The line starts before the doors.
Metal barricades, taped arrows on the pavement, two uniformed cops trying to look relaxed while their eyes keep moving. A second layer behind them—men in dark jackets, earpieces, haircuts you see on federal security. The kind of security hired to justify the cameras.
Mark walks a half step behind me. Hood up, jaw set, trying to look like he's fine. Nolan's beside us, calm enough that it makes other people cautious. Stephen stays between us, hands in his jacket pockets, gaze forward, face unreadable.
Phones are already up.
Not even subtle. People lean over the barricades and point their lenses before we reach the first metal detector. A reporter says our names like she's calling roll.
"..Debbie Grayson.."
Another voice, louder.
"..Invincible! Over here.."
Mark's shoulders tighten. He doesn't look, but I see the pulse jump at his throat.
A third voice pushes in, closer.
"..Omni-Man.."
I keep walking.
The building is set up like a civic event—flags, polished stone, a row of folding chairs for overflow—but the entrance feels like a checkpoint. A table with plastic bins. Signs taped to stanchions: NO POSTERS. NO BANNERS. NO DISRUPTION. NO BAGS OVER A CERTAIN SIZE. NO WEAPONS.
A guard holds out a hand. "..Phones in your hands. Bags on the table. Jackets off.."
Stephen takes his jacket off without a word. Not rushed. Not slow enough to draw attention. Just measured. He lays it flat in the bin like he's done this before.
They wand him anyway.
The wand passes over his torso, down his sides, around his legs. The guard's face stays professional. His eyes don't.
My throat tightens. I keep my face still.
Mark drops his phone into the bin like he's getting rid of it. Plastic clacks. He stares at it a beat too long, then looks up and catches a camera aimed through the glass doors.
The operator tightens framing.
They pat Nolan down last, and I watch the guard's hands hesitate at Nolan's shoulders the way people do when they're aware of what they're touching but can't admit it.
We clear the detectors. We get our things back. A staffer with a laminated badge steps in with a customer-service tone.
"..Right this way. The Graysons.."
She says it like a label.
The chamber is bigger than the school auditorium, not as grand as a courtroom, and it's set up for cameras anyway. Raised dais at the front with nameplates, microphones, little water pitchers. A podium off to the side with a seal on it. Audience seating packed tight, centre aisle and two side aisles that make it easy for lenses to get angles.
Press pen to the right—folding tables, laptops open, cords taped down, a bank of cameras already locked on the podium. Two livestream lights clipped near the ceiling. One is already on. Red indicator lit.
The audience is a mix that makes my stomach twist. Parents from the district. Students from the high school. People in polos with district logos. City staff. A few who look like they came for the spectacle and don't bother hiding it.
Stephen sweeps the room once, fast, then looks away. Mark's eyes keep cutting toward the press pen, like he's daring someone to say something. Nolan doesn't look at them at all. He looks at the dais and the exits.
A council aide gestures to seats in the front row.
"..You'll be here. You'll be called in order.."
In order. Like witnesses.
I sit. Nolan sits. Mark drops into his chair hard enough to make it squeak. Stephen stays standing for a beat, then sits with careful movement, shoulders set.
The murmur behind us doesn't stop. It shifts. People whisper and point, then pull their hands back when they realise Nolan can probably hear them.
A man behind me says, "..That's the kid.."
Another voice answers, "..Don't stare.."
Too late. Everyone's staring.
_ _ ♛ _ _
The chamber fills with shifting bodies, coughing, paper shuffling. A staff member adjusts the podium microphone twice. Someone checks the livestream feed on a phone and tilts the screen toward a friend.
On the dais, city council members sit beside district officials. A superintendent in a suit that looks too expensive for public education. A district safety officer with a tight smile. A police representative in uniform. Nameplates in a clean line.
To the right, the press pen holds steady. Tripods. Shoulder rigs. Phones mounted on small frames. Screens reflecting small versions of the room.
The chair lifts a gavel and taps it twice. The sound hits too hard through the microphones.
"..This special joint session of the city council and district safety forum will come to order.."
The chair's voice is practiced—steady, warm, careful.
"..We are here to address community concerns regarding student safety and recent incidents involving the Grayson family.."
Camera operators adjust. Frames tighten.
"..This meeting is being livestreamed for transparency.."
The red indicator remains lit.
The chair looks down at a paper, then up again with the same concerned expression.
"..We will hear from the family first. Ms. Debbie Grayson, you are called to the podium.."
_ _ ♛ _ _
My name hits the room and a wave of attention moves through the audience. Not silence. Focus.
I stand. My legs feel steady, which makes me angrier than it should.
Mark's hand lifts like he might grab my sleeve, then stops. Nolan's gaze turns to me and holds, firm, not soft. Stephen doesn't look at me. He looks straight ahead, jaw tight enough to show he's listening anyway.
I walk to the podium alone.
The cameras track me. I hear small clicks and the soft movement of rigs.
I stop behind the microphone. The seal on the front of the podium catches the overhead lights.
The chair smiles with the kind of concern that feels rehearsed.
"..Ms. Grayson. Thank you for being here.."
"..I didn't have a choice.."
A few heads turn. The chair's smile tightens and resets.
"..We appreciate your cooperation. We'll begin with questions for the record.."
A district official leans into his microphone. His voice is careful, polite.
"..Can you guarantee your son won't harm other students?.."
I blink once. Slow.
"..No.."
A murmur ripples through the audience.
I keep going before they can act shocked.
"..I can't guarantee anything about any child in this district. Your job is to keep students safe. Mine is to keep my sons alive.."
The official's mouth flattens.
Another voice, a woman from the dais, speaking with a gentle cadence.
"..Would you consent to monitoring or supervision as a condition of your son's continued education?.."
There it is. Say yes on camera.
"..No.."
Sharper reaction this time. Someone in the back says, "..Of course.."
I keep my eyes forward.
"..My son has been withdrawn from the school. He is not attending your campus. There is nothing for you to supervise.."
The chair leans forward, hands folded.
"..This is about community safety, Ms. Grayson. Parents are frightened. Other children have a right to feel secure.."
"..So does my child.."
My voice edges up. I pull it back down.
A councilmember clears his throat, reading off something in front of him.
"..Why should other children be exposed to this risk at all?.."
I stare at him for half a second. Long enough for the cameras to get their shot.
"..They shouldn't.."
The room stirs.
"..That's why we removed him.."
A woman in the audience scoffs, loud, trying to pull me into it.
I don't turn.
The chair's voice stays calm.
"..You're saying the district's role is irrelevant? That the city has no responsibility to ensure public safety?.."
Heat climbs the back of my neck. '..Don't give them the moment..'
"..I'm saying this isn't a school issue anymore.."
I keep my hands on the sides of the podium. My knuckles want to go white. I keep them normal.
"..This is a family issue. And a public issue made worse by people who want a spectacle.."
The chair's eyes sharpen for a fraction. The official beside her scribbles like I've confirmed something.
"..Are you accusing this council of exploiting a safety concern?.."
They want the angry mother. They want the clip.
I feel my jaw lock. I taste metal.
I breathe through my nose.
"..I'm answering your questions.."
Flat. Boring. Unusable.
The chair waits.
"..Is there anything you'd like to say to the parents watching at home?.."
I lean closer to the microphone, not dramatic, just enough that my voice carries.
"..Yes.."
A pause.
"..Stop filming my kids.."
A sharp inhale somewhere in the audience. A few reporters look pleased.
I step back.
"..That's all.."
"..Thank you, Ms. Grayson.."
I walk away before she can reframe me. My legs don't shake until I'm two steps from my seat.
Mark's eyes meet mine. His face is hard. Proud and furious at the same time.
Nolan gives me a small nod. Stephen stays forward, jaw tight.
The chair's voice fills the chamber again.
"..Mark Grayson. Invincible. You are called.."
Mark stands so fast his chair scrapes.
_ _ ♛ _ _
I can feel the heat in my face before I reach the podium.
Everyone's watching me like they've already decided what kind of joke I am. I can see the press pen shifting, cameras adjusting for my face.
I grab the sides of the podium and look out.
Rows of faces. A few students I recognise. People who've never said a word to me in person but have definitely typed about me.
The chair smiles. "..Thank you for attending, Mark.."
"..Yeah.."
My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat and it doesn't help.
A councilmember leans into his mic, eyes bright with fake interest.
"..You're a superhero. You operate in public. You understand scrutiny.."
"..You gonna ask a question or just hear yourself talk?.."
A few laughs. Some disapproving noises.
"..Let's keep this respectful.."
A district official takes over, voice smooth.
"..Mark, you've had recent engagements with known criminals. The Mauler Twins.."
Here we go.
"..You lost, correct?.."
My hands tighten on the podium.
"..I got hit. I got back up.."
"..But you lost.."
A camera zooms. I can hear it.
"..Your father intervened. Omni-Man. Correct?.."
My stomach drops and twists.
"..He stepped in.."
"..So Omni-Man saved you.."
I stare at him. I want to say something ugly.
I don't.
"..He stopped it. Yes.."
A woman from the dais lifts her chin like she's gently disappointed.
"..And yet you call yourself 'Invincible'.."
The word lands heavy.
"..Is that a brand? A performance?.."
I laugh once, sharp.
"..It's my name.."
"..A name that suggests you can protect people. Supervise situations. Keep others safe.."
His voice stays kind. That's the part that makes me want to break something.
"..If you can't even win, why should we trust you to help supervise your brother?.."
There it is.
I swallow. My jaw aches.
"..You shouldn't.."
A wave of murmurs.
"..Excuse me?.."
"..You shouldn't trust me to supervise anybody. That's not how this works.."
The chair's eyes narrow.
"..Then who should we trust, Mark?.."
I lean in, just slightly.
"..You don't trust anybody. You build systems. You do your jobs. You don't dump it on me a seventeen-year-old because it looks good on a live.."
The room reacts. Some angry. Some impressed. Most just attentive.
Rage and adrenaline buzz in my chest.
I hold it back because I can feel what they want from me. They want me loud. They want me losing it.
"..Anything else?.."
My voice is too sharp. The chair doesn't like it.
"..Thank you, Mark.."
I step away before I say something that'll follow me forever.
As I walk back, I catch Stephen's face for a second—still, neutral, eyes fixed on a point on the floor.
It makes me angrier.
It also keeps me steady.
_ _ ♛ _ _
I stand when they call my name. People shift. A few glance at the exits. No one says why.
The chair's posture straightens. Several councilmembers sit up.
I walk to the podium and place my hands lightly on either side. I don't grip.
"..Nolan Grayson. Omni-Man. Thank you for attending this session.."
"..You're welcome.."
The chair keeps her voice smooth.
"..We're here for the safety of the public. The safety of students. We'd like to discuss liability and supervision.."
"..No.."
One word. It stops the room for a beat.
"..No?.."
"..No liability agreement. No supervision contract. No monitoring arrangement.."
I keep my voice level.
"..My son has been withdrawn from the school. He will not be returning. Your jurisdiction is limited.."
A district official leans forward, tone polite.
"..Mr. Grayson, with respect, your family lives in this city. Your son exists in this community. Parents deserve assurances.."
"..They deserve honesty.."
I look at the dais, then the audience.
"..You cannot create paperwork that guarantees safety. You cannot get a parent to promise their child will never be harmed or never harm. You can reduce risk.."
The chair's eyes flicker at the word risk.
"..Then will you cooperate with district safety measures?.."
"..We will cooperate with lawful requirements. We will not submit to theatrics.."
That lands. A few heads lift. Pens move.
The chair's smile fades.
"..Are you implying this session is not legitimate?.."
"..I'm stating what it is.."
I let my gaze pass the press pen, then return to the chair.
"..You want us to agree to conditions on record. To say yes to things you can point to later. To make our family responsible for the public's comfort.."
A murmur moves through the audience.
"..No.."
I don't raise my voice.
"..You don't get to force a submission on live.."
The chair's tone stays "concerned," but it tightens underneath.
"..Then perhaps your son can address the concerns himself. Since he is, as you say, part of this community.."
Put the boy on the mic.
I don't move.
"..Call him.."
_ _ ♛ _ _
My stomach has been tight the entire session, like a fist under my ribs that won't let go.
The chair shuffles papers as if this is routine, as if she hasn't just spent the last hour trying to corner us into promises.
The room is restless now. People shifting. Phones already in hands. The press pen adjusts again, frames tightening.
Stephen hasn't spoken once. He hasn't looked up much either. Not hiding—refusing to perform.
The chair taps the gavel once.
"..Stephen Grayson will now address concerns.."
My heart stutters. Not from fear of him. From fear of what they want from him.
They want a clip.
They want the moment a kid says something wrong under pressure so they can replay it, frame it, feed it back to him until it becomes his identity.
Stephen stands.
He moves without hurry. No pause for effect. Just a boy walking to a podium that's too tall for him in a room that has decided he's a story.
The cameras track him immediately. The red indicator stays on.
A few audience members lean forward. Phones rise higher. Someone whispers, "..This is it.."
'..They're baiting a child..'
Stephen steps behind the microphone.
He looks out at the room, taking in faces the way he always does—fast, precise, unreadable.
His hand lifts.
He touches the mic. Adjusts it a fraction.
Then he looks up.
Eyes steady.
And the room waits for him to speak.
A/N (like 2 more and things will start to progress forward, some background stuff will happen, the foundations are laid, and yes they know who omni and invincible are, i never understood how people missed that, omni man doesn't wear a mask or anything, can easily be tracked, and also i refuse to believe that in a world of super powers, there is not a single person with the ability to hack and figure out all these heroes identities.)