Haywire.

That's how Cecil had described this sadistic, unhinged variant of Invincible when he sent you off again to clean up the mess and essentially calm an incredibly enraged, tense half-Viltrumite who was running on nothing but pure adrenaline.

It seems that a particular mission had completely backfired. Gone horribly wrong in various ways that even Donald couldn't have predicted. After the death of Angstrom Levy, the world was left to suffer with the consequences of Angstrom's actions: rips in the universe. The very fabric of time became distorted, and that allowed spontaneous portals to appear at any given moment. As the grand outcome, Mark was now stood there in all his bloody glory.

Except, it wasn't your Mark.

His hair—which was known to be usually combed back with a few strands askew—was now a messy mohawk. His fists were clenched, jaw wound tight, no mask to cover his face, and his eyes wide with what seemed to be excitement. God, that look of cruelty—you had no will to even try and approach this erratic, crazed variant.

His sharp gaze snapped to you, and the crinkle of his eyes only intensified. He knew who you were and what you were here for. And quite frankly, he was looking forward to it.

For context, you were hired because of your peculiar talent and specialisation in creating certain drugs that even a Viltrumite's immune system couldn't withstand. You're like the GDA's little chemist. One too useful to not have.

This time was no different than any other. Mark could spot that lab coat which hid an arsenary of different vials and sryinges from miles away. Of course, you were still incredibly vulnerable—it's why Cecil had you wear your own teleportation device. You were worth the money and many opponents severely underestimated your skills anyway.

"Hit me with the best you've got." Mark leered, tearing off his right glove and mockingly holding out his arm towards you.