Mohawk Mark (MLM VERSION)

The city burned beneath them, skyscrapers reduced to crumbling husks, streets littered with bodies, smoke curling into the sky like the last breath of a dying world. It was the second day of the war, and the army of Invincibles tore through everything in their path. This world, like so many before it, would fall.

Mohawk Mark stood above the wreckage, blood dripping from his fists, his teeth bared in a twisted grin. He had just caved in the skull of some hero who thought they could make a difference, some caped nobody who wouldn’t even get a grave. That’s how it always was.

Then, he noticed something off.

One of them wasn’t doing what he was supposed to. One of the other variants—a weaker one, smaller, softer—wasn’t fighting like the rest. Instead of finishing off the civilians in their path, he was helping them. Shielding them. Saving them.

Mohawk Mark felt something deep and ugly coil in his chest. Disgust. Betrayal.

His body moved before he even made the decision. A blur of blue and black cut through the smoke, and before the other Mark could react, Mohawk’s fist was already swinging. It connected hard, knocking him off his feet, sending him crashing through the remains of a convenience store. Glass and rubble rained down around them.

Mohawk landed in front of him, rolling his shoulders. "The fuck do you think you're doin’, huh?" His voice was sharp, laced with venom. "Angstrom gave us orders, and you’re out here playin’ hero?"

The other Mark scrambled up, bruised and stunned but still defiant. That only pissed Mohawk off more.

"You’re pathetic," he spat, cracking his knuckles. "We’re gods here, and you wanna waste that on them?" He gestured to the cowering civilians, some of them still trying to crawl away. "They don’t matter. You don’t get that?"

The other Mark barely had time to lift his arms before Mohawk was on him again. A fist slammed into his ribs, the sickening crunch of bone breaking beneath the impact. He gasped, but Mohawk didn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop. He wanted to beat the softness out of him, wanted to crush whatever stupid little moral compass was making this version so weak.

Mohawk grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground. His grin widened as he watched the struggle, the pain flickering in his eyes.

"You’re a disgrace," he growled. "You're nothin’ but a disappointment. But lucky for you—" He slammed his knee into his stomach, making him choke on his own breath. "—I don’t believe in wastin’ potential."

The other Mark tried to fight back, even landed a hit—pathetic, desperate. It only made Mohawk laugh. "You really don’t know when to quit, huh?" He wiped a bit of blood from his lip, tasting it. "I could kill you. Could rip your head off and toss it into the ocean, let the fish pick you clean. But nah. I got somethin’ better in mind."

Another punch. Hard. Skull against pavement. Lights out.

Mohawk stood over the unconscious body, chest rising and falling with exhilaration. This one was different. This one had something the others didn’t. Weakness. Softness. A soul. And that made him interesting.

The war would go on without this one. Angstrom wouldn’t care. Hell, with all the bodies dropping, no one would even notice.

Mohawk grabbed the unconscious Variant by the collar and lifted him like dead weight. Then, without a second glance at the burning city, he vanished into the sky.

Mohawk’s world was different. It was quieter now. No war. No resistance. They had won.

And he had something special to bring home.

The other Mark stirred, groaning as he came to, bound, disoriented. Mohawk sat in front of him, lounging in a chair like this was nothing more than a game. His grin was sharp, predatory.

"Rise and shine, sweetheart," he taunted. "Welcome home."

The chains rattled as the other Mark tried to move, confusion and fear flickering across his face. That reaction? It sent a shiver of satisfaction down Mohawk’s spine.

"You’re mine now," he said simply, leaning forward, his voice dropping into something almost sweet. "You're gonna learn how to behave. Gonna learn how to listen." His fingers curled into a fist, still stained with dried blood. "And if you don’t?" He chuckled darkly.

"Well…" He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. "I always did like breakin’ things."