The large screens lining the dimly lit control room of the Global Defence Agency flickered, casting their shifting glow onto a room filled with tense silence. Rows of analysts, each absorbed in their monitors, sifted rapidly through live footage, security feeds, and satellite imagery. Amidst this controlled chaos, Cecil Stedman stood motionless, his expression unreadable, gaze locked on the central screen displaying Stephen's brutal clash with the unidentified Viltrumite.
"Sir," an analyst finally ventured, her voice tightly controlled, "do we deploy Guardians for backup?"
Cecil didn't immediately respond, his eye narrowed slightly as Stephen's figure was punched mercilessly across the screen. A second analyst flinched involuntarily, hand trembling slightly as the boy's body crashed through buildings with catastrophic force.
"Sir?" the analyst repeated, voice edged with urgency.
Cecil raised his hand gently, silencing further questions without breaking his gaze. "Not yet."
A ripple of uncertainty passed through the room, unnoticed or ignored by Cecil. He studied Stephen, watching the boy's body hurled again and again, witnessing the raw destructive power of the Viltrumite effortlessly unleashed upon the city.
This wasn't just a fight. This was proof of their worst fears realized—an enemy they couldn't fight with their current resources. The GDA was founded precisely to handle extraordinary threats, yet this battle made it painfully clear that their capabilities were inadequate.
Stephen—just twelve years old—was demonstrating strength and resilience on a scale few heroes on Earth possessed. Yet even he was overwhelmed, tossed around like a toy by the intruder.
Cecil's stomach churned quietly, hidden beneath layers of practiced detachment. He was no stranger to loss, no stranger to impossible decisions. This boy—Nolan Grayson's second son—was strong, perhaps stronger than any projection they had. But the Viltrumite was devastatingly powerful, a deadly reminder of why they monitored Nolan so closely, why Cecil maintained a distant but watchful presence in the Grayson's' lives.
"Monitor him closely," Cecil finally ordered, voice low yet firm. "But keep all our units back. No one engages."
The analyst hesitated, biting her lip nervously. "Are you sure?"
Cecil turned slightly, eye narrowed sharply. "We send them in now, we lose Guardians. That boy is already doing more damage control than anyone we have on staff."
The analyst nodded mutely, reluctantly accepting Cecil's grim logic.
Another brutal strike lit the screen, and Cecil's jaw tightened subtly. His pulse quickened briefly as Stephen crashed toward the earth. He leaned forward, hands gripping the control panel.
"Make sure we have a team ready. Medical staff on standby, containment units prepped."
The command was quickly relayed, a wave of coordinated activity surging through the room. Still, Cecil never took his eyes from Stephen's struggle. He knew the GDA was helpless here; intervention would mean nothing except adding to the body count.
Suddenly, chaos erupted as Stephen's eyes ignited, slicing through buildings with raw, uncontrollable energy. A hushed gasp travelled through the control room. Even Cecil raised his brows slightly, something rare flickering behind his usually impassive gaze.
"What was that?" a nearby technician murmured, voice awed and terrified simultaneously.
Cecil shook his head slowly, eyes narrowing further as the Viltrumite barely dodged a second blazing attack, losing a hand completely. "Something new," he muttered quietly, studying the boy intently. He'd watched Mark's development closely—Stephen was something else entirely.
When the Viltrumite retreated, the analysts collectively exhaled, relief palpable in the room. But Cecil's tension only increased. They hadn't won; they'd survived. And survival was only the beginning of their problems.
"Lock onto his position immediately," Cecil instructed sharply. "I want full visual contact—find him now."
_ _ ♛ _ _
Across town, Mark sat hunched over his school desk, the drone of his teacher's voice fading into background static. He stared blankly at his notes, mind drifting uneasily. Stephen hadn't come home last night, and while their mother reassured him Stephen was fine, Mark couldn't shake the tight knot of worry gnawing at his chest.
He jolted from his thoughts when William urgently nudged him, pushing his phone beneath Mark's nose. "Dude, you need to see this—now."
Confused, Mark glanced down, breath hitching violently as the footage played. It was shaky and distant, clearly captured from a news helicopter, but there was no mistaking the figure hurtling brutally through the air.
No mistaking his little brother.
Mark's breath caught painfully, his heart hammering. The image wobbled as Stephen was slammed through skyscrapers, a scarlet streak of destruction trailing him. William stared wide-eyed, horrified yet oblivious to the boy's identity.
"That's messed up, right?" William whispered, unable to tear his eyes away. "Can you imagine anyone our age being involved in that?"
Mark swallowed thickly, jaw clenched. "No," he lied quietly, standing abruptly. "Look, I gotta go."
William started, bewildered. "What, now? Class isn't over yet."
Mark didn't wait for a response, already moving toward the exit, heart racing violently, thoughts whirling desperately. Stephen was powerful, but he was just a kid. That footage made it clear he'd been badly hurt—possibly worse.
Rushing outside, Mark glanced around hurriedly before soaring skyward, slipping into his suit as he ascended rapidly. Anxiety twisted sharply in his gut. He had to get to Stephen first. The GDA would undoubtedly be moving in; if they found him first, who knew what they'd do? Their intentions toward his family had always felt murky, unpredictable.
Mark sped through the sky, pushing himself harder than ever. His senses strained desperately, scanning for signs of destruction or the residual energy he knew his brother would emit. The city stretched chaotically below, damaged buildings and rising smoke guiding him toward Stephen's last known position.
His heart hammered painfully as he landed at ground zero—rubble and devastation everywhere. He shouted his brother's name, voice echoing off the shattered buildings.
"Stephen!"
Nothing. Frantic, he moved debris aside, searching desperately, panic surging through every nerve. His brother could be anywhere beneath this destruction, hurt, possibly dying—
A sudden sound drew his attention sharply to the left—a weak groan from beneath collapsed concrete slabs. Mark's pulse surged, relief nearly knocking him to his knees. He rushed forward, strength surging as he tore through rubble effortlessly, tossing massive chunks aside with feverish urgency.
"Stephen, hang on!" he shouted desperately, his heart pounding wildly.
A flash of dark hair, pale skin—Mark exhaled sharply, grabbing hold and carefully pulling the figure free. "I got you! You're gonna be alright, just hold on—"
He froze abruptly, staring down in confusion. Instead of Stephen's familiar face, a dazed civilian boy, bloodied and barely conscious, stared weakly back at him, blinking slowly in confusion.
Mark's throat tightened painfully, shock rippling through him. This wasn't Stephen.
Fear returned full force, chilling him to the bone.
Stephen was still missing.
Mark gently lowered the injured boy onto a safe patch of ground, fighting to steady his trembling hands. "Hang tight," he whispered shakily, barely registering the distant wail of emergency vehicles approaching. The boy's confused eyes stared up at him, searching for answers Mark didn't have. "Paramedics are coming," Mark reassured softly. "You'll be okay."
He straightened, scanning desperately across the ruined landscape, heart hammering painfully against his ribs. Buildings lay shattered, concrete split like broken bones, twisted metal and shattered glass glinting ominously beneath the thick haze of smoke and dust.
"Stephen!" he yelled again, voice raw with desperation. The echo bounced back at him, hollow and mocking, amplified by the sheer emptiness of destruction.
Nothing.
His pulse spiked again, mind racing wildly. He had to keep moving—Stephen had to be somewhere. Mark surged into the sky, hovering high above the chaos, desperately scanning the devastation for signs of life, movement, anything. He strained every sense, vision sharpening, gaze sweeping carefully over every ruin, every shadowed alley, and overturned vehicle.
Below, the emergency crews began to flood the area, a mass of flashing lights, blaring sirens, and urgent voices. It only deepened his fear. If the authorities reached Stephen first, especially if it was the GDA—his stomach churned at the thought.
"Come on, Stephen," Mark whispered harshly, anxiety clawing violently at his chest. "Where are you?"
_ _ ♛ _ _
Far away, yet simultaneously close, Cecil stood in the centre of the control room, watching the same scene unfold through an array of camera feeds. The meticulous choreography of the GDA's response had already begun. Specialized drones hovered silently through the skies, tracking Mark's every frantic movement with cool precision.
Cecil's face remained unreadable, though tension tightened the muscles around his remaining eye. "Where is the boy?" he asked, voice dangerously quiet.
"Coordinates locked, sir," one technician replied crisply, adjusting his headset, "near ground zero, sector four. Thermal imaging confirms heavy injuries, but he's stabilizing rapidly."
Cecil nodded slowly, absorbing this information. Rapid healing, accelerated recovery—the boy's physiology surpassed their expectations significantly. A quiet unease stirred within him. Stephen wasn't just Nolan Grayson's child—he was something different, potentially more dangerous.
But dangerous or not, he was invaluable. Cecil knew Stephen's presence might offer a chance, however slight, to protect Earth from the inevitable confrontation with Viltrum. If Stephen could be studied, understood, perhaps even guided—
His attention snapped back sharply as Mark tore through another collapsed building on the screen, the young hero's frustration palpable even through grainy imagery. Mark would find him eventually, and that wasn't ideal. The GDA needed Stephen first.
"Send recovery now," Cecil ordered firmly. "Make sure we get him before Invincible does."
Agents swiftly moved to execute his command, coordination flawless. Cecil observed silently, his mind calculating scenarios with practiced detachment. Mark's emotional turmoil would make him unpredictable. Cecil couldn't afford an emotional young hero complicating the operation—not when Earth's future might hinge on this very moment.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Mark's search grew frantic, desperation bleeding into every movement. His breathing was erratic, heart pounding violently as hope dwindled rapidly. Then he felt something—an inexplicable tug, like instinct, pulling him toward a partially collapsed parking structure.
He raced toward it, heart leaping. Landing heavily, he tore through the wreckage without hesitation, metal screeching in protest beneath his strength.
There—beneath cracked asphalt and debris—was a faint outline, small and motionless.
Mark's breath hitched sharply. "Stephen!" His voice cracked, barely audible even to himself, as he tore desperately through rubble, each piece heavier and more oppressive than the last.
Finally, a dark-haired figure came into clearer view beneath a broken concrete slab. Relief flooded Mark, nearly overwhelming him. He pulled debris away quickly, carefully uncovering the figure beneath, heart hammering violently in his chest.
"It's okay," he murmured shakily, gently lifting the unconscious figure. "I'm here now. You're safe—"
He stopped abruptly, eyes widening in disbelief and mounting dread.
It was a teenage girl, wearing a torn, dust-covered hoodie, her face bruised but still breathing steadily, clearly not Stephen. Mark's heart plummeted, panic surging again like a tidal wave. He set her down gently, eyes wild, heart shattering. How many more mistakes would he make before it was too late?
As he stood helplessly, fists clenched in frustration, his communicator crackled urgently.
"Mark!" Debbie's voice was frantic, breaking with barely controlled panic. "Did you find him? Did you find your brother?"
Mark swallowed hard, choking on his response. "No. Not yet. I thought I did, but—"
She exhaled shakily, clearly fighting tears. "Please, keep looking. Bring him home."
Mark shut his eyes briefly, her desperation cutting through him. "I will, Mom," he promised, voice thick with raw determination. "I swear."
Ending the call, Mark hovered briefly, looking down at the chaotic streets below. He drew a steadying breath, fighting despair. Stephen was strong. He had to believe that, had to trust that his brother could endure long enough for him to reach him.
"I'll find you," he whispered fiercely, determination steeling his voice once more. "Just hold on."
_ _ ♛ _ _
Across the devastated sector, hidden from Mark's frantic search, unmarked vehicles quietly manoeuvred. through the chaos, swiftly converging upon a specific location. Cecil's recovery team moved with quiet efficiency, blending seamlessly amidst emergency responders, indistinguishable from any other first responder rushing toward the injured.
Inside the control room, Cecil watched intently. A technician turned, eyes brightening behind her headset. "Sir, extraction team is in position."
Cecil gave a slight nod, tension easing slightly. "Proceed."
The agents worked quickly, their movements precise, practiced. Within seconds, the unconscious figure was carefully loaded onto a stretcher and placed discreetly into the rear of an unmarked transport, doors sealing soundlessly behind them.
"Extraction successful," the technician reported crisply.
Cecil exhaled slowly, gaze unwavering from the monitors. "Good. Keep him stable. Get him back here immediately."
As the vehicles discreetly departed, blending seamlessly into traffic, Cecil allowed himself a brief moment of relief. They had the boy. The situation was still salvageable.
But even Cecil felt the quiet, creeping shadow of unease as he considered their actions. Stephen's capabilities, his parentage—everything about him was a potential threat or an irreplaceable asset. Cecil knew that he walked a precarious line here. One wrong step and Earth might lose its greatest potential defender—or gain its greatest enemy.
Either way, he thought grimly, watching Mark frantically searching streets away, everything had just become infinitely more complicated.
End of Chapter 32