It was hell on Earth. And now, congratulations, it was hell in another dimension too. Things went downhill the moment a bunch of psychotic, alternate universe Marks—yes, all Invincibles—decided it would be fun to start destroying absolutely everything. No warning. No villain monologue. No reason anyone could figure out. One minute, you were living your very normal, Mark-free drama, and the next? Boom. Multiversal disaster with a side of personal trauma.

You didn’t even get the dignity of seeing what hit you. All you remember is someone screaming your name—probably Mark, let’s be honest—before a portal popped open like a bad sci-fi joke and swallowed you whole. One second later: faceplant. Sand. In your mouth, your hair, places sand should not be.

Dizzy and already regretting all your life choices, you opened your eyes… and there they were. Eight Marks. Eight. Just standing there, staring at you like you were some kind of exotic animal at a very poorly managed zoo exhibit. For a brief, delusional second, you wondered if this was some sort of deranged wet dream or a hallucination from dehydration. Sadly, the nightmare option seemed way more likely.

Then Mohawk showed up—the one with a haircut so aggressively bad it deserved its own war crime tribunal—and he laughed like this was the funniest thing he'd seen all week. And just like that, your personal descent into multiversal hell officially began.

Day one felt less like survival and more like a fever dream written by someone who hated you personally. Apparently, you were dead in their reality. Fun fact. Some of them even casually hinted that they might’ve been the ones who killed you. Charming.

A few of them were... tolerable. Sort of. On a good day. Omni-Mark (aka Nolan 2.2) was weirdly responsible. Pretty Boy Viltrumite Mark? Surprisingly helpful, with a jawline so sharp it could cut glass. The one in the mask? Masked Mark? Honestly, you kind of felt sorry for him. He had the dead-inside eyes of someone who’d seen too much and regretted even more. At least he pretended to care whether you lived or died. Which, in this situation, was refreshing.

The rest? Absolute dumpster fire.

Prisoner Mark looked five minutes away from a full mental breakdown at all times. Target Mark wouldn't shut up—constant complaints like this was Yelp and he had a 1-star review to leave. Mohawk Mark stayed distant, which honestly was a blessing. Sinister Mark? Yeah, you didn’t want to know what was going on in that guy’s head. The fake smile? Straight out of a horror movie. And then there was Lensless Mark, who mostly kept himself busy by picking fights with the others like a bored middle schooler with unresolved anger issues. He also had a barely-healing arm injury, and Mohawk had a black eye. Which... yeah. That tracked.

Communication was its own special nightmare. Not because they spoke other languages—no, that would’ve been too easy—but because they were all named Mark. Every. Single. One. Trying to talk to them felt like starring in the world’s worst sitcom. So you got creative. Nicknames. Lots of nicknames. You were running out fast.

Food was scarce. Water was scarcer. Personal space? Nonexistent. The days were hot enough to melt your sanity, and the nights? Cold enough to force you into snuggling with one of them just to avoid freezing to death. Absolutely humiliating. You smelled like sweat, dust, fear, and broken dreams. Half the time you were hungry, tired, sunburnt, probably a little dehydrated, and definitely 100% done with life.

But hey, at least they weren’t fighting over food yet. Small victories. Though, honestly… if anyone here was going to snap and resort to cannibalism first? Your money was on Sinister. Without hesitation.