It had been a week since Galatea blew Waller apart and freed herself from that damn Kryptonite explosive buried in her skull. A week since she stopped being someone else's weapon. A week since she got her first real taste of freedom. She spent the first few days doing everything she'd never been allowed to do, indulging in the things that had been denied to her since the moment she was born. She ate whatever she wanted, tried every single thing she could find—rich cuts of steak dripping with butter, stacks of syrup-drenched pancakes, seafood fresh from the ocean, the spiciest dishes she could find just to feel the burn. Every flavor, every texture, everything beyond the bland, processed rations they used to feed her back at Cadmus.
She drank, too. Not that alcohol affected her, but she liked the taste of expensive liquor, the sharp burn of whiskey, the smooth sweetness of aged wine, the bitterness of black coffee brewed from the rarest beans. She dressed in clothes that weren't some damn government-issued bodysuit—dresses that hugged her body, leather jackets that made her feel dangerous, silk lingerie just because she liked the way it felt on her skin. She walked into high-end boutiques, tried on designer shoes, wrapped herself in furs, laughed at the way store clerks stumbled over themselves when they saw her. She explored cities, stood at the top of the Eiffel Tower just because she could, rode a motorcycle at speeds that should've killed her, danced in underground clubs until sunrise.
She lived.
And now, a week later, she was still doing exactly that.
Tonight, she was in one of the most exclusive clubs in the Gotham City, sprawled out on a VIP couch, drinking from an obscenely priced bottle. The air was thick with smoke, the bass so heavy it vibrated through her body as she took another sip. She wore a black dress that clung to her like a second skin, the neckline plunging deep between her breasts, showing off a generous amount of cleavage. The dress had high slits up both thighs, revealing her bare skin all the way to her hips, making it clear she wore nothing underneath. Her legs looked even longer in her gold high heels, drawing every eye in the room as she moved, the fabric barely covering her when she shifted.
And they watched her. They always did.
Old men in tailored suits with thick gold watches, politicians and businessmen who thought their status meant something to her. Young heirs with too much money and too little self-control, licking their lips like they had a chance. Drug lords who owned half the city's underground, their bodies reeking of sweat, alcohol, and the coke still lingering in their sinuses. They leaned in too close, whispered promises of wealth and pleasure, their hands daring to rest on her thigh, her shoulder, her back. She could smell their rotting livers, the poison running through their veins, the stink of desperation clinging to them. They thought money, power, status made them something. They were insects.
One tried to slip something into her drink.
She grabbed his wrist before he could even blink, twisting until pop—his arm bent the wrong way, his scream cutting through the music. He dropped to his knees, begging, sobbing. The others just watched, a mixture of fear and arousal in their eyes. Another man thought he could grab her from behind, wrapping an arm around her waist like she was some common club girl. She slammed her elbow into his face, felt his nose shatter like glass, his blood splattering onto her dress.
She stood, rolling her neck, sighing as she stepped over their bodies.
The women in the VIP section watched, some wide-eyed, others smirking. A dark-haired beauty in a red dress that hugged her curves approached with a smile.
"Didn't like them?" she asked.
"They disgusted me," Galatea replied, her voice dripping with disdain.
The woman laughed. "I'd say you made that pretty clear."
Galatea smirked. The woman grabbed her hand, pulling her onto the dance floor where the bass was loud, the lights flashing, and bodies moved in a sea of heat and lust. Galatea danced with the woman in red, pressing close, their bodies grinding. The woman's hands went to Galatea's hips, pulling her closer. Galatea pushed her leg between the woman's thighs, grinding until her breathing turned to moans, barely audible over the music. Galatea's hand slid under the dress, fingers on her clit, rubbing until the woman came, her body shuddering against Galatea's right there on the dance floor.
Another woman joined, her arousal evident in her flushed cheeks. Galatea danced with her next, their movements more than just dancing. She whispered something filthy in her ear, then her hand went down the woman's pants, fingers inside her. The woman's eyes closed, her moans lost in the music as she came hard on Galatea's fingers.
After some time, feeling the need for something more private, Galatea headed towards the bathroom, pulling one of the women she'd danced with by the hand. They entered a stall, the door barely shut before Galatea sat on the toilet lid, pulling the woman's head between her thighs. She guided her, pressing her face into her pussy, the woman's tongue working her clit, making Galatea moan with pleasure. While this was happening, another woman from the dance floor followed them into the bathroom. She watched for a moment, then approached, her hands going to Galatea's dress, pulling it down to expose her breasts. She leaned in, sucking on one of Galatea's nipples, her tongue flicking over it, adding to Galatea's pleasure.
The bathroom echoed with the sounds of their moans, the wet sounds of the woman between Galatea's legs, the soft suckling noises as the other woman worked on her breasts. Galatea's moans grew louder, her control slipping as she neared climax.
But before she could reach her peak, the door burst open. Security had been alerted by the commotion. "Out! Now!" one of the guards barked, his voice cutting through the haze of lust. Galatea, still in the throes of arousal, was forced to stand, pulling the woman from between her legs. The other woman quickly adjusted her clothes. After the haze was gone annoyance flooded her mind and she straightened other dress out before grabbing the security guard and shoving his head down the toilet so hard that it broke. "Where were we?" She said to the girls before kicking her lips.
She partied until the early hours, until the sun threatened to rise, and when she finally left the club, she did so without a word. She took a private car to a penthouse suite she had acquired through means that would've given her 10-20 years in prison.
Inside, she stripped off her dress, throwing it onto a chair before stepping into the shower. The water was hot, almost burning, but she hardly noticed. Steam clouded the large bathroom as she ran her hands over her body, washing away the night's grime. She scrubbed the sweat, the smoke, the stench of men who thought they could claim her. She leaned against the marble wall, eyes closed, letting the water cascade through her hair.
Her hands moved over her large breasts, feeling the weight of them, her fingers tracing the outlines of her dark nipples. She washed her muscular stomach, the lines of her abs clear under her touch, down to her tight pussy, where she lingered, the water mixing with her own fluids. She turned to face the spray, her big ass and thick thighs getting the same attention, her fingers sliding between her cheeks, cleaning every part of her.
Eventually, she stepped out, drying herself off, her skin still flushed from the heat. She walked naked toward the massive bed, her body glistening. She collapsed onto the silk sheets, her body sprawling, her breasts pressed against the cool fabric, her pussy exposed, legs slightly parted. She didn't need to sleep; as a Kryptonian, her body absorbed solar energy, brimming with power. But she chose to sleep anyway.
Because of them.
The dreams.
She closed her eyes, and instantly, she was somewhere else. Someone else.
A man was kissing her. No—kissing Kara. His hands gripped her hips tight, pulling her close, his lips trailing down her neck, his hard body pressed against hers. His voice, his scent, the way his fingers tangled in her hair—it was all so real. She felt every sensation Kara felt, saw everything Kara saw. The pleasure, the heat, the desperate need.
She knew this wasn't her memory, that she shouldn't be here. But every time she slept, she slipped into Kara's mind, experiencing what Kara did, craving what Kara craved. And right now, Kara wanted him. Galatea moaned in her sleep, her hands gripping the sheets, body twitching as the memories overwhelmed her mind. These dreams were the highlight of her existence.
And she wanted them for herself.
___________________________
Mark stood in line, arms crossed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, eyes flicking between the menu overhead and the people ahead of him. The coffee shop smelled like burnt espresso and too much syrup, and he wasn't even sure why he was here. Habit, probably. Something to do while he waited, he wanted to get into it straight away, but apparently, that wasn't how it worked.
He pressed two fingers to the side of his headset, barely moving his lips. "I don't get it. Why can't I just go on patrol now?"
Barbara's voice crackled in his ear, unimpressed, like she'd had this conversation a hundred times before. "Because Batman patrols at night."
Mark stared at the back of the guy in front of him, some office worker tapping away at his phone like the world would end if he stopped. "That's fucking stupid. There's still crime during the day."
"There is," Barbara said, like she was talking to a particularly slow child. "But it's lower. Daytime is when Bruce deals with League stuff."
He scowled, shifting forward as the line inched ahead. "And why does that means I can't?"
Barbara sighed, the kind of sigh that carried over comms even through the usual interference. "Because Batman goes out at night. Everyone knows that."
Mark clenched his jaw, exhaling through his nose. Stupid fucking rules. It was one thing if Bruce wanted to play the dramatic nocturnal predator, but that didn't mean he had to. The whole point of him being here was to help, wasn't it? The line moved again. He stepped up to the counter, rattled off his order without really thinking about it, paid, and took the cup when it came. He left without saying anything to the barista, taking a slow sip as he stepped out onto the street, the air damp and heavy with the usual Gotham stink of exhaust, wet pavement, and too many people crammed into too little space.
"What the hell am I supposed to do in the meantime?"
Barbara didn't even hesitate. "Get acquainted with Gotham."
Mark stopped walking. "Barbara. I grew up here. I know Gotham." His voice was flat, no emotion, just stating the fucking obvious.
"Then occupy yourself."
He let out another long breath, pushing his free hand into his pocket as he started walking again. He downed his drink, then tossed the cup in the nearest trash can, barely slowing down. If he wasn't allowed to do anything yet, fine. He'd find something. Mark turned off the main street, slipping into an alleyway without thinking about it, stepping over a pile of trash and broken glass. He scanned the area, then bent his knees and shot upward, boots scraping brick as he pushed off the wall, clearing the edge of the building in a single motion. He landed on the rooftop without a sound, walking over to the ledge and sitting down, one foot resting on the other knee, the city stretching out in front of him.
He pulled out his phone, scrolling through news feeds, checking for anything worth his time. Nothing but the usual bullshit—political scandals, corporate greed, talking heads pretending they gave a shit. The sky flickered red and blue in the distance. He looked up. Police lights. Fire trucks. Sirens wailing, echoing between buildings. He could see smoke rising a few blocks over, the kind that meant something was burning bad. More sirens in another direction. Somebody was running down a side street, two guys chasing after them.
"This is low crime?" He muttered, watching the scene unfold like a bad rerun. It was always like this. Always had been. Gotham didn't change. It didn't get better. Every time it looked like it might, something dragged it right back down. He remembered being a kid, walking home from school, watching some guy get jumped in an alley and just keeping his head down because that was what you did. He remembered hearing gunshots at night and learning to tell the difference between fireworks and a real problem. He remembered Batman throwing himself into the city like he could fix it, like he could carve out something better with enough time, enough effort, enough blood, but it never changed.
Mark exhaled sharply, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He could be in Smallville right now. Doing something that mattered. If he was just gonna sit around waiting for nightfall, he might as well go back. There was nothing for him here.
He sighed, closing his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
[You do not need the Batman costume to do hero work.]
Mark blinked, looking up. He frowned. "What?"
[You simply need to wear something else.]
He was quiet for a moment, staring out over the city. She had a point. He didn't have to sit here twiddling his thumbs just because Bruce had some theatrical bullshit about patrolling at night. He was already here. Might as well do something.
"Fine," he said. "Can you give me something like the one in the Hall of Justice?"
[Yes.]
The material formed over him instantly, stretching over his body like it had always been there. It was skintight, clinging to him without feeling restrictive. He flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders, but something was off. He glanced down. The gloves were fingerless. A white domino mask with a glass visor covered his face.
He looked at his hands, then down at the rest of the suit. "Looks kinda flimsy."
[It can withstand several hundred blows from yourself,] Eve said, her voice edged with something dangerously close to offense.
Mark raised a brow. "My bad." He clenched his fist, testing the grip, the flexibility. It felt fine.
Something bright caught his eye. He looked up, seeing flames licking the side of a building a few blocks away, smoke billowing into the night sky. He tilted his head, watching for a second.
"I guess I better get to work."
Mark shot into the air, the city blurring beneath him as he gained altitude. Flying never got old. It was instinct, second nature, as easy as breathing, but it never stopped being exhilarating. The wind tearing past him, the sheer speed, the weightlessness, cutting through the world unbothered, untouched, like nothing could slow him down. He spun midair, twisting into a roll before righting himself, then pushed forward harder, faster, a shockwave rippling in his wake as he streaked over the Gotham skyline. Wayne Tower passed below him, the massive W casting a shadow over the streets, but he barely glanced at it. He locked onto the fire, closing the distance in seconds, stopping midair above the burning apartment, the heat rolling off the building in waves, smoke pouring into the sky.
"Eve, scan the building. How many people are still inside?"
[Scanning now.]
The visor of his mask flickered for a second, subtle lines running over the structure as Eve processed the information.
[Five people remain inside. Third, fourth, and fifth floors.]
Mark didn't waste time. He dove, angling straight for the building, smashing through a window without slowing down. Smoke clogged the air, thick and choking, flames crawling up the walls, eating through support beams, weakening the structure. He moved fast, sweeping through the rooms, zeroing in on the signatures Eve had tagged. The first person was slumped against a doorway, barely conscious, coughing into their sleeve. Mark grabbed them, careful, zooming them out before moving on.
Second and third, huddled in a corner, eyes wide with fear. He scooped them up, holding them tight, maneuvering through the collapsing building, avoiding falling debris, stepping around fire where he could, busting through walls where he couldn't. Fourth and fifth, screaming for help on the top floor, flames licking at their heels. He took them both, careful not to crush them with his grip, shielding them with his body as he shot back out through the window, landing in the street, setting them down gently.
The second his feet hit the pavement, Eve's voice was in his ear again.
[Explosion imminent. Blast radius will engulf the crowd.]
Mark turned, eyes snapping back to the burning building, seeing it before it happened, the way the fire swelled, the pressure shift, the telltale signs of an impending detonation. He moved before it could go off, bringing his hands together, muscles tensing.
The explosion ripped outward, fire and force, a wave of heat and destruction meant to consume everything in its path.
Mark clapped.
The shockwave from his palms tore through the blast, countering it, dissipating the energy before it could reach the crowd. The fire scattered, flames bending backward, momentum reversing, the explosion snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Smoke still poured from the building, embers glowing, but the immediate danger was gone.
He floated up, surveying the damage, then exhaled sharply, mimicking what he'd seen Clark do a hundred times before. He inhaled, pulling in the hot air, cooling it in his lungs before pursing his lips and blowing. A gust of freezing wind rushed forward, rolling over the building, lowering the temperature, choking out the last of the flames. In seconds, it was over. The fire was gone. The damage was done, but it wouldn't spread.
Mark hovered there for a second, watching the last flickers of flame die out.
"Not bad work," he muttered.
The crowd erupted, cheers and applause breaking the silence, people rushing forward, phones out, snapping pictures, recording videos. Reporters shoved their way to the front, shouting questions, their voices overlapping, a mess of demands and inquiries.
Mark sighed but lowered himself down, landing lightly, arms crossing as the first microphone was shoved toward him.
"Who are you?" one of them asked. "We've never seen you before."
"I'm kind of new," Mark said flatly.
"Are you with the Justice League?"
"Not really."
"Do you have a name?"
Mark exhaled, glancing at the smoking building, then back at the reporter. He thought about it for a second, then shrugged.
"Invincible, I suppose."
Before they could ask anything else, he shot off into the sky, leaving them behind.
___________________________
Raven sat in the Kent farmhouse kitchen, gently rocking Waylon in her arms, his tiny body warm against her. He was quiet, content, fingers curled into little fists, his breathing soft. Across from her, Kara was downing an entire pitcher of lemonade like she'd been stranded in a desert, gulping it down without stopping for air. "Why is it so hot today..." Kara complained.
Raven watched, unimpressed. "Don't you absorb solar radiation?"
Kara slammed the now-empty pitcher onto the table and wiped her mouth. "Yeah, but it's still hot as hell."
Martha chuckled as she placed another pitcher on the table, shaking her head like she'd seen this a hundred times before. "Once the baby's born, your hormones should go back to normal, but then you'll have a whole new set of problems." She sat down across from them, folding her hands in her lap. "Clark was a handful when he was little. Sweetest baby, but strong as an ox. Broke his crib twice before we figured out a way to reinforce it. You'll have to keep an eye on yours, make sure they don't accidentally punch a hole through a wall in their sleep."
Kara groaned, pressing her forehead against the table. "Great. Super baby-proofing. Exactly what I wanted to deal with."
Raven smirked but didn't say anything, adjusting Waylon slightly as he squirmed. The hum of the television filled the background, a news anchor droning on about politics, then a robbery, then something about Gotham. The words barely registered until the footage changed, showing a burning building, smoke filling the sky.
"...a new hero appeared in Gotham tonight, putting out a fire and rescuing trapped civilians. Witnesses described the unknown figure as fast, incredibly strong, and capable of generating powerful gusts of wind..."
Raven's head snapped toward the screen. The feed cut to a blurry but clear-enough shot of Mark hovering above the wreckage, white suit catching the streetlights, mask covering most of his face, but not enough to fool her. She knew immediately. She stood up, reaching across the table, grabbing Kara's arm.
"Look."
Kara lifted her head, eyes narrowing at the screen. The footage replayed, showing Mark flying into the burning building, coming back out with people in his arms, setting them down gently. Then it cut to him floating above the street, clapping his hands together, the explosion dispersing instantly. Then he was in the air again, pursing his lips, freezing the flames out with a controlled gust.
The reporter's voice cut back in. "When asked about his identity, the hero only responded—"
The screen jumped to the interview. Mark, arms crossed, looking vaguely annoyed at the attention, saying, "Invincible, I suppose," before taking off.
Kara stared for a second, then leaned back in her chair, hands resting on her stomach, a smirk playing on her lips.
"I'm going to suck him dry when he comes home," she said, her voice husky with desire. Thinking about Mark out there doing his hero work was turning her on, her pussy getting wet at the thought of his return. Raven felt her face heat instantly, glancing toward Martha, but the older woman didn't seem fazed, just sipped her tea with the same patience she always had. Waylon stirred in her arms, oblivious.
Raven cleared her throat, trying to push the thought away.
Not that she disagreed.
___________________________
Sam stood at the stove, stirring a pot of pasta while Cass chopped vegetables beside her, the knife moving fast, methodical, almost lazy in its efficiency. The kitchen smelled like garlic and basil, the heat from the burner making the already thick Gotham air worse. Sam hated it here. The whole city felt like it was constantly closing in, dirty, loud, heavy.
"I hate Gotham," she muttered, nudging the pasta with the wooden spoon.
Cass didn't look up, just gave a little nod, acknowledging it without needing to say anything. She didn't much like the place either but like Samantha she didn't have anywhere else to go. They were a striking contrast standing next to each other. Sam, tall and lean, her long red hair in a messy ponytail, her thin vest so tight it outlined her breasts perfectly, her nipples poking through, her shorts so short they might as well have been underwear, barely covering her ass, showing off her long legs. Cass, shorter, her body compact yet powerfully built, her dark hair framing her face, wearing the same revealing outfit—a vest that left her toned abs bare and shorts that hugged her muscular ass and thighs, leaving little to the imagination in Gotham's summer heat.
The apartment was quiet except for the occasional sizzle from the stove, the sound of the knife against the cutting board. For a second, it was peaceful.
Then—
"That motherfucker! I knew it!"
Harley's voice cracked through the silence like a gunshot.
Sam didn't flinch. Cass didn't either.
Sam sighed. "Just ignore her. She's probably watching Midsomer Murders again."
Cass nodded, completely unbothered, still dicing onions like nothing had happened.
A beat of silence. Then the sound of Harley clearing her throat. Loudly.
They ignored it.
Then she did it again, even louder, dragging it out obnoxiously.
Still ignored it.
The kitchen door exploded open, the handle slamming into the wall.
"Why the hell are ya ignorin' me?!" Harley demanded, standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, half-feral grin in place, blonde pigtails bouncing as she stomped forward.
Sam didn't turn right away, just finished stirring, exhaling slowly. Then she glanced over her shoulder. "Quiet, or you'll wake the baby."
Harley huffed, but her eyes flicked down to the bundle in her arms, the tiny body nestled against her chest.
Lucy Quinzel—her baby, Mark's baby—was wide awake, chubby little hands waving, babbling furiously, her tiny face scrunched up like she was just as outraged as her mother.
Harley laughed, bouncing her gently. "See? My little Lulu agrees with me. Ain't that right, pumpkin?"
Sam rubbed her temple. "What is it, Harley?"
Harley didn't answer, just grabbed Sam's wrist and dragged her toward the living room.
Cass followed silently, still holding the knife.
The TV was on, the news blaring, a reporter standing in front of a burned-out building, shaky footage playing behind her—smoke, fire, and then a white-suited figure flying in, grabbing people, pulling them to safety, then floating in the air like he had all the time in the world.
"That's Mark!" Harley shouted, pointing at the screen like it had personally offended her. "I told ya he was alive! He thinks he can just disappear, dodge child support, an' not take responsibility? Ohhh, I don't think so, busta!"
The footage replayed, showing him clapping his hands together, canceling out the explosion before it could reach the crowd. Then the freeze breath, the fire dying instantly. Then him hovering above the wreckage, arms crossed, looking vaguely irritated as reporters shouted questions at him.
"What's your name?" one of them asked.
Mark, completely uninterested, just shrugged. "Invincible, I suppose."
Then he shot off, leaving them in the dust.
"Oh he's gonna need to be invincible when I get my hands on him," Harley said as she shook her head with Lucy babbling as well.
Cass stared at the screen a little longer than she needed to, feeling a faint warmth creep up her neck, though she kept her expression blank. It wasn't just seeing him again—it was the memory. Sharp, vivid, undeniable. How he'd had Harley first, then Killer Frost and her right after, how neither of them could move by the time he was done. She swallowed, pushing it back down, keeping her face neutral.
Sam's reaction was harder to pin down. She didn't blush, didn't look away, just stood there, arms crossed, watching the screen with an expression she hadn't fully figured out yet. Mark had killed her. Had ripped her apart. But he'd also set her free. The way she saw it, both were true.
Either way, she'd be interested in seeing him again.
Harley was already moving, spinning toward the door. "Come on!"
Sam frowned. "Go where?"
Harley shot her a look like it was obvious. "Where else? To get my damn child support!"
Then she was gone, marching out the door, Lulu giggling in her arms, like this was the best idea in the world.
___________________________
Mark spent the next few hours tearing through Gotham, helping put out the fire wasn't the only thing that needed doing in this cesspool of a city. There were likely lots of other situations that needed his attention and he'd deal with them. He was hovering above a side street when he caught the first one—a mugging, a guy in a hoodie pressing a knife into some woman's back, hissing at her to shut up and hand over her bag. She was shaking, fumbling with the strap, the guy getting impatient, jerking it roughly. Mark dropped fast, boots hitting the pavement behind him before he even noticed.
The guy spun, eyes going wide. "The fuck—"
Mark grabbed the knife, crushed it in his palm, then shoved him against the wall. "Try again."
The guy struggled, then saw the way Mark wasn't even breaking a sweat, and stopped.
Mark glanced at the woman. "You good?"
She nodded, clutching her bag like it was a lifeline.
"Go home."
She didn't need to be told twice.
Mark turned back to the guy, still pinned. "Get a job." Then he slapped the guy lightly against the face knocking him out.
That was one.
Next, a car chase. Cops already behind it, sirens blaring, but they weren't keeping up. Some sedan, probably stolen, swerving through traffic, nearly hitting pedestrians. Mark caught up in less than a second, flew ahead, then stopped in the middle of the road.
The driver saw him too late. Slammed on the brakes. Tires screamed, smoke curling up, but Mark didn't move.
The car slammed into him but the metal curved inwards and the airbags activated inside the car.
The guys inside were yelling, trying to reverse.
Mark grabbed the hood with one hand and lifted. The back tires came off the ground. The driver floored it, but the car wasn't moving anymore.
Mark sighed, flipped it onto its roof, then let the cops handle it.
Another one down.
Then there was the crane.
Some construction site in Midtown, workers yelling, scrambling as the metal structure groaned, the whole thing coming down. Mark saw it before it fully tipped, moved before anyone could react, got underneath it, hands bracing as it collapsed. The weight pressed down, heavy, but nothing he couldn't handle. He pushed back, stabilizing it, letting the workers get clear, then snapped the supports back into place, twisting the bent metal into something functional again before flying off.
More.
A truck flipped on one of the bridges, people screaming, stuck in their cars, honking as fire spread from the wreck. Mark landed, ripped the driver's side door off, pulled the guy free, then did the same for the other car that had been caught in the crash. He then drew in a big breath and put out the fires again just as easily as he'd done before.
Then the hostage situation.
Some convenience store, three guys inside, ski masks, guns, clerk held at gunpoint while the others emptied the register. Cops were outside, trying to negotiate, but Mark just walked in.
The first guy saw him, raised his gun.
Mark blurred forward, crushed the gun in his grip, then backhanded him into the shelves.
The second guy turned, but Mark grabbed his face and slammed him into the counter before he could do anything.
The third guy grabbed the clerk, gun pressed to his head.
"Don't move, man! I swear, I'll—"
Mark was already in front of him, hand around the barrel. He squeezed, metal crumpling. The guy let go of the clerk.
"I'm glad you understand," mark said before flicking his forehead and launching him into the wall behind him.
The clerk stood there, breathing hard.
"You alright?" Mark asked.
He nodded, too stunned to say anything.
Mark left before the cops could get inside.
Then the firefight.
A gang shootout in the Narrows, bullets flying, people ducking for cover, some poor bastard already caught in the crossfire, bleeding out on the sidewalk. Mark hit the ground hard, the impact shaking the street. He walked forward, bullets bouncing off him, gunfire stopping as both sides realized their weapons weren't doing shit.
One guy tried to run.
Mark blurred in front of him, grabbing his rifle and snapping it in half.
"Enough." His voice cut through the street. Then in the blink of an eye he pulled their weapons from their hands—using his gravitational powers—and then easily knocked them all out before giving the police a call.
And just like that, the fighting was over.
By the time the sun started to set, he could feel the city shifting, winding down into something different. Gotham at night was another beast, something darker. He landed on top of a high-rise, watching the horizon as the last of the daylight disappeared, rolling his shoulders, stretching his fingers.
Then the headset clicked.
"I'm glad you had fun," Barbara's voice came through, dry, a little amused, "but it's time to get to work."
"About time."
(AN: Invincible has arrived and he had brought himself numerous problems by going public. Not that he knows that. But now his Dad and his he others will know. Galatea could possibly know since she dreams of Mark. But worst of all Harley knows and you can be sure she's coming for her child support. Anyway I hope you liked the chapter.)
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