"I've learned that the long-game is the shortcut," Richie Norton
Time skip: 10 years later
The auditorium was packed—wall-to-wall bodies crammed into uncomfortable folding chairs, the air thick with perfume, cologne, and the particular brand of anxiety that came with watching your kid walk across a stage.
Mark stood in line backstage, cap slightly crooked, gown hanging loose on his frame. Around him, his classmates buzzed with nervous energy—some crying, some laughing, everyone taking selfies like their lives depended on it.
He should've felt something. Pride, maybe. Relief. The weight of accomplishment.
Instead, he just felt... ready.
Ready to move forward. Ready for what came next.
"Mark Grayson!"
The principal's voice boomed through the speakers, and Mark walked.
The stage lights were blinding. He couldn't see the crowd, but he heard them—the whoops and hollers, the scattered applause. And somewhere in that chaos, cutting through everything else, he heard them.
"THAT'S MY BOY!" Debbie's voice, loud and unashamed and so full of pride it made his chest ache.
Nolan's deeper voice followed, more reserved but just as proud. "Go, Mark!"
Mark accepted his diploma with a firm handshake, smiled for the camera—flash, click, done—and walked off stage.
Seventeen years old. One year ahead of schedule. Full ride to Upstate University.
Not bad for a second chance.
The parking lot afterward was chaos. Families everywhere, taking photos, crying, hugging. Mark found Debbie and Nolan near their car, and Debbie immediately pulled him into a crushing hug.
"I'm so proud of you," she whispered, voice thick.
"Can't... breathe..." Mark wheezed, but he was smiling.
Nolan clapped him on the shoulder when Debbie finally let go, grip firm and warm. "You've earned this, son. All of it."
"Thanks, Dad." Mark adjusted his cap, suddenly feeling awkward under the weight of their attention. "Hey, uh... I'm gonna meet you guys at home, okay? There's a couple things I need to take care of first."
Debbie frowned. "What things? We're supposed to celebrate—I made your favorite!"
"I know, I know. I just—" Mark shifted his weight. "I need to say goodbye to some people. Won't take long. I'll be home in like an hour, hour and a half tops."
Nolan studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. Don't keep your mother waiting too long."
"I won't. Promise."
Mark watched them drive off, Debbie waving through the window until they turned the corner. Then he pulled out his keys, climbed into his beat-up Honda Civic—a hand-me-down from Debbie—and headed in the opposite direction.
The dojo sat tucked between a laundromat and a tax office in a strip mall that had seen better days. Faded sign. Cracked pavement. But inside? Inside was where Mark had spent the last nine years of his life getting his ass kicked in the best possible way.
He pushed through the door, and the familiar smell hit him immediately—sweat, rubber mats, that specific tang of Tiger Balm that never quite left the air.
"MARK!"
Coach Rivera spotted him first. Short, stocky, arms like tree trunks and a handshake that could crack walnuts. He'd been running this place for twenty years, and it showed in every callus on his hands.
"Heard you graduated today. Full ride, yeah?"
"Yeah." Mark grinned. "Upstate University."
"Smart and tough. Damn, kid. You're making the rest of us look bad." Rivera laughed, then his expression shifted—went softer. "Gonna miss having you around."
"Yeah, well..." Mark glanced around at the mats, the heavy bags, the wall of photos showing students who'd come through over the years. His picture was up there somewhere. Younger. Skinnier. Nervous as hell. "This place kind of changed my life."
Nine Years Ago
Mark had been eight years old, barely seventy pounds soaking wet, when Debbie first dropped him off.
The dojo had looked bigger then. More intimidating. He'd stood in the doorway, backpack still on, staring at the older kids sparring on the mats.
"You Grayson?" Rivera had asked, clipboard in hand.
Mark nodded.
"You ever been in a fight before?"
"...Does my brother's friend pushing me down count?"
Rivera snorted. "No. But don't worry, kid. You will be."
That first day had been brutal. They'd started with basics—stance, footwork, how to make a proper fist without breaking your own thumb. Mark had been terrible at all of it. Tripped over his own feet. Forgot which hand to lead with. Got winded after two minutes of shadow boxing.
But he'd come back the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
Rivera's program was a hybrid system—pulling from multiple disciplines depending on what the student needed. For Mark, that meant Muay Thai for striking, Boxing for head movement and combinations, and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu mixed with Wrestling for ground game.
"Muay Thai's the art of eight limbs," Rivera had explained during one of their early sessions, demonstrating a knee strike. "Fists, elbows, knees, shins. You use your whole body as a weapon. It's direct. Aggressive. No wasted movement."
"Boxing," he'd continued, bobbing and weaving, "is about angles and timing. You make them miss, then you make them pay. It's a chess match at a hundred miles an hour."
"And BJJ? Wrestling?" Rivera had grinned. "That's where you learn that size doesn't matter. Technique beats strength every time. You learn how to control someone bigger than you, how to escape when you're pinned, how to make someone tap out without throwing a single punch."
Mark had absorbed it all like a sponge. Partly because he was a quick learner. Partly because he knew—deep down, in that place where Devin's memories still lived—that he'd need it.
Not for school bullies.
For Viltrumites.
"You heading out today?" Rivera asked, pulling Mark back to the present.
"Yeah. Just wanted to say thanks. For everything."
Rivera waved him off. "You put in the work, kid. I just pointed you in the right direction." He paused, then added, "You ever need anything—I mean anything—you call me. Got it?"
Mark's throat tightened. "Got it."
They shook hands one last time. Mark bowed to the photos on the wall—an old tradition Rivera insisted on—and walked out.
The library was quieter. Calmer. The kind of place where you could hear the air conditioning hum.
Mark found Eve in their usual spot—corner table, back to the wall, textbooks spread out like she was preparing for war. Her red hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and she had a pencil tucked behind her ear.
She looked up when he approached, and her whole face brightened.
"Hey! How'd it go?"
"Good. Survived without tripping on stage, so that's a win." Mark dropped into the chair across from her. "You still drowning in AP Chem?"
"Ugh, don't remind me." Eve groaned, slumping forward. "I have my final next week, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to fail."
"You're not gonna fail. You're, like, the smartest person I know."
"You're biased."
"Accurate and biased."
Eve rolled her eyes but smiled. "So... Upstate University, huh?"
Mark nodded. "Yeah. Move-in's in August."
"That's really cool, Mark. I'm happy for you." She meant it, too. But there was something else in her voice. Something quieter.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, I just..." She twirled her pencil absently. "It's gonna be weird not having you around, you know? You're like... the only person at school who doesn't treat me like I'm some kind of freak."
Two Years Ago
Eve had transferred in halfway through sophomore year. New kid. Kept to herself. Ate lunch alone.
Mark had recognized her immediately.
Not from school. From the comics.
Atom Eve. Samantha Wilkins. Powers that could rewrite matter at the molecular level. One of the most powerful beings on the planet, and she had no idea yet.
He'd approached her at lunch that first week, tray in hand, trying to look casual.
"Hey. You're Sam, right? Samantha?"
She'd looked up, suspicious. "...Yeah?"
"I'm Mark. Mind if I sit?"
"Uh... sure?"
They'd talked about nothing important. Classes. Teachers. The cafeteria's truly awful pizza. But Mark had made sure to come back the next day. And the day after that.
Eventually, she'd started calling him her friend.
Eventually, he'd started believing it.
"You're not a freak," Mark said now, firm. "You're Eve. And you're gonna do amazing things."
She looked at him, something unreadable in her expression. Then she smiled—small, but real.
"Thanks, Mark."
They studied for another hour, Eve drilling him on historical dates he definitely didn't need help with anymore, but he let her anyway. Because that's what friends did.
When they finally packed up, Eve walked him to the door.
"Text me when you get settled in, okay?"
"Deal."
She hesitated, then pulled him into a quick hug.
"Gonna miss you, Grayson."
"Gonna miss you too, Wilkins."
Burger Mart smelled like grease and regret.
Mark pushed through the door, and his manager—Jerry, forty-something, perpetually exhausted—looked up from the register.
"Grayson. You're not on the schedule today."
"I know. I'm actually here to—"
"Quit?" Jerry sighed. "Yeah, I figured. College?"
"Yeah."
"Good for you, kid. Seriously." Jerry leaned on the counter. "You were one of the good ones. Showed up on time, didn't steal from the register, didn't spit in anyone's food."
"That's... a pretty low bar, Jerry."
"You'd be surprised." He stuck out his hand. "Good luck out there."
Mark shook it. "Thanks."
As he walked out, he glanced back one last time. He'd spent the last two years flipping burgers, taking orders, mopping floors at midnight.
It had sucked.
But it had also given him something important: independence. Money. A reason to be out of the house without raising suspicion.
A reason to disappear into the night and train.
One Year Ago
Mark had been sixteen when his powers finally kicked in.
It happened exactly like the show. He'd been taking out the trash behind Burger Mart, late shift, nobody around. Lifted the bag—and it crumpled in his hand like tissue paper.
He'd stared at his fist, heart pounding.
Then he'd lifted the dumpster.
One-handed.
Over his head.
Without breaking a sweat.
"Holy shit," he'd whispered.
His first instinct had been to run home. Tell Nolan. Tell Debbie. Celebrate.
But then he'd stopped.
Because telling them meant starting the clock. Meant Nolan would begin training him. Meant becoming Invincible. Meant stepping into a story he knew ended in blood and betrayal and watching his dad murder the Guardians of the Globe.
So, he'd made a choice.
He'd kept it secret.
For the last year, Mark had trained in secret.
He'd tested his limits. Pushed his body in ways that would've killed a normal person.
He'd found videos online—industrial machinery, sonic weapons, whale calls pitched just wrong. Things that made his head split and his ears bleed. He'd forced himself to listen. Over and over. Building tolerance. Building immunity. Because he knew Viltrumites had that weakness, and he refused to be caught off-guard. He'd memorized maps. Flight paths. Ocean currents. If he was going to fly, he needed to know where the hell he was going. No GPS. No guides. Just him and the sky and a mental map of the entire planet. Late at night, when Debbie thought he was studying and Nolan was out patrolling, Mark would fly to the coast. Dive deep. Deeper than sunlight reached. Deeper than whales swam. He'd push himself down until the pressure made his bones creak, until his lungs screamed, until his body adapted. He'd fly fast underwater—faster than anything that lived there—feeling the resistance, building his strength, his speed, his durability.
He hadn't just been getting ready.
He'd been getting better.
Now, sitting in his car outside Burger Mart, Mark stared at his hands.
Strong hands. Scarred knuckles from nine years of training. Hands that could crush steel without trying.
He was ready.
Or as ready as he'd ever be.
But to do this—to actually become a hero—he'd have to tell Nolan.
He'd have to start the clock.
Mark pulled out his phone. Stared at his dad's contact.
His thumb hovered over the call button.
This is it. Once I do this, everything changes.
He took a breath.
And pressed call.
The phone rang once. Twice.
"Hey, son. You on your way home?"
Mark's voice was steady. Calm.
"Yeah. But Dad? I need to talk to you about something when I get there."
A pause at the other end. Then, carefully: "...What is it?"
Mark smiled, even though Nolan couldn't see it.
"I got my powers."
Silence.
Then, quiet and full of something Mark couldn't quite name—
"Come home, Mark. We'll talk."
Mark hung up. Started the car.
And drove toward the rest of his life.
Everything starts now.