"Life always offers you a second chance, is called tomorrow," said Nicholas Sparks
Morning came slowly, like it was giving him time to adjust.
Mark—because that's who he was now, wasn't he?—lay flat on his back, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars someone had stuck to his ceiling. Probably the old Mark. The real Mark. His hands were laced behind his head, but they felt wrong. Too small. Too soft. Baby hands that had never held a steering wheel or signed a lease or felt the weight of real responsibility.
The thoughts in his head, though? Those were still twenty-two years old. Loud. Messy. Way too big for a seven-year-old's skull.
He was alive.
He had a mom. A dad. A whole life handed to him on a silver platter.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he'd had a mother before. A little brother, too. But when he tried to picture their faces, all he got were impressions. Fragments. The sound of laughter in another room. The warmth of a hug he couldn't quite remember. And then... nothing. Like trying to recall a dream an hour after waking up.
It should've hurt more than it did.
Maybe that was the deal. Maybe that was the price.
But here? In this life?
Debbie Grayson was real.
He found her in the kitchen when he shuffled downstairs, rubbing fake sleep from his eyes like any kid would. She stood at the stove, hair pulled into a messy bun that looked like it had been tied in the dark. She wore an oversized T-shirt—probably one of Nolan's—and plaid pajama pants with a hole near the knee. No makeup. No pretense. Just... her.
She looked tired. The kind of tired that comes from years of late-night worry and early-morning routines. But her eyes were soft. Patient. The kind of eyes that had seen her kid throw up on the carpet at 3 AM and still smiled the next morning.
She was beautiful in that quiet, unglamorous way that most people never noticed. Beautiful because she cared.
When she turned and saw him standing there, she smiled.
"Well, hey there, sleepyhead. You hungry?"
Mark opened his mouth but didn't get a chance to answer.
"I made pancakes and eggs," she continued, already turning back to the stove. "Your dad's still upstairs brushing his teeth. Moves like a sloth in the mornings, I swear."
Mark felt something tighten in his chest. Something he hadn't expected.
She sounds like a mom.
Not a mom. Not some generic TV parent.
A mom. His mom.
When she slid the plate in front of him and ruffled his hair without thinking—just did it, natural as breathing—he had to look down at his pancakes real quick. Had to blink a few times. Pretend he was just really interested in the way the syrup pooled in the ridges.
Breakfast was chaos in the best possible way.
Mark took smaller bites than he wanted, forcing himself to slow down. To watch. The way Debbie hummed while she cleaned the pan. The way she didn't even look when she handed Nolan his coffee—just knew exactly where he'd be standing. The comfortable rhythm of people who'd been doing this dance for years.
Nolan came down in his civilian clothes—button-down shirt, slacks, hair still a little damp. He grabbed his mug and leaned over to kiss Debbie on the cheek.
"You're beautiful," he said, casual as commenting on the weather.
"You're late," she shot back, smirking into her own coffee.
"Only to the rest of the galaxy," he said with a wink, then headed back upstairs. "Forgot my watch."
Mark watched them and felt something crack open in his chest. Something warm and aching.
So this is what it's supposed to feel like.
The kitchen was bright with morning sun when Debbie finally sat down across from him. Nolan had returned, now crunching through a bowl of cereal while scrolling through something on his phone. The TV played quietly in the background—some cartoon Mark vaguely recognized but couldn't name.
Debbie sipped her coffee, watching him over the rim of her mug. That mom look. The one that could see through walls and white lies and "I'm fine, really."
She set the mug down carefully.
"So..." Her tone was light, but her eyes were sharp. "What did your dad talk to you about last night?"
Mark nearly inhaled a piece of pancake.
"Oh!" He straightened up, excitement flooding his voice before he could stop it. "It was awesome, Mom! He told me I'm half-Viltrumite and that I'm gonna get powers and I might get super speed or flight or—or maybe laser eyes like in the comics, or I could punch through—"
"Mark." Debbie held up a hand, gentle but firm. "Slow down, baby. Breathe."
He grinned sheepishly, bouncing a little in his seat. Had to sell it. Seven-year-olds didn't have volume control when they were excited.
She waited until he'd settled before asking again, softer this time.
"How are you feeling about it?"
He swallowed his bite. Met her eyes. Let the grin fade just a little.
"It's... a lot," he admitted. "But I'm okay. Really."
Debbie's smile was small but proud. Then her whole expression shifted—went serious in that way that made you sit up straighter without meaning to.
"Alright. Listen to me."
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, making sure he was really hearing her.
"What your dad told you last night? That stays here. In this house. You don't tell your friends. You don't tell your teachers. You don't even tell your best friend in the whole world." She paused. "This isn't like sharing your favorite color or what you got for your birthday. This is serious. This is dangerous."
Mark's smile faded. "Dangerous how?"
Nolan set his phone down, chiming in right on cue like they'd rehearsed this.
"Because the world isn't ready for what you are. What we are." His voice was calm but heavy. "People fear what they don't understand. And if the wrong people found out about you before you're ready..." He shook his head. "They could try to hurt you. Or use you. Or hurt us to get to you."
Mark already knew all of this. He'd watched it play out on screen. Read it in the comics. But sitting here, looking at their faces—at the genuine worry in Debbie's eyes and the protective edge in Nolan's jaw—it hit different.
He nodded slowly, solemnly.
"I won't tell anyone. I promise."
Debbie exhaled, relief washing over her face. She reached across the table and squeezed his hand.
"Good. Because if anyone finds out before you're ready to handle it..." She trailed off, didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
Nolan stood, straightening his collar, and ruffled Mark's hair—firm but affectionate.
"We'll help you through this. One step at a time."
Mark grinned into his orange juice. "...I still hope I get laser eyes, though."
Nolan tried not to laugh. Failed.
Debbie just shook her head, but she was smiling too.
The school bus honked outside—loud, impatient, already running late.
"Mark! Bus!" Debbie called from the kitchen, suddenly in full mom-mode. She grabbed his backpack off the hook, shoved a juice box into the side pocket, and practically pushed him toward the door.
"Lunch is in there, don't trade your sandwich for Pokémon cards again, and if Kenny tries to get you to eat bugs, you say no, understand?"
"Got it, Mom!" Mark laughed, stumbling down the porch steps.
He turned back at the last second.
Debbie and Nolan stood together in the doorway, her leaning into him, his arm around her shoulders. Both of them waving.
"Have a great day, sweetie!" Debbie called.
"Make good choices!" Nolan added with a smirk.
The bus doors hissed open. Mark climbed on, found a seat by the window, and watched them as the bus pulled away. They got smaller and smaller until the street curved and they disappeared.
Something settled in his chest. Something heavy and warm and real.
I could get used to this.
Second grade was exactly as soul-crushing as he remembered.
"...and that's why two plus two equals four!" Mrs. Henderson chirped at the whiteboard, beaming like she'd just cracked the Riemann hypothesis.
Mark sat in the back row, arms crossed, chin in his hand. His knees barely fit under the desk.
I cannot believe I have to do this again.
It was like replaying a video game he'd already beaten. Twice. With all the DLC. And now he was stuck doing the tutorial level all over again. Except this time, he couldn't skip the cutscenes.
To his left, a kid named Brandon was knuckle-deep in his nose, examining his findings with scientific curiosity.
To his right, a girl named Emma was trying to eat glue. Not even secretly. Just... going for it.
And in front of him, Kenny—loud, gap-toothed Kenny—kept turning around to whisper about how cool the Guardians of the Globe were and did Mark think Robot could beat Darkwing in a fight?
Mark wanted to scream.
Puberty. Again. Acne. Again. Voice cracks. Middle school awkwardness. That horrible phase where you have to figure out deodorant exists. Oh my God.
He put his forehead on the desk.
Lord have mercy.
Recess was better. At least outside, he could move. Run. Pretend the playground wasn't a prison.
He raced Kenny and three other kids across the field and won every single time. Didn't even feel winded.
"Dude, you're so fast!" Kenny panted, hands on his knees.
Mark just shrugged, grinning. "I Dunno. Just lucky, I guess."
Kenny tripped over his own feet on the way back and face-planted in the dirt. Got a mouthful of grass and everything.
Mark tried not to laugh.
Failed.
That night at dinner, the table was loud and warm and chaotic.
Mark was mid-story, waving his fork around like a sword as he told Debbie about his four-race winning streak.
"I was so fast, Mom! And then Kenny ate dirt, and it was like—pfft!" He made an explosion noise with his mouth, bits of mashed potato flying.
"Mark." Debbie's voice had that mom edge. "Chew first. Talk second."
"Sorry," he mumbled through a mouthful of chicken.
"And you held the door for five people at lunch?" she asked, eyebrow raised.
"Small class today," Mark said with a shrug, grinning.
Then—
WHOOOOSH.
The world exploded with wind.
Napkins flew. The saltshaker toppled. Mark's hair whipped into his eyes.
A blur—red and white and impossibly fast—tore through the kitchen.
"DAD?!" Mark shouted, spinning in his chair.
Nolan reappeared behind him, fully suited up in his Omni-Man costume. Boots. Cape. The works.
Mark's jaw dropped. "You didn't even tell me you could do that!"
"I did," Nolan said, smirking. "And I can do a lot more."
Debbie sighed, picking up the saltshaker with the patience of a saint. "Could you maybe do less at the dinner table?"
WHOOSH.
Another gust of wind. Mark blinked.
Nolan was back in his civilian clothes. Same spot. Like he'd never left.
Mark's brain stuttered. "No way."
He'd seen it on TV. Read it in comics. But this? Feeling the wind hit his face? Hearing the sonic crack of displaced air? Watching reality bend around something that fast?
The animation didn't do it justice.
Not even close.
Mark sat there, fork halfway to his mouth, just... staring at them.
Debbie, scooping more potatoes onto his plate without asking.
Nolan, flipping through the newspaper like he hadn't just broken the sound barrier in their kitchen.
These are my parents now.
Sure, Nolan had an agenda. A whole empire's worth of ulterior motives buried under that warm smile. And one day—maybe soon, maybe later—the mask would come off. The truth would come out.
But right now? In this moment?
They were just a mom and dad who made dinner and asked about school and cared if he was happy.
A tear slid down his cheek before he could stop it.
Debbie turned, eyes going soft. "Sweetheart? What's wrong?"
Nolan straightened, voice going serious. "Is someone bullying you at school?"
Mark smiled, wiping his face quickly. "No. I'm just..." He swallowed. "I'm really happy you guys are my parents."
Silence.
Then Debbie was there, arms around his shoulders, pulling him close.
"We're so happy you're our son," she whispered into his hair.
Nolan stood, walked over, and put a strong hand on Mark's shoulder. Squeezed once.
"You're going to do great things, kid. I can feel it."
Mark nodded, throat too tight to speak.
After dinner, while Debbie washed dishes and Nolan read the paper on the couch, Mark approached the sink quietly.
"Mom?"
"Yeah, baby?"
He hesitated. "...If I bring my grades up... can I start taking self-defense classes?"
Debbie turned, one eyebrow raised, suds dripping from her hands. "You? Mr. 'C's Get Degrees'?"
Mark winced. "That's... that's old me. New me wants to level up."
She laughed—a real, full laugh. "You bring those grades up, and we'll talk."
From the couch, Nolan called out, "I think it's a great idea. A Viltrumite should learn discipline."
Mark grinned. "Way ahead of you, Dad."
That night, lying in bed, Mark stared at the same spot on the ceiling.
Same house. Same quiet.
But this time, he wasn't just adjusting.
He was planning.
I'm not wasting this life. I'm going to master my powers. Learn to fight. Be ready for everything this world throws at me. For the Viltrumites. For Thragg. For all of it.
One thing that always bugged him about the original comics was how unprepared Mark had been. But then again... what kid thinks about that stuff? What seven-year-old plans for intergalactic war?
The original Mark didn't know what was coming.
But he did.
And that changed everything.