"Stand guard at the portal of your mind" by Ralph Waldo Emerson
T-MINUS 30 MINUTES
Mark stood on a rooftop three blocks from the warehouse district, phone pressed to his ear, watching the sun climb over the city skyline.
"Cecil, you need to evacuate the area. Now."
"Invincible?" Cecil's voice was sharp, alert despite the early hour. "What are you talking about?"
"The Flaxans. They're coming back. Thirty minutes, maybe less. Same location as before—warehouse district, east side. You need to clear everyone within a five-mile radius."
"How do you know this?"
"Robot's been monitoring their dimensional energy signatures. The readings spiked an hour ago. They're opening portals soon, and they're bringing an army."
A pause. Mark could hear Cecil typing in the background, barking orders to someone off-line.
"Alright. I'm mobilizing GDA units now. Civilian evacuation is gonna take time—"
"I know. That's why I'm calling. Get started now. We'll hold them off until you're clear."
"We?"
"Teen Team's on standby. We've got a plan."
Another pause, longer this time.
"Don't get yourself killed, kid. Your mother would never forgive me."
"I'll do my best."
Mark hung up and pocketed the phone, staring at the warehouse district in the distance.
Thirty minutes.
He'd been preparing for this moment for three days.
72 HOURS EARLIER
The past three days had been a blur.
After joining the Teen Team officially—pending Robot's "trial period"—Mark had thrown himself into training with them. Not the brutal, bone-breaking sessions with Nolan. This was different. Tactical. Coordinated. Learning how to fight as part of a unit instead of a solo powerhouse.
They'd run drills in the underground base. Simulations. Scenarios.
Robot would set up holographic enemies and obstacles, then have them work through solutions as a team. Communication. Positioning. Coordinated strikes. Mark learned Eve's range and reaction time. Learned when Rex needed cover and when Dupli-Kate was spread too thin.
And they learned him.
"Holy shit, you're fast," Rex had said after their first drill, breathing hard. "Like, I knew you were fast, but seeing it up close? Damn."
"Fast doesn't mean much if you can't hit what you're aiming at," Mark had replied, deflecting the compliment.
But the truth was, he was fast. Faster than most of them could track. And strong. And durable. The gap between Viltrumite physiology and human—even enhanced human—was significant.
Which made synergy important.
Mark and Eve had clicked almost immediately in combat. She'd create shields and constructs to control the battlefield, and he'd use them as launching points or cover. She'd disarm enemies from range, and he'd close the distance before they could react. They moved together like they'd been fighting side-by-side for years instead of days.
It was efficient.
It was also making Rex jealous.
Mark had noticed it during their second day—the way Rex's jaw tightened when Eve laughed at something Mark said. The way his explosions got a little more aggressive when Mark was nearby. The subtle territorial body language.
It got worse when Rex found out Mark and Eve had gone to the same high school.
"Wait, you two know each other?" Rex had asked, trying to sound casual and failing.
"Yeah," Eve had said, smiling. "We've been friends for like two years. Why?"
"No reason. Just... didn't realize you guys had history."
Mark had stayed quiet, but he'd seen the look in Rex's eyes. The insecurity. The jealousy.
This is gonna be a problem eventually, Mark had thought. But not today.
Beyond training, they'd gone on actual patrol.
Petty crime, mostly. Stopping a convenience store robbery. Breaking up a gang fight. Rescuing a kid who'd gotten stuck on a fire escape because he'd been trying to "parkour" and bit off more than he could chew.
But they'd also handled real threats.
A creature had crawled out of the sewers on their second night—something that looked like a cross between a crocodile and a spider, with too many legs and way too many teeth. It had been terrorizing a neighborhood, dragging pets into the storm drains.
The fight had been ugly.
Dupli-Kate's copies had swarmed it from multiple angles while Rex planted explosive charges by touching its armored hide, making sections of its body detonate from within. Eve had created barriers to keep it contained, and Robot had analyzed its weak points in real-time.
Mark had been the hammer.
He'd grabbed the thing by one of its legs and slammed it into the pavement hard enough to crack concrete. When it tried to bite him, he'd punched it so hard its jaw had come loose. When it tried to retreat into the sewers, he'd ripped off the manhole cover and gone after it.
The fight had lasted maybe five minutes.
When it was over, the creature was dead, Mark was covered in slime and blood, and the rest of the team was staring at him.
"Dude," Rex had said, voice filled with something between awe and fear. "You destroyed that thing."
"It was trying to eat people," Mark had replied, like that explained everything.
Robot had approached him afterward, mechanical eyes studying him carefully.
"You're holding back," Robot had said quietly.
"What?"
"During our training sessions. You're holding back. I've been analyzing your combat data. Your strikes during drills are approximately forty percent less forceful than what you just demonstrated."
Mark had hesitated. "I don't want to hurt anyone."
"A reasonable concern. But it means we don't have accurate data on your true capabilities." Robot had tilted his head. "If we're going to fight as a team, we need to know what you can actually do. Not what you're comfortable showing us."
Mark had nodded. "Fair point. I'll... stop holding back so much."
"Thank you."
By the end of the three days, Mark had proven himself. Not just as a powerful asset, but as a team player. Someone who could take orders, coordinate with others, and adapt on the fly.
Robot had pulled him aside after their last patrol.
"Your trial period is over," Robot had said. "Welcome to the Teen Team. Officially."
Mark had smiled. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me. You earned it."
Mark had also made time to visit his father.
Twice, in those three days. Both times, Nolan had been unconscious, hooked up to machines, still healing from wounds that would have killed anyone else.
Debbie had been there. Of course she had.
The first visit, she'd been sitting in the same chair, holding Nolan's hand, looking exhausted but determined.
"Mom, you need to go home."
"I'm fine."
"You've been here for two days straight. You need to sleep. In an actual bed."
"I can sleep here."
"Mom."
She'd looked up at him, and Mark had seen the cracks in her armor. The fear. The exhaustion. The desperate need to do something.
"What if he wakes up and I'm not here?" she'd whispered.
"Then I'll call you. Immediately. But Mom, you're not helping him by running yourself into the ground."
She'd resisted, of course. But Mark had been persistent. And eventually, reluctantly, she'd agreed to go home. Just for a few hours. Just to shower and sleep in her own bed.
The second visit, she'd looked better. Rested. But the worry was still there, etched into every line of her face.
"Any change?" Mark had asked.
"The doctors say his vitals are improving. They think he'll wake up soon." She'd squeezed Nolan's hand. "I hope they're right."
Mark had sat with her for an hour, just keeping her company. Not talking much. Just being there.
Because that's what family did.
T-MINUS 10 MINUTES
Mark's phone buzzed.
A text from Robot: Energy signature critical. Portal formation imminent. ETA 10 minutes.
Mark forwarded the message to the rest of the Teen Team, then called them on the group channel.
"It's time. Everyone get to the rally point. Cecil's evacuating civilians now, but we need to be ready to engage the second those portals open."
"On our way," Eve's voice came through, steady and focused.
"Be there in three," Rex added.
"Already here," Dupli-Kate said. Mark could see her on a neighboring rooftop, waving.
"Estimated enemy force?" Robot asked.
"Hundreds, at least. Maybe more. They know what they're up against now. They're not gonna hold back."
"Neither will we."
Mark ended the call and flew down to the warehouse district, landing in the center of the abandoned street where the portals would open.
The area was eerily quiet. No cars. No pedestrians. Just empty buildings and the distant sound of sirens as GDA units finished the evacuation.
The rest of the team arrived within minutes.
Eve floated down beside him, already suited up, hands glowing faintly pink. "You sure about this?"
"We don't have a choice. If we let them establish a foothold, people die."
"I know. I just..." She trailed off, looking at him. "Be careful, okay?"
"You too."
Rex landed beside them, shaking out his hands. Small sparks flickered around his fingers—residual energy from his explosion-based powers. "Alright, let's kick some alien ass."
Dupli-Kate split into five copies, each one taking up a different position around the perimeter. "Ready when you are."
Robot descended last, hovering a few feet off the ground, scanners active. "I've analyzed the previous encounter and identified several strategic advantages we can exploit."
"Let's hear it," Mark said.
They huddled together, and Robot pulled up a holographic display from his chest cavity.
"Based on the time differential—approximately three Earth days equaling thirty Earth years in their dimension—the Flaxans have had roughly three decades to prepare since their last incursion. We should expect significant technological advancement. Enhanced weapons. Improved armor. Possibly countermeasures specifically designed to neutralize our abilities."
"Thirty years?" Rex's eyes widened. "In three days?"
"Correct. Their civilization has had an entire generation to study our previous encounter and develop countermeasures."
"However," Robot continued, "they still have vulnerabilities. Their previous retreat was triggered by rapid aging due to time differential. They've clearly developed some form of temporal stabilization technology—likely the bracelets we observed on their wrists during the last engagement. Destroying or disabling these devices will force another retreat."
"So we target the bracelets," Eve said.
"Precisely. Additionally, their tactics during the previous engagement were straightforward—overwhelming force, minimal coordination. If they've had thirty years to evolve their military doctrine, we should expect more sophisticated strategies."
Mark nodded, his mind already working through scenarios. "Okay. Here's the plan. Our primary objective is civilian safety. Secondary objective is pushing them back through the portals. Tertiary objective is intelligence gathering."
He pointed at Eve. "You're our disarmament specialist. Use your powers to strip weapons from as many soldiers as possible. Focus on the heavy weapons first—tanks, artillery, anything that can cause mass casualties."
Eve nodded.
"Rex, you're our infiltrator and saboteur. Use the chaos to get in close. Your explosion powers make you perfect for taking out their heavy equipment. Touch their tanks, their weapons, blow it all from the inside."
"Hell yeah," Rex grinned, making his knuckles spark.
"Dupli-Kate, you're on weapon retrieval. Once Eve disarms them, grab the weapons and turn them against the Flaxans. Work with Robot to figure out how they operate."
"Got it," all five Kates said in unison.
"Robot, you're our analyst and coordinator. Monitor the battle, identify patterns, find weaknesses. If you spot the source of their temporal stabilization, call it out immediately."
"Understood."
"And me?" Mark looked at each of them. "I'm the distraction. I'm going to hit them hard, fast, and loud. Draw their fire. Keep them focused on me while you all do your jobs."
"You sure about that?" Eve asked. "You're gonna have every gun pointed at you."
"I can take it." Mark's expression was grim. "I've been training for this."
Robot's eyes glowed brighter. "One additional note: be prepared for countermeasures. If they've had thirty years to study our previous encounter, they will have developed specific counters to our abilities. Stay adaptable."
"Everyone clear on the plan?" Mark asked.
Nods all around.
"Good. Portals should open any minute now. Get into position."
T-MINUS 30 SECONDS
Mark stood alone in the center of the street, the rest of the team spread out in strategic positions.
His heart pounded. His muscles coiled. Every sense heightened.
He glanced at the shipping container where he'd hidden his duffel bag. Everything he needed for what came after. The survival gear. The spare suit. The books.
Everything that could go wrong plays through my mind. Hostile atmosphere. Predatory wildlife. Enemy reinforcements. Getting stranded. Dying alone in an alien dimension.
But if I don't do this, I'll never be strong enough. I'll never be ready for what's coming.
Three days here equals thirty years there. If I can survive even a fraction of that time...
Mark took a deep breath, stilling his resolve.
T-MINUS 10 SECONDS
Robot's voice in his ear: "Energy signature spiking. Portal formation imminent."
Mark's hands clenched into fists.
5 SECONDS
The air began to shimmer. Reality warped like heat rising from asphalt.
3 SECONDS
"You guys ready?" Mark called out.
"Hell yeah!" Rex shouted.
"Ready!" Eve confirmed.
"Let's do this," Dupli-Kate said, her copies speaking in perfect unison.
"All systems optimal," Robot added.
1 SECOND
Mark crouched, muscles coiling, and whispered to himself:
"Showtime."
He shot into the air just as reality tore.
Three massive portals ripped open simultaneously, each one twenty feet across, crackling with sickly green energy that made the air taste like copper and ozone.
And through them poured an army.
Hundreds of Flaxan soldiers—green-skinned giants, —each one a monument to alien evolution. They towered at least eight feet tall, some even larger, with highly pronounced muscular bodies that made bodybuilders look anemic. Broad shoulders stretched their black sleeveless leotards, each one featuring a prominent white "M" symbol that ran from their massive chests down to their tree-trunk legs. Their heads were completely shaved, square brutal features that looked like they'd been chiseled from jade. Every movement spoke of power barely contained.
But it wasn't just the soldiers.
Tanks rolled through the portals—not Earth-style tanks but something more organic, like they'd been grown rather than built. Their armor plating pulsed faintly, some kind of bio-metal hybrid. The cannons mounted on top hummed with barely contained energy.
Artillery pieces followed, dragged by mechanical beasts that resembled six-legged elephants made of chrome and sinew. Each artillery cannon was the size of a bus, barrels glowing that sickly green.
Flying units soared overhead on advanced jet packs that left trails of emerald energy, their maneuverability putting Earth aircraft to shame.
And weapons. God, the weapons.
Each soldier carried a rifle that looked like it had been designed by someone who understood both biology and physics in ways humanity didn't. Energy cores pulsed in their grips. Barrel assemblies that seemed to breathe. Some soldiers carried what looked like energy swords—blades of concentrated green plasma that hummed with lethal intent.
This wasn't a raid.
This was an invasion.
The lead Flaxan stepped through the central portal last. He was even larger than the others—nine feet of green muscle and authority. His armor was more elaborate, covered in symbols that might have been rank insignia or kill counts. A cape made of some metallic fabric hung from his shoulders. In one hand, he carried what looked like a remote—a small device covered in alien script and glowing buttons.
The portal controller, Mark realized. He's the one who can open and close the rifts.
The officer raised his massive hand, ready to give the order to fire.
Then he paused.
His eyes—yellow with slit pupils—swept across the empty street. The abandoned buildings. The complete lack of civilians.
His expression shifted from confidence to confusion to cold, calculated suspicion.
"Hold!" he barked in Flaxan, the translator in Mark's ear converting it instantly. "Something's wrong. This is a trap. Spread out! Find the—"
A whistling sound cut him off.
The officer looked up, yellow eyes widening.
And saw Mark dropping toward them like a meteor wrapped in black and red.
BOOM.
Mark hit the ground in the center of their formation with catastrophic force.
The impact didn't just crater the street—it shattered it. A shockwave rippled outward in a visible ring of compressed air, carrying enough force to shatter every window within a hundred yards. Asphalt exploded into fragments. Underground pipes burst. The very foundation of the street cracked and buckled.
Dozens of massive Flaxan soldiers were launched into the air like toys, their eight-foot frames and hundreds of pounds of muscle meaningless against the sheer kinetic energy of Mark's landing. Some hit buildings and went through the walls. Others crashed into their own tanks, denting the bio-metal. The closest ones didn't get up—their armor had cracked, their bodies crumpled.
Before the dust had even settled, Mark was moving.
He became a blur of black and red, moving faster than most of the Flaxans could track. His training with Nolan, his sessions with the Teen Team, the pain-dampening serum coursing through his veins—it all came together in perfect, brutal harmony.
His first target was a soldier to his left. Mark's punch caught him in the chest with enough force to cave in the alien's armor plating. The green giant folded around the impact point, eyes going wide with shock and pain, before flying backward fifty feet and crashing through a parked car.
Mark spun, his elbow catching another soldier's jaw. The crack was audible even over the chaos. The soldier's head snapped around at an impossible angle.
A third soldier raised his bio-rifle, finger moving toward the trigger—
Mark's hand shot out, faster than the alien could process, and ripped the weapon from his grip. In the same motion, Mark drove the butt of the rifle into the soldier's skull. The green giant dropped like his strings had been cut.
Mark tossed the rifle into the air without looking.
Above, Eve caught it with a pink construct along with four others Mark had already disarmed in his opening salvo. She sent them arcing toward Dupli-Kate's position.
But Mark wasn't done. Not even close.
He grabbed a fourth soldier by the arm—the alien's bicep was literally bigger than Mark's entire torso—and pulled. The soldier came off his feet, all eight feet and four hundred pounds of him, spinning through the air. Mark used him as a battering ram, swinging the screaming giant into five of his companions.
They went down in a tangle of green limbs and black leotards, armor plates scraping and cracking.
A cluster of soldiers tried to form a defensive line, raising their weapons in coordinated formation—thirty years of military doctrine kicking in.
Mark didn't let them.
He shot forward like a missile, his shoulder leading. The first soldier in the line never saw it coming. Mark's tackle lifted him completely off the ground and carried him backward into his companions. They fell like dominoes, and Mark was already moving through them—punches, elbows, knees, all delivered with Viltrumite precision and power.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Armor shattered. Bones broke. Weapons clattered to the ground.
A Flaxan officer—seven and a half feet of seasoned warrior—roared a battle cry and charged Mark with an energy sword raised high. The blade hummed, ready to cleave Mark in half.
Mark caught the blade.
With his bare hand.
The energy sword sizzled against his palm, trying to cut through Viltrumite skin. It couldn't. Mark's fingers closed around the blade and squeezed. The energy matrix destabilized, sparks flying, and the sword shorted out.
The officer's eyes widened in disbelief.
Mark headbutted him.
The green giant crumpled, and Mark was already moving again.
Eve floated above the battlefield, her hands glowing brilliant pink, sweat already beading on her forehead from the concentration required.
She focused on a cluster of soldiers aiming at Mark and pulled.
Twenty rifles ripped from green hands simultaneously, molecular bonds breaking as Eve's power overrode the physical connection between alien and weapon. The Flaxans stared at their empty hands in confusion.
Eve didn't give them time to recover. She sent the weapons flying toward Dupli-Kate, who'd multiplied to her absolute limit—fifteen copies of herself, each positioned strategically around the perimeter.
Robot descended beside one of the Kates, his mechanical eyes scanning the rifle's structure with rapid-fire precision.
"Flaxan plasma-based energy weapon," he announced, his voice clinical even in the chaos. "Trigger mechanism here—" he pointed. "Safety disable sequence: press here, then here. Fire rate approximately eight hundred rounds per minute. Recoil dampeners here. Energy cell good for two hundred shots before—"
"Got it!" all fifteen Kates shouted in unison.
They opened fire.
Green plasma bolts streaked through the air in a devastating crossfire. The Flaxans had designed these weapons to punch through armor, to overwhelm defensive positions. Now they were being used against their creators.
Soldiers went down screaming as their own weapons tore through them. Some tried to take cover behind their tanks. Others tried to rush the Kates, only to be cut down mid-charge.
Meanwhile, Rex had slipped into the chaos like a ghost.
He'd stolen a Flaxan uniform from one of the first casualties—way too big for him, the black leotard hanging off his frame comically, the white "M" stretched and distorted. But in the confusion, it worked.
He moved through the enemy ranks with his hands sparking, barely contained explosive energy dancing across his knuckles.
A tank rolled past him. Rex casually touched its tread.
BOOM.
The entire track assembly exploded from within, metal shredding, the tank lurching to a stop as one side collapsed.
Rex moved to an ammunition crate being hauled by two soldiers. He pressed his palm against it as he walked by.
BOOM BOOM BOOM.
The crate detonated in a chain reaction, taking out both soldiers and setting off three more crates in a symphony of explosions.
He found an artillery piece being positioned. Both hands on the barrel—
BOOM.
The cannon imploded, metal folding in on itself like a crushed can.
Rex caught Mark's eye across the battlefield and grinned, his hands crackling with barely contained power. He gave a thumbs up.
Mark returned the gesture and kept fighting.
The Flaxans adapted.
Officers shouted orders in their alien tongue. Thirty years of preparation showed as they shifted tactics on the fly.
Squads formed up in defensive formations, covering each other's blind spots. Soldiers with energy shields deployed them, creating barriers that could deflect plasma fire. The tanks spread out, no longer clustering together where they could be taken out in groups.
And they focused fire on Mark.
Dozens of plasma rifles opened up simultaneously, green bolts converging on him from multiple angles. The air became a storm of deadly energy.
Mark moved.
He flew straight up, the bolts passing through empty air where he'd been standing. He arced through the sky, came down behind the firing line, and landed in the middle of them.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Three soldiers down before they could turn around.
But more were coming. So many more.
A tank's main cannon swiveled toward him, energy building to critical levels—
"Mark! Tank on your six!" Eve called out.
Mark spun, saw the cannon about to fire, and made a split-second decision.
He flew toward it.
The tank fired.
The plasma bolt was massive—concentrated energy that could level a building. It screamed through the air at Mark.
Mark punched it.
His fist connected with the energy bolt mid-flight, and for a fraction of a second, physics didn't know what to do. Then the bolt exploded in a massive detonation that sent a shockwave rippling across the battlefield.
When the smoke cleared, Mark was still there, fist still extended, completely unharmed.
The tank crew stared in disbelief.
Mark shot forward, grabbed the tank's cannon barrel, and ripped it clean off. Metal shrieked. Internal mechanisms exploded. Sparks flew.
Then Mark used the barrel as a bat, swinging it in a wide arc that caught three soldiers and sent them flying.
Robot hovered above it all, his mechanical mind processing data faster than any human could.
"Temporal stabilization confirmed," he announced through the comm. "Source: bracelets on their wrists. Advanced design incorporating what appears to be miniature temporal anchor fields. Estimated development time: twenty to thirty years. Target the bracelets to force aging acceleration."
"Copy that!" Mark shouted back.
He adjusted his tactics immediately. Instead of going for kill shots every time, he started targeting wrists specifically. Ripping off bracelets with surgical precision. Crushing them underfoot. Tearing them off and throwing them through portals.
The effect was immediate and horrifying.
Flaxans who lost their bracelets began to age rapidly. Green skin sagged and wrinkled. Muscles atrophied. Hair—what little they had—turned white and fell out. Eyes sank into skulls. Within seconds, they looked ancient. Within minutes, some collapsed, their bodies unable to sustain life at such an accelerated rate.
The soldiers who saw it happen backed away in terror, clutching their own bracelets protectively.
But Mark was relentless.
A soldier raised his rifle—Mark ripped the bracelet off first, then disarmed him as he started aging. The rifle went flying toward Eve.
Two soldiers tried to flank him—Mark grabbed both their wrists, crushed both bracelets simultaneously, then pushed them away to age out.
A massive officer, nine feet tall and rippling with muscle, charged at Mark with an energy sword. Mark dodged the first swing, caught the second swing's blade with one hand, then grabbed the officer's wrist with the other. The bracelet crumpled in his grip.
The officer's eyes went wide with horror as he felt the effect take hold.
Mark threw him aside and moved to the next target.
But even Mark's incredible display wasn't enough to stop the tide entirely.
More portals opened. Reinforcements poured through—hundreds more soldiers, dozens more tanks.
And the rest of the team was starting to falter.
Robot's energy reserves were depleting. His hover altitude was dropping, his movements becoming less precise. "Energy at twenty-three percent," he reported clinically. "Reduced to auxiliary power in approximately four minutes."
Dupli-Kate's copies were getting overwhelmed. The constant concentration required to maintain fifteen simultaneous bodies was draining her fast. One copy took a plasma bolt to the shoulder and disappeared in a puff. Then another. Then two more.
"Down to eleven!" she shouted, her voices slightly out of sync now from fatigue.
Rex was breathing hard, bent over with his hands on his knees between explosions. His powers drew from his own metabolic energy, and he'd been burning through it at an unsustainable rate. "Running on fumes here!" he called out, his voice strained.
Eve's shields were flickering more often, the pink energy wavering as exhaustion set in. Sweat poured down her face. Her movements were becoming sluggish. "I can't... keep this up... much longer..."
But Mark...
Mark stood in the center of the battlefield, surrounded by broken Flaxan soldiers and destroyed equipment, and he was barely winded. His breathing was elevated—like he'd just finished a hard run—but he wasn't tired. His knuckles were raw and bloody. His suit was torn in dozens of places, green alien blood mixing with his own. But he could keep going.
The pain-dampening serum dulled the ache in his muscles. His Viltrumite physiology repaired damage almost as fast as it occurred. And two months of brutal training with Nolan had pushed his endurance to inhuman levels.
He could do this for hours.
The Flaxan commander—the nine-foot giant with the elaborate armor and the portal remote—stood at the back of his forces and watched the massacre unfold.
He watched this... thing in the black and red suit tear through soldiers like they were children. Watched it destroy tanks with its bare hands. Watched it ignore weapons fire that should have obliterated it.
Thirty years of preparation. Thirty years of technological advancement. Temporal stabilization. Enhanced weapons. Improved tactics.
And it wasn't enough.
The commander's yellow eyes narrowed. He raised his comm device.
"All units," he barked in Flaxan. "Fall back! Tactical retreat! Return to—"
A green plasma bolt screamed past his head, missing by inches.
He turned and saw one of the Kate's firing at him from a rooftop.
These humans and their demon are too strong. We need to regroup. Develop new countermeasures. This battle is lost.
He pressed a button on the portal remote. The three massive rifts began to pulse, energy signatures shifting.
"RETREAT!" he roared. "All units, through the portals! NOW!"
The Flaxan army responded with disciplined precision. Squads provided covering fire as others fell back. Tanks reversed, covering the retreat. Flying units swooped down to extract wounded soldiers.
But they weren't retreating toward the portals evenly. They were fleeing. Discipline was breaking down as panic set in. Some soldiers were running flat-out, abandoning their weapons. Others were dragging wounded companions, their training warring with their terror.
Mark saw it happening. Saw the tide turning from organized invasion to panicked retreat.
Perfect.
Robot's voice cut through the comm. "Enemy forces in full retreat. They're abandoning—"
"I know!" Mark shouted.
This was the moment. The chaos. The confusion. When everyone was focused on escape.
Mark reached into a hidden pocket in his suit—one of several he'd had Art add specifically for this—and pulled out the detonator.
He'd placed the charges carefully during his seemingly random movements across the battlefield. Not clustered together. Spread out strategically to create maximum chaos and panic when triggered.
The Flaxans were streaming toward the portals, green giants running as fast as their massive legs could carry them.
Mark pressed the button.
Twenty explosions went off simultaneously.
They weren't positioned to kill—not primarily. They were positioned to terrify.
Walls of fire erupted between squads, cutting off easy retreat paths. Smoke bombs created dense clouds that turned visibility to zero. Flashbangs detonated with enough force to disorient even the massive Flaxans. One charge set off a parked car's gas tank, sending a fireball fifty feet into the air.
The organized retreat became a stampede.
Soldiers scattered in every direction, blinded by smoke, deafened by explosions, desperate to escape the demon in black and red.
Officers tried to restore order, shouting commands that were lost in the chaos.
And in that confusion, Mark moved.
He blurred across the battlefield, using the smoke as cover. He grabbed his duffel bag from its hiding spot behind the shipping container and slung it over his shoulders. The weight was familiar, comforting even. Everything he needed.
Then he shot toward the commander.
The nine-foot Flaxan was backing toward the last remaining portal, the remote still clutched in his massive hand. His yellow eyes swept the battlefield, searching for threats through the smoke and fire.
Mark came from above, diving through the smoke like a missile.
The commander saw him at the last second. His eyes widened. He raised the remote, finger moving toward a button—probably to close all the portals immediately.
Mark slammed into him.
Not a full-force hit. If Mark had hit him with everything he had, he would've punched through the commander. Instead, he grabbed the massive green arm holding the remote and yanked.
The commander's grip was strong—enhanced by thirty years of military training and alien physiology. But Mark was stronger.
The remote tore free from the commander's hand.
"No!" the commander roared in Flaxan.
Mark didn't stop. He wrapped one arm around the massive green torso—his arm barely reaching around the commander's chest—and used the other to clutch both the remote and his duffel bag.
The last portal was directly ahead, already beginning to shimmer and contract. It was closing. The commander must have set a timer.
"MARK! NO!" Eve's scream cut through the comm, her voice raw with desperation.
"INVINCIBLE, WAIT!" Robot shouted, actual alarm in his mechanical voice.
"What the hell is he—" Rex started.
"DON'T!" Dupli-Kate yelled, all her remaining copies screaming in unison.
Mark ignored them all.
The commander struggled in his grip, trying to break free, one massive arm reaching back to grab Mark. "Release me, demon! You don't know what you're—"
Mark didn't let him finish.
He flew through the portal, the commander still clutched in his grip, the duffel bag bouncing against his back.
Behind him, he heard his team screaming his name.
But the sound cut off as the portal snapped shut.
The sensation was wrong.
Not painful—his pain receptors were too dulled for that. But wrong in a fundamental, reality-breaking way.
Like being turned inside out and stretched across infinite distance and compressed into a single point all at the same time. Colors that didn't exist in normal space bled across his vision. Sounds that shouldn't be possible—the sound of distance itself echoed in his ears. He could taste electricity. Smell mathematics. Feel the texture of compressed time.
For a moment—or an eternity, it was impossible to tell—Mark existed in the space between dimensions. A place where the normal rules of physics were more like gentle suggestions. Where cause and effect became tangled and uncertain.
The commander was screaming something, but the words stretched and compressed, becoming incomprehensible even through the translator.
And then—
Thud.
Mark hit solid ground hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs. The commander tumbled away from him, rolling across rocky terrain. The duffel bag slammed into Mark's back but the straps held firm.
Mark came up in a crouch, breathing harder now—the dimensional crossing had taken something out of him—every sense screaming danger as he took in his surroundings.
And immediately knew he wasn't on Earth anymore.
The sky was wrong.
Instead of blue, it was a deep purple-red, like a bruise that stretched from horizon to horizon. And there weren't one sun, but three—each one a different size, hanging at different angles in the alien sky. One was massive and orange, dominating the view. Another was smaller and white-hot, almost painful to look at. The third was dim and reddish, barely visible against the purple sky.
They cast overlapping shadows that created bizarre, shifting patterns on the ground. Mark looked down at his own shadow and saw three of them, each pointing in a different direction, each moving at a different rate as the suns continued their alien dance across the sky.
The ground beneath his feet was rocky and barren—reddish stone covered in strange crystalline formations that jutted up at odd angles. Some of them glowed faintly from within, pulsing with a rhythm that might have been natural or might have been technological. The air shimmered with heat, distorting the distant landscape.
Mark pulled his mask up slightly and took a cautious breath.
The air was hot. Dry. It tasted metallic and sharp, like licking a battery. His lungs burned slightly as they processed it—thinner than Earth's atmosphere, lower oxygen content, traces of elements that didn't exist on Earth.
But it was breathable.
His Viltrumite physiology adapted within seconds, his lungs adjusting their efficiency, his blood chemistry shifting to process the alien air. The burning sensation faded. His breathing steadied.
I can survive here.
And in the distance, maybe half a mile away across the barren landscape, Mark saw what could only be described as a city.
It was massive. Industrial. Sprawling for miles in every direction like a metal tumor on the face of the planet. Smoke and steam rose from countless chimneys and vents, creating a haze that partially obscured the upper levels. Buildings rose in irregular patterns—some towers, some domes, some structures that defied easy description. Everything was built from the same bio-metal hybrid the Flaxans used for their tanks, giving the city an organic, grown appearance rather than constructed.
Flaxan soldiers—green-skinned giants—moved through the streets in formations. Even from this distance, Mark could see the discipline, the organization. This wasn't a forward base or a military outpost.
This was their home.
Their civilization. Their world.
Walls surrounded the city—massive fortifications studded with artillery batteries and what looked like anti-aircraft emplacements. Flying transports moved between buildings, carrying cargo or soldiers. The whole thing thrummed with activity, with life.
Mark's heart pounded. This was real. He'd actually done it.
He was in the Flaxan dimension.
The commander groaned, pushing himself up with his massive arms. He was even bigger than Mark had realized—nine feet of solid green muscle, his elaborate armor scratched and dented from the rough landing. His yellow eyes fixed on Mark with a mixture of shock, fury, and something that might have been grudging respect.
"You..." he gasped in Flaxan, the translator in Mark's ear making it understandable. "You came through? You followed us home?" He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. "You're insane! Do you have any idea what you've done?"
Mark stood slowly, adjusting his duffel bag, checking that the portal remote was still secure in his other hand. He could feel his suit hanging in tatters in places, green blood mixing with his own where he'd taken hits during the battle. But nothing serious. Nothing that wouldn't heal.
He met the commander's yellow eyes and smiled behind his mask.
"Yeah," he said in English, knowing the commander probably couldn't understand him. "I get that a lot."
The commander's expression shifted to confusion at the alien language, then back to anger. He reached for a weapon at his belt—
Mark was faster.
He closed the distance in a blur, grabbed the commander's wrist, and squeezed just hard enough to make his point. The commander's hand opened reflexively, the weapon—some kind of energy pistol—falling to the rocky ground.
"No," Mark said firmly, even though the commander couldn't understand the word. The meaning was clear enough.
The commander glared at him but didn't move.
Mark released his wrist and took a step back, his eyes never leaving the massive alien. His mind was already racing, planning. The commander was a valuable asset—someone high-ranking, someone who knew the city's layout, someone who could potentially be questioned.
But he was also nine feet of highly trained alien warrior who would kill Mark the second he got the chance.
One problem at a time.
Mark looked at the portal remote in his hand—a complex device covered in alien script and glowing buttons. He had no idea which button did what. Pressing the wrong one might open a portal back to Earth. Might open a portal to somewhere else entirely. Might explode.
He tucked it carefully into one of his suit's pockets. He'd figure it out later.
Then he looked at the city in the distance. At the three suns burning overhead. At the alien landscape stretching to the horizon in every direction.
At the beginning of his real training.
No turning back now.
The commander was shouting something behind him—probably calling for reinforcements. His voice carried across the barren landscape, echoing off the crystalline formations.
Mark didn't care.
He had work to do.
Three Earth days equals thirty Earth years here. If I stay for even one day back home, I'll have a decade here to train. To adapt. To become stronger.
This is where I become truly Invincible.
Mark cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp in the alien air, and started walking toward the city. Each step sent small puffs of reddish dust rising from the rocky ground. The three suns cast their overlapping shadows that danced and shifted with each movement.
Behind him, the commander continued to shout. Mark could hear it through the translator now—orders, coordinates, descriptions. The alien was definitely calling for backup.
Good, Mark thought. Let them come. Let them send their army. Let them send everything they have.
I came here to get stronger. What better way than fighting an entire civilization?
He adjusted the duffel bag on his shoulders, feeling the weight of the survival gear, the spare suit, the books on wilderness survival. Everything he'd need to not just survive, but to thrive in this hostile environment.
The city loomed larger as he approached, details becoming clearer. He could see Flaxan soldiers on the walls now, pointing in his direction. Alarm sirens began to wail—a haunting, alien sound that rose and fell in patterns that set his teeth on edge.
They'd seen him. They knew he was here.
Perfect.
Mark took a deep breath of the hot, metallic alien air, felt it fill his adapted lungs, felt his Viltrumite physiology humming with barely contained power.
And he smiled.
This was it. The beginning of everything.
The moment Mark Grayson stopped being a kid playing hero and started becoming something more.
Something invincible.
Behind him, the commander's shouts grew more desperate. Ahead of him, the city's defenses activated—artillery batteries swiveling, energy weapons powering up, gates beginning to close.
Mark didn't slow down.
He just kept walking toward his future.
Toward years of hell.
Toward years of growth.
Toward becoming strong enough to face what he knew was coming.