Project ROWDY: Invincible I

The afternoon sun cast long shadows over suburban Baltimore as Mark Grayson—Invincible, for those not in the know—flew slowly homeward, body aching in places he hadn't known could ache. His costume hung off his body in tatters, the blue and yellow fabric darkened with soot, blood, and whatever passed for bodily fluid in the alien invaders.

Whatever it was, it was purple, sticky and it stank like you wouldn’t believe.

But it wasn't the physical pain that slowed his flight. It was the weight of failure, the civilians he couldn't save, the family in the burning car who had died because he wasn't fast enough, wasn't careful enough, wasn't enough.

Those kids—those trinity kids or whatever they called themselves—they weren't even teenagers yet and they'd handled everything like it was just Tuesday. No big deal. Just another alien invasion.

"So they were right," Mark thought, his internal voice fluctuating between awe and humiliation. "Dad was right. Everyone was right. I'm not ready."

That blue kid had literally saved four people in the time it took Mark to spot one. Four! He'd zipped past Mark with this stupid little grin like, catch up, amateur. It didn’t even make sense, Mark was pretty sure he was faster than them.

And that red one—Brick?—he'd been calling shots like he was born doing it. Probably was, according to him. Seven years of fighting. What was Mark doing seven years ago? Watching cartoons? Playing with action figures of his dad?

He banked left, aimlessly adjusting his flight path to avoid a flock of birds. His costume made a sad flapping sound where it had torn across his chest.

This was his fourth day wearing it.

Fourth day, second time getting it wrecked.

Great track record, Invincible, he thought bitterly. Real superhero material.

They might not have been faster than he was, but those three kids had been stronger, more capable, more coordinated than he could imagine being. They fought like they'd been doing it their whole lives, which apparently they had. Twelve years old and already perfect soldiers, while he, at seventeen, still couldn't save a family trapped in a car.

And not even just that, but he had gotten so angry.

So angry.

He didn't know what it meant that he didn't feel bad for killing all those aliens.

Everyone else was doing it, so... it had to be okay, right?

Mark's stomach twisted uncomfortably. The Trinity kids hadn't hesitated. The government guys hadn't hesitated. Even the Teen Team—people closer to his age—seemed to have no problem with lethal force.

Maybe this was just what being a superhero meant?

"Dad would know," he murmured to himself, then immediately regretted it. The idea of asking his father made him cringe. He could already picture the disappointment on Nolan's face, the lecture about how Viltrumites don't hesitate, how Earth needed protection, not sensitivity.

His enhanced hearing picked up a distant scream, cutting through his self-recrimination with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. Head snapping toward the sound, vision focused on a shopping mall parking lot several miles away. A teenage boy stood alone amid parked cars, clutching his chest, face contorted in obvious distress.

The boy looked around frantically, calling for help, but the few people nearby seemed oblivious to his plight, hurrying past with shopping bags and children in tow.

Mark's heart leapt. This. This was what he needed.

"Okay, redemption time," he whispered to himself, changing direction immediately, concern overriding fatigue. He could still save someone today. He could still prove he deserved the name he'd chosen.

Don't screw this up, don't screw this up, the mantra played on repeat as he accelerated.

Landing near the boy, he approached cautiously, hands raised in a non-threatening gesture.

"Hey... are you okay?" He tried to sound confident, authoritative—the way his dad would sound—but his voice cracked slightly on the last word. “Can you hear me?”

The kid flinched like Mark’s voice had weight to it, like it might hit him, and maybe that should’ve been the first sign—something too sharp in the way he jerked, too wired, too scared to breathe all the way.

"Hey, hey, I’m not gonna hurt you, I swear," he said, hands up. Soft tone. Hero voice. Not Dad’s version. A lot closer to the Immortal's, maybe, at least from what he saw on TV, when the old hero talked down a jumper from a ledge. "You’re okay. You’re—"

"Don’t come near me!" the kid yelled, and Mark felt like he just took a punch to the gut from Butch again. Not because they hurt, but because the words made him pause enough to finally notice the thick metal vest attached to his body.

Red numbers. Just bright enough to cut through the daylight. Just far enough into the countdown he didn’t want to believe he saw it right. Ten. Nine. Eight—

"Oh shit," Mark breathed. Too loud. Too slow. He didn’t move. Didn’t know how.

"What is that? What is that on you—" he started, voice breaking and brain breaking and everything spinning in a way that had nothing to do with flight.

"I don’t know!" the kid sobbed, arms out like he could claw it off, tear it out, like Mark had answers if he just looked hard enough. "I swear to God I just—I woke up and it was there and it won’t come off and I—I didn’t ask for this, man! I didn’t—"

"Let me help, okay? I can—look, I can probably fly you up, maybe throw the vest, or, or something, I don’t know, but I can—"

"NO!" The kid’s whole body twitched, and Mark saw it too late—the instinct. The same one that had made Nate Palmer flinch in Chemistry every time someone raised their voice near him.

"Wait, hold on—don’t you go to—"

Zero.

Everything cracked open.

Sound didn’t come first. Not really. Not even pain. Just light. Pressure. Like the air turned to fists and started swinging.

Mark hit the ground hard. Hard enough to rattle something inside him. The rest of the world hit harder.

He blinked.

No.

He blinked again.

Where the kid had been was just a hole. A crater. A heat-scored memory. Mark’s ears rang. His chest burned. Something sharp in his thigh and he didn’t remember being cut. Didn’t remember much except the look on Nate's face.

Nate, he realized a half-second later.

It had been Nate. Same kid from the back row. Always mumbled when called on, cracking jokes too fix the mood. Took forever to solve equations on the board but never got them wrong.

That had been Nate.

Now...

Now, there wasn’t even enough left to bury.

"I could’ve—I should’ve grabbed him," Mark muttered, throat dry, fingers digging into asphalt like it could rewind time. "I’m fast. I’m fast enough. I should’ve—"

A scream cracked through the air. Not his. Not yet.

A woman—older, hair a mess, knees bloody where she knelt beside a man who wasn’t moving. Her hands slammed his chest in rhythm, but his head lolled wrong. Limbs wrong. He wasn’t there anymore.

Sirens.

Some people were running. Some just stood there like if they didn’t move, it wouldn’t be real.

Mark’s voice cracked open in his throat, too high, too small. "What the hell is happening?"