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Robin. That was your name. You’ll try to remember it, you think. It might be better to forget, but you’re allowed this one sentiment. This soundless grief, and you can’t laugh about it. You’re watched too closely. You stand at the heels of the Emperor of Viltrum, in a position earned through blood, sweat, and not a single tear. That’d be, ah, foolish.

It’s okay, because you’re pretty fucking angry, and that’s a lot more useful than tears. Novel, too. To feel the single, abiding crack in the role you’ve been assigned, and know it will bleed into every facet of who you are.

You’re angry. So you’re going to ensure Viltrum falls.

It isn’t like it’s hard; you caution Argall against the man who will plunge a blade into his skull, and watch as your words fall on deaf ears. Accept Argall’s rebuke with painted remorse - who are you to challenge a would-be traitor you cannot kill yourself? - and wonder how long remains before it all really begins.

Why are you here? Who fucking knows. Cosmic fuckup or whatever else, you don’t care. You’ll do exactly what you’ve been trained to do since birth, and play your part to a goddamn T. You’ll give them the Grand Regent they deserve, and-

Honestly, counting the dead feels like giving them too much credit. But it’ll be pretty damn spectacular to witness, won’t it? Your people, so strong, outlasting centuries in their blind orbit of a planet long-since bled dry.

Gotta get your kicks somewhere.

…What was the funny part again?

You’ll try to remember some other time.

-

It should be harder. You think about that, instead of how many you’ve killed. You think about how…bland it feels to end a life with your bare hands, stare into dying eyes and feel nothing. No satisfaction. No regret. At best, you’re annoyed no one you can feasibly fight now is worth your time.

Argall keeps you close. It’s suffocating, but you see the logic in his whirlpool of bullshit. You aren’t an heir; you’re the stopgap, the leverage to maintain a wall between any who could potentially oppose him, while also attending to the ‘duty’ of legacy.

If he pops his clogs, you takeover and find the most suitable of his heirs, train them up to rule next. But until then, they stay out of sight and out of mind, and not a threat to the old bastard. Your lack of legitimacy is a shield, because no Viltrumite would side with you over him. It’s paranoid, all doomed control, and would’ve been a much dumber move if Viltrumites didn’t live so long.

Helps that Argall is far from weak. Thaedus only gets him by attacking like a coward. Will get him, and you wonder when the moment will come; the decision to turn traitor.

He isn’t actually the first. He just thinks he is, because Argall has ensured no one knows about the few traitors who have cropped up throughout thousands of years.

No one except you, warned for the simple reason of how…useful it is, to keep in mind when considering who to raise up as generals. Replaced and shifted around every few centuries, Kregg the latest to benefit from a promotion, while his predecessor was sent to a far-flung sector for trade route patrolling after displaying signs of weakness.

Family lines are tracked. Children separated whenever a parent shows they lack the resolve to guide their offspring to adulthood, in the fleeting encounters permitted to them. Duties enforced on meticulous schedules, monotony enforced around the shape of purposeful violence. The exceptions are rare; mad dogs like Conquest pushed to the borders of the pack, kept happy but never satisfied, and never allowed any influence.

It’s interesting to witness the behind the scenes, you’ll give Argall that. Adds a certain charm to the knowledge that his death will be all the excuse you need to- what’s the phrase? Cut out the rot?

Yeah. You’re looking forward to it.

So pointless, so stupid, and the best part? They’ll do it. They’re so fucking braindead that they’ll kill each other in droves because they believe it makes them strong. Christ, if that doesn’t prove they deserve to suffer and die for the sake of nothing, you don’t know what does.

-

In reality, it goes a little different than you expect.

In retrospect? A civil war does make sense, so you don’t think that aspect is your fault. You roll with it, and it’s as good an opportunity as any to test out if you’re worth the hype. Did Argall, in fact, manage to breed a Viltrumite so strong that he can only (one day) be beaten by the main character himself?

Uh, yeah. Results speak for themselves, and a mass grave is a hell of a statement piece. Drenched in blood and draped in duty - it works, right? It…

C’mon. Haven’t you remembered the joke yet?

Shit. It’ll come to you.

Time is the one thing you have in abundance.

-

“Find the weak among us. The ones who would see our Empire fall to our enemies, who fail to grasp why all is ours. Why it is the foundation of our strength. This is the duty I remind you of now, not as punishment or a simple battle to be won, but the reason for our existence. This is what it means to be Viltrumite.

If you live, you must fight for the right to draw your next breath. Anything less is not worth preserving.

If you live, you belong to the future I will lead us to.

Show me your Viltrumite hearts.”

-

Someone really should’ve made this harder for you.

It sits with more expectation than Argall ever held for you. You’ll be above the planet, above Viltrum, where gravity softens and everything is…quiet. Outside the defences but beneath the fleet, and you’ll-

Someone should stop you.

No one does. No one will, until him. You hope.

You hope it’s real, these not-memories. You hope you aren’t just crazy. That’d…suck, ha. It all lines up enough so far and- you could look, for Earth. But you don’t want to yet. You don’t want to knock anything off course, because…

Because…

The flicker of panic is buried beneath habitual rage. There we go. Hold on tight, yeah? Stay the course. You won’t lack for conviction when you’re already past the point of no return.

Besides. They really brought it on themselves, forcing a thing like you to exist.

-

Thaedus’s name is buried, and a statue is erected of Argall.

You stand before it, sometimes. It might be as close to grief as you feel, this sense of a missing step when you don’t have him to follow, his orders to obey. The constant tests and punishments, so clearly geared toward hammering you into the weapon he wanted. Not an heir, never with the anticipation of his own death, but a step above a general. A useful tool.

You kept his skull. Kind of a key item, huh. It joins every meeting as a morbid reminder of the cowardice of their enemies, even if it feels…foolish, to let anyone know that the greatest of them could fall.

It’s a delicate balance to maintain, you guess. Mythologise to push beliefs to further extremes, but cloud the perception of your subjects and enemies. The Coalition is a growing whisper now, and it’s-

You could crush them. You could win, if you wanted to. As strong as Thaedus is, he only beat Argall by ambushing him. Knowing what you know - the right move would be to gather a unit and take Thaedus out before he can dream up the Scourge.

You look up at the statue’s face, and you do nothing.

Except push the expansion of the Empire, with even greater brutality than under Argall’s rule. Except demand more from your forces, because if they survived the Purge, shouldn’t they be perfectly capable of rising to the occasion?

They could break. They could turn on you. You’re strong, but you’re only one man. They could save themselves, but they fucking won’t, will they?

They never stopped Argall. No chance they’ll even consider allowing you the end you need.

-

When Kregg gives his report on the sickness sweeping your people, it takes a lot of effort not to smile.

Thaedus took the bait. A recall of all forces to Viltrum, unusual in its sheer scale. Logically, there’d be no good reason to leave holes like that in your iron grip over the Empire, so you made it illogical.

Every Viltrumite must return to pay their respects to Emperor Argall on this anniversary, prove their loyalty, and for a habitual search for the lost heirs - widely believed to have perished in the Purge, along with all records of them.

Obviously, you didn’t put up flyers to announce to the galaxy at large about the family gathering. But if Thaedus had a shred of competency, he’d notice the movement of forces, the brief halt in expanding territories. Communication chatter and the reinforcement of the conquered species who manage the majority of the Empire’s day-to-day running.

You’d have been real annoyed if he missed the best chance you could’ve given him to infect all Viltrumites in one fell swoop. If he’d delayed any further, you might’ve had to do something drastic.

Instead, you order a quarantine of the planet, and watch as your people die by the billions. It’s everything you dreamed of, and when the disease finds you - when you sit on the throne as affectionate delirium sinks its fingers into your broken mind - you know you’ve done exactly as you should. You’ve kept your promise. You-

You dream of burning, and the last voice you’ll hear before you die again. The same voice, but the wrong name spoken.

"These guys were easy to beat. Why's Cecil bothering with them?"

"Mark, you know I can't discuss this further with you-"

Huffing and leaning on the desk, messing with one of the moon rocks he got for Cecil now functioning as a paperweight "Sure you can. Cecil tells me everything. I live with him, and I'm basically his- Y'know, he's my legal guardian still."

that's perhaps the least concerning part of all this. "If he tells you everything, you can ask him yourself."

It's fun to think about how this Mark's personality could shift thanks to all the new events - his mom dying, nolan leaving, getting his powers early, living with Cecil and all the GDA training. I think generally he'd be more mature/make an effort to not always be showing how he feels, but it'd always slip up around Cecil - and Donald to a lesser extent.

Donald trying to warn R!Cecil that Mark is showing some worrying signs of possessiveness (not even getting into the attraction side), but R!Cecil figures it makes sense given Mark lost his parents and is.....weirdly bad at making friends.

She keeps nudging him toward Teen Team and he is not biting. R!Cecil just 'oh no I imparted my antisocial tendencies on him. whoops.' and is actually reassured when he shows signs of Giving A Shit. Then if Mark gets grumbly over her employing his enemies, she's not fully catching that Mark abruptly chills out when he realises Cecil won't be focusing on them more than him.

(Because in some AUs it's funnier when Robin gets to hold onto some oblivousness for longer - especially when it's understandable why she could reason it away)

Mark falling through a dimensional hole and returning a week later in a bad mood because "why does he get a full contingency plan and a chip in his head that can only be activated by the remote Cecil holds?"

It isn't every day you adopt the main character of your favourite comic.

At least, you really fucking hope it isn't someone's every day, because what the fuck.

It's cool. It's fine. Mark's a sweet kid - a boatload of trauma with at least a dozen anchors looking to hook onto any stray underwater reef and careen the entire ship into the nearest ice berg, but sweet. Malleable, says the part of your brain you've dubbed Cecil Mode, even if in reality it's just the obvious trope you're playing to.

Could play to. You don't actually have to turn Mark into a child soldier because he's gained his powers early. That's like, majorly dodgy. Probably bad for his development.

Normal kid development, not character development. Very distinct areas even if an argument could be made for them sharing the same department. Academic rivals, if you will.

Because you're now the director of the GDA. You have, as the cool kids say, responsibilities.

And Mark is really the obvious candidate for the best damn asset the GDA could ever hope to sink its desperate claws into. Especially when you are, in fact, his legal guardian. Because the world is fucked up and the government has too much power, holy fucking smokes.

-

"Cecil?"

You grunt an acknowledgment, lifting your head from where you sat down on the couch, loosened your tie and collar, and slumped against the back cushion to contemplate how shit of a person you'll decide to be today.

Your whole body aches, which is just plain unfair. Going from somewhere in your twenties to this is a dick move, universe. Maybe you should go the Donald route and get to replacing those human failings. Ship of Theseus it up.

"What is it, kid?" you ask when Mark just stands there.

He's had a bit of a growth spurt recently, and shuffled around close to you on a bemusing trip to a clothing store. You figured it'd be better to get him some clothes that aren't military issue, but he picked out a lot of plain stuff anyway, aside from a Science Dog hoodie you encouraged him to try on when you caught his guilty-longing look at it.

He's definitely more...contained than he should be. But he did see his mom's dead body at a formative age, and then was stuck with you as a parental figure, so you can't blame him.

"Did you read War Woman's evaluation of me yet?" He shifts his weight, nervous. Does he think the eval went badly?

You told him it's just to track his progress. Yeah, you've been on the fence about full child soldier-ing it, but he still has OP abilities while being a damn child. He needed training.

There's the team you assigned to it within the GDA, but you roped in the Guardians too. Checks and balances, or whatever the fuck. And maybe it'd help Mark to interact with actual heroes, the kind almost like the ones in his comics, not just government stooges with 'if it's another day without the world ending, the price was worth it' mentalities.

The Guardians only agreed because duh, an extremely powerful kid with Cecil Stedman as his replacement daddy? They'd be stupid not to. While they'll take your intel, listen to some field commands and guidance, they're an independent entity - and some mistrust you more than others. No Nolan around to kill them off and leave the GDA to take over, though timeline wise, that'd still be a ways off.

"I did," you say, and pat the couch cushion to get the fidgetty kid to sit down. He does, picking at the fabric of his jeans before his hands ball into fists on his lap. Definitely nervous. "It was very positive. She thinks you'll be an amazing hero one day."

One day.

That part was emphasised, ha.

"What about...today?" At your stare, Mark chews on his lip, but soldiers on. "I've been training for ages now. I know I can make a difference out there - you said I can, with my powers, and- and what I can do, and I want to."

...Universe, aren't you making it a bit too easy to be evil??

"Mark, you're only-"

"I'm not a normal kid," he says hurriedly, like he already feels bad for talking over you but won't give up on this. "Because of D- because of Omni-Man, I'll never be normal. So, please let me- Cecil, I can do this." Those damn puppy dog eyes come out in full force. "I'll follow orders. Put me in the field, and you won't ever regret it."

Shit.

Problem is, you're too fucking aware of the fact that even with the Guardians around, they won't be enough the second a Viltrumite shows up. And one will arrive, even if Nolan stays gone forever.

Mark can go through all the training in the world, safety wheels and all - it isn't true experience. He'll lose, and die, and then Earth will be conquered. Doomed timeline confirmed.

You don't...want this to be just another bad variant timeline. Another discard of an uncaring multiverse, played out wrong because of someone else's fuck up, and the weakness of the people left to clean up the mess.

And hey. A trope's a trope, and kids have been playing superhero in most of the comics you loved so much. By that metric, as long as he doesn't die by popular vote and replaced with a new edition, Mark will be doing just fine.

"Fine. A trial run, and you will be under my supervision on every mission, is that understood?"

There's absolutely no reason for him to beam as bright as he does, but whatever. Trauma fucks people up in weird ways-

He surges forward to hug you, and after a startled few seconds you hesitantly pat his back.

"Got it, Dad!"

...Dude.

You practically feel his cringe, his face flushed when he darts back as fast as he leaned in, and it makes you chuckle. A bit mean, but wow, poor kid. Way worse than a 'calling the teacher mom' moment.