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aspen78 · 1 month ago

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Chapter 6: How it all Byrnes

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Government buildings rarely whispered, but this one? The Pentagon? This floor of the Pentagon?

It stopped whispering long ago. It held its breath.

Sound didn’t just fade here--it was put on mute.

This was the kind of silence you didn’t break with a cough. The kind you didn’t fill with footsteps unless you knew where you were going.

Everything was all steel walls and buried secrets. No windows. No clocks. Time moved differently here--like it could be redacted just like anything else.

Air down here buzzed with something more than fluorescent lighting--something buried beneath miles of earth and silence. Most people didn’t know this wing existed. Most who did pretended it didn’t.

And, for what goes on down here. It was probably for the best.

(Y/n)--Vireo, whatever you want to call her, all of her--had a bad habit of showing up in these sort of places. Places she technically wasn't cleared for.

Another set of mechanized doors swished open for the girl as she dropped the “borrowed” key card and the silicone swatch of an authorized fingerprint back into the pocket of her blazer. Even through leathered loafers, her steps plodded through the maze of halls inaudibly.

She moved through the system like a courier. Quick. Unimportant. Boring. Belonging.

Security cameras tracked her, but what were they going to do with footage of a person who so very much looked like another agent?

Black blazer? Check.

Pressed button up? You know it.

Glasses? Exactly the kind you’d never notice.

Badge? Got it… stolen, but still got it.

Finger ready to be scanned? The wonders of 3D printing are truly amazing.

People didn’t question confidence in this place. They questioned mistakes. Glitches. Broken lines of protocol. They looked for the hacker in the hoodie, the grunt with the sweaty hands. No one looked twice at an unmemorable face.

(Y/n) passed another checkpoint like it was just a suggestion. She didn’t smirk. But she wanted to.

Cecil was going to be pissed.

But she was already pissed.

Her taking their defense system for a joyride was the start of making things even.

A few turns later, and she was standing in front of a vault-grade door marked with no nameplate.

It slid open before she could even attempt to rewire it.

“Come in, Byrnes.”

She sighed. “You’re no fun anymore.”

Cecil’s office was less of a room and more of a cold war command center dressed like a broom closet. Low lights. One-way mirrors. A single screen flickering static-blue across his desk. And the man himself, standing behind it like he hadn’t moved in hours.

(Y/n) stepped in, slow, deliberate. She didn’t take off the glasses. Didn’t drop the mask--not the real one.

He gestured to the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”

She remained standing.

Cecil didn’t push it. He didn’t need to.

“You’re not subtle,” he said, adjusting a file on his desk that wasn’t really a file. Just a thin stack of hollow pages, light-reactive and probably encrypted six different ways.

“I was,” she said flatly. “You’re just not normal.”

“You broke in through seven layers of biometric security and knocked one of my guys out.”

(Y/n) folded her arms. “You say that like it’s impressive.”

“It is,” Cecil admitted. “Still doesn’t mean I like it.”

She shrugged before reaching into her pocket. “You’re still alive after your late-night talk.”

Her eyes narrowed to hone in on the faint bruising around his neck. “I take it that it went well.”

He just rubbed his jaw with a sigh like he hadn’t slept. “Define well.”

“You’re breathing.”

“Barely.” He glanced up from the terminal embedded in his desk. “Nolan doesn’t like being questioned. And he's on edge right now.”

Her fingers grazed a small flash drive, letting her thumb run across the smooth surface of it. Thinking. Debating.

To her credit, this was quite a decision to make. It was essentially synonymous to hovering over the button that would nuke the world.

She rolled the flash drive between her fingers once, then twice more, like it might decide for her.

Then she set it down on the edge of his desk. Soft. Final.

It made no sound. But the weight was there.

He looked at it, eyes glaring. He didn’t reach for it yet.

“And what’s on this that I haven’t already seen?”

“Proof,” she murmured, cautious of how loud she spoke this into existence.

Cecil slowly picked up the drive, turning it between his fingers. “Of what?”

(Y/n) met his gaze, somewhat amused, but mostly annoyed. “How long are we going to play 20 questions, Stedman?”

Cecil didn’t answer right away.

He stared at her, like he was searching for the catch hidden in the words she hadn’t said yet. Then he looked at the drive again, almost like it might burn a hole through his hand.

Finally, he sighed and slotted it into the reader embedded in his desk.

The lights dimmed slightly as the screen lit up--not a clean data stream, but a patchwork of spliced footage, metadata, satellite timestamps, and audio pulled from black box files that were never supposed to exist.

And there he was.

Nolan Grayson. Omni-Man.

Not just standing. Not just moving.

Killing.

The Guardians.

No interference. No defense. No unknown third party.

There was only him. And them. And red.

The footage wasn’t long. It didn’t need to be. You didn’t need ten minutes of betrayal to know it happened. You only needed one frame.

As the room came back to a still quiet, both of them sighed.

“Why bring it to me now?”

She shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. “Because I’ve been called a lot of things, but not suicidal.”

Cecil allowed himself a bitter smirk. “Yet you broke into my base to hand me the trigger we’d have to use on the most powerful man on Earth.”

His eyes lingered on the screen for a long time, even after it darkened again. His fingertips tapped the desk--once, twice--then went still.

“I already had Darkblood sniffing around,” he said after a long beat. “He’s been circling the edges of this. Hasn’t found this yet, though. But he’s still… pushing too close.”

(Y/n) watched his face scrunch up in annoyed frustration. “You don’t like him?”

“I don’t trust him,” Cecil corrected. “But that doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”

“He isn’t,” she confirmed, her eyebrow raised. “It’s plugged into your computer now. It’s not a theory anymore, Stedman. It’s not ‘he’s off.’ It’s not ‘he’s hiding something.’ It’s him. In that room. I can ID the timestamp, the body language. I watched him crack Red Rush’s skull on repeat just to be sure I wasn’t projecting.”

It was a long second of just eye contact. Scrutinizing. Uncomfortable. Eye contact.

“You realize what happens if we move too soon, right? No backup plan. No replacement. No safety net. If we spook him-”

“We all die.” She said it like she was stating a grocery item. “I know.”

“And if we wait too long-”

“We still all die.”

Cecil nodded grimly. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

“I don’t think glad is the right word,” (Y/n) scoffed at that. “And I didn’t bring this to you for you to give me orders on what to do and what not to do.”

“What are you doing in preparation for this.”

Her mouth pressed thin when he didn’t have a response. “You’re waiting for the perfect checkmate while Omni-Man is already moving pawns,” she said, voice dropping lower. “You think he’ll slip. That you’ll come up with a plan so airtight, you can tip the king with a smile on your face.”

“In an ideal world, that would be the plan. But I think we both know ideal is so far from reality now.” She leaned closer across the desk--not threatening, but unwavering. “Stop waiting for ideal. Or you’re gonna be the director who let the world burn while he waited for it.”

“I know,” he finally said, quiet. Not reluctant. Just weighed. “I know.”

He sat back in his chair like it aged him. The static-blue monitor dimmed. The flash drive still blinked at the base of the desk like a tiny red eye.

She could see it behind his tired eyes. The rotations of a dozen emergency scenarios. The unspoken calculations about damage, fallout, and what--if anything--could stop Omni-Man.

(Y/n) watched him. Not like an ally. Not like an enemy. Like someone who refused to be either.

“Whatever you’re thinking? It won’t be enough,” she sighed. Deeply. “There isn’t going to be one perfect play. We’re going to need play after play. Hit after hit.”

“We can’t be stupid enough to delusionize a win. We’re here to buy time.” Running a tense hand through her hair, she tugged on the very ends of it like they could anchor her, stressed. Distraught. Scared. “For him.”

Cecil watched her for a moment, then looked past her. Maybe at the wall. Maybe through it. Then, he closed his eyes. “You saw the file.”

“I saw the file.”

He tried justifying himself, “Mark is the only one who stands a chance-”

“I know, Stedman,” (y/n) cut in.

Her voice didn’t spike. It dropped. Soft. Dangerous. Like she was tired of repeating herself but still doing it anyway--because no one else would.

“I know what he is. I know what he could become. I know what he might have to become.”

For the first time since she stepped down here, she let go of her facade.

The edge in her voice dulled, not from weakness but from wear. The glint in her eyes faded, no longer pretending she was only a third party. The rigidity of her posture loosened under the weight of sentiment. A quiet kind of resignation.

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

The moment didn’t last. It never did.

(Y/n) ran a hand down her face, reeling in whatever was left unsaid, before her spine reset into something colder--straighter. She gave one last glance to the blinking drive.

“You’re the director,” she muttered, already prepping to leave. “Direct.”

His mouth twitched, barely. An unrestrained movement breaking through. “Watch it.”

Her brow arched, just slightly. “Or what? You’ll assign me more teenagers to babysit?”

Cecil gave her a dry, unenthused look. “You’re exhausting.”

“So are you. What’s new?” She rolled her eyes with a small smirk.

She finally took a step back, her stance loosening by degrees. “I’m thinking with you. But y’know, you get paid for this.”

His eyes bored into her, and he deadpanned--yet again, “Exhausting.”

Her smirk grew enough. And, the door behind her hissed open again for her to turn to leave.

“But Byrnes?” his voice hooked in the air, catching her right before she stepped out of the frame.

She paused.

“If something happens to you before we act--”

“Don’t pretend you’ll avenge me,” she cut in, calm but cold. “You’re not that sentimental.”

Cecil didn’t deny it. Just tapped the desk once more. “Fine. Then try not to die. I’m short on people who actually get it.”

(Y/n) gave no reply. Only a faint lilt of a chuckle as she disappeared into the corridor.

Still the same steel-and-silence tomb they’d always been, but she now felt heavier walking through them this time. Like the walls had swallowed her voice whole. Like the decision she’d just made had soaked into the soles of her shoes.

She passed another security junction, nodded at a guard who didn’t look twice, and slipped into a nondescript elevator bound for the upper floors.

She adjusted the blazer again. Straightened her cuffs. She didn’t need to, but it helped. Rituals did. Something to focus on besides the knowledge she’d just handed the end of the world to a man with a scar and a death wish.

The Pentagon aboveground was louder--barely--but even this high up, the silence dragged behind her like a shadow.

The elevator doors dinged open.

She stepped out into a sterile hallway--bright, bland, somewhere between reception and regulation. Not her style. Too clean. Too conscious of itself.

And then she turned a corner--and collided with someone.

Hard enough that the wind almost knocked out of her. Not from the impact. From the recognition.

“Whoa--sorry, I didn’t see-” A voice halted mid-apology.

His hands had automatically caught her shoulders. Gentle. Familiar.

His fingers froze.

Her eyes snapped up. Met his.

Brown. Wide. Familiar.

Mark Grayson.

Oh, great.

Impeccable timing as always. Just what she needed after pawning off a flash drive labeled "End of World, Probably."

She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Not at first.

Because she knew he was already squinting.

And not in the normal awkward-teenage-boy way. The I-know-you’ve-kicked-someone’s-ass-in-front-of-me-before kind of squint.

The blazer. The glasses. The hair. She still looked like someone he should walk past in a hallway. But her eyes?

He’d seen them behind a visor. Under smoke. Just before the sword moved.

And he watched them move over him. The way she looked at him made him nervous, self-conscious even. Made him automatically look down at his suit for any oddly placed tears. Made him fix his windassaulted hair. Made him grip his mask even tighter. Made him sweat.

He may not be squinting in the normal awkward-teenage-boy way, but he sure was fidgeting in the normal awkward-teenage-boy way.

Meanwhile, she was facing the quiet internal siren in her head screaming at her to switch from contain nuclear secrets mode to oh no, social interaction mode.

“Uh…” Mark blinked. “Hi?”

(Y/n) adjusted her glasses--not because they’d slipped, but because she needed a second. Maybe two. Maybe a decade.

“…Hello,” she said, cool and even. Polite. The way school acquaintances say it when you spot them in public.

He squinted again.“Wait a second...”

“Nope,” she said immediately, backing out of his hold. “Wrong person. Very flattering though.”

He frowned. “I didn’t say anything yet.”

“You were about to.”

“Was I?”

“You always are.”

“Okay, that sounds like something someone who knows me would say,” he spluttered with a half-hazardly thrown finger gun, confident he was fully caught up with the scene now.

(Y/n) groaned under her breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. And her stomach did a slow, sarcastic spin. Of course. Of course.

This was not on the agenda. Not after footage. Not after war prep. Not after giving Cecil the flash drive of doom and telling him to think faster.

And now she was arguing with a half-sweaty teenage hero in the middle of a hallway that probably had thirty surveillance cameras.

Whiplash.

Absolute whiplash.

“Your eyes give you away,” Mark said, like that settled it. And settled himself against the wall, arms crossed and teeth smiling.

“That’s creepy,” she deadpanned, her face pinched to show her distaste--amused distaste, but still distaste.

“Is it?” he asked, smile widening like he thought he was winning something. “Because I think it’s poetic. Like--Shakespeare-level poetic. Or at least early Poe.”

She let a long sigh through her nose. “Grayson.”

He grinned. “Wow, last name. I must really be getting to you.”

(Y/n) scrunched those eyes he was so very familiar with, apparently.

“C’mon,” he said, taking a small step closer, tilting his head like he was trying to line up her current form with the battle-ready image in his memory. “You think a pair of glasses and a blazer are gonna throw me off?”

“They usually do,” she muttered. “That’s half the point.”

“Well, they don’t. I’d recognize those eyes anywhere.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re saying it like you’re in a cheesy romcom.”

He chuckled. Real. Stupid. Warm. His smile was crooked now. Warm. And it hit her in a way it absolutely shouldn’t have. Not right now. Not when she still felt the blood pumping cold from her last conversation.

(Y/n) stood there a beat longer than she meant to. Her shoulders were still squared like they hadn’t realized the war room was gone. Her mind was still back on the screen. The footage. The future.

But Mark? Mark was just there. Waiting. No knives. No suspicion. Just the same awkward warmth that had somehow become familiar.

She opened her mouth. The beginnings of a sentence tried to leave her, but then stopped. It swerved into a breath, and she pressed her lips together. Then, she tried again.

“I’m going now.”

She took a step back. He took one forward.

(Y/n) narrowed her eyes.

He saw it, because of course he did.

“I’m not- I’m not following you,” Mark spluttered, unconvincingly, still with a smile. “I’m just… walking the same direction at the same time. Like a coincidence. Or fate.”

She quickened her pace slightly, but he matched her again, too persistent for someone who was just “walking the same government hallway.”

(Y/n) huffed, blowing a strand of hair out of her face as her shoes mutely hit the sterile tile. “You’re unbearable.”

Mark didn’t miss a beat. “You say that like it’s a new development.”

“It’s not.”

“Well, then, at least I’m consistent.” He grinned at her like that was a badge of honor.

She finally cracked--air that almost became a laugh escaped her nose. And she hated how easy it was. How damn fast he melted the steel she hadn’t even unclenched since the sublevels. The shift in her tone, her spine, her pulse--it was too fast. Too much. Whiplash.

She immediately covered it with a cough. And, Mark pretended not to notice, but his teeth shone even brighter than the white lights.

“You are the only person who talks to me like this,” she tried to scoff.

Mark grinned like that was the entire point.

“Yeah, well--maybe I’m just the only one who knows how,” he said, easy, shrugging one shoulder.

(Y/n) rolled her eyes so hard it was practically audible, but she didn’t stop walking. Didn't tell him to leave. Didn't tell him not to follow, either.

They walked in silence for a few steps. Or rather, they moved in parallel--(Y/n) all control and solitary, Mark more of a friendly orbit, like a moon too interested in a planet that very clearly did not want to be the center of anything right now.

It should’ve been irritating.

It was irritating.

But it also wasn’t.

Because he wasn’t asking. He wasn’t pressing. He wasn’t even demanding she confirm who she was, despite the fact he clearly knew. He just walked with her, making the atmosphere lighter whether she wanted it or not.

…She hated him a little for that.

Not real hate. Not the kind that sticks. The kind that flares when someone makes it too easy to breathe after you’ve nearly drowned.

“Do you always do this?” she asked after a moment, gaze forward, voice low.

He tilted his head. “Do what?”

“This,” she motioned vaguely with a hand. “Miraculously time it so you catch me at my worst moments and use that to try to be my friend.”

Mark smiled. Not like before. Just simple. Like the kind of smile you pull on when you don’t know how to respond.

“...Aren’t we friends?”

She stopped walking.

Not with some dramatic skid or gasp or swing of the arms--but like a machine whose program had hit a wall. Like the word itself broke a cog inside her head. Friends.

Her jaw didn’t drop. Her breath didn’t catch.

She just paused.

Long enough that Mark realized he’d said something heavier than it sounded.

He blinked. “I mean--I thought we were. Or at least heading that way? I mean, I hoped-” He was doing that thing again. Rambling. Filling the air. Hands trying to catch his own words as they tripped over each other. “It’s not like I have a quota or anything, I just--well, you’re you, and I like being around-”

“Mark.”

She said it like a pressure valve.

He shut up.

The hallway, the lights, the sterile silence--all of it blurred for a second.

She wasn’t looking at him.

Her posture was still straight, still calculated. But something in her face--something in the space just beneath the skin--looked tired.

Not from walking. Not from running.

From carrying.

“…Aren’t we friends?” he asked again, a little more carefully this time. A little less certain.

(Y/n) didn’t answer right away.

She stared down the hallway instead. Like she might find the right words hidden between fluorescent hums and security cameras.

Then she said, “You don’t know me.”

“I’m trying to,” he said, quiet.

That got a glimpse of something behind her eyes. Not warmth. Not cold. Something unfinished.

She looked at him fully now, and it hit harder than it should have--how much was behind that expression. Grief. Steel. Hesitation. All fighting for the same square inch of space.

“You’re not supposed to,” she said.

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

She gave a breath of something like a laugh, but it didn’t reach very far. “Because if you do, it gets harder.”

“For who?”

“For me.”

That landed with more weight than either of them expected.

Mark’s mouth opened--some clumsy kindness ready to leap out--but her look stopped it before it formed.

She stepped back once. Not far. Just enough to reset the space between them.

“You’re… good,” she said. Like it hurt to admit. “And I’m trying to keep you that way.”

Mark swallowed. “��You don’t have to protect me.”

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I do.”

She didn’t say it like a martyr.

She didn’t say it like someone brave.

She said it like it cost her something.

It hung there.

Simple. Unadorned. Heavy in a way that made the silence around it feel thinner, stretched like glass.

Maybe it was in the way she avoided looking at him. Or maybe it was in the way bits of guilt and sadness peeked out.

But he understood something now--something he hadn’t put words to until this second.

She wasn’t pushing him away because she didn’t care.

She was doing it because she did.

He shifted his weight, eyes flicking to her hands, her shoulders, her jaw--every part of her holding still like movement would make everything spill out.

“You always do that,” he sighed, shaking his head the way you do in every frustrating argument.

It took a beat of hesitation for (Y/n) meet his prying stare. “Do what?”

“That thing where you decide everything for everyone. Like if you hold the weight long enough, the rest of us get to keep pretending this is… normal.”

She flinched. Barely, but enough.

He saw it.

And, she had to look away for her next words.

“Well, that's sort of the point.”

Mark’s brow creased.

“If I hold it,” she mumbled, steadily. Almost eerily so. With that hollow undertone of someone reciting something implanted deep within them. “Then maybe you don’t have to. Maybe you still get make your stupid jokes. Still worry about that test you forgot about. Still flail at every attempt to impress the girl. Still wake up and want something.”

He couldn’t respond to that. Not right away.

Not because he didn’t have something to say--god, he had too much to say. Too many arguments, too many reasons she was wrong, or brave, or unfair to herself.

But none of it would’ve mattered. None of it would’ve reached her the way he wanted it to.

Because she wasn’t asking for comfort.

She was explaining her logic.

And that’s what bothered him the most.

“…You think that’s what I want?” he asked finally, his voice lower now. “To be protected from the world like I’m still some kid who doesn’t get what’s coming?”

“No,” she stated, softly. “I think it’s what you deserve.”

That undid something in him.

Because there it was. Not pity. Not distance. Just… belief. In him, more than she let herself believe in anything else.

He stepped forward--not to grab her, not to reach, but to narrow the space again. Make it real.

“I don’t want to deserve normal if it means you don’t get to have it too,” he said.

Her voice came out barely above a whisper now, but it was still the loudest thing to him. “That’s not how this works.”

She looked at him then, and it almost ruined him.

Because it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t armored.

It was sad.

Not the kind of sadness that breaks down crying--but the kind that’s lived in someone’s bones so long, it’s just part of how they move now.

“You think I don’t want it?” she asked, a wry smile tugging at her mouth. “You think I don’t lie awake wishing for something as simple as a bad grade or an awkward party or a real conversation that doesn’t come with collateral damage?”

She didn’t wait for him to answer. He didn’t try to.

“I want normal more than anything,” she said, voice flat--not because she didn’t feel it, but because she felt it too much. “I don’t even get to pretend to have it as ‘me.’ I don’t go to school anymore. I head a company. I argue with men twice my age. I date to keep the tabloids distracted. I flirt when I’m supposed to, smile when it’ll make a better headline, and leave before anyone can ask a real question.”

Finally, (y/n) met his eyes. Tired meeting pity.

“And everyone keeps telling me I’m impressive. That I’m composed. That I’m handling it.” She paused, her jaw clenching.

“I’m already fighting to keep two lives.” She looked away again. “I can’t handle adding a normal one.”

Mark didn’t back off. No, he stepped closer. Grazed his hand on her shoulder enough to get her attention again.

“Maybe…” he started, not sure and full of uncertainty, but earnest. “Maybe you don’t need another life.”

She didn’t move, but something in her eyes flickered. Caution. Skepticism. Bracing for some hollow reassurance.

“You can take--you’re allowed to take a moment for you. Just five minutes? Where none of that matters. Not the headlines, missions, or- or anything,” he smiled, asking for any form of consideration. “The world won’t fall apart that quickly, right?”

She stared at him like he’d just spoken in a language she hadn’t heard in years.

Five minutes?

Her throat tightened around the idea. Not because it was absurd.

But because it was dangerous.

Because it sounded a little too much like hope.

(Y/n) didn’t answer right away. Her eyes dropped--not out of guilt, not even hesitation, but calculation. Like she was weighing the cost of softness in a life that had no room for it.

He wasn’t asking for forever. Wasn’t asking her to tear down everything she'd built just to let him in.

He was asking for five minutes.

And she didn’t know how to say yes to something so simple.

Because if she said yes now, what would happen the next time someone needed her?

What if five minutes turned into ten? Turned into a habit?

Turned into her wanting more?

And want was dangerous.

Want was weakness.

Want was how people got kill-

Shit. How did it get this bad?

Even when someone is asking for five minutes where you don’t spiral into your responsibilities, you still were.

(Y/n) shut her eyes, letting a new breath cycle through her lungs. She let herself breathe. Just once. Fully.

Then it came out as a curt huff. Just like the ones when you can’t believe how stupid you were.

Her (e/c) met his patient brown ones and a small, pressed smile was willed into existence. Not a smartass smirk. Or that photo perfect grin.

Just her smile.

“...Well,” she said, her tone somewhat neutral. “You got time for a coffee? Or should we keep standing here making eye contact until one of us combusts?”

Mark’s grin was immediate. Stupid. Earnest. Real.

Very Mark.

(Y/n)’s was tentative. Uncertain. But cracked open enough to be real.

Possibly (Y/n).

*bonus scene (b/c i felt like writing it but the chapter officially ended above :] )

The overhead lights in the break room buzzed with the faint flicker of neglect. One of them stuttered every now and then like it was trying to start a conversation. But it doesn’t. Because even the lights know better.

Everything was beige or gray. Tables were bolted down. Chairs were stackable. Coffee machines looked like they have been through war.

Still, there was something oddly comforting about it.

Maybe it was because no one spared the brightly colored hero or the ‘intern’ a second glance. In the eyes of everyone else, they simply just got another two bodies in the bureaucratic purgatory.

The pair stood at the far end of the self-serve station. Mark stared at the array of options like it was a minefield. (Y/n) watched him with a vague sense of amusement, still trying to unclench the knot between her shoulder blades.

“So…,” he gestured with both hands, eyes squinting at the row of burnt carafes. “Do I risk the ‘hazelnut’ or the mystery third pot?”

She picked up a paper cup and lightly snorted, “I think you’ll regret either.”

He nodded solemnly, watching as she picked up the safe pot in the middle. “Cool, cool. Regret it is.”

Grasping the third pot, Mark watched the dark liquid slosh around the glass and swallowed. He filled the cup halfway and immediately winced at the scent that hit him.

“Holy shit,” he groaned, shoving the cup away from his face. “That smells like battery acid and depression.”

(Y/n) hid a shit-eating grin behind her own cup, sipping at the bland, watered-down black coffee to cover a laugh. “That’s actually the Pentagon house blend.”

He gave her a sidelong look, lips quirking. “I forgot you could joke.”

She gave him a look over the rim of her cup. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m hilarious.”

Mark let out a soft snort.

“You’re just never in the crowd,” she finished, deadpan.

He chuckled as they walked their drinks over to a corner table tucked between a vending machine and a bulletin board littered with outdated training memos.

(Y/n) sat with her back to the corner. Old habit. Strategic. Eyes facing the room. One foot hooked around the leg of her chair like muscle memory never quite let her go.

Across from her, Mark plopped down ever so gracefully, staring at his cup like the coffee might melt through.

Still, he, of course, sipped it. Grimaced at it. And, immediately regretted it.

“I’m ninety percent sure this is paint thinner,” he muttered.

She finally let the smile fully break through. Not wide. Just... unguarded. “You’re the idiot who picked the mystery pot.”

He leaned on one elbow and pointed at her, mock-offended. “Excuse you, I was misled. You told me I’d regret both. That made this sound like a fun gamble.”

(Y/n) arched a disapproving brow at him, but the tilt of her lips gave her away. “So it’s my fault you chose to melt your tastebuds.”

Mark threw both hands up, still grinning. “Hey, I take responsibility for most of my terrible decisions. This one’s only, like… seventy percent mine.”

“Generous.”

“You’re welcome.”

She shook her head at his attempts of getting her to laugh, but she didn’t cover the tiny grin on her face.

Mark set the cursed cup down like it might explode if provoked further. He leaned back in the chair and glanced at her again, letting the grin settle into something softer.

Seeing her in this light felt illegal for him. Not that she wasn’t allowed to be normal… adjacent. But with how she usually moved through the world, this felt new. And rare. And kind of good in its own weird, quiet way.

She wasn’t armored up. Not fully. Not right now. No bird-mask. No shield. No mission reports or tactical evasions. Just her. Shoulders still a little tense. Foot still wrapped around the chair leg like she was expecting a breach. But her mouth? Still tilted in something that looked dangerously close to relaxed.

Mark tried not to stare. He did a bad job.

“So…” he started again, grasping at straws for a normalish topic. “No school?”

(Y/n) squinted at him as if asking “really,” but answered with a shrug anyway. “Not anymore.”

His eyes bore into her when she didn’t explain further, almost daring to pour his coffee in her watery one.

Snatching her cup from him, she gave a light glare. “I-um I graduated already.”

Mark blinked. “Wait. Really?”

(Y/n) took a swig from his coffee cup purely out of spite, grimaced, and set it back down like it personally offended her.

“Yeah,” she confirmed, voice recovering around the aftertaste. “Graduated.”

“High school?”

A quiet sip of bland chaser filled the air for a drawn out second. She gazed into the murky brown like it might offer a better way to say what came next. Because how do you admit to this without sounding pretentious? Or… like a government science experiment with a student ID.

“Um. Yeah, high school…” she started carefully. “And, uh. College.”

She could feel him trying to pry more out of her, but she didn’t look at him. Just sipped again.

“Wait.” Mark blinked like his brain was buffering. “College college?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re joking.”

She shook her head, the tiniest twitch of her mouth made a smirk. “I really wish I was.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again--this time with something that sounded like a confused half-laugh, like he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or concerned.

“Hold on,” he said, holding out a hand like he could physically stop the revelation from snowballing. “You’re how old again?”

She leaned back slowly in her chair, arms crossing loosely, smirk already spreading.

“Older than you,” she said, annoyingly smug.

He squinted harder at her.

And, as if it actually managed to pull a real answer from her, she gave in. “...by a few months.”

“You’ve got that much mysterious aura and you’re barely older than me?”

“Some of us peak early,” (y/n) shrugged, smug still intact. “Besides, it’s not hard when you don’t sleep and already know half the curriculum because you’ve been hacking into government databases since middle school.”

Mark blinked again. “...What.”

She handed his cup back with a faint, innocent shrug. “What?”

He waited for her to crack and admit it was all a bit. She didn’t.

She smiled. “Is this really what you want to spend five minutes of normal wrapping your head around?”

He made a face. “Okay, fine, but if this is you being normal, I want a refund.”

Clicking her tongue, she put her cup down and corrected him like she was reading the fine print of a contract, “Five minutes of normal. Not five minutes of ordinary.”

"Right, my bad," He huffed a laugh, sinking into his chair like the weight of the day finally remembered it existed. His hand toyed with the edge of the coffee cup, rotating it slowly. “Y’know, for what it’s worth… I don’t think normal’s all that great.”

(Y/n) tilted her head--subtle, questioning.

“I mean, sure, it’s nice,” Mark continued, eyes still on the cup. “Simple. Safe. But--I don’t know. It’s hard to pretend I still fit into that.”

He glanced at her again, searching. Not pushing--just looking. Like he wasn’t sure if what he’d said made him sound ungrateful or just honest.

She didn’t give him an immediate answer. But she didn’t look away, either.

So he took that as permission to keep going.

Mark cleared his throat, “I keep trying to pretend I still care about pop quizzes and gross cafeteria food. But then there’s this whole other life I’m living that I’m not supposed to tell anyone about.”

He paused, swirling the coffee again like it might say something back this time.

“And, then I finally asked out this girl I like,” he said, almost as if he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or wince. “You saw how that went.”

The girl across from him just sat with him. Listening without interruption. Letting him have the air, because he needed it too.

“It was great for the most part. She was great. But I kept having to lie to her, or just leave stuff out,” he admitted, words slowing like they were dragging more weight than expected. “I mean, it was the first date… it’s the first try at getting to know someone you like, and I was already leaving out half my life.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers tangling slightly in his hair. “I want to be normal for her. I really do. But trying to just made me understand what you meant at the bench.”

(Y/n)’s gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it softened--but not in a way most people would notice. Just enough for someone who knew how hard she worked to keep things out of reach.

“You said it,” he added, voice a notch softer. “That’s not how this works when your life becomes fragments.”

She looked down at her hands. One still circled the rim of her cup like it was muscle memory. The other flexed slightly, resting against the edge of the table, fingers twitching like they were fighting the urge to hold something real.

“…Yeah,” she said after a long moment and then she let go of an admission. “I tried to give you a little buffer from that realization.”

His eyes flicked up only to see she wasn’t meeting his but her cup’s.

“Stedman said you were taking a night off so I picked up the alert for you,” she half shrugged as if it was nothing. “I didn’t think you should have to get electrocuted and broken up with in the same hour.”

Mark let out a quiet breath, somewhere between gratitude and humor. “I was wondering how you showed up that fast. Don’t you live in New Jersey or something?”

“Stedman kidnapped me, so I was in the area,” she muttered with a grudge.

He raised both eyebrows. “Like… literally kidnapped?”

She sipped her coffee again like it was a legally binding NDA. “The man has a teleporter at his disposal.”

“So… yeah. Literal kidnapping.”

“Technically, he asked first. I just didn’t realize ‘for what?’ was legally binding.”

He chuckled, a small, disbelieved one.

“But, thanks…” he said quietly. “For taking the alert.”

(Y/n)’s eyes snapped to him for a half-second before she brushed the thanks off with a wave of her hand. “It wasn’t charity. You were busy. I wasn’t.”

“That’s the same tone Cecil uses when he wants me to think he’s not being nice.”

She scoffed, “Well, you both complain the same amount, so.”

“Still,” he said after a beat. “It helped.”

“Sure,” she offered an ounce of acknowledgement through a quirk of the lip.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Just let the scent of the--pathetic excuse for--coffee fill the air between them. No one else was in the room but them now. Two teens who didn’t feel like teens. Sitting across from each other--not like it was normal, but like normal didn’t matter.

(Y/n) tapped her finger lightly against the rim of the cup again. A rhythm, faint and even. Mark watched the motion--not because it was loud, but because it was grounding. The kind of thing people did when they were still working out if they were allowed to be at peace.

“You think there’s anyone out there who doesn’t care about the ‘normal’ part?” he asked, faintly, almost like he didn’t want her to hear it.

A pause. Measured. Careful.

“Someone who gets it.”

That landed between them like a quiet echo. Not loud enough to demand anything--but not soft enough to ignore, either.

(Y/n) looked at him fully now, the weight of that last line filtering through her in real time. Something passed behind her eyes--quick, quiet, not quite visible. But it was there.

A flicker of recognition.

Of warning.

Of want.

She swallowed once. Then shifted an inch apart from him, gaze narrowing just slightly--not cold, but sharp. Assessing.

“Someone who gets it,” she echoed, carefully.

Not mocking. Not dismissive. Just… weighing it. Like she was trying to decide whether he even knew what he was asking.

Mark didn’t flinch under the scrutiny. He didn’t double down either. He just held the question where it was. In the air. Waiting.

“You’re looking for the wrong person then,” she said, voice quieter now. Less clipped. Less armored.

Mark tilted his head. “Yeah?”

She looked down again, like the words had to be mined from somewhere deeper than she was used to digging. Her next sentence came out like a confession whispered into a storm drain.

“You don’t want someone who gets it,” she said, voice lower. “You think you do. But it’s a different kind of weight when someone understands exactly how much you’re carrying.”

“They don’t say, ‘I’m sorry you’re going through this.’ They say, ‘Yeah. Me too.’ And that’s worse, ” (Y/n)’s voice softened, somewhere between apology and resignation. “Because it’s not just shared. It’s mirrored. And sometimes, you don’t want a mirror. You want a window. A door. Something that opens out instead of in.”

Her eyes flicked back to his then--cautious, a little raw, but direct.

“That’s what normal people give you. Even if it’s fake, even if it’s fleeting. The chance to look at the world like you’re not trapped in it.”

She didn’t say "someone like me can’t give you that."

She didn’t have to.

It was written in the space between her posture and the tired set of her shoulders.

“I think you should give an actual shot with her.”

He could’ve said okay. He could’ve said maybe. He could’ve said nothing at all.

Instead, he leaned forward just slightly, elbows on the table, and said:

“But she doesn’t know this part of me.”

“It didn’t feel real.” His fingers tapped against the side of the cup again, mirroring her rhythm without realizing it.

(Y/n) noticed. She always noticed. And for a moment, she said nothing.

Then--softly, without lifting her gaze-- “Maybe that’s why you tried.”

Mark tilted his head. “Because it wasn’t real?”

“No,” she said. “Because it could be.”

There was a pause.

Just long enough for the weight of it to settle between them. Not heavy--just exact. Measured. Like the moment had stopped pretending it was just casual.

Then his voice cut back in, low but sure.

“You think this--” he gestured between them, between the silence and the rawness and the edge of a conversation that wasn’t supposed to happen, “--feels fake?”

His tone wasn’t biting. It wasn’t dramatic. It was… quietly daring. Like he was offering her a way to deny it—if she needed it. But hoping she wouldn’t.

“No.” (Y/n) gave the smallest laugh. The kind that had too much honesty in it to be sarcastic. “But it’s messy.”

“It always is,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean it has to suck.”

“It kind of does, though,” she said. “If it didn’t suck, we wouldn’t be here drinking coffee that tastes like liquid regret pretending we’re allowed to have five minutes to feel human.”

She bit her lip, thinking. “Look, just try for the door before you’re stuck without an exit.”

Mark’s brow furrowed, lips pressing into something between a smile and a frown.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “But what if the door is locked?”

(Y/n)’s eyes flicked to him, guarded. “Then find another one.”

“And if I still end up circling back to the same room?”

“Then you’re not looking for an exit. You’re just stalling.”

His mouth quirked, more wry than amused. “Maybe. Or maybe…” he leaned in slightly, just enough to shift the air between them. “Maybe some rooms are worth getting stuck in.”

Exasperation filled her face. “Mark.”

She said his name like a warning. Like a sigh. Like a bruise she didn’t want him pressing on, even if part of her didn’t mind the weight.

“I don’t…” she hesitated. Then met his gaze--really met it, like she was pleading with him to let it pass through his thick skull. “I don’t want to be the reason you get stuck… Please, just try.”

“Okay,” he said again. Not flippant. Not blindly hopeful. Just steady. Like he understood what she meant, even if he didn’t agree with all of it. “I’ll try.”

(Y/n) exhaled. Not dramatically. Just enough to loosen the breath she’d been holding since the moment got too close.

A beat passed. They sat there, two weapons forged too early in the fire, trying not to need things they couldn’t name.

Then she glanced at the clock. Five minutes had long since passed.

And yet--

She didn’t move.

Didn’t push away.

Didn’t reset.

Instead, she nodded toward the cup he’d been rotating this whole time.

“Drink that again,” she said, deadpan. “Let’s make sure you suffer enough to remember me in a bad light.”

Mark laughed--actually laughed this time. Not the awkward, teen-fumbles kind. The real kind. Like something in his chest loosened.

And when he lifted the cup again in mock salute, (Y/n) laughed with him--moreso at his immediate gag. Letting another five minutes slip through her clock.

<<next chp>>

<3 -> @jiyeons-closet @heiankyonoeiyuukun

#invincible #invincible x reader #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #invincible show #reader insert #x reader

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k1nky-fool · 9 days ago

Text

Mutually Assured Destruction

Part 1/?

Masterlist

OC: Vic Candles x OC: Kenna Henderson (F/F)

OC: Betty Howell x Cecil Stedman (F/M)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Like so many fucking warnings. Canon typical violence, and canon typical angst. Manipulation. Suicide mentions. Religious cult mentions. Self-destructive tendencies. Two different time-frames. Eventual smut (both timeframes).

Taglist: lmk if you wanna be tagged in the next one in the comments or in DMs.

–2023–

-Cecil-

He was far beyond his wits end, but that was nothing new. No matter what time he thought he’d get after mending one crisis, there was always something else that needed his attention. The one that was just placed in front of him had the potential to be catastrophic in many ways, but at least this problem had the courtesy to wait patiently for his attention.

In front of him was a driver’s license from Fallsburg, Kentucky. It belonged to a woman by the name of Victoria May Candles, but it was the message that came along with it that worried him.

Donald showed him footage from the main entrance of the Pentagon. The woman on the ID was the same one holding her hands up with the license in hand, speaking to the armored agent pointing a gun at her.

“None of the other security guards or cameras caught her walking in.” Donald briefed. “She just appeared by the front door and handed over her ID, but that’s not all.”

“Well, spit it out, Donald.” Cecil deadpanned.

He unmuted the recording, and rewinded it to the beginning to let the woman speak for herself. “Cool your guns, I’m a surprise, not a threat. And that goes for y’all too.” She assured not just the agent she could see, but the cloaked ones she shouldn’t even know about. “I have my ID for you, but more importantly, I want you to tell GDA Director Cecil Stedman that Agent Bethany Ann Howell is back. I’ll be waiting at home, I just want to talk.”

Turns out he had a lot of experience with this particular problem. And this problem now had a southern accent, which was a little odd, but the ID was from Kentucky.

She placed the ID on the ground and backed away from it with her hands still up. His blood ran cold as she stared directly at the hidden camera he was watching the footage from. “And for old time’s sake… just wanna make sure you know I’m playing nice, Cecil.”

He couldn’t help but flinch as she vanished from every camera all at once. He’d never even seen Betty do that. He’d hoped that he had a little more time before he had to deal with her again, but this was far worse. “We’re already analyzing the footage, the ID is real by all our investigations, and we haven’t lost track of her since she got back to her condo.”

So it’s Victoria May Candles this time. Betty said this would happen, that she’d ‘catch him on the next life,’ but he figured he had at least until she was twenty-five. But her birthday checks out. Victoria was born in 2002, the same day Betty died… in fucking Fallsburg, Kentucky. Right now she was just watching a horror movie and ordering pizza.

“Get me Betty’s file, and everything you can on Candles.” He ordered. “I don’t want any more surprises from her.” Unfortunately, he also knew how impossible that was. Betty always played her cards close to her chest, so if this was actually her, Cecil expected that Victoria wouldn’t be totally honest either.

“Sir, for all we know, she’s just a gifted hacker-”

“I really fucking hope she is, but if she’s telling the truth and now she has more powers, I can’t even begin to wonder what she wants from us.” Cecil interrupted. “I’d kinda like to deal with one world-ending crisis at a time.”

“Both you and Director Radcliffe kept me away from Agent Howell mostly, but as far as we can tell, Ms. Candles knows she’s being watched.” Donald said, bringing up a clip of her waving to one of the hidden cameras as soon as she walked through her front door. “This doesn’t look like someone expecting a fight.”

Betty never expected a fight�� Never stopped her from starting them anyway.

“It’s always a mind game with her, Donald.” He said. “You’ve seen her description, but her file is a little more detailed. If Victoria really is Betty’s newest reincarnation, and now she can teleport, then she’s right, this was her playing nice.”

Cecil could hardly sleep. Betty Howell was a valuable agent to Radcliffe, but he always knew she was dangerous. Cecil had only worked with her on two occasions before his prison sentence, but she always had another secret. So did Radcliffe, but nobody thought to warn Cecil that Betty required a lot of maintenance to keep her entertained and not a world-conquering dictator.

He managed to get at least a couple hours of sleep, but some shitty coffee and another crisis averted later, and he was finally awake enough to bother with the Betty problem. Agent Bethany Ann Howell was a useful tool to have in the box. Her powers were described as ‘divine suggestion,’ which basically just meant that she could command and influence people with just her voice. Didn’t matter if it was over a phone, through a live feed, and sometimes even in a recording, if Betty could communicate with her victim, she could control them.

Admittedly, even she had her limits. It wasn’t as if she could just command a room full of soldiers to blow out their own brains, but Betty was a master manipulator. If she talked long enough, she could crack any conviction. Even then, she’d never been able to get anybody to hurt themselves any more than a band-aid could fix. Unfortunately, soldiers are trained to follow the orders of authority without question, and that made every gun in the building an easy mark for her.

He really should have studied her file before becoming the GDA Director, but his first clue should have been that when Radcliffe found her, Betty was a cult leader, one bad day away from catching a ride on a comet.

Her reincarnation was another matter. When asked if she was a normal human, Betty’s response was “Depends on what ‘normal human’ means. Mathematically I’m the most normal, since I’ve been human more times than anyone you’ve ever met, but I think most of you are only human once.” All her answers were round-about and ambiguous, or if she did tell the truth, she had some ulterior motive. Cecil always got the feeling that Betty was telling the truth, she was just as clueless about her powers as everyone else was, but by the time he realized she was lying to him, it was too late. She also said her first life was during the industrial revolution, but Betty accidentally said something that Immortal recognized from much earlier than 1804. She remembered every life she ever had from womb to tomb, and there had to have been at least three-thousand years of reincarnation in her memory. Betty’s biggest advantage was how much she kept secret about her powers. She was high maintenance, but she was just too damn useful, and she knew that.

The information on Victoria was extensive, but only mostly useless. She’d done gymnastics throughout her childhood and high school. In middle school, she had a brief obsession with some online location guessing games and was on a few ‘Geoguesser’ leaderboards. She also did psychology electives in high school, and volunteered at a suicide hotline. Now she was working part time as a 911 operator and still participating in gymnastics competitions as a hobby while training junior gymnasts part time. She’d gotten into college on a sports scholarship and was majoring in psychology.

She made a decent living, no criminal record, but when Betty died, he set up a sort of warning system for signs of Betty’s powers to hopefully get eyes on her next identity early, but it was always a shot in the dark. Her memories and powers supposedly didn’t kick in until she was around sixteen, but there was no telling what she could have been lying about. She got normal hobbies that would train her new body to be in peak physical shape, minus the drinking and herb smoking habit she’d picked up again. She focused on mental health and crisis response as a cover for using a small amount of her power.

Normally, Betty would need to have physically touched the person she’s influencing. A hand shake, a fist bump, a punch, so long as her skin had touched her victim’s they were on her radar. However, in a crisis, people will do anything to get out alive, and for someone that can control emotions and break through the barrier of shock or grief with just her voice, they’ll do just about anything she tells them to do. The only evidence of this is her nearly flawless call resolution record with Lawrence County 911 Dispatch.

There was also one way he knew to resist her persuasion. Get her to say her full name, and he’d get twenty-four hours clear of any of her orders. Even if she touches him again, she can’t influence him unless she manages to get him in crisis. And it changed with every generation, so Victoria handing over her ID was a peace offering. By all identification records, her ID checks out. He even had the cyber security team check if the Lawrence County DMV had been hacked to make a fake, but it seems she wasn’t tricking him this time… At least not by lying about her name. Cecil would know if she said the right name, and the GDA could pull him out if she didn’t say it.

“I’m teleporting in.” Cecil told Donald. “If the first words out of her mouth aren’t her full legal name, pull me out immediately. And broadcast her saying it to everyone in the lab. I don’t know what she wants, but that’ll at least give us a bargaining chip if this goes south.”

“Yes, sir.”

He materialized in her house where she was watching some Japanese cartoon and eating breakfast. She barely even acknowledged him as she took another bite of her cereal.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming back, and I’m fresh out of reasons to trust you, Betty.” He warned.

Cecil knew he should expect an entirely different person, but he wasn’t prepared for how familiar she was. Betty had the same dark, curly hair, but Victoria’s was short and styled like some punk. Victoria’s eyes might have been black while Betty’s had been green, but they both held that same, mischievously calculating sharpness. They both sat in the same way, relaxed and unbothered, yet still taking up as little space as possible. Betty dressed like a beach bum, shorts, a long cardigan, a top from a bathing suit, and necklaces made from old coins, animal teeth, and crystals. Victoria dressed like some skateboarder, complete with enough facial piercings to be an MRI operator’s worst nightmare, stolen military issue cargo pants that were two sizes too big and what amounted to just a sports bra. Neither version of her looked like GDA agent material, but she was always a hell of an under-cover operative.

Victoria was only visible in the light from the TV. The rest of the condo was well kept and alternatively styled, but all the lights were off. She chewed her cereal and swallowed before placing the bowl down on the coffee table. “It’s Victoria May Candles now.” She corrected him, likely already knowing he wouldn’t risk coming here without measures against her. “But y’all can call me Vic.”

So she really does want to talk.

“What the hell do you want, Vic?” He asked, tossing her ID onto the coffee table. “I know you wouldn’t be knocking on my door after all these years if you weren’t after something.”

“With where we left off, it woulda been a little too weird to see you again while I was still a teenager.” She shrugged. “Like Jesus Christ, Cecil, it's time to give up on that hair line.”

Well, there’s no way a random hacker would know about where he and Betty ‘left off.’ “This is already plenty weird, so I call bullshit.”

“I don’t live under a rock.” Vic chuckled. “I thought you’d be a little happier to see me given your current situation.”

She’s always playing an angle. “That’s not an answer.”

“I want my job back…” She blatantly answered. “... Lord knows I miss the paycheck— and I’m willing to be a little more… compliant this time. You keep me happy, I keep you happy, and we keep this war between us cold. Like it or not, you desperately need me, and I’m desperate for some real entertainment.”

“A compromise.” He figured. “So what are you offering?”

Vic smiled, like she thought she was successful. “I’m willing to let you study my power with all your unlimited resources. I won’t ask any questions, but I will answer any questions however I deem necessary.”

“I’m just supposed to trust that you won’t just lie to them?” Cecil accused.

“Good Lord, don’t ever trust a word I say.” She scoffed. “But if I’m going to try to keep my secrets, then I won’t stop you from keeping yours.”

Cecil chuckled as she stood. “A cold war.” He noted.

“And that ain’t all we got.” Her chipper voice came from behind him now, making him flinch and turn around quickly. Vic had gotten some kind of teleporting ability in this reincarnation. She instantly appeared, leaning against the shadowy corner. “Keep your nukes in the bunker and I’ll do the same.”

“Well… Betty couldn’t do that.” Cecil figured, backing away from her.

“Anything to avoid another car ride with you, but I’ll take whatever I can get when there’s murderous monsters and aliens everywhere.” Vic shrugged, and he also remembered how that car ride went the first time they met. “My reincarnations have always been random, but turns out so are superpowers. After a couple hundred rounds, I guess it was only a matter of time before I caught lightning in a bottle.”

“How does it work?”

“Something about shadows, but please Cecil, leave something for the egg-heads to figure out.” She begged. “You can consider me at your disposal whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m not sure adding another psychopath to the GDA is such a good idea right now.” He said, honestly, but Vic took that personally.

She scoffed, waving him off. “Since Omni-Man left, you’re down one psycho, but don’t insult me, Cecil.” Vic taunted. “It might take a psychopath to do your job, but it takes a sociopath to do mine. Your superheroes and their families are a mess, organized crime and terrorist groups have grown beyond rampant, over ninety billion dollars worth of dangerous experimental equipment has been stolen in the last twenty years, and every Joe Shmoe that finds out he can piss acid is turning his local bank vault into his personal urinal… And some of these guys can wipe out your best team while they’re all refusing to get some damn therapy.”

It wasn’t like they couldn’t find help, and with their health plans, he knew it wasn’t an issue of access. “I could lead the horses to water-”

“And I can make them drink...” Vic reminded him. “... I just have my work cut out for me.”

She knows a lot more than she’s letting on, and she wants access to the superheroes... “Have you been spying on Guardians’ HQ?” Cecil questioned.

However, the confusion and offense on her face made him realize that there was something a little more obvious before she ever opened her mouth. “I didn’t need to be an expert spy to see the alien domestic dispute that just put Chicago in a fuckin’ blender.”

“Yeah, fair enough, but if you have an active power now, you’re taking crisis duty with the rest of our back-up teams whenever you’re needed.” He put his foot down.

Vic deflated and groaned, “Ugh, fine! But I ain’t gonna be fighting any of these city-eatin’ aliens!”

“At this point, I’m praying as much as you are that you won’t have to.” He admitted. “Can you teleport back into the GDA on your own?”

Vic put on her oversized hoodie. “I can picture it how I remember it, but I figure a lot can change in twenty years, so I’ll probably crash into something on the other side.”

“Now that, I just have to see.” Cecil teleported away ahead of her. He got back to the observation room just in time to see her roll her eyes and disappear after him.

Just as she said, Vic fell out of a shadow from under one of the desks and sent the empty chair bouncing off the desk behind it and slamming into the wall. She hissed in pain, holding the top of her head as she curled up on the floor. “You’re still an asshole.” She groaned.

“So the anti-teleportation field doesn’t stop you.” He noted. He also noticed that the back of the chair was bent forward and the desk had been slightly dented. Vic might have a bump on her head, but her new ability definitely packed a hell of a punch she wasn’t telling him.

“...Sir, the lab is ready to receive her.” Donald alerted.

“Did all of them hear her say her name?” Cecil asked.

“Yes.” He confirmed.

“Perfect, a room full of people with 24 hours to get to the bottom of your teleporting ability.” He told her as she struggled to get up. “If we’re not in the mood to tell each other the truth, let’s see how far we can get without you speaking at all.”

“I’m going, but only because needles hurt a lot less when I ain’t fighting back.” Vic stomped up the stairs and started heading toward where the medical wing used to be.

“Medical is the other way now.” He warned her.

“I fucking hate you, Cecil.” She grumbled as she passed him again. The agents walked with her, ensuring she wouldn’t get lost.

“She certainly remembers you.” Donald noted.

“Yeah, I’m just hoping that doesn’t become a problem.” He sighed. “She said she’s after entertainment. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to find out what a several century-year-old sociopath finds entertaining nowadays.”

–2023–

-Victoria-

Thankfully, Vic didn’t need to use her Voice to convince everyone to take an hour for lunch. She needed a damn break, and she all but collapsed onto the bench in the medical wing hall. Her arms were sore from needles getting blood and bone marrow samples. Her undercut was now a little higher so they could take hair samples. They asked her to teleport around the room to see if her cells reacted to her behavior while away from her body. They asked her to take different objects, and rodents with her, using whatever tools they had to measure any effects. She suggested taking a break for lunch before the stress test, since they’d need a decent baseline.

Apparently there was something a lot more interesting happening just down the hall. The door to her left slid open, revealing a familiar face. “Debbie?”

She looked a little startled.

“Oh, sorry.” Vic remembered. “I guess there’s no reason for you to recognize me. I’m Vicky Candles, but last you saw me, I was Betty Howell.”

Recognition flashed in Debbie’s eyes at the name, but she still looked confused.

“I get reincarnated into a new life every time I die… You always suspected I was a little older than I look.” Vic recalled. “Try a couple hundred centuries.” Debbie hugged her purse close to her chest and stared at the floor. The growing weight of her silence gave Vic more of a reading of just how broken Nolan had left his family. “I can take a hint if you don’t wanna talk-”

“Can I ask you a question?” Debbie interrupted without looking up.

This was far bigger than Vic had realized. Debbie was still on her radar from twenty years ago and she could see the absolute hurricane of emotion swarming her. And whatever she had learned, she thought Vic had answers. “...I ain’t gonna stop you.”

“Just… be honest… Vicky.” Debbie requested, quietly. “Don’t just tell me what I want to hear.”

“I promise…” Vic assured.

“You’ve lived for centuries.” Debbie said, grief straining her voice as she tried to stop herself from crying. “Your friends, your families, everyone you’ve ever loved... What do they mean to you?”

There was a right answer here, but Vic had promised honesty. “Debbie… You know you’re asking me about nearly a million people.” She pointed out, as Debbie held back tears, still staring at the floor. “Hundreds of thousands of people who now only survive in my memory. I gotta make the most of my time, because I know I’m the one that’ll have to live with everything in the end… If I’m gonna have to remember every life I live, then I’d rather make memories I ain’t gonna hate.” That was an understatement, but it was true. “It doesn’t always work out the way I want, but… I keep finding reasons to keep going.”

Debbie still couldn’t look at her. “... Do you tell your families?” She asked.

It wasn’t that simple. “My mom in this life, her name is Hannah Candles. Having a little girl who gets flashes of all her previous lives as her neurons slowly connect, well… I was a creepy ass kid, Debbie.” Vic explained.

Debbie actually looked at her now. Only now, Vic couldn’t take her eyes off the floor, thinking through how many different parents she’s had.

Some were bad enough that she had preferred restarting to continuing with whatever they were putting her through. “Every time I restart, I have to learn how to be human again… and I didn’t always get parents that gave a shit about me.” She said, small hints of venom in her voice. “So you can imagine how much I cherish the ones who are there when a six-year-old me has a nightmare about how I last died… My dad couldn’t handle it. He got out before it got too weird, but I told my mom everything before I came here… I warned her things could get bad, but… she said if it gets bad, she’ll get worse… Even if I just keep going for thousands more years, I’ll always remember the people who actually loved me.”

“How many parents have you had?” Debbie asked.

“A couple hundred, but infant mortality has only gotten marginally under control in the last couple hundred years, so I died before the age of five a lot.” She shrugged, but her shoulders still ached. “I might barely qualify as a human, but it’s people like my current mom that make these lives worth living. I get a new start, and a new experience every time…” Vic said. “It means everything to have even just… memories of what that love feels like.”

Debbie visibly untensed in relief, and sat down on the bench next to Vic. Though she didn’t look very relaxed. “... He called me-…” Her voice cracked and trailed off like she couldn’t finish that thought. “...He hurt Mark-... my baby.” It was everything Debbie could do not to break down into sobs. Nolan really left a mess here on Earth, in more ways than one. If the current body count in Chicago is anything to go by, Nolan disregarded humans for all the reasons Vic admired them. Where he saw pointless, short lives, she saw an intricate tapestry of histories.

“Mark went through a lot just to disagree with him.” This had to be a bad omen of whatever was coming next. “You survived him… I’d say that’s pretty damn superhuman in my book. But if there’s anything I’ve learned after thousands of years it’s… that it takes time to rebuild. Even if it never feels the same again.”

“Yeah…” Debbie agreed in defeat, immediately looking for a new subject. “You looked surprised to see me, so what are you doing here?”

“Needle Hell.” Vic said, awkwardly chuckling. “I got another power this time around, and I promised Cecil I’d let the lab boys test all my limits if I got my old job back.” She vaguely explained as she was used to. “Unfortunately I couldn’t talk him out of putting me in the superhero field now that I have the skills for the crisis response detail… Probably gonna be a hot minute before he feels safe enough to put me on the front lines, but putting Cecil to ease was always a third of the job anyway. Ain’t no rest for the wicked and all, but I can’t complain. By the sounds of it, you’ve more than earned a damn break.”

“Yeah, Mark’s… still recovering… It’s good to see you. Even if your face isn’t so familiar.” Debbie said.

“Sounds like I’m the most normal thing that’s happened to you all week.” That’s a feeling she ain’t had in a long time. Vic chuckled as she stood. “I don’t wanna keep you, and I’ve only got about thirty minutes left to find something to eat and smoke before I get wired to a treadmill. You probably won’t be able to contact me, but if I’m in the neighborhood, I’ll stop by with a bottle of wine. It was good to see you, Debbie.”

“See you around, Betty- sorry- Vicky.” She stuttered.

“Don’t sweat it. I’ll answer to either.” She said, letting herself fall into the shadow and appearing just outside the nearest taco spot she remembered. Betty came here religiously whenever she was in DC, but Vic was just happy to see it was still here. The same owner, Daniel, stood behind the counter in the kitchen, but his now twenty-seven year old son, Noel, worked the counter. Last time she saw him, he was doing first grade math homework at one of the tables while she and his father discussed some abstract concepts over lunch.

Noel had no idea what was going on, but Daniel definitely remembered the “Betty Special” like she'd last been here yesterday instead of twenty years ago.

She was used to seeing familiar faces changed by time. It just wasn't often she got to see them recognize her with a new face. Debbie aged well, even if she was clearly starting a journey through hell. Daniel remembered his favorite customer, and Vic was far too happy to get her favorite tacos to worry that Betty was a little loose with who she told about her powers. Noel was a totally different person, but then again, he was only six last time she saw him.

Cecil remained absent, probably for his own sanity, but Donald showed up just as she was about to go home to sleep off the aches. There was something off about him that Vic couldn’t quite put her finger on. “I swear to fucking God, Ferguson, if you’re here to tell me I can’t leave, I will just kill you.”

“Cecil wants you back here at six am tomorrow for more testing.” He explained, dutifully.

Vic watched him carefully, trying to get some clue as to why she felt so unnerved by him. She rolled her eyes and groaned, doing her best to just appear as an unruly kid. “Ugh, fine! Why don’t you forbid my nightly smoke-sesh while you’re at it!”

Donald’s expression didn’t change at all while he tried to think of something to say to that, but his frozen face tipped Vic off to what was so odd about him.

People are supposed to get old… Agent Ferguson hasn’t aged a day in twenty years…

“...Just show up sober, Ms. Candles.” He stated.

“Fair enough.” She shrugged off, still cautious about whatever was wrong with Donald. “See you tomorrow.”

Vic fell back into the void, letting her destination flash up around her. She only stopped by her house to grab a familiar, unopened bottle of top-shelf whiskey. While working under-cover, she brought a lot of super-powered new gang grunts who also appreciated the anonymity of Art’s tailoring service. Though, the first time she came to visit alone alone, she was already half-way through a bottle of Starlake with poorly wiped away mascara stains on her face, yet he never asked her why she was there on that first night. He just let Betty ramble as she needed to. There were some things that could shake even the oldest and coldest souls on the planet. She had to tell someone before she reported to Radcliffe, and Art was just too good of a listener. He would also die before he ever spoke a word of what was said in this room.

She appeared in the studio, stepping out of the shadow, she heard him jump up in surprise before he spoke. “I was just about to close up, but I’ve got time for a walk-in.”

Vic held up the whiskey. “You got time for an old friend?”

In his age, Art had to squint at the bottle to recognize it. “Starlake Whiskey?” He questioned, but it just took a moment for him to remember. “Well, aren't you full of surprises. What’s it been, Betty? Fifteen years?”

She trotted down the stairs, happy to see him again. “Twenty-one, and it’s ‘Vicky’ in this life.” She informed him. “And Vicky came with a couple extra powers.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” Art joked.

It was a little funny. Vic placed the whiskey on his desk. “Yeah, you can imagine the GDA wants to put it to use… so for once, I’m actually here to hire you.” She explained. “I’m gonna need something to wear that won’t get shredded, burned, or disintegrated when Cecil puts me through the ringer.”

“Well, I’m not one to turn down a paying customer…” There was a ‘but’ coming. “... but are you sure about this?” He asked with a sincerity and confidence that she should have expected. “You’ve made your opinions about the ‘lunatics flipping around in spandex’ pretty clear over the years.”

Art was just too observant for his own good. He always knows when she’s leaving something out, and he’s always been far too good at wearing her down. She’d been good friends with Daniel, something absurdly over-complicated to Cecil, and maybe an old acquaintance to Debbie if she was generous. But Art had seen her at her worst when she couldn’t bring herself to face anybody else.

“In my experience, second-generation lives are always the worst…” Vic began, sitting down on one of the chairs and hugging one of her knees close to her chest. If there was anyone she could be honest with, it was Art. “When I die at an age most normal folks would have kids, there’s this… chasm, or-or shift with all the people I left behind. Seeing Eleanor’s folks was weird for Betty, and seeing Betty’s friends is weird for me… I never even understand my powers until I’m about fifteen or sixteen, and when all those centuries of fragmented memories finally click together… I just want to see my friends again.” She admitted, timidly. “I just-... When I finally see them, they’re just so… different. I’m the one with a new face, but I see them recognize me in a way I just… can’t return. And it kinda feels like I’m failing them.”

As if that was the cue he was waiting for, Art cracked open the whiskey and poured her a glass first that she happily took. Despite how much everyone else had changed. In twenty years, he still hadn’t gotten a second glass, but she didn’t mind. It was nice that someone had stayed the same, even if Art’s ages of experience were carved onto his face and crept through more of his hair.

“I remember you telling me about your reincarnations. I was barely hanging on, but I specifically recall Betty telling me just how new that ‘new start’ is.” Art recalled. “Vicky, everybody changes, you’ve just got a lot more time to do it. I think you had the right idea back then: so long as you’re still going, make the most of the moment.” He assured her. “But even you can change your mind about what exactly you want from that moment. Just because you have to work at Betty’s job, you still remember Betty’s friends, and you gotta deal with the problems Betty left behind, doesn’t mean you have to relive her life. You might remember Betty the same way everyone else does, but we’re all meeting Vicky for the first time.”

She rested her cheek on her knee, looking to the wall where there were several mannequins lined up. He was right. Betty died trying to be a hero, something she wasn’t. Karma, that bitch, gave Vic a chance to be just that. “I’ve never been… a hero, Art.” The word tasted bitter.

He shrugged with that self-assured smile, taking the empty glass back. “Well… there’s a first time for everything.”

Damn you Art… you sure know how to make a hard sale.

“...What do you think of the name ‘Vanish?’” She asked.

He chuckled. “I think I can work with that.”

She didn’t see Cecil or Donald for most of the next few days while the lab kept running their tests on both her voice and her teleportation. They only briefly stopped in to get reports from the project director on their progress. The protocol was that she had to fully identify herself when she entered the lab, one poor soul drew the short straw and had to be her vocal puppet for the testing.

Her unfortunate puppet today looked to be an intern. She was young. Her sparkling eyes were framed by some big, round, glasses, and her braids were pinned into mousey buns on top of her head. Vic held a hand out for her to shake, and she looked to the project director for permission.

“You’re clear.” He told her.

The intern hesitated a moment before shaking Vic’s hand. “What’s your name?”

“You can call me Kenna.” She introduced.

Shit, she isn’t wearing her ID badge…

“Nice to meet you, Kenna.” Vic smiled through her panic, knowing this was going to be a lot harder without her full name, and it would give away too much to ask for it. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“I’m a little new.” She admitted. “We’re not exactly keen on giving you access to our big hitters. At least not yet.”

The flash of intent in her words hit Vic hard. Kenna was determined. She had something to prove, unlike the rest of the unlucky scientists who’d come to be test subjects. “And you’re not a heavy hitter?”

Kenna looked Vic up and down. “Not yet.”

Vic couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “You’re gettin’ close by the sounds of it.”

“Please stick to the designated orders, Ms. Candles.” The project director reminded her.

The stony look on Kenna’s face was a dare. Even without her full radar, Vic could tell the woman in front of her was far too strong to influence without some serious work.

“I can’t.” She admitted without taking her eyes off Kenna. “Her conviction is too strong to break through. She’s got a shell over everything going through her head.”

Everyone on the team started whispering to each other and writing things down, but Kenna just smirked. Whatever she’d wanted to prove was just demonstrated right in front of her, and it’s been a while since Vic had been on the receiving end of that.

The door opened, breaking her concentration and for once, Cecil actually spoke to her when he arrived. “You up for a warm-up, Vic?”

“I’d like a few more details.” She deadpanned.

“Follow me.” He turned to walk away as the lab assistant scrambled to remove the brain scanning equipment before Vic went after him. She just closed the space with a quick teleport as she followed Cecil through twisting halls until they came up to a room with a handful of cubicles.

He brought her to one of the work stations where the computer screen displayed a list of video files. “I want you to analyze the recordings of the Guardians’ last fifteen engagements. Tell me why they keep letting city blocks turn to dust.” Cecil explained.

“You’re probably not gonna like whatever answer I find.” She warned, but still sat down.

“That’s why I’m asking you to do it.” He said, walking away like he couldn’t stand to be around her for any longer. She expected it, and it got funnier every time. Cecil was a strong man, but even he would break down at some point… and Vic has nothing but time.

The assignment was definitely a softball warm-up. Watching all the videos was some of the best entertainment she’s had in a while, but she also knew why Cecil gave her this task. Even without her radar, her powers allowed her to pick up on very subtle emotional responses, especially when listening to people talk. The Guardians’ communication channel was a mess of panic, annoyance, and rage, but a pattern was slowly emerging.

Cecil came back a couple hours later, hoping for an answer. “I have an explanation, and a solution.” Vic said. “Which do you want first?”

“Walk me through it.” He prompted.

“On average, the Guardians kill fifty more civilians than they rescue on every response.” She said honestly. “Rudy’s supposed to be some kind of leader, right? This dumbass, just lets the team take their first shot at solving it fast, and if that brilliant idea doesn’t work, he takes fucking forever to come up with a plan, and even longer to give the team orders. All while the threat just keeps rampaging.”

“So it’s a failure of leadership?” Cecil questioned.

“His plans usually are fairly decent when he finally does think of what orders to give, but Rudy spends more time stuck in his head than on the battlefield.” She explained. “The team is also in desperate need of some extra muscle. Monster Girl is spread way too thin.”

“You said you had a solution.”

“They need a more experienced leader. Someone that can make split-second, tough calls.” She suggested. “And it wouldn’t hurt to add someone who can take a hit and hit back.”

Cecil let out a long sigh. “Yeah, I figured it was something like this. I’ll handle it, you can head home for the rest of the day.” He said. “Get some sleep. You’re starting combat training tomorrow.”

“I already know how to fight, Cecil.” She pointed out.

“But not with a teleporting ability. And I’d rather start you on search and rescue.” He countered. “I need to at least make sure you can survive a ‘city-eating alien.’”

“Buddy, if I come face to face with another Omni-man, I’m just gone.” She teleported away before he could get the last word, flopping back onto her bed.

Unfortunately, Cecil was right. Betty was briefed when the ‘Viltrumite’ first arrived on Earth. After Cecil met him he assigned Betty to do further questioning. If she had known what he was capable of, she would have been far more terrified to meet him. Though, she got what she thought was a clearer picture after he met Debbie. No matter what Betty sensed from Nolan, Debbie neutralized him. Betty’s report to Cecil was that he could only trust Nolan so long as Debbie was there to tie him down. Apparently they got married about a year after Betty died.

After speaking to Debbie, Vic could only realize that Betty was wrong. It did make sense now. It had taken her thousands of years to master deception the way she had, but Nolan was just a better liar than she was. The Voice only works so far as she can manipulate her target, and he just had better tricks. Betty didn’t really see Debbie neutralize Nolan, he was just more focused on lying to Debbie than he was concerned about what Betty was doing there.

The reconstruction of Chicago was finally starting. The one thing she knew remained true throughout all her history was that if something can happen once, it can always happen again. And if it can happen again, then it can always get worse. The only reason the world even survived it was because Nolan was more preoccupied with beating the hell out of his kid than he was with taking over Earth.

Vic could run and hide all she wanted, but Cecil was right. She was kidding herself if she thought she could survive pissing off a Viltrumite.

She tried to rest, but her mind kept racing. Analyzing the Guardians’ formations for six hours was enough to tell Vic that Cecil was in a hell of a hole. It wasn’t just that he was running low on competent heroes, he was fresh out of people that could survive Omni-man. Mark barely survived, and asking him to jump in to defend the world right now after his family was just ripped apart was a recipe for disaster.

Cecil desperately needed more tools, and Vic had volunteered. She had nobody to blame but herself for getting into this situation.

Though, there was one person who needed to know how things were going. She deserved at least a chance to prepare herself for the worst.

Vic picked up her new suit from Art. Trying it on for the first time was like putting on a skin that wasn’t hers. Or at least not yet. It was perfect, as all his work was. The silver V shape on the chest fit subtly into the dark blue and black panels on the bodysuit. The mask covered the lower half of her face and he definitely took her gymnastics training into inspiration.

Vic knew exactly who she wanted to see it first. It was just past midnight in Kentucky, but her mother’s house had yet to go dark. “Mom?” She called out into the house.

“Vicky?” Her mom popped up from the breakfast nook table, freezing when she laid eyes on her. She slowly stood up, taking cautious steps toward Vic. “Does this mean…”

“Yeah…” She confirmed, dejectedly. “I’m following through with it.”

“You’re scared.” Of course she knew this face better than anyone else.

“Anyone with half a brain would be.” Vic reasoned, sitting down on the old, ugly, green, couch and rubbing her temples. “I’m starting training tomorrow… Cecil wants to make sure I’m ready for whatever he throws me at.”

“You still haven’t even told me how you- or Betty knew this Cecil guy besides how you were both agents and now he’s in charge. I don’t-...” She stopped herself before she finished that thought, but Vic already knew she wanted to say she didn’t trust him. She sat down on the opposite side of the couch. “...I’m worried about you.”

Hannah Candles had always just wanted to protect her daughter, yet Vic could only feel guilty that Betty’s death had pulled Hannah into this chaos instead of just getting the family she wanted. Hannah deserved a better daughter than Vic, and Vic didn’t deserve a mother half as kind as Hannah.

“I’ll be okay.” Vic tried to assure her, trying to scoot closer, but ended up just teleporting one seat over. “Mom… I know what I’m doing. I’ve been learning new things for… thousands of years.”

She stared at her knees, anxiously fidgeting with the tie on her bathrobe. “... You remember when you were eight years old, there was that boy in your class who was obsessed with superheroes… what was his name?” her mom tried to place.

“Logan Calhoun.” Vic easily recalled.

“Yeah, that was him.” She confirmed. “He used to get on every last nerve you had. His older sister was in the gymnastics class above yours, and he’d heckle you from the stands. I near about turned around and smacked him a couple times, but you never looked at him while you were up.” Her mom recalled. “His barkin’ never affected your scores… but I certainly got a call or two from the school about how you handled him on the playground.”

“I never started fights, but I certainly finished ‘em.” Vic defended herself.

“I know, I know.” She waved off, deflating in defeat. “I just… You might remember a thousand lives before this one, but you’re still my little girl.”

“Mom…” Vic just hugged her tight, being welcomed with warm arms as she tried not to cry. “You made this life more than worth living. I’m not letting go… at least, not without a fight.”

“Then you fight hard, Victoria.” She begged. “Because I’ll always fight harder.”

“Just don’t do anything stupid.” Vic begged back.

Her mom just chuckled, sadly. “I won’t if you won’t.”

“I can live with that.” She settled. Vic didn’t want to go back to her lonely condo, so she stayed the night in her childhood bedroom. Her mother hadn’t moved anything.

Her gymnastics trophies were all precariously stacked in the corner and holding up a draping of black cloth with a Scream mask perched atop it. The best of her collections of horror DVDs, VHS tapes, comics, manga, and all her favorite music was at her new place, but the ones she left here brought a sweet nostalgia with them. All her old sketchbooks were here, and she’d started a new hoard of pages filled with stylized beasts and phantoms on her new bookshelf.

She should have remembered that her old alarm clock stopped being enough to wake her up after eighth grade. And her phone was still on silent.

“Jesus Vic, are you gonna sleep through all your training?” On instinct she grabbed the nearest object, the useless alarm clock, and teleported upright to throw it at whoever was violating her sanctuary. Cecil moved his head out of the way just in time, letting the thing break apart against the bookshelf frame. “Thank God you don’t sleep with a knife anymore.”

“I wish I did, what the fuck are you doing here, Cecil!?” She barked, seeing not just him, but her mom standing in the doorway.

“You were two hours late, and you weren’t answering your phone.” He countered. “You also didn’t tell anyone you were staying at your mom’s place.”

Vic began seething. “Did you teleport into my mom’s house?”

“For fuck’s sake Vic, I knocked on the front door.”

“Oh! I guess I forgot to tell her not to let the feds in!” Vic hissed, turning to her mom who was still just standing in the doorway, watching this train-wreck happen in front of her.

“What else was I supposed to do, Vicky?” She argued.

“I can teleport, mom!” Vic pointed out. “Tell him to fuck off and I’ll meet him there in a few minutes.”

“You’re still on Rogue Watch, Vic.” He pointed out.

“No shit, Cecil!” She snapped back to him. “But if you’re gonna be up my ass every time I accidentally oversleep, I’m gonna start causing problems again.”

“Then next time, answer your damn phone.” Cecil stated with finality, teleporting away before she could get the last word.

Vic pinched the bridge of her nose in annoyance. The silence in the room stretched out uncomfortably.

“How… close were Betty and Cecil?” Her mother cautiously asked after witnessing that trainwreck of a conversation.

Vic picked up her folded up costume and started toward the bathroom. “Please don’t make me describe that mess right now.”

Five minutes later, Vic was back in front of Cecil where he was glaring daggers at her. The agents and other personnel peppered around their work stations all stared at her with the same frozen caution, but she didn’t have all their attention. Many of them were still on her radar from twenty years ago, and some had been added to her list recently from hand brushes and ‘accidental’ bumps in the halls. Everyone she could see was terrified that Cecil and Vic were about to fight. Everyone but Kenna, who was watching like she wanted to see something interesting. She’d need to diffuse this quickly if it wasn’t going to get out of control.

Vic looked around the room and threw her hands up in surrender. “...I owe y’all an apology.” She awkwardly said, dropping her hands. “You’re all putting in a lot of work to make sure I don’t die when you need me… I should have at least told someone where I was going. Y’all didn’t deserve that headache, so I’m sorry for the mess my disappearance caused.” She locked eyes with Cecil. “I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again, and we can avoid this particular problem in the future… Sound good to you?”

Cecil slowly stepped closer to her until he was towering over her, hands on his hips like a disappointed parent. “You’re on thin fucking ice, Vic.” He kept his voice low and measured, like he didn’t want everyone to overhear. “I can handle your tantrums, but I don’t appreciate threats.”

That flipped a switch with her. Vic matched his tone so nobody would overhear, most of them already getting the hint that it was best for them to at least look focused on something else… Well… once again, everyone but Kenna. “Do you need a reminder of what a real tantrum looks like, or are we done repeating history, Cecil?” She asked as he narrowed his eyes on her. “This really ain’t worth nuking each other over.”

Neither of them wanted to find out what would be worth a fight, but Vic knew just as well as Cecil did that they were both preparing for it. It was a stalemate until either of them found a reason to defend themselves, so it was just better to avoid causing problems right now.

“No, it’s not.” He agreed through gritted teeth, turning around to take her to whatever training exercise she was supposed to start. She followed after him, and stayed quiet until they were alone in the hall.

I can cause a few problems… as a treat.

“I guess your opinion on threats changed in the last twenty years.” Vic chuckled. There’d been more than enough reasons in the last year alone to take any random threats seriously. “Someone must have really gotten into your head.”

Cecil didn’t look back at her, and he mumbled under his breath like he didn’t intend for her to hear it. “You really did, Betty.”

#cecil stedman x oc #oc x oc ship #oc: victoria candles (vanish)#oc: kenna henderson #oc: betty howell #cecil x oc: betty howell #cecil x betty #kenna x vicky #invincible fanfic #cecil invincible

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