Life Can Change || DC x Invincible Fic

Mark looked up at the sun, squinting slightly as he took a small break from moving the rest of Kara and Raven's belongings into their new house. Kori would be joining them later, once Kara had given birth. The Kent farm was a nice spot, hot under the summer sun but cooled by a gentle breeze, with vast stretches of beautiful land surrounding it. Their new home was situated about a hundred meters from the main house, though tit wasn't their original home that they had first built. Kara had decided it would be better to build anew, a house that would both blend with the farm's aesthetic and offer more rooms for their growing family. Mark had given her the go-ahead with a shrug and a smile.

The worker bots were nothing short of miraculous. Mark had witnessed their efficiency before, but seeing them construct a fully functional home in less than a day was truly astonishing. It made him ponder about the broader universe; if Kryptonians could achieve such feats, what wonders might other species out there be capable of? His thoughts drifted to the Viltrum Empire - what kind of technology and power did they wield? These thoughts swirled in his head like a cosmic storm until a familiar voice pulled him back to earth.

"Mark."

Turning around, he saw Kara descending the steps of their new home, a glass of fresh lemonade in her hand. Her smile was as radiant as the sun above. "Have this, it hits the spot on days like this," she offered, extending the glass towards him.

"I don't get hot that easy, you know," he replied with a grin, his tone teasing.

"I'm sure I can rectify that," she responded with a playful glint in her eye. She stepped closer, pressing the cool glass into his hand before leaning up to kiss him. It wasn't just a kiss; it was an invasion, her tongue seeking his as it twirled in his mouth. She pulled him close, her body flush against his, the kiss deepening, turning from playful to passionate in an instant. Mark felt the warmth spreading through him, not just from the day's heat but from the fire of Kara's kiss. She pulled back with a mischievous smile, leaving him momentarily breathless.

"See? Now you're hot," she teased.

Mark chuckled, his hand playing with a loose strand of her hair. "You've got a point there," he admitted. The breeze picked up, cooling the flush on his skin. He glanced around at the completed house, and then back to Kara. "This place is going to be something special," he said. Kara nodded, her gaze following his. "It's already special," she replied, her hand finding his, squeezing it gently. "Because we're here, together."

Coming out a moment later was Raven, holding Waylon in her arms, rocking him gently. Mark smiled at her, wrapping his arm around her waist. "How do you like the house?"

"It is nice, but nothing will replace the home we had," Raven said wistfully, leaning into him.

Mark hummed in agreement. "It would've been nice if we could've gone back there."

Kara, sensing the mood, leaned into his other side, hugging him. "I wish I could've seen it. Bayview sounded beautiful."

"It was," Mark and Raven said at the same time. The silence that followed was thick with the unspoken sorrow of Bayview's destruction. They stood there, wrapped in each other's company, enjoying the gentle breeze, until Mark's phone rang.

He untangled himself from both women and pulled out his phone, glancing at the caller ID.

*Mom*

He hadn't visited his mother since returning from the Void. The last visit was vivid—his mother's tears of relief, the slap of admonishment, followed by a tight, loving embrace. She made him promise never to leave again. She took to Waylon like a duck to water, refusing to let anyone else hold him, her face lighting up. It was clear she loved her grandson. She also adored Raven, accepting her into the family, though she hadn't spared Mark a playful slap when she learned of his complicated relationship status—unintentionally marrying another woman while his girlfriend was pregnant.

Mark answered the call, the smile on his face genuine but tinged with complexity. "Hey, Mom," he said, stepping away slightly, but his eyes stayed connected with Raven and Kara.

"Mark, when am I going to see you? It's been too long," his mom's voice came through the phone.

"I was actually planning to come by," Mark said, "I need to head into the city to pick up some stuff for the house."

"Oh, wonderful! Are Kara, Raven, and my little grandson coming too?"

"Nah, they need their rest. They'll be staying with Mr. and Mrs. Kent for dinner tonight," he explained.

His mom sighed, "I suppose. But make sure you bring pictures of Waylon."

"I will, Mom. He's getting bigger every day."

They chatted for a few more minutes about mundane things. His mom mentioned she'd started a new gardening project, and Mark promised to help when he visited.

"Mark, you know I love you, right?" Her voice softened.

"Yeah, Mom, I love you too," he replied, feeling the warmth of her love through the miles.

"Okay, I'll let you go. Say hello to everyone for me. Goodbye, son."

"Will do. Goodbye, Mom," Mark said, ending the call. He looked back at Kara and Raven, who were now watching him, their expressions curious.

"She wants to see us," he informed them, "but I told her you guys need a break."

Kara nodded, "It'll be nice for you to have some time with her. Plus, we'll enjoy a quiet dinner with the Kents."

Raven smiled, "Give her our love."

"I will," Mark assured them, slipping his phone back into his pocket. Giving both of them a kiss on the lips he then kissed Waylon on his head before shooting off into the sky and heading to Gotham.

...

It didn't take long for Mark to arrive, but as soon as his boots hit the grimy pavement, he was reminded of why he hated this city. The air was thick with the stench of gasoline and rotting garbage, mingled with the faint metallic tang of blood. Gotham never changed. Its streets were alive with the sounds of sirens and gunshots, its alleyways teeming with opportunistic predators. He hadn't even been there five minutes before someone decided to test their luck. A wiry man with sunken eyes and a greasy beanie stepped out from the shadows of an alleyway, clutching a small knife that gleamed faintly under the dim streetlight.

"Hey, big guy," the man said, his voice dripping with false bravado. He twirled the knife like it was an extension of his arm. "Wallet, phone, whatever you got. Hand it over nice and easy, and maybe you get to keep breathing."

Mark raised an eyebrow, his towering frame illuminated briefly as he stepped under a flickering neon sign. He had seen this type a thousand times before—desperate, stupid, and completely oblivious to the fact that he was picking a fight he couldn't possibly win. Mark let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Listen, man," Mark said, his voice calm and low, like he was addressing an unruly child. "Just walk away. I'm having a decent day so far, and I'd like to keep it that way. No need for anyone to get hurt."

The man chuckled nervously, clearly mistaking Mark's relaxed demeanor for weakness. "Oh, I'll be the one hurtin' you if you don't cough up what I asked for," he snarled, lunging forward with the knife in a poorly executed attack.

Mark didn't flinch. His reflexes kicked in before the man's blade even came close. He drew his hand back and delivered a casual slap to the man's face. It wasn't even close to a full-strength hit—just enough to send the mugger flying backward like a ragdoll. The man's body slammed into the alley wall with a dull thud, leaving a crack in the brick and a smear of blood where his head had connected.

For a moment, Mark stood there, frowning. 'Did I overdo it?' He wasn't exactly gentle, but it wasn't meant to be fatal. He watched as the man groaned and stirred, his movements sluggish but alive. Blood dripped from his nose as he clawed at the ground, trying to get his feet under him. "Next time, bring a gun," Mark shouted as the mugger scrambled to his feet, clutching his side and limping out of the alley. Mark shook his head, more annoyed than anything else. Typical Gotham.

Stepping out of the alleyway, Mark adjusted his leather jacket, the city's stale air hitting him full force again. The streets were alive with activity, though it was far from welcoming. He passed a group of teenagers huddled around a flaming barrel burning some kids collectable cards laughing as they did so. Further down the street, a couple was arguing loudly on the steps of a condemned building.

Mark kept walking, brushing past people and ignoring the constant wail of sirens that seemed to echo from every direction. 'Was it always this bad?' he thought, frowning slightly. Sure, Gotham was never a shining beacon of peace, but Batman usually kept petty crime in check during the day. Seeing so many police cars flying by, lights blazing, felt off. Still, it wasn't his problem. Shrugging, he kept moving, heading toward the mall. That was the first stop—he needed to pick up some essentials for Kara and Raven.

'Then go see Mom,' he reminded himself. 'And maybe stop by Waylon's grave after.' Just thinking about it made his chest tighten a little. Being back in Gotham after nearly two years in Bayview felt strange. He'd grown up here, and as much as he hated the city, there were still good people in it—or at least there used to be. Lost in his thoughts, Mark barely noticed when he bumped into someone. The guy staggered slightly, then turned, trying to shove Mark. It was pointless, of course. Mark didn't budge an inch. Realizing he wasn't getting anywhere, the man settled for flipping him off instead.

"Watch where you're walking, asshole," the guy snapped before stomping off.

Mark glanced back, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. 'Gotham really does have its charm.' He kept moving, weaving through the crowded streets until the mall finally came into view. It stood out against the surrounding buildings—clean, polished, and probably the only structure in the district that didn't look like it had survived a war.

As soon as he stepped inside, the noise hit him. The place was packed, swarming with kids just out of school. Mark glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed. 'Great timing, idiot.' There wasn't much he could do about it now, though. He just needed to get in, grab what he came for, and get out. No drama, no distractions.

————————————————————-

Gus Grimsby wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, but it didn't help. The sweat kept coming, streaming down his face and neck like a leaky faucet. His shirt clung to his body, soaked through, and his pants weren't faring any better. It didn't matter whether it was freezing cold or scorching hot—since he'd taken that cocktail, this was his new normal. His body seemed to work overtime, his metabolism burning like a furnace no matter what. But he didn't mind.

It was worth it.

Every drop of sweat was a small price to pay for the strength surging through his body. His muscles were like steel cables now, corded and unyielding. He could punch through solid concrete without a second thought, lift a car above his head if he put his mind to it. He was faster, stronger, and tougher than any man had the right to be. And the best part? It hadn't cost him a dime.

Well, almost.

Gus wasn't always like this. A month ago, he was an amateur boxer, decent in the ring but stuck in the middle tiers, grinding for wins and scraping by. He might've had a shot at going pro one day—until he made the mistake of winning a fight he was supposed to lose. The bookies didn't take kindly to losing their cut, and Gus paid for it. They'd broken his arms, his legs, and left him to rot in a filthy alleyway. That night, when he thought it was all over, was when he met him.

Dr. Juice.

The man had appeared out of nowhere, dressed in a lab coat that looked out of place in Gotham's grimy underbelly. Juice had made Gus an offer that night: a chance to heal his body, not just back to its original state, but to something better. Stronger. Faster. The kind of strength Gus could only dream about. He didn't hesitate. Revenge was the first thing on his mind. Revenge on the bookies who'd broken him, on the corrupt system that kept him down, and maybe even on the world itself. And after that? Gus would return to boxing. He wouldn't just win—he'd dominate. World Champion material.

The cocktail worked like magic. Within weeks, Gus's shattered bones healed, his muscles grew, and his stamina surged. He felt invincible. But there was a catch. There's always a catch.

Dr. Juice wasn't in it for charity. The good doctor had his own problems—namely, a desperate need for funding. Gus and a dozen other recruits had been roped into helping Juice get the money he needed. They weren't just hired muscle; they were test subjects, prototypes for whatever Juice was cooking up in his lab, though from what he'd been told none got the same cocktail he did. The orders were clear: no banks—too risky. The cops, or worse, one of the Bat Family, would shut them down before they even got the vault open. The next best thing? Gotham City Mall.

Plenty of cash registers to raid, jewelry stores to clean out, and enough hostages to keep the cops busy while they made their escape. It was the perfect target.

Now, Gus stood in an abandoned building across the street from the mall, sweat dripping onto the cracked concrete floor. Around him were a dozen other men, all armed, all dressed in plain clothes—just hats and sunglasses to obscure their faces. They looked like any other group of guys, inconspicuous enough not to attract attention. For now.

"Alright, listen up," Gus growled, his raspy voice cutting through the tension. He stepped forward, glaring at the men with bloodshot eyes. "We go in, we hit hard, and we get out fast. Grab as much cash as you can, maybe a few shiny things if you're quick about it. Don't waste time, and don't get greedy."

One of the men, a tall guy with a sneer plastered across his face, snapped the magazine into his pistol and stood to his full height. "And who the hell put you in charge?" he spat, clearly unimpressed.

Gus didn't even blink. He turned, pulled his arm back, and slammed his fist into the nearest wall. The old plaster and brick crumbled instantly, a gaping hole left behind. The sound echoed through the building, and the man stumbled back, his bravado replaced with wide-eyed fear.

"I put myself in charge," Gus hissed, his dry voice scraping like sandpaper. He glared at each man in turn, daring them to challenge him. "Anyone else got a problem?"

The room fell silent. A few of the men shook their heads, and one even took a step back, muttering something under his breath.

"Good," Gus said, straightening up. He reached for the large bottle strapped to his back, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink. The water helped, but only a little. He was always thirsty now, a constant, unquenchable thirst that gnawed at him. Probably another side effect of Juice's cocktail, but Gus didn't care. "Five minutes," he barked, capping the bottle and tossing it aside. "Get your shit together. When we move, we move fast." As the men scrambled to check their weapons and gear, Gus stood by the window, staring out at the mall. People streamed in and out, oblivious to what was about to happen.

It didn't take long for the rest of the crew to get ready. They moved out in pairs, leaving the building at two-minute intervals to avoid drawing attention. Gus had planned it this way—spread out, hit multiple stores at once, and grab as much loot as they could before the cops even had time to set up a perimeter. The plan wasn't elegant, but it didn't need to be. Smash, grab, and get out. That's what mattered.

They'd also agreed to take hostages—enough to keep the police at bay and buy them more time. Gus didn't like the idea of killing people if it could be avoided, but he wasn't about to lose sleep over it either, no one in this shit hole of a city was innocent. Fear worked. Fear kept people quiet and compliant. That's all he needed.

Larry, one of the other goons, had promised he'd keep any cops busy if they showed up early. Gus wasn't sure what to make of him. The guy was skinny—borderline scrawny—and his arms were wrapped in bandages from wrist to elbow, like he was hiding something. Gus had wanted to ask about it, but he figured whatever Juice had pumped into him must've been good enough to make up for the lack of muscle.

Besides, Gus didn't need every man to be a heavy hitter. He just needed bodies willing to pull the trigger if things went sideways.

By the time the last pair had filtered into the mall, Gus was already in position. His target was one of the larger jewelry stores near the center. It had thick glass counters lined with rings, watches, and necklaces that he knew would fetch a fortune once fenced. The security was light—two unarmed guards who looked more like glorified mall cops than anything else. They weren't going to be a problem.

Gus adjusted his hat, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and drew his gun—not because he needed it, but because it made things easier. Most people didn't argue when you pointed a gun at them. He stepped through the entrance, raised the weapon, and fired a shot into the ceiling. The crack of the gun was like a thunderclap, silencing the chatter and laughter of shoppers.

"Get on the ground! Now!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the store.

The reaction was immediate. Customers screamed and dropped to the floor, some cowering behind display cases while others pressed their hands over their heads. A few panicked and tried to run for the exits. Gus didn't give them the chance. He spotted one guy bolting toward the door and grabbed him by the back of his shirt, hauling him off his feet like he weighed nothing. With a grunt, Gus threw him across the store. The man's body slammed into a glass display case, shattering it on impact and sending shards flying in every direction. He groaned but didn't move after that.

"Anyone moves, and I kill you!" Gus snarled, leveling his gun at the rest of the hostages. His voice came out dry and rasping, like sandpaper, but it didn't matter. The fear in their eyes told him everything he needed to know. They weren't going to fight back.

Behind him, two of his men were already moving through the store, sweeping the aisles and clearing out the cash registers. One of them—a stocky guy named Rick—smashed open a glass counter with the butt of his shotgun, scooping jewelry into a duffel bag as fast as he could. The other, a nervous-looking kid barely out of his teens, kept his gun trained on the hostages, his hands trembling.

Gus made a mental note to keep an eye on the kid. Nervous guys made mistakes. Mistakes got people killed.

Out in the mall, he could already hear the sounds of chaos spreading. Screams, breaking glass, the sharp reports of gunfire from one of the other teams. The plan was working. The mall's security was overwhelmed, and the police wouldn't know what hit them. Gus turned back to the hostages, scanning the crowd for any signs of trouble. He didn't see any heroes—no one trying to be brave or stupid. Good. He didn't need the hassle.

"Fill the bags and move fast!" Gus barked over his shoulder. "We've got ten minutes before this place is crawling with cops."

Larry's voice crackled over the radio a second later. "Got eyes on the first responders," he said. "Two cars just pulled up outside. No SWAT yet, just uniforms."

Gus grinned. "Keep 'em busy, Larry."

"Oh, I will," Larry replied, and even through the static, Gus could hear the smile in his voice.

Gus didn't know what Larry was planning, but he didn't have time to worry about it. He'd done his part. Now it was up to the others to stick to the plan and not screw this up.

He crouched behind one of the counters, keeping his gun raised as he glanced at his watch. Eight minutes left.

'Almost there,' he thought. 'Just hold it together.'

————————————————————

Mark made his way through the crowd, towering over most of the people around him. Kids were running everywhere, shouting to each other, shoving friends, and occasionally bumping into strangers without so much as a glance back. He gritted his teeth as one particularly loud group of teens almost tripped over themselves while rushing past him. 'This is why I shop online,' he thought bitterly.

The first store on his list was a boutique that Kara had recommended—or rather, insisted on. He couldn't remember the name, something French-sounding, but he knew what he needed to grab for her: maternity clothes and a few "cute" outfits for the baby. That was her word, not his.

'After that, Raven's tea,' he thought, moving toward the upper floor. She'd given him a whole list of obscure blends that she swore by. He didn't get it, but he wasn't going to argue.

As he climbed the escalator, he caught himself scanning the mall. It was automatic, a habit from years of living in a city. Gotham taught you to keep your head on a swivel. Most people looked harmless—parents wrangling kids, couples holding hands, tired retail workers trying to make it through their shifts. But there were always a few that stood out. A group of guys in hoodies loitering near the food court, their eyes darting around like they were casing the place. A woman standing too close to a distracted shopper, her hand hovering near the man's open backpack, even a few homeless people hanging around—even one of the poor districts nicest places has people like them begging.

Mark didn't stop. He wasn't a hero here, not today. Someone else could deal with it.

He stepped off the escalator and headed toward the boutique. A bright sign in the window declared a sale, and the display mannequins were dressed in clothes that screamed "chic suburban mom." Mark sighed. 'Why couldn't she just pick something online?'

Pushing the door open, he was immediately greeted by a cheery sales associate who looked like she'd been waiting all day to pounce on a customer.

"Hi there! Can I help you find anything today?" she chirped.

Mark plastered on a polite smile. "Yeah, I'm looking for some baby clothes. My wife—uh, my partner—she's pregnant," he explained awkwardly. The woman's eyes lit up, and Mark knew he wasn't getting out of here quickly.

'Great. This is going to take forever,' he thought, already bracing himself for the ordeal.

Though it seemed Mark wouldn't need to worry about doing anymore shopping as two gunmen burst into the store firing off bullets into the ceiling and causing a commotion. "Get down on the ground! Move, and I'll bust a cap off in you!" the first man barked, waving his pistol wildly as if that made him more threatening. The second guy was a little more proactive, vaulting over the counter and immediately pistol-whipping the cashier. The poor guy hit the ground hard, groaning as he clutched his head.

People screamed. Some bolted for the exits, only to stop in their tracks when more gunmen appeared outside. Most, however, hit the floor like sacks of potatoes. Mark, meanwhile, was lying flat on his stomach, looking less like a victim and more like a man who had just collapsed from sheer exhaustion. His head rested against the tile floor as he let out a long, defeated sigh.

'Of course this happens,' he thought. 'I can't just buy some underwear without getting dragged into a hostage situation. No, that would be too easy.'

His cheek was pressed against the cool floor as he slowly glanced to the side. A woman a few feet away was staring at him with wide, panicked eyes. "Are you okay?" she whispered.

"Oh, yeah, just peachy," Mark muttered back.

Before she could respond, one of the gunmen stomped over and pointed his gun at them.

"You two! Shut up!"

Mark immediately slapped a hand over his mouth and made an exaggerated zipping motion. He saw the woman's eyes flicker between him and the gunman like she wasn't sure if Mark was being serious or insane.

Unfortunately, not everyone was as good at playing dead as Mark. A skinny teenage boy suddenly stood up, chest puffed out like he'd just decided today was the day to become Batman.

"Hey! You're not gonna get away with this!" the kid yelled.

Mark groaned internally. 'There's always one.'

The gunman barely even turned to look at him before firing off a brutal back kick that nailed the kid right in the stomach. The teen crumpled to the ground in a heap, gasping for air.

The thug smirked, clearly enjoying himself. "Nice try, kid. Didn't your mom ever tell you not to play hero?"

Then he turned his attention to Mark, who was still sprawled out on the floor, half-heartedly raising one hand like he was waiting to ask a question in class.

"See? This guy gets it," the thug said, pointing at Mark.

Mark blinked up at him and offered a thumbs-up.

That got a laugh out of the thug, but it didn't last long because he turned back to the teenager, cocking his gun and leveling it at the boy's head. Mark sighed again, this time pushing himself up from the floor. He'd been more than happy to keep his head down and let them take the money, but the second he saw the gunman's finger tighten on the trigger, he knew he didn't have a choice anymore.

"Alright," Mark muttered. "Let's get this over with."

The thug turned to see Mark standing up and immediately scowled. "The hell do you think you're—"

Before he could finish, Mark flicked his wrist, discretely using his gravity power and pulling the thug's gun hand and twisting it to the side. The shot went off, but it buried itself harmlessly into the ceiling. "What the—?!" the thug yelped, but Mark didn't give him a chance to recover. He yanked the guy forward and drove his knee straight into his gut, knocking the wind out of him. The thug stumbled back, but Mark grabbed his arm, flipped him over, and slammed him down onto his back hard enough to rattle the shelves.

"Stay down," Mark said as he turned to the second thug.

The guy behind the counter froze, his hand halfway to stuffing wads of cash into a duffel bag. His eyes darted from Mark to his partner lying on the ground and back again. Mark didn't give him a chance to draw his weapon. With a quick hop, he vaulted over the counter and dropkicked the thug square in the chest. The man went flying back, crashing into the wall and slumping to the floor in a heap.

Mark landed smoothly, dusted himself off, and leaned over to check if either of the two were still moving. Both were out cold.

"Figures," he muttered, stepping back over the counter. "I just wanted to buy some clothes."

But as soon as he left the store, his frustration grew tenfold. The chaos outside was even worse than he'd imagined. Gunmen were everywhere—raiding stores, dragging people around, firing wildly into the air to keep everyone terrified.

"Great," Mark said as he surveyed the scene. "I walked into Die Hard."

(AN: So Mark is back in the thick of it I'm sure everyone knows. These few chapters are a set up to the Viltrumite problem, but also introducing a girl that Mark hasn't interacted with for a while. Someone who I think deserves a little screen time. Anyway I hope you enjoyed the chapter.)

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