#emperor mark

He hated it. He hated the way his thoughts spiraled inward, how he made everything about himself. Even now, as he sat beside her and held her limp hand in both of his, clutching it tightly like it might slip away if he didn’t hold on hard enough, he was venting again. Spiraling. Begging.

“All that time…” he whispered, voice ragged, almost a secret meant only for her ears. His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard. “All that time, I thought I killed Angstrom.”

He lifted her hand to his forehead, pressing it there as if pleading for her to forgive him. He could almost hear her voice calm and clear telling him it wasn’t his fault, that he had to stop blaming himself, that she knew what she was signing up for when she chose to fight alternate versions of her boyfriend.

But that didn’t stop the words from pouring out of him like a confession.

“All the torture I put myself through…” he muttered, his grip tightening slightly on her fingers. Memories flashed behind his eyes sleepless nights, tears soaked into pillows, and night terrors that left him gasping. He remembered the way Eve would hold him after every attack, soothing him with whispered reassurances. He remembered rushing home one night, heart pounding from the sound of his mother screaming only to find it was Oliver, laughing like a maniac after scaring her with a prank.

“And now…” he murmured, brushing her forehead gently and tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. He stared at her healing face, at the faint scars that hadn’t yet faded. “All I can think about is how I should’ve killed him when I had the chance.”

The door creaked open behind him.

Mark didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He already knew who it was.

“You probably should have,” Cecil said from the doorway, voice calm but weighty. He leaned against the wall, then made his way across the room. “Would’ve saved a lot of lives.”

Mark’s jaw clenched. He didn’t respond. He wasn’t in the mood for Cecil’s half-worn speeches.

Cecil crossed the room slowly, hands in his coat pockets. He stopped beside Mark and sighed, resting a hand on his shoulder. “But you can’t blame yourself for being a good person.”

Mark shook his head, the guilt heavy in his eyes. “What if he comes back?” he asked quietly. “What if there are more of him—more of me—out there?”

Cecil didn’t answer immediately. He shifted his weight, clearly thinking it over. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

Mark blinked, finally glancing up. “What do you mean?”

Cecil hesitated, then smiled grimly. “Considering he’s dead on your lawn.”

Mark stood so fast the chair scraped the floor with a sharp squeal. “What?” he choked, disbelief crashing into his chest like a wave.

Cecil gave a small shrug, as if it was just another piece of paperwork he’d filed. “Dead. Bleeding out about five feet from the rose bushes.  Kid from the lab found the camera footage this morning and screamed bloody murder.”

Mark stared at him, eyes wide, lips parted. “Are you—are you sure it’s him?”

“Positive,” Cecil replied. “Face smashed in, but the techs confirmed the DNA. Angstrom’s gone.”

Mark swayed slightly, his mind struggling to catch up with the words. A part of him felt like it should bring relief. Closure. But all he felt was… empty.

“That doesn’t mean another version of him won’t appear,” Mark said dejectedly. “He could find more of them… more of me.” He finally looked at Cecil. Tears should’ve been leaking out, but Mark couldn’t be bothered. He just felt tired.

“Yeah, he could.” Cecil stared, slipping his hand into his pocket. He turned to look at Eve. “Which is why we’re going to rebuild. Find new talents. Put the team back together. Fund new researchers.” Cecil listed it off. Mark didn’t feel relieved. It just felt like a repeat like this would go on forever and ever.

“You sure as hell brought the world together on this,” Cecil muttered. It should’ve made Mark feel something, but it didn’t. It wasn’t pride. Maybe it was relief that he did something good. Or maybe it was the feeling of being slightly less guilty.

“And we still got you,” Cecil continued.

Mark paused for a second, mulling it over. Did they still have him? Was one of him enough to save this world?

It sure as hell didn’t feel like it. If anything, it proved that one Mark wasn’t enough and never would be.

“Yeah,” Mark muttered with no enthusiasm. Just hatred.

“ I’m remaking the League,” Cecil said.

Mark couldn’t bother talking about this. He couldn’t even muster up the energy to ask about the others about Rex, or Monster Girl, or anything else. Instead, his mind drifted somewhere else.

He remembered what Cecil had said earlier about Angstrom and his house where he lived. It was anxiety-inducing.

Mark looked up. “Is Mom okay?” he asked, because he needed to know.

Cecil nodded. “She was at her boyfriend’s house the whole time,” he said. He paused a little longer than necessary. “Most of the suburban areas weren’t hit, thankfully,” he added. Yet it felt irrelevant like he had strung together a different sentence to avoid saying something else.

Cecil turned to look at Eve again. “Eve’s parents are on their way in too,” he said.

Mark stiffened at that.

“Mark, we could really use some help in New York. Oliver seems...” He paused. “Busy protecting Debbie. Most of the other heroes are in the hospital.”

“After this is over, we’re still not working together,” Mark stated, shoving past Cecil, who didn’t seem surprised by the Viltrumite glare.

“Yeah, I perished the thought,” he said as they both headed out the door, letting it shut behind them.

Two days later.

Mark had been cleaning non-stop for two days. The only time he stopped was to visit Eve in the hospital. Then he’d fly back and clean as much as possible. He hadn’t bothered calling his mom couldn’t muster up the courage. He wanted to trust the fact that Cecil wasn’t lying. He couldn’t have that on his conscience.

Same reason he hadn’t called Will yet. Maybe that was selfish of him, but he tried to argue it wasn’t because he was too busy cleaning to worry about his personal life.

“Immortal and Dupli-Kate are retiring. Darkwing is missing and presumed dead. Monster Girl is in intensive care. Most of the heroes are injured or out of action. And I don’t think our enemy is going to be kind enough to take a break,” Cecil sighed.

“What about Rex?” Mark asked.

Cecil waved him off. “He just underwent another surgery to replace his limb. He won’t be fighting anytime soon.”

“I don’t know what you’re proposing, Cecil,” Mark said, clenching his fists.

“I want you to lead the Guardians,” Cecil said.

Mark looked at him, then glared. “What? No! I told you two days ago—that’s not happening. There’s no way I’m qualified for that.”

“In fairness, I don’t think anyone here is qualified,” said Shapesmith.

Mark sent him a glare.

“Your eyes are squinting angrily.” Shapesmith noted, “ I’m guessing that’s the ‘yeah, shut up’ cue, right?” Shapesmith said.

“See? That’s exactly what I mean,” Cecil said. “You stood up to me, Mark. That means something.”

“It means I’m the wrong guy for the job,” Mark pointed out. “And Eve’s still recovering.” He stood there for a second, then took a shuddering breath. “Look if something big happens, call me. Otherwise, I’ll be cleaning up.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Cecil offered.

Mark glared. “No need.” And as fast as he could, he slammed through the window.

Cecil stared at it with a sigh as the bulletproof glass shattered into dust.

Mark landed and as quickly as he did, got to work. Without question.

He felt overwhelmed. There was still so much going on, and it felt like he could hear every single voice, every heartbeat including the angry, hungry ones.

“Stand ready for my arrival, little worm.”

The figure floated over Mark, who was trying not to throw up. He looked up at the buff, older man.

“You were given orders. You were given time. You were given more leeway than most,” the man said. “And yet I find this planet unprepared for the arrival of our Viltrumite Empire.”

Mark shuddered, holding back his anger. “This isn’t a good time,” he said.

“The Empire anticipated your resistance, which is why they sent me,” the older man said, staring down at Mark. “I am Conquest. And I am your last chance to fulfill your duty.”

Mark was going to have a brain aneurysm at this rate. “This really isn’t a good time—”

And just like that, he hurled over, gagging at the smell of blood, body odor, and a million other foul, rotting stenches.

“Disgusting,” Conquest muttered as he charged at Mark, who dodged.

Mark felt sick. Tired of this. And to be honest, his frustration had long passed the boiling point it was steam now. Burning, hot steam was flying out of his ear.

So, of course, Mark charged right back.

Their fists collided, and moments later, Mark found himself on the ground. He could hear Conquest speaking, but his head was spinning, his ears ringing it was hard to make out a single thing.

Still, Mark got up. Charged again. Fight after fight. Punch after punch.

The Grayson house was, surprisingly, immaculate. Despite the crude patchwork job on the roof duct tape and mismatched shingles fighting a losing battle against gravity everything else gleamed with an unnatural level of cleanliness. The floors were scrubbed spotless, the furniture dusted and aligned with military precision, and even the cluttered corners looked curated. 

Seven alternate versions of Mark sat scattered across the living room, the scene resembling a multiversal support group gone sideways. Two others lingered in the kitchen, awkwardly helping a very tense Debbie slice vegetables. One more: Mark was outside, locked in a so-called “sparring session” with Oliver that had devolved into midair dodgeball with tree branches.

Inside, the television blared a colorful jingle.

“Why are we watching this dumb children's show?” Emperor Mark snapped, scowling from where he lounged on the couch, legs draped over the armrest like a bored aristocrat. His perfectly tailored blazer shimmered even in the dim light. He jabbed a finger at Viltrumite Mark, who sat stiffly beside him, clutching the remote like it was the key to planetary salvation.

“Because it’s my turn,” Viltrumite Mark replied flatly, flicking the remote back and forth like a metronome, eyes never leaving the screen. He was wearing all white a simple tshirt and simple shorts.

“Dude, this show is so lame,” muttered No-Goggles Mark, adjusting his tight  borrowed tank top and jeans that had been aggressively torn and re-stitched into something resembling streetwear. “Can’t we watch something good? Like Euphoria?”

Omni Mark, dressed in a sharp red tee and slacks, crossed his arms. “We are not watching Euphoria.”

“Honestly, this is fine,” Mohawk Mark chimed in, his punk shirt—he mysteriously got it and refuses to tell Debbie how—looking oddly comfortable on him. “At least it’s not My Little Pony.” Mohawk Mark declared from the recliner, his voice loud enough to rattle the cabinets in the kitchen though with super-hearing, yelling was unnecessary. He glared at the screen like it had personally insulted his masculinity.

“My Little Pony is good ,” protested Masked Mark from behind his surgical face mask. Debbie had handed it to him earlier when he’d kept sneezig due to pollen, and he’d worn it ever since. His outfit was a long white sleeve polar shirt  with A blue vest over it and white recently stained  pants.

“It’s a pansy show for pansy girls,”  Mohawk told him.

“Agreed,” Emperor Mark sneered, smoothing his already immaculate hair. “Honestly, I can’t believe you’re all supposed to be me .”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Maskless Mark shrugged, giving Masked Mark a supportive nudge. He was wearing a pink shirt that seemed to be left over by William months ago. He had latched onto it immediately and called dibs not that anyone else wanted it. “It’s kinda fun and sweet.“

“Thank you,” Masked Mark said, nodding with all the solemnity of someone defending fine art. “It’s heartwarming. And emotional.”

“Still would’ve preferred literally any other show,” Maskless admitted.

“Anything is better than that pastel garbage,” Emperor muttered, arms crossed dramatically.

Viltrumite Mark finally looked up, eyes twinkling with dry amusement. “So...  Star vs. Force of Evil it is then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Emperor looked scandalized, mouth opening in indignation before sputtering for a retort.

“Quiet,” Prison Mark suddenly cut in, his gravelly voice slicing through the bickering. He sat hunched in the corner, arms draped over his knees like a predator too tired to pounce. “I’m trying to watch. ”

All eyes flicked to him. Prison Mark didn’t care what show was on he just appreciated having something to do that didn’t involve blood or conquest. Not that he minded murder; it was just nice to have other forms of entertainment. For a moment, he looked almost peaceful, his usual scowl softened by the flickering cartoon light.

“See?” Viltrumite Mark gestured at him. “He gets it.”

Mohawk Mark whistled. “I still think we should’ve voted.”

“That’s not how that works, dipshit,” Viltrumite Mark snapped, clutching the remote with an iron grip. 

Mohawk raised a hand lazily and called out, “All in favor of taking a vote on what to watch next, raise your hand!”

One by one, hands went up. Headcap raised his with a smug grin. Masked Mark followed with a reluctant shrug, and even Emperor raised his gloved hand with dramatic flair. No-Goggles, lounging backward on the couch with his modified jeans and too-tight borrowed shirt, tossed his hand up halfheartedly.

Everyone except for two.

Prison Mark was entirely distracted, eyes glazed over as he watched with such intent he couldn’t even blink. Omni-Mark didn’t even turn around.

“I’m not participating in this stupid conversation,” Omni-Mark muttered, arms crossed, forehead resting against the cool windowpane as he watched Sinister Mark outside. Sinister was gleefully spinning Oliver around like a tornado, his maniacal laugh echoing across the yard while Oliver demanded to be put down.

Then, like a shadow, Headcap darted forward.

“And yoink!” he cried with mischievous delight, snatching the remote straight from Viltrumite’s stunned hand.

“You little—” Viltrumite Mark gasped, launching himself after Headcap. The two tore around the room at breakneck speed, blurring past furniture and knocking over cushions like a pair of chaotic tornadoes.

“Hey, hey!” No-Goggles shouted, grabbing one of Viltrumite’s arms. Mohawk joined in from the other side. “We voted, man! You have to respect the democratic process!” Mohawk teased, laughing as Viltrumite struggled in their grip.

“I swear to God, I will shave that mohawk off your head while you sleep!” Viltrumite roared, glaring at Mohawk with fire in his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, keep dreaming,  Bitch boy,” Mohawk giggled, not remotely intimidated.

Headcap, already surfing Netflix menus, muttered, “So many options… and yet, so much garbage…”

Just as the new show was about to start, the screen flickered to breaking news. Most groaned in unison.

“Again?” Headcap groaned. “They call it ‘breaking news,’ but it's nothing new about it.”

But then the screen showed someone familiar—an older man ruthlessly beating a version of Mark into the dirt. Blood sprayed across the camera.

“Wait,” No goggles, Mark blinked, leaning forward. “Isn’t that... the other you?” he asked Viltrumite Mark.

“Us, it’s other us. You’re not excluded from this just because you think you’re a badass.” Viltrumite Mark glared.

“I am a badass, thanks.” Respond, No goggles, the Viltrumite glare harden. God, he wish he had laser eye to blast that smug fucker.

“Wow,” Sinister chimed in, suddenly back in the room, his arm still smudged from wrestling Oliver. “I knew we were soft, but damn. That’s embarrassing.”

A screech sounded from the hallway. Oliver stormed inside, panting and red-faced. “Get back out here and fight me, coward!”

He tugged on Viltrumite’s cape as if he could drag him back outside.

 Debbie stepped inside the living room, food in hand and dark circles under her eyes. “Okay, lunch is ready. Please, can we not have another fight over the good chair?”

Then she looked up and saw the screen.

The food hit the floor.

“Oh God,” she whispered.

Masked Mark immediately flew in at the sound and as soon as he saw her distress, he stepped over and wrapped an arm around her shoulder gently.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, though his own eyes were glued to the screen.

Oliver’s breath caught. “That’s not far away—I can help!”

He darted for the door, but Debbie’s voice snapped sharply and fast.

“Oliver, no!”

The boy froze.

“But—!”

She stepped forward, brushing hair from his face, eyes filled with fear. “I can’t lose you, too.”

Mask-Mark pursed his lips, his fist tightening slightly before he sighed and stepped in front. Pushing Debbie's arm away from Oliver and to his face instead. “I’ll go,” he said quietly. “If it’ll stop you from crying, I’ll do anything.”

Debbie blinked. “Really?”

Before he could answer, the Viltrumite Mark spoke up with a scoff. “Seriously? Conquest is like a bajillion million trillion times stronger than any of us. You’ll get smeared into paste.”

“He’s not that much stronger,” Omni-Mark added with a thoughtful frown. “Still… none of us could beat him one-on-one.”

“Is that a challenge?” Mohawk’s eyes gleamed.

“It’s not,” Omni- Mark muttered without even looking up.

No-Goggles grinned. “Kinda sounds like a challenge.”

“It’s not,” Omni- Mark protested louder this time.

Sinister crossed his arms, grinning. “Sounds fun to me. I’m in.”

“How dare you doubt me!” Emperor, he declared, dramatically slapping a hand to his chest. “I could totally kick his ass!”

“Aight, bet,” said No-Goggles, extending a hand.

“Well, I guess we’re all in,” Mohawk said cheerfully.

“Only four of you agreed,” Omni-Mark deadpanned.

“And stop stealing my spotlight,” Masked Mark grumbled. “You’re just doing this for fun,  heartless creature.”

“You’re only doing it because you’re a mama’s boy,” Mohawk teased. “Besides, I’ve conquered entire planets. Dominated other creatures that claim to be the strongest. I’m pretty sure I can dominate conquest.”

“Kinky,” No-Goggles said mid-sentence.

Prison Mark finally looked up, shaking his head slowly. “Count me out. You guys are psychopaths if you think you could beat Conquest.” He shuddered at that.

“Oh no, the bald-man trauma’s kicking in again,” Mohawk cooed mockingly, and half the room laughed.

 “ Fucking pussy.” The emperor spat out.

 “Any other pussy here or,” Mohawk trailed off, rolling his hand to drawl it out.

“I’m in,” Headcap declared, cracking his neck. “It’s been too long since I painted something in blood.”

“Dude. Stop. You sound like a try-hard,” Omni-Mark groaned.

“We can’t betray our people,” Viltrumite Mark said, trying to reason with the group.

“Uh, Yeah I can,” Said Sinster smugly.

“Who’s to say Conquest didn’t do the same?” Maskless added.

The Viltrumite hesitated, doing the math. “…Shit, you’re right.”

“Ignoring the stupidity of that, “ Omni-mark said with a sigh, “ you’re all giving me a migraine,” he muttered under his breath. “ Are  all of  you going on a suicide mission?” Omni - Mark asked, exasperated.

“I’m staying,” said Maskless calmly, sipping tea. “Only three of us have brains, huh?”

“Nah, it’s not a suicide mission,” Headcap said, standing tall. “If we jump him together, we’ve got this.”

“I like how you think,” No-Goggles grinned, clapping Headcap on the back.

“Perfect. Let’s roll!” Mohawk whooped.

“Wait—use the—” Debbie started to shout, but her warning was cut short as a squad of Viltrumites blasted through the roof.

“—door,” she finished with a deadpan sigh. “Damn it.”

She rubbed her temple and sat at the dining table. Maskless place he teacup down eebrow furrowing.

“You want some Tea?” he asked gently.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”  Debbie said with a small grateful smile watching him enter the kitchen.

She paused, looked around, and frowned. “Wait. Where’s Oliver?”

“Oh,” Prison Mark muttered, eyes back on his tablet. “He went with the rest.”

“You let him?” Debbie cried out.

Prison Mark shrugged. “What’s the problem? There are eight of us with him. He’s fine.”

Debbie buried her face in her hands. “I think that’s the opposite of fine…”

Maskless gently patted her hand, setting the tea in front of her.

Debbie sighed, god, she thought, as if raising Oliver wasn't already hard enough.

Maybe her son wouldn’t have ended up at war with versions of himself across the multiverse. She was certain that in every other dimension, every other Debbie was thinking the same thing but apparently, she was the only one who had managed to raise a Mark who wasn’t trying to destroy the world like a discount space god. Her Mark the real, flesh-and-blood, slightly emotionally repressed Mark was the only Invincible still fighting for humanity.

The only one still fighting to save it.

She should be proud of that. She wanted to be proud. But it was hard to feel anything close to joy when the news kept showing twisted versions of her son laughing as they slaughtered cities, grinning over fresh corpses. 

And she couldn’t help. She couldn’t do a damn thing.

Instead, a nineteen-year-old with too many scars and his barely one-year-old(?) brother were out there, once again tasked with saving the world. And her? Debbie was on the couch, wrapped in a fuzzy throw blanket with two bottles of cheap wine in her system. 

Debbie felt useless; she felt like a terrible mother.

She couldn't keep her eyes off the TV. Her gaze had been glued to the screen for hours now. The chaos had ended, supposedly. The versions of Invincible tearing each other apart had all vanished, Mark had survived (again), and the only things left were the smoldering ruins and some truly bad news commentary.

Paul was behind her on the couch, rubbing her back in slow circles. He had the patience of a saint of dog  which was why, she appreciated him. Sort of. He gently pulled the wine bottle out of her hand like he was diffusing a bomb.

She must’ve fallen asleep at some point, because when she blinked awake, the world was still intact, Paul was smiling, and her youngest was vibrating with energy like a soda can shaken too hard.

“All the Invincibles are gone,” he said quietly. “Except our Mark.”

She barely registered the words until Oliver flew into view, hovering in front of her like a little rocket-powered puppy.

“Can we go home now? Pleeeeeease?”   He asked excitedly, bouncing in midair. “Is Mark coming too?”

Debbie blinked, trying to focus through the haze. “He’s… staying the night at the hospital,” Paul said gently. “ Watching over Eve…she’s…in bad shape.”

Debbie nodded slowly, her body heavy and numb. “Alright,” she whispered, forcing herself up, fumbling for her keys. “I’ll drive.”

She didn’t get far before Paul’s hand wrapped gently around her wrist, his voice soft but firm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Going home,” she said, her voice hoarse, a little slurred.

Paul frowned. “Debbie. You’re drunk. You can’t drive.”

She blinked at him, then at the keys in her hand, then back at him. “I mean… I’m technically not drunk drunk. I’ve reached the tired, contemplative philosopher stage.”

“You tried to FaceTime the microwave earlier, demanding ‘Cecil return Mark- or angstrom won't be his only threat,’ ” Paul reminded her gently.

Oliver chimed in proudly, “It was kind of impressive. You almost got it to answer.”

“Thank you, Oliver,” Debbie muttered, annoyed.

Paul held Debbie's hand sweetly. “Maybe you should rest and drive back in the morning.’ Paul offered, “ I don’t want you getting into a car crash with no one there to help you.” Paul clarified, tracing over the small scars littered over Debbie's palm.

Oliver zipped to her side, practically vibrating. “Don’t worry, I got this! I’ve got super speed and super healing. If we crash, I’ll get Mom out of the wreckage before she even realizes it happened!”

Paul stared at him nervously. “That’s... not the comforting argument you think it is.”

“It is!” Oliver  expressed, “How isn’t it?” He questioned, genuinely confused.

Debbie groaned softly, the implications finally sinking in. “No, no—Paul’s right. I shouldn’t be driving.” She slumped back into the couch, burying her face in her hands.

Oliver frowned, arms crossed. “So… we’re not going home?”

Debbie shook her head, eyes closed. “Not right now.”

The pout on Oliver’s face was instant and dramatic. “But what if I fly us there?” he suggested, his eyes lighting up again. “It’ll be quick! I’m super fast and—”

“No.” Debbie raised her hand, silencing him without even looking. “You’ve done enough today. You should be resting.”

“I am rested! Kinda! I only got a few scrapes—”

“It’s a no, Oliver,” Debbie said, dragging herself up and toward the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face, trying to will the exhaustion out of her bones.

Behind her, Oliver’s voice whined again. “But why not?”

“Because I said so,” Debbie snapped, her glare sharp enough to cut steel.

“That’s not an answer,” Oliver muttered, floating sulkily a few inches off the ground.

Debbie shot him a look that could curdle milk. Oliver deflated mid-air, mumbling and slowly rotating like a disappointed ceiling fan.

“I can drive,” Paul offered. “If you want to go, I’ll take you both.”

Debbie paused in the hallway, blinking at him. “That’s sweet, Paul, but—”

“It’s fine. Really. Not a problem. Besides…” He glanced at Oliver, who quickly looked away, trying to act innocent. “If I don’t, I think someone might sneak off the moment we’re not looking.”

Oliver coughed awkwardly into his hand, pretending to inspect the ceiling.

Paul smiled. “See?”

Debbie sighed, her shoulders slumping in surrender. “Alright. Okay.”

Oliver fist-pumped in the air. “YES. Shotgun!”

Paul blinked and suddenly they were standing in front of Debbie’s car, Oliver having zipped them over like a gremlin with zero respect for gravity or personal boundaries. Paul stared at it blankly for a second, catching his breath. “Okay,” he mumbled, brushing off his jacket. “Yeah… let’s go.”

Debbie slid into the passenger seat with all the grace of a woman who had not slept, stress-sipped her way through a bottle of wine, and just learned her son wasn’t dead. Her hair was doing its best impression of a bird’s nest, her eyeliner had migrated halfway down her face, and her oversized hoodie was probably Mark’s. She tugged it tighter around her shoulders anyway, sinking into the seat like it might swallow her whole.

Outside, the world looked like it had been chewed up and spit back out. The road ahead was cracked and broken in places, chunks of asphalt curled up like dried skin. Still, it was quieter now no screaming civilians, no evil doppelgängers throwing tanks like baseballs.

Oliver kicked his feet in the backseat, practically vibrating. “Can I play something on the radio? Pleeeeease? Just one song?”

Paul glanced at Debbie, who raised a hand lazily without opening her eyes. “Whatever keeps him from trying to fly the car again?”

“Sweet,” Oliver grinned, leaning forward and fiddling with the old car stereo until a bouncy pop song came on. “Yesss, this is my jam—oh wait, no it’s not—skip—okay, now it’s my jam.”

“Baby shark dooo dooo do do do dooo,” it played. 

Paul chuckled awkwardly and turned the volume down just a bit, then reached over and gently pulled Debbie’s head onto his shoulder.

“You can rest, you know,” he said softly, his thumb brushing a loose curl from her cheek. “I think I can handle Oliver for a few hours.”

Debbie cracked one eye open. “It’s a thirty-minute drive, Paul.”

“Right. Except that all the roads are destroyed, unless Oliver decides we should take the scenic route. Through a volcano. It’s going to take a few hours.”

Debbie snorted, then glanced ahead at a chunk of road that looked like it had been gnawed on by a kaiju. “Well, in that caaase... you’re on your own.”

She yawned, a deep, soul-weary sound, and let her head rest on his shoulder again. “Wake me up if we crash into anything sentient.”

“No promises,” Paul said with a grin, adjusting his grip on the wheel like it would make a difference if a rogue alien suddenly drop-kicked the car.

As soon as Debbie’s breathing evened out, Oliver leaned forward as if he wanted to sell Paul drugs. “Psst,” he whispered, cupping his mouth like he had state secrets. “I can fly us there in, like, one minute. Maybe two if I loop-de-loop for fun. I just lift the car and vrrrrrrrm —bam—we’re home!”

Paul didn’t even look over. “I specifically remember your mom saying you aren’t allowed to lift or fly cars. Especially not while she’s in one.”

Oliver groaned and flopped back in his seat like a deflated balloon. “You’re no fun.”

“I’ve been told,” Paul said, adjusting the mirror and catching a glimpse of Oliver pouting in it. “But at least we won’t end up in a news headline. An Alien Child, and One Very Tired Mom Found in Flaming Crater; Local Authorities Blame the Stepdad.”

Oliver huffed, muttering under his breath. “I’d catch us before we hit the ground.”

Paul smirked. “And that, my friend, is exactly the kind of logic that puts people in neck braces.”

There was a brief beat of silence before Oliver mumbled, “I would make a really cool neck brace, though. With, like, flames. And rockets.”

Paul just laughed. “Not helping your case, kid.”

From the passenger seat, Debbie groaned without opening her eyes. “If either of you puts me in a neck brace, I’m haunting you from the hospital.”

Oliver’s eyes went wide. “You can do that?” Paul and he said in unison.

“Don’t tempt me,” she muttered, already drifting off again.

“Ughhh, what’s taking them so long?” whined Mohawk Mark for what had to be the tenth time. He was currently floating upside down above the couch, slowly spinning like a ceiling fan. His boots tapped a rhythm against the air, irritatingly offbeat.

“Will you stop ?” Omni Mark muttered, arms crossed, as he focused on the TV screen. “You’ve been saying the same thing for three hours.”

“That’s because I’m bored . This is boring.” Mohawk Mark flopped dramatically onto the armrest, making the couch creak.

“He’s right. It is boring,” Empire Mark added, head buried deep in the open fridge. He stared at its contents as if he glared hard enough, maybe the food would get scared and cook itself. It didn’t.

“You guys are only complaining because you’ve been in last place for the past ten rounds,” snickered No-Goggle Mark from the beanbag chair, controller in hand.

“Oh no, I lost in a game for children. What a tragedy,” Mohawk said, rolling his eyes.

“Sounds like something twelfth place would say,” Viltrumite Mark mumbled without looking up from his comic. He lounged in the recliner, a thick Séance dog issue in hand.

Above him, Maskless Mark floated lazily, reading the same comic, without asking. He flipped a page just as the Viltrumite Mark tried to read it.

“Seriously, dude?” Viltrumite, Mark said, annoyed.

“What?” Maskless replied, pretending innocence.

“Daaaamn, that was a nice bath,” came a new voice as Prison Mark stepped into the room, glistening and wrapped in at least three towels. He radiated floral fragrance like a walking perfume commercial.

Sinister gagged immediately. “Why do you smell like a goddamn garden?”

“I just tossed in a bunch of bath bombs. Lavender, cherry blossom, eucalyptus—don’t judge me.” Prison Mark growled, trying to be intimidating. 

“You smell zesty as hell,” Head Cap Mark said, fanning his face. “Like if a soap commercial and a rave had a baby.”

“ He smells like a faggot,” stated Sinister, crinkling his nose. Maskless flinched, avoiding eye contact killing his character in the process.

“WOOOOO!” No-Goggle Mark cheered from the beanbag, raising his arms. “And once again, the reigning Mario Kart champion is your boy, Mark!” He made confetti motions with his hands. No one cared.

“Wait, who’s still playing and who gave up?” asked Maskless Mark. He dropped the controller and flopped face-first onto the rubble-strewn floor. The concrete shifted with a crunch beneath him.

“I’m done,” Empire Mark said proudly, arms crossed. “I don’t need to waste time on childish games when I’m clearly above them.”

“Right,” Omni Mark drawled. “Totally nothing to do with you getting beaten twelve times.”

“ I didn’t lose; I just failed to win.” Empire said.

“ If you aren’t mature enough to accept losing over a video game, how in the world can you expect not to run your empire into the ground?”

“What did you say to me?” Empire asked, “Just because I didn’t want to play this dumbass doesn’t mean nothing.”

“That’s not what. I meant,” Omni-mark sighed

Mohawk let out another long, dramatic groan. “Ugh, where are they?”

As if on cue, the group turned toward the window at the sound of a car pulling into the cracked driveway. Headlights flashed across the living room, cutting through the dust and chaos.

Two figures stepped out. A man's voice carried through the air. “Come on, Debbie. You’re home. You can at least pretend to walk properly, right?”

“Hard to walk when my body feels like jelly, ” Debbie grumbled. There was a snort from her. Followed by a sharp yelp.

“I got you!” Oliver said brightly as he tried to hold her upright.

“Oliver—” she groaned. “I can walk; I just need a second.”

Paul opened the front door, flicking on the light, and instantly froze. His smile faltered as he blinked into the living room, taking in the crowd of identical men scattered across every surface.

“Debbie,” he said slowly. “Tell me something real quick. Mark isn’t secretly... part of a set of—what’s the word—quintuplets?”

Debbie blinked, rubbing her temples. “No. Why?”

Paul pointed wordlessly into the room.

“Who the fuck is that?” murmured Masked Mark with a glare that could cut diamonds.

“Cecil, maybe?” Viltrumite, Mark whispered, stroking his chin in thought.

“Are you blind? It doesn't take a fucking genius to see that is not Cecil!” Mohawk Mark mocked, waving his hand back and forth in front of Viltrumite Mark's face, who shoved the man away with a scoff and a roll of his eyes.

“It could be. This is a different dimension, after all,” politely offered Maskless.

“Yeah, but isn’t Cecil bald in, like, every dimension?” asked Prison Mark

 “Dumbass,  if that were true, we’d be bald in every universe.” Head cap, Mark said, smacking Prison Mark's head.

“Cecil with hair is kinda fine though,” muttered No Goggle Mark, who whistled, staring at the scared, confused Paul up and down. He wiggled his eyebrow, which made Paul grossed out on top of all the other horrified emotions he was feeling.

“That is definitely not Cecil,” muttered Omni Mark with a shake of his head.

“I swear all of you are retarded,” Sinister said with a click of his tongue. 

“Hey! Don’t lump me in with these imbeciles,” demanded Empire Mark.

“Paul whats wrong?’ asked Debbie as she placed a hand on Pauls trembling  shoulder. Masked Mark jumped up excitedly, and the  moment she  peeked her head inside, she was immediately tackled .

“MOM!” cried Masked Marks. He spun her in a hug so tight she squeaked. “Oh, I missed you so much!”

He planted a kiss on her cheek and set her down like she was made of glass.

Oliver immediately kicked him in the shin. It didn’t do much. Mark laughed, picked him up, and spun him too.

“Wha—hey—put me down!” Oliver shouted, flailing. The mark complied, tossing Oliver away like nothing, as the masked Mark’s eyes crinkled brightly.

He slammed into the car with a thud . Debbie rushed over, scooping him protectively into her arms.

“Oliver, are you okay?” She asked, Paul rushing over to check as well, the two cradling the struggling  child.

 “I’m fine!”  he shouted at them. “ Let me at him. I can take him!” Oliver said, the kid clearly had a death wish as he struggled out of their grasp.

The room was silent for a beat. Then Mohawk waved, a maniacal grin spread across his face. “Hi, Debbie.”

She stared at the group of Marks with wide eyes. “Why are you all still here ?”

“To see you,” said the masked Mark excitedly, who looked and sounded exactly like her son.

“Actually, I came here to see Wil—”  Maskless started, but was interrupted by a Viltrumite.

 “Wait, hold on a sec— I thought we all agreed we were staying here because Debbie’s the only person who can reason with Cecil.”  Viltrumite mark said, scratching his head.

Empire shook his head up and down  “ yeah and once that settles, we conquer this planet like originally planned.”  He said, crushing a rock in his hand, it was turned to dust blowing in the wind.

Prison Mark shrugged. “I’m willing to stay regardless; this place is way nicer than the Viltrumite base.”

Head Cap added, “ Don’t worry, we cleaned the bathroom for you,” while floating over to the door as he tilted his head with a grin.

“No, we didn’t,” Omni Mark muttered. “What are you on about? Why did you say that?”

“ I thought it sounded intimidating. Get off my back, man,” Head Cap said, glaring daggers at the unimpressed other version of him.

“And I thought the momma's boy version of me was the loser.” No Goggle whistled.

“Why is it lame to love my—our mom?” Mask asked, flabbergasted.

“He’s right guy.“ Sinister Mark stepped forward. “What’s wrong with wanting to make sure  our dear loving mother is okay?” He cooed fakely.

Debbie blinked at them dozens of identical faces, some tired, some smug, one still sparkling like a bath-time prince. Her arms tightened around Oliver.

Fate sure was cruel, wasn’t it?