☆ A distance night with Mohawk ♡
☆ Pt.1 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5
✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ First Watch ‧ ₊ ˚
☆ WC: 4k+ [Part 2]
☆ TW: Major Fluff ♡
☆ Author's Note: So I wanted to provide the POV/perspective from Mark, at least one of them. Just to give you readers a sideline perspective. I choose Mohawk Mark because he is one of the most popular, and who doesn't love his chaotic, sarcastic personality? - All in all, this chapter just provides some insight into how the mark’s view / sees y/n.
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♡ Mohawk Marks p.o.v ♡
Six fucking hours.
Mohawk Mark stared down at Y/N's unconscious form, still hardly believing she was real. The cabin felt too small, too quiet after the others had left-each of them casting lingering glances at Y/N before departing with thinly veiled reluctance. He caught Sinister's black and yellow suit from the corner of his eye, the demonic bastard's lips curling into that signature psychotic grin that made Mark's blood boil.
"Yeah, fuck off," Mohawk had sneered as they filed out, making sure to flip off Emperor Mark's retreating back, the yellow and blue-ish gray fluttering around him like he was some kind of goddamn royalty. "She's mine for now."
When the door finally closed, leaving him alone with her, the gravity of the situation hit him like a truck. She was here. Actually fucking here. Different universe, same face, same everything-but alive.
Not dead like his Y/N. And from that fight she'd put up against all eight of them, she was fucking strong. Stronger than his Y/N had been.
"Shit," he muttered, running his hand through his now-drooping mohawk, the black tips falling limply over his forehead. Dismissing his tattered suit, he looks around the cabin. "This place is a goddamn mess."
His eyes fell on the crumpled body of the cabin's former occupant, still leaking blood onto the rough wooden floor where Sinister had left him. The old man's eyes stared at nothing, his throat a gaping red hole, courtesy of Sinister's unnecessarily theatrical kill. The crimson puddle spread across the uneven floorboards, seeping into the cracks between the planks, filling the musty air with the coppery scent of death.
"Fucking drama queen couldn't just snap your neck, could he?" Mohawk grumbled, grabbing the corpse by its ankles, lifting the man like he weighed nothing. "Had to make a whole production out of it. Typical Sinister bullshit."
He carried the body toward the door, the blood trailing, leaving a dark smear across the floorboards. The dead weight was nothing to him; he could bench press a tank without breaking a sweat, but the awkwardness of maneuvering the stiffening corpse through the narrow doorway had him cursing up a storm.
"Motherfucking!-Tiny-ass-backwoods-piece of shit-CABIN!-" Each word punctuated with a violent tug of the fat man's body through the door frame, not wanting to destroy the cabin. Finally, with a sickening snap of ligaments, he just ripped the man's arms off and easily pulled the torso outside, blood spattering across his blue and black suit.
He stood on the small porch, taking a moment to breathe in the nice crisp cold night air. The forest surrounded them, ancient pines stretching toward a star-studded sky, their silhouettes black against the deep blue canvas.
No fire, no blood-curdling screams or destruction... His life felt instantly peaceful, now that he had Y/N back in it. A foreign feeling after eighteen months of rage and pain.
He sighed softly, scanning the dense forest surrounding them. No witnesses, no neighbors, nothing but trees and wilderness for miles. Perfect isolation.
With casual disregard, he hurled the corpse as far as he could, making sure to yeet the two severed arms as well, sending the body parts arcing high above the treeline miles away before disappearing into the forest with a distant, muffled crash.
"Rest in pieces, old timer," he snorted at his own joke, wiping his bloodied hands on his thighs. "Nothing personal. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong universe."
Back inside, he surveyed the cabin with critical eyes.
It was rustic, to put it kindly, a single room with a small kitchenette in one corner, its countertops stained with years of use, cupboards hanging slightly askew. A bathroom barely large enough to turn around in, with a shower that probably hadn't seen hot water since the Cold War. And a bed that had probably been new when Nixon was president, sagging in the middle under a faded quilt that smelled of mothballs and regret.
"This is bullshit," he muttered, kicking at a worn rug that might have once been colorful but now was just a sad, faded thing covering even sadder floorboards. "She deserves better than this shithole."
His eyes returned to Y/N, still lying motionless where they'd placed her on the floor. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, her face serene despite everything she'd been through. The angry red marks where the collar had dug into her neck stood out in stark contrast against her skin. A permanent scar burned into her delicate skin, a constant reminder of the GDA's cruelty.
"Fuck," he breathed, anger bubbling up inside him like magma. "I'll kill every last one of those GDA assholes. Turn their fucking building into a crater. Make them wish they'd never even thought about putting a collar on you."
He stood there for a moment, fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked, before forcing himself to focus. She needed rest, comfort. Not him raging uselessly about revenge.
"Let's get you somewhere more comfortable than the fucking floor," he said, kneeling beside her. His hands, hands that had crushed throats and shattered bones, hovered uncertainly above her for a moment before he gently steadied one under her head, the other beneath the small of her back. It felt strange being so careful; he'd spent most of his existence breaking things, not cradling them.
He laid her on the bed, but immediately grimaced at the musty smell that rose from the ancient mattress, picking her back up and gently tossing her over his shoulder with one arm. "Jesus Christ, this thing reeks worse than Prisoner Mark's armpits. And that's saying something-dude smells like he bathes in toxic waste."
On impulse, he stripped the bed, yanking off sheets that might have once been white but were now a dingy gray. They came away with a cloud of dust that had him coughing and cursing.
"Fucking disgusting," he spat, bundling the offending bedding and tossing it out the window, the glass shattering with a spray outside at the immense force. "Great, what now, genius?"
He searched through the cabin's sparse storage, finding only one spare set of sheets that didn't look much better than the ones he'd discarded.
Still, he struggled to make the bed, wrestling with fitted corners that refused to stay put and a flat sheet that somehow ended up more wrinkled than when he started.
"How the fuck does anyone do this shit?" he growled, giving the sheet a violent snap that nearly took out a lamp. "Is there a goddamn degree in bed-making I missed? No wonder Viltrumite Mark has that stick up his ass if this is what 'domestic life' is like."
After ten minutes of increasingly creative curses, he'd produced something vaguely resembling a made bed. It wasn't pretty, but it was better than the floor.
With exaggerated care, he placed Y/N on the fresh-well, fresher-sheets, arranging her limbs in what he hoped was a comfortable position.
Her hair fanned out around her head like a halo, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but stare at her bruised face, so peaceful in unconsciousness, so heartbreakingly familiar.
"There you go, sleeping beauty," he murmured, his usual harsh tone softening despite himself. "Not exactly five-star accommodation, but it's safe. Nobody's gonna hurt you here. Not while I'm around."
He stared at her face, drinking in every detail like a man dying of thirst.
Same lips, same curve of her cheekbones, same tiny scar above her right eyebrow. His fingers itched to trace that scar, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips, to reassure himself that she was real and not some cruel hallucination.
"Not gonna be a creep while you're knocked out," he told her unconscious form, shoving his hands to his sides, pinching at the fabric of his suit. "I'm an asshole, not a fucking monster. Though Sinister probably would've-" He cut himself off, unwilling to even think about what that psychopath might have done if left alone with her.
Still, he couldn't bring himself to move away from the bedside.
Instead, he dragged over the cabin's only chair, a rickety wooden thing that groaned ominously under his weight, and sat down to keep watch. The fading light cast long shadows across her face, highlighting the delicate arch of her cheekbones, the soft curve of her jaw.
The clock on the wall ticked loudly, marking off the seconds of his six-hour vigil. Outside, daylight was fading, golden light barely painting the darkened sky, filtering through the dusty windows and painting long shadows across the uneven floorboards. A tiny beam of sunlight caught particles of dust, making them dance like tiny stars in the otherwise dim room.
"So," he said to the silence, his voice oddly loud in the quiet cabin as he tapped his fingers together.
"Guess I should introduce myself, huh? I'm Mark. Well, obviously, I'm fucking Mark, you've seen eight of us now poor bastards. But I'm the best one. The rest are just cheap knockoffs."
He chuckled humorlessly, dragging his hand through his mohawk again, trying to reshape it into its usual spiky glory without much success. The black ends stuck out at odd angles, making him look more deranged than usual.
"They call me Mohawk Mark. Creative as shit, right? But in my universe, I'm just... Mark. Mark, who fucked up. Mark, who couldn't save you."
His voice caught on the last word, raw emotion surfacing before he could shove it back down. Memories he'd tried to bury came flooding back, her smile, her laugh, the way she'd roll her eyes at his worst jokes but laugh anyway. The way she'd been the only one who saw past his bullshit, who wasn't afraid to call him on it.
"You died," he said flatly, the words falling like stones in the quiet room. "In my universe. You fucking died, and it was my fault..."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at his bloodstained hands. Hands that had failed to save her when it mattered most.
"We were... together. Not just fucking, although that was pretty goddamn amazing, but really together. You were the only person who didn't take my shit, who pushed back when I was being a dick. Which was, you know, most of the time."
A bitter smile twisted his lips.
"I was such an arrogant prick. Thought I was invincible-ha, get it? Fucking hilarious, thought nothing could touch me. Or you, because you were with me. But then this asshole came along, this nobody with a grudge and some Anti-Viltrumite tech he'd stolen. Didn't even see him coming."
Mohawk's voice dropped to a whisper, his usual bravado stripped away.
"You pushed me out of the way. Can you believe that shit? ME. The guy who can stop a bullet with his fucking eyelash, and you... you just..."
He broke off, the memory too vivid-her body, broken and bleeding, in his arms. The way the Viltrumite tech had torn through her like she was made of tissue paper, leaving a gaping hole where her heart should have been.
The way her blood had felt, hot and sticky, pouring over his hands as he tried desperately to hold her together. The light instantly faded from her eyes as he screamed for help that wouldn't come in time.
"There was so much blood," he whispered, his voice cracking. "All over me, all over the ground. I tried to stop it, tried to hold you together, but it just kept coming. And you, you looked up at me, and you fucking smiled. Like you were happy it was you and not me. Then you tried to say something, but there was blood in your mouth, and you just... you just stopped. Right there in my arms."
He swallowed hard, his throat tight.
"You died protecting me. Me! The biggest asshole in the universe! The Invincible one! Who does that? Who throws away their life for someone like me?"
He stood abruptly, the chair skittering backward as he paced the small confines of the cabin, too much raw energy coursing through him to stay still. His footsteps echoed on the wooden floor, a counterpoint to the ticking clock.
"I buried you myself," he continued, the words pouring out now. "Wouldn't let anyone else touch you. Dug the grave with my bare hands, six feet deep in that spot by the lake you loved. Covered it with those wildflowers you were always going on about. And then I hunted down the fucker who killed you. Made him suffer. Made him beg. And when I was done, there wasn't enough left of him to bury."
He paused, staring out the window at the setting sun, its dying rays painting the forest in shades of gold and red.
"And then this multiverse bullshit started, and Angstrom found me. Said I could take my anger out on another world, another universe, and offered me something I wanted. Destroy a place where nothing mattered because it wasn't my reality. Sounded like a pretty sweet fucking deal at the time."
He stopped at the window, his brown eyes staring out at the darkening forest. The first stars were beginning to appear, tiny pinpricks of light in the deepening blue.
"But then we found you. Or I found you, I should say. Those other dipshits would've just zapped past you if I hadn't recognized you first. Would've missed you completely, the blind bastards."
He turned back to look at her, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable, all pretense and bravado stripped away.
"And now I don't know what the fuck to do. Because you're not her, not my Y/N. But you look like her, sound like her. And those assholes out there?" He jerked his thumb toward the door.
"They're going to try to take you for themselves. Each one of them. Emperor Mark with his 'I rule the world' bullshit. Viltrumite Mark probably wants to breed a whole army of super-soldiers with you. Phantom Mark might seem nice, but he's just as fucked up as the rest of us. No-Mask can't shut up about his friend William, but he'll want you too. Omni mark may seem mature and collected, but he's got a dark mind beneath that fucking stoic face. And Sinister?" He shook his head, a shiver running down his spine. "That guy gives me the creeps, and I'm not exactly squeamish."
He returned to the bedside, carefully perched on the edge of the mattress. The bed creaked beneath his weight, but held firm.
"But I found you first," he said, a possessive edge creeping into his voice. "And I'm not letting you go this time. No fucking way. I'd rather tear this whole universe apart."
He tentatively reached out, finally allowing himself to brush a strand of hair from her face. His touch was surprisingly gentle for hands that had torn through concrete and steel. His fingertips lingered, barely touching her skin, as if afraid she might shatter like glass.
"We should've had more time," he whispered. "In my universe, we should've had years. Decades. Instead, I got eighteen months, two weeks, and four days."
The specificity of the number hung in the air between them-every day counted, treasured, mourned.
"This time will be different," he promised, his voice hardening with determination. "I'll kill anyone who tries to hurt you. Including those alternate versions of me. They didn't protect their Y/Ns either, so they don't deserve you any more than I do."
A humorless laugh escaped him.
"I sound like a jealous psycho, don't I? Guess that's what losing you did to me. Made me fucking crazyyyy. But I don't care. You're here. You're alive. And I'm not letting you go."
Outside, twilight was deepening into night. Through the window, stars were beginning to appear, pin-pricks of light in the growing darkness. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, the sound carrying clearly in the still air.
Mohawk Mark settled more comfortably on the edge of the bed, his large frame incongruous with his gentle movements.
"Not gonna lie, this is gonna get messy," he told her unconscious form. "Eight Marks, all with their heads up their asses, all thinking they have some special claim on you? Recipe for disaster. Especially sinister..." He shook his head, a soft groan running through him. "Better if you stay far away from that psychopath."
He sighed, rubbing his slightly bruised face with both hands.
"And me? I just want a second chance. To do it right this time. To keep you safe."
His eyes drifted to the clock. Five hours and twenty-three minutes left of his watch.
"You know what's really fucked up?" he said conversationally, as if she might answer. "In those shitty romance movies you used to make me watch, there's always some speech about how 'if you love someone, let them go.' But that's bullshit. I let you go once, not by choice, and it broke me. So this time?"
His jaw set in a determined line. "This time I'm hanging on. I don't care if it's selfish or wrong or whatever. I get a do-over, and I'm taking it."
He reached out again, his fingertips barely brushing against her hand. Her skin was warm, alive, and the contact sent electricity shooting up his arm. How long had it been since he'd touched her? Since he'd felt anything but rage and emptiness?
"I just need you to wake up," he whispered. "Wake up and remember me somehow. Not likely, I know, but hey, a multiverse exists, so anything's possible, right? Maybe there's a version of you that remembers a version of me."
Mohawk Mark settled in for his vigil, his eyes never leaving Y/N's face, as if by sheer force of will he could bring her back to consciousness.
"Take your time," he said softly. "I've got five hours left, and I'm not going anywhere."
The cabin creaked and settled around them, the wooden beams contracting in the cooling night air. Moonlight now streamed through the window he'd broken, casting eerie shadows across the floor.
In the silence, his thoughts wandered, memories surfacing like bubbles in still water.
"Remember that time we went to that shitty carnival?" he asked her sleeping form, a genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You made me ride that ferris wheel even though my legs were too damn long for the seat. When it stopped at the top, you kissed me and said you liked seeing me vulnerable for once."
He laughed softly, the sound strange even to his own ears. When was the last time he'd laughed without bitter sarcasm?
"Or that night I came back from that fight with those Dinosaurus, all bloody and fucked up? You didn't say a word, just cleaned me up, bandaged what needed bandaging, then tore me a new one for being reckless. Said if I got myself killed, you'd find a way to bring me back just to kill me yourself."
His voice caught on the last word. The irony wasn't lost on him.
"Guess I'm the one who found a way to bring you back..."
He glanced at the clock again. Four hours and fifty-seven minutes.
"Sinister's got next watch," he muttered darkly. "No fucking way am I leaving you alone with him. Guy's more unhinged than I am, and that's saying something. The things he did in his universe..." He shuddered. "Let's just say even I've got lines I won't cross."
Mohawk stood up, restless energy making it impossible to sit still any longer. He paced the length of the cabin, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight.
"You should see Emperor Mark," he continued, needing to fill the silence. "Strutting around like he owns the fucking multiverse. 'I am the supreme ruler of Earth,' blah blah blah. Bet you'd have knocked him down a peg or two. You never did have patience for that kind of bullshit."
The memory of her standing up to him, hands on hips, not backing down even when he towered over her, made something twist painfully in his chest.
"You were never afraid of me," he said quietly. "Everyone else, even other Viltrumites, they'd flinch when I got angry. Not you. You'd get right up in my face, tell me to stop being a dramatic asshole." He smiled, a genuine one this time. "God, I loved that about you."
The word 'loved' hung in the air, and he froze, suddenly aware of what he'd said. Loved. Past tense. Because his Y/N was gone, and this woman on the bed, no matter how identical, wasn't her.
"Fuck," he whispered, running both hands through his hair. "This is so fucked up."
He moved to the kitchenette, rifling through the cupboards for anything to distract himself. Finding a bottle of whiskey, he uncapped it and took a long swig, grimacing at the burn.
"Tastes like piss," he muttered, but took another drink anyway. The alcohol wouldn't affect him, his metabolism was too efficient for that, but the ritual was comforting in its familiarity.
A sudden sound from outside had him instantly alert, the bottle forgotten as he moved silently to the window. His enhanced vision cut through the darkness, scanning the treeline for any sign of movement. A deer stepped cautiously into the clearing, ears twitching, and he relaxed marginally.
"Just Bambi," he said, returning to Y/N's bedside. "Though with our luck, it's probably Bambi with a grudge and a nuclear warhead."
He settled back into the chair, bottle dangling from his fingertips. For a while, he just watched her breathe, the steady rise and fall of her chest hypnotic in the quiet room.
"You know what scares me?" he finally said, voice barely above a whisper. "That you'll wake up, take one look at me, and see a monster. That you'll run screaming. That you'll hate me for what I am, what I've done."
He took another swig from the bottle.
"I wasn't always like this," he continued. "The hair, yeah, that was a rebellious phase that stuck. But the rest? The violence, the rage? That came after. After you died, after I realized that all my power meant jack shit when it mattered."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"I killed him slow," he admitted, voice flat. "The guy who took you from me. Made it last days. Kept him conscious the whole time. Told myself it was justice, but it was just... emptiness. Trying to fill a hole that couldn't be filled." He laughed bitterly. "Pretty fucking poetic for a guy who didn't graduate high school, huh?"
A soft moan from the bed had him instantly on his feet, bottle clattering forgotten to the floor. Y/N's eyelids fluttered, but didn't open, her face slightly contorting in pain.
"Y/N?" he whispered, heart hammering. "Can you hear me?"
She shifted slightly, a frown creasing her forehead, but remained unconscious.
He exhaled slowly, equal parts disappointed and relieved. He wasn't ready yet, didn't know what he'd say when those eyes finally opened and looked at him without recognition.
"Not yet, huh?" he murmured, gently adjusting the blanket around her shoulders. "That's okay. You've been through hell. Take your time."
He retrieved the bottle from where it had rolled under the bed, setting it on the nightstand.
"When you do wake up," he said, sinking back into the chair, "things are gonna get complicated. Eight Marks, each one thinking they've got dibs on you? It's gonna be a clusterfuck of epic proportions."
He studied her face in the moonlight, memorizing every detail all over again.
"But I'll be there," he promised. "I'll keep you safe from them, from the GDA, from whatever other bullshit this universe throws at us. Even if you don't remember me. Even if you never..." He swallowed hard. "Even if you never feel about me the way my Y/N did."
The clock ticked on, marking the passing minutes. Three hours and twenty-two minutes left.
"I should probably talk strategy," he said, switching gears. "Sinister and Emperor are the obvious threats. They'll try to use you, control you. Viltrumite's more subtle, but just as dangerous. No-Mask and Prisoner are wild cards, unpredictable. Omni should be okay for now, he's a wait to the last second type of guy. And Phantom..." He frowned. "He's the one to watch. Plays the sympathy card, all 'I miss my mom' and shit, but he's got an agenda. They all do."
He stood up again, too restless to remain seated.
"Only safe Mark in the bunch is me," he declared with dark humor. "And I'm a complete psychopath according to most psychiatric evaluations. So that's saying something."
As if in response to his self-assessment, Y/N's fingers twitched, curling slightly into the sheets.
He was at her side in an instant, his eyes glued to her hand, then her face, back to her hand. watching intently for any sign of consciousness.
"Y/N?" he whispered, hope creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. "You with me?"
Nothing. Just the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing.
"Fuck," he muttered, running a hand down his face. "Now I'm seeing things. Get it together, Mark."
He retreated to the window, staring out at the moonlit forest. The night was clear, stars scattered across the black velvet sky like diamonds.
In another life, they might have been lying on a blanket somewhere, her head on his chest as she pointed out constellations he pretended to be interested in.
"You used to love the stars," he said softly. "Could name all the constellations, all that shit. I never got it, they're just balls of gas burning billions of miles away, but you'd talk about them like they were magic."
He pressed his forehead against the cool glass.
"After you died, I couldn't look at them anymore. Kept thinking about how the light from some of those stars takes years to reach us. So maybe some of that light started its journey when you were still alive. Like some part of you was still out there, somewhere."
He laughed at himself, the sound hollow in the quiet room.
"Pathetic, right? Big bad Mohawk Mark, getting all philosophical about starlight." He shook his head. "The others would never let me live it down if they heard me now."
The thought of the other Marks sobered him. Each one was dangerous in his own way, each one a twisted reflection of what he might have become under different circumstances. And each one would want Y/N for himself.
"I won't share you," he said, turning back to face her. "Not with them, not with anyone. They can have this whole fucking universe to tear apart, but you? You're off-limits."
He returned to the bedside, sinking down onto the edge of the mattress. His hand hovered above hers, wanting to touch but hesitating.
"I know it's selfish," he admitted. "You're not my Y/N. You don't know me, don't owe me anything. But I've spent eighteen months in hell without you, and now you're here, and I just..." He exhaled sharply. "I just need a second chance."
Finally, he allowed himself to take her hand in his, engulfing her smaller fingers in his palm. Her skin was soft, warm, and alive. The simple contact made his chest constrict.
"When you wake up," he said, voice rough with emotion, "you can tell me to fuck off. You can run as far from me as you want. But until then, I'm staying right here. Keeping you safe."
A memory surfaced, Y/N in his kitchen, attempting to cook something complicated, cursing colorfully as smoke billowed from the oven. He'd laughed until she threw a dishrag at his head, then pulled her against him, still laughing as she pounded her fists against his chest in mock outrage.
"You used to say I was the worst boyfriend in the multiverse," he recalled, a smile tugging at his lips. "Turns out you were right, just not in the way you meant. There are literally seven other versions of me, and every single one of them is fucked up in their own special way."
He glanced at the clock again. Two hours and forty-five minutes.
"You know what? Sinister can go fuck himself. Emperor too. I'm not leaving when my time's up. If they want to try and move me, they're welcome to try."
He shifted, carefully arranging himself so he was sitting with his back against the headboard, her hand still clasped loosely in his. For the first time since she'd died, a flicker of something that might have been hope kindled in his chest.
"Wake up or don't wake up," he told her. "Either way, I'm not going anywhere. Not this time."
Outside, a wolf howled, the sound echoing through the trees. Another answered, then another, a chorus of wild voices in the darkness. Mohawk Mark settled in, Y/N's hand still in his, to wait out the night.
"Take your time, sleeping beauty," he murmured. "I've got all the time in the world."
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Next chapter may be freaky, or just crazy lol.
haven't decided yet ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧
Pt.1✧
✩ ‧ ₊ ˚
Pt.3✧
Pt.4✧
☆ WC: 8k+ [Final Part]
☆ TW: fluff
☆ Author's Note: I figured I couldn't drag this series out forever, and everything must come to an end; but, I like happy endings(♡ˊ͈ ꒳ ˋ͈)
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The interrogation room housing Angstrom Levy resembled a surgical theater designed by someone with a fondness for medieval torture.
Clinical steel surfaces reflected the harsh, pulsing light that cast everything in a sickly pallor, transforming even the smallest droplets of blood into obsidian pools against the metallic backdrop. The air tasted of copper and ozone—a potent cocktail of bodily fluids and dimensional energy that clung to the back of Y/N's throat like a physical presence.
Y/N stood in the doorway, hair still damp from her shower, wearing a spare flight suit she'd found in the quarters. The material felt foreign against her skin—too tight in some places, too loose in others, as if her body had somehow been fundamentally altered by recent events. Perhaps it had been. The fabric caught on the tender marks Sinister had left behind, each small pain a reminder of choices made and boundaries crossed.
Nine pairs of eyes turned toward her as she entered—Nine identical faces bearing the unmistakable features of Mark Grayson yet transformed by circumstance and tragedy into something distinctly other. Eight variations of the same man, each carrying the ghost of a woman who wore her face but wasn't her. The weight of their collective gaze pressed against her like a physical force, threatening to crush her renewed resolve before it had fully formed.
Angstrom Levy hung suspended in the center of the room, dimensional energy crackling around the restraints that had been fashioned from components of his own machinery. His body was a ruined testament to the variants' interrogation methods—limbs hanging at unnatural angles, one arm nearly detached at the shoulder, the other missing entirely. His legs were little more than mangled flesh held together by hastily applied medical equipment. Tubes and wires penetrated his torso at multiple points, machinery pumping fluids into what remained of his body, the only thing keeping him alive. His face was swollen beyond recognition, blood dripping steadily from his bloodshot eyes, the tissue bruised and swollen from whatever methods the variants had employed to extract information.
Despite his obvious suffering, his eyes gleamed with malevolent intelligence as they fixed on Y/N—knowing, calculating, as if he alone understood some cosmic joke at their expense. "The guest of honor arrives," he rasped, voice scraping like sandpaper across raw nerves. Blood dripped from his bloodshot eyes, tracing the contour of his chin before dropping to join the constellation of similar stains on the floor beneath him. "How was your... dimensional detour?"
Mohawk Mark lunged forward, the fluorescent lights catching on the blue accents of his suit as his muscled form coiled with violent intent. "Shut your fucking mouth before I tear out what's left of your tongue," he snarled.
"Unnecessary," Omni Mark interjected, his eyes, only partially hidden behind dark lenses, never left Y/N's face. "He's already told us what we need to know."
Y/N stepped fully into the room, refusing to shrink beneath the weight of their attention. The spare flight suit whispered against her skin as she moved, the sound almost deafening in the sudden silence. "And what exactly is that?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.
Viltrumite Mark moved toward her, his white suit was somehow untouched by the brutality evident throughout the room. When he stood before her, she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze—a reminder of her physical vulnerability despite the Viltrumite strength flowing through her veins.
"You're not what you think you are," he said, his voice softer than expected. Something in his expression shifted—the imperious mask slipping for the briefest moment to reveal an emotion too complex to name. He raised a hand to her face, the immaculate white of his glove a stark contrast against her skin as he brushed a stray droplet of water from her temple.
The touch was feather-light, yet Y/N felt it reverberate through her entire being. Her breath caught in her throat, heart skipping traitorously at the tenderness so at odds with the violence permeating the air around them.
"What are you talking about?" she managed, fighting to maintain her composure beneath the warmth of his palm.
A wet chuckle from Angstrom drew their attention back to the center of the room. "Tell her," he urged, eyes gleaming with malicious delight despite his battered condition. "Tell her what makes her so special. Why every version of Mark Grayson across the multiverse seems destined to orbit her like moths around a flame."
Phantom Mark stepped forward, the same expressionless mask hiding whatever emotions might be playing across his features."You're not just a human injected with Viltrumite DNA," he said, his voice distorted yet somehow gentle through the mask's filter. "You're a constant."
"A what?" Y/N's brow furrowed in confusion.
Emperor Mark's lip curled with disdain as he gestured toward Angstrom. "According to our friend here, certain elements repeat across the multiverse—fixed points around which reality organizes itself."
"You are one such element."
"In every universe," Lensless Mark contributed, his voice pitchingin an octave higher, with the dried blood flaking from his knuckles, "there exists a version of you. And in every universe—" His voice faltered, a shadow passing across his youthful features.
"In every universe, you die," Prisoner Mark finished bluntly, the scarred tissue of his face pulling tight as he spoke. "Horribly. Tragically. Usually because of him." He jerked his burned chin toward Mohawk Mark, who flinched as if physically struck.
"Not just because of me," Mohawk growled, the aggression in his voice barely masking something more vulnerable beneath. His mohawk seemed to droop slightly, as if the weight of accumulated guilt had physical mass. "Because of all of us. Because of what we are..."
"What are you?" Y/N challenged, her voice stronger now, fed by the confusion and frustration bubbling beneath her surface.
"Destroyers," Sinister Mark's voice slithered from the shadows. He leaned against a far wall, his yellow and black suit now mostly intact thanks to hasty repairs. Though his face showed evidence of the beating he'd received—a purpling bruise along his jaw, split lip still glistening with fresh blood—his customary smirk remained firmly in place.
"It's what we do best, dove. We break things. Sometimes planets. Sometimes people." His eyes glinted behind his cracked lenses. "Sometimes hearts."
Y/N refused to look away from his knowing gaze, refused to acknowledge the heat that crept up her neck at the memory. "I don't believe in destiny," she stated firmly. "Or cosmic constants. I make my own choices."
"Do you?" No-Mask Mark asked quietly, his unprotected face revealing every nuance of his skepticism. "When we found you, you were under GDA mind control. When we released you, you fell into our orbit. When separated from us, you immediately formed a connection with—" He stopped himself, unable to voice the obvious conclusion.
"With me," Sinister finished for him, satisfaction evident in his tone. "Face it, dove. You're drawn to us. All versions of us. It's written into the fabric of reality itself."
"That's enough," Omni Mark commanded, his quiet authority somehow more compelling than Mohawk's explosive rage or Emperor's imperious demands. He moved to stand between Y/N and Sinister, his tall frame effectively blocking her view of the yellow-suited variant. "What matters isn't why Y/N exists in every universe. What matters is what happens next."
Y/N looked up at him, struck by the intensity burning behind his composed exterior. Of all the variants, Omni Mark remained the most enigmatic—his emotions controlled yet somehow more authentic for their restraint. When he looked at her, she felt seen in a way that transcended the physical—as if those eyes behind dark lenses could perceive every layer of her being and found value in each one.
"Angstrom has given us the means to travel between dimensions," he continued, his gaze never leaving her face. "Each of us must choose our path forward."
Viltrumite Mark's hand, still resting against her cheek, dropped to her shoulder. The touch remained gentle despite the strength she knew those fingers possessed—strength enough to crush diamonds, to tear steel like paper, to break bones with the slightest pressure. Yet against her skin, they were nothing but warmth and comfort.
"Some of us have already chosen," he said softly, his thumb tracing a small circle against the fabric covering her collarbone. The simple gesture sent shivers cascading down her spine, her body responding to his touch with embarrassing immediacy.
From his suspended position, Angstrom laughed—a wet, gurgling sound that sprayed fine droplets of blood into the air around him. "So noble," he mocked. "So self-sacrificing. Tell me, Viltrumite, will you share that choice with her? Or will you let her believe the lie a little longer?"
Viltrumite Mark's expression hardened, disdain replacing the tenderness that had softened his features moments before. "Silence," he commanded.
Y/N stepped back from his touch, sudden suspicion clouding her features. "What is he talking about? What choice?"
The variants exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them that excluded her despite being its subject. The air in the room grew heavier, charged with unspoken truths and fragile alliances on the verge of shattering.
"Tell her," Sinister urged from his position against the wall, his voice thick with something that might have been concern if it came from anyone else. "Or I will."
Omni Mark sighed, a sound so human and vulnerable that it momentarily stripped away his aura of controlled power. "The portals Angstrom creates aren't stable," he explained, turning to face Y/N fully. "Moving between dimensions fractures reality—tears at the fabric holding the multiverse together." (guys, this is real shit here 😎).
"With each jump," Phantom Mark continued, his masked face tilted slightly as if sharing a regrettable truth, "the damage compounds. Eventually, the barriers between worlds will collapse entirely."
"Universal annihilation," Emperor Mark concluded. "Not just our worlds. All worlds. Everything."
Y/N's mind struggled to process the magnitude of what they were describing. "But you've been jumping between dimensions this entire time," she said, her voice faint with realization. "The Invincible War—all those portals—"
"Have already caused incalculable damage," Viltrumite Mark confirmed, his imperial bearing now tinged with genuine regret. "We didn't know. Not until we forced Angstrom to explain why the portals were becoming increasingly unstable."
"There's only one solution," Omni Mark said quietly. His hand reached for hers, enveloping her smaller fingers in a gentle grip that offered support without demanding reciprocation. "We must return to our original dimensions and seal the pathways behind us. Permanently."
The implications crashed over Y/N like a physical wave. "You're leaving," she whispered, the words tasting like ash on her tongue. Despite everything—despite the chaos and violence they had brought into her life, despite Sinister's betrayal and the conflicting emotions they all evoked—the thought of losing them carved a hollow space beneath her ribs.
"Not all of us," Mohawk Mark interjected, stepping forward with hesitation. The blue accents of his suit seemed dimmer somehow, as if reflecting his subdued mood. "Someone has to stay in this dimension. To..." He faltered, searching for words that wouldn't sound like abandonment.
"To close the door behind us," Prisoner Mark finished for him, scarred hands flexing at his sides as if already preparing for combat. "Someone has to ensure Angstrom never opens another portal. Ever."
Understanding dawned like a cold sunrise. "You're going to kill him," Y/N stated flatly.
"Not immediately," Emperor Mark clarified, examining his immaculate gloves with studied nonchalance. "First, he'll send each of us home. Then..." He shrugged, the regal gesture somehow making the implied violence more disturbing.
"And one of you will stay behind," Y/N concluded, eyes scanning their faces—identical yet uniquely marked by their individual journeys through pain and power. "In this dimension. With me."
The silence that followed carried the weight of worlds. These men—these variations of Mark Grayson—had fought across dimensions for her, had shattered realities to find her, had nearly killed each other over her. And now, all but one would vanish back into the multiverse, leaving her with a single version of the man who had become the center of her existence whether she wished it or not.
"The question is," Sinister pushed away from the wall, moving with predatory grace despite his injuries, "which one stays and which ones go?" His smile was all teeth and challenge as his gaze swept the assembled variants before landing on Y/N. "Care to choose, dove? Or shall we fight it out the old-fashioned way?"
Before anyone could respond, the entire structure shuddered around them. Lights flickered erratically, casting the room in strobing patterns of illumination and shadow. A distant boom resonated through the metal flooring, vibrating up through Y/N's feet and into her bones.
Lensless Mark darted to a console, fingers flying over blood-spattered keys. "Perimeter breach," he announced, childlike enthusiasm returning as he read the scrolling data, “Angstroms base has been discovered.”
"The GDA found us," No-Mask Mark concluded grimly. "They're coming for you, Y/N. For all of us."
"How appropriate," Angstrom wheezed from his suspended position, eyes gleaming with malevolent delight despite his battered condition. "Your time runs out just as reality itself begins to fracture. Poetic, wouldn't you say?"
Omni Mark's grip on Y/N's hand tightened fractionally—not enough to hurt, just enough to ground her in the moment. When she looked up at him, she found his normally composed features animated with an urgency that sent her heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.
"We need to move," he stated, voice calm despite the chaos erupting around them. "This facility won't withstand a concentrated GDA assault."
"Let them come," Mohawk snarled, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white, veins bulging along his forearms as his more volatile nature reasserted itself. "I'll tear them apart molecule by fucking molecule."
"And risk Y/N in the process?" Viltrumite Mark challenged, stepping protectively closer to her, "Think beyond your rage for once."
Another explosion rocked the structure, this one closer than the last. Dust filtered down from overhead conduits, dancing in the irregular light like microscopic snowflakes. Somewhere in the distance, alarms began to wail—a mechanical banshee heralding approaching doom.
Y/N pulled her hand from Omni Mark's grasp, a new determination hardening inside her. "I need answers," she insisted, turning toward Angstrom with purpose in her stride. "Before this place comes down around us. Before any of you leave."
Angstrom regarded her with amused disdain, his mangled body twitching slightly as he struggled to maintain consciousness through the pain. "What would you like to know, my dear? How many versions of you I've seen die? How many versions of him—" he jerked his chin toward the assembled variants, "—I've watched break apart in grief?"
Y/N stepped closer, refusing to be intimidated by his mockery. "Why me? Why do I exist in every universe? What makes me a constant?"
Angstrom's lips stretched into a smile that held no warmth. "Haven't you guessed? It's not you that's the constant—it's what you represent." His eyes gleamed with malicious intelligence. "Loss. Grief. The catalyst that transforms heroes into monsters."
Behind her, Y/N heard one of the variants inhale sharply—a sound like pain given voice. She didn't turn to see which one. Her focus remained locked on Angstrom's bruised face, searching for truth among his calculated cruelties.
"In every universe," Angstrom continued, clearly relishing his role as narrator of their tragic tale, "Mark Grayson loves you. And in every universe, he loses you. Sometimes to violence. Sometimes to disease. Sometimes—" his gaze flicked briefly to the variants, "—because of their own failure to protect what they claims to cherish."
The room fell silent save for the distant alarms and the creaking of the structure around them. Y/N's mind raced, trying to process the implications of what Angstrom was suggesting. If she truly was destined to die in every universe—if her loss was the fixed point around which these men's descent into darkness orbited—then what hope did any of them have for a different outcome?
"You're lying," she whispered, but uncertainty colored her voice.
Angstrom's laugh was wet and hollow. "Am I? Ask them. Ask them what happened to their Y/N. Ask them if they could have saved her, if only they'd been faster, stronger, smarter." His eyes glittered with malevolent delight. "Ask them if they still hear her screams when they close their eyes at night."
A hand settled on Y/N's shoulder—warm, solid, grounding her before she could spiral further into the abyss Angstrom was crafting with his words. She didn't need to look to know it was Omni Mark; something in the gentle strength of his touch was unmistakably his.
"Enough," he said, not to her but to Angstrom. The single word carried such authority that even Angstrom's mocking smile faltered momentarily. "You've had your fun. Now you'll send us home, one by one, as promised."
"And if I refuse?" Angstrom challenged, though his bravado seemed thinner now, worn away by pain and the inexorable approach of GDA forces.
"Then you die now instead of later," Sinister stated simply, stepping forward with deadly grace. The yellow and black of his suit seemed to absorb and reflect the flickering lights simultaneously, creating an almost hypnotic effect as he moved. "And we take our chances with the collapsing multiverse."
Another explosion rocked the facility, close enough now that Y/N could feel the heat of it against her skin. The lights failed completely for several seconds before emergency systems kicked in, bathing everything in a blood-red glow that transformed the interrogation room into something from a nightmare—all harsh shadows and crimson highlights that made even familiar faces seem suddenly alien.
"It seems our time grows short," Emperor Mark observed with aristocratic calm that belied the urgency of their situation. He turned to Y/N, his bearing momentarily softening as he regarded her. "We must make our decisions now. There is no more time for deliberation."
Y/N looked around at the assembled variants—these different versions of the same man, each shaped by tragedy and power into something unique yet fundamentally connected. In the red emergency lighting, they appeared more similar than ever despite their different suits and facial features—united by a singular focus that both terrified and thrilled her.
"How do we decide?" she asked, her voice steady despite the chaos erupting around them. "Who stays and who goes?"
"I stay," Mohawk insisted immediately, stepping forward. The blue accents of his suit appeared almost black in the crimson light, his mohawk casting a jagged shadow across his determined features. "In my world, I couldn't save her. I won't fail again."
He moved closer to Y/N, his usual aggression melting into something more vulnerable as he reached for her. His fingers, adorned with the faint traces of dried blood that no amount of washing seemed able to remove, hesitated in the air between them—as if uncertain of his right to touch her after his earlier failures. When Y/N didn't pull away, he gently cupped her face, the calloused pad of his thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone with surprising tenderness.
"I watched her die," he confessed, voice so low that only Y/N could hear the words. "I was foolish, careless not paying attention when she pushed me out of the way of the bullet, taking my placce—" His voice cracked, adam's apple bobbing violently as he swallowed back the memory. "I won't leave you. Not again. Not ever."
Before Y/N could respond, Viltrumite Mark stepped forward, his white suit now stained crimson by the emergency lights, transforming his regal appearance into something more sinister. "Your impulsiveness is what got your Y/N killed," he stated coldly. "I have the discipline and strength to protect her properly."
He moved with grace to stand at Y/N's other side, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back—a gesture that nonetheless sent warmth cascading through her nervous system. The heat of his palm penetrated the flight suit material as if it weren't there, his touch both protective and possessive in a way that made her breath catch.
"In my world," he said, leaning down to speak near her ear, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her temple, "I could have saved her if I hadn't been away securing the empire's borders. I've built a world where she would want for nothing, where her safety would be guaranteed by my command." His lips brushed against her skin as he spoke, not quite a kiss but something equally intimate. "Let me give you that world, Y/N. Let me give you everything I couldn't give her."
"You have a fucking empire to run," Prisoner Mark sneered, the scarred tissue of his face appearing even more grotesque in the red glow. "You'll take her back to your world and make her another ornament in your collection."
"I've already tasted what she offers," Sinister interjected, tongue darting out to moisten his split lip in a gesture that sent unwelcome heat spiraling through Y/N's core despite her best intentions. "The choice is obvious."
The argument might have descended into violence then—tension crackling between the variants like physical electricity—if not for a soft sound that cut through their posturing with startling effectiveness. It took Y/N a moment to realize the sound had come from her own throat—a small, broken laugh that contained equal parts hysteria and clarity.
"You're still doing it," she said, shaking her head in wonder. "Even now, with reality literally crumbling around us, you're fighting over me like I'm a prize to be won. Like I don't have any say in my own fate."
The variants fell silent, varying degrees of shame and defiance playing across their identical-yet-different features. In the red glow of emergency lighting, they seemed almost like apparitions—blood-stained specters of a man she had never truly known but somehow felt connected to on a cellular level.
"You're right," Omni Mark acknowledged, his composure slipping to reveal something raw and vulnerable beneath. In the crimson light, the gray portions of his suit appeared almost black, the red accents blending seamlessly with the emergency illumination as if he were dissolving into the bloodied atmosphere. "The choice should be yours. It has always been yours."
He stepped forward, but unlike the others, he maintained a respectful distance, offering his presence without demanding her attention. It was this—this quiet recognition of her autonomy—that drew Y/N's gaze to him more powerfully than any possessive touch or passionate declaration could have.
He removed his dark lenses, revealing eyes so filled with grief and tenderness that Y/N felt her own vision blur in response. "I learned then that love isn't possession or protection. It's presence. It's choosing to stay even when there's nothing you can do but witness." His gaze never wavered from hers, unwavering in its gentle intensity. "Whatever you decide, Y/N, I will honor it. Because that's what I couldn't do for her—give her the freedom to choose her own path, even at the end."
Y/N looked at him—really looked at him—and something shifted inside her chest. Of all the variants, Omni Mark alone had never tried to claim her, had never spoken of ownership or destiny. He had been there when she needed healing, offering soft kisses and gentle touches during those fragile moments after the war began, never taking more than she offered, never demanding what she couldn't give. He had offered support without demanding reciprocation, protection without requiring submission. He had seen her not as a replacement for someone lost but as herself—flawed, confused, but ultimately her own person.
Before she could voice this realization, the entire structure shuddered violently. The sound of groaning metal filled the air as support beams began to give way under repeated assault. Through the walls, they could hear the distinctive whine of GDA energy weapons powering up—the sound heralding imminent destruction.
"No more time," Phantom Mark stated, his masked face turning toward Angstrom. "Begin the transfers. Now."
Angstrom's body convulsed slightly as he channeled what remained of his power, dimensional energy crackling around him as he focused his power. "As you wish," he wheezed, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth as he spoke. "Who's first to abandon her?"
The question hung in the air, loaded with implications that made Y/N's heart constrict painfully in her chest. Despite everything—despite the chaos and danger these men had brought into her life—the thought of watching them disappear one by one into the multiverse carved a hollow space beneath her ribs.
"I'll go," Emperor Mark stated, stepping forward with dignity. He turned to Y/N, regal bearing momentarily softening as he regarded her. "In another life, perhaps..." He didn't finish the thought, merely inclined his head in a gesture that somehow conveyed more genuine respect than any of his previous interactions.
Angstrom's eyes gleamed with concentration as dimensional energy coalesced around his suspended form. A portal began to form—not the violent tear they had witnessed before, but something more controlled, its edges defined and stable. Through its swirling depths, Y/N caught glimpses of a world both familiar and alien—Earth, but an Earth where Viltrumite banners flew from every building and the Imperial sigil adorned every surface.
Emperor Mark moved toward it without hesitation, his stride confident despite the decision's finality. At the portal's threshold, he paused, turning back one last time. "He was right, you know," he said, gaze fixed on Y/N. "About us hearing your screams at night. About failing you in every universe." A muscle twitched beneath his left eye—the only betrayal of emotion on his otherwise composed features. "Do better this time. Both of you."
With that, he stepped through, the portal closing behind him with a sound like reality sighing in relief.
"Next," Angstrom prompted, dimensional energy already gathering for another portal.
Prisoner Mark approached Y/N before his departure, the scarred tissue of his face pulling taut as he struggled with words that didn't come easily to him. "I was in prison when she died," he said gruffly, hands curling into fists at his sides as if physically restraining himself from reaching for her. "Gang violence, and torture. I could have stopped it if I'd been there." His eyes, the only part of him untouched by whatever fire had claimed the rest, burned with intensity. "Don't let them cage you, Y/N. Not with walls. Not with expectations. Not even with love."
He left with a bitter laugh, his scarred form dissolving into the swirling vortex of his home dimension.
Each departure felt like a physical weight lifted from Y/N's chest, yet simultaneously created a new hollowness inside her. These men—these variations of Mark Grayson—had become the center of her existence whether she wished it or not. Watching them vanish was like witnessing pieces of herself dissolve into the multiverse.
The structure continued to crumble around them, GDA forces drawing ever closer. Heat from external explosions began to seep through the walls, turning the air thick and difficult to breathe. The red emergency lighting flickered erratically, casting their remaining figures in strobing patterns of illumination and shadow.
Phantom Mark walked to the edge of his designated portal, his body silhouetted against the emerald swirl. He stopped, looking back at Y/N, his form visibly trembling. Then, with what seemed like immense effort, he shook his head and stepped away from the portal, moving to stand against the wall. He clutched at his masked face with both hands, his shoulders shaking with silent emotion. "I need a moment to breathe before I go," he mumbled, his voice altered by the mask but unmistakably filled with tears.
Now only six variants remained besides Angstrom—No-Mask Mark, Lensless Mark, and Phantom Mark stood together to one side, talking quietly among themselves as if debating whether to leave at all—Mohawk Mark with his barely contained fury, Viltrumite Mark with his imperial bearing, Omni Mark with his quiet strength, and Sinister leaning against a far wall with studied nonchalance despite the destruction raining down around them. The yellow and black of his suit seemed to absorb the red emergency lighting, transforming the bright colors into something murkier and more dangerous.
He hadn't stepped forward for departure, hadn't volunteered to return to his dimension. His eyes remained fixed on Y/N, gaze heavy with implications that sent unwelcome heat coursing through her veins despite everything that had transpired between them.
"Time grows short," Viltrumite Mark observed as another explosion rocked the facility. Part of the ceiling collapsed in the corridor outside, sending clouds of dust billowing into the room. The sound of GDA tactical teams grew closer, the rhythmic thud of armored boots against metal flooring like a countdown to their imminent discovery. "We must decide."
Y/N looked between the remaining variants, chest tight with the weight of what was being asked of her. How could she choose? How could she select one version of this man to remain with her while condemning the others to return to worlds where they had already lost her once?
Mohawk Mark stalked toward her, "All my life," he growled, voice tight with barely contained feeling, "I've destroyed. I've hurt people. I've broken things." He stopped before her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, could see the minute tremor in his hands as he fought to control himself. "But with you, I want to build. I want to create something that doesn't end in blood and fire."
His hand reached for hers, hesitating just above her skin as if waiting for permission. When she didn't pull away, his fingers intertwined with hers, the contact sending electric currents of awareness up her arm. "Choose me," he whispered, the plea so at odds with his usual aggression that it took Y/N's breath away. "Let me show you I can be more than the monster I became after I lost her."
Before she could respond, Viltrumite Mark was at her other side, his presence demanding attention without a word being spoken. He didn't touch her, yet his proximity was a physical force—a gravitational pull that made her aware of every inch of space between them.
"I can give you worlds," he said quietly, the promise in his voice both thrilling and terrifying. "I can place galaxies at your feet. I can ensure that no harm ever comes to you again." His eyes, so like the others yet distinct in their certainty, held hers with hypnotic intensity. The depths of those eyes contained the vastness of conquered space—stars and systems that had bowed before him, now offered as tributes to her. "In my universe, I rule. What is yours by choice here would be yours by right there."
"Choice," Omni Mark echoed from where he stood, still maintaining that respectful distance. The single word carried a weight that seemed to settle in the room, creating a counterbalance to Viltrumite Mark's overwhelming presence. "That's what matters, isn't it? Not gifts or protection or promises." He stepped forward, movements deliberate yet unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world despite the chaos erupting around them. His footsteps were measured, each one a conscious decision rather than an impulsive action. "You've never truly had a choice, Y/N. Not since the GDA experimented on you. Not since we found you. Not since—" his gaze flicked briefly toward Sinister, "—certain events transpired."
He stopped before her, not crowding her like the others but simply offering his presence. The space between them felt sacred somehow, a deliberate gap that spoke of respect rather than distance. "I would give you that choice. Every day. In everything." The sincerity in his voice was a tangible thing, wrapping around Y/N like a shield against the uncertainty crashing through her. It resonated in her chest like a forgotten melody—familiar though she'd never heard it before, comforting though she'd never known such comfort.
Y/N closed her eyes briefly, centering herself amid the chaos. The world narrowed to the rhythm of her own heartbeat, to the warmth of multiple gazes upon her skin, to the weight of a decision that would reshape not just one universe but many. When she opened them again, her gaze fell on Omni Mark—on the quiet strength of his bearing, on the patience with which he awaited her decision.
"I choose—" she began, but her words were drowned out by a deafening explosion directly overhead.
The ceiling gave way in a catastrophic cascade of metal and composite materials, chunks of debris raining down with deadly force. The air filled with a dissonant symphony of groaning metal and shattering concrete, dust particles catching the red emergency light to create a hellish, swirling mist.
Through the chaos, Y/N felt herself being swept aside, strong arms encircling her waist and pulling her clear of danger with superhuman speed. The world blurred momentarily, her senses overwhelmed by the scent of ozone and dust and something uniquely masculine—a combination of clean sweat and subtle cologne that she'd come to associate with safety despite everything.
When her vision cleared, she found herself pressed against Viltrumite Mark's chest, the pristine white of his suit now finally marred by dust and debris. The imperfection transformed the uniform from something untouchable to something real—humanizing him in ways that all his power never could. Flecks of concrete clung to the royal insignia, the imperfection somehow making him appear more human, more approachable than his usual perfection allowed.
"Are you harmed?" he asked, concern evident in the slight furrow of his brow as he scanned her for injuries. The question carried none of his usual command—just raw, unfiltered worry that stripped away centuries of royal conditioning. His arms around her were steel bands of protection, yet his touch remained gentle despite the strength she knew those limbs possessed. One hand moved to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair with a tenderness that contradicted his royal bearing.
The gentle pressure of his fingertips against her scalp sent subtle waves of comfort through her body, each small circle erasing another fragment of the chaos surrounding them. The gentle circles his thumb traced against her scalp sent electric currents down her spine, awareness blooming across her skin like wildfire. His eyes—so familiar yet distinct in their intensity—searched hers with unexpected vulnerability, as if her well-being mattered more than the chaos erupting around them, more than the multiverse itself.
"You could have been—" he started, then stopped, his tongue failing him at the mere thought of her injury. Instead, his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly in her hair, drawing her closer until their foreheads nearly touched.
Before Y/N could respond, a familiar voice called from overhead—amplified by GDA comm systems yet unmistakable in its conviction.
"This is Cecil Stedman of the Global Defense Agency. The facility is surrounded. Release Y/N immediately and surrender yourselves, or we will employ lethal force against all occupants."
Through the gaping hole in the ceiling, Y/N could see GDA operatives in tactical gear rappelling down on carbon-fiber lines, their movements precise and practiced. Like mechanical spiders descending on gossamer threads, they moved with synchronized precision that spoke of countless drills and absolute dedication to their mission. Their energy weapons hummed with charged particles, the air around their barrels wavering with heat distortion as they took aim at the variants below. Armored vehicles had surrounded the perimeter, their cannons already glowing with primed energy, bathing the crumbling structure in an eerie blue light that cut through the red emergency illumination, creating purple shadows in the corners where rubble had collected.
In the center of it all stood Cecil Stedman himself—diminutive yet commanding, his posture radiating authority despite his slight stature. His frame might have been small, but his presence filled the space with the weight of government authority and personal determination. The grim set of his mouth revealed everything about his determination. His hands clasped behind his back, he surveyed the scene below with clinical detachment, like a chess master contemplating his final, devastating move.
"Well," Sinister drawled, wiping blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. The crimson smear across his yellow glove. "This complicates matters."
Mohawk Mark's response was immediate and predictable—blue energy crackling around his clenched fists as his more volatile nature reasserted itself. The energy danced across his knuckles, illuminating the dried blood that no amount of washing seemed able to remove completely. His mohawk seemed to stand straighter with his anger, as if electrified by his rage.
"Let them come," he snarled, muscles coiling beneath his suit like springs wound too tight. Each tensed muscle created ripples beneath the fabric of his suit, the material straining to contain the raw, physical manifestation of his rage as his jaw clenched so tight that Y/N could almost hear his teeth grinding together. "I'll kill each one of them."
"No," Y/N said firmly, extracting herself from Viltrumite Mark's protective embrace, instantly feeling the chill of separation rush across her skin where his warmth had been moments before. She stood straight, shoulders back, finding strength she didn't know she possessed.
"No more destruction. No more death."
She looked between the remaining variants, each face identical yet utterly unique in the emotions they displayed. Her chest tightened with the weight of what needed to be done. "You have to go. All of you. Now, before more people die because of us."
Viltrumite Mark's expression hardened, disdain replacing the concern that had softened his features moments before. A muscle twitched beneath his left eye—the only betrayal of emotion on his otherwise composed features.
"I will not abandon you to them," he stated, the words carrying the weight of royal decree. His voice dropped to a whisper only she could hear. "Not when I've only just found you."
"You must," Y/N insisted, reaching up to touch his face with gentle fingertips. The simple contact seemed to surprise him, his eyes widening fractionally at her boldness. His skin was warm beneath her touch, the slight stubble along his jaw creating a pleasant friction against her fingertips.
"In another life," she whispered, allowing her fingers to trace the strong line of his jaw, memorizing the texture of him, "perhaps we could have built your empire together." The confession cost her something, a possibility she was willingly sacrificing for what needed to be done. "Your world needs its emperor. And I..." She swallowed hard, forcing herself to continue past the lump forming in her throat. "I need to find out who I am without all of you defining me."
Something flickered across Viltrumite Mark's features—an emotion too complex to name, too brief to analyze. For the briefest moment, the mask of control slipped completely, revealing the raw core of a man who had lost everything once before and now stood to lose it again.
For a moment, Y/N thought he might refuse, might choose violence over acceptance.
Then, with dignity that belied the turmoil evident in his eyes, he caught her hand in his, turning it to press a soft kiss against her palm. The touch of his lips was feather-light yet searing, branding her skin with a promise as his lips lingered, warm breath caressing her skin in a silent promise.
"As you wish," he said softly, the formal words somehow conveying depths of feeling his bearing wouldn't allow him to express directly.
Time seemed to slow as he gently placed her hand against his chest, allowing her to feel the strong, steady rhythm of his heart. "Know this," he murmured, his voice a caress against her senses. "In every universe, across all dimensions, some version of me will always find his way back to you."
With visible reluctance, he stepped back, turning toward Angstrom who hung suspended in the center of the room. "Open my portal. Send me home."
Angstrom focused his power as dimensional energy coalesced around his suspended form. A portal began to take shape—edges defined and stable, swirling depths revealing glimpses of a world where Viltrumite banners flew from gleaming spires and the Imperial sigil adorned every surface.
Viltrumite Mark moved toward it with measured steps, imperial bearing intact despite the destruction raining down around them. At the portal's threshold, he paused, turning back to Y/N one final time. What passed between them in that moment needed no words—a connection beyond language, beyond the boundaries of separate dimensions.
Without warning, another explosion rocked the facility. The entire structure shuddered like a wounded beast, metal supports screaming in protest as concrete disintegrated around them. A massive support beam directly above the portal groaned ominously before giving way completely, crashing down through the swirling dimensional gateway. It fell in agonizing slow motion, its massive weight cleaving through the delicate energies of the portal like a blade through silk. The portal collapsed with a sound like glass shattering, emerald energy dissipating in crackling arcs across the rubble.
Viltrumite Mark stepped back just in time, narrowly avoiding being crushed. His reflexes saved him, body moving with fluid grace that somehow maintained dignity even in retreat. His usually composed features darkened with anger as he turned to Angstrom, covering the distance between them in a blur of movement.
"What happened?" he demanded, voice low and dangerous as his hand closed around Angstrom's throat.
"Not... my doing," Angstrom wheezed, eyes wide with genuine surprise. His body convulsed slightly as he struggled against Viltrumite Mark's grip, dimensional energy crackling erratically across his skin in response to his distress. "Structural... failure. The building... can't withstand... continued assault."
Y/N turned to Mohawk Mark with a sigh, her initial determination wavering in the face of their increasingly desperate situation. His explosive rage had dimmed to something quieter but no less intense. The blue accents of his suit seemed to pulse with his heartbeat, the glow reflecting in the unshed tears that made his eyes shine with dangerous brilliance.
"No," he growled, the single word containing multitudes of refusal. "Not again. I won't leave you again."
He closed the distance between them in three quick strides, his movements carrying the barely restrained energy of a predator. When he reached her, however, his touch was unexpectedly gentle as he cradled her face between calloused hands.
"These hands," he whispered, his rough fingertips ghosting along her cheekbones with reverent delicacy, "have broken so many things. Have hurt so many people." His voice cracked, "But with you, they remember how to be gentle."
"Listen to me," he said, voice rough with emotion. "In my world, I watched her die because she pushed me out of the way and took a bullet to the heart for me." His voice cracked, adam's apple bobbing violently as he swallowed back the memory. The muscles in his throat worked visibly against the tide of grief that threatened to drown his words.
"Every night since then, I've heard her voice calling my name. Every fucking night." His thumbs traced the curve of her cheekbones with reverent tenderness that contradicted the harshness of his words. "I won't go back to that emptiness. I can't."
Above them, Cecil's voice rang out again. "This is your final warning. Surrender now or we open fire."
GDA operatives had fully descended into the chamber now, their weapons trained on the variants with deadly precision. The air crackled with tension and primed energy weapons, the situation balanced on a knife's edge of imminent violence.
"We can't stay here," Omni Mark observed quietly, his composed voice cutting through the chaos with remarkable clarity. He moved to stand beside Y/N, not touching her but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "But perhaps..."
His gaze met hers, something thoughtful and hopeful glimmering behind his dark lenses. For a moment, the lenses seemed less like barriers and more like windows, allowing her a glimpse of the mind working behind them—analytical yet passionate, calculating yet kind. "Perhaps we don't all have to return to our original dimensions."
Sinister pushed away from the wall where he'd been observing, his yellow and black suit almost glowing in the emergency lighting. The distinctive colors seemed to absorb and reflect the chaos around them, transforming the emergency lighting into something almost festive on his frame. "What are you suggesting?" he asked, interest evident in the tilt of his head, the predatory alertness in his stance.
"A new universe," Y/N breathed, the idea forming in her mind even as Omni Mark nodded confirmation. The possibilities expanded in her consciousness like a blossoming flower, each petal a different potential future. "Somewhere none of you have been before. Somewhere we could..." She hesitated, hardly daring to voice the thought.
"Start again," Omni Mark finished for her, his usually controlled voice carrying an undercurrent of something that might have been hope. "Together."
Omni Mark moved closer to Y/N, his hand finding hers with unerring precision despite the chaos around them. His fingers intertwined with hers, the simple contact grounding yet electrifying. "No legacies to uphold," he murmured, his thumb tracing small circles against her palm.
"No mistakes to atone for. No ghosts haunting our steps." His voice dropped lower, meant only for her despite the others' enhanced hearing. "Just us, discovering who we might become when we're free to choose."
The idea hung in the air between them, tantalizing in its simplicity yet revolutionary in its implications. A universe where they weren't defined by past failures, by tragedies that had shaped them into monsters. A universe where they could choose who they wanted to be.
"Angstrom," Mohawk Mark growled, turning toward their prisoner with renewed purpose. "Can you do it? Can you send us somewhere new?"
Angstrom's lips curved into a smile that held no warmth. "Anywhere in the multiverse," he confirmed, eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. "But the damage to reality remains. Each portal weakens the barriers between dimensions."
"Then we make this the last jump," Omni Mark decided, his quiet authority somehow more compelling than Cecil's amplified commands or Emperor's royal decrees had been. "One final portal to a dimension where we can begin again. After that, we ensure no more portals are opened." His gaze fixed on Angstrom with deadly intent. "Ever."
Another explosion rocked the facility, closer than the previous one. The shockwave rippled through the floor beneath their feet, concrete cracking in spider-web patterns that spread with alarming speed. Concrete dust rained down from what remained of the ceiling, coating their hair and shoulders in a fine gray powder that resembled premature aging.
"Decide quickly," Sinister urged, eyes fixed on the GDA operatives who were beginning to encircle them. "Our window of opportunity is closing."
Y/N looked between the three remaining variants—Mohawk with his barely contained emotions, Omni with his quiet strength, and Sinister with his dangerous allure. Each represented a different path, a different kind of future—passionate chaos, thoughtful stability, or dangerous excitement. In the shadows across the room, she noticed No-Mask Mark, Lensless Mark, and Phantom Mark quietly conferring, their expressions grave as they discussed their options.
"Who else stays?" she asked, voice stronger now, fed by the certainty growing within her,n"Who goes?"
Phantom Mark approached Y/N, his masked face turning to the corner where he had withdrawn. His movements were fluid and graceful despite the rigid material of his mask, body language conveying emotions his covered face couldn't express. He stood silently for a moment, form trembling slightly as he reached up to touch the edge of his mask. His gloved fingers traced the seam where mask met suit, hovering over the clasp that could reveal what lay beneath. Taking a deep breath that was audible even through the mask's filter, he looked back at the portal forming behind him, then shook his head decisively.
"I've hidden behind this mask for so long," he said, voice distorted yet somehow more vulnerable through the filter. "In my world, hiding was the only way to survive after losing her." His hands fell to his sides, clenching briefly before relaxing. "But maybe in a new world, I can learn to show my face again. To feel the sun without this barrier between me and life."
He moved to stand beside Y/N, his presence solid and reassuring without making demands. Though his face remained hidden, something in his posture conveyed a quiet hope that spoke louder than words ever could. Something about his quiet resolve reminded her of Omni Mark, though his masked features made him more enigmatic, more difficult to read.
No-Mask Mark stepped forward, his unprotected face openly displaying the conflict within. Without the barrier of a mask, every emotion played across his features with startling clarity—grief, determination, and fragile hope battling for dominance. His eyes, identical to the others yet somehow uniquely pained, searched Y/N's face with a mixture of grief and determination.
"I'll stay too," he said, surprising even himself with the decision. The words emerged tentatively at first, then gained strength as he committed to them fully. "I've lost too much already. William..." He trailed off, swallowing hard. His eyes glazed with unshed tears at the name, the loss clearly still raw despite whatever time had passed. "Maybe this time, things can be different. Maybe this time, I can protect what matters."
Lensless Mark bounced on his toes, childlike energy barely contained despite the gravity of the situation. His movements were perpetual, fingers drumming against his thighs, weight shifting from foot to foot—a physical manifestation of his inability to remain still even in crisis. "I'm staying too!" he declared, grinning despite the dried blood flaking from his knuckles. His smile transformed his entire face, erasing the shadow of the killer he had become. "Always wanted a big family anyway."
Above them, Cecil's patience had clearly run out. "Fire warning shots," his voice commanded, followed immediately by the high-pitched whine of energy weapons discharging.
Beams of concentrated energy sliced through the air around them, deliberately missing but close enough to feel the heat against exposed skin. The air crackled and sizzled where the energy passed, leaving behind the acrid scent of ionized particles and the lingering taste of ozone. The message was clear: the next volley wouldn't be a warning.
"Now or never," Mohawk growled, positioning himself protectively between Y/N and the GDA forces.
Y/N turned to Angstrom, determination hardening her resolve. Something shifted in her stance, in her expression. "Do it. Open a portal to somewhere new. Somewhere safe."
Angstrom focused his power, dimensional energy gathering around him like a storm. The air around him began to distort, reality itself bending and warping as emerald light crackled across his suspended form in increasingly complex patterns.
"As you wish," he wheezed, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth as he concentrated. "One last journey."
A portal began to form—larger than the previous ones, its edges shimmering with untapped potential. Unlike the violent tears they had witnessed before, this portal coalesced with almost musical precision, emerald energy flowing like liquid light to create a perfect circular gateway.
Through its swirling depths, Y/N caught glimpses of a world bathed in golden sunlight. Rolling hills covered in lush vegetation stretched toward a horizon where twin moons hung in the sky, their pale surfaces visible even in daylight. A massive structure stood in the middle distance—part castle, part modern fortress, its architecture unlike anything on Earth yet somehow reminiscent of home.
"Perfect," Sinister murmured, appreciation evident in his tone. "Uninhabited but hospitable. No indigenous sentient species to complicate matters."
"How can you tell all that from just a glimpse?" Y/N asked, momentarily distracted by his apparent knowledge.
Sinister's smirk was all teeth and dangerous charm. "I've destroyed thousands of worlds, dove. You learn to assess a planet quickly." He winked, the gesture somehow making the casual mention of genocide even more disturbing. "Useful skill for picking vacation spots too."
Another barrage of energy blasts cut through the air, this one closer than the last. The heat from the blasts washed over them in uncomfortable waves, leaving skin tingling and hairs standing on end. The GDA was done with warnings.
"Go!" Omni Mark urged, his hand finding the small of Y/N's back—not pushing, just guiding, always respecting her autonomy even in crisis. The warmth of his palm radiated through the material of her flight suit, gentle yet urgent. "I'll ensure Angstrom follows and seal the doorway behind us."
Mohawk didn't wait for further discussion. With a feral grin that promised violence to anyone who tried to stop them, he swept Y/N into his arms and leaped toward the portal. His movements were fluid and powerful, muscles bunching beneath her as he carried her weight with effortless strength. Just before they passed through, he paused, looking down at her with unexpected vulnerability.
"Together?" he asked, the single word carrying the weight of promise and question and hope all at once.
Y/N's hand came up to rest against his cheek, thumb tracing the strong line of his jaw. His skin was warm beneath her touch, the slight stubble creating a pleasant friction against the pad of her thumb. "Together," she confirmed, something warm unfurling in her chest at the brilliant smile that transformed his usually fierce expression.
The smile that broke across his features was transformative—years of rage and anguish momentarily washed away, revealing glimpses of who he might have been before tragedy shaped him into a weapon. In that unguarded moment, Y/N saw not the killer he had become but the hero he might yet be.
Then they were through, the world dissolving around them in a kaleidoscope of color and sensation. Reality itself seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously, conventional physics surrendering to the impossible mathematics of multidimensional travel.
Y/N felt Mohawk's arms tighten protectively around her as reality itself seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously, the experience both terrifying and exhilarating.
When solid ground reformed beneath them, they stood on a grassy knoll overlooking a valley bathed in golden light. The ground beneath their feet felt somehow more vibrant than Earth's soil—as if the very molecules contained more energy, more potential. The air tasted sweeter than Earth's, with subtle notes of unfamiliar blossoms and mineral-rich soil. Each breath filled her lungs with intoxicating freshness, oxygen seemingly more potent, more invigorating than what she was accustomed to. The twin moons hung in the sky like watchful guardians, their surfaces etched with patterns different from Luna's familiar face.
One by one, the others followed—Phantom Mark stepping through with characteristic grace, No-Mask arriving with quiet determination in his unprotected features, Lensless bouncing through with childlike enthusiasm, Sinister sauntering through as if dimensional travel was nothing more extraordinary than crossing a street. Last came Omni Mark, dragging a semi-conscious Angstrom with him.
"It's done," Omni Mark stated, releasing Angstrom who collapsed to the grass with a pained groan. He dusted his hands off, "The portal is sealed. No one can follow."
Y/N stood in the circle of these men—these variations of Mark Grayson who had turned their grief into rage and their rage into destruction. Men who had crossed dimensions to find her, who had chosen to stay with her despite the cost. Men who now looked at her not as a replacement for someone lost but as herself—flawed, confused, but ultimately her own person.
"What now?" she asked, the question encompassing far more than their immediate future.
Omni Mark stepped forward, removing his dark lenses to reveal eyes filled with quiet determination. Without the barrier of tinted glass, his blue eye gaze was startlingly direct—intelligent, perceptive, and unexpectedly gentle. "Now we build something new," he said simply, offering his hand to her—not demanding, just inviting.
"Not an empire," he continued, his gaze briefly flicking toward Viltrumite Mark with understanding rather than judgment.
"Not a fortress," another glance toward Mohawk.
"Just... a life. Together."
When she took it, his fingers closed gently around hers, the touch grounding and elevating her simultaneously. His skin was warm against hers, with his free hand, he gestured toward the fortress in the distance. "There's our new home. A place where we can be whoever we choose to be."
"A fresh start," Phantom added, his masked face tilted toward the twin moons as if contemplating their significance. The alien light reflected off his mask, creating patterns that seemed to dance across the surface like living things.
"A family," Lensless contributed, already bouncing on his toes with excitement at exploring their new world. His energy was infectious, bringing a lightness to the moment that balanced the gravity of their decision.
"A kingdom," came Sinister's smooth addition, his yellow and black suit glowing almost gold in the alien sunlight.
"No," Mohawk corrected, his usual aggression softened by something more tender as he gazed at Y/N. The permanent furrow between his brows eased slightly, aggressive posture relaxing into something that better matched the gentleness in his voice. "A home. Just a home."
Y/N looked between them—these men from across the multiverse, each bearing the face of Mark Grayson yet transformed by circumstance and choice into something distinctly other. Men who had been monsters but might choose to be more. Men who had lost her once and found her again.
"A choice," she whispered, understanding blooming inside her chest like a flower seeking sunshine.
"For all of us." Her gaze traveled between them, seeing not just what they had been but what they might become. "Not versions of the same person, but individuals with the freedom to grow in different directions."
As the alien sun began its descent toward an unfamiliar horizon, casting their shadows long across virgin soil, Y/N felt something unfurl within her chest—not quite peace, not quite certainty, but perhaps the beginning of both. Whatever came next, whatever they built in this new world, it would be their choice—not fate, not destiny, not cosmic constants.
Just choice.
And for now, that was enough.
–––––––––
Wow, I can't believe it's over...
!!UNLESS!!
☆ If y'all want separate individual chapters dedicated to the Marks in their new universe with Y/n :)
Fluff
Ansgt
Smut
you name it (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡
