Chapter Text
The others were too loud, too eager, too reckless in a way that grated against his nerves, and Mark found himself wondering, not for the first time, why he had bothered showing up at all, before remembering, with a dull sort of clarity, that he had agreed to this arrangement with that raving lunatic calling himself Angstrom, a man who carried a hatred so deep it bled through every word, every glance, every breath he took whenever another version of Mark so much as existed in his presence.
He didn’t understand the origin of that hatred, not fully, but he understood enough to know how it would end, because men like that never stopped at revenge, they kept going until there was nothing left, and he had no illusions about what would happen once this little alliance outlived its usefulness, since Angstrom would turn on every single one of them the moment he thought he could get away with it.
The only reason he had agreed in the first place was because he needed a place to start over, somewhere distant enough that the echoes of what he had become wouldn’t immediately draw attention, because tearing through reality on his own would have been faster, cleaner, easier, but it would also leave a trail, and a trail meant followers, and followers meant consequences he wasn’t willing to drag into another unsuspecting world.
Traveling the wrong way across Imaginary Space always left a mark, especially for someone like him, someone already tainted by The Blemished One, and he had no intention of leading anything resembling the path of Destruction toward timelines that had done nothing to deserve it, not when he already knew what followed in the wake of beings tied to entities like Nanook, whose influence didn’t just ruin worlds, it erased the idea that they had ever mattered.
And then there was ████, a name that sat in the back of his mind like a splinter he couldn’t pull out, because no matter how much he wanted to tear that Aeon apart for everything it had done to him, he knew exactly what crossing that line would cost him, and becoming nothing more than an extension of Destruction wasn’t a price he was willing to pay, not yet, not while there were still fragments of who he used to be holding him in place.
So instead, he made a deal.
A simple one, on the surface, though the look on Angstrom’s face when he laid out the terms had been worth the trouble all on its own, because while the others had agreed to this invasion for their own reasons, for power, for conquest, for the sheer thrill of it, he had only asked for one thing, and that was control over whether his counterparts lived or died during the process, a condition that had clearly not been part of Angstrom’s original plan.
The man had wanted a massacre.
Mark had given him limits.
And the worst part, from Angstrom’s perspective, was that he had no choice but to accept, because this wasn’t a negotiation between equals, no matter how much he pretended otherwise, since Mark could do everything he could and more, from forcing portals to remain open to unraveling them entirely, and the small piece of divine blood he had already slipped into Angstrom’s system ensured that even the illusion of control rested firmly in his hands.
If Angstrom tried to break the deal… Well, let’s say he wouldn’t mind making alternate versions of Angstorm’s son into art pieces while he tormented the psycho from inside out.
The quiet sound of his own laughter carried just enough to draw attention, and when Angstrom flinched, just slightly, just enough to be noticeable, Mark met his gaze with something that wasn’t quite amusement and wasn’t quite a threat, though it carried a bit of both.
Around them, the others were beginning to settle, conversations dying down as attention shifted, because even among a room full of variants, power recognized power, and whether they liked it or not, they understood who held it.
“I suppose that’s everyone,” he said, stepping forward, his voice cutting through the noise without needing to rise, the kind of presence that didn’t demand attention so much as take it, effortless and absolute, even as he gestured vaguely toward the man behind him. “I’m sure you all have your reasons for entertaining this worm’s little proposal.”
That earned a reaction, scattered laughs, a few approving calls, the kind of response that told him exactly what he was dealing with, and as his gaze swept across them, he took his time, cataloging the differences, the variations, the ways each version had diverged from what he had once been.
One stood out immediately, a version with a mohawk and a grin that spoke of unrestrained violence, the kind that didn’t need a reason beyond spilling blood for the sake of it, while another carried himself with a colder sort of discipline, posture rigid, expression unreadable in a way that mirrored their father more than it ever had him.
Two more wore the Viltrumite uniform, though even there the differences were obvious, one marked by a mustache that made the resemblance almost ironic, the other quieter, heavier, carrying an air that brushed dangerously close to something else entirely, something that reminded him, faintly, of certain pathstriders.
And then there were the rest.
Each one different.
Each one the same.
They knew who held the reins, and more importantly, they understood that as long as he stood at the center of it, the promises being made weren’t empty, because unlike Angstrom, he didn’t rely on lies to keep people in line.
“In forty-eight hours, we begin,” he said, voice steady as it carried across the room without effort, drawing every set of eyes back to him as the last bits of chatter died out, leaving only the weight of what he was about to set in motion. “You’ll spread fear, real fear, the kind that stains a world long after you’re gone, and you’ll tear through anything that stands in your way, because that’s what our dear employer wants, isn’t it, to break this dimension’s Invincible so thoroughly that there’s nothing left worth saving.”
A low chuckle slipped out of him, quieter now, more contained, though the edge in it didn’t soften.
“And in return, you get what you came here for.”
He turned his head just enough to glance at Angstrom, who gave a stiff nod despite the scowl carved into his face, clearly hating every second of this arrangement but aware enough not to challenge it outright.
“Now, there’s one condition,” he continued, reaching into his vest and pulling out a small vial, holding it up just enough for the contents to catch the light, the faint shimmer inside drawing attention immediately as several of the variants leaned forward, curiosity mixing with suspicion. “You’ll each take a dose of this.”
A few looks were exchanged, some confused, others already annoyed.
“Relax,” he added, rolling the vial between his fingers like this was nothing more than a casual inconvenience. “It won’t hurt you, it’s just a precaution on my end, a way to keep track of things so I know when one of you is about to get yourselves killed, which is when I step in and drag you out before you embarrass the rest of us.”
That earned exactly the reaction he expected.
Disbelief.
Offense.
A few outright scoffs from the more arrogant ones who clearly hadn’t considered failure as a possibility.
“Are you serious?” one of them snapped, the version without lenses stepping forward, his expression twisted with open contempt as he looked him over like he’d just said something unforgivable.
He shrugged, unbothered. “I don’t make a habit of watching myself die, it ruins the mood, and frankly, it reflects poorly on all of us if one of my faces ends up splattered across the pavement.”
“You think you’re better than us?” the same variant shot back, anger flaring as he took another step forward, shoulders tightening like he was already gearing up for a fight. “Well fuck you!”
He didn’t even bother hiding the smirk this time.
The moment that version lunged, it was already over.
Golden chains snapped into place mid-motion, wrapping tight around his limbs before he could even close the distance, stopping him cold with his fist hovering inches away from Mark’s face, close enough that he could feel the intent behind it, but not enough to matter.
“H-How?” The variant choked out, struggling against the restraints, muscles straining as he tried to force his way through something that didn’t budge an inch.
“Because we’re not the same,” he replied, tone almost bored as he looked at him, not impressed, not threatened, just… unimpressed. “We share a name, not a ceiling.”
He snapped his fingers.
The chains vanished.
The other Mark dropped hard, hitting the ground like his strength had been ripped out from under him.
“What the hell—” the variant started, trying to push himself up, only to falter again, limbs shaking, confusion turning sharp as realization crept in. “Why do I feel—”
“Weak?” he supplied, tilting his head slightly, watching the way panic started to settle in. “Right, I should’ve mentioned that part, while you were busy posturing.”
A quiet chuckle followed, softer this time, though somehow worse for it.
“That little trick I used didn’t just hold you in place,” he went on, almost conversational now, like he was explaining something simple. “It shut down your Viltrumite half for a bit.”
That did it.
The room went quiet.
Every version of him present went still in that subtle, instinctive way that came with recognizing a threat that didn’t need to prove itself twice, their earlier arrogance thinning out as the implications settled in, because this wasn’t just another variant standing at the front.
He was on another level entirely and they all knew it.
“Now then with that little distraction out of the way, Angstrom would you kindly give our friends their drink, I'll be in the bay watching the stars” he said as he made his way to the end of the room stepping over the recovering variant who was looking at him with murder in their eyes. He raised his brow on the remaining ones in his way to which they moved out of the way.
“That was kind of hot,” Mohawk said, watching him leave like he’d just seen something worth remembering, the kind of reaction that probably said more about his type of personality than anything else.
A different variant, face mostly covered, let out a quiet breath. “Hot isn’t the word I’d use,” he muttered, tone tight in a way that didn’t match the casual posture he was trying to keep. “That was… kinda off putting.”
“Hey, Angstrom,” Mohawk called out, louder now, turning his head toward the exit just in time to catch the bald man before he disappeared completely. “Where the hell did you even find that guy?”
Angstrom stopped just long enough to glance back, the scowl still carved deep into his face like it had settled there permanently, and for a second it almost looked like he wanted to say more, like there was something sitting behind his teeth that he couldn’t afford to let out.
“None of your business,” he snapped instead, irritation bleeding through every word as he gestured sharply toward the hovering drones beginning to disperse across the room. “Drink the damn thing and get back to your rooms.”
Yeah.
That answered nothing.
“Cursing doesn’t make you cool,” one of the more composed variants remarked, the one who looked a little too much like their father stepping forward as a drone hovered in front of him, presenting the vial with mechanical precision. He took it without hesitation, turning it slightly in the light before bringing it closer, expression shifting just a fraction. “Smells… decent.”
And then he drank it, just like that, no hesitation, no second thought, which honestly tracked.
“Oh?” another voice chimed in, light, almost amused, and when Mohawk glanced over, he caught sight of the one everyone had been quietly avoiding, the variant whose smile never quite reached his eyes. “I could get used to this.”
The way he said it made something in Mohawk’s spine itch.
Then the guy tipped the vial back and took his time with it, dragging it out like he was savoring the taste, even going as far as licking the inside afterward like he didn’t want to waste a single drop, which, yeah, confirmed it, that one was definitely off in a way that didn’t sit right.
“God, you’re weird,” someone muttered under their breath, not quite loud enough to start anything.
Mohawk snorted, turning his attention back to the drone hovering in front of him, the small vial resting in its grip like it had all the time in the world, and after a brief pause, he reached out, grabbed it, and gave it a quick once-over.
“Whatever,” he said, more to himself than anyone else, before downing it in one go.
There was a beat.
“…Huh.”
He rolled his shoulders slightly, as if expecting something immediate or dramatic, but nothing happened, at least not on the surface.
“Tastes good,” he admitted after a second, glancing around as more of the others followed suit, some cautious, some careless, some pretending they weren’t paying attention to how everyone else reacted.
Which, honestly, might have been the most unsettling part. Because for something that was supposed to be a “safety measure,” it went down way too easy.
“I guess that’s—ugh—”
The words died in Mohawk’s throat as it hit all at once, not gradual, not subtle, just a sudden, vicious spike of pain that folded him in half like something had reached inside and decided to squeeze, and he wasn’t the only one, because all around the room bodies dropped or staggered, some crashing to their knees while others caught themselves against the walls, breaths turning sharp and uneven as the same burning sensation spread from their cores outward.
“What the fuck is in that thing!” he roared, voice rough as he braced a hand against the floor, teeth grinding hard enough to ache while the heat crawled through his abdomen like it was trying to rewrite something from the inside out, the kind of pain that didn’t just hurt, it lingered, stretched, made seconds feel like they were dragging on far longer than they should.
Someone cursed behind him, another choked out a laugh that sounded more like disbelief than anything else, and for a moment the entire room was nothing but strained breathing and the scrape of movement as they tried to ride it out.
It didn’t last long.
Maybe a minute.
Maybe less.
Mohawk sucked in a breath as the worst of it finally loosened its grip, his chest rising and falling hard while he forced himself upright, rolling his neck with a sharp crack like he could physically shake off whatever the hell that was, already halfway back to his usual rhythm before something caught his attention and made him pause mid-thought.
“…The fuck?”
The pain was gone, not dulled or lingering at the edges, just gone like it had never been there in the first place, and in its place sat this tight, coiled energy under his skin that made him feel sharper, faster, like someone had tuned him up without asking.
“I’m gonna punch that guy,” he muttered under his breath, more out of principle than anything else, though the threat lost a bit of weight when he flexed his fingers and felt how clean everything moved.
“Was that a stimulant?” one of the others asked nearby, voice steadier now as he straightened and tested his grip like he was expecting a catch.
“Hey,” Mohawk started, ready to throw something back, but the words died when he noticed nobody was paying attention to him anymore, which, yeah, rude, but also weird enough to make him follow their line of sight.
All of them were staring at the same person.
Not just any of them either.
The one they’d been side-eyeing since the start, the guy who looked like he’d crawled out of a grave and stayed there, the prisoner they’d already written off as dead weight the second they saw him, the walking cautionary tale none of them wanted to acknowledge.
Now he was just standing there, blinking like he’d missed a step somewhere.
“What?” he asked, glancing around at the sudden attention, clearly thrown. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”
“Just… look,” one of them said, stepping in and shoving a mirror into his hands without much patience.
The Prisoner blinked
“My hair and skin…” the guy breathed, voice catching in a way that made it clear this wasn’t some minor change, his fingers coming up slow, almost hesitant, like he expected it to fall out the second he touched it, except it didn’t, and the bald and scar ridden mess they’d all seen earlier was gone, replaced with smooth skin and full silky locks.
“I thought I would— I thought—”
“Yeah,” Mohawk said, pushing himself fully upright now, eyes narrowing as he took a longer look, noticing how the guy’s skin didn’t have that sickly look anymore, how his posture had straightened without him realizing it, like whatever was eating him alive had just been ripped out. “That’s not just a boost.”
Around them, more signs started to click into place as people checked themselves over, old bruises fading out like they’d never happened, cuts sealing clean, every bit of wear from previous fights wiped away like someone hit reset.
No scars.
No damage.
Nothing left behind.
“Whatever that was,” someone muttered, still staring at their own hands like they didn’t trust what they were seeing, “it gave us an upgrade,” and yeah, that tracked, because Mohawk could feel it in the way his body settled, in the way every movement came easier than it should, like someone had taken all the rough edges and shaved them down until there was nothing left but clean, controlled power, the kind that made you think you could walk straight through anything stupid enough to stand in your way.
He let out a low breath that almost passed for a laugh, dragging a hand through his hair as his gaze flicked toward the exit where that bastard had walked out like he hadn’t just fed them something that rewrote their insides, the pieces clicking together in a way that didn’t sit right no matter how good he felt.
“Yeah,” he said, quieter this time but carrying an edge that hadn’t been there before, “and there’s no way in hell that came free.”
Because no one like that handed out upgrades without planning to cash in later, and whatever the price was, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be small.