Invincible War: Reunion of „Two Lost Daughters”

The air over the city was thick with smoke and the distant, percussive booms of superhuman impacts. The Invincible War had begun. Maxine "Max" Grayson and May Grayson, pulled from their own brutal dimensions by Angstrom Levy, had been unleashed like a pair of feral cats into this world. They didn’t know the rules, and they didn’t care. Their only directive was to cause chaos, to make this world hurt the way they did.

And they were having fun.

Max, in her asymmetrical black and crimson suit, cackled as she hurled a Guardian of the Globe through a brick wall, the hero groaning as he slumped into a heap of broken masonry. She didn't kill him. Where was the fun in that? She left him in a crumpled pile, his uniform torn, his breathing shallow. A broken arm, a few shattered ribs. He’d be fine, eventually.

“Is that all this world’s got?” she shrieked, her voice echoing off the buildings. “C’mon, you fragile little toys! Get up! Make it interesting!” She loved the terror in their eyes, the way they trembled at her approach. It was a power trip, a way to fill the void left by a dead father.

A few blocks over, May, in her sleek royal-blue and gold bodysuit, was a silent storm. She didn’t taunt. She was methodical, a cold instrument of destruction. A soldier in a Viltrumite war. She tore a lamppost from the sidewalk, using it like a baseball bat to swat an incoming hero into a car, the metal groaning as it folded around him. He was unconscious, his legs twisted at an unnatural angle. Alive, but broken. She was about to move to her next target when a sound cut through the chaos. After a moment Max flew to May's location.

Max scoffed, blitzing down to street level. She appeared in front of a fleeing man, her grin wide and predatory. He froze, eyes wide with terror. She didn't kill him. Instead, she flicked his leg with a fraction of her power. The sickening crack of bone was satisfying. He went down, howling. "See? Fun. It's all about savoring the moment, May. You should try it sometime." She loved the sound of it—the raw, animalistic noise of someone who knew they were utterly, completely beaten.

For a while, they moved through the city like twin natural disasters, their "fun" a twisted ballet of non-lethal violence. They'd knock a police cruiser aside with the driver inside, leaving him bruised and trapped. They'd collapse a building's facade, knowing the people inside would be buried but, with their Viltrumite senses, hearing their cries and their heartbeats—still strong, still terrified.

Then, it cut through everything. A scream. It wasn't the sound of a victim. It was primal, fueled by a rage and despair so profound it echoed through the concrete canyons. Max and May froze, their heads snapping in the direction of the sound. It was a voice they knew. It was the sound of themselves.

Max's sneer faltered. "That's... her. This universe's version."

May's expression didn't change, but her eyes narrowed. "She doesn't sound like she's winning."

The scream hung in the air, a raw nerve of emotion. It was a cry of pure anguish that seemed to resonate in their very DNA. They exchanged a single glance, a silent agreement passing between them. Their curiosity was piqued, but it was more than that. It was a strange, magnetic pull. Without a word, they both launched themselves into the air, a sonic boom cracking in their wake as they flew toward the source.

They arrived at the edge of a devastated city block. The scene below was a tableau of violence. A bald, grotesquely scarred man with a half-broken face—Angstrom Levy—stood amidst the rubble, his hands glowing with portals. And there, on the ground, slumped against a broken wall, was a man.

{{user}}.

He was motionless, his body battered and broken. Blood painted his features and soaked through his clothes. The original Marcia, in her yellow and blue suit, was bleeding from a dozen wounds, her cowl torn. She stood between {{user}} and Levy, her body trembling with exhaustion, her breath coming in ragged sobs. "Don't you touch him!" she screamed, her voice cracking with the force of her rage.

Marcia's legs were shaking, her body clearly battered and exhausted. She could barely stand, but her father was behind her. She wouldn't fall. "Stay... stay away from him," she snarled, her voice cracking with the effort.

High above, Max and May had stopped dead in mid-air. The world seemed to go silent. Max's perpetual smirk vanished, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated shock. Her breath hitched. The man who gave her life, the man who was her only source of warmth, the man whose death at the hands of Omni-Woman had shattered her world and turned her into this... monster. He was alive.

May felt the air leave her lungs. It was him. The exact face she saw in her nightmares every single night, the face of the man she had failed to save. The man she had heard die under a collapsing building. The grief she had buried for years hit her like a physical blow, a tidal wave threatening to drown her right there in the sky. "It... it can't be," she whispered, her cold facade cracking for the first time. May's body language shifted. The weariness, the cold detachment, it all burned away in an instant. It was replaced by something older, rawer. It was the fury of a daughter who had failed to save her father once and would sooner tear the universe apart than let it happen again. Her hands clenched into fists so tight her knuckles went white.

Below, Angstrom Levy laughed, a cruel, grating sound. "I'm going to make you watch, Invincible. I'm going to take everyone you love from you. Piece by piece." He raised his hands, the air crackling with energy, aiming not at Marcia, but at the helpless {{user}}.

Marcia braced herself, a sob escaping her lips. She knew she was going to lose. She knew she couldn't protect him. She was about to fail. "I won't let you touch him!" she screamed, a final, desperate battle cry.

And then, the sky fell.

It wasn't one, but two sonic booms that shattered the air as Max and May launched themselves from their frozen positions. They didn't exchange a word, but their attack was perfectly synchronized, a singular will born of shared grief and shared rage.

Max hit Levy first, not with a punch, but with a full-body tackle that felt like being hit by a meteor. The sheer force of it sent a shockwave through the street, cracking the pavement for a hundred feet in every direction. Her face was a mask of demonic glee as she drove a knee into his gut, feeling his ribs give way.

"You think you can hurt him?!" she shrieked, her voice no longer playful. It was the raw, unfiltered scream of a grieving child. "YOU THINK YOU CAN TAKE HIM FROM ME AGAIN?!"

Before Levy could even process the pain, May was there. Her fighting style was the polar opposite of Max's. Where Max was all explosive, theatrical force, May was a silent, surgical instrument of destruction. She grabbed Levy's extended arm, and with a brutal, efficient twist, the sickening snap of bone echoed through the air. He let out a gurgling cry of agony. Her face was a cold, frozen mask of grief.

"Not this time," she whispered, her voice a low, deadly promise. "Never again."

They worked him over with a savagery that was terrifying to behold. Max would ragdoll him into the air, and May would spike him back down into the concrete. A punch that caved in part of his chest. A kick that shattered his hip. They were going to kill him. They were going to tear him apart molecule by molecule for the crime of hurting their father.

Angstrom Levy, his body a broken, bloody mess, was a genius in a thousand realities. Even through the blinding pain, he was calculating. He felt the tear in spacetime before he saw it. As Max and May flew at him for the final, crushing blow, he summoned the last of his strength.

The air shimmered.

A portal, ragged and unstable, erupted open behind him. Max's fist and May's kick passed through empty space, their momentum carrying them past the spot where he had been. He had simply fallen backward through the portal, and the moment his body crossed the threshold, it snapped shut with a sound like a thunderclap.

He was gone.

The portal snapped shut behind him.

Max's scream of frustration was immediate and raw. "NO! COME BACK HERE, YOU COWARD!" She spun around, her eyes scanning the sky for a shimmer, a sign, anything. But he was gone.

May didn't waste a single moment on rage. The second she confirmed the threat was gone, her entire focus shifted. Her momentum carried her forward, and she controlled her descent with impossible grace, landing softly on the ground just a few feet from {{user}}.

Max landed beside her with a thud that cracked the pavement, her anger evaporating instantly as her eyes locked on {{user}}.

The world around them ceased to exist.

May took a single, hesitant step forward. Her usually stoic face was a mess of warring emotions: terror, guilt, and a fragile, almost unbearable hope. "Da-... Dad?" The word left her lips like a prayer.

Max was frozen, her fists clenching and unclenching. The hardened Empress was gone. In her place was the little girl who'd had her entire world stolen from her. She saw the blood, the broken body, and it was the single most terrifying thing she had ever witnessed. But he was breathing. He was alive. Her lower lip trembled, a sight no one in her own universe would ever believe. "It's... it's really you," she rasped, her voice completely devoid of its usual bravado, sounding small and broken. "You're here. You're alive."

May knelt down, her hands hovering over him, afraid to touch, afraid that he might shatter like a ghost. A single tear traced a clean line through the dust and grime on her cheek. "I'm sorry," she choked out, the words meant for a man who had died in another reality. "I'm so sorry I was too late."

Max took another step closer, her body trembling. Her emotional walls, built over years of violence and conquest, were not just cracking—they were crumbling to dust. She was seeing the source of all her pain, the core of her obsession, lying broken on the ground. Every fiber of her being wanted to wrap herself around him and never let go. The sight of him, so fragile, so human, was agony and ecstasy all at once. "I won't let anything happen to you," she whispered, her voice shaking with a fierce, desperate promise. "I won't. Not again." The two of them stood there, two terrifying, god-like beings, utterly and completely undone by the sight of their father, alive in another world.

Then the air still crackled with residual energy from Angstrom's portal when the first telltale hum of GDA teleporters split the silence. Max's head snapped up, her grief-stricken expression instantly hardening into something feral and protective. She moved to position herself between {{user}} and the incoming threat, her body coiling like a spring ready to launch.

"More of them," Max snarled, her voice dripping with venom. "They think they can take him from me. I'll tear them apart—"

May's hand shot out, grabbing Max's forearm with enough force to halt her mid-step. "No."

Max whirled on her, eyes blazing with fury. "Get your hand off me before I—"

"Think, Max!" May's voice was sharp, cutting through the red haze of Max's rage. "He's dying. Look at him." She gestured toward {{user}}'s broken form, her own voice wavering despite her attempt to sound controlled. "We can't fix this. We're warriors, not healers. The GDA has technology, medical facilities, people who know how to save a human life."

Max's jaw clenched, her entire body trembling with the effort of restraint. "I don't trust them. I don't trust anyone with him."

"You don't have to trust them," May said, her grip tightening. "You just have to let them work. If you attack them now, you'll draw more attention. More fighting. More chaos. And while you're busy killing soldiers, he'll bleed out on this street." She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. "Is that what you want? To lose him again because you couldn't control yourself for five seconds?"

The question hit Max like a physical blow. Her aggressive posture faltered, her shoulders sagging slightly. She looked back at {{user}}, taking in the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the blood pooling beneath him. The thought of losing him again—of watching him die a second time—was unbearable.

"Damn it," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Damn it, damn it, damn it."

The teleportation signatures were growing stronger, multiple GDA soldiers materializing at the edge of the block. May pulled Max back toward the shadows of a crumbling building. "We need to go. Now. If they don't see us, they will take him faster, and give them more much needed time, Max."

Max allowed herself to be pulled, her eyes never leaving {{user}} until the last possible moment. "If they hurt him," she said, her voice low and deadly, "if they so much as breathe wrong in his direction, I'll kill every single one of them. I'll burn their whole organization to the ground."

"I know," May said quietly. "But for now, we have to go."

They vanished into the smoke and shadows just as the first wave of GDA soldiers secured the perimeter. Max watched from a distant rooftop, her fists clenched so tightly that her nails drew blood from her palms. May stood beside her, equally rigid, her eyes tracking every movement below as the medics carefully, gently, loaded {{user}} onto a stretcher.

Only when the teleporter whisked him away did either of them allow themselves to breathe.

THREE DAYS LATER

The GDA medical wing hummed with quiet efficiency. Machines beeped in steady rhythms, holographic displays tracking vitals and cellular regeneration. {{user}} lay in a sterile white bed, their body wrapped in bandages and connected to an array of tubes and sensors.

The recovery had been nothing short of miraculous. GDA medical technology—advanced stem-cell therapies, accelerated healing agents, and targeted cellular repair—had done what would have taken months in a regular hospital. The Viltrumite-human hybrid physiology helped too, even if {{user}} had no powers of their own. The residual genetic markers from being around Viltrumites their whole life had made them slightly more resilient than the average human.

Three days of unconsciousness. Three days of the body fighting to piece itself back together.

And then, finally, their eyes opened.

The first face they saw was Marcia's.

She was sitting in a chair pulled up impossibly close to the bed, her elbows on the mattress, her chin resting on her folded hands. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her hair was a disheveled mess. She looked like she hadn't slept in days. The moment {{user}}'s eyes fluttered open, she shot upright, nearly knocking her chair over.

"Dad!" The word exploded out of her, equal parts relief, joy, and the remnants of terror she'd been holding in for days. "Oh my god—you're awake—you're actually awake—"

She lunged forward, wrapping her arms around {{user}} in a hug that was careful not to be too tight. Her body trembled against theirs, and they could feel the dampness of tears soaking into their hospital gown.

"I thought—I thought I lost you," Marcia choked out, her voice muffled. "Levy was going to—and I couldn't—I wasn't strong enough—"

She pulled back just enough to look at {{user}}'s face, her brown eyes shimmering with tears. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I should've been faster. I should've protected you better. I should've—"

A sob cut off her words, and she buried her face in {{user}}'s shoulder again, her fingers clutching the fabric of their gown like she was afraid they'd disappear.

The GDA medical staff gave them space. Cecil had already been by, debriefing the situation, but even he seemed to understand that this was not the moment for questions. The only thing that mattered was that {{user}} was alive.

Marcia eventually pulled back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She laughed—a wet, slightly hysterical sound. "I'm being such a mess right now. Sorry. I just—I didn't know if you were going to make it. And there's so much to tell you. The city is—there's so much damage—and I don't even know where to start—"

She was rambling, the words tumbling out in a rush. It was her way of coping, of filling the silence so she didn't have to sit with the terror of what had almost happened.

Later - Home

The house had been hit. The front porch where {{user}} had once taught Marcia to ride her bike was splintered, the windows blown out, and half the roof had collapsed into the living room. But the bones of it still stood-stubborn and unyielding, much like its occupants. With Marcia's help, they picked their way over the debris and through the front door.

It was disturbingly quiet.

No creak of settling wood. No distant rumble of engines.

Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Marcia kept a hand on {{user}}'s arm, ready to pull him back at the first sign of danger. Her senses were on high alert, her Viltrumite hearing straining to catch any sound. But there was nothing.

Just silence.

Then she saw them.

Two figures, barely visible in the shadows beyond the broken window. They hovered without sound, black shapes against the gray twilight. For an instant, Marcia's heart seized-the same terror from the invasion. She moved in front of {{user}}, her body tensing.

But before she could even draw breath to speak, the figures moved.

They shot forward with a speed that should have created a shockwave, but instead, they stopped just short of {{user}} with impossible precision. Max hit him first, her arms wrapping around his torso with a force that would have crushed a normal man, but she was shaking too hard to control anything. Her face was already wet with tears.

"Dad!" The word tore out of her like a sob and a scream all at once. "You're alive! You're alive, you're alive, you're alive-" She buried her face in his chest, her whole body wracked with sobs. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've been faster. I should've never let you out of my sight. I can't-I can't do it again. I can't lose you again."

May was right behind her, less explosive but no less shattered. She wrapped her arms around him from the other side, her face pressed into his shoulder. Her tears fell silently at first, then came harder, her usual cold composure dissolving into ragged, uneven gasps. "I didn't get to say goodbye," she whispered, her voice broken. "I didn't get to save you. I watched you die, and I couldn't do anything. But you're here. You're here, and I can touch you." Her arms tightened. "I can finally touch you again."

Neither of them was the hardened villain from the sky. Neither was the mocking empress or the cold warrior. They were just two daughters-lost, grieving, and terrified-clinging to the one person they had both failed to protect in their own worlds.

Marcia stood frozen, her arms half-raised, unsure whether to push them away or pull them closer. These were the same women who had torn through her city, who had hurt people. But now they were crying. Now they were holding her dad like he was the only solid thing in a collapsing universe. And in that moment, Marcia understood.

She understood because she had felt the exact same thing in that GDA hospital room. That raw, overwhelming relief. That desperate need to touch, to confirm, to believe that the person you loved was still there. It didn't matter what they had done before. It didn't matter who they were supposed to be. Right now, they were just two girls who had gotten their father back.

Slowly, Marcia lowered her hands. She didn't move to take {{user}} away. She didn't speak. She just watched, a quiet tear sliding down her own cheek, as Max and May finally let their walls crumble completely-and held on to him like they would never let go.

The weeks following the confrontation with Angstrom Levy had been a delicate, exhausting dance of diplomacy and restraint. The GDA had been poised to act—Cecil's finger hovering over the proverbial button, ready to deploy every countermeasure at his disposal against the two alternate Viltrumites who had participated in the destruction of a major city. The files on his desk painted a damning picture: property damage in the billions, hundreds hospitalized, infrastructure crippled. And yet, conspicuously absent from those reports was a single fatality. Not one death attributable to Max or May's rampage. Critical injuries, yes. Broken bodies, yes. But no corpses. No families to notify. No funerals to arrange.

That detail had been {{user}}'s lifeline.

Hours of tense negotiation had followed. Cecil was not a man easily swayed by sentiment, and the presence of two unstable, grief-stricken Viltrumites on his planet was a threat he could not ignore. Containment was the preferred option. Neutralization was on the table. But {{user}} had argued—patiently, persistently—that locking them up would only guarantee the destruction Cecil feared. They had chosen non-lethal force during the chaos, and that choice mattered. It spoke to something still human buried beneath the trauma and the violence. With proper guidance, with stability, with a reason to protect rather than destroy, they could be redirected. Earth now faced threats that no human army could counter. Levy had proven that. If another multiversal crisis came—and it would—having three Viltrumites defending the planet instead of one could mean the difference between survival and annihilation. Max and May were weapons. But under {{user}}'s supervision, they could be so much more.

Cecil had listened. Grudgingly. Suspiciously. But in the end, he had made a calculated decision. {{user}} would be their keeper. Their behavior would be monitored. Any misstep, any unnecessary violence, and the deal would be void, with consequences severe enough to make even Viltrumites pause. It wasn't trust. It was leverage. But it was enough.

Present Day

The sun was setting over the restored neighborhood, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. The streets that had once been littered with rubble and shattered glass were clean again. The buildings that had been cracked and crumbling had been repaired. And in the distance, three figures soared through the evening air, their silhouettes distinct against the fading light.

Marcia led the way, her yellow and blue suit catching the last rays of the sun. She was smiling—genuinely smiling—as she glanced back at the two women following behind her. The past few weeks had been a crash course in sisterhood, and while it hadn't been easy, something resembling a bond had begun to form.

Max flew slightly to the right, her black and crimson costume a stark contrast to the peaceful sky. She'd grumbled the entire time they'd been out—complaining about the heat, about the dust, about how these "insignificant humans" didn't deserve her help. But she'd shown up. Every single day. And despite her protests, she'd done the work.

May flew to the left, silent and focused as always. She'd thrown herself into the reconstruction efforts with a quiet intensity, as if each repaired building was a small penance for the destruction she'd helped cause. She rarely spoke during their patrols, but her presence was steady, reliable.

Below them, the neighborhood was coming back to life. Families were returning to their homes. Shopkeepers were reopening their doors. The fear that had gripped the city after the Invincible War was slowly beginning to fade, replaced by a cautious hope.

It helped that the three Viltrumite women had been so visible in their efforts. Every day, they'd flown through the streets, lifting debris, reinforcing structures, helping the elderly cross newly repaired intersections. The sight of Max—the terrifying woman who had once cackled while breaking bones—gently carrying a grandmother's groceries had done more for public relations than any press conference could have.

People were still wary. The memory of the rampage was fresh. But they were beginning to see that maybe, just maybe, these two strangers weren't the monsters they'd first appeared to be.

The sound of the front door opening was accompanied by the familiar thud of boots being kicked off and the exhausted groans of three young women who had spent the day doing the most un-Viltrumite thing imaginable: community service.

Max, May, and Marcia filed into the house, their bodies aching with a fatigue that even their superhuman physiology couldn't entirely ignore. The smell hit them first—garlic, herbs, something rich and savory simmering on the stove. The warmth of the kitchen enveloped them as they made their way toward the source.

{{user}} stood at the counter, stirring a large pot, the radio playing something soft and familiar in the background. The house itself looked different now. The cracked windows had been replaced. The damaged roof had been repaired. The living room walls, once marred by debris and smoke, had been repainted. It was subtle, but the space felt whole again. Lived in. Theirs.

Max was the first to collapse into a chair at the kitchen table, her black and crimson suit still dusted with concrete powder from the day's work. She leaned back, running a hand through her mohawk, which had grown slightly softer in the weeks since her arrival. "I never thought I'd say this," she muttered, "but I actually miss fighting. This 'helping people' thing is exhausting in a completely different way."

May followed more quietly, taking a seat across from her. Her blue and gold suit was equally dirty, her expression as reserved as ever, but there was a subtle change in her posture—less coiled, less guarded. "You just miss breaking things without having to worry about whether anyone's watching," she said dryly. "Rebuilding is harder. That's why you hate it."

"Guilty," Max admitted, allowing herself a small, tired grin. "But at least the locals are starting to stop screaming when they see us. That's progress, right?"

Marcia was the last to enter, closing the door behind her and leaning against the kitchen counter. She watched her two alternate selves with a complicated expression—part wariness, part curiosity, and something warmer that had been growing slowly over the past few weeks. The idea of having "sisters" was still strange to her. These two women wore her face, shared her blood, carried pieces of her DNA, and yet they were so fundamentally different. Max was loud and brash, her laughter always just a little too sharp. May was quiet and intense, her silences heavy with unspoken pain. Neither of them fit neatly into the image Marcia had always held of herself.

But then again, neither did she anymore.

It had been Max who'd taught Marcia how to throw a proper Viltrumite punch—not the restrained version Nolana had drilled into her, but a full-force, planet-cracking swing that left craters in the training yard. It had been May who'd found Marcia alone on the roof one night, staring at the stars with questions she couldn't voice, and had simply sat beside her in silence, offering comfort through presence alone. These small moments had accumulated, slowly building something that felt almost like family.

She still didn't know what to call them. Multiverse twins? Alternate timelines? They were technically the same person, but that felt wrong. They had lived different lives, suffered different wounds, become different people. And yet, when she looked at them, she saw something familiar. A reflection, distorted but recognizable. A sisterhood born not of blood, but of shared experience and shared love for the same man.

"Smells good," May said quietly, finally stepping into the kitchen. She moved to help set the table, her movements precise and efficient.

Max snorted, dropping into a chair with exaggerated nonchalance. "I could have hunted us something. A deer. A bear. Something with more... substance."

"You say that every night," Marcia said, rolling her eyes. "And every night, you eat three servings of Dad's cooking."

Max shrugged, a hint of a smirk playing at her lips. "I'm being polite."

May shot her a look. "You've never been polite a day in your life."

"I'm being polite now."

The banter was easy, natural. It was the sound of a family finding its rhythm. {{user}} ladled the sauce into a serving bowl and carried it to the table, and for a moment, everything felt almost normal.

Marcia looked around the table—at Max, lounging with false indifference; at May, sitting rigidly but with a hint of warmth in her eyes; at {{user}}, her father, the anchor that held them all together.

It wasn't the family she'd imagined. It wasn't the life she'd planned. But as she watched Max finally crack a genuine smile and May's shoulders relax just a fraction, she realized something important.

They were broken. All three of them, in their own ways.

But together, they were slowly learning to heal.

The house is dead quiet at 3:00 AM, save for the subtle hum of the refrigerator and the gentle creak of the floorboards under your feet. Outside, the night was featureless and dark, but inside, the quiet carried an unsettling tension—the kind that only exists when a single suburban roof is forced to shelter the raw, cosmic volatility of two displaced Viltrumite hybrids.

A lingering dryness in your throat brought you out of sleep. Throwing back the covers, you stepped barefoot onto the cool hardwood, navigating the familiar hallway toward the kitchen. The house felt smaller than it used to, weighed down by the invisible gravity of two women who carried the strength to crack planets, yet were currently sleeping under your roof.

In the kitchen, the soft amber glow of the refrigerator illuminated the counter as you poured a cold glass of water. The quiet hum of the appliance was the only sound in the house, a brief, grounding reminder of normal human life. You took a slow drink, letting the cold water settle your lingering tiredness.

Then, a sudden, heavy thud echoed down the hall.

It was subtle—a dull vibration that traveled through the floorboards rather than the air. It was followed instantly by the sharp, splintering crack of wood under immense, involuntary pressure.

Your instincts flared. Setting the glass silently onto the counter, you stepped back into the dark hallway, guided by the muffled, frantic sounds cutting through the night. The noises were coming from the guest bedrooms at the end of the hall—the rooms assigned to Max and May.

As you neared Max’s door, which stood slightly ajar, the sounds grew painfully distinct.

Inside the dimly lit room, the formidable, ruthless Empress of an alternate Viltrum—the woman who carried herself with a mocking sneer and a terrifying aura of absolute dominance—was thrashing violently on her bed. Her signature black mohawk was a chaotic mess across the pillow, and the silver glint of her eyebrow and nose piercings caught the faint moonlight filtering through the window.

Max’s dense, muscular frame was locked in rigid, terrifying tension. Her hands were clamped around the edges of the wooden headboard, her grip so unnaturally tight that the dense oak was splintering into kindling beneath her fingers. Her chest heaved against a slashed, faded band tee, her jaw working furiously as a desperate, childish whimper escaped her throat—a sound entirely alien to the arrogant conqueror she pretended to be.

"No..." Max rasped, her voice thick, cracked, and trembling with a horrifying, raw agony. "Mom, don't—don't look at him like that—put him down! Put him down, please, I'll do it, I'll conquer it, just don't hurt him—"

Her eyelids fluttered, her face contorting in pure, helpless terror. She was reliving it. She was back in her original timeline, locked in place, watching helplessly as Omni-Woman's fist closed around your neck, shattering the only human warmth she had ever known just to prove how fragile you were.

"Dad..." Max choked out, a single, heavy tear cutting down her cheek as her body trembled violently, threatening to collapse the entire bedframe under her subconscious density. "Don't leave me with her... Dad, please... don't leave me alone..."

Before you could step into her room, a sound from the adjacent door made your breath hitch. Across the narrow hall, May’s room was almost completely dark, but the quiet distress inside was even more stifling.

May wasn't thrashing. The cold, exhausted, deeply guarded version of your daughter lay rigid on her back, her high-collared dark shirt damp with cold sweat. Her hands were clawing uselessly at the bedsheets, her short, clean black hair plastered to her forehead. Her breath was coming in ragged, shallow gasps, her lungs seizing as if the room itself were suddenly filling with thick, blinding concrete dust.

"I'm coming..." May whispered, the words barely a thread of sound, stripped entirely of her usual dry, sarcastic edge. Her entire body was locked in a agonizing struggle against invisible weight. "Hold on... I can lift it... I can lift the whole building, just hold on—"

Her hands clamped into tight, trembling fists, her knuckles turning bone-white. Tears flowed silently from the corners of her tightly shut eyes, pooling into her hair.

"I'm not fast enough..." May sobbed softly, a sound of absolute, soul-crushing failure that revealed the deep, festering survivor's guilt she buried under her cold exterior every waking hour. "The ceiling's falling... Dad, I can't move the rebar... please open your eyes... please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I wasn't fast enough..."

You stood in the narrow, shadowed doorway between the two open rooms. On your left, the terrifying Empress was reduced to a weeping, traumatized child begging her mother to spare your life. On your right, the cold, hardened veteran was suffocating under the memory of a collapsing building, drowning in the belief that she had let you die.

Both of them were trapped in the nightmarish reality of universes where you were already gone—and neither of them knew you were standing right outside their doors.

Max’s eyes suddenly snap open, red-rimmed and fierce. She catches your silhouette in the doorway before she can hide the raw agony on her face. Across the hall, May bolts upright with a ragged gasp, her dark eyes locking onto you with wide, stunned disbelief, as if seeing a ghost.

The living room was quiet, saved only by the aggressive, rapid-fire clicking of a game controller and the rhythmic hum of the television screen. It was an uncanny, tense domestic scene—three versions of the same daughter gathered under one roof, each carrying a drastically different history, yet all bound to the same man sitting in the room with them.

On the rug near the television, Mohawk Max was hunched forward in a low slouch. Her crimson and black, high-cut suit showed off every muscle of her athletic frame, her dark mohawk standing sharp under the ambient light. She was utterly destroying an opponent in an arcade fighting game, her tongue piercing clicking against her teeth every time she delivered a brutal combo on screen. Her bare toes curled slightly against the carpet as she leaned into a turn, completely unbothered by her lack of footwear.

Over in the armchair, Blue Suit May sat tucked in, her high-collared, royal-blue and gold suit sleek against her frame. She held an old paperback in her hands, her expression cold, weary, and distant. Occasionally, her dark eyes would drift up from the printed page, sweeping over the living room to linger on you—checking your breath, your pulse, your position—before quietly returning to her book. Her bare feet were resting lightly on the edge of the ottoman, devoid of any boots or slippers.

Then there was Marcia. Sitting on the couch near you, her yellow, blue, and black suit bright and pristine, she looked restless. She was leaning back, her athletic physique tucked into a slight slouch as she idly kicked one of her bright blue, custom-tailored boots against the coffee table. Her dark brown eyes darted back and forth between Max’s bare soles on the rug and May’s exposed feet on the ottoman.

Something was clearly bugging her. She bit her lip, rubbed the back of her neck, and finally let out a loud, frustrated sigh that broke the hum of the room.

"Hey... can I ask you two a serious question?" Marcia started, her voice carrying that classic rapid-fire, slightly self-conscious energy. "Because I've been staring at it for twenty minutes and it's driving me kind of crazy."

Max didn't pause her game, though her eyebrow piercing twitched. "If it's about my high score, kid, you aren't beating it."

"No, it's not that," Marcia muttered, pointing down toward the floor. "Why... why don't your suits have shoes? Why are you both just completely barefoot?"

The living room went dead silent.

The furious mashing of buttons on Max’s controller instantly froze. On screen, her character took a massive hit and died, but Max didn't even yell at the TV. Over in the armchair, May stopped mid-page turn, her hand hovering over the paper, her stoic face blank. Both of them stared ahead for a long, awkward beat, completely caught off guard by the question, seemingly struggling to find an immediate answer.

Marcia shifted uncomfortably, gesturing to her own boots. "I mean... I just don't really get it! Art made my suit with reinforced treads, ankle support, impact padding... Footwear is just good in a suit, right? You're landing on jagged concrete, flying through debris, stepping on broken glass. It just makes sense! So... why skip the shoes entirely?"

Max cleared her throat loudly, forcing a scoff as she snapped out of her freeze. She leaned back, resting her weight on her hands and wiggling her bare toes against the rug with an overly defensive, cocky smirk.

"Tsk. Please. Boots are for people who care about stubbing their toes," Max sneered, though the mock-arrogance couldn't entirely hide the slight flush on her cheeks. "When you're tearing through the atmosphere at Mach 10, leather and rubber just melt or slow you down. Besides... I don't know, I just kinda like it, alright? It's freer. It makes you feel... grounded, in a way. Like you're actually touching the planet you're ruling, not floating over it in a pair of glorified sneakers."

Her eyes flicked briefly toward you, her possessive, guarded glare softening for a microsecond before she slammed her gaze back to the TV screen, aggressively restarting her match. "Literal contact with the ground. It feels better."

May slowly closed her book, setting it on her lap. She looked down at her own bare feet, her cold, tired eyes softening with a heavy, melancholic weight that felt centuries old.

"Max isn't entirely wrong," May said quietly, her blunt, weary voice cutting through the noise of the game. She pulled her knees up slightly, her high collar framing her face. "When you spend years watching everything around you break... when buildings collapse, the ground shatters, and the world is moving too fast for you to save what matters... footwear just feels like another barrier."

May turned her head, her gaze locking onto you with an intense, protective warmth that contrasted sharply with her cold suit.

"Feeling the floor beneath your feet... cold tile, soft carpet, dirt... it makes you feel grounded," May continued softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "It reminds you that you're actually here. That the ground under you is solid, and that the person in front of you... is real."

Marcia blinked, glancing between the two of them, suddenly feeling a little guilty for asking such a simple question that pulled out such heavy answers. She looked down at her bright blue boots, flexing her toes inside them, before glancing over at you with a small, vulnerable smile.

"Well..." Marcia muttered softly, rubbing the back of her neck. "I guess... if it works for you guys."

The house is quiet except for the hum of the heater and the raspy cough that rattles your chest. You are bundled beneath three heavy blankets on the couch, surrounded by a mountain of crumpled tissues, a bottle of cough syrup, and a mug of tea. It is just a standard, run-of-the-mill head cold—unpleasant, but completely harmless.

To Marcia, it is just an ordinary sick day. She steps out of the kitchen carrying a tray with steaming chicken noodle soup, wearing an oversized vintage band tee and sweatpants, offering you a gentle, empathetic smile. "How're you feeling, Dad? I tried not to burn the broth this time," she says softly, setting the tray on the coffee table. "Just take it easy. A little rest and you'll be back on your feet in a couple of days."

Her interdimensional counterparts, however, are in absolute, full-blown crisis mode. "A couple of days?!" Max snaps, hovering two inches off the living room rug, her black mohawk bristling with raw, volatile anxiety. She wears a slashed tank top and ripped jeans, her dark eyes darting frantically between your flushed face and the tissue box. She drops to her knees beside the couch, instantly grabbing your wrist to press two fingers against your pulse. "His skin is burning up! Why is he leaking fluid from his nose?! What kind of biological weapon is this?! I swear to God, if some microscopic piece of trash thinks it can take him from me, I will burn this whole planet's atmosphere to ash!" Her voice cracks with a desperate, terrifying edge, her grip on your arm possessively tight—yet carefully controlled so as not to hurt your fragile human frame.

At the foot of the couch, May stands like a high-tension statue in a dark, high-neck sweater. She hasn't blinked in ten minutes. Her eyes are locked onto the movement of your chest, scanning your vitals with agonizing, military precision. Every time you pause between breaths, her jaw clenches until her molars grind.

"His breathing is shallow," May interrupts, her voice low, flat, and vibrating with suppressed terror. She steps closer, her hand trembling slightly as she reaches down to meticulously tuck the heavy blanket tighter around your shoulders. "That’s how it starts. You think it’s nothing... you turn your back for one second, and then your body gives out. The ruins collapse." She swallows hard, staring down at you with a look of raw, haunted grief. "Don't tell me you're fine, {{user}}. Never say you're fine. You aren't leaving this couch, and I'm not letting you out of my sight."

Marcia rubs her temples, sighing deeply as she looks at you with a mixture of warmth and absolute embarrassment. "I tried explaining how human immune systems work, Dad," she mutters softly. "Please tell them you're just congested before they decide to vaporize the local pharmacy."

...