"Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind," Nathaniel Hawthorne
The portal snapped shut with a sound like reality breaking.
One moment, there was green crackling energy and the echo of Mark's team screaming his name. The next moment, there was nothing. Just empty air where a dimensional rift had been seconds before.
Silence fell over the battlefield like a blanket.
Eve floated in the air, hands still glowing pink, extended toward where the portal had been. Her face was frozen in an expression of shock and horror, mouth open in a scream that had died in her throat.
"Mark..." she whispered. Then louder: "MARK!"
She shot forward, hands reaching for the empty space, as if she could somehow grab him and pull him back. Her fingers passed through nothing but air.
"No, no, no, no..." Eve's voice cracked. Pink energy flared around her hands as she tried to pull the portal back open, tried to manipulate the dimensional fabric itself. But there was nothing there. No energy signature. No residual field. Just... nothing.
Rex landed beside her, his usual cocky demeanor completely gone. "Eve, he's... is he...?"
"He went through," she said, voice hollow. "He just... he went through."
Dupli-Kate's remaining copies merged back into one as she stumbled over to them, exhausted and shell-shocked. "Why would he do that? Why would he just—" She couldn't finish the sentence.
Robot descended slowly, his mechanical form silent except for the soft hum of his jets. His green eyes scanned the area where the portal had been, sensors working overtime to detect any trace of dimensional energy.
"ROBOT!" Eve spun toward him, desperation clear in her voice. "Where did he go? Can you track him? Can you—"
"Mark has traveled through the dimensional rift," Robot said, his voice maddeningly calm and clinical. "Into the Flaxan home dimension."
"Then open it back up! Bring him back!"
"I cannot."
"What do you mean you can't?" Eve's hands blazed brighter, energy crackling around her fingers. "You're the smartest person I know! You built half the tech in our base! You can—"
"The technology required to create stable dimensional portals is beyond our current capabilities," Robot interrupted, his tone never changing. "The Flaxans have had decades—centuries from their temporal perspective—to develop their portal technology. Replicating it would require extensive research. Decades of work, at minimum, even with their equipment to study."
"Decades?" Eve's voice broke. "We don't have decades! He could be dying right now! He could already be—"
"The probability of Invincibles' immediate demise is low," Robot said. "His physiology should allow him to survive in most atmospheric conditions. However, long-term survival in a hostile dimension with unknown variables..." He paused, the closest thing to hesitation his mechanical voice could produce. "The statistics are... not favorable."
Eve stared at him. Then she turned away, bringing her hands to her face.
Rex moved closer to her, reaching out awkwardly. "Eve..."
She pulled away from him. "Don't. Just... don't."
A flash of blue static cut through the tension.
Cecil Stedman materialized in the center of the battlefield, his teleportation device humming as it stabilized his molecular structure. He took one look at the Teen Team's faces—at Eve's tears, at Rex's shock, at Dupli-Kate's exhaustion, at Robot's inscrutable mechanical expression—and knew something had gone very wrong.
"Report," he said sharply.
Robot turned to face him. "The Flaxan invasion has been repelled. Enemy forces retreated through dimensional portals. Civilian casualties: zero. Teen Team casualties..." He paused. "Invincible pursued enemy forces through a closing portal. Current status: unknown. Current location: Flaxan home dimension."
Cecil's jaw tightened. "He did what?"
"He grabbed one of their commanders and went through the portal," Dupli-Kate said, her voice tired. "Just... grabbed him and flew through. We couldn't stop him."
"Did he say anything? Give any indication of why—"
"There was no time," Robot interrupted. "The portal was closing. His decision appeared to be made in the moment, though given his earlier request for Flaxan translation technology and his general behavior over the past three days, I believe this may have been premeditated."
Cecil closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath that sounded like a very creative string of profanity. Then he opened them and took a breath.
"Debbie is not going to be happy about this."
GDA units began arriving within minutes—armored vehicles, specialized cleanup crews, medical personnel. The organized chaos of a post-battle operation kicked into gear with military efficiency.
Cecil watched them work for a moment, then turned to the Teen Team.
"You all did good work today. Saved a lot of lives. But you're exhausted, and there's nothing more you can do here. Go home. Get some rest."
"What about Mark?" Dupli-Kate asked. "What's the plan to get him back?"
Cecil's expression was grim. "Right now? There isn't one. We don't have the technology to open dimensional portals. We don't even know how to begin researching it. All we can do is hope that Invincible is resourceful enough to find his own way back."
"That's it?" Eve's voice was sharp, angry. "We just wait? We just hope?"
"Unless you've got a better idea, yes." Cecil's tone wasn't unkind, but it was firm. "I understand you're upset. But standing here isn't going to help him. Go home. Process this. We'll regroup tomorrow and figure out what our options are."
Eve looked like she wanted to argue, but Rex put a hand on her shoulder. "Come on. He's right. We can't do anything right now."
She shrugged him off but didn't protest further.
The Teen Team left in silence, each one processing what had just happened in their own way.
Cecil watched them go.
He had to tell Debbie. And Nolan, if he was awake.
This was going to be a nightmare.
GDA MEDICAL FACILITY - NOLAN'S ROOM
Cecil knocked on the door and waited for a response before entering.
What he saw made him pause.
Nolan was awake.
The Viltrumite sat on the edge of his hospital bed, looking battered but alive. Bandages covered his torso. Bruises still colored his face in shades of purple and yellow. But his eyes were clear, alert, focused.
And Debbie sat beside him, holding his hand, tears streaming down her face.
"Cecil," Nolan said, his voice rough from disuse. "Good to see you."
"Good to see you awake, Nolan." Cecil stepped into the room, hands clasped behind his back. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a train." Nolan managed a weak smile. "But I'll live."
Debbie squeezed his hand tighter, and Cecil saw the relief mixed with exhaustion on her face. She'd been camped out here for days, barely sleeping, barely eating, just waiting for her husband to wake up.
And now he had.
But Cecil was about to ruin that moment.
"Debbie," he said carefully. "Nolan. I need to tell you something. About Mark."
Debbie's expression immediately shifted to concern. "What about Mark? Is he okay? Did something happen?"
Cecil took a breath. "There was another Flaxan incursion. Larger force this time. The Teen Team engaged them downtown, managed to drive them back with zero civilian casualties."
"That's good," Debbie said, but her eyes were searching his face. "But...?"
"But Mark went through one of their dimensional portals. Into their home dimension. The portal closed behind him."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Debbie's face went white. Her grip on Nolan's hand tightened until her knuckles were bloodless.
"What?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
"He grabbed one of their commanders and went through a closing portal," Cecil continued, keeping his voice steady and factual. "We don't know if it was planned or spontaneous, but he's currently in the Flaxan dimension. We don't have the technology to retrieve him."
"No." Debbie stood up, shaking her head. "No. No, that's not—he wouldn't—" Her voice was rising, panic setting in. "You have to go get him! You have to open a portal and—"
"We can't," Cecil said gently. "We don't have that capability. The technology doesn't exist on Earth."
"Then make it exist! You're the GDA! You have all these resources and scientists and—"
"Debbie." Nolan's voice was quiet but firm. He stood slowly, one hand on her shoulder. "Mark will be okay. He's a Viltrumite. He's strong. He can survive—"
Debbie spun on him, eyes blazing. "He's our son first and foremost, Nolan! Not a Viltrumite! Not a warrior! Not some... some tool that can just survive anything! He's our baby, and he's gone, and you're sitting here telling me he'll be okay?"
Nolan took a step back, clearly taken aback by the force of her anger. "I... I didn't mean—"
"He's seventeen years old!" Debbie's voice cracked. "He just graduated high school! He was supposed to go to college, have a normal life, be safe, and now he's in some alien hell dimension fighting God knows what, and you're telling me not to worry because he's a Viltrumite?"
"Debbie, I understand you're upset—"
"Don't you dare tell me you understand!" She was crying now, tears streaming down her face. "Don't you dare stand there and act like this is okay! He's our son! He's my baby! And he's gone!"
Nolan pulled her into his arms, and she collapsed against him, sobbing.
Cecil looked away, giving them a moment of privacy.
After a few minutes, when Debbie's sobs had quieted to hiccups, Nolan spoke over her head, his voice carefully controlled.
"Is there any way to get him back?"
"Robot said he saw Mark rip a remote from one of the Flaxans before he went through," Cecil replied. "Some kind of portal control device. If Mark can figure out how to use it, he might be able to open a portal back to Earth."
"If he can figure it out," Nolan repeated. "That's a lot of ifs, Cecil."
"I know. But it's all we've got right now."
Nolan was quiet for a long moment, his chin resting on top of Debbie's head, his arms wrapped around her protectively.
Finally, he nodded.
"Alright. We wait. We hope. And we prepare for when he comes back." His voice hardened. "Because he will come back. He's my son. He's stronger than you think."
A doctor knocked and entered a few hrs, clipboard in hand. "Mr. Grayson? I'm pleased to inform you that you're cleared for discharge. Your vitals are stable, and your healing has progressed remarkably well. You're free to go home."
"Thank you," Nolan said.
As the doctor left, Nolan gently extracted himself from Debbie's grip and began gathering his things. There weren't many—just a few personal items Debbie had brought.
They walked to the front desk. The receptionist—a young woman with tired eyes—looked up as Nolan approached.
"I need my suit," Nolan said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "The one I was brought in wearing. I know it's damaged. I know it's classified material. I don't care what state it's in. I want it back. Now."
The receptionist blinked. "Sir, I'm not sure if—"
"Now."
Something in Nolan's voice—made the receptionist immediately start typing.
"I'll... I'll see what I can do, sir."
Debbie gave him a weird look but didn't question it. Her mind was too occupied with worry about Mark. The suit seemed like the least important thing right now.
But Nolan's expression was grim.
He knew that if Mark didn't come back soon, he might have to do something drastic.
FLAXAN DIMENSION - EIGHT YEARS LATER
Mark crashed through a wall, debris raining down around him as he rolled to his feet.
Years. It's been years already.
The thought was surreal. Eight years in this hell dimension. Eight years of constant fighting, constant learning, constant surviving.
On Earth, barely a day had passed.
Here, Mark had lived almost a third of his life again.
He was twenty-five years old now. His body had changed—he'd grown to six-foot-two, his frame filling out with dense muscle that made his teenage self-look scrawny by comparison. His face had lost its boyish softness, replaced by sharp angles and a jaw that could cut glass. And he'd grown a mustache—kept neatly trimmed now that he had the tools to maintain it, a small vanity that reminded him he was still human despite everything.
He wore a stolen Flaxan uniform—black leotard with the white "M" symbol, modified to fit his smaller frame. His original suit had torn to pieces within the first year. The spare Art had given him had lasted another two. Now he wore the enemy's colors because they were practical, durable, and abundant.
A plasma bolt screamed past his head, missing by inches.
Mark moved.
He was faster than he'd been eight years ago. Much faster. Constant combat against an entire civilization had honed his abilities to a razor's edge. His movements were economical, efficient, and wasting no energy.
Three Flaxan soldiers rushed him from different angles, their latest-generation weapons—Mark had watched those evolve over the years—trained on him, made to kill him.
They fired.
The energy bolts bounced harmlessly off his skin.
Or at least try.
Mark had built up an immunity over the years, constantly exposing himself to higher and higher energy outputs. Their weapons couldn't hurt him anymore. Not these ones, anyway. They'd need another generation of development, another few years of research.
He gave them that time.
Mark closed the distance in a blur, disarming the first soldier with a quick strike to the wrist. The weapon clattered to the ground. His elbow caught the second soldier's jaw, snapping his head around. The third soldier tried to back up, but Mark grabbed his weapon, crushed it with his bare hand, and shoved the soldier away.
They were in some kind of research facility—white walls, complex machinery, holographic displays showing alien equations and schematics. Mark had broken in two hours ago, sneaking past security systems he'd learned to recognize over the years, making his way to the lab where they kept their most advanced projects.
He'd been doing fine until he'd knocked over a decorative vase.
One stupid mistake, and suddenly the entire facility was on alert.
Getting sloppy, Mark thought as he dodged another burst of plasma fire. Need to focus.
He reached into a pocket of his stolen uniform and pulled out his most prized possession in this dimension: the Omni-Wrench.
It looked like a cross between a Swiss Army knife and a piece of alien technology, because that's exactly what it was. Mark had built it himself over the course of two years, combining Flaxan engineering with principles from Earth technology he remembered. It could scan, analyze, cut, weld, repair, hack, and interface with almost any Flaxan system.
And it was powered by a miniature fusion cell he'd constructed after eight years of studying Flaxan energy technology.
Mark was proud of that fusion cell. It represented countless hours of work, of trial and error, of nearly blowing himself up more times than he cared to count.
He pointed the Omni-Wrench at a nearby computer terminal and activated its scanning function. A beam of blue light swept across the console, and data began flowing into the device's memory banks.
Research files. Schematics. Test results.
Everything they'd been working on in this lab.
Including the gravitational weapon, they'd been developing specifically to counter him.
Mark had to admit; they were getting creative. A weapon that could increase local gravity by a factor of a hundred, crushing anything caught in its field. It wouldn't kill him—probably—but it would slow him down significantly.
Can't have that, Mark thought as the download completed.
He pocketed the Omni-Wrench and grabbed a physical data crystal from the terminal—backup, in case the digital copy got corrupted. Then he flew straight up, smashing through the ceiling and the roof beyond, emerging into the purple-red sky as he flew to his hideout, he remembered the first time he arrived here.
EIGHT YEARS AGO - ARRIVAL
When Mark had first landed on the Flaxan planet, he'd barely had time to take in his surroundings before the attacks started.
Soldiers poured out of the nearby city within minutes of his arrival. Dozens at first, then hundreds. They came from every angle—ground troops, flying units, tanks, artillery.
Mark had fought.
And fought.
And fought.
For three weeks straight, he'd been under constant assault. No sleep. No rest. Just endless combat against an enemy that kept coming in waves.
His Viltrumite physiology kept him going, but even he had limits. The pain-dampening serum helped, but exhaustion was different from pain. His movements had become sluggish. His reactions slowed.
He'd been on the verge of being overwhelmed when survival instinct kicked in.
He'd flown.
Not away from the fight—he'd been too disoriented to know which direction "away" even was. But fortunately, he'd thrown his duffel bag in the general direction he'd been flying during the chaos, and by sheer luck, he'd found it again after putting miles between himself and the Flaxan city.
The bag had been his lifeline. The survival gear. The books. The spare suit. The MREs that had sustained him those first crucial weeks.
And the translator earpiece that had given him the foundation to learn their language.
And most importantly: the portal remote he'd ripped from the commander's hand.
He could have gone home right then. Could have figured out the device, opened a portal, and returned to Earth.
But Mark had looked at that remote, at the alien technology in his hands, and made a decision.
He was staying.
Because he planned to be prepared for the future that awaited him, and besides, trying to master an entire civilization's worth of technology sounded like a good challenge.
And when he was done—when he'd learned everything, built everything, become everything he needed to be—he'd do exactly what his father would eventually do in the timeline he remembered.
He'd tear this planet apart.
Learning Flaxan had taken months.
Mark had kidnapped a soldier—grabbed him during a patrol and dragged him far away from civilization. He'd kept the alien restrained, studying his speech patterns, cross-referencing them with the translator's database, slowly piecing together grammar and syntax.
It had been brutal, tedious work. But Mark had been patient. He'd had nothing but time.
By month three, he could understand basic Flaxan.
By month five, he could speak it.
By month seven, he was fluent.
The soldier had begged for his life near the end. Had offered information. Had promised cooperation.
Mark had killed him anyway.
He couldn't risk the alien escaping and revealing what he'd learned. Couldn't risk any advantage being compromised.
It had been cold. Calculated. Necessary.
And it had bothered Mark for exactly one night before survival instincts overrode guilt.
Then had come the infiltration.
Mark had stolen a uniform from a patrol he'd ambushed. Had learned to mimic Flaxan body language, their mannerisms, their military protocols.
And he'd walked into one of their cities.
It had been terrifying. Surrounded by thousands of eight-foot-tall aliens, any one of whom could sound the alarm if they noticed something off about him. His heart had pounded. His palms had sweated inside the stolen gloves.
But he'd made it.
He'd found their library—a massive structure filled with physical data crystals and holographic archives. And he'd spent months there, sneaking in during off-hours, reading everything he could.
Their history. Their technology. Their culture. Their science.
The Flaxans were a monarchical civilization. They'd spent centuries divided into warring factions until one conqueror—King Xanar the Unifier—had brought them all under a single banner. That had been maybe a thousand years ago by their reckoning.
Since then, they'd been united under a royal bloodline. And when they'd discovered dimensional travel technology, they'd done what empires always did:
They'd decided to conquer.
Earth was their third target. Not because it was strategically important. Not because it had resources they needed.
Just because it was there.
For the fun of it.
That had made Mark angry in a way few things did.
And that's when he'd started planning.
He had Three main objectives, The first was toDestroy their ability to dimension-hop. Cut off their invasions at the source which he did as fast as he could.The second was toLearn their technology and science. Master everything, they knew. Take it for himself.The third was toTurn this planet into his own personal training ground and future resource base.
It was ambitious. Insane, even.
But Mark had time. A long time passed here while barely passed on Earth.
He could work with that.
Now, eight years in, Mark was well into phase two of his plan.
He flew low and fast across the Flaxan landscape, his stolen uniform rippling in the hot wind. The three suns cast their overlapping shadows, and Mark used them to help gauge his position—a navigation trick he'd learned in year three.
The research facility disappeared behind him as he flew toward the mountain range that dominated the northern horizon. Jagged peaks of reddish stone, some reaching miles into the purple sky, creating a natural barrier that most Flaxans avoided.
Perfect for hiding.
Mark angled toward a specific peak—one that looked completely unremarkable unless you knew exactly what to look for. A slight discoloration in the stone. A shadow that was a bit too deep. An outcropping that seemed natural but wasn't quite.
He landed on a narrow ledge and pressed his hand against what appeared to be solid rock.
It slid aside silently, revealing the entrance to his hideout.
Mark had dug this place out himself over the course of his first year. Every room. Every tunnel. Every chamber.
It had taken months of work, flying in and out under cover of darkness, removing tons of rock with his bare hands, creating a space that was completely invisible from the outside.
Now, eight years later, it was impressive.
The main entrance opened into a large chamber, very large enough to house a small village that served as his workshop and lab. Stolen Flaxan equipment lined the walls—computers, analysis tools, fabrication devices. Holographic displays flickered with data. Schematics covered every available surface—some for weapons, some for vehicles, some for things Mark hadn't even attempted to build yet but one in particular was for a ship he had already started building.
Beyond that was his training room—a space he'd reinforced with scavenged armor plating, where he could practice at full strength without bringing the mountain down on his head.
A storage area held his supplies—food he'd hunted or stolen, water he'd filtered from underground streams well water for the most part, spare parts and materials.
And finally, a small personal quarters. Sparse. Functional. A sleeping mat. A few personal items.
And a wall covered in markings.
Mark dropped his duffel bag—battered now, held together with repairs and patches—and moved through his hideout, checking systems, making sure everything was still functioning.
He stopped at the computer terminal—a Flaxan device he'd heavily modified—and inserted the data crystal he'd stolen. The screen flickered to life, alien text scrolling rapidly as it processed the information.
Gravitational weapon schematics. Test results. Theoretical applications.
Mark studied them intently, his mind already working through the implications.
Could reverse-engineer this. Use it for a training room. Variable gravity to push my limits even further.
He pulled up another file on the screen—one he'd been working on for years now.
A spacecraft blueprint.
It was crude, still mostly theoretical, but it was his. A design based on what he remembered of Star-Lord's ship from the Marvel movies, combined with Flaxan propulsion technology and principles he'd learned from their archives.
Something sleek. Fast. Powerful.
Something that could take him anywhere.
The portal remote sitting in his storage room could get him home. He'd figured that out years ago. Could open a rift back to Earth anytime he wanted.
But why just go home when he could go home in style?
Besides, the ship represented something more. Proof that he'd mastered their technology. Proof that he'd taken everything they had and made it better.
And it would be useful. Really useful. For everything that was coming.
The power requirements were massive, though. The energy needed for interstellar travel, for atmospheric re-entry, for the weapons systems he wanted to install—it was beyond anything he could currently build.
Unless...
Mark looked at the gravitational weapon schematics again.
Then he looked at his spacecraft design.
His mind made the connection.
Gravitational manipulation. Could provide thrust. Could stabilize flight. Could power weapons systems.
He pulled up a blank workspace and started sketching. Connecting components. Running calculations. His knowledge of Flaxan science combined with human intuition, with Viltrumite determination.
Hours passed. The three suns moved across the purple sky outside.
Mark didn't notice.
He was lost in the work, in the problem, in the beautiful complexity of trying to build something impossible.
Finally, he sat back, staring at what he'd created.
A theoretical engine. Using gravitational manipulation as both propulsion and power source. Driven by a fusion reactor—scaled up massively from his Omni-Wrench's power cell—that could generate the necessary energy output.
It was crazy.
It might not work.
But it might.
Mark saved the file and stood up, stretching muscles that had gone stiff from sitting.
His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten in... how long? Twenty hours? Time was weird when you were in the middle of a project.
He moved to his storage area and pulled out meat from a beast he'd hunted two days ago. One of the native predators—something that looked like a cross between a bear and a lizard, with too many teeth and armor plating. Dangerous. Aggressive.
Delicious, as it turned out.
Mark started a fire in a pit he'd carved into the stone—ventilation shafts he'd dug carried the smoke out through hidden vents—and began cooking.
As the meat sizzled, he looked to his left.
The wall of markings.
He'd started it in year one. Tally marks counting days at first. Then names. Mom. Dad. Eve. The Teen Team. People he'd known on Earth. People he missed.
And recently—within the last few months—new names had appeared.
Names from his first life. From before.
Mom. Alex (his little brother). Names he'd forgotten that had been locked away by whatever entity had made the deal with him.
They'd started coming back in dreams. Flashes of memory. A woman's laugh. A kid's grin. Moments that felt both foreign and intimately familiar.
Devin's memories, slowly returning.
Mark stared at the names, at the faces he could almost see now, and felt something twist in his chest.
Two families. Two lives. Both gone now.
But one I can still get back to.
The computer behind him beeped, pulling him from his thoughts.
Mark turned and walked over, the meat temporarily forgotten.
The analysis was complete. The gravitational weapon data had been fully processed, integrated with his spacecraft design, optimized for his purposes.
On the screen, a new schematic glowed.
Not just an engine. A complete spacecraft. Small, single-occupant, designed for speed and power.
Below it, a timeline. Materials needed. Construction phases. Estimated completion date.
Three years.
If everything went perfectly. If he could gather all the components. If his calculations were correct. If he didn't die trying.
Three more years in this dimension.
And then...
Then he'd go home. In a ship of his own design. Stronger than he'd ever been. With knowledge that would make him invaluable.
But before that? Before he'd reconnected with his family, helped save Earth, dealt with all the threats he knew were coming?
he'd do exactly what Nolan did in the original timeline.
He'd tear this planet apart.
Not out of malice. Not out of cruelty.
But to send a message: Earth was off-limits. Anyone who tried to invade it would face the same fate.
Mark looked at the drawing on the wall—a crude sketch of his family, of Earth, of everything he'd left behind.
Then he looked at the spacecraft schematic glowing on the screen.
And he grinned.
Let's do this.