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aspen78 · 28 days ago

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Chapter 7: How it all Byrnes

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A few weeks later, the world hadn’t ended--but it hadn’t exactly calmed down, either.

But there was a certain sort of peace.

Not a good peace. Not a resting peace.

Just the kind of quiet that makes you check the news twice and squint at every blue sky like it’s faking something.

And Mark Grayson had a theory.

He wasn’t stupid. Not really. Maybe a little dense. Maybe a little too hopeful. Maybe the kind of guy who could get hit in the face by a kaijū and still try to make a joke about it. But not stupid.

He had a theory, but he wasn’t going to say it out loud. Mostly because it sounded insane even in his own head. But something was off.

Or maybe not off. Just... less.

He noticed it first in the little things.

His backpack wasn’t always half-zipped from changing in alleyways. His shoes didn’t reek of scorched pavement. He wasn’t chronically late to first period anymore. Hell, he even had time to shower. Twice in one day, once.

William and Eve noticed too--said he seemed “less frantic” lately. Less distracted. “Like you’re finally getting your shit together,” they’d teased, nudging his arm as they walked between buildings. He smiled and made some joke about maturity or caffeine finally kicking in. But the truth?

He definitely did not have his shit together.

It wasn’t that the world had stopped falling apart. It just… wasn’t falling apart on repeat.

The alerts hadn’t stopped entirely. They’d just gotten less frequent. Shorter. Manageable. Small, unremarkable gaps in the chaos. Like someone was erasing the worst parts of his week with a dull pencil.

But they still always came--just when he’d start to worry he was getting rusty, that something bad must be brewing--; then a notification would buzz in. Always a decent fight. Enough to challenge him. Not enough to land him in a hospital bed.

He’d mentioned it to Cecil once. Offhand. Half-curious, half-suspicious.

Cecil just grunted over a scratchy comm line and muttered something about "load balancing." Which felt like a bureaucratic way to say “don’t ask, just enjoy it.”

Mark figured maybe the GDA was finally getting its act together. Maybe they had other supers pulling more weight now. Maybe the world was being… considerate?

Yeah, okay. That one felt fake even as he thought it.

But whatever it was, he wasn’t entirely complaining. His GPA was recovering. His bad excuses came less frequently. And he got to sleep. Real sleep. Without the guilt gnawing at his spine every time he skipped a patrol or tuned out a police scanner.

It was weird.

Nice. But weird.

And somewhere in that weirdness, he found himself glancing up more often--toward rooftops. Toward the edges of clouds. Toward the static on the news, listening for a voice that never came over the line.

He hadn’t seen her in days. Weeks, maybe.

Not since the Pentagon. Not since the bad coffee. Not since she disappeared through a hallway like she didn’t want to be recognized.

But then--maybe he had seen her.

A blur on the skyline. A shadow disappearing off the end of a roof. A trail of movement in the wake of a solved crisis that he hadn’t had to touch.

He never said it out loud, but there was this part of him--the same part that used to watch the door during class, hoping someone else would get called up first--wondering if maybe, just maybe, she was doing it on purpose.

Buying him a buffer.

Not out of pity. Not out of obligation.

Just to give him space.

Normalcy.

Time.

Mark exhaled and let the thought go before it got too warm. Before it felt too much like hope. He shook his head, shifted in his seat.

One part of him was half-listening to his Stats teacher give a drawn-out lecture on distribution curves, and the other part was trying not to Google how to tell if a vigilante is secretly running interference on your entire life.

Amber was two rows ahead, laughing at something the professor said, and he smiled before realizing he wasn’t really listening. Again.

He hadn’t talked to her much. Not since he tried a second and a third date. Not because he didn’t want to. But because something about that coffee break stuck with him.

Like a splinter you keep forgetting about until it snags your sleeve.

She’d been great. Funny. Smart. Real.

But whenever she’d asked about his life--about him--he’d lied. Not maliciously. Just… by omission. A lot of omission. Small things, then bigger ones. Then all of it. And suddenly every conversation felt like one long sentence he couldn’t finish without crossing a line.

That line hadn’t been there with (Y/n).

But he also hadn’t seen (Y/n) since the coffee. Not really.

Her popping in at Guardian HQ didn’t count. Not when she was only ever Vireo to the team. Not when her voice was modulated and her posture was all deflection.

And yeah, maybe he shouldn’t be thinking about that. About her.

Except he was. Constantly. In the gaps between lectures. In the space before sleep. In the silence that came after surviving something that should’ve killed him.

And now she was… what? Taking alerts before he could?

They weren't even huge alerts. Just the mildly annoying “oh my god, I can't believe I'm missing pasta night” ones. The kind of things that weren’t end-of-the-world but still had his name on them. A collapsing bridge. A mid-tier villain with a laser fetish knocking over ATMs. A biotech worm slipping out of containment and oozing its way through a sewer grid.

Still serious. Still his responsibility.

Not emergencies--just enough responsibility to make normal things harder.

But they were gone. Handled. Out of sight before he even got the call.

Mark leaned his head back, eyes on the ceiling tiles, ignoring the curve of the projector light cutting across the floor.

He knew she was watching out for him.

And he hated how much he liked that.

Because if she was helping--if she was deliberately carving space out of the chaos so he could breathe--it meant she thought he needed it.

And maybe he did.

But he hated being someone people had to work around just to keep standing.

He didn’t want to be the weak link.

Didn’t want to be protected like a kid while everyone else played chess with their lives.

Still, every time an alert came in minutes after his math test ended--every time he managed to stop a meteor in the sky without anyone already bleeding on the pavement--he wondered.

And it always came back to her.

He didn’t even know what to call her in his head anymore.

(Vireo)? Felt too formal. Like calling someone by their username in real life.

(Y/n)? Felt too personal. Like using a nickname you hadn’t earned.

So most of the time, she was just… her.

The voice in the static. The shadow in the skyline.

The one person who hadn’t lied to his face--at least not in the way that mattered.

Mark wasn’t good at subtle.

He wasn’t good at waiting, either.

So when the next Guardian training buzzed in--

He bolted.

Not to train.

But to see if he could catch her.

Guardians HQ was quieter than usual.

Not the literal kind of quiet--it was still full of thuds and grunts and the occasional "Ow! Bitch!"--but the kind of quiet that came when the world wasn’t ending for once.

The kind that felt like a lull in the chaos. Like a skipped heartbeat.

The kind that didn’t come often.

The kind that you shouldn’t trust.

And (Y/n) was forced to step into it through the side entrance of HQ.

Not armored up either.

No voice mod. No Vireo--not really. Just her… with a cheap, black face mask.

Summoned by a ping from Robot. Specifically, a ping in the form of an excuse for her to pick up requested data that he claimed “could not be securely transmitted via comms”--which was code for I want to talk to you in person.

She sighed as the main corridor lit up in glaring, sterile lights under her steps. Maybe Robot was bored. Or maybe it was some kind of test. She was still figuring out which kind of annoying he liked to be when he wasn’t in mission mode.

She followed the hall past the briefing room, past the memorial wing still under partial reconstruction, until she heard it.

Grunting. Clashing. Someone swearing.

Then a muffled “You literally ran into me again--Rex, that’s the third time!”

A monitor on the wall flickered to life beside her. Robot’s voice filtered out from its speaker, calm and clinical:

“Training Room C. Status: Active Simulation. Spectator clearance authorized.”

“Of course it is,” (Y/n) muttered, more to herself than anyone.

She stepped through the observation door. Just enough to watch. Just enough to get a taste.

And what she saw made her eyebrows twitch.

Teen Team--the “new” Guardians--was falling apart.

Not physically. Not yet. But strategically? It was havoc. Glorified flailing.

Dupli-Kate was duplicating faster than she could process, trying to flank a pair of simulated drones that kept outpacing her. Rex was tossing explosives in every direction like a sparkler-happy toddler on the Fourth of July. Robot kept barking suggestions in his clinical voice--no one was listening. Samson looked like he wanted to leave. Rae nearly got flattened by a projectile Kate didn’t see coming. Amanda looked the calmest--because she was handling her section solo.

Mark was there too.

And he was holding the line.

Not leading. Not commanding. But steady.

There was a look in his eyes--focused, controlled, not frantic.

That was new.

He wasn’t flailing. He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t cracking jokes to cover the panic in his bones like he usually did when things got hairy.

He was just… grounded. Braced. Moving with purpose instead of panic.

He was trying to stabilize. As best as he could with the mess of a team.

He caught a chunk of fake debris before it could smack Kate in the jaw and flung it clean through a drone’s weak point like he’d seen it coming five seconds earlier. Then pivoted. Covered Rex’s blind spot. Nudged Rae behind cover. Didn’t flinch.

It wasn’t flashy.

It wasn’t loud.

But it was clean.

He wasn’t the same guy who used to stumble into fights like he was playing catch-up with the world.

He was adapting.

(Y/n) didn’t say anything from the room above. She just watched.

And maybe there was a smile. A tiny one.

For the boy who used to chase the fight, and was finally learning when to catch it.

She didn’t mean to linger. Didn’t mean to feel anything. This was supposed to be a info hand-off. A grab-and-go.

…But Robot was keeping that data stick from her--yeah, let’s go with that.

She settled against the tinted glass. And let her eyes take a break from the screens.

She watched the way he moved--sharp but deliberate, like every motion had finally been given room to breathe. Like someone had finally taught him that surviving wasn’t the same as winning.

And maybe, she thought, this was the point.

Maybe she wasn’t supposed to swoop in and save him.

Maybe she was just supposed to clear the field long enough for him to remember he could.

Maybe--just maybe--she felt she could take some of the fault for it.

Or credit. She wasn’t sure which yet.

She hadn’t trained him. Not really.

Hadn’t taken him under her wing, hadn’t sat down and walked him through strategy charts or run him through drills.

She hadn’t told him how to survive the way the world was breaking now.

But she’d given him something no one else had:

Space to figure it out.

And maybe that was what made the difference. “Vireo,” Robot's voice sounded out over the intercom again--if it were possible for a robot to sound tired? this would be it. “Your presence is noted. Please assess the team’s current performance.” This would be if a robot could beg.

(Y/n) stood in the observation deck, expression unreadable behind her mask, but her silence said plenty.

Her gaze swept across the room again--methodical, hawk-like.

Dupli-Kate was overextending her clones and exhausting herself. Rex’s bombs had no pattern--just noise. Rae lacked both communication and coverage. Samson wasn’t syncing with anyone, and Mark… Mark looked like the only one trying to build a rhythm instead of survive one.

The training sim ended with a fizzle. Literally. Rex hit the wrong power node and the entire left wall shorted. The simulation dissolved in a sad puff of smoke.

“Jesus, Rex!” Amanda groaned. “That was the power core!”

“Well maybe the core shouldn’t look like a target!”

“Everything looks like a target to you.”

Black Samson shook his head, tired. “We’re getting worse.”

“Speak for yourself,” Rex snapped, then immediately winced at the glares he earned. “Okay, maybe all of us. A little.”

“Not a little,” Kate grumbled, wiping sweat off her face. “We’re not syncing. At all.”

No one said anything after that. They just caught their breath.

That was the moment (Y/n) finally made her entrance.

Sneakers soft. Glasses on, tucked into a corner of her face like armor in civilian drag.

“Y’know,” she said casually, “I’ve seen toddlers in a bounce house show more coordinated tactics.”

Rex groaned. “Oh, great. The auditor speaks.”

(Y/n) didn’t smile. Didn’t scowl either. Just walked across the floor toward Robot, not looking at them yet.

Then she just simply laid her palm flat and up.

Robot handed over the chip--silent, mechanical, clearly waiting for feedback.

She glanced down at it, then tucked it into her coat pocket. Still no rush. Still no reaction to the team practically dragging themselves back to standing positions. She took her time facing them. She let the silence hang just long enough to be heard.

“You’re not reading each other. Not adjusting. Not covering blind spots. Kate’s burning clones. Rae’s silent. Amanda’s just solo. Samson’s stuck in his glory days. And Rex has no thoughts. You’re all stepping on each other’s airspace.”

Turning to Robot again, she slanted her head as if she figured he would know better. “…Why the hell are you simming a Level 7 scenario with a team that barely survived a Level 3 last week?”

Robot’s optics open and shut in what might’ve been his version of a blink. “Stress reveals weaknesses more efficiently than repetition. Exposure to failur-”

“Which only works if there was active learning involved,” she cut in, cool and surgical. “This isn’t exposure. This is setting a group of half-synced rookies on fire and wondering why the smoke alarm keeps going off.”

Robot paused. Calculated. Recalibrated. “Noted.”

“Make it more than noted,” (Y/n) muttered, folding her arms. “If you're serious about their survival rate, don’t treat it like code optimization. Treat it like they're human.”

Finally, she looked at the boy she had spared in the earlier spout off of errors. He--already watching her--didn’t look away.

Mark was breathing hard, arms resting on his knees, sweat glinting at the edge of his hairline. No smirk. No snark. Just that quiet, searching expression that asked more than it ever said aloud.

“And you.” She glanced away with a dismissive roll of her eyes when he just looked at her like that. “Stop holding back. You’re the only one actually adapting.”

A beat.

“And you’re doing it with dead weight.”

“Hey,” Rex snapped, halfway to offended and halfway to defensive. “Watch it with the shit talk, Murderbird.”

(Y/n) didn’t even blink.

“Then stop making me say it,” she said, flatly, not sparing him a glance.

Rex made a noise like he was about to argue--but even he didn’t have a real comeback. He just threw up his hands in exasperation and turned away, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “I hate this bi-”

“Alright, trench coat,” Black Samson interrupted, tone sharp but not cruel. “You’ve had plenty to say about what we’re doing wrong.”

(Y/n) spared him a microexpression, slow. Measured.

He stood there--arms crossed, jaw locked, not quite confrontational but close enough.

“You’ve been watching from the cheap seats, tossing critiques like you’re above it. But far as I can tell, no powers, no allegiance, no field command experience. So, humor me.”

A beat.

Then: “What makes you qualified to say any of this?”

The room froze.

Rex made a face like, finally.

Amanda narrowed her eyes--curious now, not dismissive.

Kate shifted to cross her arms--enough to say something, but sensible enough not to.

(Y/n) didn’t move right away. She just looked at Samson for a long second, like she was considering whether or not to answer honestly or just leave.

Rex, ever the loudmouth, added to the bait. “No, no, he’s right.”

To Rae’s credit, she did try to stop him. But he still took a cocky step forward to crowd (Y/n).

“We’re the ones sweating our asses off in training. We’re the ones out there catching shrapnel while she drops in like it’s a pop quiz.” He gestured to her with both hands in her face. “She’s supposed to be a ‘contingency?’ What kind of contingency just talks?”

(Y/n) didn’t flinch.

Not when Rex got too close. Not when he gestured inches from her face. Not when he grinned too proud. Not when the rest of the room felt ready to break into a real fight over a hypothetical one.

She just watched him.

Expression unreadable.

“Are you asking because you want to learn something?” she asked, voice low, clinical. “Or because you need to hear yourself over your insecurities again?”

Rex stepped back, affronted. “Okay, wow-”

“No, really. I’m just trying to figure out which flavor of fragile ego I’m dealing with.”

“Alright.” Samson stepped forward again, tone firm. “We’re done posturing.”

(Y/n) tilted her head toward him now, brow slightly raised behind the glasses, mouth hidden behind her mask.

“You want to prove you’re more than a mouth?” Samson said. “Show us.”

A few surprised glances were exchanged around the room.

“Right here. Right now. No powers,” he added, glancing at the rest of the team as he stepped into the training ring. “Just you. Just us. Let’s see if your attitude can fight.”

Rex grinned. “Aw, hell yeah, a chance to knock this chick on her ass? I’m getting in on this action.”

Mark glared at him, straightening slightly and brows pulling inward. “Guys-”

But she was already taking off her coat.

No dramatics. No flair. Just the fluid, practiced motion of someone who’d done this a hundred times.

“Say that again. With your chest this time.”

She placed the coat down neatly on a bench nearby.

“I’m not supposed to interfere unless there’s a threat.”

As if she wasn’t just challenged by a former Guardian and a human explosion, she nonchalantly adjusted the sleeves of the dark long-sleeve shirt beneath. Understated. Streamlined.

“But if you both say it loud enough, it might qualify.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled enough to show her amusement. And, then she just stepped into the ring.

“Use your powers if you want. It’ll end the same way.”

The silence that followed her last words wasn’t empty.

It was weight.

Tension strung tight across the floor as (Y/n) stepped into the ring like it wasn’t a challenge--like it was an errand.

Samson rolled his shoulders, nodding to the rest of the team. “Stand back.”

Rex muttered, “Better call first aid,” under his breath.

(Y/n) didn’t react. Her focus was already dialing in like a camera lens. She tugged the last elastic from her wrist, tying her hair up without breaking eye contact. Her face was half-obscured, still. But her eyes? Her eyes were awake now.

She didn’t ask what the rules were.

Samson gave a small nod, enough to signal ready.

She gave nothing back.

No combat stance. No flourish. No countdown.

Just stillness--weaponized.

Robot’s voice filtered through the overhead speakers:

“Begin.”

Rex charged first.

Of course he did.

A low arc of energy sparked in his palm--standard concussive charge, tuned down for training--but still enough to knock out teeth if it landed clean.

He threw it.

(Y/n) stepped into it.

Not around.

Into.

One foot angled, the other pivoted, body turning with the momentum of the blast--not fighting it, but catching it like a wave. The explosion burst inches behind her, searing past the hem of her sleeve. It grazed her, but didn’t stop her.

She moved.

Fast.

Not showy-fast. Not Mark-fast. But fast in the way that didn’t give you time to flinch. No wasted motion.

Her elbow cracked into Rex’s jaw before he registered she was already inside his guard.

He stumbled. Blinked. Hands going up too slow.

She swept his leg out from under him--clean, sharp, no windup--and dropped him flat on the mat.

Rex hit the floor with a thud and a grunt of disbelief. He blinked up at the ceiling, eyes wide, lips parted like he still hadn’t processed what just happened.

“Okay…what the hell-”

But (Y/n) wasn’t listening. She was already pivoting.

Samson was faster. Smarter. He didn’t charge in like a hothead. He advanced, calculated. Weight centered. Eyes locked. A soldier, not a showboat.

(Y/n) adjusted accordingly.

She didn’t posture. Didn’t square up like she was in a movie. She just moved--smoothly, naturally--like she was stepping through a rhythm only she could hear.

Samson threw a jab, testing. Meant to bait.

She tilted her head. Let it pass.

She watched his shoulder instead of his fist, and when the second hit came--low, fast, with force behind it--she slipped under it, inside his guard, and-

Tapped.

Just a touch. Her palm against his ribs. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to say: I could’ve.

Samson blinked. Reset.

Again.

This time a grapple. He tried to catch her arm mid-turn--classic takedown setup. She let him touch her. Let the grip form.

And then she broke it.

Not with strength. Not with brute force.

With technique.

A twist, a shift of balance, a hitch of breath--and she spun with the motion, redirected the hold, and used his own center of gravity to fold him down toward the mat.

Samson landed, hard. But not painfully. Just… completely off-balance.

Kate leaned in. “Wait, she’s actually-?”

Amanda nodded, arms crossed, lips twitching upward. “Yup.”

Samson exhaled through his nose. “Alright. You’ve got moves.”

She didn’t gloat. Just waited.

Didn’t smirk. Just straightened.

Calm. Silent.

“Okay,” Rex said, scrambling back to his feet, one hand on his jaw. “Okay, screw that. Tag team. Let’s go, old man.”

Samson grunted as he stood, brushing off the mat with the kind of nonchalance only mildly bruised pride could manage. He didn’t argue. He just reset his stance. He didn’t like getting shown up--but he respected a clean takedown.

(Y/n) didn’t protest either. No sharp reply. No taunt. She just flicked her sleeves up an inch and rolled her neck once.

“Together?” she asked, tone dry. “Finally learning teamwork. I’m touched.”

Her attention was split between the rhythm of Samson’s footfalls and the erratic pulse of Rex’s rising energy signature.

Two opponents. One smart, one chaotic. It should’ve been overwhelming.

Instead, it looked like she was waiting for a train she knew would be late.

Rex moved first. Again.

A high, arcing shot--meant to distract, to herd her toward Samson’s reach.

She ducked the blast, pivoted left-

And walked into Samson’s path.

Except she didn’t.

Because the second his arm swept in to clothesline her, she dropped--a sharp, coiled motion like a trap snapping shut--rolled under, and popped up behind him just as Rex came in from the flank.

She palmed Samson between the shoulder blades with a sharp shove--enough to send him stumbling into Rex’s swing.

The two collided mid-momentum. Off-balance. Sloppy.

She didn’t even need to do anything fancy.

They collided--Rex swearing, Samson grunting as his balance broke--and in the fraction of a second it took for them to untangle, she was already moving again.

No break. No breath. No hesitation.

She flowed.

Rex came back first, swinging wild. Too wide, too fast, too loud. Predictable.

She let his fist pass her cheek by inches, turned with it, and snapped a palm strike into the side of his ribs. Not meant to break. Meant to say I could’ve.

Samson surged forward, aiming low this time. Takedown sweep. Military textbook.

She pivoted on her heel, redirected his arm with a single wrist-grab, and rolled over his back as he passed beneath her. One smooth vault. Graceful. Surgical.

She didn’t land far--just enough to keep the space tight.

“Try again,” she said. Not smug. Just… offering.

They did.

This time, together. Not staggered, not alternating. Together. Like they’d finally realized going one at a time was just letting her pick who hit the mat first.

And this time? It was a brawl.

Rex was all noise and momentum--sparks already charging in one palm, a curse in the other. Samson, by contrast, was steady. Coordinated. Low center of gravity and built like a wall that moved with intention.

But (Y/n) didn’t flinch.

She adjusted her footing half a breath before contact, weight shifting slightly forward--welcoming the charge instead of bracing against it.

Rex fired another high shot, fast.

She ducked, clean and sharp.

Samson came in from the side, aiming to catch her legs mid-dodge.

She jumped--not high, not flashy. Just enough. One sharp pivot of her heel midair, and she kicked off his shoulder, using his own body as leverage to push behind them both.

She touched down like she’d always belonged there--like gravity bent for her out of habit.

“Coordination,” she offered, voice calm. “That’s new.”

She didn’t give them time to feel proud of it.

No warning.

No sharp breath before the strike.

Just motion--precise and quiet.

(Y/n) didn’t move like she was dodging. She moved like she’d already mapped out the space two seconds ago and was simply stepping through it.

She ducked low under Rex’s swing, used the momentum to slide forward--right into Samson’s blind spot just as he lunged. A quick hook aimed center mass--meant to throw her off balance, slow her down for Rex’s follow-up blast.

But she shifted, sliding under the arc of his strike.

Her hand came up--flat palm, controlled--and tapped the underside of Samson’s elbow. A precision angle. She turned his momentum against him, guiding the swing just wide enough to clip Rex’s shoulder instead of her.

“Dude!” Rex shouted.

Samson hissed between his teeth, but didn’t waste time glaring. He came back around fast.

He tried to fake high. She ducked before he committed. Her foot slid forward, hooking behind his ankle, and just as he adjusted for balance-

She snapped her arm out. Not a punch. Just a solid, open-handed shove to his chest, using the leverage of his own recovery against him.

She used his shift in weight to pivot, catching Rex’s incoming punch with her forearm--redirecting, not blocking--and turned the energy back into his shoulder with a palm strike that knocked him off balance.

She stepped in.

Twisted Rex’s arm behind his back with one clean motion and used his own momentum to drive him toward Samson, who was just recovering his footing.

Rex hit Samson mid-turn. They both stumbled.

And before either of them could fully reset-

(Y/n) swiped low at Samson’s legs, and drove her elbow lightly into Rex’s ribs on the way up.

Both of them.

Down.

They groaned. Not seriously hurt. But wrecked.

(Y/n) stepped back.

A heavy breath. But still. Poised.

Rex wailed, out of breath, “You’ve gotta be kidding me-”

Samson just lay there, chest rising with the rhythm of someone recalibrating both breath and ego.

“Who trained you?” he muttered.

She shrugged, “You knew him.”

His head gave a slight shake. “He didn’t fight like that.”

“He liked the rules more.”

Behind her, the team was still quiet. Kate had both eyebrows raised. Amanda was watching with barely-veiled curiosity. Rae looked like she was happy someone finally knocked Rex down a peg.

Mark? He hadn’t looked away once.

Robot’s voice filtered into the air, less clinical this time--like even his processors were buffering:

“Demonstration complete.”

Rex sobbed from the mat. “That wasn’t a demonstration. That was assault.”

(Y/n) didn’t look at him. “You volunteered.”

He wheezed, still half-curled on the mat like the floor owed him an apology.

He squinted up at (Y/n), holding his side with a dramatic grimace.

“You know what?” he rasped. “Next time I try talking to you, someone taze me.”

Kate muffled a snort behind her glove.

Amanda just smirked. “Smartest thing you’ve said all week.”

Rex shot her a glare, but even he knew better than to start something again. Not when the sound of Samson still getting his breath back was echoing in the training ring.

“So you are capable of learning.” (Y/n) stepped out of the ring with the same composure she walked in with--sliding her sleeves back down, brushing invisible dust off her shirt.

Samson finally pushed himself up with a grunt and shook out his shoulders. “Well,” he sighed, “that answers that.”

“Not entirely,” Dupli-Kate said, finally stepping forward. “You’re clearly trained. Tactical. But who are you?”

Rex frowned with her, “Yeah, we don’t even have a real name.”

(Y/n) adjusted her collar. Her fingers slowed. Not pausing--just... deciding.

“I’ll answer that when one of you takes me down,” she said simply, then asked Robot, “Did any of that help team morale at all?”

Robot, whose optical sensors had been whirring silently throughout the entire sparring match, processed her question in a microsecond.

“Morale: increased. Uncertainty: reduced. Hostility: redirected.”

(Y/n) huffed once. It might’ve been a laugh. It might’ve been relief. “Guess I have to come back then.”

Hearing that, Mark smiled a little.

And she did.

She came back.

Not with fanfare or flare, and never under the same name twice. Some days, she was a consultant. Others, a backup. Occasionally just a ghost who loomed in a corner while they trained and said nothing until they needed her to.

But she showed up.

Every time.

And slowly--without them realizing--it changed things.

Kate started timing her clones differently. Amanda started taking calculated risks she didn’t take before. Rex started thinking before he acted--most of the time. Even Robot adjusted his simulations to account for “non-powered interventions”--though he never said her name.

She never offered comfort outright, never praised. But when someone landed a better hit, or covered a teammate’s blind side without prompting, she gave the smallest nod. And weirdly? That nod started to mean more than anything else.

They didn’t like her at first. Not really. She was condescending. Mysterious. Kind of mean.

But then she helped Rae up after a rough hit and muttered, “You’re getting faster.”

Then she pointed out the exact moment Kate could’ve gotten Rex killed--and followed it with a dry, “But you didn’t. Progress.”

Then Amanda caught her leaning against a wall post-mission, one hand gripping her side like she was trying not to feel something under her ribs--and didn’t say a word. Just nodded, and left her alone.

Somehow, that made it realer.

And maybe it was the little things--like how she never demanded to be liked. How she treated them like a mess worth fixing, not failures waiting to be replaced. Like she knew what it meant to be broken and still be useful.

She started talking more. Nothing major. Observations. The occasional sarcastic aside. Even a very weirdly dry inside joke with Rae that Rex didn’t understand but was pretty sure was about him.

She started letting them see glimpses of her. Not much. But enough.

And they started leaning in.

Mark was too.

It started slow. Like most good things.

Mark didn’t say much at first. Just nodded when she showed up. Gave her space when she leaned against the wall instead of joining them on the benches after drills. Laughed a little too hard when Rex got knocked flat--again. But mostly, he watched. Not in a weird way. Just… in that quiet, observant way he had when he was trying not to feel something too loud.

(Y/n) noticed. Of course she noticed. She always noticed him. The way his posture shifted when she entered a room. The way his shoulders loosened when she spoke, even if she was giving Rex hell. The way he lingered just a second longer after training, like maybe he had something to say but hadn’t figured out the shape of it yet.

She watched him for a while too. From a distance. Gave him the same space she gave everyone else.

Until one day, she didn’t.

Training had wrapped. Rex was icing something and dramatically complaining about nerve damage. Amanda and Kate were talking near the lockers, swapping notes between shoulder stretches. Samson had left already--quiet and bruised but noticeably more respectful than usual. Rae gave (Y/n) a brief nod on her way out, and (Y/n) actually nodded back.

The room was thinning out.

But Mark hadn’t left.

And neither had she.

But she was about to. She gathered her things and started toward the door.

But just before she hit the door, Mark--finally--moved.

“Wait.”

She paused. Only half-turned.

Mark took a step forward before he could think himself out of it, running a hand through his hair. He looked... off. A little flushed. A little out of breath, like he hadn’t fully recovered from training or something else.

“You have another five minutes?” he asked, softer than the others could hear.

She raised an eyebrow, barely visible under her glasses.

He tried again, quieter. “Just... outside?”

Her head tilted slightly, the kind of motion that wasn’t permission but wasn’t refusal either. And then--without a word--she nudged the door open and stepped out.

Mark followed. Not immediately. Just long enough to make it look like nothing.

They stepped out into the HQ rooftop access, where the sun had already started to tip toward the horizon. The air was cooler up here. Quieter. The wildlife buzzed somewhere below, muffled by altitude and concrete and distance.

She leaned against the ledge like she wasn’t staying long. Like she didn’t want to give the moment more weight than necessary.

He crossed the distance slower than he meant to. Less superhero. More kid trying to figure out what he’d even say once he got there.

She didn’t speak first. Of course she didn’t.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then rubbed the back of his neck like maybe that would make the words come easier.

He settled for: “You’ve been… different.”

Her expression didn’t shift much. Just a flicker. A pause in her breath.

She didn’t look over right away. Just kept her eyes on the skyline, the dying light painting the mountains in washed-out orange. Then:

“Yeah,” she said simply. “So have you.”

Mark’s mouth twitched. Not a full smile, not yet. Just acknowledgment. It was true--he felt it, even if he hadn’t put words to it until now.

“I think you’re rubbing off on me,” he admitted, softer. “And maybe the team, too.”

She huffed softly. “That’s a terrifying thought.”

“Is it?”

She finally looked at him then. Not guarded, not deflecting. Just quiet and genuine. Like maybe she hadn’t expected this conversation to feel real either.

“A little,” she admitted, lips quirking beneath the edge of the mask. “I was aiming for competence, not… emotional attachment.”

Mark laughed softly at that. “Yeah, well, you don’t get that choice.”

They let silence stretch comfortably between them for a few breaths. The wind murmured below, alive but distant. Neither moved to close the space, but neither stepped away either.

When he finally spoke again, it was quieter. More careful. “Thanks, by the way.”

She gave him a sideways look, eyebrows arching just enough to question without saying anything.

He smiled faintly, eyes drifting out over the sunset. “For showing up. For them… for me.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t say you’re welcome, didn’t shrug it off with sarcasm. She just watched him for a moment--really watched--like she was trying to decide if this was the part where she stepped closer or disappeared.

“I didn’t know if it mattered to you,” she admitted.

Mark’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“The space,” she said, shrugging. “I just rerouted a few alerts. Took some early. Dusted others. It wasn’t about you.”

Mark gave her a look.

She sighed, exaggerated. “Okay. It wasn’t only about you.”

He smiled a little. She tried not to.

He leaned forward on the railing beside her, elbows braced against the warm concrete. “You could’ve just let it happen, you know. Let me figure it out the hard way.”

“I was,” she said, dry.

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, but not all the way.”

A beat passed.

“Seemed like Chicago was burning you out,” she said, so quiet he almost missed it. “I had time for a few fires.”

She paused, fingers tapping once against the concrete. “Just didn’t know if it even helped or just… made you feel watched.”

Mark tilted his head. Not toward her--just enough to register the weight of her voice. It wasn’t her usual tone. Not clipped or clinical. Not sarcastic or dry. Just honest. Measured. Like she’d been chewing on the thought for weeks and wasn’t sure if it was safe to spit it out.

“I mean,” he said, slowly, “it kinda did.”

She blinked, already turning to leave.

“But not in a bad way,” he added quickly, catching the twitch of her shoulder. “It felt like… someone gave a damn. Without asking for anything back.”

That stopped her.

Not just her feet. The whole current of her tension shifted--like her spine unclenched one vertebra at a time.

Mark didn’t look at her when he said it. He wasn’t trying to pin her with sincerity. He just let it land. Kept his eyes forward, like it didn’t matter what she said back.

Which, ironically, made it easier to speak.

“I didn’t want to make it worse,” she said finally. “Didn’t want you thinking I didn’t think you could handle it.”

She mumbled the next words like she didn’t want to be caught being this sappy. “I do think you can… but I also think you shouldn’t have to incinerate yourself to confirm it.”

Mark stepped closer, hands loose at his sides. “You could’ve just said something.”

“You would’ve argued.”

“Maybe.”

“You would’ve felt guilty.”

He looked away, jaw tensing. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“And you wouldn’t have taken the time.”

That made him look up again. Not sharply. Just enough for her to see the defense flicker across his face.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

But she wasn’t entirely right, either.

“I don’t want to be someone you have to plan around,” he said. Quieter now. More honest.

“You’re not.” She tilted her head--not quite disagreement, not quite comfort. Just assessing. “Planning around someone implies they’re in the way.”

“And I’m not?” he asked, half a laugh under the words. But it wasn’t a joke. Not really.

“No,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re the reason there’s anything left to plan for.”

That stopped him.

For a second, the rooftop faded. The wind. The mountains. All of it dropped away.

He just stared at her, heart thudding a little too loud in his ears. She looked back--still unreadable behind the mask, but not cold. Not distant. Just measured, like she’d calculated the exact emotional cost of saying that and decided he deserved to hear it anyway.

Mark shifted. “Then why do I feel like I’m just… being handled?”

She shrugged. “Because you’re used to jumping in and out of fights like you were proving something. To yourself. To your father. To everyone else.”

“You’re not being handled,” she added. “You’re being given room to breathe.”

He looked down, biting the inside of his cheek. “Feels like I didn’t earn the breathing room.”

“Then you’re really playing into your name, Invincible,” she said it sardonically, but not without a flicker of something like wry affection.

She smiled under the mask. At least he thought so.

“But if you want me to stop, I’ll stop. Just thought you looked like you were going to implode if you didn’t get a break.” A sigh expelled from her, almost emphasizingly dramatic. “And I owed you the five minutes of bad coffee you forced on me.”

Mark snorted a laugh--quiet, surprised. “Looking back on it, it wasn’t that bad.”

“You poured sugar into it like you were trying to embalm it.”

“That was strategy,” he shot back. “Caffeine and sugar--classic recovery combo.”

“You were shaking.”

“I was nervous!”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

And she let them both ignore it.

Just… looked at him.

Like maybe she hadn’t expected that either.

The silence didn’t stretch awkwardly this time. It just hovered--soft around the edges. Like they were both pretending the horizon wasn’t blurred by something a little heavier than clouds.

Mark rubbed his palm against the back of his neck again, eyes sliding up to meet hers.

“You didn’t owe me anything,” he said.

“I didn’t do it to settle a score,” she said, finally brushing against his shoulder. As if that would nudge him toward a realization. “I did it because I knew you wouldn’t stop unless someone made you.”

His lips parted. “That sounds… manipulative.”

“That sounds true.”

He hated that she wasn’t wrong. Again.

“I just wanted you to have a chance,” she said, quieter now. “To figure out who you really want to be. Before the world forces you to be something else.”

She paused, voice soft but clear. “Everything’s pushing you to a version of yourself you didn’t choose. I wanted to make sure you had room to choose anyway.”

The wind slid between them, tousling Mark’s hair and tugging faintly at hers. She didn’t reach to fix it. Didn’t look away. Just stood there--still, steady, unmoving--like she wasn’t waiting for a response so much as making sure he heard her.

And he had.

Mark swallowed around something tight in his throat.

She knew he didn’t know how to--couldn’t respond to that. So she did it again. Made it a little easier for him.

“And also to resuscitate your GPA.”

He snorted before he could stop himself. Letting his lips reset from the previous frown. Not quite a smile. Not quite not one.

“I missed you,” he said.

She looked at him like the sentence had thrown her off balance more than a punch ever could.

It seemed like she short-circuited. Like she needed a second to recalibrate.

He didn’t say it like someone pining. Or pressuring. Just… offering. Quiet and real.

For a second, no reply came--not even a sarcastic deflection or some dry, well-timed quip about emotional vulnerability being inefficient.

Then--

“Yeah, whatever,” she scoffed. “Missed you too, bug boy.”