flight, and a metabolism that could burn through concrete, I've never felt more tired than I do in a tux.

"Looking good, Grayson!" someone shouts.

I turn to see Leonardo DiCaprio—my eternal rival—posing for photos. His grin could blind a small village. The man's got that ageless thing going on; he's either drinking baby blood or coconut water. Maybe both.

I flash him a peace sign. He gives me a wink that's a little too… gooey. I chalk it up to bad Botox and move on.

Funny story: in this world, The Revenant never happened. Apparently, the real Hugh Glass didn't die alone in the snow. He got rescued by an early cape—some backwoods healer with regeneration powers. Glass lived to tell the tale, his would-be murderer faced justice, and everyone went home happy. A wholesome ending.

Terrible for cinema.

So Leo's still Oscar-less. Still hungry. Still smiling like he wants to eat me.

I keep an ear tuned to the gossip around me. Perk of having Viltrumite-grade hearing—you can eavesdrop on anyone and everyone you want, and never get caught.

Zendaya's agent is whispering about a secret franchise deal.

Scarlett's publicist is panicking about a wardrobe malfunction.

Someone behind me says, "I heard Luke Grayson writes his own dialogue."

Someone else says, "Yeah, and his own PR disasters."

They're not wrong.

To be fair, I wrote everyone's dialogue, not just mine. And any publicity is good publicity.

A photographer calls my name. I turn just as a camera flash pops. My enhanced eyes catch the reflection of my own smirk in a thousand lenses, and for a second, it feels like I'm watching a stranger—a character playing me. The actor playing the actor. The irony's enough to give a philosopher an aneurysm.

I spot Millie again, posing for a picture with Jenna and Timothée. Her posture's perfect, smile radiant—then she slips on her dress hem. I flick my wrist almost imperceptibly. A microburst of wind rights her before she falls. No one notices. She laughs it off.

That's my life: saving people just enough to stay invisible. You know what they say. When you do your job right, no one notices that you did anything at all.

I adjust my cufflinks—custom-made, platinum-plated (I might have a small platinum addiction)—and let my gaze wander to the theater doors. Reporters swarm every A-lister, shouting names, asking vapid questions about "inspiration" and "representation." They'll never ask the important ones, like:

"What's the meaning of life?"

Or:

"Would you like to sleep with me?"

… What? I'd say no, obviously. But it's nice to at least be asked.

My stomach growls. I haven't eaten since breakfast. The champagne here tastes like melted gold leaf and regret. I consider flying home for a snack but that'd cause a scene. Besides, I promised myself: no powers tonight. Be human. Just for one evening, pretend to be like everyone else.

Right on cue, Leo sidles up beside me. "Hell of a turnout, huh?"

His voice has this odd gurgle to it, like he's gargling honey. Did the guy seriously get wasted, already?

Dude! It's only been like five-minutes! Give yourself a chance, here!

"Yeah," I finally answered. "Almost like people are here to see me."

He laughs. Too long, too loud. His eyes glint—not like excitement, more like… liquid. Oh, for fuck's—is he crying?

Great. Now I feel bad.

The press herds us toward the doors. Paparazzi snap one last frenzy of photos. Flashbulbs light the sky like lightning. The Dolby Theatre gleams, an altar of artifice and ego. I can practically hear the collective self-congratulation humming through the marble floors.

...​

I'm not used to silence.

Ever since I've gotten my powers, I can hear anything and everything. It gets easier once you figure out which to take as white noise. But for a good while, it could be pretty brutal. Every whispered hush, every squeak of shoes, every cough, sneeze, and hiccup.

As you can imagine, I've heard quite a bit, in my day.

But tonight's the first time I've heard two thousand people hold their breath at once.

It's like standing in the middle of a collective cardiac arrest — glittering, glamorous, and profoundly stupid.

"And the Academy Award for Best Actor goes to…"

The presenter — some retired sitcom legend whose name rhymes with irrelevance — opens the envelope. The room could power a city off its anticipation.

"…Luke Grayson, for Iron Man!"

The sound hits me like a meteor made of applause. I stand, smooth as a campaign ad, flash that perfect grin, and give my best "oh-my-god-I-totally-didn't-expect-this" face. The orchestra swells. Confetti cannons fire like we're storming Normandy with biodegradable glitter. Every A-lister in sight claps as though they personally trained me. Even Leo—good ol' Leo—grins through what looks suspiciously like a full-body tremor.

I take the stairs two at a time, stride across the stage, and accept my little gold man.

Oscar's heavier than I thought. Not metaphorically. Physically. Like it's forged from the condensed weight of a thousand egos. Or maybe that's just mine.

The spotlight is blinding.

I could see through it if I wanted to — tune my vision past the glass, through the cameras, across Los Angeles itself. But I don't. Tonight's about restraint. About pretending I'm just another guy who worked really hard and didn't cheat the multiverse.

I take a deep breath. Smile for the cameras. And begin.

"Wow. Uh… I did not prepare a speech," I lie, flawlessly. "Mostly because I didn't think the Academy would give a trophy to someone who literally wrote their own part."

The crowd laughs. I love them for it. They have no idea.

"I'd like to thank my director, my producer, my therapist, and the guy who invented coffee. Without you, I'd have actual emotions, and that's just not marketable."

More laughter. Cameras flash. I can practically feel TMZ having an orgasm in real time.

"To my fans — you're the reason I get to do what I love. To my haters — you're the reason I keep doing it. And to the Academy… thank you for finally admitting I'm inevitable."

A ripple of confused amusement spreads through the audience. I grin wider. No one gets the joke. They think it's just me being weirdly confident. They don't realize I'm quoting a movie that doesn't even exist here yet.

God, I love being me.

...​

Debbie Grayson sat cross-legged on the couch, the television glow painting her living room in champagne golds and camera flashes. Half-empty wineglass in one hand, she leaned forward just enough that the couch cushion groaned beneath her.

"Oh my God," she whispered. "He actually won."

She smiled without meaning to—small, startled, proud. Luke's face filled the screen, larger than life, all tuxedo polish and impossible charisma. He looked older than she remembered, sharper around the edges, but still the boy who used to build cardboard sets in their garage and force Mark to hold the camera.

Of course, back then, their boys filmed fake giant monster fights.

They were actually pretty good, and she was absolutely going to show them to all of her sons' friends, girlfriends, and future children. Luke would laugh it off. Mark would never forgive her… oh, and now she's getting misty-eyed, again.

Mark should've been here for this. He'd swapped shifts at Burger Mart, told her he'd "catch the highlights later," which meant he'd probably forget until someone posted a meme about it. Debbie tried not to feel disappointed; teenagers had their own gravity. Still, she wished her younger son could see how far his brother had flown.

Behind her, Nolan stood with his arms crossed, silent except for the low rumble of his breathing.

"It's a golden statue, Deborah," he finally muttered. "Humans will applaud anything shiny."

She didn't take her eyes off the screen. "It's his statue. He worked hard for that."

"He pretended to be someone else for money," Nolan said, his tone edged with confusion more than cruelty. "How is that work?"

She turned just enough to swat his chest with the back of her hand. It was like tapping a granite countertop, but he blinked, surprised anyway.

"Be nice."

"I am nice."

"You're judgmental."

"I'm observant."

She gave him a look that could chip paint. "You're jealous."

That word made him flinch—barely, but she saw it. Something unspoken passed between them: the strange pride of a father who could level mountains, watching his son conquer something even he couldn't.

Onscreen, Luke was speaking again, laughing, bright, magnetic. Debbie's heart swelled and ached all at once. She'd always known he was talented, but this—this global spotlight—wasn't what she'd imagined when she used to drive him to auditions in beat-up sedans.

He was dazzling, but also distant. A star—beautiful, unreachable, burning miles above her.

She took another sip of wine, the dryness cutting through the lump in her throat.

Nolan shifted beside her, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that might've been pride, or maybe recognition. "He's good," he said quietly. "Better than most."

Debbie smiled, her eyes never leaving the screen. "He always was."

...​

For a second, the applause becomes distant — drowned under my own heartbeat.

There's this weird stillness that creeps in, like the world's holding its breath again, but not in the good way. I glance to the side. Leo—front row—is watching me with a smile that looks… wrong. Too stiff. Too waxy. His eyes glimmer, again. And this time, I'm not sure it was from tears.

My instincts whisper: Something's off.

I push the thought aside. Maybe I'm just paranoid. Or maybe he really is on his fifth Botox treatment. Who knows. The guy's as old as The Godfather Part II, but didn't look a day older than he did in The Titanic.

I clear my throat and continue.

"You know, acting's a funny thing. You spend months pretending to be someone else, until one day, you realize you might've left a piece of yourself inside the part. Or maybe you left the part inside yourself."

A few polite chuckles. I push on.

"Eventually, you stop pretending. You stop separating the real from the role. You become who you're acting to be. Because isn't that what life is, really? One long performance?"

For once, I mean it. Not the joke, not the bravado — just the raw, bleeding honesty underneath. The audience quiets. I see it land. The self-aware irony of a man living three lives — actor, superhero, imposter — pretending he's not pretending.

Then the stage rumbles.

A gasp ripples through the audience. My mic cuts with a sharp feedback squeal.

I blink.

Leo's face melts.

Literally melts — his skin sagging into puddles of brown sludge, his tux dissolving into rippling mud. The people around him scream. Cameras flash as the slime reforms into something vaguely humanoid — slick, wet, furious.

"Oh, come on," I mutter. "I was finally having a moment."

The gooey form steps onto the stage, dripping across the carpet. His voice gurgles through a mouth made of clay and vengeance.

"YOU—" he snarls, pointing a mud-slick hand at me. "You don't deserve that award!"

The audience gasps in horror and delight. Half think it's performance art. The other half are live-streaming trauma.

The creature's voice trembles with rage, every consonant bubbling. "I earned this! I played every role! Every movie! Every goddamn emotion! And they never noticed! They never gave me one!"

Recognition clicks. My eyes widen.

"Holy shit," I whisper. "Clayface?"

He bares a dripping grin. "You know me?"

"Of course I do! Batman's B-tier goo man! Wait—" I stop mid-sentence. "That's… probably the wrong approach to that answer. My bad."

He roars, and the stage trembles again.

I instinctively drop the Oscar statue and step forward, hands raised. "Okay, okay, we can talk about this, buddy. I get it, you've had a rough awards season—"

"You stole my spotlight!" he bellows, voice cracking like a collapsing dam. "I've been pretending to be Leonardo DiCaprio for years! Do you know how hard it is to fake human for that long?!"

"Pretty hard?" I shrugged

"It's excruciating!" Clayface growled. "But I've put up with it, day after day, for the moment that I finally proved to the world that I am the greatest actor of all time! Blockbuster after blockbuster, and nothing! Then you show up in one movie, and you get it?!"

"… sounds like a skill issue, to me."

"I'll fucking kill you!"

Clayface lunges.

Not a polite lunge, either. The kind where the room gasps and half the audience instinctively checks whether their NDAs cover "acts of God."

A wall of sentient Play-Doh barrels toward me. I sidestep, smooth as choreography, and the creature slams into the stage, splattering across the floorboards. The orchestra panics mid-note; violins screech, drums topple, and somewhere a man in a bow tie is weeping into his oboe.

The cameras never stop rolling. Of course they don't.

I backpedal, hands raised, making sure to look exactly as terrified as a normal man should be when confronted by a melting Oscar nominee. Inside, I'm calculating angles, lighting rigs, load-bearing trusses. The stage is basically a high-budget booby trap.

Clayface surges upright, dripping like a fondue fountain from hell. "You think you're better than me, pretty boy?"

"Statistically, yes," I say before I can stop myself. "But hey, let's not compare skin care routines."

He roars and flings an arm—literally—at me. It detaches mid-swing, whirling through the air like a muddy boomerang. I duck; it splats against a thirty-foot Oscar statue, melting the thing into a puddle of gold-leaf sludge.

The crowd screams, flashes, livestream hearts explode across screens. Somewhere, a TikTok caption's already forming: #OscarsAttack #MethodActingGoneWrong.

I move without thinking—Viltrumite reflexes dialed down to "human peak athlete." A quick shuffle, a spin, the kind of graceful evasion that'll have stunt coordinators writing think pieces about me tomorrow. Clayface swipes again, misses by inches.

"Stop running!" he bellows.

"Can't. I'm method acting 'guy who values his life.'"

I grab a prop fire extinguisher from the stage wing. It's mostly CO and wishful thinking, but I squeeze the handle anyway. A plume of white frost blasts into his chest. He hisses as parts of him crust over, hardening into something between concrete and regret.

"Oh my God," someone yells from the audience. "This is amazing!"

Great. Half the industry thinks this is performance art. The other half is calling their agents to ask why they didn't get attacked tonight.

Clayface shatters his frozen bits and lurches forward. I leap back, vaulting over the teleprompter. The crowd goes wild—some for the spectacle, some because I accidentally flipped into perfect three-point superhero landing form.

I immediately stand upright and dust off my tux. "Just Pilates," I shout. "Really good Pilates."

The set's collapsing now. Lights sway overhead, glass rains down like artisanal confetti. My publicist is probably having a stroke backstage.

I could end this in five seconds. Ten, if I wanted to look cool doing it. But the moment I hit Mach speeds or punch through a wall, there goes the secret identity. And try explaining that to TMZ.

So I play the part. The human part.

Clayface grabs a section of curtain and hurls it. I duck behind the podium, rip out a spotlight cable, and flick it toward him. The live wire crackles, arcs, and the goo monster lights up like a microwaved burrito.

He howls, collapsing into a molten heap. Steam rises. The smell is… awful. Like wet clay and Oscars after-parties.

The audience bursts into applause again—because apparently anything that looks choreographed is art.

I give them a shaky smile. "This is why I don't do live performances."

A few reporters laugh nervously, thinking I'm joking. Someone yells, "Is that part of the bit?"

"Sure," I call back. "Let's go with that."

I turn, scanning for security—none. They've all evacuated or are hiding under chairs. Typical. The Academy will insure a statue for a million dollars but won't spring for super-powered crowd control.

Clayface starts to re-form, bubbling back together. His voice gurgles through the sludge: "You… stole… my… dream!"

"Buddy, you were literally Leonardo DiCaprio," I snap. "You had yachts and climate guilt. Let it go!"

He swings again. I sidestep, grab a shattered piece of stage light, and wedge it under a support beam. One good kick and the entire upper rig comes loose. It crashes down on top of him in a glorious, pyrotechnic mess.

Dust. Screams. More confetti cannons—why are those still going off?

I'm standing center stage, tux torn at the sleeve, holding an Oscar that's somehow still intact. Half the world is watching me on live television. My mind is already drafting headlines:

LUKE GRAYSON SAVES OSCARS—HERO ON-SCREEN AND IN REAL- LIFE?

LIVE FROM LA: ACTOR STOPS MUD MONSTER WITH BRUTE CHARM

I sigh. "Fantastic. My PR team's gonna love this."

I crouch, checking the rubble. Clayface is still moving, bits of him seeping through cracks, pooling like quicksand. He's not down—just disoriented. One more rampage and people are going to die.

Famous people. The expensive kind.

I feel the shift—the Viltrumite instinct tightening behind my ribs. The moment before the mask comes off.

Screw the secret. Screw the cameras. If I have to go full King tonight, I will.

I roll my shoulders, muscles humming, the air pressure dipping as my body prepares to launch—

—and then the world rips open.

A thunderous BOOM shakes the theater. The ceiling trembles, chandeliers sway like drunk metronomes. The audience screams again, this time pure panic.

I glance upward just as the roof explodes in a burst of air and sonic pressure.

Something streaks through the hole—red and white blur, cape snapping like a gunshot.

My stomach drops.

Of course. Of course he shows up now.

Because when you're trying to keep a low profile, there's nothing subtler than your dad breaking the sound barrier over downtown L.A.

...​

Fifteen minutes earlier.

Nolan Grayson stood in the bathroom, his hands braced against the sink, staring at his own reflection.

The bathroom light buzzed faintly, the kind of sound that filled quiet moments with just enough irritation to keep you from thinking too deeply. Which was exactly why it wasn't working right now. Because Nolan was thinking too deeply — and he hated that.

Water dripped from his fingers as he muttered, "This is good. I'm happy for him." He said it again, slower this time, as if repetition would make it truer. "I'm happy for him."

Luke's Oscar nomination had been the talk of the week. Debbie had been giddy about it — she even put out a cheese board for the occasion, like they were watching the Super Bowl. Mark was still at work, a burger mart of places. Where did Nolan go wrong?

Legitimate question.

Nolan had been stuck in here, trying to pretend that his stomach wasn't twisting itself into knots.

He turned on the faucet again just to have something to look at that wasn't his own face.

In the mirror, he saw himself for what he was — older now, maybe not visibly, but tired. The kind of tired that no sleep could fix. He looked like the kind of man who'd done terrible things for what he still told himself were good reasons.

He should have been proud. He was proud, wasn't he?

Luke wasn't a soldier. He wasn't a killer. He wasn't a conqueror.

He was… human.

And that, Nolan realized, was exactly what made him ache.

He'd told himself, years ago, that when the time came — when his sons got their powers — he'd teach them control. Discipline. Strength. And, eventually, purpose. The Viltrumite kind of purpose. But the years kept rolling by, and Luke never manifested so much as a flicker of it. No flight. No strength. Not even a glimmer of the blood that should've been his birthright.

And the strange thing was… Nolan wasn't angry about it anymore.

He felt relieved.

And guilty for feeling relieved.

Because the truth was, if neither of his sons turned out like him… maybe that would be okay. Maybe that was better.

Maybe they could live lives untouched by the empire he'd been born to serve.

He rubbed his jaw, staring down at the sink. He could still hear Debbie from the living room — "It's starting! Nolan, hurry!"

He should've gone. He should've been out there, watching with her.

Instead, he stood there, frozen, caught between pride and fear. Because one day soon, the empire would come calling. If he refused, they'd send someone else. Someone who wouldn't hesitate.

Maybe he could delay it. Maybe he could… buy them more time. Debbie, Mark, Luke. Humanity.

He still had time. He always had time.

"Nolan!" Debbie's voice snapped through the door, sharper this time.

His head jerked up. "What?"

"Come quick!"

Nolan was moving before he realized it, the door flying open behind him. He half-expected to see fire or blood — the instincts of a man who'd seen too many battles to take a raised voice lightly. But instead, Debbie stood by the couch, her eyes wide, a hand pressed to her mouth.

She pointed at the TV.

And Nolan saw it.

The Dolby Theatre. The stage. His son.

Luke stood mid-speech, a golden statue in hand — and behind him, a humanoid thing made of living clay, roaring in front of a crowd of screaming actors.

For half a second, Nolan's brain refused to process it. Then instinct took over.

He didn't remember grabbing the costume. Didn't remember opening the closet, or strapping on the suit, or clipping on the cape. He was just gone — a thunderclap in human form.

The air split around him as he broke the sound barrier three times in the space of a breath. Windows shattered in a ten-mile radius as he tore through the atmosphere, the clouds blurring into white streaks behind him.

All he could think about was his son.

Not the Oscar winner. Not the actor.

His boy.

The one who used to fall asleep on his chest during old black-and-white movies. The one who got nosebleeds at high altitude the first time Nolan tried to take him flying. The one who smiled like Debbie and never once asked for more than his father's approval.

And now, some… thing was threatening him.

That was all Nolan needed to know.

He hit the roof of the Dolby Theatre like a meteor.

Glass and steel exploded outward in a rain of shrapnel as he dropped straight through the ceiling, landing hard enough to split the stage in two. The shockwave blew back curtains, cameras, and at least three unfortunate stagehands.

And there it was — Clayface — a tower of rippling, muddy flesh, mid-swing, one arm raised to crush Luke like a prop dummy.

Nolan's fist connected first.

The impact turned the creature into a splash of liquefied muck, spraying the front row in beige goop.

For a moment, the theater was silent.

Then the screaming started again.

"Omni-Man!" someone shouted. A dozen phones went up like periscopes.

Nolan didn't care. He was already in motion, scooping up whatever mass of Clayface was still wriggling and launching skyward again. The villain screamed as they tore through the open roof — his words lost in the sonic booms.

They climbed thousands of feet in seconds, the air thinning, clouds bursting around them. Nolan didn't stop until they were nearly out of sight of the city — then, with a sharp twist, he dove.

The world blurred.

He brought Clayface down in a ten-mile-high pile-driver.

The impact shook the city. The red carpet outside the theater cracked open like dry earth, sending luxury cars tumbling into what used to be an underground parking structure. Clayface hit first, collapsing into a pit of broken sludge that barely twitched.

Nolan hovered above him, breathing slow, trying to push down the fury pounding in his chest. He could kill him right now. Obliterate him. No one would question it — not with a monster like this.

But then he heard Debbie's voice again, in the back of his mind. Nolan. The boys are watching.

He forced himself to land, hard enough to shake off the adrenaline, and looked toward the crowd gathering by the barricades.

Luke was there — standing in the ruins of the stage, covered in dust but somehow managing to look effortlessly composed, like a man who'd just survived the weirdest publicity stunt in history.

Nolan was at his side in an instant. "Are you hurt?" His hands went to his son's shoulders, scanning every inch for bruises or blood. "Luke, look at me. Did it hit you? Did—"

"I'm fine, d—" Luke coughed, catching himself, flashing a practiced smile for the cameras. "Omni-Man. Sir. Uh, thanks for the help."

That sir landed harder than Nolan expected.

He blinked, pulling his hands back, realizing just how many phones were aimed at them.

"Right. Of course." He straightened up, cape flicking in the wind. "Just doing my job."

There was an awkward pause. Cameras flashed. Somewhere, a reporter yelled, "Omni-Man, is this your first time meeting Luke Grayson?"

Nolan ignored it. He looked at his son again — really looked at him. Luke's jaw was tight, his eyes sharp, but there was something else there too. Something Viltrumite.

A quiet steadiness beneath the swagger. Well. His son may not have inherited his powers, but he certainly inherited his spirit. That was something any father could be proud of.

"I, uh…" Nolan rubbed the back of his neck. "I saw the movie," he said finally. "Good work. Not sure I'm really a fan of the whole 'superheroes-without-superpowers' concept, but…"

He hesitated, then smiled — small, genuine.

"It gave me a lot to think about. What you do matters as much as what you can do. And I have to say…" He nodded once, firm. "You've been pretty impressive with both."

Luke looked stunned for a moment, then smirked — that same smirk Nolan recognized from a lifetime of dinner-table debates and sarcastic comebacks. "Wow. That was probably the most sincere thing I ever heard. Thank you. I mean it. I appreciate that almost as much as the literal orbit strike."

"Your welcome," Nolan said, voice dry. "To both. Try not to make a habit of getting into fights with supervillains."

"Good advice."

Another flashbulb went off.

And Nolan sighed, realizing that the entire world had just witnessed Omni-Man giving an Oscar winner fatherly advice while standing on the ruins of the Dolby Theatre.

He muttered, "Art's gonna kill me when he sees what I did to the suit."

...​

Chapter 3: Next Door Hero

The thing about fame is—it's only fun until your fifteen minutes are up.

After that? They start looking for dirt. And God help you if you give them so much as a crumb.

Apparently, I caused the seven-foot mud demon to crash the Academy Awards by existing too attractively within a five-mile radius, or something like that. TMZ ran that headline like it was scripture. #Mudgate trended for three straight days. And now my agent—bless her soulless heart—has me on "temporary suspension."

Which is Hollywood-speak for, lay low until the next scandal eats yours alive.

So here I am, sitting shirtless on my penthouse couch, scrolling through a timeline that's equal parts memes, outrage, and thirst posts. Ninety percent of the internet thinks I'm a badass for "holding my ground against Clayface." The other ten percent thinks I somehow provoked him.

But those were just rage-baiting assholes.

Personally, I think the media just saw it as a new teat to milk dry. Scandals sell, after all.

I toss my phone aside and sigh. Outside my panoramic window, Los Angeles gleams—half sunlight, half smog, all opportunity. Somewhere down there, a guy's robbing a liquor store, a dog's peeing on a star on the Walk of Fame, and a PR intern is drafting a statement about how I'm "taking time to focus on personal growth."

Yeah. Screw that.

If I'm not allowed to act, I might as well do something useful. Or at least, something fun.

I stand, stretch, and wander toward the display case that takes up an entire wall of my penthouse. Inside, under glass and mood lighting, sits my platinum armor. My alter ego. My "brand."

King.

Every actor dreams of wearing a crown someday. I just made mine bulletproof.

Although, it might've been a little dumb to leave it on display like that. What if a cleaning lady came in, and tried to dust my armor? I'd have to put her in a hostage negotiation training montage, or something.

I guess there's only one clear solution: no guests allowed, ever, under any circumstances.

That should work. Probably. Now, where was I?

"Right, vacation time," I mutter, tapping the glass. It slides open with a hiss of compressed air that probably cost more than my first car. "Let's go remind L.A. what a real leading man looks like."

The armor gleams in the morning light—smooth, metallic, and entirely impractical. It's not Stark tech. There's no AI assistant, no targeting system, no nanobots. Just good old-fashioned forged platinum and a handful of shock absorbers.

A black under-suit keeps it from chafing in all the wrong places. I designed it myself. Well—I sketched it on a napkin, then paid someone else to design it. Same difference. Besides, I'm still the one who had to actually make the thing.

Piece by piece, I suit up. The chest plate locks with a satisfying click. The gauntlets hum faintly as I flex my hands. The helmet comes last—sleek, reflective visor, small crown crest at the top. Regal, ridiculous, and just the right amount of self-important.

"Shame the visor isn't like… useful?" I mutter, checking my reflection. "I mean, it keeps the wind out of my eyes, which is great, but it's not like it has a HUD or anything." I pause, sighing through the comm that doesn't connect to anything.

Couldn't even get a modulator. If anyone recognizes my voice, I'm screwed.

"Really wish I'd gone into engineering instead of acting."

There's a moment of silence. Then the soundtrack in my head kicks in—my own humming rendition of something heroic and vaguely John Williams-y.

Cape flaring behind me, I step out onto the balcony, take a deep breath, and launch myself into the sky.

...​

The world looks different from a few thousand feet up. Smaller. Simpler. Down there, everyone's stuck in traffic or chasing clout. Up here, it's just me, the clouds, and a city full of problems waiting to be solved in the most inefficient way possible.

First stop: car chase on the 405. One black sedan weaving through traffic, cops lagging behind.

It takes me maybe three seconds to catch up, and another seven for me to come up with my lunch plans: pizza. It's always pizza.

I swoop down, grab the car by its front bumper, and lift.

Instantly, the tires spin uselessly in the air. Ever seen a car get stuck in a ditch? Once the wheels are off the ground, they really don't have anywhere to go with all of that acceleration, because there's no traction.

Same principle here—except this ditch is mid-air.

Which was very good for them, because otherwise, the car would have hit me. Now, granted, it wouldn't have hurt me, but it would have totaled the car as much as hitting an immovable flagpole, which would have probably killed them.

And if the crash didn't, I definitely would've, for scratching the platinum.

The driver stares at me through the windshield, frozen, mouth open. I give him a friendly wave. "You're under citizen's arrest," I call through the glass. "Mostly because you were being a reckless asshole, contributing to this city's traffic problems. And partially because I was bored, and you were close-by."

He tries to hit the gas again. The tires squeal.

Impotently.

I grin. "Physics says hi."

Once the cops catch up, I drop the car gently on the ground, like a responsible adult. I even wait until they cuff the guy before I shoot back into the sky.

Next up: a cat stuck on a rooftop.

Is it a low-priority mission? Maybe. But I like cats better than most humans.

I land beside it, crouch, and hold out a hand. "Hey, little guy. You lost or just enjoying the view?" The cat meows, unimpressed. I scoop it up anyway, resisting the sudden urge to keep it. "You know, if your owner doesn't appreciate you, my penthouse is pretty nice. And pet-friendly."

Meow.

Must. Not. Keep.

"Okay, okay. Let's find your human." After a quick scroll through the socials, I found her in about five minutes. The good news is that she's in the same building. The bad news is, her room isn't on the roof, so I have to take the elevator down like some kind of savage.

But, it was almost all worth it, when I returned the kitten to the tearful little girl below.

She hugged it so tight, that I immediately regretted my decision to help. "Thank you, mister superhero!"

"Anytime. Tell your therapist this'll be your core memory," I reply, patting her head before taking off again.

A few blocks later, I spot a balloon drifting away from another kid. I snatch it mid-air, spin dramatically, and descend like a deity of minor inconveniences. "Balloon retrieval, fifty bucks an hour," I tell the parents. They don't laugh. Or give me fifty dollars.

From now on, all stray balloons are tributes to my glory.

(I'm keeping all the runaway balloons.)

By noon, I've prevented three minor crimes, rescued four cats, and scared the living hell out of a skywriter. Not a bad shift for someone technically on vacation.

I hover above the Hollywood sign, stretching my arms out like a king surveying his kingdom. "Behold," I announce to no one in particular, "the city of angels, avocado toast, and wildly inflated rent. You are welcome."

That's when I spotted the next crisis of the day—a big white U-Haul truck idling suspiciously outside a movie theater downtown. Nothing strange about that, he thought, sarcastically. Except for the fact that the driver just drove straight through the wall.

The fuck?

I blink. Tilt my head. Nope. Not my imagination, that really just happened.

"Well someone couldn't wait for showtime." I cracked my neck, hearing that oh so satisfying snap, before I got up and stretched. "This should be fun."

Then I dive, cape trailing behind me, straight toward the theater and whatever cinematic nonsense awaits inside.

...​

It was a short flight.

But if I thought for a moment, that following the moving truck that crashed into a movie theater was going to be even mildly entertaining? I would have been wrong. Because it was vastly entertaining.

The truck still had shattered bits of the wall stuck to the hood. And yet despite that, I was far more interested in the driver… not in that way. Let me back track a bit.

The second I got inside, I noticed two things. One, the giant movie screen flickering. On it—me. Or, technically, movie-me, strutting around a CGI workshop while AC/DC blares and explosions happen for no OSHA-approved reason.

And two, right in front of it, sitting in the cab of the truck half-phased through the screen, is a guy in an oversized leather trench coat, fingerless gloves, and what looks like an unhealthy amount of stains.

Control Freak.

A C-Tier villain with an S-Tier power.

Titans have tangled with him a few times, though I never had the pleasure. Of course, after getting a whiff of him, I was already beginning to regret having met him. You live in your mother's basement. What could you possibly be doing to smell so awful?

He didn't answer my internal monologue.

All Control Freak did was sit in the driver's seat, hands gripping the steering wheel like it's the Ark of the Covenant. He's in full nerd regalia—cape, glasses, bow tie, the works. He looks exactly like a villain who spent too much time in online forums yelling about "cinematic godhood."

Which, to be fair, is exactly what he's doing.

"I'm going to achieve cinematic godhood!" he screams, voice pitched higher than a cat in a wind tunnel. "I will control reality itself, and steal the Arc Reactor from Iron Man's pathetic universe to create—"

"—Stop," I interrupt, hovering a foot above the ground, arms crossed. "This… this is just sad. Okay. I have seen worse on Twitter, but still."

Besides, all who talk shit about Iron Man must die… not literally. Maybe literally.

Ask me again in five minutes.

He looks at me, panicked, like I just ruined the ending of The Dark Knight for him personally. "You… you can't stop me! I—"

"Oh, neat," I cut in, tapping my helmet. "Awesome threat. I'm super intimidated. I'm going to go find a nice place to cower. Oh, and while I'm at it, I think I'll break your thumbs."

"W-what?" Control Freak's voice cracks.

"You heard me right," I say, giving a little flourish with my gauntlet. "Break. Your. Thumbs. So you can't grab anything anymore, you little raccoon thief, you."

He screams, screams again, and bolts like I just told him the final season of Lost was unsatisfying. Thing is, the basement-dweller charged right for the movie screen. What do you think you're doing, idiot? You're just going to go right through the—oh.

It's a portal. Yeah, that makes more sense.

I move to fly in after him, when suddenly, I'm being pulled in.

The theater melts around me. The floor drops. The walls stretch. The smell of popcorn is replaced by the unmistakable electro-metallic tang of a cinematic universe mid-transition. I scream—well, internally. I'm above that now.

"Okay, that's new," I mutter, adjusting my crown-crest helmet. "Usually when I enter another reality, I have to die, get reborn into a baby, and start crying in a nursery. I kinda like this version better."

The world warps like a bad green-screen experiment.

WHUMP!

I hit cold metal flooring. Hard.

I take it back. This version sucks.

Everything smells like oil, smoke, and pure ego. Which makes sense, because when I open my eyes, I'm staring up at a wall-sized holographic projection of my own face—well, technically Tony Stark's—but the resemblance is uncanny.

"Iron Man," I breathe. "Budget me, meet the real me."

Somewhere in the corner, mechanical arms whirr to life, welding plates onto a half-finished Mark II suit. Control Freak's head pops up from behind a workbench, eyes wild. "You followed me?!"

"Of course I followed you." I rise to my feet, brushing soot off my cape. "You think I'm gonna let some YouTube villain steal the intellectual property of a great, independent actor? Do you know how much shit he's going through, right now?"

Control Freak clutches a wrench like a weapon. "Stay back! This is my cinematic debut!"

I tilt my head. "Your cinematic debut was a mugshot, I'm not particularly impressed."

He swings the wrench. I catch it midair without even trying, squeeze, and watch it crumple like tinfoil.

Control Freak's jaw drops. "How—how are you doing that?! You don't exist here!"

"Tell that to the special effects department," I quip, tossing the remains aside. "Hey, where'd that truck go? I assumed it'd be here, because you drove it through the screen. But I don't see it, anywhere."

Before he can answer, one of the lab's robotic arms zips past my ear, almost smacking me in the head. Another clamps a welding torch and sprays sparks dangerously close to my cape.

"Oh good," I mutter, sidestepping a rogue fire burst. "The robots have entered their rebellion arc."

Control Freak shrieks, diving behind the Arc Reactor platform as Tony Stark himself (well, movie me) strolls in—sunglasses, tank top, and full Hollywood swagger. He freezes, staring right at me.

Good thing my helmet covers my face, or this would have been real awkward.

I wave. "Sup."

He blinks. "Who the hell are you?"

"Basically you," I reply. "Just less emotionally available."

Movie-Tony frowns. "Is this another hallucination? JARVIS, note to self: stop testing the prototype flamethrower indoors."

The robots whirl, the Arc Reactor glows brighter, and suddenly the entire lab starts shaking—reality flickering like a buffering YouTube video.

Control Freak yells, "Oh no no no, it's destabilizing! Now look at what you've done!"

"Stopped you? Because it feels like that's what just happened." I shrug. "Go me."

Then the world twists—screen pixels tearing apart like confetti.

As I'm yanked backward into the portal again, I offer one last piece of advice to my movie self. "Don't let Pepper invest in pseudoscience! It's not real science!"

And then, with a final flash of light—

Everything goes white.

...​

I'm falling.

No—scratch that. I'm plummeting through a cosmic blender made entirely of special effects, stock footage, and the collective ego of every Hollywood producer alive. The laws of physics have packed up and left the chat. Colors whirl, soundtracks overlap, and somewhere in the distance, I swear I hear Vin Diesel whispering something about "family."

And through it all, Control Freak's voice echoes ahead of me like a nasally GPS stuck on "nerd rage."

"You'll never stop me! I am the director now! The multiverse is my set!"

"Ha!" I rolled my eyes, spinning head over heels past what looks like the Universal logo, "you're not even a good Reddit moderator."

He shrieks something incoherent and hurls a glowing remote over his shoulder. It clicks midair—reality lurches like someone hit "Next Scene" too fast—and suddenly I'm not falling anymore. I'm skidding.

Across asphalt.

Right into the middle of a street race.

Engines roar around me, tires screech, and I roll to a stop just as two black muscle cars drift past in perfect synchronization, sparks flying. I know that soundtrack anywhere—deep bass, gratuitous slow motion, and the faint smell of testosterone and Corona.

"Fast & Furious," I mutter, standing up and brushing off a flaming hubcap. "Oh, great. The Cinematic Universe of Gravity Denial."

Control Freak lands a few feet ahead, tumbling across the hood of a car before scrambling upright, clutching his remote like it's the One Ring. "You can't stop me here! Not in their world!"

I think I already disproved that, but whatever.

I glance around. Vin Diesel's somewhere up ahead, scowling at a steering wheel like it owes him money. Michelle Rodriguez flips a gearshift with the same intensity one reserves for defusing bombs.

And me? I spot a sleek black Dodge Charger parked nearby, engine idling unattended.

"Well," I say, strolling toward it, "if I'm gonna chase a lunatic across movies, I might as well do it in style."

I slide into the driver's seat. The upholstery hugs me like destiny. I can practically feel the power humming through the wheel.

Control Freak stares at me, wide-eyed. "You can't take Dominic Toretto's car!"

"It's cool," I say, pressing the ignition. The engine growls like a lion who just found religion. "I'm a friend of Groot's."

Before he can reply to the reference he had no way of understanding, I slam the gas. The car rockets forward with a scream, and for three glorious seconds, I understand why these people keep making nine of these damn movies. Wind tears at my cape, my armor rattles, and for once in my life, I feel completely, stupidly alive in a small, enclosed vehicle—

—until Control Freak presses another button.

A portal opens right in front of me.

"Oh, come on—!"

The car and I are swallowed whole.

...​

We crash through a jungle. Literally.

Trees explode into splinters, ferns slap against my visor, and somewhere in the distance, I hear an all-too-familiar guttural roar. There goes my dream of owning a car. That sound, though…

"Okay," I say, climbing out of the crumpled Charger, "either we're in Jurassic Park or Florida."

Control Freak tumbles out of the brush ahead, remote still clutched in his sweaty hands. "Stay back! You don't understand what I'm doing!"

"Dude, you smell like a deleted forum thread," I reply, stalking closer. "I understand enough."

Then the ground shakes.

Once.

Twice.

And then—boom. A Tyrannosaurus rex bursts through the treeline, mouth open in what can only be described as the world's most aggressive yawn.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," I groan. "We really went from Fast & Furious to Jurassic World: Family Drift." Or whatever fucking movie that franchise is on, now. Chris Pratt can't carry you forever.

Control Freak panics, slamming buttons like he's trying to enter a cheat code. "Stay away! Stay away!"

The T-Rex roars and charges. I hold up a hand. "Easy, big girl. Let's talk this out. You don't want to eat me. Too much metal. Not good for your cholesterol."

It sniffs me, eyes narrowing. I swear it licks its lips.

Should have just stayed still. Their vision isn't shit.

"…Okay, so you do want to eat me."

The bite comes fast. Her teeth clamp down on my arm—right through the armor.

"Bad girl!" I shout, yanking my arm free with a metallic crunch. The bite doesn't even break skin—Viltrumite perks—but it does dent the gauntlet. "Do you have any idea how expensive this was?!"

She roars again. I respond with a punch to the snout.

It's like hitting a fleshy dump truck.

She reels back, dazed. Control Freak uses the distraction to open another glowing doorway. "See you in the sequel, tin man!"

"Oh, no you don't—!"

I leap after him just as the jungle fades into static.

...​

We crash next into cold metal.

Red lights flash. Steam hisses. Alarms wail.

For a second, I think we're back in Tony Stark's lab—but then I hear it.

The unmistakable hum of a lightsaber.

"Oh, hell yes," I whisper, eyes lighting up behind the visor. "It's Star Wars time."

We're on Cloud City—Bespin. I can tell because everything looks like it's made out of IKEA furniture and plot convenience. Down below, Luke Skywalker is having a very bad day. Vader's towering over him, monologuing about defeat and destruction, and then—slice—there goes the hand.

Well.

I can't miss this opportunity.

I shoot down, snatching the falling hand and lightsaber midair.

"Got it!" I yell, hovering above the chasm. I toss the severed hand back toward Luke. "Heads up, Junior!"

He catches it—somehow—and just stares, shell-shocked.

"Don't thank me yet," I say, twirling the lightsaber experimentally. "You may not realize it, but I just saved you from the sequel trilogy."

Luke blinks. "The what?"

"Yeah, it was this whole thing. A Mary Sue got your lightsaber, then threw it into the sand. You tried to kill your nephew, drank alien cow boob juice, and died for no reason. It was like watching a franchise commit sudoku."

Control Freak wheels around, sputtering. "Stop ruining the classics!"

"Disney did that already," I shoot back. "I'm trying to save them!"

"Save this!"

He slams another button, and the world tears apart in a burst of static.

...​

Next thing I know, I'm face-first in a field of flowers. Bluebirds are chirping. Deer are frolicking. Somewhere, harp music is playing unironically.

"Oh no," I groan, sitting up. "Please tell me this isn't what I think it is."

A chorus of high-pitched voices answers me. "He's awake!"

I turn—and seven tiny, judgmental faces glare up at me.

The dwarfs.

"Great," I mutter. "Snow White. The most unrealistic movie I've ever seen, since I've watched the live action remake." Actually, I didn't watch it. I watched the parody song made up of all that hateful comments from the trailer.

"Who goes there?!" squeaks one of them—Doc, maybe. Or Sleepy. Honestly, they all look like Funko Pops.

"Relax," I say, raising a hand. "Not a witch. Not a prince. Just a very lost man in a very stupid armor set, that I have to repair now, because dinosaurs are assholes."

Control Freak's ahead again, climbing a hill toward a castle that looks like it was rendered in 1940s technicolor. He's laughing like a maniac. "You can't stop me, King! I'll rewrite cinematic history!"

"Cool," I say. "I'll rewrite your dental history."

I take off after him, but something distracts me—a glass coffin glinting in the sunlight. Inside, the famous damsel herself, pale as printer paper.

I stop beside it, sigh. "Y'know, just out of curiosity…"

I crouch, lift my helmet, tilt my head, and—fine—lean in and give her the world's most hesitant peck on the lips.

Her eyes flutter open.

"Oh," I say, pulling back. "Well, that's awkward."

Snow White blinks at me, confused and beautiful and very much alive. "Are you my prince?"

"Technically? No. Legally? Probably not. Morally? Definitely not." I might've accidentally checked Prince Charming. Whoops.

Wait. Does that make me Prince Charming, now?

She smiles dreamily. "Then why did you kiss me?"

"Science," I lie, and immediately regret it.

Behind me, one of the dwarfs gasps. "You monster!"

"Okay, first of all, don't kink-shame me," I shoot back, already walking away. "Second of all, your friend here was dead. I'm just saying—maybe a thank-you instead of an accusation?"

A bird dive-bombs me. I swat it aside.

"I'm so done with this franchise."

Control Freak's at the castle gates now, waving his remote like a wand. "You can't catch me!"

"Wanna bet?"

I launch myself forward, tackle him mid-sentence, and both of us crash through another glowing rift—

—straight into the movie theater.

...​

We smash back into reality like a couple of discount Avengers, tumbling down the aisle in a tangled heap of armor, wires, and broken pride. Popcorn rains down from the ceiling. The screen flickers one last time before cutting to static.

Control Freak groans, clutching his remote—now sparking uselessly. "You—you ruined it! My masterpiece!"

I plant a boot on his chest and pluck the remote from his hand. "Correction: I just stopped a maniac from merging cinema with reality. You're welcome, Spielberg."

He glares up at me. "You think you're funny, don't you?"

I tilt my helmet. "No. I know I'm funny."

With that, I snap the remote in half. The portal fizzles out, leaving only the faint smell of burnt popcorn and melted ego.

I step off Control Freak, brush off my cape, and glance up at the ruined screen. My own face stares back for half a second before the projector dies completely.

"Across the cinematic universe," I murmur, stretching my arms with a satisfied sigh. "And all I got was this stupid lightsaber."

I twirl it once, igniting the blade. The blue glow reflects off my armor.

"Okay," I grin under the visor. "That's actually pretty sick."

Swish. Slash. Hummm.

"I still feel like I'm forgetting something…" I mused, as I actively resisted the urge to check if I was plasma proof. "Oh, yeah! Whatever happened to that truck—!"

...​

Robin spotted the wreck before the smoke even cleared.

Half a movie theater lay in ruins—screen shredded, lobby demolished, concession stand scattered like a war zone of half-melted Milk Duds. Sirens screamed somewhere down the block, and the only thing standing upright amid the chaos was a tall figure in gleaming platinum armor, boot on Control Freak's chest.

The sight made Robin's gut twist.

"He's wearing a crown," Robin muttered, narrowing his eyes behind his domino mask. "That's never a good sign."

Cyborg cocked his cannon. "Is it just me, or does this dude look like the Mandalorian?"

"Nah,I think he's more like a Power Ranger with an OnlyFans," Beast Boy added helpfully.

"Gross, Beastboy." Raven didn't even glance at him.

Before Robin could issue a plan, Starfire had already streaked ahead in a fiery blur of green light. "UNHAND THE SLUG OF CINEMATIC CRIME, FOUL VILLAIN!"