A/N:
Honestly, I wasn't too happy with how the last chapter turned out—I struggled to find a good way to start the story. I don't think I did a great job of showing Mark's personality or character. That said, I feel a lot better about this chapter. I think it flows more naturally, and I had a much easier time capturing Mark's voice. Let me know if it comes across better here. That's all from me—hope you enjoy the chapter!
Mark's eyes snapped open at 4:59 AM, a minute before his alarm would have buzzed. He blinked once, then rolled to his feet with the fluid grace of muscle memory, his body moving with the precise control that came from thousands of identical mornings. The room held shadows in its corners, but his fingers found his tablet without searching, navigating the familiar path through darkness. Blue light washed across his face as he pulled up yesterday's training data, casting harsh shadows that emphasized the sharp angles of his features.
The numbers told their own story, a clinical record of his relentless pursuit of perfection. Heart rate peaks, recovery windows, force calculations - each metric pristine in its documentation, each data point a testament to his dedication. His thumb paused on the final entry: "Tired. Pushed past failure. Vomited. 9/10." A short laugh escaped him, barely more than a breath in the pre-dawn quiet. The rating system had started as a joke, something to make the brutal sessions feel less mechanical, but now it felt like a challenge. What would deserve a perfect score? The question nagged at him, an itch he couldn't quite scratch.
Morning light crept through the blinds as he stretched, each movement precise and measured, his muscles responding with the easy power of a predator awakening. His shoulder popped - an old injury that never quite healed right, a reminder of limits he refused to accept. The sound echoed in the quiet room, bouncing off walls that had evolved from stark utility into something more complex. Combat manuals still dominated the bookshelf, their spines cracked and worn from constant reference, but between them sat a framed photo of his mother smiling at the camera, her warmth incongruous among the texts on violence.
Mark moved through his morning routine with predatory grace, every gesture honed by years of practice until they became something beyond mere habit - a meditation in motion. But his eyes caught the photo again, lingering for a breath longer than necessary, drawn to that captured moment of purely human connection. The room, like him, straddled two worlds - the stark discipline of his Viltrumite heritage and these small, human touches that had crept in despite his best efforts, each one a crack in his carefully constructed armor.
The sunrise painted orange-pink stripes across his floor, the light catching dust motes that danced in the air. Mark stood in its light, feeling the familiar pull of morning training even as the photo of his mother watched from its shelf, a silent witness to the daily war between what he was born to be and what he might choose to become.
* * *
Dew clung to the grass as Mark stepped into the backyard, his bare feet finding purchase on the cool earth. He stripped off his shirt, letting the morning air bite at his skin, raising goosebumps across his shoulders and chest. The routine lived in his muscles - each movement a note in a symphony he'd rehearsed thousands of times, as familiar as breathing.
His body coiled, then exploded into motion. Box jumps onto concrete blocks, each landing silent despite his size, the impact absorbed through years of practice. Burpees flowed into sprawls, sprawls into shooting takedowns against an invisible opponent, his form perfect even without resistance. No wasted movement, no flash, just the raw mechanics of violence distilled through years of relentless practice and refinement.
The hair on his neck prickled. He didn't need to turn to know his father watched from the doorway, coffee mug in hand, analyzing every micro-adjustment. The weight of that gaze pressed against his back, measuring every rep, every transition, every breath like a silent critique. Mark drove himself harder, pushing through a sequence of wrestling drills that left deep furrows in the grass, each movement executed with machine-like precision. His chest heaved, but he kept his face blank, neutral. Emotion was inefficient, a lesson learned early and often.
Sweat traced lines down his torso as he moved through combat forms, each position honed by countless corrections. Each strike cut the air with surgical precision, each block positioned to shatter bone and disable joints. The morning sun caught the sheen on his shoulders, highlighting years of conditioning carved into muscle, scars both old and new telling their own story of dedication. Still, he felt those eyes. Always watching, always evaluating, always expecting more.
The presence at the door was as much a part of his training as the drills themselves, an invisible weight he carried through every session. Mark had learned to embrace it, to let that silent pressure forge him into something harder, something worthy of the legacy he carried in his blood. His fists blurred through combinations, each impact throwing drops of sweat from his knuckles like rain. The grass beneath his feet had worn away months ago, leaving a patch of earth as hard as his resolve, a testament to countless mornings just like this one.
The morning sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the yard. Mark's muscles burned with a familiar ache as he transitioned into his cool-down sequence. Each movement remained precise despite the fatigue that crept through his limbs. His breath steadied, heart rate dropping with practiced control.
The door creaked. His father's presence vanished, leaving only empty space and expectations in his wake. Mark collected his shirt from the ground, using it to wipe the sweat from his face. The fabric came away damp, marked with the morning's effort.
The kitchen window glowed warm yellow, the sound of cabinets opening and closing drifting out into the yard. His mother's shadow moved behind the curtains, starting her own morning routine. Mark rolled his shoulders, working out the last knots of tension. The grass had left green stains on his feet, marking where he'd carved his daily dedication into the earth.
He crossed the yard in measured steps, each footfall deliberately placed, a habit ingrained from years of training that made even simple movements an exercise in control. Cool air from the house washed over his skin as he stepped inside, carrying the scent of coffee and the promise of breakfast. The contrast between the crisp indoor air and the lingering heat of exertion made his muscles tighten reflexively, a reminder of the morning's work still written in sweat and soreness.
Mark reached for the cabinet, grabbing plates while his mother whisked eggs in a steel bowl. Her spatula scraped against ceramic in a familiar rhythm.
"Up before the roosters again?" Debbie's eyes crinkled at the corners. "One of these days you'll sleep past five."
"Sleep is inefficient." The corner of Mark's mouth twitched. "Besides, roosters are notoriously undisciplined."
"Says the boy who used to beg for five more minutes." She poured the eggs into a heated pan. "Remember that?"
Mark's shoulders loosened a fraction. "Vaguely. Around the same time I thought chocolate milk came from brown cows."
"Those were the days." Debbie bumped his arm with her hip as she reached for salt. "Speaking of which, how's that project group coming along? The one for chemistry?"
Mark focused on arranging the plates with military precision. "Fine. We meet during lunch periods. Taylor handles the slides, I do the calculations. Efficient."
"And outside of work? Do you ever..."
"Mom."
"I'm just saying, you could grab coffee with them sometime. Being efficient doesn't mean being alone."
Mark's hands stilled on the counter. The morning light caught his profile, softening the hard lines for just a moment. "We... talked. After the project meeting. About martial arts, actually. Taylor does Judo."
Debbie kept her eyes on the eggs, giving him space. "Oh?"
"She asked about my training. Showed me some throws." His voice dropped slightly. "It was... not terrible."
The kitchen fell quiet except for the soft sizzle of breakfast cooking. Debbie slid the eggs onto their plates, her movements careful, measured, as if handling something fragile.
"That's good, Mark. That's really good."
He nodded once, sharp and quick, but his expression had shifted - less granite, more flesh and blood. The moment hung between them, delicate as spun glass, before he reached for the silverware drawer.
Mark caught a glimpse of his reflection in the kitchen window—a boy molded in the image of a hero, yet still carrying the shadows of uncertainty. As he set the plates on the table, the faintest hint of a smile played on his lips, warmed by the simple connection to his mother.
"Thanks, Mom," he said, breaking the brief silence, his tone lighter. "For the eggs."
Debbie smiled back, her eyes shimmering with understanding. "Always." She leaned against the counter, watching him.
Mark took a seat, the chair creaking beneath him. He took a deep breath, the aromas of breakfast weaving together with the remnants of his morning training. It felt almost comforting, grounding him amidst the chaos of his aspirations.
Yet, the weight of unspoken expectations loomed large. He pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on the present, on these quiet moments.
As they shared breakfast, laughter intertwined with fragile silence, Mark felt the tension in his chest ease, albeit momentarily. With every bite, he fortified himself for the day ahead—a day that would demand more than just physical prowess. As they finished their meal, the shadow of his father's presence lingered, a reminder of the legacy he was still learning to embrace, not just follow.
With plates cleared, Mark stood, feeling the warmth of the kitchen dissolve into the cool air of his purpose. He gathered his things, thoughts racing ahead to the day's training, to the battles he had yet to face.
As he headed for the door, he turned back, locking eyes with his mother. "I'll check in later," he promised.
"Just be you, Mark," Debbie replied softly, her voice filled with hope.
With that, he stepped outside, the air heavy with potential. Behind him, the comforts of home faded, replaced by the relentless rhythm of his journey—a journey complicated by legacy, choices, and the burgeoning man within.
* * *
Mark's footsteps fell in perfect rhythm against the cracked sidewalk, each stride measured and purposeful. The weight of his backpack pressed against his shoulder, loaded with textbooks and training logs that formed the scaffold of his daily routine.
A group of kids burst past him, their laughter piercing the morning air as they chased each other with the careless abandon of youth. Mark's jaw tightened, his focus unwavering as he navigated around them without breaking stride.
One of the neighbors watered her roses across the street, lifting her hand in a familiar greeting. Mark returned a slight nod, his eyes already shifting back to scan the path ahead. The gesture was automatic, efficient – like everything else.
The neighborhood pulsed with morning activity. Bikes clattered over uneven pavement, car doors slammed, and snippets of conversation drifted through the air. A basketball bounced against concrete, its hollow echo mixing with distant skateboard wheels.
Mark's shoulders remained squared, carrying an invisible weight that set him apart from the casual chaos around him. Each step brought him closer to school, his mind already cycling through the day's objectives – training sequences, study blocks, combat drills. The morning sun cast his shadow long across the sidewalk, a solitary figure moving through a world that seemed to operate at a different frequency.
A pair of students passed on bikes, their backpacks swaying as they weaved between parked cars. One called out a greeting that dissolved in the morning air. Mark acknowledged it with the barest tilt of his head, maintaining his steady pace forward.
The distance between him and the others wasn't physical – it was a barrier built from years of discipline, reinforced by the weight of expectation. He moved through their world like a stone cutting through water, creating ripples but never truly joining the flow.
The school's brick facade loomed ahead, and Mark's pace didn't falter as he climbed the worn concrete steps. His shoes hit each one with military precision, the rhythm unbroken as he pushed through the heavy metal doors. The weight of them yielded to his strength without resistance, a minor calculation his body made automatically.
The hallway churned with pre-class chaos. Bodies pressed against lockers, backpacks swung in careless arcs, and conversations overlapped in a wall of sound. Mark cut through it all like a knife, his presence creating a subtle parting in the crowd. He didn't command attention deliberately—it was simply the natural consequence of how he carried himself, shoulders squared and gaze fixed forward with unnerving focus.
A cluster of students broke apart as he approached, their chatter dying mid-sentence. Eyes tracked his movement before sliding away, unable to hold his gaze. The whispers followed:
"That's Mark Grayson—"
"—never seen him actually talk to anyone—"
"—trains like crazy, I heard—"
He navigated the corridor with fluid efficiency, each step calculated to minimize contact. No unnecessary movements, no social detours. The path to his locker might as well have been marked in tape. He registered the positioning of every person within a ten-foot radius, unconsciously plotting trajectories to avoid collision, a habit born from years of sparring.
Two girls leaned against his locker, deep in conversation. They registered his approach and scattered without a word, their half-finished discussion trailing behind them. Mark worked his combination lock, the metallic clicks sharp against the background noise. His fingers moved with practiced economy, muscle memory executing the sequence without conscious thought.
"Hey Mark." Todd from his physics class lifted a hand in greeting as he passed, a tentative smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Mark's chin dipped in acknowledgment, but his hands never stopped moving, exchanging books with mechanical efficiency. For a fraction of a second, he considered a verbal response, then dismissed it as unnecessary. The locker door shut with a clean snap, and he was moving again, leaving Todd's uncertain smile in his wake.
The sea of students ebbed and flowed around him, but never quite touched him. He existed in his own pocket of space, like a stone in a river – visible to all, but forever separate from the current. Sometimes, in moments like this, he wondered if the isolation was entirely of his own making.
Mark rounded the corner toward his first class when he felt a sudden weight drop onto his shoulder.
"Look who it is—talkative as ever." William fell into step beside him, completely unbothered by Mark's lack of response. "You know, normal people say 'good morning' or 'hey' or literally anything involving actual words."
Mark shifted his backpack. "Morning."
"He speaks! Alert the media." William's grin widened as he matched Mark's stride. "Did you do the physics homework? Because I'm pretty sure Hiles is going to collect it, and I'm also pretty sure I did half of it wrong."
"Yes." Mark glanced sideways at William's expectant face. "You want my answers."
"Not want. Need. There's a difference. Want implies desire. Need implies desperation and the possibility of academic failure."
The corner of Mark's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but the closest thing to it he'd shown all morning. He reached into his bag and pulled out a neatly organized folder, extracting a sheet of paper without breaking stride.
"You're going to fail the test if you don't understand the material."
William snatched the paper with theatrical gratitude. "Bold of you to assume I'm not already planning to fail spectacularly. Some of us embrace mediocrity as a lifestyle choice." He scanned the answers, whistling. "Damn, Grayson. You even wrote out the formulas. This is why you're my favorite robot."
"I'm not a robot."
"Evidence suggests otherwise. When's the last time you did something completely pointless and fun?"
Mark's eyebrows drew together. "Fun is inefficient."
"And there it is! Exhibit A in the case for Mark Grayson: Secret Android." William laughed, completely unfazed by Mark's stoicism. "One day I'm going to find your off switch, and then we'll see who's inefficient."
For a brief moment, the mask slipped, and something almost like amusement flickered across Mark's face. William was the only person who spoke to him like this—like he was just another guy, not some training-obsessed anomaly. There was something refreshing about it, even if Mark would never admit it aloud.
The last bell rang, its shrill tone echoing through the hallway as classroom doors burst open. Mark moved against the current, his steps deliberate as students flooded around him in chaotic waves. He kept to the wall, avoiding unnecessary contact as backpacks swung and bodies jostled for position.
He spotted them before he heard them—Todd's broad shoulders pinning someone against the lockers. Mark's eyes narrowed, focusing on the scene unfolding halfway down the corridor. Todd leaned forward, one arm braced against the metal, effectively trapping Amber Bennett in the small space between.
"Come on, one date. What's the problem?" Todd's voice carried down the hall, edged with frustration.
"I already said no. Move." Amber's response was firm, but Mark caught the tension in her shoulders.
Todd's hand moved toward Amber's arm. "Don't be like that—"
Mark closed the distance in seconds, his training translating into fluid movement through the crowded hallway. He reached them just as Todd's hand pressed against the locker, attempting to block Amber's exit.
Without hesitation, Mark caught Todd's wrist mid-motion. His grip was precise—not crushing, but unmistakably solid. Todd's head whipped around, confusion giving way to shock as he registered who had stopped him.
"What the—" Todd tried to pull away, but Mark's hold remained steady.
Mark applied the slightest increase in pressure, just enough to make Todd's eyes widen. "She said no." His voice was quiet, almost conversational, but carried an undercurrent of absolute certainty.
Todd's face flushed red. "This isn't your business, Grayson."
"It is now." Mark maintained eye contact, his expression neutral. "Walk away."
Something in Mark's calm demeanor seemed to unnerve Todd more than any show of aggression would have. He glanced down at his captured wrist, then back at Mark's impassive face.
Mark released his grip, and Todd pulled his arm back, rubbing his wrist. For a moment, it looked like he might say something else, but the cold assessment in Mark's eyes made him reconsider. Todd backed away, trying to salvage his dignity with a dismissive shrug before disappearing into the crowd.
"Thanks." Amber straightened her jacket, studying Mark with newfound interest. "You didn't have to do that."
Mark shifted his backpack strap, already preparing to move on. "It wasn't a problem."
"Still. I appreciate it." She offered a small smile that Mark wasn't quite sure how to respond to.
He nodded once, awkward in the face of her gratitude. "He shouldn't bother you again."
William appeared at Mark's side, seemingly materializing from the crowd. He glanced between Mark and Amber with undisguised curiosity.
"Guess chivalry's not dead—it's just built like a linebacker," William quipped, nudging Mark with his elbow.
Mark watched Amber and William disappear down the hall, their voices fading into the general chaos of passing period. His hand flexed, remembering the precise pressure he'd applied to Todd's wrist. The movement had been automatic, clean—like throwing a punch or blocking a strike.
Students flowed around him as he cut through the corridor, but the usual barrier felt different. Less rigid. The interaction with Todd hadn't followed his normal protocol of minimal engagement. He'd acted on instinct, stepping into a situation that offered no tactical advantage.
His father's voice echoed in his head: "Focus on the mission. Everything else is a distraction." But stopping Todd hadn't felt like a distraction. It had felt… right.
Mark left the school behind, pushing through the double doors and into the afternoon sun. His shoes hit the concrete in measured steps, but the rhythm wasn't as rigid as it had been that morning. The Viltrumite Codex rested in his bag, the weight of its doctrine constant—but today, it felt just a little lighter. He knew that was impossible. But he felt it all the same.
A car horn blared somewhere in the distance. Children shouted on a playground. Mark registered the sounds, catalogued them as non-threats like always—but this time, he actually heard them. The laughter didn't pierce his concentration the way it usually did.
He turned down the street, where the neat sidewalks of the school zone gave way to cracked pavement and rusting fences. Ahead stood the gym—a weathered brick building with frosted windows and a sagging awning. The scent of chalk and sweat reached him before he even stepped inside.
His hand adjusted the strap on his shoulder out of habit. His posture remained precise, his steps purposeful. But something in him had shifted. The pressure to be perfect, to embody Viltrumite discipline with every breath—it hadn't vanished, but it had eased. Just enough to notice.
Mark reached for the heavy door, his muscles already anticipating the resistance. The hinges creaked their usual greeting. Inside, the rhythmic thud of fists on bags and the clatter of weights pulled at him like gravity.
He stepped through the doorway—returning to his routine, yes. But this time, his shoulders carried just a fraction less tension.