"Don't be the rider who gallops all night and never sees the horse that is beneath him." - Rumi
CHICAGO - INDUSTRIAL DISTRICT - NIGHT
Two men stood at the corner of a nondescript warehouse, smoking cigarettes and talking in low voices. They wore leather jackets and had the kind of hard faces that came from years of doing things they'd rather not think about.
They were lookouts. Muscle. The first line of defense for the operation happening inside.
A figure emerged from the shadows across the street.
Tall. Muscular. African-American. Bald. Wearing a grey hoodie that did nothing to hide his imposing build.
"Hey," one of the lookouts called out, his hand moving toward the gun under his jacket. "This is private property. You need to—"
He pulled off his hoodie.
His skin transformed instantly—flesh becoming stone, his entire exterior body turning rock-like and grey. His face lost its prominent features, becoming a smooth stone surface, though his eyes, mouth, and ears remained somehow functional despite the transformation.
The lookouts pulled their guns.
Titan charged.
He moved with surprising speed for someone made of living rock, closing the distance in seconds. The first lookout fired—three shots, center mass. The bullets ricocheted off Titan's stone body, sparking harmlessly.
Titan grabbed the man by the throat and threw him through the warehouse wall.
The second lookout turned to run.
Titan grabbed him by the back of his jacket and hurled him after his partner, both men crashing through the brick and landing in a heap inside.
Titan walked through the hole he'd made, his stone feet crunching on broken brick and concrete.
Inside, the warehouse was exactly what he'd expected—a drug processing operation. Dozens of people working at tables, cutting and packaging product. Armed guards stationed at regular intervals. Money being counted in the back.
All of it belonging to Mr. Liu, who'd been encroaching on Machine Head's territory.
Everyone turned to look at the stone man who'd just burst through their wall.
"Shit!" someone yelled. "It's Titan!"
The guards opened fire.
Bullets pinged off Titan's body like rain hitting a statue. He didn't even slow down.
He grabbed the nearest guard and used him as a battering ram, swinging the man into two others. They went down in a tangle of limbs. Titan dropped the unconscious guard and moved deeper into the warehouse.
A man with a shotgun appeared, firing both barrels point-blank into Titan's chest.
Titan grabbed the shotgun, ripped it from the man's hands, and bent it in half like it was made of cardboard. Then he headbutted the man, knocking him out cold.
More guards rushed him. Titan moved through them like a force of nature—punching, throwing, breaking. His stone fists shattered bones. His stone body was impervious to their weapons. Within ninety seconds, every guard in the warehouse was either unconscious or Dead.
The workers had fled, leaving their product behind. The only people left were Titan and the man in charge—a middle-aged Chinese man in an expensive suit, standing behind a desk in the back office.
And a teenager, no more than sixteen, cowering behind the desk.
Titan walked toward them, his heavy footsteps echoing through the now-silent warehouse.
"You're making a mistake," the man in the suit said, trying to sound confident. "Mr. Liu will not tolerate—"
Titan grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the ground.
"If Mr. Liu sets foot on this turf again," Titan said, his stone voice rumbling like grinding rocks, "I will be less gentle next time."
He snapped the man's neck with a casual twist.
The teenager behind the desk screamed.
Titan dropped the body and looked at the kid. The boy was trying to back away, tears streaming down his face, clearly expecting to die.
"The message was for you," Titan said, his tone slightly softer. "Tell Mr. Liu what happened here. Tell him Machine Head owns this territory. Tell him to stay away."
He turned and walked out through the hole he'd made, leaving the teenager alive to deliver the message.
Behind him, the warehouse was a disaster—broken bodies, shattered equipment, spilled product.
CHICAGO - RESIDENTIAL AREA - NEXT DAY
Titan stood across the street from a burning house, watching flames consume the second floor. Fire trucks were pulling up, firefighters preparing to enter.
He looked at the gasoline can in his hand.
Machine Head had been clear: the family living there owed money. They'd refused to pay. So the house burns. A message to others who might think about refusing.
Titan had started the fire. Had poured gasoline through the first-floor windows.
Now he was supposed to make sure no one put it out too quickly.
He hurled the gasoline can through a third-floor window. The explosion that followed made the firefighters fall back, yelling into their radios for more support.
A man approached Titan from the side—the homeowner, his face covered in soot, tears streaming down his face.
"Why?" the man choked out. "Why are you doing this? We have children in there!"
Titan looked at him. Saw the desperation. The fear. The helplessness.
He pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket—his own money, not Machine Head's—and pressed it into the man's hands.
"There's a shelter on Madison Street," Titan said quietly. "They'll take you in, no questions asked. This should cover you for a few months while you find a new place."
The man stared at the money, then at Titan, confused.
"Just go," Titan said, his voice harder. "And don't come back to this neighborhood."
He turned and walked away, leaving the man standing there holding money given to him by the person who'd burned his house down.
Another day. Another compromise.
CHICAGO - VARIOUS LOCATIONS
Titan stood in a cramped apartment, facing a thin man with hollow eyes who clutched a young girl—maybe eight years old—behind him.
"Please," the man begged. "I'll get the money. I just need more time. My daughter, she's sick, the medical bills—"
Titan looked at the girl. She was pale, thin, clearly unwell. She stared at him with wide, frightened eyes.
He held out his hand. The man hesitantly placed an envelope in it—everything he had, probably. Not nearly enough to cover his debt to Machine Head.
Titan took it and walked out without a word.
Machine Head would never see that envelope. Titan would report the debt as paid in full.
Another compromise. Another lie.
Titan smashed through the reinforced doors of a research facility, alarms blaring all around him. Two security guards raised their weapons—not standard firearms, but some kind of advanced energy weapons.
"I'm here for the chip," Titan announced calmly. "If you want to live, don't shoot at me."
The guards looked at each other.
Then they both aimed at the ceiling and emptied their entire charges, firing wildly into the lights and ceiling tiles, filling the air with smoke and sparks.
Titan walked past them to a secure locker, ripped the door off its hinges, and retrieved a small electronic chip—exactly what Machine Head had sent him to get.
As he walked back past the guards, one of them winked at him.
Titan nodded slightly in acknowledgment.
MACHINE HEAD'S PENTHOUSE - CHICAGO
The top floor of one of Chicago's tallest buildings had been converted into a personal fortress. Bulletproof glass. Armed guards. Security systems that would make Fort Knox jealous.
And at the center of it all, sitting behind a massive desk made of Italian Maple, was Machine Head.
His appearance was impossible to ignore. His head and neck were entirely mechanical—made from grey metal alloy. His face plate was black with yellow lines surrounding his mouth and eyes, and one line crossed horizontally over his forehead like a luchador's mask. His mouth and eyes glowed magenta, with pink T-shaped lines on each eye that converged into a U-shape inside his mouth.
He wore a white suit with a white undershirt and pants, a pink necktie, and black shoes. Everything about him screamed wealth and power.
Titan entered the office, his stone form reverting to flesh as he walked. He tossed the chip onto Machine Head's desk.
"Job's done," Titan said flatly.
Machine Head picked up the chip with his mechanical fingers and inserted it into a port on the side of his head. His LED lights flared brightly as data downloaded directly into his systems.
"Excellent," Machine Head said, his voice synthesized and slightly distorted. "My investments in biotech are about to become very profitable."
"I'm done," Titan said.
Machine Head's LED lights stopped flaring. His magenta eyes focused on Titan. "Excuse me?"
"I'm done working for you. This is my last job. I quit."
Machine Head leaned back in his chair, his mechanical face unreadable but somehow conveying amusement. "You don't quit, Titan. You work for me until I say otherwise."
"I've done everything you asked. Paid my debt—"
"Your debt will never be paid," Machine Head interrupted in a sing song voice. "Because you don't serve to negotiate or think. You serve to break heads. That's all you're good for. That's all you'll ever be good for."
Titan's hands clenched into fists. His skin started to turn stone at the edges as his anger rose.
"Careful," a voice said from behind him.
Titan turned to see Isotope standing there—a Caucasian man with green hair tied back and a goatee, wearing a black shirt with a white "I" logo and a violet business suit.
Isotope's power was teleportation. One of Machine Head's most dangerous enforcers.
"You're proving his point," Isotope said calmly, gesturing to Titan's partially transformed hands.
Titan turned back to Machine Head and slammed his fists down on the desk. The expensive wood shattered, splitting down the middle.
"See?" Machine Head said, his synthesized voice carrying a note of satisfaction. "All muscle. No control. No restraint. Exactly why you work for me and not the other way around."
Titan stared at him for a long moment, rage and helplessness warring inside him.
Then he turned and left without another word.
Isotope watched him go, then looked at Machine Head. "He's going to be a problem."
"Let him try," Machine Head said, his LED lights flaring as he calculated probabilities. "I own him. Body and soul."
TITAN'S APARTMENT - LATER THAT EVENING
The apartment was small but clean. Modest furniture. Children's drawings on the refrigerator. Photos on the walls showing happier times.
Titan—back to his human form, wearing jeans and a T-shirt—entered through the front door and immediately put on a smile.
"Daddy!" A little girl, maybe six years old, came running toward him.
He scooped her up, hugging her tight. "Hey, princess. I got you something."
He pulled out a small container—dessert from a nice restaurant. Her favorite.
"Chocolate mousse!" she squealed with delight.
His wife, Ayana, emerged from the kitchen. She was beautiful, tired, and looking at him with a mixture of love and disappointment.
"You were out late again," she said quietly.
"Just work."
"Work for him?"
Titan didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Ayana sighed and turned back to the kitchen. "Dinner's almost ready."
Their daughter took her dessert to the living room, and Titan followed, sinking into the couch with a weariness that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion.
Through their terrace window—they were on the fifteenth floor—his daughter suddenly gasped and pressed her face against the glass.
"Daddy, look! It's Invincible!"
Titan stood and walked to the window. Sure enough, flying through the Chicago skyline was a figure in black and red, carrying what looked like an unconscious villain with elephant-like features.
His daughter stared in awe. "Is Invincible a good person, Daddy?"
Titan watched the hero disappear into the distance. "People say he is, princess. He tries to help people."
"Like you?"
Titan felt something twist in his chest. "Yeah. Like me. I try to be a good person too."
His daughter smiled up at him with complete trust and went back to her dessert.
Titan stood at the window for a long time after, staring at the city lights and thinking about the difference between trying to be good and actually being good.
GRAYSON HOUSEHOLD - BEDROOM CLOSET
Debbie shivered slightly as she rummaged through the back of the closet, looking for a sweater. The nights were getting colder, and the house always seemed to retain the chill.
Her hand touched something that didn't belong.
A notebook. Leather-bound. Unfamiliar.
She pulled it out and opened it.
The handwriting was angular, aggressive, written in black ink that looked almost like it had been burned into the pages.
Damien Darkblood's notebook.
How did this get in my closet? Debbie thought. Then she remembered—Darkblood had been in her house. Multiple times. He must have left it behind, hidden it for her to find.
She flipped through the pages.
Notes. Observations. Crime scene analysis. Witness statements. Photos.
All related to the Guardians massacre.
Her hands trembled as she read.
Seven dead. One survivor. No signs of forced entry. No evidence of external attack. All deaths consistent with massive blunt force trauma...
Security footage corrupted in all locations. Too convenient. Too perfect.
Omni-Man's testimony inconsistent with physical evidence. Claims he was overwhelmed and left for dead, but sustained minimal injuries. Healed completely within 48 hours.
Theory: Attacker knew the victims. Knew their powers. Knew how to kill them quickly. Had to be someone with insider knowledge...
Page after page of evidence. Logic. Deduction.
And at the end, a single sentence underlined three times:
CANNOT OBTAIN NOLAN GRAYSON'S COSTUME FOR ANALYSIS. ONLY PIECE OF EVIDENCE MISSING.
Debbie's breath caught.
She remembered Nolan insisting on getting his costume back when he'd been released from the hospital. How urgent he'd been about it. How he'd refused to let the GDA keep it for "routine analysis."
At the time, she'd thought nothing of it. Now...
She took the notebook into the bathroom, locked the door, and sat on the edge of the tub, reading every page carefully.
By the time she finished, tears were streaming down her face.
No, she thought. No, it can't be true. It can't be.
But the evidence was there. Cold. Logical. Undeniable.
Her husband had killed his team.
THE MOON
Mark lay flat on the surface of the Moon, his arms in a bench press position, a massive meteor resting on his hands above his chest.
Cecil had told him about this meteor—a rogue chunk of space rock that had been on a collision course with Earth. Mark had intercepted it, and instead of destroying it, he'd decided to use it for training.
"Four ninety-nine," Mark grunted, his muscles straining against the combined weight of the meteor and the fifty times Earth gravity generated by the belt concealed under his suit.
The belt had been one of his side projects during the Mars mission—a miniaturized version of the Milano's gravity chamber, small enough to wear constantly. It was always active, always pushing his body to its limits.
"Five hundred!"
He pushed the meteor up with explosive force, then stood and grabbed it with both hands. He spun once, building momentum, then hurled it back into deep space.
The meteor shot away like a bullet, disappearing among the stars.
Mark watched it go for a moment, then launched himself toward Earth at maximum speed.
The flight took him 2.5 seconds. A new personal record.
He streaked through the atmosphere, flames licking at his suit harmlessly, and descended over Chicago.
Been a good few days, Mark thought as he flew. The Martian—who apparently wanted to be a hero and had tried to replace an astronaut but failed and just hitched a ride—is in GDA custody. Cecil's training him, figuring out if he's hero material.
I told Cecil the guy has potential. Weird, but potential.
Mark had spent the last few days in Chicago, stopping small incidents—muggings, car accidents, a few low-level villains. Nothing major. Just keeping the city safe after school work was done.
His communicator beeped.
Mark looked down and saw his name spelled out on a rooftop using what looked like construction lights.
There we go.
CHICAGO ROOFTOP
Mark landed on the rooftop to find Titan waiting for him. The man was in his human form, wearing his grey hoodie, his expression serious.
"Nice to meet you," Titan said, extending his hand.
Mark shook it, his enhanced senses automatically cataloging information—Titan's heartbeat (elevated, nervous), his muscle tension (ready for action), his body language (defensive but hopeful).
"Nice to meet you too," Mark replied. "Should I call you Titan? Because I know about the work you do for Machine Head. The warehouse incident. The house fire. The debt collections."
Titan's eyes widened slightly. "How do you—"
"I pay attention," Mark said. "And I know you're not a bad person. Just someone in a bad situation."
Titan relaxed slightly. "I need help. I only need a little money for my family, and then I'm out. But my boss won't let me go. He runs this city—drugs, weapons, human trafficking, everything. I want to take him down, but I can't do it alone."
"Machine Head," Mark said. "Yeah, I know who he is. Been wanting to deal with him for a while, but he's protected by lawyers and legal technicalities. Hard to touch him without solid evidence."
"I can give you evidence," Titan said. "Names, dates, locations. Everything. But I need your help with the actual takedown. He's got powered enforcers. Dangerous people."
Mark considered it. Taking down Machine Head meant taking on his entire organization. Which meant potentially fighting Battle Beast—one of the strongest beings in the universe.
Could I survive a fight with Battle Beast? Mark wondered. Maybe. But maybe not. Still... can't back down from this. Too important.
"I'll help you," Mark said. "But you need to understand something—this is going to be dangerous. Really dangerous. Machine Head doesn't play around."
"I know," Titan said. "But I have to try. For my family."
"Alright then." Mark pulled out his phone. "Give me everything you have on Machine Head. Operations, schedules, security systems. We'll plan this carefully and hit him when he's most vulnerable."
They spent the next twenty minutes going over details, with Titan providing information and Mark asking pointed questions.
Finally, Mark's phone rang. His mom.
"Hey," he answered.
"Mark, honey, are you coming home for dinner tonight?" Debbie's voice sounded strained, tired.
"Yeah, Mom. I'll be there. On my way now."
"Good. I love you."
"Love you too."
He hung up and looked at Titan. "We'll meet again in three days. I'll have a plan by then. In the meantime, act normal. Don't do anything that tips Machine Head off."
"Understood."
Mark took off, flying toward his campus to grab Eve before heading to his parents' house.
UPSTATE UNIVERSITY - EVENING
Mark landed on the roof of his dorm building and changed into civilian clothes quickly. He'd finished most of his assignments earlier in the week, but he wanted to knock out a few more before dinner.
An hour later, there was a knock on his door.
Eve floated in—literally, hovering a few inches off the ground because she could.
"Hey," she said, looking exhausted. "Mind if I hang out for a bit?"
"Course not. What's up?"
Eve sank into his desk chair and sighed. "My dad. He's being impossible about the whole superhero thing. Keeps saying I'm wasting my potential, that I should be in school full-time, that being a Guardian is 'playing dress-up.'"
"Even after you broke up with Rex?"
"Especially after that. He thinks I'm throwing my life away for 'costume drama' instead of focusing on my future." Eve rubbed her eyes. "I tried explaining that I'm literally saving lives, but he just... he doesn't get it."
Mark sat on his bed, thinking carefully before responding. "My dad's the same way sometimes. Different reasons, but same result—he thinks I'm wasting time with team stuff instead of focusing on training and getting stronger."
"How do you deal with it?"
"I remember why I do this," Mark said. "Not for my dad's approval or anyone else's. I do it because people need help. Because I can make a difference. And if my dad—or your dad—doesn't get that, then that's their problem, not ours."
Eve smiled slightly. "When did you get so wise?"
"Thirteen years in another dimension. Gives you perspective."
They talked for another hour, Eve venting about her family situation while Mark listened and occasionally offered advice. Eventually, he glanced at his watch.
"Hey, you want to come to dinner at my parents' place? My mom's cooking, and she always makes too much food."
"You sure?"
"Absolutely. Fair warning though—my dad might be in a mood. He usually is lately."
"Sounds exactly like what I need," Eve said sarcastically. "Two disapproving fathers for the price of one."
Mark laughed. "Come on. Let's go."
They headed down to Mark's Corvette—and drove to the Grayson household, enjoying the ride and each other's company.
GRAYSON HOUSEHOLD
Debbie had outdone herself. Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, vegetables, fresh bread. The table was set beautifully, and the house smelled amazing.
But Debbie herself looked distracted. Distant. Like her mind was somewhere else.
"This looks amazing, Mrs. Grayson," Eve said as they sat down.
"Thank you, dear. Mark, would you say grace?"
They held hands around the table and Mark said a quick blessing, then they started eating.
"So," Nolan said after a few minutes, "how's school going?"
"Good," Mark replied. "Caught up on most of my assignments. Oh, and I met with someone today. A guy named Titan. He works for Machine Head—you know, the crime boss who runs Chicago?"
Nolan's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "Machine Head? Mark, what are you—"
"Titan wants to take him down," Mark continued. "He's being forced to work for Machine Head, and he wants out. He asked for my help, and I agreed."
"Absolutely not," Nolan said immediately. "You're not getting involved with that."
"Dad, Machine Head is—"
Nolan set his fork down. "You would be making a huge mistake, Mark. You're being used. And that problem is beneath you."
Mark felt his temper flare. "Beneath me? Helping someone is beneath me?"
"That's not what I—" Nolan looked at Debbie. "Tell him. Tell him this is a bad idea."
Debbie had been staring at her plate, not really eating. At Nolan's words, she looked up.
"Sometimes people are not who they appear to be," she said quietly, her eyes on Nolan. "But helping someone is never beneath you, Mark. Never."
The tension at the table thickened.
Before anyone could respond, both Mark and Eve's phones buzzed simultaneously.
"Lizard League attack downtown," Eve said, reading her alert.
"We gotta go," Mark said, standing up. "Sorry, Mom, Thanks for dinner."
"Be safe," Debbie said.
They rushed out, leaving Nolan and Debbie sitting in an uncomfortable silence.
DOWNTOWN
The Lizard League—a group of humanoid reptiles with various powers—were tearing through downtown, terrorizing civilians and causing destruction.
Mark and Eve arrived first, with Mark immediately engaging the largest of the creatures—a massive crocodile-man called King Lizard.
"Guardians are en route," Robot's voice came through their comms. "ETA three minutes."
"We'll handle it until then," Mark replied, dodging a swipe from King Lizard's claws and responding with a punch that sent the villain flying through a building holding back just enough to just knock him unconscious.
Eve created barriers to protect civilians while using projectile constructs to take down the smaller Lizard League members.
The rest of the Guardians arrived quickly—Robot coordinating, Rex, Blue rush, Kate handling crowd control, Monster Girl and Bulletproof taking on the muscle, Black Samson and Throwbolt providing tactical support with mark taking a seat back in observing them.
The battle was short and efficient. Within five minutes, every member of the Lizard League was unconscious and in custody.
GUARDIANS HEADQUARTERS
Back at headquarters, the team was in high spirits.
"To another win!" Rex shouted, holding up a beer. "Guardians undefeated!"
Most of the team had grabbed beers from the break room and were celebrating. Black Samson approached Mark with a questioning look, holding up a beer.
The entire room paused, everyone turning to look at Mark.
Mark was technically their leader along with Robot. And while Robot handled strategy and logistics, Mark was the one who set the tone—the one who pushed them in training, who didn't tolerate laziness or half-measures.
If Mark said no, the celebration would end immediately.
Mark looked at his team—exhausted but happy, proud of their accomplishment—and smiled.
"Have fun," he said. "You all did a good job tonight."
"Hell yeah!" Rex shouted, and the celebration resumed with renewed energy.
Even Black Samson shrugged and grabbed a beer, joining in the festivities.
Mark and Eve stood slightly apart from the group, along with Robot who didn't drink for obvious reasons.
"Good team you're building," Eve said quietly.
"We're building," Mark corrected. "Couldn't do it without you."
Eve smiled and they rejoined the celebration, enjoying the moment of victory.
GRAYSON HOUSEHOLD
Nolan and Debbie cleaned up from dinner in silence, the tension from earlier still hanging in the air.
Finally, Debbie spoke. "Why would you tell Mark that saving lives is beneath him?"
"That's not what I meant," Nolan said, scrubbing a plate a bit too forcefully. "I meant that Mark operates on a bigger scale. He shouldn't waste his time with street-level crime when he could be—"
"Could be what? More like you?" Debbie set down the dish she was drying. "When you first came to Earth, you knew nothing about humans. I taught you how to be a hero here. How to care about individual lives, not just big picture threats."
"This is different."
"How?"
Nolan opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. "Mark is trusting someone he shouldn't. Someone who works for a crime lord. He's not thinking clearly."
"Or maybe he sees something you don't," Debbie said. "Maybe he sees someone who needs help and deserves a second chance."
They finished cleaning in silence, but the words hung heavy between them.
"We both want Mark to make good choices," Debbie finally said.
"Yes," Nolan agreed. "We do."
But we have very different ideas about what 'good choices' means, Debbie thought, remembering the notebook hidden in her closet.
MAULER TWINS' LABORATORY - HIDDEN LOCATION
The cloning pod hissed as it opened, revealing a perfect copy of the Mauler Twin who'd built it.
The new clone, naked, his massive frame identical to his creator's.
The second twin immediately laid down on prepared tables. Mechanical arms descended from the ceiling, attaching electrodes to their heads.
ZAP.
Electricity coursed through their brains, synchronizing their memories, ensuring both had identical knowledge and experiences.
When it was over, they both sat up.
"Welcome to the world," the original said.
"Thank you, clone," the new twin replied.
"I'm not the clone! You are!"
"No, you are! I have all your memories, which means I'm the original!"
"That's not how it works!"
"Is too!"
"Is not!"
"I will never understand why you do that," a mechanical voice said from the shadows.
Both twins spun around to see Robot's orange and grey form stepping into the light, his human skull-shaped head with green eyes watching them impassively.
"Intruder!" one twin shouted.
They both grabbed weapons—improvised clubs made from lab equipment—and charged.
Robot stepped backward and positioned himself on top of the replication chamber—the device they'd just used to create the clone.
Both twins stopped immediately.
"One wrong move and I crush your most valuable equipment," Robot said calmly. "Then you'd have to rebuild it from scratch. Three months of work, minimum."
The twins looked at each other, then lowered their weapons.
"What do you want?" one asked.
"Your expertise," Robot replied. "I need help with tissue regrowth and DNA replication. Complex biological engineering beyond my current capabilities."
"Why would we help you?" the other twin demanded.
"Because you'll be rewarded handsomely. Money. Resources. Full pardons for your crimes. Whatever you want."
The twins looked at each other, having some kind of silent conversation.
Finally, one of them spoke. "What's the deal? Specifically?"
Robot's green eyes flickered. "I need you to build me a body."