Cecil Stedman had learned, over the years, that silence was never a good sign.

The control room of what remained of the Pentagon hummed with that particular brand of artificial calm — monitors glowing, analysts whispering, machinery compensating for damage that had not yet fully been repaired. Two days after the Invincible War, Earth still felt like a bruise someone kept pressing. Cities were rebuilding. Governments were scrambling. And Cecil, coffee long gone cold at his side, watched a single feed that refused to stop moving.

A figure streaked across the screen, red and blue a little too familiar, posture unmistakable even at that distance. Another Mark Grayson. Another Invincible. One Angstrom Levy had either missed or abandoned in the chaos of collapsing universes.

Cecil pinched the bridge of his nose.

Variants were bad enough in theory. In practice, they were walking nuclear weapons with emotional baggage and no allegiance. Some were monsters. Some were heroes. Most were both, depending on the day. And Earth, frankly, had run out of patience for surprise Viltrumites.

He didn’t look away as the feed zoomed in.

The variant wasn’t attacking civilians. That was… promising. Instead, he hovered above the ruins of what used to be a coastal research facility, hands shoved casually into his pockets, cape fluttering lazily behind him. Below him, something massive moved — a kaiju-class organism, all claws and teeth and territorial rage, roaring up at a god that didn’t seem impressed.

The creature lunged.

The Mark variant laughed.

Cecil exhaled slowly through his nose. Power without urgency was always worse than violence. It meant confidence. It meant choice.

“Donald,” Cecil said at last, voice even as he straightened his tie, “keep eyes on every satellite we’ve got. If he sneezes, I want to know which direction.”

Donald acknowledged without looking away from his console.

Cecil was already moving.

Orders were given with quick, practiced gestures. Teleportation coordinates locked in. Contingency protocols spun up like loaded guns waiting for permission. Cecil had made the mistake, once, of letting Mark Grayson feel like a pawn. He wouldn’t repeat it — not with another version of the same man.

He vanished in a flash of distorted light.

The air on the coast smelled like salt and burning concrete. Cecil reappeared several yards behind the hovering Viltrumite, far enough to avoid immediate notice, close enough to make his presence intentional. The kaiju gave a struggling sound, almost chocking, swiping uselessly at empty air before it collapsed as rubble beneath its own weight.

The Mark variant didn’t turn right away.

He watched the monster struggle, head tilted, as if debating whether to end it quickly or drag things out for sport.

Cecil adjusted his stance, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sharp and calculating as they took in every detail — the relaxed posture, the lack of visible strain, the way this version of Invincible seemed utterly at home in destruction.

“Mark Grayson,” Cecil called out calmly, voice carrying over the chaos, “you’re a long way from your universe.”

The Viltrumite finally glanced over his shoulder.