"The comeback is always stronger than the setback" Unknown
Flaxan Dimension – Thirteen Years After Mark's Arrival
Mark stood in his workshop, hands moving with practiced precision as he made the final adjustments to his life's work.
The spacecraft gleamed in the light of the three suns filtering through the reinforced opening he'd carved into the mountain. It was beautiful—sleek lines and aggressive angles that spoke of both speed and power. The design was unmistakably inspired by the Milano from the Guardians of the Galaxy, but enhanced with everything Mark had learned over thirteen years of studying Flaxan technology.
The hull was painted in dark orange and grey, with black accents that gave it a predatory look. The ship was roughly forty feet long with a wingspan of about thirty feet—compact enough for solo operations but spacious enough inside for extended missions. The cockpit was positioned at the front, offering excellent visibility through reinforced transparent aluminum Mark had synthesized himself. Twin engines flanked the rear, their housings containing the gravitational propulsion system he'd spent years perfecting.
But the real masterpiece was what he was installing right now: the temporal dilation drive.
It was a piece of technology so advanced that even the Flaxans hadn't fully mastered it. Mark had reverse-engineered it from their temporal stabilization bracelets, scaled it up, and improved upon the design. When activated, it would create a localized time field around the ship, ensuring that while the universe outside aged normally, the ship itself would experience time at a drastically reduced rate.
Translation: his ship wouldn't rust or degrade when he took it back to Earth.
Mark carefully connected the final power coupling, his hands steady despite the significance of the moment. A soft hum filled the air as the drive came online, integrating seamlessly with the ship's other systems.
"Finally," Mark muttered to himself, his voice deeper than it had been thirteen years ago.
He was thirty years old now—technically. Biologically, he'd stopped aging at around twenty-five thanks to another piece of reverse-engineered Flaxan technology. The temporal stabilization bracelet he wore on his left wrist, modified and improved, kept his physical aging at a crawl, plus his Viltrumite lineage helped a lot as well.
He'd needed to do that. Couldn't exactly go back to Earth and college looking like a thirty-year-old man when barely a day had passed.
Mark stepped back and looked at his ship with pride.
Thirteen years. Thirteen years of work, of struggle, of constant improvement.
Three Years After Gravitational acquirement
The gravity room had been Mark's first major project after establishing his plan.
It had taken three months of research, of trial and error, of nearly crushing himself more times than he cared to remember.
But he'd done it.
A chamber reinforced with Flaxan armor plating and lined with gravitational field generators he'd built from scavenged technology. Inside, Mark could increase gravity by factors of ten, twenty, fifty, or more.
He'd started at twice Earth's gravity. It had felt like wearing a weighted blanket made of lead.
Then five times. Walking became a struggle. Flying took conscious effort.
Then ten times. Every movement was a battle. Every breath required focus.
He'd pushed himself higher and higher, his Viltrumite physiology adapting, his muscles becoming denser, his bones becoming stronger.
Twenty times gravity. Thirty. Fifty.
And now, after years of constant training, he could function—with some struggle—at ninety times Earth's gravity.
Ninety times.
In that environment, every punch he threw carried the force of a meteor. Every step cratered the reinforced floor. Every breath felt like inhaling concrete.
And it had made him strong.
Exponentially stronger than he'd been when he arrived. Stronger than the Mark who'd fought the Flaxans on Earth. Stronger than he'd ever imagined possible.
The gravity room sat adjacent to his workshop now, powered down but ready. Mark looked at it and felt a surge of satisfaction.
That room had forged him into something more than human. More than just Viltrumite.
Into something truly invincible.
ONE YEAR AFTER THE GRAVITY ROOM
The temporal stabilization bracelet had been the next challenge.
Mark had studied the Flaxan technology extensively, understanding how it created a localized time field around the wearer. But the Flaxan version was designed to speed up their aging to match Earth's timeline. Mark needed the opposite.
He'd spent a year redesigning it, miniaturizing the components, improving the efficiency.
The day he'd successfully tested it had been one of the best of his life.
He'd watched a timer count down while wearing the bracelet. One hour passed on the timer. But for Mark, only one minute had passed subjectively.
He could control his aging. Stop it entirely if he wanted. Or slow it to a crawl.
Which meant he could still pass for a teenager when he got back to Earth. Could still go to college. Could still maintain his cover.
Perfect.
TWO YEARS AFTER THE BRACELET
By year twelve, Mark had absorbed everything the Flaxan civilization had to offer.
He'd infiltrated their universities, stolen their research, hacked their databases. He'd learned their physics, their chemistry, their biology, and their engineering. He understood their society, their culture, their history.
And he'd come to a realization that made his jaw clench:
There was no saving them.
The Flaxan Empire's doctrine of conquest wasn't just policy—it was identity. It was woven into every aspect of their culture, their education, their collective psyche. They'd been raised for generations believing that conquering other dimensions was their manifest destiny. Their right. Their purpose.
Mark had tried to find dissidents, rebels, anyone who questioned the status quo.
There were none.
Or rather, there had been none. Anyone who'd questioned the doctrine had been "re-educated" or eliminated centuries ago.
The Flaxan Empire was a monolithic war machine pointed at the multiverse, and there was no stopping it from within.
Which left only one option:
Destroy it from without.
Mark had made his decision. When his ship was complete, when he had everything he needed, he would do exactly what his father had done in the original timeline.
He would tear this planet apart.
Not out of cruelty. Not out of hatred.
Out of necessity.
Because if he didn't, they would just keep coming. Keep invading. Keep killing.
And Earth—his home—would eventually fall.
So, Mark had spent the last year gathering what he needed, packing it away, preparing.
And finishing his ship.
PRESENT
Mark ran his hand along the ship's hull, feeling the cool metal under his palm.
The Milano—he'd decided to call it that, in honor of the design that inspired it—was perfect. Every system had been tested and retested. The engines could push it to incredible speeds. The shields could withstand tremendous punishment. The weapons systems—plasma cannons salvaged and improved from Flaxan technology—could level buildings.
And in the lower compartment, secured in a temporal stasis field, was his treasure trove.
Technology. Weapons. Power sources. Medical equipment. Scientific instruments. Data crystals containing the entirety of Flaxan knowledge.
Things that Earth's technology wouldn't achieve for centuries.
Things that would make him invaluable when he got home.
Things that would help save the world when the real threats came.
Mark climbed into the cockpit, settling into the pilot's seat he'd custom-built for his frame. The controls lit up at his touch, holographic displays showing system status, navigation data, power levels.
Everything was green.
He took a deep breath and activated the startup sequence.
The engines hummed to life, a deep thrumming that resonated through the ship's frame. The gravitational drive spun up, creating a barely perceptible field that made the ship feel lighter, more responsive.
Outside, the portion of the mountain Mark had carefully weakened over the past year began to crack.
He'd planned this moment carefully. The cave opening was too small for the ship, but the rock around it was structurally compromised. A little force, a little thrust, and it would all come apart cleanly.
Mark engaged the engines.
The Milano lifted smoothly off the ground, nose tilting upward. The mountain began to shake.
Then, with a sound like controlled demolition, an entire section of the mountain face broke apart and fell away, revealing the purple-red sky beyond.
The Milano shot through the opening, debris falling harmlessly around its shields.
Mark grinned as he felt the ship respond to his controls. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect.
He flew in a wide circle, testing maneuverability, acceleration, deceleration. The Milano handled like a dream—responsive, agile, powerful. The gravitational drive made atmospheric flight almost effortless, the ship cutting through the air with minimal resistance.
This is incredible, Mark thought, pushing the throttle forward. I actually did it. I built a spaceship.
He was so focused on testing the systems that he almost didn't notice the first plasma bolt streaking past his cockpit.
Almost.
Mark's grin faded, replaced by a frown.
He looked down and saw what he'd expected: a Flaxan military response. Fighters scrambling from a nearby base. Ground-to-air defenses powering up. Artillery tracking his trajectory.
They'd finally noticed him.
After thirteen years of hiding, of stealing, of systematically undermining their infrastructure—they'd finally realized he was still here.
And they were going to make him pay.
More plasma bolts streaked toward the Milano. Mark activated the energy shields with a thought, and the attacks splashed harmlessly against the barrier.
He brought the ship around, hovering in place, and stared down at the Flaxan military forces gathering below.
Enough is enough.
He'd taken everything he needed. Learned everything they had to teach. Built everything he wanted to build.
It was time to end this.
Mark activated the ship's external speakers and opened a channel. When he spoke, it was in perfect, unaccented Flaxan—the language he'd mastered over years of study.
"Attention, Flaxan military forces. This is your final warning." His voice boomed across the landscape, amplified by the ship's systems. "I am offering you one chance to surrender. Lay down your weapons. Abandon your posts. Return to your homes and families."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"Anyone who does not surrender will die. These are the consequences of your Empire's actions. This is what happens when you threaten my home."
The response was immediate.
A barrage of plasma fire erupted from every defensive position within range. Hundreds of bolts converged on the Milano from all angles.
They splashed uselessly against the shields.
Mark closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Alright then. You made your choice.
He opened his eyes, and they were cold. Hard. The eyes of someone who'd made an impossible decision and would see it through.
Mark opened the Milano's rear door and floated out, his black spacesuit—a sleek, form-fitting design inspired by Superman's suit from Man of Steel but without the cape or symbol—gleaming in the light of the three suns.
He hovered in front of his ship, arms crossed, as plasma bolts bounced harmlessly off his skin.
Then he slowly closed his fist.
And took a deep breath.
I'm sorry it had to be this way.
But you left me no choice.
Mark shot forward like a bullet, faster than he'd ever moved before.
The destruction was systematic. Methodical. Absolute.
Mark flew in long, straight, efficient lines, prioritizing critical infrastructure. He targeted power plants first—the massive fusion reactors that powered their cities. He punched through containment fields and destabilized cores, causing chain reactions that obliterated entire city blocks.
Then came the military installations. Barracks. Armories. Command centers. He tore through them like tissue paper, his body moving so fast he left a sonic boom in his wake that shattered windows for miles.
The crimson and black of his suit was obscured by a halo of orange-red plasma—the result of atmospheric friction at the speeds he was moving. Vaporized debris trailed behind him in a massive, perpetual storm cloud of pulverized rock and dust.
He flew through buildings, and they imploded from the vacuum and pressure change. Milliseconds later, secondary explosions from destabilized power cores and collapsing structures created mushroom clouds that rose miles into the purple sky.
The Flaxans tried to fight back.
Their latest-generation weapons fired uselessly at him. Their fighters scrambled to intercept, only to be swatted from the sky. Their strongest warriors, their elite soldiers, their champion fighters—all fell before him like wheat before a scythe.
This wasn't a brawl.
This wasn't a battle.
This was an extermination.
Mark was cold. Focused. Utterly merciless.
He systematically destroyed every population center he'd catalogued over the years. Every city. Every town. Every military base. Every power source.
The flight itself was an act of weaponization—his entire body turned into an instrument of planetary destruction. He was using the fundamental forces of physics—velocity, momentum, kinetic energy—as agents of annihilation.
Cities that had stood for thousands of years were reduced to rubble in seconds.
Infrastructure that had taken centuries to build was obliterated in minutes.
An entire civilization, wiped from existence.
Hours later—or maybe days, time became meaningless in the chaos—Mark made one final pass across the planet's surface.
He flew low, surveying the devastation.
Where there had once been gleaming cities, there was now only ruin. Where there had once been armies, there was now only silence. Where there had once been a civilization, there was now only a tomb.
The three suns cast their overlapping shadows across a world of ash and broken stone.
Mark had done what he'd set out to do.
He'd torn the planet apart.
He felt... nothing. No satisfaction. No remorse. Just a hollow emptiness and the certain knowledge that this had been necessary.
They would have kept coming, he reminded himself. They would have invaded Earth. Would have killed millions. This was the only way to protect my home.
The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.
Even if the few numbered in the billions.
Mark activated his comm link. "Milano, come to my coordinates."
The ship descended from orbit where he'd sent it to avoid the destruction, its shields gleaming as it navigated through the debris-filled atmosphere.
The rear door opened, and Mark floated inside.
He settled into the pilot's seat, hands moving across the controls with practiced ease. The dimensional gate activation sequence appeared on the holographic display.
Home. I'm finally going home.
Mark's fingers hesitated over the controls for just a moment.
Thirteen years. Thirty years, subjectively. An entire second lifetime spent in this hell dimension.
And on Earth, barely a day had passed..
But he was going back.
Stronger. Smarter. Better prepared.
With a ship full of technology that would change everything.
With knowledge that could save the world.
With power that could protect the people he loved.
Mark took a deep breath and activated the cloaking system. The Milano shimmered and vanished from normal space, becoming invisible to sensors and the naked eye alike.
Then he initiated the dimensional gate.
Reality tore open in front of the ship—a swirling vortex of green energy that led home.
Mark pushed the throttle forward, and the Milano shot through the portal.
EARTH – TEEN TEAM HIDEOUT - 11:43 PM
Robot worked alone in his workshop, his mechanical hands assembling another surveillance drone with precise, efficient movements.
He didn't require sleep. Didn't experience boredom. Could work continuously for days without degradation in performance.
Which made him ideal for monitoring potential threats 24/7.
The Flaxan dimensional detector he'd built—cobbled together from salvaged equipment and theoretical physics that pushed the boundaries of Earth's scientific knowledge—sat in the corner, its sensors constantly scanning for the specific energy signature of dimensional rifts.
It hadn't gone off once in the past twenty-four hours since Mark's disappearance.
Robot had calculated the probabilities of Mark's survival at 47.3%. Not impossible, but not favorable. Every hour that passed without contact lowered those odds further.
The Teen Team was taking it hard. Eve especially. She'd barely slept, spending every waking moment either patrolling or sitting in their headquarters staring at the spot where the portal had closed.
Rex was trying to be supportive but didn't know how. Dupli-Kate was processing it in her own way, throwing herself into training.
And Robot... Robot continued monitoring. Calculating. Preparing.
Because that's what he did.
Then the detector screamed to life.
Alarms blared. Lights flashed. The holographic display erupted with data—energy signatures, dimensional coordinates, probability matrices.
A portal was opening.
Flaxan energy signature confirmed. Location: Warehouse district, sector 7. Time to manifestation: 10 minutes.
Robot immediately activated the emergency comm system.
"All Teen Team members, report to warehouse district, sector 7, immediately. Dimensional incursion detected."
Eve's voice came through instantly, sharp and alert despite the late hour. "Is it Mark?"
"Unknown. Flaxan energy signature detected. Could be another invasion. Could be... something else."
"I'm on my way."
Robot also opened a channel to the GDA. "Director Stedman, this is Robot. Dimensional portal opening in warehouse district. Recommend immediate mobilization of response teams."
Cecil's voice was groggy but quickly sharpening. "Another invasion? How many are we looking at?"
"Unknown. Recommending we prepare for worst-case scenario."
"What if it's Mark?" Cecil asked. "What if he found a way back?"
"Then we will ascertain that when the portal opens," Robot replied. "Until then, we prepare for hostile contact."
"Understood. GDA units are en route."
The Teen Team assembled at the Location where the portal would open within minutes.
Eve arrived first, flying in at top speed, her face set with determination and barely contained hope.
Rex and Dupli-Kate arrived together, having been on patrol nearby.
Robot descended last, his sensors already scanning the area where the portal would manifest.
"Readings?" Eve asked immediately.
"Portal will open in approximately seven minutes," Robot reported. "Location confirmed—fifty meters ahead, elevated position. Interesting."
"What's interesting?" Rex asked.
"The location. It's away from the city center. Away from populated areas. Away from potential civilian casualties." Robot's green eyes flickered. "This is inconsistent with previous Flaxan invasion patterns. They typically target high-density population centers for maximum disruption."
"Maybe they learned," Dupli-Kate suggested.
"Perhaps." Robot didn't sound convinced.
GDA units began arriving—armored vehicles, specialized response teams, heavy weapons. Cecil himself appeared in a flash of blue static, immediately surveying the situation.
"Status?"
"Five minutes to portal opening," Robot said. "All units in position. No civilian presence detected in the area."
"Good." Cecil pulled out a tablet and started coordinating defensive positions. "If it's hostiles, we hit them hard and fast. No repeat of last time."
Eve said nothing, just stared at the empty air where the portal would open, her hands glowing faintly pink.
Please be him, she thought. Please, please, please be him.
T-MINUS 30 SECONDS
Everyone tensed. Weapons were raised. Powers activated. Cecil's hand hovered over his teleportation device.
Robot's sensors tracked the building energy signature with precise accuracy.
T-MINUS 10 SECONDS
"Here we go," Rex muttered, his hands sparking.
T-MINUS 5 SECONDS
The air began to shimmer.
T-MINUS 3 SECONDS
Reality warped.
T-MINUS 1 SECOND
The portal tore open.
Green energy crackled and swirled, a massive rift in reality that was identical to the ones the Flaxans had used before.
Everyone waited, weapons trained on the opening.
Seconds passed.
Nothing emerged.
The portal hung in the air, swirling, waiting.
Then it snapped shut.
Gone.
Silence.
Eve's face fell. Her hands dropped to her sides, the pink glow fading.
Rex lowered his hands, looking confused. "What the hell? Did Robot's detector malfunction or—"
"Wait," Robot said sharply. "Detecting residual energy signature. Something came through. Something cloaked."
"Cloaked?" Cecil stepped forward. "What do you mean cloaked?"
"I mean—" Robot's eyes flashed brighter. "I mean something is here. We just can't see it."
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then, fifty feet above them, the air rippled.
And a spaceship appeared.
Not faded into view. Not slowly materialized.
Just suddenly was, as if it had always been there and they'd somehow forgotten to notice it.
The Team backed up, weapons raising again, staring at the craft hovering silently above them.
It was beautiful. Sleek. Dangerous-looking. Dark orange and grey with black accents, about the size of a small private jet. The design was unlike anything they'd seen before—not Flaxan, not human, something in between.
And it was completely silent, hovering effortlessly on technology that shouldn't exist.
The rear door hissed open.
A figure floated out slowly, backlit by the ship's interior lights.
Male. About six feet tall. Broad-shouldered and muscular. Wearing a black spacesuit that looked like something from a high-budget sci-fi movie.
The ship's external lights activated, illuminating the figure as he floated forward.
He had a trimmed mustache. His face was sharp, angular, handsome in a weathered sort of way. He looked maybe twenty-five, twenty-six years old.
His eyes swept across the assembled heroes and soldiers, taking them in with a calculating gaze that spoke of hard-won experience.
Then his eyes found Eve.
And he smiled. Small. Warm. Genuine.
Eve stared at him, her mind racing. Something about him was familiar. Something in the eyes, in the way he moved, in the way he looked at her.
But she couldn't place it. Couldn't—
The man floated closer and spoke.
"Hi, Eve." His voice was deeper than she remembered, but unmistakable. "Long time no see."
Eve's eyes went wide.
Her hands flew to her mouth.
No. It can't be. He's too old. It's been less than a day. He should look the same. He should—
"Mark?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
The man—Mark—nodded. "Yeah. It's me."