April 11, 2014 — Friday — Payton Penitentiary — 6:32 PM
Payton Penitentiary had three lines of defense.
The first was the outer wall — six meters of reinforced concrete, crowned with barbed wire and spotlights sweeping the perimeter every twelve seconds.
The second were the watchtowers, one at each corner, each with two armed guards in direct communication with the central security hub.
The third was the inner yard — a wide, deliberately open area designed to expose any intruder long before they reached the reinforced gates.
Russell landed in the middle of the yard and made all three meaningless in under ten seconds.
He dropped from the sky like a dark violet meteor, his shell's matte ridges catching the light, and the impact cracked the concrete in a perfect circle that spread five meters out. The ground trembled. Alarms screamed instantly — a mechanical howl tearing through Chicago's night.
Behind him, Tom hit with a heavy thud, already mid-change. Bones snapped, skin thickened, arms stretched, and dark fur surged in waves. In seconds, he was a hulking three-meter gorilla, muscles writhing under his hide, shoulders as wide as doors.
Scott touched down beside Tom, light on his feet. He opened his hands slowly, and fire began to dance between his fingers, growing hotter as his body temperature climbed. His eyes blazed behind the mask, reflecting the orange light that flowed down his forearms.
Robert dropped to one knee on landing, then rose in one smooth motion. The first spines broke through the skin of his forearms, ripping through the fabric of his suit without hesitation. He rolled his shoulders, testing range of motion, and looked to Russell.
Chris was the last to arrive. He simply appeared beside the group — an electric blur that snapped into shape with a low crack of ozone. Blue sparks still hissed around his wrists as he stopped, eyes scanning the towers with sharp precision.
Russell didn't need to speak. He just lifted his right hand — a short, definitive gesture — and pointed toward the southern wall.
As the spotlights converged on the group and the sirens woke every guard in the compound, Bruce was already moving in the opposite direction. Flying low, mask drawn tight over his face, he cut through the shadows cast by the northern wall. He reached the base in four seconds.
No hesitation. He climbed fast. Silent. Six meters. He vaulted over the barbed wire without a sound and dropped down on the other side, landing in a crouch.
X-ray vision flicked on instantly. The world turned translucent — walls, corridors, metal frames, all stacked in shades of gray and blue. He filtered the noise, searching for the anomaly: disproportionate security.
Block D. Sublevel two. Cells four times thicker than the rest. Two guards at the door. Cameras at every angle.
There — Dr. Mikhail.
Bruce memorized the route and sprinted through the inner corridors. Spotlights sweep every twelve seconds. He waited for the blind wedge—then went.
In the yard, Russell watched the towers.
The first shot came from the northeast post. The bullet struck the center of his carapace with a metallic tang and ricocheted off into the dark. He didn't even flinch.
Then came more. Dozens.
All four towers opened fire at once. Bullets rained over Russell, who raised his arms wide, receiving applause instead of gunfire. The armor absorbed everything.
Tom roared, charging toward the nearest tower — the one beside the main building. The plan was simple: keep their eyes off Bruce's escape. He slammed the ground with enough force to crack the tower's base.
Scott stepped forward, flames crawling up his shoulders. Russell gave a short nod. Now.
Scott unleashed an explosion of white-orange heat toward the southern tower. It wasn't just a column of fire — it was a thermal wave that made the steel scream before melting. The guards fled their post.
Scott was in his element: every degree of heat made him stronger, his grin widening behind the mask.
Russell rose from the ground, hovering level with the wall, arms outstretched.
"Keep going," his voice echoed from inside the helm. "Call them all."
And they did.
Three minutes later, the sky answered.
Heroes converged from every direction.
Darkwing descended first — a shadow cut against the floodlights, his black cape snapping in the wind. He perched atop the wall like a metal raven, surveying the scene.
Red Rush followed, appearing in the yard with a sonic crack, standing casually at the center.
"Really? Breaking into a federal prison? Couldn't start smaller?"
War Woman dropped from above with a sword this time — not her usual mace — and a shield on her arm, the golden helmet gleaming over a serious expression. She landed beside Red Rush, already in fighting stance.
The Immortal arrived next, floating three meters off the ground, arms crossed. He looked from Russell to Tom, to the rest, and sighed.
"Don't know who you are… but clearly, you have no idea what you're doing."
And then, last of all, he came.
Omni-Man.
He descended slowly, as if time itself slowed for him. The white-and-red uniform pristine, posture unshakable. When his boots touched the ground between Guardians and intruders, the air grew heavier.
Omni-Man looked at Russell. Russell looked back.
Before the first blow, Immortal's deep voice cut through the tension.
"Surrender now. Last chance."
Russell smiled behind the helm.
"No."
And war began.
Russell drained ten percent of everyone's strength around him — copying every power he could reach. The carapace thickened.
Omni-Man struck first.
The Viltrumite's punch hit square on his helm, sounding like metal on stone. Russell's head snapped back — but he absorbed the force. Then returned it. His right fist sprouted spines just before impact. Omni-Man blocked — the spines bent but still cut through.
Russell vanished a meter to the side, reappearing in a burst of lightning that sent Omni-Man flying upward.
Immortal dove through Scott's flames, shielding his face with an arm, grabbed the boy by the chest, and hurled him twenty meters away. Scott rolled, laughed, and doubled the heat, forcing the Immortal to step back.
Darkwing swooped from the shadows straight into Robert's path.
The caped hero fought tactical and fast — dark batarangs ricocheting in arcs that forced Robert to counter with a cloud of spines. He adjusted angles at the last second to avoid lethal hits.
Darkwing blinked through shadows, reappeared two meters ahead, and drove a hook into Robert's jaw. Blood rose — then vanished as the wounds sealed instantly.
Red Rush streaked through the yard in red lines and met Chris head-on. The Russian was faster overall, but Chris's lightning jumps bent the rhythm.
He let electricity course through his body, parrying with charged arms; a brief contact froze Red Rush's muscle for a blink — just enough for Chris to sidestep and drive a shot into his ribs.
War Woman measured Tom head to toe. He swung first — a massive upward punch. She caught it flat against her blade, pivoted with the motion, and flipped the giant over her hip. Tom hit the ground hard, asphalt crying out, but he rose grinning.
Above, Russell hovered in the glare of a spotlight while Omni-Man floated before him, brow furrowed.
"That armor… you look strong," Omni-Man said.
"You have no idea," Russell replied, smiling behind the shell.
"Bruce," he said into the comm. "Status."
"Located Mikhail. Three floors down, still in his cell. Fifteen minutes to reach the loading bay."
"Faster," Russell ordered. "Do it in five. Things just got complicated."
He raised an empty hand toward Omni-Man, stacking powers—spines budded, ice feathered, fire haloed his forearm—all of it stabilizing at the shell a heartbeat before contact.
"Let's see how strong I really am."
Omni-Man tilted his head a millimeter.
And another clash began.
Inside Payton Penitentiary — Block D
Bruce moved through the corridor in complete silence — each step measured, his body coiled like a spring ready to strike. Two guards sprinted past in the opposite direction, shouting into their radios, but Bruce was already pressed flat against the wall, hidden in shadow. They didn't even glance back.
The faint hum of his X-ray vision pulsed at the edge of his awareness, keeping his mental map sharp. He took the stairs down without a sound. Turned left.
The air was thick with the sterile scent of metal and disinfectant, but underneath, he could feel the faint warmth radiating from reinforced walls.
Dr. Mikhail's cell door stood ahead — a slab of fortified steel with an electronic lock.
Bruce drew in a quiet breath and struck once.
The sound rang like metal screaming. The impact cratered the door's center into a perfect cone, tearing it from its bolts and sending it skidding across the concrete corridor with a heavy thud.
Inside, the cell was small and dim — more bunker than room.
Dr. Mikhail crouched in the corner, a frail man with white, sweat-matted hair. He hid behind an overturned metal table, trembling.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Mikhail's voice cracked, thin and fearful, his eyes straining to adjust to the dark.
Bruce didn't answer. He flicked his X-ray vision on for a brief sweep — checking for traps or sensors — then turned it off, stepping forward, his tone low but unwavering.
"I'm here to get you out."
He reached down, gripping the scientist's arm — firm, but careful — and pulled him to his feet.
The courtyard had become a blur of movement and the clash of titans.
Red Rush weaved through a lightning swipe from Chris, spinning around the arc of the attack to avoid the electric backlash. He stopped two meters away, eyes darting over the chaos. He saw Robert absorb three hits from Darkwing before retaliating with a burst of bone spikes that forced the caped hero to vanish back into the shadows. He saw Scott laugh through the blaze of his own firestorm as Immortal tried—and failed—to push through the column of white flames.
"Who the hell are these guys?" Red Rush muttered. "They're not random. They're coordinated—and some of these powers are impressive."
Chris grinned and lunged again, forcing Red Rush to move. The high-speed duel resumed.
War Woman used her sword not to strike, but to parry Tom's grotesque punch. She wedged the blade into a slab of concrete, vaulted upward, and used the giant's momentum against him—her heel slamming into his jaw midair. Tom staggered, jaw tight, then roared back and charged like a living battering ram. The impact never came. Immortal caught him from behind, grappling the behemoth and hurling him into the outer wall—cracking ten meters of reinforced concrete.
Scott, seeing his ally in trouble, released a searing spiral of flame to keep the heroes at bay.
Darkwing reappeared in Robert's blind spot while the mutant was focused on the firestorm. A black boomerang cut through the air and sliced Robert's leg—but the wound sealed before he even stumbled.
Above them, Russell traded three thunderous blows with Omni-Man. Each impact sounded like muffled thunder, rippling through the night.
Even holding back, the Viltrumite pressed him—angles read, micro-feints punished. Russell stayed with him, strength for strength; the shell buzzed and learned on impact, adjusting with every exchange.
Russell was testing his limits. Omni-Man was measuring him in turn, keeping his expression cold and calculated.
Then Russell forced the tempo—channeling a wave of frost through his left arm, freezing the air into a spear of solid ice that shot toward Omni-Man's chest. The hero didn't flinch; the ice shattered against his breath. But in that instant of distraction, Russell vanished in a lightning flash, reappearing behind him to unleash a storm of bone spikes before retreating to the center.
Omni-Man turned slowly, glancing down at the faint scratches marking his pristine uniform. The mix of stolen powers, cunning tactics, and raw durability—coming from a man who shouldn't even matter—was starting to irritate him.
"This ends now," he said flatly, voice deep enough to make the air tremble.
He drew back a fist—simple, clean—and threw a punch that carried the weight of a planet.
The impact hit the center of Russell's chest plate.
The sound cracked the air like a sonic boom. His purple armor sang a high metallic note as Russell's body was launched across the yard, slamming into the outer wall in an explosion of debris and dust.
The shell held, but the kinetic shockwave overloaded it. His body wasn't fully adapted to that level of force—hairline fractures of energy rippled through his system. His skull throbbed as blood seeped from the seams of the armor.
Omni-Man hovered, assessing the damage.
Russell didn't rise immediately—the migraine was brutal, the price of stacking too many powers/Egos in too little time.
This armor's incredible… I'd be dead without it. I can still take more. But this pain—damn it.
The regeneration was already working, unexpectedly better than usual—cells knitting, even the fried synapses of his brain repairing themselves.
Half-buried in rubble, he tapped his communicator. "Bruce, report."
"I've got him," came the reply. "But we're still inside. He's fragile, I can't fly through open fire, he might get hit—"
A second voice cut in faintly, panicked. "Get hit? You came to help me, didn't you?"
Russell pushed himself upright, cracking his neck through the armor, eyes locking back on Omni-Man.
Damn. The rebound's bad this time.
But I'm not done yet.
A sadistic smile spread behind the helmet.
Omni-Man frowned as Russell rose from the debris—after taking that kind of hit. He rushed forward again.
Russell only needed time. One second to shift the tide. He raised his hand toward Omni-Man—like flipping a switch—and unleashed it.
The Viltrumite's world turned upside down.
In an instant, sky and ground swapped places. The equilibrium of centuries of flight and combat collapsed. For a fraction of a second, Nolan's senses betrayed him—his brain's balance short-circuited.
He crashed into the ground like a meteor.
BOOOOM!
"What… did you do?!"
Russell stepped closer, hand still extended as if holding an invisible lever, his headache more intense after using this power.
"Sensory inversion," he said, voice warped through the helmet. "Everything your brain commands—your body does the opposite. The harder you fight it, the worse it gets."
Omni-Man tried to stand—and fell sideways.
Russell didn't know how long his energy would last, so he didn't waste a second.
He turned toward the chaos below. His team was still holding their ground against the Guardians—but barely.
He blurred across the battlefield, lightning-fast, slamming into Immortal's ribs with a full-force strike that sent the hero tumbling away from Scott. Then came a volley of spikes that forced War Woman back from Tom.
The shockwave froze the courtyard for an instant—and Russell used it.
He moved like a living storm, a fusion of stolen powers and raw energy, fighting with every trick he'd taken.
Red Rush streaked forward in a red blur, but Russell was already there—mirroring his speed, stealing the kinetic edge. A burst of lightning exploded from his palm, paralyzing the speedster in a single frame.
THRUUUM.
Red Rush screamed—then came the whip his head sideways; vision went white.
CRACK!
Russell's right hook connected. The Guardian flew across the yard and crashed hard, a smear of red tracing his trajectory. He tried to rise—barely—but Russell was already there with another blow that sent him down again, blood spilling from nose and mouth.
War Woman charged, sword in guard. Russell didn't meet strength with strength—he played.
He exhaled, and a blade of frozen air carved through the space between them.
VUUUSH!
The ice didn't hit her—it formed a wall of jagged spears, forcing her to leap back. Midair, Russell fired a volley of spikes. War Woman blocked with her bracelets, sparks flaring with every deflection.
He felt invincible—but the cost was mounting. Behind the armor, his face burned. When he touched his helmet, hot blood trickled from his nose and ears—the rebound tearing through him.
Tch… not yet. Just a little longer.
The pain was a hammer in his skull, but the adrenaline drowned it out.
He signaled to his team: Go.
Tom, Robert, and Scott saw it. They regrouped and began retreating toward the shattered wall. Chris stayed just long enough to cover their exit.
By now, Immortal was on his feet again—body smoking, the scar over his brow pulsing with fury. War Woman had rearmed, fury burning through her pain. They charged together.
"He's not escaping!" Immortal roared.
Russell waited—let him get close. Then struck.
A sweeping arc of shadowfire burst from his hand, a hybrid of flame and darkness, amplified beyond reason. It hit Immortal in the side—KSHHH!—and he stumbled.
Russell grabbed him by the waist, applying raw tonnage of force, and hurled him straight into War Woman mid-charge.
BOOOM!
The collision sounded like bones grinding. Both heroes crashed to the ground in a broken heap.
Russell didn't stop. He dove, hammered Immortal's face twice—
WHACK!SMACK!
Blood sprayed. The man's forehead split open.
He kept the load balanced; timing got cleaner. Power held steady. Control improved.
War Woman tried to rise, sword trembling in hand. Russell seized her by the throat and slammed her into the frozen spikes he'd made earlier. Her leg folded beneath her with a sharp crack—the sword flew, impaling her own thigh.
She screamed. Her arm hung at an impossible angle.
Darkwing hesitated in the shadows. His strategy—his composure—shattered.
He threw three explosive discs. Russell raised a wall of ice to block them, melted it with fire, and blitzed forward—his punch folding Darkwing at the gut.
In seconds, Russell had turned the battle upside down.
Scott whistled low from the far end of the yard.
"Holy shit, Russell…"
Chris rolled his shoulder, wincing from his fight with Red Rush, and nodded.
"Now that's more like it."
Then, from the prison building, Bruce appeared—carrying Dr. Mikhail slung over his shoulder.
"Exfiltrating!" he shouted over the chaos.
That was the cue. Chris and Scott took off.
Russell looked back—saw Bruce in flight—and then looked down at the fallen Guardians.
He smiled behind the helmet.
"It's been fun."
And that's when Omni-Man moved.
Near the crater, debris shifting, his eyes burned crimson with rage. Veins bulged across his neck. He stood—unsteady, shaking, like a puppet with broken strings. His balance was wrecked, his senses fighting themselves. Blood trailed from the corner of his mouth.
With a guttural snarl, he launched forward—not toward Russell, but the wrong direction—then corrected midair, forcing his senses to obey.
He got close—swung his arm back—
SWOOOSH!
It was clumsy, slow… but it hit.
The blow struck Russell's shoulder—not by precision, but sheer centrifugal force. It sent him flying, not from impact alone but from the Viltrumite's raw, chaotic power.
Everyone froze.
Omni-Man was kneeling again, panting, shaking—but still terrifying.
"You think that'll stop me?" he growled, voice thick with blood. "I've already adapted. Left foot, right hand. Doesn't matter. You're not leaving here alive."
Russell's pulse quickened. The sheer adaptability of the Viltrumite—rewriting his instincts mid-fight—was absurd.
He was about to retort when Bruce's voice cut through the comm.
"Extraction complete. Mikhail secured."
That was all he needed.
Russell darted forward in a focused flash—hit Omni-Man square in the chest—and sent him crashing into the dirt with a new crater.
VUM!
He didn't wait to confirm. He shot into the sky, caught up with Chris and Scott, grabbed them both, and accelerated—flight and speed intertwined.
The Guardians had been decimated.
A long-forgotten prisoner had been taken.
And the mightiest hero on Earth had been humiliated.
A new kind of villain had risen—one whose strength defied logic itself.
Seven minutes later, the GDA arrived.
Four armored vans rumbled through the front gates of Payton Penitentiary, followed by two ambulances and a containment truck. Sirens cut through the Chicago night like blades, reflecting off the smoking wreckage scattered across the prison courtyard.
Agents spilled out in tactical formation—rifles raised, eyes scanning—but there was no one left to arrest. Only debris. And bodies.
Cecil Stedman stepped out of the second van, his immaculate suit standing in stark contrast to the chaos around him. He looked over the crater at the center of the yard, the cracked perimeter wall, the melted guard towers. A long, tired sigh left his lips.
"Someone explain to me," he said, voice dry and even, "how six intruders did this to the Guardians?"
No one answered.
Because, at that exact moment, Omni-Man tore through the sky overhead—a blur of white and red. His fists were clenched, his cape shredded, his expression unreadable. He didn't look down. Didn't slow. Didn't speak.
He vanished into the horizon in seconds, chasing ghosts.
Cecil watched him go until the Viltrumite was just a streak of color swallowed by the clouds. Then he turned toward the paramedics, already at work among the ruins.
What he saw made his jaw tighten.
War Woman lay unconscious on the first stretcher.
The medics moved with surgical precision, every gesture measured; one wrong touch could make things worse. Her right arm was bent at an impossible angle—bone piercing through skin just below the elbow. Her left leg showed three visible fractures, the femur shattered so completely that the thigh was swollen and purple.
Blood trailed from the corners of her mouth, staining the golden helmet.
"Internal bleeding confirmed," said one of the paramedics, voice tight. "We need to stabilize her now or she won't survive transport."
A syringe pierced the side of her neck. Another medic adjusted the respirator, keeping an eye on the erratic heartbeat monitor that blipped dangerously slow.
Cecil approached, hands still in his pockets, face carved from restraint.
"Will she make it?"
The medic didn't look up. "I don't know, sir. She's tough, but… this is well beyond what anyone should survive."
On the next stretcher lay Red Rush—motionless.
His mask was half removed, revealing a pale face beneath. No movement. His chest rose and fell in stuttering, shallow bursts, as if his body had forgotten how to breathe.
"Severe cranial trauma," said the medic kneeling beside him, shining a penlight into his eyes. "No response to stimuli. Pulse is faint. He's in a coma."
She turned to her partner.
"Prep for emergency transport. He needs surgery now."
The other medic nodded, securing the straps as they lifted the stretcher into the ambulance. Red Rush didn't stir. Not even a twitch. Just that fragile, broken rhythm of breath that could stop at any moment.
Immortal sat slumped against the wall—his head tilted at an angle no human neck could survive.
His spine was severed. His body limp.
Two medics stood nearby but hesitated. There wasn't much to do. Technically, Immortal was dead. No heartbeat. No breath. But they all knew the truth—he'd come back. He always did.
"How long until he regenerates?" Cecil asked, standing a few meters away.
One of the medics looked up, uncertain. "Could be minutes. Could be hours. Depends on the damage. I've seen him recover from worse… but I've never seen him stay down this long."
Cecil's eyes stayed fixed on the motionless body. His tone didn't change.
"Put him in containment. If he wakes up disoriented, I don't want anyone else getting hurt."
They nodded and began readying reinforced restraints.
Darkwing was awake.
And that made it worse.
He lay on his back atop the fourth stretcher, his breathing shallow and ragged. Every inhale was a struggle—every exhale a wet rattle. All his ribs were shattered, fragments piercing both lungs. Blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth, streaking down the edge of his mask.
He tried to speak, but all that came out was a choking gurgle.
"Don't try to talk," said the medic beside him, tightening the portable respirator over his face. "You've got double lung punctures. Any movement will make it worse."
Darkwing squeezed his eyes shut, pain radiating through every nerve like molten iron. He lifted a trembling hand—but it dropped again, useless.
The medic glanced toward Cecil.
"He needs surgery immediately. If we don't drain the blood in the next fifteen minutes, he's gone."
Cecil nodded once.
"Then move. Now."
They lifted the stretcher and rushed it toward the ambulance.
Cecil remained where he was—alone in the center of the ruined yard. Smoke drifted through the beams of the remaining spotlights.
Four Guardians down.
One comatose.
One dying.
One technically dead.
One drowning in his own blood.
And Omni-Man had flown off without a word.
Cecil exhaled slowly, exhaustion lining his voice. He touched the communicator in his ear.
"Prep the conference room," he said. "Find out who they took. I want answers—and I want them fast."
April 11th, 2014 — Friday — Grayson Residence — 7:16 PM
The kitchen smelled of garlic and onions. Debbie stirred without tasting, TV images still burned into the backs of her eyes—stretchers, blood, the Guardians.
In the living room, Mark leaned toward the screen. "They're saying War Woman's critical. Red Rush might not wake up."
"I heard you, honey," Debbie said. She killed the flame and set the spoon down, both hands flattening on the counter. "I just need a second."
The back door opened.
Nolan stepped in—no knock, no hello. The white-and-red suit was torn at the shoulder, chest, thigh; dust was ground into the seams.
"Dad!" Mark shot up.
Debbie started toward Nolan, relief breaking across her face. She reached for his cheek. "The news showed the Guardians being taken away. What happened? Are you—"
He shifted, jaw working once, and her hand met air.
He moved past her to the counter, grabbed the coffee pot. "I'm fine," he said—hard, clipped. He poured too fast; it splashed over the rim. "You know I don't break like they do."
The silence that followed was thick. Debbie's hand hung there a beat longer, then fell. She bit her lip. He's shaken. It isn't about me. It still hurt.
"She was just worried," Mark tried.
Nolan set the cup down too hard; coffee jumped. He turned his back, shoulders set. "Save worry for people who break."
He crossed the kitchen in three strides, threw the door open, and looked at the dark. "I didn't search hard enough, I was lenient." he muttered—to no one. "I'll handle it."
He lifted off. Wind kicked the curtains; the door slammed against the wall; the windows rattled and stilled. His eyes tracked flight lanes, not faces—measuring routes, not people.
Debbie stood where she was, arms folding in slow defense.
"Mom—" Mark began.
"It's fine," she said, voice level, maybe too level. She relit the burner out of habit, then shut it off again. The spoon tapped the pan once, twice. "He just needs space."
April 11th, 2014 — Friday — Downtown Chicago Laboratory — 8:12 PM
The building's sub-basement was quieter than a tomb.
Three floors below street level, far from prying eyes, Russell's lab occupied nearly two hundred square meters of sterile steel and humming machines. Stainless workbenches lined the walls, cluttered with equipment that blinked blue and green — electron microscopes, centrifuges, genetic analyzers. All state-of-the-art. All highly illegal to possess without the right licenses.
But Russell never cared about licenses.
At the center of the room, beneath the cold white glow of LED lights, seven figures filled the space.
Scott leaned against a workbench, arms crossed, still wearing his soot-stained tactical gear. Bruce slowly removed his mask, running a hand through sweat-damp hair. Robert stood near Tom, who was still catching his breath, body trembling from the strain of transformation. Chris sat in a swivel chair, spinning slightly, half-lidded eyes watching the others.
Russell leaned against the far wall, arms loose at his sides, a blood-stained cloth pressed against his nose.
And in the middle of them all, Dr. Gero Mikhail paced the floor like a child in a toy store.
The fear that had clung to him back in prison was gone, replaced by pure, unrestrained curiosity — almost childlike, almost obsessive. He moved from one of them to the next, stepping too close, invading personal space without even realizing it.
He stopped in front of Scott, tilting his head, eyes alight.
"You… you generate fire, correct?" Mikhail said, lifting his hand as if to touch but stopping inches from Scott's arm. "Is it internal heat production or controlled external combustion?"
Scott stepped back half a pace, uneasy.
"I… don't know? I just do it."
Mikhail smiled — wide, manic, uncontrolled.
"Fascinating!"
He spun toward Bruce, circling him like a predator studying prey.
"And you… you're the most interesting of all, aren't you?" Mikhail stopped in front of him, eyes locked on Bruce's. "You copy others' abilities. You call them Egos, yes? How does it work? Direct contact? Observation? Theoretical comprehension?"
Bruce glanced at Russell, then back at him.
"I need to understand how something works first. Then I copy it."
Mikhail clapped his hands — actually clapped — and let out a short, almost hysterical laugh.
"Incredible! Real-time genetic adaptation! Your body doesn't just replicate the structure — it learns the mechanism and integrates it into your biological system!" He stepped closer, voice rising. "Do you realize what this means?! You're living proof that evolution can be artificially accelerated!"
Bruce frowned, stepping back. "You're too close."
Mikhail didn't hear him. He was already darting toward Tom, then Robert, then Chris — firing off questions, analyzing, muttering to himself with wild enthusiasm. He had no sense of personal space — or he'd lost it long ago.
After nearly five minutes of uninterrupted rambling, he stopped in the center of the lab, arms spread, voice loud and triumphant.
"It's the work of a lifetime!" he shouted, gazing up as if thanking some invisible god. "All these years… all these years I thought I'd failed! That the serum was useless! But you— you're the proof! You're perfect!"
Scott exchanged a glance with Chris.
Chris rolled his eyes.
"He's kinda crazy."
"Kinda?" Robert muttered.
Russell clapped twice, sharp and loud enough to break through Mikhail's frenzy.
"Doctor," he said, calm but firm. "Sit down. Let's talk properly."
Mikhail blinked as if snapping out of a trance, then nodded quickly.
"Yes, yes, of course. Sorry. I get… excited."
They moved to the far side of the lab, where three black leather sofas formed a semicircle around a low table. Russell sat in the center, still holding the blood-soaked cloth. Mikhail took the seat to his right. Scott, Bruce, Chris, Robert, and Tom filled the others, each wary in their own way.
Mikhail sat on the edge of the couch, hands on his knees, still smiling.
"Fascinating," he murmured, almost to himself.
Russell leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced around the stained cloth.
"All right, here's the situation," he said quietly. "I need your help fixing my cells. Can you do that?"
Mikhail's smile faded. He studied Russell carefully, eyes narrowing.
"You mentioned cellular overload," he said slowly. "The bleeding. The headaches. You used an amplified version of the serum, didn't you? Multiple forced genetic alterations within a single organism."
Russell nodded once. "That's right."
Mikhail rubbed his chin, thoughtful.
"It's possible. Difficult, but possible. I'll need blood samples, full genetic mapping, time to study the degradation pattern… but yes, I can help."
"And once that's fixed… can the serum be reproduced?"
He paused, tilting his head.
"Theoretically, yes — but not without the raw material."
Russell frowned.
"Raw material?"
"Yes. Before anything else, you need to understand how this began."
Russell leaned back, arms crossed.
"Then tell me. How did you create the serum?"
Mikhail drew a deep breath, his eyes distant as if peering back through decades.
"I developed it in the nineties," he began, his voice soft, almost reverent. "I've always been fascinated by the evolution of species. Darwin, Mendel, Crick, Watson… they all grazed the surface of something far greater. But none of them asked the right question."
"What question?" Bruce asked despite himself.
Mikhail smiled.
"What if we could accelerate evolution?"
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming again.
"The serum's origin was a stone. In my family, a translucent, milky-white stone was passed down for generations. My grandfather said it had been a gift — given to one of our ancestors by a band of Vikings he fought beside. They called it a rune stone."
Scott frowned.
"Rune stone? Like… magic?"
Mikhail shrugged.
"I never believed in that. That is bullshit. Magic Runes doesn't exist. But energy does."
He brushed a hand through his graying hair.
"I studied that stone for years. It emitted traces of energy unlike anything found on Earth. Something… subtle, but undeniable."
Russell leaned in. "And then?"
"I used the stone as the base," Mikhail said, his voice rising. "I created the serum by combining its energy with advanced genetic manipulation. I tested it on pregnant women — the goal was to alter the fetus's DNA during gestation, to accelerate evolution from birth."
He paused, his expression darkening. "None succeeded. None of the babies developed powers. I was about to give up."
"But?" Chris urged.
Mikhail took a breath.
"But in 1998, on January 23rd, something changed."
He stopped, eyes locked on nothing, lost in memory.
"The stone began to glow — a vivid, purple light. Not subtle. Powerful. I'd never seen anything like it. I began studying it immediately, trying to understand what triggered it."
Russell narrowed his eyes. "And what did?"
Mikhail shook his head.
"I never found out. Not long after, the military raided my lab. They took the stone. And when they discovered what I'd been doing… they imprisoned me."
He let out a bitter laugh.
"For years, I thought I'd failed. That the serum never worked. That all those women gave birth to normal children."
He looked around the room — at each of them in turn.
"But it seems I was wrong… That base you mentioned, can you check what happened to it?"
Russell grabbed a tablet from the table.
After a few moments of typing, he cleared his throat.
"Found something. The base you worked at was a government facility in Nevada. Officially, it collapsed in an accident in the eighties, but it resumed operations off-record not long after — until another 'accident' shut it down following your arrest."
He swiped the screen. "There's more. A GDA operation took place there in 2010. They picked up anomalous readings and extracted an unidentified energy source."
Mikhail's eyes widened. "The stone…"
Silence hung heavy in the room.
Scott was the first to break it.
"So you're saying… we exist because some magic rock decided to shine at the right time?"
Mikhail rolled his eyes.
"It wasn't magic. It was unknown energy. And when it shone, no one had powers yet. It's likely extraterrestrial… or interdimensional… or—"
"Sounds like magic," Tom cut in.
Mikhail opened his mouth to argue, but Russell raised a hand, cutting him off."A late friend once told me the serum's trigger was a strange frequency pulse back in 2010. Whatever it was doesn't matter," he said firmly. "What matters is that it worked. And you can help me."
He met Mikhail's gaze. "So? Will you fix my cells?"
"Yes."
Russell smiled — small, satisfied.
"Good. Because I'll give you something in return."
Mikhail frowned
"What?"
Russell stood, arms loose at his sides, posture relaxed yet commanding.
"Everything," he said simply. "Equipment. Funding. Freedom to keep experimenting. Everything you've ever wanted."
Mikhail blinked, disbelief crossing his face.
"You… you're serious?"
"Completely."
A rush of emotions flickered across Mikhail's face — shock, doubt, hope… and finally, pure greed. He rose slowly, extending his hand.
"Then we have a deal."
Russell clasped it firmly.
"We do."
And there, beneath the sterile light of a hidden Chicago lab, an alliance was forged.
Not out of friendship.
But because Russell had offered Mikhail the only thing he'd ever truly desired —
the chance to keep playing god with evolution.
And Mikhail accepted without looking back.
April 11th, 2014 — Friday — Chicago Skies — 8:40 PM
Despite everything that had happened a few hours earlier, the night over Chicago was calm for some.
Kai flew slowly through the sky, carrying Kiana in his arms as if she weighed nothing. The black suit he wore fluttered lightly with the wind, the mask covering the lower half of his face while his white hair and blue eyes caught the city lights below. Kiana had her arms wrapped around his neck, her face close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, her eyes reflecting the flickering glow of the streets beneath them.
They weren't in a hurry.
The arcade had closed half an hour ago, but though Kai would never admit it, neither of them wanted the night to end. Once again, he was flying her home — "the fastest route," as he'd said. And it was true. From up here, Chicago looked like an ocean of lights, the streets twisting like glowing veins, skyscrapers cutting sharp shapes against the dark sky.
Kiana rested her chin lightly on his shoulder and smiled.
"Thanks for tonight," she said softly, her voice warm and close. "I had a great time."
Kai didn't answer right away.
He stayed silent for a few seconds, eyes on the horizon, his expression hidden behind the mask. Then, finally, he exhaled quietly.
"So did I," he said.
Kiana's smile deepened. Her arms tightened slightly around his neck.
They kept gliding through the air, crossing the heart of the city at a lazy pace. The wind carried the smell of wet asphalt and distant smoke. Below, cars lined the streets in neat streams of light, and people moved along sidewalks unaware of the two figures drifting silently above them.
Then something changed.
A blur of red and white streaked past them — fast, violent, unmistakable.
Kai froze midair.
The blur stopped too.
Omni-Man hovered fifty meters away, his arms at his sides, his tattered cape rippling behind him. He turned his head slowly toward them, eyes narrowing, expression locked somewhere between fury and grim duty.
A chill ran down Kai's spine.
Shit.
He held Kiana a little tighter but didn't move. Couldn't move. Any sudden motion would only draw more attention.
Thank God I'm wearing the suit, he thought, pulse quickening. But did he notice me?
Omni-Man stayed perfectly still, watching them for three long seconds that felt like an eternity.
Kiana said nothing. She simply held on tighter, her breath caught in her throat, eyes locked on the Viltrumite.
Then, Omni-Man turned his head slightly — scanning the horizon, searching for something else. His gaze swept left, then right, still hard, still simmering.
And without a word, he turned and shot off into the distance.
The sonic boom rolled through the clouds, rattling the nearby buildings.
Kai and Kiana stayed frozen in place.
For nearly ten seconds, neither spoke.
Then Kiana exhaled, the tension leaving her body as she looked up at him.
"So… that's really your father, huh?"
Kai didn't look away from the horizon.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
Kiana tilted her head, studying what she could see of his face.
"He looked angry," she murmured. "What do you think happened?"
Kai remained silent for a few moments, eyes fixed on the night sky.
"I don't know. I'm just glad we're in our uniforms."
The answer was short, final. He didn't want to talk about it — didn't even want to think about it.
Kiana noticed.
She didn't push. She simply rested her head against his shoulder again and whispered, "It's okay."
Kai drew in a slow breath, adjusted his grip around her, and resumed flying.
They crossed the rest of the way in silence. Her breath warmed the seam of his mask; the city thinned to pinpricks. Neither reached for a word.
Less than ten minutes later, her house came into view.
The mansion rose from the trees like something out of a painting — three stories of pale stone and glass, surrounded by manicured gardens and high walls. Lights glowed in the first and second floors, but the third was dark.
Kai slowed until they hovered beside her bedroom window. Kiana reached out, pushed it open, and slipped inside with graceful ease, landing softly on the carpet. She turned back toward him, framed by the dim hallway light.
He floated closer, stopping at eye level.
Her thumb found the edge of his mask, eased it down a notch. No countdown. A soft press—three quiet seconds—then air again.
It was soft. Warm. Real. Her lips lingered on his for three whole seconds before she pulled away slowly.
Kai hovered there, eyes half-lidded, a faint smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
Kiana smiled back, her eyes bright.
Somewhere below, a guard's radio crackled and fell quiet.
"Go," she whispered, glancing over her shoulder. "Before Claire shows up."
Kai drifted backward in the air. "See you soon," he said quietly.
"See you soon."
He turned and shot upward, disappearing into the night with a faint grin behind the mask.
Kiana stood at the window for a while, watching the spot where he'd vanished, her smile soft and unguarded.
Then she closed the window gently, locked it, and turned toward her room.
A Few Minutes Later — Grayson Residence
Kai slipped through the front door, closing it behind him with a quiet click. The ring on his finger shimmered faintly as his suit dissolved, the school bag now holding the folded fabric.
The living room was empty. He glanced toward the kitchen — empty too. The light was on, but no one was there.
Silence.
He climbed the stairs slowly, footsteps muffled by the carpet, and walked down the hall to his room. When he opened the door, he found Mark sitting on his bed, staring at his phone with a tense expression.
Mark looked up instantly.
"Dude, where were you?"
Kai closed the door behind him, dropping his bag onto the floor.
"At the arcade with everyone," he replied calmly, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the chair.
Mark stood up, still holding the phone, eyes wide.
"You didn't see the news?"
Kai raised an eyebrow, suspicion creeping in.
"No. What happened?"
Mark ran a hand over his face, taking a deep breath.
"Man, there were villains — they hit a prison. The Guardians fought them and… they're in bad shape. Like, really bad."
Kai blinked, processing.
"And Dad?"
"He's fine," Mark said, his voice dropping. "But the villains got away. Right under his nose. And he… dude, he came home furious. He even snapped at Mom."
Kai's jaw tightened. "Is she okay?"
Mark nodded, as if shaking off the image.
"Yeah. He didn't hurt her or anything. Just… yelled. He's just mad, that's all. He'll cool off. He always does."
Kai stayed quiet for a moment, eyes drifting to the floor.
So that's what that look was, he thought. The rage in his face… the way he flew off without a word.
It all made sense now.
If they escaped him, he thought, crossing his arms, there's nothing the Young Team or I could've done. Besides, if it were our problem, the GDA would've called us.
He sighed, kicked off his shoes, and dropped onto the bed.
"Got it. Thanks for the heads-up. I'll steer clear of him tonight."
Mark nodded slowly and sat back down, scrolling absently through his phone again.
By morning, Nolan was smooth granite again—coffee poured, paper folded, voice even. He just went about his routine as if nothing had happened.
Debbie accepted it. Mark accepted it.
Kai watched — and said nothing.
April 12th — Saturday — Chicago — 9:30 AM
TVs in barbershops, diners, and sunlit living rooms looped the same stingers.
"On Friday night, Payton Penitentiary was hit by a coordinated assault from six superpowered individuals. The attackers destroyed the prison's outer yard and engaged the Guardians of the Globe head-on. Immortal, War Woman, Red Rush, and Darkwing were hospitalized in critical condition. Omni-Man, the only uninjured member, failed to prevent the inmates' extraction. Where were Green Ghost, Cosmic, Martian Man, and Aquarus during the attack?"
The anchor straightened his papers and pressed on.
"Authorities confirm a single inmate was removed during the raid: Dr. Gero Mikhail, 54, a scientist convicted in 1998 for unauthorized human experimentation. The motive for his rescue remains unknown."
On a taxi radio, the take was different:
"With part of the roster absent, the team suffered. Specialists point to underestimating the enemy."
Sunday's print headline ran thick and black:
"WHO ARE THE NEW SUPER-VILLAINS? Reports indicate some fought the Young Team on a previous mission."
Subhead: Six intruders, one extraction, a message to the world.
The copy spoke of a "violet carapace," "elemental control," "electric speed," "simian brute," "quills," "an incendiary" — all guesses, no names. A smaller column echoed: "Experts say one of them was the strongest foe the Guardians have ever faced."
April 13th — Sunday — North Atlantic, 320m Deep — 9:03 PM
Blue silence. Aquarus's realm rose in domes of living stone, lit by pulsing organic lanterns. He planted his trident in sugar-fine sand, war splints still bracing the plates across his chest. His eyes followed a school of fish folding as one.
The water around him felt dark.
Not the honest darkness of the deep — that he knew well, a familiar, almost soothing veil. This was different. Heavy. Suffocating.
I should have been there.
The thought didn't echo — it sank. Calm, rational, but weighted with guilt.
Did they call me? No. But I could've gone. Monitored GDA bands. Done something.
"I was in Atlantis," he murmured into the quiet, voice flattened by the sea. "Matters of state. Responsibilities."
Messenger fins flickered in the distance, bringing late reports. Aquarus tightened his fists.
Immortal broken. War Woman at death's door. If they bleed… what stops the surface from collapsing on us next?
A cold current threaded the old ruins.
Next time, there won't be excuses.
April 14th — Monday — GDA Training Center — 4:40 PM
Mirage crossed the training hall with a stopwatch in hand, hair pulled high, eyes hard. The walls cycled environments in panels — alley, rooftop, narrow corridor.
"Again. Faster. Three seconds off."
Reflex swapped with a clone and nearly stumbled over her own exhaustion. Vortex swept the lane with a short Wind Blast to clear obstacles. Silver slotted her dagger into a projected stone outcrop, pulling Vortex's winds into orbit around her forearm.
"Reset," Mirage said, voice like a blade. "Defensive formation. Silver, left cover. Vortex, center. Reflex, right. Ghost Girl, flank. Atlas, aerial support — you see it first or it kills you first."
Silver sighed under her breath but moved without argument. Reflex did the same, peeling off more copies around herself.
Atlas rolled his eyes.
"We've run this six times. Pointless. When it counts, I carry."
"And we'll run six more. Until it's perfect. That all you've got? After Payton?" Mirage's tone cut. "War Woman is my friend. I won't see you end up like them. Starting now, I'm in the field with you. Every mission."
The silence went heavy. The timer beeped.
"Circuit. Now."
They moved, no backtalk this time. Even Atlas kept quiet — something tight buried under the bravado. Maybe a splinter of guilt, knowing he'd crossed paths with one of them minutes before the prison hit.
They trained until their legs refused to hold them.
April 15th — Tuesday — Oakwood — 12:42 PM
The courtyard emptied students into the halls. Kai, Kiana, and Viktor made for the cafeteria, backpacks thumping in the same rhythm.
"GDA training sucked," Viktor opened, toeing a pebble. "Mirage ran circuits till I hate the word 'circuit.' I'm not staying for club today."
"She's right," Kiana said, then sighed anyway. "But… it was rough."
Kai adjusted his strap.
"After Payton, it was expected. They don't want you going through what the Guardians did."
Viktor threw his hands wide.
"'You' should include you, 'Mr. Non-Official', " Viktor grumbled. "You drop in when you feel like it and the GDA never rides you."
Kai shrugged.
"Those were my terms for helping."
Viktor frowned.
"Life's got favorites."
Kai let it pass, gaze drifting as Kiana hooked her arm through his.Thank Cosmic for that.
Kiana leaned a shoulder into him, brief and warm."Let's grab food before club and head out. If you're late, Cassie yells at me… Also— Mirage said something yesterday that makes sense." She met his eyes, then continued, "With the Guardians hurt in the news, criminals might try their luck. We could see more incidents this week."
Kai nodded, thoughtful.
"Makes sense. If you go, I'll be there." His voice slipped, a shade more protective than he usually let show.
She turned, caught his chin with two fingers, and kissed him — simple, sure. Viktor looked away, theatrically wounded.
"Okay, that's my cue. No club. I'm going to see Jenny. And if I hear 'circuit' again, I'm ghosting every GDA practice."
Kai and Kiana chuckled as he peeled off.
Kiana brushed her hair back behind her ear and looked at Kai.
"With everything that happened, your dad seemed on edge that night. It's okay if you want to wait… you know, to meet my father. And to tell your family we're dating."
"As long as you don't tell them I'm Grey and you're Silver."
She smiled, and for a moment the day — despite everything — felt normal.
Later, same day — April 15th — Tuesday — Chicago — 9:42 PM
After training, they lingered together a bit longer. They should've gone home by now, but with most of the main Guardians still down after the last mission, Chicago's security was thinner than usual—the perfect excuse to steal a few extra minutes.
He held her firmly by the waist as they flew high above the skyline, gliding at a steady pace.
The night was calm, yet awake. The sky was clear, letting the moonlight compete with the electric glow of the neon signs that sketched the city's skeleton below. From that height, traffic noise and muffled bar music rose like a distant murmur.
It didn't take long for Mirage's prediction to prove right. Kiana's communicator beeped. She touched it and repeated the words for Kai.
"There are three robbery attempts happening simultaneously."
Their eyes met, a smile forming at the corners of their lips. He didn't say a word—just nodded once.
Kiana, still holding the communicator, replied quickly, "Silver here. We're on our way."And before Mirage could say wait for backup, Kiana disconnected.
In seconds, the world became a streak of light.Kai dove, flying low and precise toward a jewelry store on the corner of Madison. Tempered glass shattered across the sidewalk, the gate half torn off, two thieves stuffing bags, another trembling behind the counter with a shotgun too big for him.
Kai landed silently on the awning and set Kiana down.
"Three armed. One with something heavy," he murmured, the Six Eyes reading angles and trajectories as glowing lines.
Kiana twirled her dagger once; the metal flexed under her grip like living muscle.
"Let's go."
They slipped through the broken display window—shadow and light entering as one.
The man with the shotgun fired by reflex.Kai wasn't there. A short step, shoulder turned, a hand to the barrel—redirected skyward.
BOOM.
Plaster dust rained down. In the same motion, Kai shoved the man's chest lightly—light enough that it looked effortless, hard enough to drop him flat.
"Stay down," he said, voice dry.
The second thief raised his gun. Kiana's dagger flashed.
CLANG!
The pistol flew out of his hand. Before he could recover, her heel met his chin—he hit the floor hard. Chains, bracelets, and gold scattered, clinking against tile and over his limp body.
"Jewels stay with the jewelry," she quipped, grinning.
The third tried to bolt through the back door, backpack bouncing. Kai crossed the store in a breath and blocked the exit. The thief froze mid-step—then turned to see Kiana waiting, blade low, stance tall.
He raised his hands immediately.
"Smart move," Kai muttered, taking the bag and tossing it onto the counter. "Poor guy who'll have to sort this display tomorrow."
The alarm still wailed overhead, red lights pulsing. Kiana tilted her head, eyes gleaming."How much does the express service cost for three thugs and one cute girl to the station?"
Kai eyed the unconscious pile, then her.
"Premium rate. No change."
She bit back a laugh and tapped her comm again.
"Point one clear. Moving to the next."
Kai slung the two unconscious ones over his shoulders and shot through the shattered window.
Kiana followed seconds later, dragging the last thief, careful not to step on the glass. Blue lights flickered up the street—a patrol car. She handed the captive off to the nearest officer.
"Two are already en route. This one got smart and surrendered."
Before the cop could reply, a sudden pull lifted her off the ground.Kai again—his hand on her waist, and before she knew it, they were airborne.She smiled, wind whipping past.
The city blurred beneath them once more.
Across town, a shattered electronics store. Two men sprinted toward parked bikes, bags swollen with stolen phones.
Kai skimmed the asphalt, air vibrating around him. At the last second, he tilted—the pressure wave rolled over the bikes. Tires screeched, losing traction, though he didn't send them flying.
Kiana pointed. Her dagger flew in a perfect line, slicing the straps off both bags and returning to her palm as if sliding along an invisible rail.
CLANG! CLANG!
The thieves tried to accelerate anyway. Kai was already in front of them. He tapped the handlebar of each bike with two fingers—just enough.
Both engines died instantly, as if someone had unplugged the city. A second later, he swept them off their seats and pinned them under the fallen bikes.
The alarm still wailed overhead, red lights pulsing — and now the wail of sirens grew on a nearby street.
A security guard peeked from the half-open metal door, trembling hands gripping a radio. The Six Eyes skimmed him in a blink: holster at the waist, retention strap open, stance not entirely green.
"Thank you, I—"The words caught in his throat as Kai floated in front of the door.
Kai picked up one of the dropped pistols and, keeping his finger well off the trigger, handed it to the guard grip-first.
"Hold on to this until the cops arrive. We have another emergency."
Kiana tilted her head, laughing softly. Kai grabbed her, and they were back in the sky.
"Show-off," she teased.
"And you liked it," he answered, winking.
High above the streets, Kiana touched her communicator again."Point two cleared. Heading to three."The comm crackled, "That was extremely fast. Good job, Silver, but now—"She cut the line again.
"Yeah... I'm going to get scolded later," she said in a playful tone.
Eight minutes later, they hovered above the Lakefront CryoFab facility in Gary, Indiana.
The yard spread like a steel chessboard: cranes frozen mid-lift, floodlights bleaching everything white, containers stacked like towers, each marked CRYO-NT/5K. Sirens blared in loops. Six armed men held the perimeter, while two larger ones—both in black armor painted with skulls and feline stripes, Jaguar and Coyotl—led the operation.
Kai landed atop a container with Kiana still in his arms. The Six Eyes mapped every line of the battlefield below.
"You handle the six with guns," he said. "I'll take the two who overdressed for Halloween."
Kiana nodded, gripping her dagger tight.
Kai dropped from the container and landed in front of Jaguar and Coyotl. Their boots scraped the concrete, servos whining.
"Ay, héroe," Jaguar growled, accent thick. "You're too late."
Kai didn't answer. He stepped forward once—enough for the first punch to miss. Jaguar's fist cut air; Kai was gone. Coyotl came swinging down with a heavy cross; Kai brushed past it, tapping his elbow with two fingers—the strike lost all force, collapsing midair.
On the other side of the yard, the six gunmen opened fire.
TRRRRAT! TRRAT!
Even while fighting, Kai's perception tracked every motion around Kiana—ready to intervene if needed.
But it was just overprotection, it wasn't necessary.
Kiana touched the ground; stones cracked upward, forming a jagged wall. Bullets ricocheted harmlessly. She slid along the edge as the wall crumbled, hurled her dagger in an impossible arc—sheared the stock off the first rifle.CLANG!
"Time to sleep," she muttered, pivoted, and drove her knee into the man's sternum. He dropped without air.
Two more fired together. Kiana sidestepped, pebbles orbiting her arm; she flicked them like a whip—both shooters took hits to the shins, lost balance, dropped their weapons. The dagger flashed again, slicing a magazine, then another move—wrist twist, disarm, side kick to the knee."Three," she counted. "Four… five."
The sixth shot point-blank. Kiana arched backward, the bullet biting concrete. She leapt over the barrier, hand cutting across his forearm, dagger bouncing off the rail and back into her grip before she hooked him behind the ear. Out cold.
At the center, Jaguar and Coyotl grew furious. Each attack missed by inches. Jaguar's punch could have crushed a pillar—Kai slipped outside the line and countered with a jab to the solar plexus, sharp and clinical.
"Breathe," he said, almost mockingly.
Coyotl's kick came from above. Kai crossed his arms, absorbed the force, twisted his hips, and hooked Coyotl's leg with his heel. The weight flipped him sideways, cracking the floor beneath.
Above them, drones hovered—red lights blinking, recording everything. And from the sky, a figure streaked down.
Atlas.
He locked eyes with Grey for a second—a silent challenge—then dove straight at Jaguar, leaving Coyotl for Grey.
Grey said nothing. He advanced one step, chaining a perfect sequence—jab to the core, short elbow, angled pivot—Cassie would've approved every motion.
Across the yard, Atlas fought with brutal efficiency: a straight to the sternum, an uppercut without flair, sending the skull-marked villain sliding back across the concrete.
Higher up, two silhouettes appeared through the floodlights. Robot hovered beside Atom Eve, who carried Rex Splode in a pink energy field.
"Hold position," Robot ordered, scanning the battlefield through his visor.
On the ground, Grey finished his sequence—shoulder slam, hip turn—and Coyotl flew two meters, hitting the wall hard. He staggered to his feet, dazed.
Atlas noticed, wanting to finish first. He glanced at the drones—calculated the frame—and lifted Jaguar, slamming him down in a bone-shaking impact that dented the floor.
ZZZZZT!
A burst of red flashed from Atlas's eyes, tracing a laser along Jaguar's ribs, carving a deep but non-lethal wound.
Almost simultaneously, Grey landed three precise hits on Coyotl and ended with a spinning kick Cassie-style, striking his temple clean. Game over.
Atlas saw it. He walked two steps closer to make sure the drone caught him in the best angle. He touched his communicator with a victorious grin.
"Atlas here. Point three: threats neutralized." Then, just loud enough for the camera, "Looks like I finished a second earlier."
Kai had never liked him, and this was the perfect chance to get under his skin.Grey stepped into frame, glanced at the burned line Atlas's laser had left on the ground.
"Damn… mine was just fists. Guess I'm a second behind."
The sarcasm was thick enough to cut through steel. Kiana couldn't hold back a laugh. Atlas's jaw clenched. Kai pulled Kiana close by the waist and, loud enough for the drones, said, "Keep watch until the GDA arrives, Atlas."
The rage crawled up Atlas's neck, but before he could reply, the two of them were already gone—skybound once again.
Above, Eve rolled her eyes.
"Men."
Rex smirked. "What? That was a healthy competition."
Eve sighed and flew the other way, pulling him along in the pink glow.
Robot lingered for a final scan. "Situation contained. Criminals neutralized—no additional intervention required."
The drone turned, and Robot followed, vanishing into the night behind Eve.
Below, the internal sirens faded. Jaguar and Coyotl lay groaning amid the wreckage, and the live-stream drones began broadcasting the news across the network — the world was breathing again.
Two days later — April 17th — Thursday — Grayson Residence — 6:32 PM
Kai came down the stairs that afternoon, hands in his pockets, expression casual.Debbie was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Nolan was in the living room. Mark was on the couch, focused on a game on his phone.
Kai stopped by the entrance to the room.
"Uh… mom?"
Debbie lifted her head from the pan, curious, glancing at her son.Kai spoke without much ceremony.
"Can I bring someone over for dinner tonight?"
Debbie nodded without asking further. Viktor sometimes showed up unannounced, so it wasn't unusual.
The doorbell rang at 7:15.
Mark glanced up from his phone, already walking. "Viktor, you—"
He stopped.
Not Viktor. Kiana.
White shirt-dress just above the knee, a thin belt at her waist, platform sneakers. Hair down, almost to her waist. A shy, composed smile.
"Hi, Mark."
Mark blinked. Once. Twice.
"Uh… hey?"
Debbie stepped out of the kitchen, drying her hands; Nolan looked up from the sofa. Kiana took one step in.
"Hi, Mrs. Grayson."
"Hi, dear—come in, come in," Debbie said, warm curiosity brightening her face.
Kiana entered, eyes taking in the room. She gave Nolan a polite nod; he returned it with a slight one of his own. Mark closed the door.
"Uh… Kai didn't say you were coming," he said, scratching his neck.
"He didn't?" Kiana tilted her head, amusement flickering in her eyes.
"No. He just said he was bringing someone—I thought it was Viktor."
Debbie crossed her arms, curiosity obvious.
"Want a hand with the table?" Kiana asked.
"Please. And drop the 'Mrs.'—it's Debbie," she said, passing over glasses.
"You seem at home in a kitchen," Debbie noted.
"I'm not really good at cooking," Kiana smiled. "But it's good to know how to do a few things yourself, even if you have people at home who can do it for you."
Debbie's approving hum said enough.
Kai came back down and spotted Kiana already in the kitchen.
"You're early. We said seven-thirty. Sorry—I should've greeted you."
"It's fine," she said. "Claire had the driver drop me off earlier when I told her where I was going."
Kai smiled faintly and helped them finish setting the table. Once everything was ready, Debbie called everyone to dinner.
They sat.
Debbie served, passing dishes around. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable—just a little heavy. Mark kept glancing between Kai and Kiana. Debbie sipped her wine, not-so-secretly curious. Nolan cut his steak slowly, calm, eyes sharp.
Kai sighed.
"Alright," he said, setting his fork down. "No ceremony. I invited Kiana because we're dating."
Silence beat twice.
"Dating?" Debbie repeated, glass pausing midair.
"Yeah," Kai said.
Nolan's knife stopped. He looked from Kai to Kiana, then calmly went back to his food.
Mark's fork clanged; he pointed at Kiana, still in disbelief.Kiana gave a small, shy smile. "Hi."
"How—when—what?!" Mark sputtered.
Kai rolled his eyes. "Mark, breathe."
"Since when?!"
"I don't know. February? March?"
Debbie let out a small sigh, setting her glass down. "Oh my God, Kai. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"I'm telling you now."
"Still—you could've given me a heads-up! I'd have made something special!"
"Mom, it's fine."
Debbie shook her head. She turned to Kiana, eyes warm.
"Well, Kiana—welcome. Officially."
"Thank you," Kiana said, genuinely relieved.
Finally Nolan spoke, tone even. "Tell us about yourself."
Kiana blinked, slightly surprised, but answered naturally.
"I was born and raised in Chicago. I study at the same school as Kai."
"And your family?" Debbie asked, leaning forward, curious.
Kiana hesitated for a half-second but kept her composure."My family owns a business group—a multinational. My father manages everything, so he's rarely in the city. My older brother's in Korea right now on an expansion. I haven't seen him in about six months."
Debbie's brows lifted, impressed.
Kiana shrugged, cutting a piece of steak. "It's a lot of work. But they enjoy what they do."
Nolan watched her a moment longer, then gave a small nod and returned to eating.
"So… you two are dating. Like, actually dating-dating," Mark said, still catching up.
Kai sighed. "Yes, Mark."
Debbie chuckled softly, taking another sip of wine.
"You could be a little more open about these things," Debbie added gently. "About… anything, really."
"Mom, I literally brought her here to tell you."
Dinner eased after that. Debbie asked about school, hobbies, small things. Kiana answered with perfect manners at first, then loosened; her laughter turned softer, more natural. Mark alternated between eating and staring like he'd wandered onto a surreal sitcom.
Afterward, they helped with the dishes.
Debbie handed Kiana a towel. "Didn't think Kai would ever bring someone home willingly. You must be special."
"I hope so," Kiana said, cheeks warming.
"Oh—and before you go, childhood photos," Debbie grinned. "He was adorable."
Kiana laughed. "Please."
Debbie looped an arm over her shoulders and steered her toward the living room.
"You're welcome here anytime, sweetheart. This house is yours too."
Kai watched from the doorway, arms crossed. He'd told himself bringing her over was a convenient alibi—to come and go without raising suspicion.
But standing there, it didn't matter anymore. By then, a long-broken piece had already settled into place, unnoticed.
April 18, 2014 — Friday — Downtown Chicago Laboratory — 4:28 PM
Cold lights washed over stainless-steel benches; screens pulsed with restrained color. The new "team lead" wore a borrowed lab coat with the old name taped over: Dr. Mikhail. He flipped through clipboards with a pen hooked between his fingers, precise wrist, quick eyes. Around him, three scientists cross-checked data: centrifuges, pipettes, a scanning electron microscope. A cryo tank hissed in the back.
"Sequence A with the Payton control," Mikhail said without raising his voice.
On the monitor, the biologist overlaid two timelines.
"Before Payton, degradation is steep," she explained, zooming in. "Each power use kicks cells into metabolic collapse. At this pace? A year of life, tops."
Mikhail nodded, like he had expected this.
"And after?"
She swapped layers.
"After… this." The curve that used to nosedive now "damped." "A subset adapted. Not total, but a fraction resists stress spikes. Overall degradation drops to a third."
"Three times longer," Mikhail translated.
Another researcher spun a laptop around, showing a gene-expression heatmap.
"The 'good cells' profile doesn't exist in older samples. It's new. It appears only after Payton."
Mikhail rested a hand on a chair back, thinking aloud. "Cells don't self-improve without input. In Payton he copied something. A factor that 'teaches' survival under extreme load. Sustained repair…"
His eyes flicked over a mental roster of opponents. "Immortal, maybe. Whatever truly drives his immortality could trigger prolonged viability under trauma."
It fit their picture, though the truth sat just out of their reach: in contact with a Viltrumite, Russell's body had learned—by proximity—the logic of living matter that reorganizes and preserves structure under absurd stress. In this lab, that read as "emergent adaptation."
"Can you say how it happened?" the biologist asked.
"Not yet. But we can use it." He tapped the green band of the graph. "Here's the seed. We isolate, expand in culture, and reintroduce to circulation. We won't clone the special event cells, but with staggered dosing we can train the bad ones to behave like the good ones."
"Like a vaccine," the researcher said.
"Vaccines," he corrected. "Plural. Tissue-specific protocols: muscle, epithelium, neural. Each responds to energy spikes differently. If we nail the dosing curve, we stabilize the system without losing output."
"And cross-reaction risk?"
"Short suppression window, gradual reconstitution. Fine surgery, but doable." He set the pen down. "We can fix him."
The glass door sighed open. Russell walked in without a jacket, sleeves rolled, eyes already hungry for good news.
"Well?" he asked, stopping beside Mikhail.
The doctor summarized. Russell read the bullets slowly, savoring the numbers. Ambition settled onto his face like an old friend.
He smiled — the kind that brightens a room for all the wrong reasons.
The biggest villain had just slipped his leash.
April 19, 2014 — Saturday — Kiana's House — 8:02 PM
The expensive gate and fortress-like guardhouse opened without a sound. Kai followed the stone path to the front door.
This is surreal. More surreal than my powers in this world.
Two butlers opened the door in sync. "Good evening, Mr. Kai. This way, please." The hall was pale marble, warm light, an old painting aligned with obsessive care. A hint of waxed wood in the air.
Kiana came down the corridor with Claire, met him at the threshold, and took his hand without ceremony. They went to the dining room: table for eight; low arrangements; silverware ruler-straight. Mr. Hayes stood. Dark suit, clipped hair, eyes that measured and recorded. His handshake was firm.
"Welcome, Kai. Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for having me."
Service began. A light soup, then a rosy cut cooked perfectly. Conversation unhurried. Kiana, with a thread of anxiety, watched the two in silence; Kai was exactly how he is when it matters: calm, attentive, economical.
The natural questions came: from where, what he likes, who his friends are. Kai answered directly. The father tested moral lines: what you do when you're wrong, how you treat someone who steps out of line, what respect means in a relationship. The answers passed — a nearly invisible "all right." The topic slid to books, cities, work. Hayes mentioned some dense corporate mechanics; Kai returned precise references — no flourish, just knowledge that did not sound like a teenager's.
A moment of lowered guard arrived. "I fail by not being here all the time," the father said without drama. "But I'm glad she's met someone decent."
Kiana smiled and touched her napkin. "Thank you."
Kai added only, "She speaks well of you when no one's looking."
Hayes let a real smile through.
In the hall, the final handshake sealed the night. "A pleasure to have you. Come back anytime."
"Thank you. Dinner was excellent."
They walked out across the lit garden. Kiana let out a soft laugh; tension drained from her shoulders.
"You were perfect. How did you know that corporate stuff? I know them because my dad makes me study… but you surprised me."
"Things I've seen. And your father is a good man."
She rested her head on his shoulder for two steps. "Thank you for that. You could have refused the whole meet-the-families thing. You said you wanted to go slow and you deserve your space."
Kai only smiled sideways and hugged her lightly.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
He nodded.
"My dad doesn't know I'm Silver because he hates superheroes. But your dad is Omni-Man… why don't you tell him?"
Kai stopped and looked up at the clear sky. He searched for the simple answer and realized he was asking himself the same question.
"The answer may not be the one you expect," he said after a few seconds, "and I haven't told that to anyone—not Cosmic, not Viktor. My father isn't from Earth."
Given what they'd lived—powers, villains, Kai himself—she wasn't shocked. "And?"
"And…" He exhaled, choosing the edges. "When I discovered my powers, I found something odd among his things: a note about a 'mission' in case Mark or I developed powers. I don't know what it means. I always thought it could be bad. Now… I'm not sure."
She thought for a moment. "What if he plans to go back and take you with him?"
"I don't know if it's that simple… but it's a possibility."
Her eyes widened. She stepped around and grabbed him by the front, firm. "No way. Your father is not finding out about you. Never."
Kai laughed at the reaction. "Afraid I'll leave for another planet?"
She flushed; said out loud, it sounded silly. She mumbled, a little sulky, "I just… don't want to lose you."
A beat. She shifted closer, chin tipped up. "How did you get close to Cosmic, anyway?"
"Because of my powers," he said. "Not the ones I got from my father — the others."
She kept looking at him, waiting.
Kai let his pupils bloom into that impossible blue. The faint halo lit his irises like cold fire as he held her gaze. "The blue eyes. The blue sphere you saw. The field that makes me untouchable. Those powers feel… similar in nature to Cosmic's. By the way, Cosmic's back in the States; I haven't seen him yet."
She studied the blue glow in his eyes.
"Your eyes are beautiful. They look like… infinity."
The moment stuck in Kai's mind. He was as in love as she was, and he looked away the moment he realized it.
"They're pretty," he said as the light faded, "but they give me a hell of a headache."
She laughed, still curious. "And those powers—the blue ones. From your mom?"
He hesitated, choosing how much to say without driving her off.
"No. Not from her. But I was born with them. I've had powers basically… since always." He exhaled, then added, quieter, "And beyond those, my father's blood makes me stronger every year. I can feel it."
She wrapped her arms around him and didn't speak for a while. The night felt bigger, but not colder.
"And Mark?" she asked eventually. "He doesn't have powers?"
Kai looked down at her. "None so far. I've been thinking about that." He pressed two fingers to his temple, half-grimace, half-thought. "What if… I'm the only one who inherited from my father? We're past sixteen, and Mark hasn't shown anything."
She pushed him back dramatically, both palms on his chest, feigning shock to knock the worry off his face. "Wait—if Mark gets powers, your dad might dust off that 'mission' and haul you to another planet."
Her eyes widened in mock horror. "We have to get rid of Mark! I'll ask Claire to kidnap him."
He snorted. She cracked first, laughing; he followed. She crawled up onto him and kissed him, slow and sure, until the sky forgot to move.
Interlude — Part 1: Old Friends
A few days later — Wednesday — Chicago Rooftop — 3:34 PM
The wind pressed into the tall building and carried the distant scent of rain and scattered sirens. Grey touched down lightly on the parapet.
"Look who decided to show up," said Kai, pulling his mask down.
Cosmic was already there, sitting in the corner, boots on concrete, his star-speckled body a deep violet. He stood and they bumped forearms, firm.
"How are you, old friend?" Kai asked.
"I'm all right, aside from the Guardians. That's why I'm back. I'll stay in the city until they recover. Good news: they're out of danger. With any luck, they'll be active again in a few weeks."
"Good to hear. And Africa?"
"With the GDA's help, I'll finish my medical degree soon," Cosmic said, a quiet pride in his voice. "I've been working there with Elise. We've helped a lot of people, Kai. The world doesn't spin only here."
"I know." He folded his arms. "And you wanted to tell me something…"
Cosmic breathed in, a smile slipping out. "At the end of the year, Elise and I are getting married. A small ceremony — something she's always wanted."
"I'm happy for you."
"About that… I consider you a friend. Someone who gets the void, and isn't from here either. You were the first to really understand me and tell me to stay with Elise. I want you as my best man."
Kai's eyebrow ticked up. "Didn't I tell you to run from trouble?" He let the joke hang a beat, then his voice leveled. "I'd be honored. Truly. But how do you sell a 'sixteen-year-old' best man? That's inviting people to connect dots. I still prefer no one shouting I'm tied to heros."
"We'll do it in Africa, only our closest. No one you know. What do you say?"
Kai exhaled through his nose, a corner smile showing. "If that's the case, fine. But make two invites."
"Two?"
"I'm bringing my girlfriend."
Cosmic turned slightly, pleasantly surprised. "I knew about the new training partner. Girlfriend is news. Who is she?"
"Silver."
Cosmic's smile widened. "I said this would happen. If it happened to me, an alien, it would happen to you."
"Yeah, another otherworldly alien." Kai smirked. "Send me the date. I'll be there."
Cosmic laughed. "Deal."
They tapped fists.
"And, Kai… good to see you like this."
"You too."
He cut into the sky and vanished among the lights. Cosmic watched until the grey speck became nothing, then turned his eyes back to the city that still needed watching.
Interlude — Part 2: Truths Behind Caution
GDA Headquarters — 2:34 PM
Monitoring room: three big screens with maps, biometrics, silent clips; cold steel light. Cecil stood with sleeves rolled, leaning on the glass table. Mirage sat sideways, leg crossed, a tablet on her lap. Donald cued a video on the wall.
"Young team status," Cecil said. "Progress?"
"Discipline better than last month," Mirage said. "The latest training cycle worked. They still have holes under pressure, but they're learning."
Donald switched feeds: night streets, drones, a tiny improvised logo. "Confirmed reports: Robot worked three incidents around Illinois with Atom Eve, Rex Splode, and Dupli-Kate. Containment with no casualties, clean evac, public property mostly preserved."
Cecil nodded, almost smiling. "Robot knows the board."
Donald hesitated. "With Cosmic back… do I disable 'his' tracker?" The "his" was intentionally vague.
"No," Cecil said. "He's dating Kiana. Perfect excuse to know his location."
Mirage looked up from the tablet. "Dating Silver? Who are we talking about? Because I am clearly missing a piece of the team I lead."
"Grey," Cecil said. "This does not leave the room. I promised Cosmic his communicator wouldn't be tracked."
Mirage pulled up the map, discreet pings lighting. She zoomed. Her eyes widened a fraction. "My God. Grey… Grayson. He's Omni-Man's son? How long have you known?"
"Some time," Donald said, professional.
Cecil lit a cigarette and watched the blue dot on the map. "All signs say Omni-Man doesn't know either. We probed indirectly. The kid keeps it secret. We don't know why."
Mirage closed the tablet and rubbed her forehead. "Great. Opportunity to irritate two of our strongest. Want me to mess it up with the Immortal while I'm at it? Can you erase this from my head? I regret asking."
"Just keep it to yourself," Cecil said. "Now that you'll be in the field with them, it might help get Grey on call when we need him. Train them not to repeat Payton. Next time we hit back with everything until we find out who's inside the purple armor."
Mirage nodded, almost resigned. Cecil crushed the cigarette in a steel ashtray. On the screen, the blue dot kept gliding across Chicago — discreet, steady — while the room sank back into the hum of fans and the cold glow of monitors.