Chapter Text
"You know," Nolan said, nudging the desiccated Flaxan corpse with the tip of his boot, "this was a lot more fun before they started turning to dust."
The body collapsed even further under the light touch, its face crumbling into powder. He raised an eyebrow, crouching down to get a closer look.
Interesting.
The remains told a story if you knew how to read them. The metal of the soldier's uniform was oxidizing right before his eyes, rust blooming across its surface like fungus. The alien's skin was shriveled and gray, its muscles collapsed inward, its teeth exposed by receding gums. A strong, unpleasant smell hit Nolan's nose—not the sharpness of dehydration, as he'd initially thought, but the heavy, earthy scent of rot.
It was as if the Flaxan had aged decades in the last ten minutes.
"What are you thinking?" Darkwing asked as he and Green Ghost approached from behind, their boots crunching lightly on debris.
Immortal and War Woman were still occupied with Cecil, discussing larger strategy. Red Rush had already zipped off to respond to another crime scene across the city, and Aquarius had quietly returned to Atlantis. Nolan privately questioned why Aquarius had even joined the Guardians at all; a king had more important things to do than intervene in the squabbles of another world.
Nolan gestured to the corpse. "Look at the rust on the armor. The state of the body. It's like it's been exposed to decades of time... not twenty minutes."
Darkwing knelt beside him, studying the evidence with a critical eye. "A metal like that shouldn't oxidize this quickly. It's not Earth-native, but it's similar to titanium in composition. Titanium doesn't rust. Not like this." His tone sharpened. "It's possible these Flaxans exist in a different time stream than we do. Faster time dilation. If I had to wager, I'd say they're not from another planet—" he flicked some of the dust from the armor "—but another dimension. Most planets in our system should have the same time stream as ours, give or take a few hours or days."
That was one of the reasons Nolan respected Darkwing. Unlike many humans, Darkwing didn't require things to be explained to him in simple terms. He could infer, extrapolate, and refine ideas into conclusions that Nolan himself found useful.
Darkwing stood up, brushing dust off his gloves. His voice was steady. "They'll come back."
Nolan nodded slowly. "You're sure?"
"They didn't achieve whatever goal they had," Darkwing said. "First wave reconnaissance, maybe. Or a resource raid. Either way, they failed."
"Could've just been a terror attack," Nolan offered, standing as well. "A show of force. Make Earth's people scared of an enemy that can appear anywhere, anytime."
Darkwing shook his head. "Even as a terror attack, it failed. The Teen Team pushed them back with minimal casualties. We destroyed or captured their heavy weaponry. Less than half their soldiers made it back through that portal. No matter how technologically advanced they are, a material loss like that will cost them dearly."
He turned, already planning next steps. "The Guardians and I will start drafting a defense strategy. When— not if— the Flaxans return, we'll be ready. We'll keep this sector of Chicago locked down, cleared out of civilians, and fortified."
"Sounds like a good idea," Nolan agreed, watching Darkwing's retreating back with a thoughtful frown.
His gaze drifted downward, to the disintegrating remains at his feet.
Yes, he thought with amusement, they'll come back.
Hopefully, they'll be more entertaining when they return.
He bent his knees, preparing to launch into the sky when a soft voice pulled him back.
"Omni-Man?"
He paused. Turned.
Green Ghost still stood there.
At first glance, her expression was hard to read—her powers made her face seem expressionless, and damn near unreadable. But the way her body moved gave her away: fidgeting hands, shifting feet, frequent nervous glances at the other Guardians still conversing with Cecil in the distance.
It was familiar.
It took him a second to realize why.
It was exactly how Mark used to look when he brought home bad grades—nervous, guilty, like a child dreading what was to come but knowing it was inevitable. Green Ghost wasn't just nervous. She was wrestling with something.
"Everything alright, Ghost?" he asked, keeping his voice even.
"I...I just wanted to say..." she began, voice fragile and low, almost lost to the wind. "No matter what happens... I'm on your side, okay?"
Nolan straightened slightly.
"You've saved me more times than I can count," she continued, words spilling out in a rush. "When I was still struggling with my powers...when I didn't know what I was doing...you were always there. So...no matter what happens...no matter what anyone says...I trust you."
No matter what anyone says.
His frown deepened, a sliver of unease slipping into his mind.
"Ghost," he said, sharper than he intended, "what do you mean by that? What are people saying?"
She flinched—an instinctive, human movement—and he could see the outline of her mouth open, like she was about to answer—
A sharp hiss of white light interrupted them.
Cecil materialized at his side, looking between him and Green Ghost with that usual clinical sharpness Nolan had grown used to.
"Omni-Man," Cecil said briskly. "We've got reports of a Kaiju in the Indian Ocean. Big bastard. You're the only one fast enough to get there in time, and strong enough to put it down without too many casualties."
Nolan kept his eyes on Green Ghost, who now looked even smaller, almost retreating into herself.
"I see," Nolan said slowly. "Thing is, Ghost and I were having a conversation—"
"She'll be busy," Cecil cut in casually, waving a hand like he was dismissing a minor inconvenience. "Darkwing's calling a full team meeting. You two can catch up later—text, call, whatever."
No, they couldn't.
He didn't even know her real name.
Out of all the Guardians, only Red Rush was a true acquaintance—and that was mostly because Debbie was friends with his wife, Olga. Nolan had purposely kept the Guardians at arm's length. Professional, cordial...but never close, even though he enjoyed their camaraderie.
It made sense, of course.
It would have been a problem when the mask eventually came off.
Attachments were liabilities.
But now...
Green Ghost's warning gnawed at him like a splinter lodged too deep to pull free. She wasn't prone to theatrics or paranoia. If she said there were whispers—rumors spreading like rot beneath the surface—then it wasn't idle gossip. It was real, and it was serious.
And if Cecil had intervened so decisively, cutting off the conversation before it could even breathe...
Then Cecil knew about it too.
And likely, the other Guardians did as well.
It was improbable that they had uncovered anything truly devastating. He had hidden his true objectives with meticulous care. His public persona, his actions—all had been calculated with precision to ensure no suspicion could land too squarely on him. The few encounters he'd had with psychic opponents had been...educational. None had demonstrated signs of penetrating his mental defenses—likely because those who posed any real risk hadn't lived long enough to warn anyone else. Ruthless? Perhaps. Necessary? Absolutely. A mind-reader who could glimpse his larger ambitions could unravel years of work in a heartbeat.
No, they couldn't know the full truth.
But the very fact that Green Ghost had dared to voice a warning—even obliquely—meant that whatever had gotten out was enough to cause friction. Enough to make Cecil watch him with colder eyes. Enough to make the Guardians' trust erode, even if just a fraction.
He exhaled slowly, forcing the tension out of his body.
It was fine.
He could wait.
Patience was a weapon as sharp as any blade. Hours, days, weeks—he could endure whatever was necessary to uncover the extent of the damage. Sooner or later, someone would slip. Someone would say too much.
Someone always did.
And when they did, he would know exactly what needed to be done.
"You know, Cecil, this isn't exactly subtle," Mark said dryly, tugging at the sleeve of his new suit.
The scarred old man just shrugged, the ghost of a smirk playing across his lips. "Hey, it was Donald who handled the final design. I gave him the specs you described, he just...improved them."
Mark snorted under his breath. "Yeah, sure."
The suit Donald had presented to him was clearly inspired by GDA field uniforms, but taken a few steps further. It was a sleek, modern piece of work — primarily black, threaded through with neon green accents that glowed faintly like strips of energy. The green traced sharp, clean lines over his shoulders, collarbone, arms, and legs, giving the impression of a living circuit or a power conduit. The material itself was flexible but had an armor-like sturdiness, molding perfectly to Mark's body without sacrificing mobility. Subtle armor plating protected the elbows and knees without bulking him down.
The gloves were fingerless, the boots reinforced but slim, each with faintly glowing green joints and soles that lit up when he moved. His headgear featured a streamlined breathing filter and a pair of vivid green goggles that made his expression impossible to read. Only his hair was left exposed — and even that Donald had been quick to offer solutions for.
"The design's more iconic than the original you sketched out," Donald said, almost apologetically. "Plus, if Nolan catches sight of you, he's going to assume you're just a powered GDA operative. Nothing worth extra attention."
He tapped the side of the filtration mask lightly. "Voice modulator's installed. The suit also nullifies your scent profile — Nolan won't be able to recognize you by smell. And if you're still worried, we've got a full GDA combat helmet. Covers everything. Even your hair won't give you away."
Mark arched an eyebrow behind the goggles, smirking. "Suuuure, Donald. You totally dressed me up like the GDA's shiny new poster boy just to 'avoid my dad's attention.' That's definitely the only reason."
"You act like working for us would be such a bad thing," Cecil said casually, giving Mark a sidelong look. "We pay decent. Good healthcare. Access to some pretty incredible tech and toys. Travel perks. Can't promise you'll get a lot of vacation days... but you'll see the world."
He paused, his mouth twitching into a small, knowing smile.
"And," Cecil added lightly, "maybe get a few good meals while you're at it. A few things that...catch your interest."
Mark didn't freeze exactly, but there was a slight hitch in the way he shifted his weight — just enough for Cecil to catch it.
After a beat, Mark laughed, playing it off. "Sounds tempting. But the last time I worked directly under you, let's just say it didn't exactly end with flowers and thank-you notes. Not gonna lie, a decent chunk of that was my fault...but you weren't exactly a walk in the park either, old man."
Cecil grinned, showing teeth. "Sure. We probably butted heads. But the important thing is, at the end of the day, we were fighting for the same things: saving lives, protecting people, and making sure the world doesn't go straight to hell. Those three goals lining up? That's reason enough for us to work together again."
Mark said nothing, fiddling absently with one of the glowing lines on his sleeve.
And find out everything you're hiding from us, Cecil thought silently, his smile never faltering.
He liked the kid. Genuinely. Mark had handed over a treasure trove of contacts, tactical information, and resources that would be critical for the coming storms, even if—if—it turned out the whole "Viltrumite Empire conspiracy" was exaggerated, misunderstood, or an outright fabrication. The possibility lingered in the back of his mind more often than he cared to admit. After all, while almost every other tidbit Mark had provided so far had been independently verified, the parts about the Viltrumite Empire? Purely anecdotal. No way to double-check. No way to corroborate. Only Mark's word—and Mark was already hiding things from him.
Cecil hated operating blind.
He understood caution, even respected it—hell, he'd built a career on it—but trust was like currency. Once you noticed someone hoarding it, you had to assume they were hedging their bets. And Mark? He was already starting to make moves independent of the GDA.
The kid had reached out to Robot, and they knew this because, of course, they were bugging Mark's phone. Standard protocol. Listening in had been...enlightening. Robot had stopped badgering Cecil about the leak of his identity almost immediately after his conversations with Mark began, which told Cecil everything he needed to know: Mark had bought Robot's trust, just like that. Probably fed him a few bits of future knowledge in their first meeting as a goodwill offering.
And they were friendly enough that Mark was sharing intel with Robot he hadn't even given the GDA.
Case in point: the Flaxan invasion. Mark had laid out the entire playbook to Robot, describing not only how they would arrive, but gave Robot detailed instructions on how to beat them the second time they came back. Detailed enough that Robot had been able to re-create some sort of detector—one based on tech from Mark's 'past' timeline—that would pick up on the opening of the Flaxan's portals, which was how the GDA and by proxy, the Guardians got an advanced warning in the first place
That wasn't the behavior of someone who fully trusted the GDA. It was the behavior of someone hedging their bets. Keeping options open. Just like Cecil would—if their roles were reversed.
The only question was: why?
No offense to Robot, but based on Mark's debriefs, the guy hadn't exactly been pivotal. Sure, he'd made some clever toys, a few battlefield-worthy drones, and one of his suits had even been tough enough to survive the sun's heat—still insane, by the way—but Mark had never described him as essential. Not like Nolan. Not like Sinclair, Powerplex, or Bulletproof. So why go all-in now?
Why reach out to him?
Before he could chew further on that thread, Donald flinched and touched his earpiece. His posture straightened immediately.
"Uh, sir," Donald said, already pulling up a display. "We have a situation. A humanoid figure is inbound, moving faster than any known spacecraft. Much faster than our satellites can track in real-time. Estimated ETA to pass the moon is under five minutes. We think it's Anomaly 177."
Cecil narrowed his eyes. "The alien?"
Donald nodded grimly. "Yes sir. Him."
Anomaly 177 was...different. Unlike the usual threats that came with a fleet, an invasion force, or some new end-of-the-world tech, this one came alone. No weapons, no warning. Just dropped in, fought Omni-Man in low orbit, then vanished just as suddenly. That had been a year ago—and now he was back.
Cecil tapped a command into his holowatch, and a grainy, distorted photo flickered into view— a flash of orange skin, a muscular build, and a single eye.
"You don't happen to know who this is, do you?" he asked, projecting the image into the air between them.
Mark's face lit up. "Holy crap. It's Allen!"
Cecil shared a sharp glance with Donald.
"Allen?" he repeated flatly.
"Yeah! Allen the Alien. He's a Unopan." Mark stepped forward, visibly more energized than he'd been all day. "He's an evaluator for the Coalition of Planets. Great guy."
Cecil raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry—the what now?"
"The Coalition of Planets," Mark repeated, suddenly sheepish. "They're kind of…uh…an alliance of alien species working together to resist the Viltrumite Empire."
Cecil's fingers twitched. His tone sharpened like a scalpel. "You're telling me there's a literal intergalactic resistance force that was formed to go against the guys who intend to fuck us in the ass—and this is the first I'm hearing about it?"
Mark scratched the back of his neck. "Okay, yeah, I get how that sounds. But it's complicated."
"No. No, no, no, Mark," Cecil said, stepping forward, barely restraining his tone. "You've been wasting time telling me about glorified pests like the Flaxans, and this—a multi-planetary alliance that we should have known about on day one—is just now coming up?"
Mark winced. "Hey, the Flaxans are still a serious threat, but—okay, yes, this is probably more important. The thing is… the Coalition isn't exactly thrilled about Earth."
"Why?" Donald asked, already opening up a fresh file on his tablet.
Mark hesitated. "Well… because Earth is literally the reason the Viltrumite Empire could come back. I mean, I'm practically a Viltrumite already, and there are some gentical similarities between humans and Viltrumites that make us compatible, which my birth proves. If the Coalition finds out about Earth and decides we're a threat because the Empire could take us over and start their breeding farms... there's a 50/50 chance they either try to recruit us—or gas the planet with an incurable virus."
Cecil blinked.
Well… that was actually a surprisingly reasonable excuse for keeping quiet.
He exhaled slowly and pinched the bridge of his nose, frustration bleeding into resignation.
"Alright," he muttered. "That's fair. Incredibly stupid not to inform me, but still… fair."
Donald cleared his throat beside him. "Sir, what do we do?"
Mark spoke up before Cecil could answer, casual as ever. "I mean, I could just beat him into the dirt and send him packing. He still thinks this is Urath, not Earth. The Coalition didn't even do much about the Viltrumites who snuck onto the planet last time—they just wanted to drop a virus that'd wipe out everyone, Viltrumites and humans. Honestly, I think we can win this war without them. Just need a handful of heavy hitters. Alan's one of them."
"Stop. Talking." Cecil snapped, rubbing his temples like he could massage the oncoming headache into submission. "Give me a minute to think."
Okay, Cecil. Think.
They needed to confirm the Viltrumite threat to the galaxy without handing over Earth on a silver platter. Mark was downplaying things—of course he was—but that didn't change the reality. The Coalition of Planets would absolutely reduce Earth to radioactive dust rather than let it fall into Viltrumite hands. If he were in their shoes, he'd make the same call.
So, what did Earth need to do?
They had to send a message. Not one of desperation, not some last-ditch cry for help, but a message of strength—controlled strength. Earth couldn't beg for assistance. They needed to prove that they were worth partnering with, not saving.
They needed leverage.
And then Cecil realized—he already had it.
He turned to Mark, eyes narrowed in thought. "How smart would you say this Allen is?"
Mark blinked. "Oh. Uh… average? Like, average Earth-level intelligence? He's not dumb—good guy, solid leader. Eventually runs the Coalition, but he's not, you know, top ten smartest beings in the galaxy material. Why?"
Cecil nodded slowly, the edges of a plan falling into place. "Alright. Then here's what we're gonna do."
He straightened up, facing Mark with the full weight of command behind his voice. "I have a plan. But for it to work, I need something important from you."
"Sure," Mark said without hesitation. "What do you need?"
Cecil leaned in, voice sharp and clear. "I need you to beat the living hell out of him. And I mean badly, Mark. I want him flying home with cracked ribs, broken pride, and the absolute certainty that you're stronger than Nolan."
Mark raised an eyebrow. The plan wasn't subtle.
But then, he grinned.
"Alright," he said. "I can do that."
"You know," Alan thought as he coasted through the void, "this planet would be way prettier if they got rid of all the garbage orbiting it."
Urath looked decent from a distance—blue oceans, lush green continents, all the makings of a postcard-worthy world. But once you got close to the atmosphere? That's when the real picture came into focus. Junk. Just tons of it. Fragments of old satellites, bits of metal and plastic from what must've been their first forays into space travel, and more than a few whole objects that looked like they'd just given up mid-orbit and decided to fall apart.
According to the Coalition's database, Urath was catalogued as a Level Three civilization. That meant faster-than-light travel, organized planetary governance, and an ability to defend itself from extraterrestrial threats. But judging by all the debris cluttering its skies, Alan figured someone must've screwed up the paperwork. Wouldn't be the first time—recordkeeping at the Coalition could get a little… sloppy. Still, even if they weren't quite up to snuff on paper, Urath wasn't exactly in danger. Not with the kind of champion they had.
And that was why Alan was here.
His last encounter with Urath's protector had been humbling, to say the least. The guy had manhandled him in what—ten minutes? Maybe less? It had felt like ten seconds, if he was being honest. The pain had made time hard to track.
But this time, things were going to be different.
He'd been training. Eating better. Lifting heavier. Meditating. Not enough to take on a Viltrumite—not yet—but enough to give Urath's champion a real fight this time. He was stronger, faster, and definitely smarter than before. He'd learned a lot over the past year. He was ready.
…Or at least he hoped he was ready.
Because, if he was being honest, Urath's champion hadn't just beaten him. He'd steamrolled him. The guy was like a force of nature—relentless speed, raw power, and skin tough enough that Alan had actually broken his own fist trying to land a decent punch.
The whole thing had been… familiar.
Too familiar.
It reminded him of the first time he'd fought a Viltrumite. The Coalition had seen him as a secret weapon, the ace up their sleeve that would turn the tide in their war against the Viltrum Empire.
Instead, he'd been obliterated. Reduced to a bruised, broken mess and discarded like he didn't matter.
The champion of Urath had done something similar.
Except—he hadn't dismissed Alan entirely. He'd spared a word. Just one.
"Leave."
Alan had taken the advice. Barely conscious, bones broken, pride shattered—he'd left.
But now? Now he was coming back. And this time, he wasn't leaving until he made that guy break a sweat.
His eye locked on the tiny black speck streaking up from the planet below. Fast. Direct. No hesitation.
Good planetary response time to an orbital threat—that was at least a solid ten. Maybe even eleven. Huh. Sensors in the orbital debris field? If so, these guys were a lot craftier than he'd given them credit for.
As the speck drew closer, Alan grinned and projected his thoughts. "Hey, there you are! Ready for round two, big guy?"
He blinked. "Oh—you shaved the mustache? Bold move. Personally, I would've kept it. Gave you that 'galactic warrior with a code' vibe. But hey, the new suit? Much sleeker. I like it."
Still no response. No banter. No snarky comment. The guy just kept coming—fast and silent.
" Aw, come on. No quipping? You're killing the mood here. I can't be the only one having fun. But fine, if you're just here to throw hands..."
He clenched his fists, rolled his shoulders, and readied himself.
"Then let's throw hands."
And then they collided—Alan's fist slamming into Urath's champion's with a force that shook the two of them. A shockwave rippled across the void like a thunderclap in space, distorting nearby satellites and pushing away stray debris.
For a heartbeat, time stood still.
Then Alan felt it. No recoil. No staggering back. His feet didn't budge.
They were evenly matched.
His grin widened, a glint of challenge in his eye.
"Oh yeah," he said, blood pumping, his muscles surging with strength.
"Now I'm gonna whoop your ass."
Alan struck first.
A blur of orange muscle and cocky arrogance, the Unopan warrior barreled through space, fists swinging in a rapid flurry aimed straight at Urath's Champion. The vacuum didn't slow him—he carved through it like a comet, his punches thunderous in their momentum, invisible shockwaves rippling through space with each strike. His knuckles whistled past the Champion's face, shoulders, chest—
And missed.
Every.
Single.
Time.
Urath's Champion danced around the blows, weaving effortlessly, almost lazily, through the barrage. He bobbed under one punch, twisted sideways to avoid another, raised an elbow just in time to block a strike that should've caved his ribs in. Alan snarled in frustration.
"Okay, you're faster, so I'll give you props for that," he thought, projecting his voice telepathically through the void. "But what the hell happened to your form? You're all over the place. You fly like you forgot how to manuever properly."
Urath's Champion didn't answer, only darted backward, silent and unreadable behind his black and green mask. Alan pushed forward anyway, driving a right hook toward the Champion's flank. It grazed him—barely—but even that sent the Champion careening backward with a ripple of force.
"Last time you were beating me like a damn drum," Alan continued, circling. "Now it looks like I'm the one handing out the beatdown. You started slacking off? Been skipping meals or something? You're definitely thinner than last time—"
Before the thought could finish forming, the Champion vanished.
Alan's instincts flared.
WHAM.
A solid punch to the sternum blasted through his guard like a missile, nearly folding him in half. His eyes went wide as breathless pain flared through his chest, his ribs screaming. The sudden shift in tempo stunned him—this speed… this was new. Or rather, it had been hidden.
"You son of a—"
Too late.
The Champion surged forward again, ramming into Alan's midsection with a brutal tackle. They tore through space like a meteorite, the moon looming in the distance. Alan grunted, struggling to counter as powerful fists slammed into his ribs, his back, his shoulder blades. His own blows lashed out—sharp, precise punches that cracked against the Champion's body—but there was less give than before. His skin felt reinforced, denser than Alan remembered.
Then—
Impact.
They crashed into the moon's surface like a bomb, a muffled BOOM echoing through Alan's skull. A crater blossomed outward beneath them, kicking up a thick plume of gray dust that cloaked the battlefield.
Dazed, Alan coughed and threw an elbow to knock the Champion loose, then kicked him off with a forceful foot to the chest. He rolled, righted himself, and bounced into a low combat stance, his feet gently skimming the moon's surface. Urath's Champion stood across from him, unbothered. He stretched his arms and cracked his neck with a smirk that was more smug than mocking.
Alan scowled.
"What's got you looking so happy?" he thought, projecting the question.
To his shock, the Champion answered. His voice was a low, satisfied growl in Alan's mind.
"Things just got a lot easier for me."
Before Alan could process that cryptic reply—
CRACK.
A thunderous blow to his diaphragm stole the air from his lungs. Alan choked on the void, vision doubling as his body spasmed. Another punch followed, slamming into his jaw with enough force to lift him several feet off the ground. As he rose, dazed and weightless, a third hit smashed down from above, slamming him back into the moon's surface with bone-rattling force.
White light danced in his vision. Pain lanced through his skull.
And then came the whirlwind.
Fists from every direction—blows that defied physics, angles, prediction. A relentless, high-speed barrage that hit like meteors. Alan raised his arms, trying to guard, to reposition, but each time he managed to shift, a new hit was already slamming into his ribs, his kidneys, his collarbone. He felt the dull snap of something giving way inside him.
He rocketed upward, trying to escape into open space, where he could maneuver better.
But a hand closed around his ankle.
" Nonono— "
SLAM.
He hit the surface again, back-first, with such violence that a second crater bloomed beneath him. Agony spiderwebbed down his spine. Distantly, he wondered if something had fractured—definitely cracked, at least.
He blearily raised his head. Urath's Champion was standing over him, looming like a warrior, ready to end the fight. His right fist vibrated madly with pure speed—probably enough to put a hole in him, with his strength.
Alan's eyes widened.
"TIME OUT! Time out!" he wheezed telepathically, throwing his arms over his face. "You win, jeez!"
The vibrations stopped. The Champion paused, cocked his head, then stepped back with a smirk.
Alan groaned, staring up at the pitch-black sky.
"Okay," he thought. "Definitely wasn't expecting that."
He was going to need at least four hours in a regen pod. Minimum.
And maybe—just maybe—a little therapy.
Getting your ass handed to you twice by the same guy, both times with barely a flicker of effort on his part? That did something to a Unopan's pride. Deeply.
" You're Allen of Unopa, right? "
Allen groaned as he turned his head—slowly—to find the Champion of Urath squatting beside him. The guy was smiling now, but it was a lot less smug and punchable than earlier. Almost friendly, even.
"Yeah," Allen grunted. "That's me. I'm honestly impressed you remember. Last time we met, you didn't say a word. Thought maybe you were mute. Or just a raging asshole."
A low chuckle echoed in Allen's mind—telepathic, familiar now.
"I'm not the guy you fought last time."
Allen blinked. "Oh really? Could've fooled me. No offense, but all you biclops look the same from this angle—flat on my back and mildly concussed."
"None taken," the Champion replied with a grin. "Sorry about the rough treatment. I figured we should get Earth's evaluation out of the way while we had the chance."
Allen paused. "Earth?"
Yeah. That was the name he'd heard earlier. Earth.
"Please," Allen muttered, letting his eye close. "Tell me Earth is just how you guys pronounce Urath in this region of the galaxy."
Another telepathic chuckle rolled through his skull. "Sorry, man. This isn't Urath. This is Earth. Totally different rock. But hey—once you hear what I've got to say, the Coalition's going to be thrilled you ended up here instead."
Allen sighed and sat up with a wince. His shoulder flared in protest, and he instinctively glanced down—only to spot what looked suspiciously like a bite mark.
"What the hell?" he muttered to himself. "When did that happen?"
The Champion offered him a hand, which Allen reluctantly accepted, letting himself be pulled to his feet.
"Well," Allen said, brushing himself off with what dignity he could salvage, "I guess I should probably speak to your planetary leader and formally apologize for... you know, technically trying to invade. Twice."
The Champion shrugged. "Eh. You didn't really get past the front door. Nobody's that upset. Cecil'll be fine."
Earth wasn't that bad—for a planet that hadn't even cracked proper space travel yet. Plenty of green, some deep blue oceans, and a couple of decently structured cities from what Allen could see in the flyover. Not bad. Primitive, sure, but charming in its own way. Still, according to Urath's so-called champion—who introduced himself with the incredibly subtle name of Invincible—Earth still clung to ancient concepts like borders, nations, and political factions.
Classic Class One behavior: too preoccupied with internal squabbling to see what they could accomplish together. Unopa had scrapped its borders centuries ago. Not that it helped when the Viltrumites came knocking and turned the planet into a glorified ore dump, but still—at least they tried.
Their tech wasn't completely laughable, either. Borderline Class Two, really. Earth had some stealth systems, primitive energy-based weapons, and basic interlinked communication grids. It wasn't interstellar, but it was more advanced than Allen had expected from a planet that still used fossil fuels.
Meeting Earth's planetary defense leadership had been… educational. The Director—Cecil, of all names—stood out due to a patch of what Allen could only assume was some kind of outdated cybernetic scar tissue around his mouth. His second-in-command, Donald, wore primitive ocular correction devices made of what looked like polished glass. Adorable, honestly. It was kind of sweet, the little workarounds these bipeds created to manage their biological limitations.
The information they shared with him, though, was anything but cute. It was borderline apocalyptic.
"So… this is Earth. Or Terra. Whatever you call it," Allen said, arms crossed as he tried to process the data dump.
"Yup," Invincible replied casually.
"And the guy I fought last time—the one who turned my ribs into soup—he's a Viltrumite."
Cecil nodded.
"Right. Makes sense. Viltrumites tend to do that."
"And your new guy here," Allen jerked a thumb at Mark, "a human teenager, killed a Viltrumite. Alone."
"That's about right," Donald confirmed, adjusting his adorable glass-eye-thingies.
Allen stared at them in silence. Then:
"Bullshit."
"Excuse me?" Cecil asked, one brow raised.
"Absolute, 100% bullshit," Allen said flatly. "Viltrumites are bio-engineered apex predators. They can destroy planets—plural—with their bare hands. There's no weapon in the known galaxy that so much as dents them. Most of what we know about them is secondhand mythology, passed down like bedtime horror stories. We don't have the slightest idea how they reproduce, what their population numbers are, how they organize themselves, or why they started conquering the galaxy in the first place. All we know is this—where they go, civilizations die."
He gestured broadly to the world around him.
"And you're telling me this backwater, Class-One rock—with its borders, political pettiness, and tech levels barely out of the steam age—managed to take one down?" the alien scoffed, jabbing a finger toward Mark. "That this kid punched a hole through the galactic boogeyman all by himself? I mean, yeah, he beat my ass, but a lot of people can do that."
"Damn," Cecil said with a sneer. "All those planets aligned under the Coalition banner, and you still couldn't take out one Viltrumite? Are you guys even trying?"
That stung. Hard. Especially after Unopa.
Unopa, his homeworld—his people—had been wiped out trying to create him, their ultimate weapon. The best minds of an entire planet had sacrificed everything to make Allen the strongest being they could engineer… and it still hadn't been enough.
Allen's eye narrowed. "Alright, biclops, listen here—"
"After all," Cecil interrupted smoothly, as if Allen hadn't spoken, "if you guys were really doing everything you could, you'd already know there are fewer than fifty pureblood Viltrumites left."
Allen froze. Time seemed to stutter around him.
"…What did you just say?" he asked slowly, his voice low and dangerous.
"Less than fifty," Cecil repeated, entirely unbothered. "Led by Grand Regent Thragg. Their second strongest is named Conquest—missing an arm, one eye, nasty bastard. We've got names on at least six others, along with their ranks, habits, and behavioral profiles. Oh, and we've developed a weaponized frequency that messes with their equilibrium—takes away their flight, screws up their inner ear so bad they can't stand straight. That's just one of the tricks we've got in the works."
Allen didn't realize he'd taken a step forward until he caught Mark shifting slightly in his peripheral vision—not in fear, but in warning—and noticed the GDA soldiers subtly raising their rifles.
He didn't care.
"You need to share that information," he said, voice tight with urgency. "Do you have any idea what the Viltrumites have done? The civilizations they've erased? They've harvested tens of thousands of scientists from across the galaxy, used them to develop better ways to conquer and kill. If we even have a chance to stop them, you can't afford to hold back."
Cecil met his intensity with a neutral, unreadable stare. "You'll get the names," he said at last. "You'll get their numbers, the chain of command, and some insight into Viltrumite culture. We'll even throw in behavioral models for the high-ranking ones. But weapons specs? Contingency plans? Deployment strategies?" He gave a tight, wry smile. "That stays Earth-side."
Allen leaned forward, frustration creeping into his voice. "Look, I get wanting to keep your planet safe. But hoarding information like that? That's not just selfish, it's suicidal. If the Viltrumites ever realize you're sitting on data that could bring them down, they won't hesitate. They'll descend on Earth in full force and reduce your world to radioactive gravel. I've seen what they do when they feel cornered. You've got one really strong human fighting for you. Maybe he's strong. Hell, maybe he's stronger than most. He's certainly stronger than me. But unless he can do that fight fifty more times and win harder each time—it's not enough."
Cecil didn't flinch. "We're aware of the risk. That's why you're getting more intel from us than anyone's managed to scrape together in the last decade. Take it. Share it with your people. Let the Coalition know Earth's paying attention." His gaze narrowed. "But if you want deeper access—if you want the stuff that actually kills Viltrumites—then we talk terms."
Allen's eyes narrowed in realization. "You want Earth in the Coalition."
Cecil gave a short bark of laughter. "Hell no."
Allen blinked. "...What?"
"What we want is a fair trade. You called Earth a Class-One Civilization, remember? Well, we're the only Class-One that's actually done something besides cry about how hard the Viltrumites are kicking our asses. We've tested weapons. We've got strategies. We've got theories backed by field results. So if you want that? You trade us up."
"Up," Allen repeated.
"Tech. Advanced medicine. Energy solutions. FTL infrastructure. You give us the tools to accelerate—rapidly—and we'll give you what we've cracked open on killing gods."
There was a beat of silence. Then Allen nodded slowly, digesting it. "Okay. You want a two-way deal. That's... actually smart. I'll bring your data to the Council and explain your position. If what you say checks out, they'll listen. If even half of it checks out, this could end the war a lot sooner than we ever thought possible."
Cecil didn't answer. He didn't need to. The look in his eyes said he knew exactly what this meant. And that Earth wouldn't stay in the background for much longer.
"I'll need half an hour to get the clearance files and data packs assembled," he said crisply, turning back to his console. "In the meantime, Donald will give you a walk-through of the facility. Try not to get into any restricted zones."
"Sure. I'd love a look around," Allen said, glancing toward the exit. "Think we could grab something to eat while we're at it?"
"Absolutely," Donald replied, already falling into step beside him. "What are you in the mood for? We've got a full mess hall—soup, steak, seafood—"
Allen perked up. "Actually, I was thinking Kanslok."
Donald blinked. "...I'll see what we can do."
As soon as the doors slammed shut behind Allen and Donald, Cecil rounded on Mark with the full weight of his fury written across his face.
"You're gonna go to my analysts," he snapped, voice like gravel under pressure, "and you're gonna help my team beef up the Viltrumite profile so it doesn't look like we know less than the goddamn Coalition, who are apparenty just sitting on their asses and playing pattycake. Got it?"
Mark nodded quickly, clearly sensing that now wasn't the time to argue.
"And once that's done, we're gonna sit down—just you and me—and you're going to give me every single detail you know about space, the Viltrumites, their tactics, tech, history, culture, power sets—everything. And I swear to God, Invincible or not, if you leave so much as a footnote out, I will personally lodge my foot so far up your ass, you'll be able to taste the Italian leather on my shoes. Are we clear?"
Objectively, the threat meant nothing to someone with Viltrumite durability, but to Mark's credit, he nodded like a jackrabbit and made a beeline for the analysts, clearly smart enough to at least pretend he was scared.
Good. The kid had some sense.
Cecil let out a long, slow breath through his nose, the weight of it all pressing on his shoulders like a slab of concrete.
This had just gotten a hell of a lot messier.
On one hand, he finally had confirmation. The Viltrumites were real. They were just as dangerous—if not worse—than the worst-case projections. And Nolan… Nolan had said he was from Viltrum more than once. Had even let it slip casually, like it was just a footnote in his bio.
So unless there just happened to be two planets out there producing genocidal, mustache-wearing demigods with a penchant for punching holes in continents, then that meant...
That meant one of the only men Cecil had ever trusted—truly, completely trusted—was a traitor. A liar. A weapon sent to keep them soft before the hammer fell.
And that hurt more than he wanted to admit.
But that pain? He shoved it down. Stuffed it into a box, locked the box in a vault, and tossed it off a goddamn cliff. He didn't have the luxury of mourning a friendship right now.
He could be angry later. He could be broken later.
Right now? He had a planet to save. And that meant getting mean. That meant getting ruthless.
And it meant being ready to go to war.
"There's something that's been bothering me about the Flaxans," Darkwing said as the Guardians regrouped in the central command room of HQ.
He spoke calmly, but his tone carried that razor-sharp edge that made everyone turn to listen. Unlike most of the team, Darkwing didn't have powers to fall back on. No flight, no super-strength, no regenerative capabilities. All he had were his gadgets, his training, and his mind—sharpened like a blade, honed on years of solving crimes and surviving battles he had no business walking away from.
Some called him the smartest man alive. Others said he was the second-best detective on the planet, right after Darkblood. He'd never cared for titles—but in moments like this, he hoped the reputation had weight.
From his gauntlet, he activated the central projector, calling up a series of overlapping feeds—traffic cams, storefront security footage, cellphone videos. A synchronized mosaic of the first and second Flaxan invasion began to take shape in the air, cast in blue light above the holotable.
"What's the issue?" Aquarius asked, arms folded as he leaned against the war table. "We routed them easily. No casualties on our end. Quick, clean sweep."
"That," Darkwing said, pointing toward the screen, "is exactly the problem."
With a flick of his wristpad, the footage on the main display zoomed in. Target markers bloomed across the screen as he tapped key moments, slowing the video for analysis.
"Look at how they emerged from the portal. No formation. No spacing. No unit cohesion whatsoever. They just poured through like a panicked crowd, not a single line of command in sight. No vocal orders. No hand signals. Not even comms gear. They didn't make demands, didn't establish position. They just opened fire on civilians—blindly, and with zero coordination."
The room grew still. Screens across the chamber reflected the flickering combat footage, each frame less impressive than the last.
"Now, watch their movement patterns," Darkwing continued. "Their aim is inconsistent. Recoil throws them off-target. This one—" he tapped to highlight a Flaxan with trembling hands, "—nearly dislocates his shoulder firing a sidearm. No recoil compensation. No trigger discipline. No controlled bursts. They jerk when they shoot, flinch when they take return fire. It's amateur hour."
He played a short clip: a Flaxan soldier aiming at a parked car. The first shot went wide. The second grazed the pavement. The third slammed into the ground, and the weapon kicked so hard it spun the shooter around.
"And while the second incursion was a marginal improvement—they brought more tech, heavier support—they still fought like rabble. That's not a trained force. That's barely a militia."
Immortal's brow furrowed as he crossed his arms. "You're underselling Dupli-Kate if you're calling this a victory built on incompetence. The girl made an entire army of herself mid-battle. That's not standard procedure for any military to plan for."
"I'm not questioning her capability," Darkwing replied evenly. "But when a sixteen-year-old solo operative overwhelms an alien warband, you start asking questions. And I did. These invaders had no command chain, no flank control, no adaptive response. Once their forward push failed, they panicked. No fallback protocols. No regroup orders. They fought like cornered civilians."
He highlighted another clip—this time, a Flaxan screaming incoherently as he fired wildly at a building.
"And look at the armor," Darkwing added. "That's the same pattern, same plating, same design as the ones they wore thirty years ago. You're telling me they have interdimensional portal tech but haven't upgraded their battlefield armor in decades?"
Red Rush groaned, dropping his head onto his folded arms. "Darkwing, please. Can you just say what you're thinking and spare us the dissertation?"
Darkwing didn't miss a beat. He exhaled slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough for weight.
"These weren't professional soldiers," Darkwing said at last, his voice low, analytical. "They weren't trained warriors. They were barely coordinated, poorly equipped civilians—militia fighters at best. What we just faced wasn't the Flaxan military. It was a desperate, fragmented splinter group. A rogue faction scraping together scavenged weapons and hand-me-down armor just to launch a half-baked invasion."
A heavy silence settled over the briefing room. The kind that carried the weight of something left unsaid.
"So… where's the real Flaxan army?" War Woman asked quietly, her brow furrowed in thought.
"I don't think the actual Flaxan government even knows what's happening," Darkwing replied. "From what I've observed—the patchwork weapons, the low-tech portal arrays, the fact they keep hitting the same places with barely-upgraded tactics—I think we're dealing with a rogue cell. A fringe group operating without official sanction. They've been stealing old tech and weapons, probably siphoning resources over years, maybe decades. That's why we never see more than a few tanks, or a handful of high-grade rifles. You don't pull that off overnight. That kind of theft takes time, careful planning—and desperation."
"It makes sense," War Woman muttered. "They keep showing up with tech that's half-working, barely improved. Same numbers, same tactics, same locations. If they were military, they'd be adapting. They'd be evolving."
"Okay," Immortal said, crossing his arms. "Let's say you're right. Let's say they're guerrilla fighters using stolen gear. That doesn't change the fact that we still don't know how to stop them."
"We have two options," Darkwing said, his tone clinical now. "First, we wait them out. Keep hitting them back every time they breach. Sooner or later, they'll run out of gear, or bodies, or both. Best-case scenario? The Flaxan government finds out and shuts them down themselves. Worst-case? We keep playing defense for the next few months while civilians evacuate cities and pray we hold the line."
"And the other option?" Green Ghost asked warily.
"...We eliminate them," Darkwing said flatly. "All of them. No survivors. We cut off their retreat through the portals, and we kill them to the last man. No prisoners. No mercy. End the threat at its root."
Silence followed, longer this time. The kind of silence that weighed down the air like lead.
Green Ghost's voice was barely above a whisper. "I—I don't know if I can be a part of that. It's one thing to phase them into concrete. That's containment. But killing them outright? Like that? I don't… I don't think I can do that."
There was a long pause. Then War Woman exchanged a glance with Immortal—quiet, reluctant, but resolved.
"Actually, Alana…" she began gently, "we've been meaning to talk to you about taking some time off from the front lines."
Green Ghost's shoulders dropped slightly. Her eyes dimmed. "This is about what I said to Nolan, isn't it?"
"No—" War Woman began, but Immortal cut in sharply, his voice taut with frustration.
"Yes, it is," he snapped, glaring across the table. "What the hell were you thinking, talking to him like that? You could've compromised everything. If Cecil hadn't intercepted your conversation in time, you might've told Omni-Man everything. You put the entire mission in jeopardy. This isn't just about personal feelings, Alana—this is about the fate of the goddamn world."
The room tensed. Silence reigned for a moment, thick with the weight of recrimination and distrust.
"He's still our friend," Alana argued, her voice trembling with anger. "And Cecil's 'precog' could be lying. We've seen it before—intel that's incomplete or manipulated. I didn't tell Nolan anything. All I said was that I was on his side, something most of you seem to have conveniently forgotten."
She wasn't wrong—not completely. Martian Man and Aquarius weren't exactly convinced of Nolan's guilt either, but they had grown quieter about it, retreating into silence rather than vocal opposition. Only Green Ghost still argued openly in Omni-Man's defense.
"We haven't forgotten," Immortal growled. "But I refuse to risk Earth's survival on a maybe. If there's even a sliver of a chance that Nolan is a threat, then we need to prepare for the worst. And frankly, your behavior makes it clear you're not ready to carry your uncle's legacy—"
SLAM.
War Woman's mace hit the table with a bone-rattling crack, reducing the thick metal surface to a cratered ruin. The sound echoed off the walls of their mountain base like thunder.
All eyes turned to her—calm face, blazing eyes.
"That is enough, Immortal," she said coldly, her tone razor-sharp. "We all agreed not to jump to conclusions. Not until we had irrefutable proof that Omni-Man is a traitor."
"I know what we agreed," Immortal snapped, but there was hesitation in his voice now.
"Then you'll retract what you just said about Alana. Immediately," she said. "Because if we're talking about poor judgment, your arrogance is one of the reasons Alec isn't here with us today."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop below freezing. Immortal's eyes narrowed, fists clenching. Darkwing's hand moved subtly toward his weapons, already calculating the first strike if things exploded. A fight between War Woman and Immortal would tear the room apart—and it would be his job to stop it before it escalated.
But then, Immortal exhaled slowly. The fire in his eyes dimmed. The tension bled from his shoulders.
"I…" He looked at Alana. "I'm sorry. You're right. Nolan is our friend. I've let anger cloud my judgment. We don't have facts—only suspicions. And I should never have said that about you. You're more than worthy of your uncle's legacy. He would've been proud of everything you've accomplished."
Alana's gaze softened. "Thank you. I forgive you."
War Woman exhaled deeply, the edge finally dulling from her voice. "It's not good when friends—family—fight like this. Let's reconvene tomorrow. We all need rest."
She turned to Alana. "But I agree that you should stay home for now. You've never taken part in a culling before… and what we intend to do to the Flaxans tomorrow—it won't be clean. It won't be honorable. It'll be a slaughter. You don't need to see that."
Alana nodded slowly. "I understand. I think I'll spend the day with my husband. He'll be happy about that, at least."
Darkwing let out a silent breath. The explosion had been defused—for now.
But he knew the real storm was still coming. This constant worrying about Nolan being a traitor was tearing them apart, and sooner or later, it would lead to a fracture in the team.
They needed to find a solution to this, and quickly. Before the Guardians of the Globe suffered a loss they couldn't recover from.
Nolan chuckled as the alien's mech suit slammed into him over and over again, each impact sending a dull clang through the air. With every blow, another piece of its supposedly "advanced" armor cracked and fell away, reduced to sparking debris.
"That," he muttered, casually adjusting his stance as the Flaxan continued its futile barrage, "was positively adorable."
The Flaxan pilot snarled, its voice a garbled growl warped through damaged speakers. "Die."
Nolan tilted his head, genuinely amused. "Oh? So you've learned our language. That's impressive. You almost sound civilized now—less like a snarling pack of babbling savages." He smiled coldly. "So since you understand me, let me be very clear."
In the blink of an eye, he vanished—no warning, no build-up. One moment he stood before the Flaxan, the next he was behind it, his hand firmly pressed against the mech's back. The alien had no time to react.
"I took joy in slaughtering every pathetic, miserable one of your comrades today," Nolan said, his voice low and almost reverent.
Then, with the force of a meteor strike, he shoved the mech. The violent push launched the war machine down the street, tearing it apart as it skipped and shattered across the asphalt like a kicked can. By the time it stopped, it was no longer a mech—just a smoldering pile of scrap.
Yes. Today had been glorious.
He'd expected the Guardians to drag this out, as they so often did—playing keep-away, "holding the line," wearing down the enemy. But not today. Today, War Woman and Darkwing had made the call: no mercy. No survivors.
There would be no fourth invasion.
Nolan had been more than happy to oblige. He'd been forced to cancel a rare day with Debbie just to respond to this nonsense, and that had made him furious. Now he had an outlet.
He'd cut through their ranks like a cannonball, his speed alone turning foot soldiers into pulp. Throats torn out, skulls caved in, limbs wrenched free like twigs. It was chaos. Beautiful, cleansing chaos. The kind he hadn't felt since his early years in the Empire—when rebels were executed on planetary broadcasts and cities were leveled in response to dissent.
And the Guardians?
They hadn't disappointed him.
The Immortal had used one of their laser tanks to flatten entire squads, leaving nothing but red smears on the pavement.
War Woman moved like a living warhammer, her mace painting the tarmac in Flaxan gore with every swing.
Darkwing was a shadow flitting through their ranks—bombs, blades, snapped necks, all in fluid silence.
Martian Man twisted his elastic limbs around enemies, crushing them like constricting snakes, while Aquarius—serene, deadly—made them drown in open air, water flowing form his hands down their noses and throats filling their lungs.
It wasn't a battle.
It was an execution.
He'd expected Green Ghost to sit this one out. She wasn't made for this kind of brutality, and that was fine. Someone had to represent restraint, he supposed. But the others?
They'd finally gotten it. They'd stopped holding back. They understood now that mercy was wasted on creatures like these.
And Nolan… he felt something strange.
For the first time in years, he felt closer to the Guardians.
Not in the way humans meant it—not in the soft, sentimental sense of emotional bonding. But there was something almost… primal in the understanding they shared in that moment. Covered in blood, standing shoulder to shoulder among the corpses of Earth's enemies, they finally resembled what Nolan had always believed they were meant to be.
Warriors.
Alas, the moment couldn't last. There was only one portal left open. No more soldiers were pouring through. The battlefield was quiet now, save for the low hum of broken machinery and the sluggish drip of Flaxan blood pooling across the ground.
The Guardians were exhausted, wounded but victorious. Every inch of them was stained with gore. The only Flaxan left was their general, still half-trapped in the twisted wreckage of his mech. Nolan's earlier blow had crushed the torso plating and warped the cockpit around the alien's legs.
Pitiful.
Nolan approached slowly, savoring the fear building in the general's eyes. He didn't rush. He wanted the Flaxan to understand what was about to happen. It struggled harder, clawing at the mangled frame, trying to free itself—but it was no use. Its desperation only grew more pathetic by the second.
Nolan couldn't help the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"A shame it ended so soon," he mused aloud as he came to a stop before the trapped creature. "Your people made for entertaining toys while they lasted."
He raised his hand, reaching toward the general's trembling head—ready to crush it like overripe fruit—
"Hold it, Nolan."
The voice cut through the battlefield like a blade.
In a flash of white light, Cecil Stedman appeared, flanked by someone unexpected—Robot, the leader of Teen Team, standing at his side.
Nolan's smirk faded into a frown.
"Really, Cecil?" he asked flatly. "There's only one left."
"Exactly," Cecil said sharply, already striding forward. "And he just happens to be the most important one. We need him alive—for what's coming next."
Nolan's frown deepened. "What's coming next?"
Instead of answering, Cecil crouched beside the Flaxan general, now glaring at him with defiant exhaustion. The alien was close to passing out, but not quite there yet.
"Robot," Cecil said, not looking away from the general's bloodied face, "you said you cracked their language?"
"Yes," Robot replied, his voice calm and measured. "Using audio from the previous two incursions, I was able to reconstruct a working linguistic matrix. I can now communicate with them fluently."
"Perfect," Cecil said, grabbing the Flaxan's chin and forcing its dull eyes to meet his.
"Then translate this for me, will you?"
He leaned in, voice dropping low and dangerous.
"Take me to your leader, dumbass."