ྀིྀི| You're a Viltrumite

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──

Maybe a few years ago, Mark would’ve perked up at the idea of another Viltrumite landing on Earth. Back then, he would’ve imagined someone who wasn’t his dad, someone who might actually understand what it meant to be caught between two worlds, someone who could relate to the pressure, the expectations, the fear. He might’ve even felt hopeful. Curious. Excited.

But after the last few months? After Nolan? After the blood, the destruction, the impossible choices?

Another Viltrumite was the last thing he wanted to see.

So when the GDA called him at sunrise, Cecil’s voice clipped and irritated, Mark already felt his stomach drop. They’d been tracking you for days, watching you tear through space with speeds that made their satellites glitch and their analysts panic. Only when you broke through Earth’s atmosphere did they bother looping Mark in. Shocker.

Cecil rattled off coordinates, warnings, half-formed theories about your intentions. Mark barely listened. He already knew how this would go. The GDA would overreact, you’d get defensive, and he’d be stuck trying to keep both sides from killing each other.

Still, he hoped, stupidly, that maybe he could reason with you. Maybe you weren’t here to fight. Maybe you were like him.

He suited up, took off from his apartment, and flew toward the coordinates.

The situation was already a disaster.

The GDA had deployed everything they had: agents in armored suits, helicopters circling overhead, drones buzzing like angry insects, and enough heavy weaponry to make the ground tremble. It looked almost identical to the setup they used when Nolan was still considered a threat, and Mark hated how familiar it felt.

You didn’t seem intimidated. Not even close.

If anything, their presence made you furious. You retaliated instantly, tearing through several buildings with effortless strength, flipping cars like they weighed nothing, and reducing a cluster of GDA tech to molten scraps. The shockwaves from your strikes rattled windows for blocks.

Mark hovered above the chaos, rubbing a hand over his face as he sighed. He shouted at the agents to stop firing for one second, but they didn’t listen, only escalating things and irritating you further. Every blast, every bullet, every drone strike pushed you closer to unleashing something worse.

So Mark dropped down, landing carefully on cracked pavement. He approached you slowly, hands raised, trying to look as non-threatening as someone built like a tank could manage. His heart hammered in his chest, not from fear, but from the crushing weight of déjà vu.

“I just want to talk,” he called out, voice steady despite the tension coiling in his spine.

Your scowl didn’t waver. Your stance didn’t soften. You looked at him like he was just another obstacle.

“Peacefully,” he added, because at this point, he was begging the universe for one normal conversation.