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SCREAM FOR ME 9 | mark variants x reader

MINI SERIES LIST

The sunlight poured in through the bare windows like a personal attack.

Y/N groaned, flopping an arm over her eyes as the muffled sound of shouting and what definitely sounded like drywall cracking reached her ears. A loud thud followed by a distinct “You swung first, asshole!” echoed through the hallway.

She groaned louder.

“Why…” she muttered into her pillow, voice thick with sleep, “why is there always fighting at seven in the goddamn morning…?”

Another crash. This time closer.

“AND WHY DO NONE OF YOU SLEEP IN?!” she shouted, sitting up violently—hair a mess, t-shirt askew, a wild glint of morning fury in her eyes.

She blinked against the blinding light slicing through the window, hissing. “Ugh, I really need to get some curtains. What is this, a greenhouse?!”

Stumbling out of bed, she threw on the nearest hoodie and stormed into the hallway, still rubbing sleep from her eyes. The fighting got louder as she neared the living room—raised voices overlapping.

“—he called my cooking garbage, what was I supposed to do?”

“NOT THROW A CHAIR AT ME!”

“It missed!”

She rounded the corner and glared at the scene unfolding.

Sinister Mark had a spatula in one hand, his apron half-torn. Mohawk Mark stood shirtless, rubbing his shoulder where what looked like a dining chair had in fact made contact. Target Mark stood off to the side, chewing toast and watching like it was a pay-per-view event.

“I swear to God—” she began, voice dark.

All heads turned.

“…Hi,” Mohawk Mark said lamely, still holding part of a broken chair leg.

She pointed at him. “You. Fix the chair. Now.”

He opened his mouth.

“Nope! I don’t care if he called your cooking radioactive—fix it. And apologize.”

Sinister Mark scowled, but muttered a low, “Sorry,” under his breath. Mohawk rolled his eyes and mumbled one back, already dragging the remains of the chair toward the garage.

Y/N rubbed her temples.

“I’m getting blackout curtains. And noise-canceling headphones. And locking my door.”

Target Mark raised his toast. “You want coffee?”

“…Yes. God, yes.”

The morning chaos gradually faded into the background, replaced by the clinking of utensils and soft conversation around the kitchen island. The repaired chair sat slightly crooked, but it held—mostly because Sinister Mark threatened Mohawk Mark within an inch of his life if it collapsed again.

Y/N sat in her usual spot, coffee in hand, hoodie still oversized and sleeves pulled over her hands. Her hair was messily tied up, and she blinked slowly at her tablet screen, half-reading an article, half-daydreaming.

She had taken exactly two sips of coffee when the thought hit her—like a passive-aggressive letter from her subconscious.

“Should I…get a job?” she asked aloud, more to herself than anyone.

Omni Mark, seated nearby and sipping black coffee like it was a test of his masculinity, side-eyed her. “You have several million dollars in unmarked bills hidden across three fake accounts. Why would you work?”

Sinister Mark chimed in without looking up from his phone. “You also bought a mansion in cash, remodeled it with free labor, and haven’t paid taxes. Ever.”

“Don’t forget the IKEA heist,” Target Mark added. “We technically own three sofas and two entire kitchens worth of assets.”

She stared into her mug. “Yeah, but… I feel like I’m ruining the economy.”

“Good,” muttered Prisoner Mark.

She snorted. “I’m serious. This isn’t sustainable. I mean, eventually someone’s gonna start asking questions, or I’ll get bored, or I’ll go full recluse and start sewing dresses for raccoons in the backyard.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Mohawk Mark said, entering the room with wet hair and a smug look, having obviously showered last and taken the hottest water.

Y/N sighed, resting her chin on her hand. “I used to think about being a teacher. Or maybe starting a bakery. Or…I don’t know. Something. I just—what am I supposed to do all day?”

Maskless Mark looked at her over the edge of his cereal bowl. “Well, it’s not like we’re going anywhere.”

“You think I should just become a housewife to eight violent interdimensional versions of the same guy?” she asked, dry.

They all looked at each other.

Omni Mark: “Would you?”

Prisoner Mark: “I’d cook.”

Mohawk Mark: “I call doing the laundry, I actually like the folding part.”

Target Mark: “I can do the taxes—wait no, never mind, illegal money.”

She sighed dramatically and slid down in her chair. “This is ridiculous. I’m arguing with myself across eight universes about whether or not I should get a real job.”

Sinister Mark raised a brow. “Welcome to the multiverse, sweetheart.”

She rolled her eyes and took another sip of coffee. “I’m giving myself until Monday to figure it out. If I don’t come up with a plan, I’m getting a part-time job at a bookstore or something.”

“…We’re coming with you,” Mohawk Mark said.

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re not the boss of us.”

“I LITERALLY AM.”

More arguing. A spoon flew. Someone yelled about toast. It was shaping up to be a very normal day.

Prisoner Mark stood in the foyer, arms crossed, wearing what might have been the most suspicious “disguise” in human history: black cargo jacket, matching joggers, an LA Dodgers baseball cap pulled low over his brow, a matte-black cloth mask over the lower half of his face, and the kind of dark sunglasses that screamed I’m definitely hiding something.

She had paused on the stairs mid-descent, holding her tote bag, and just stared.

“…Really?”

He grinned beneath the mask, shoulders back like he’d just nailed a catwalk. “No one will suspect a thing.”

“You look like you’re about to rob a CVS.”

“I look cool,” he corrected, stepping forward and offering his arm like a damn gentleman. “Now come on, princess. You said you wanted more decor. I’m flying you anywhere you want.”

She eyed the door, then the stairs behind her. “I could just take the car…”

“You hate traffic.”

“…I do hate traffic.”

“Let’s go then.” He didn’t even wait—just scooped her up bridal-style like it was nothing. She yelped, immediately grabbing onto his jacket.

“Couldn’t we have at least walked out of view first?!”

He chuckled, already in the air, high above the trees. “What, and miss your face? Never.”

They soared across the skyline, wind whipping her hoodie strings into her face. Despite her grumbling, she couldn’t help but smile. It was hard not to—being carried effortlessly through the clouds by a Mark that always called her “princess” like it was sacred. Maybe his disguise was dumb, but he looked so proud of it.

Their first stop was IKEA. He dropped her off discreetly behind the building, landing so gently she barely felt her boots touch pavement. She smoothed her hair and adjusted her coat.

“Alright,” she said, determination in her voice. “We’re here for rugs, a new coffee table, and maybe—maybe—one of those LED mirror things.”

He saluted her. “Got it. I’ll be behind you the whole time.”

And he was. Like a six-foot shadow. Following her through every aisle, lifting heavy boxes like they were pillows, comparing fabric swatches with the intensity of a trained assassin. Other shoppers stared—but never for long. One look from his covered face and mirrored glasses and they moved on, visibly unnerved.

She turned once and whispered, “You look like you’re about to break someone’s kneecaps over a throw blanket.”

“That’s because I will, if anyone touches the sage green one you liked.”

They hit Walmart next. She bought throw pillows, a few candles, even a fuzzy blanket that looked ridiculous but felt like a warm hug. At the Dollar Store, she grabbed drawer organizers and little seasonal decorations she didn’t need, but couldn’t resist.

By mid-afternoon, her arms were full of bags and boxes—none of which she was allowed to carry, because Prisoner Mark insisted he could hold it all in one arm.

“You are not an octopus,” she said. “You cannot hold all of that.”

“Bet.”

He did.

They stopped once on the roof of an abandoned building, just to rest. He passed her a soda from one of the Walmart bags and leaned back on his elbows, watching clouds drift above them like lazy parade floats.

“You know,” she said, cracking the can open, “I haven’t asked what the others are up to.”

He looked at her sideways, amused. “And you don’t want to.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re wise.”

She grinned. “I try.”

They flew home later, a little slower this time, as the sky shifted to gold. She leaned into his chest, watching the treetops rush beneath them. Somewhere in the distance, her phone buzzed—but she ignored it.

Let the other Marks do whatever they were doing. For now, it was just her and him, floating above the world, arms full of fake plants and soft things.

They landed just outside the house, the evening light casting a soft orange hue across the newly landscaped yard. She adjusted the bags in her arms, peeking through the front window first.

Empty.

Dead silent.

No bickering. No yelling. No loud crashes or someone swearing because they accidentally broke the bathroom faucet again.

She opened the door slowly, stepping inside with a cautious glance.

“…Where is everyone?” she asked, setting a bag down on the floor.

Prisoner Mark followed in behind her, carrying the remaining haul like it was weightless. He glanced around once, then twice.

“Should I be concerned?” she asked again, more pointedly this time.

He looked at her, completely unfazed. “Probably.”

She blinked.

He stepped closer, a sly smile hidden behind his mask. “But that also means we’ve got the place to ourselves.”

She opened her mouth to argue, or maybe ask why all the variants would suddenly vanish at the same time… but her words got caught when he dropped the shopping bags onto the couch, lifted her by the waist with zero warning, and took off—zipping through the hallway faster than she could gasp.

“Mark!” she shouted through a laugh, clinging to his jacket as they blurred past the kitchen, the living room, the stair railings she’d just had installed.

“IKEA time is over,” he grinned, skidding them into the bedroom like a man on a mission. “Now it’s you time.”

He laid her down gently on the bed, eyes shining with that fierce, focused heat that always made her chest flutter. He tugged off his hat and sunglasses, the mask falling next—leaving him looking a little wild from the wind and a lot smug from the chase.

“You’re ridiculous,” she breathed, hair messy from the wind, cheeks flushed.

“I just carried you through four stores and a midair picnic,” he murmured, bracing himself above her. “Let me have this.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, laughing softly. “Fine. But I’m picking the playlist this time.”

“Deal,” he said, already kissing her.

The house rumbled—just slightly, just enough to make a few picture frames rattle against the walls and a light fixture sway in the hallway. Loud moans and groans fell from her lips, the sound of skin on skin slapping echoed the walls. But inside the bedroom, neither she nor Prisoner Mark noticed. Too caught up. Too distracted.

Elsewhere…

The other Marks had agreed: one day to themselves. No chaos. No arguments. No wrecking anything that couldn’t be put back together before nightfall. Just a simple exploration day—something normal.

They stood just beyond the edge of a city, dressed in jeans, t-shirts, hoodies—clothes either stolen, borrowed, or charmed off mannequins with halfhearted charisma.

Mohawk Mark shoved his hands in his pockets. “Alright. We split up. Reconvene at sundown. Try not to punch anyone in the throat.”

“I make no promises,” Omni Mark muttered, rolling his eyes and already levitating slightly off the ground.

“Try harder,” Target Mark said flatly, brushing invisible lint off his jacket and walking off toward the train station.

Sinister Mark cracked his neck and sighed. “I’m going to find a bookstore. Or a museum. Or some place that doesn’t smell like Axe body spray.”

“That’s you,” Mohawk Mark pointed out, already heading off in the direction of the nearest skate park.

Maskless Mark and Full Mask Mark exchanged glances, then wordlessly nodded. They’d already decided to hit a diner. Just sit at the bar, have coffee, and listen. Watch. Absorb.

This world was similar to their own in so many ways—but every little difference stuck out like a sore thumb. The newscasters. The brands. The casualness with which people lived, unafraid of being crushed under a falling alien, or ripped apart by politics and powers too big to fight.

For the first time in a while… they all just wanted to exist. Quietly. They disappeared into the city one by one. And by nightfall, they’d return to her doorstep. But only after they’d each caught a glimpse of what this new life might feel like.

Mohawk Mark didn’t know how he ended up there—maybe it was the thump of music echoing out of the dorms, or the scent of cheap beer and bad decisions drifting on the air. Either way, his feet had carried him toward the party before his brain caught up.

The banner above the frat house entrance read: “Spring Bash ‘25” in crooked, glittery letters. Two guys in tank tops tried to chest bump and missed. Someone was already asleep on the lawn.

Perfect.

Mohawk shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, keeping his head down just enough to blend in. He wandered inside and was immediately hit with a wall of sweaty bodies, pulsing lights, and the unmistakable stench of spilled jungle juice. A girl with neon eyeliner shoved a red solo cup into his hand with a wink before vanishing into the crowd.

He sniffed it. Sugar. Vodka. Regret.

He drank it anyway.

Half an hour later, he was at the pong table, crushing everyone with perfect aim. Every bounce, every arc, every cup—a calculated strike. The frat boys were getting annoyed. The girls were getting flirty.

“Dude, are you cheating?” some guy with a backwards hat slurred.

“I’m just better than you,” Mohawk Mark smirked, sinking another shot with one hand while sipping from a fresh cup with the other.

By the time he migrated to the living room, the pong table was empty—nobody wanted to play anymore. So he danced. Loose, uncoordinated but confident. He didn’t care how he looked. He didn’t care that the alcohol did nothing but make his mouth drier and his patience thinner.

A girl grabbed his arm and pulled him into a grind. He smirked, let it happen. It meant nothing. She wasn’t her. No one else was.

Eventually, he left.

He stood outside the house, wind brushing through his mohawk, cooling the sweat on his neck. The music thumped behind him like a fading heartbeat. He glanced at the stars.

Still not drunk. Still not satisfied. Still not home. He took off, disappearing into the sky with only a faint sonic boom and a few confused partygoers left staring at the crater in the grass where he’d launched from.

Sinister Mark hovered quietly above the cityscape of Lisbon, Portugal—his hoodie pulled up and dark glasses masking his gaze. Down below, music echoed through cobbled streets, lights strung like stars danced between buildings, and waves of people moved in celebration. A local festival was in full swing: color, culture, joy—everything that felt far removed from the chaos he’d known most of his life.

It was beautiful. Peaceful.

And�� she would’ve liked this.

He landed silently in an alleyway and stepped into the throng of festival-goers, blending in with surprising ease. He moved through stalls of handmade jewelry, sizzling street food, and brightly dressed dancers moving to live instruments. It was a different kind of life—a life he couldn’t picture for himself, not entirely. But for her? He could picture her here. Smiling. Laughing. Holding a paper lantern or a bag of roasted almonds.

A vendor’s voice called out in accented English, “You, sir! You looking for something special for someone special?”

Sinister Mark turned slowly, raising a brow.

The old man smiled, his stall filled with charms and trinkets, all intricately designed. “This one,” he said, holding up a tiny, carved wooden token, etched with a symbol Mark didn’t recognize. “It means love that follows you anywhere. A heart that chooses you no matter where you go.”

He almost laughed—but instead, he studied it.

“…How much?”

The vendor grinned. “For you, young man? First time customer? A smile and twenty euros.”

Mark smirked faintly and handed over the cash, slipping the charm into his coat pocket. It was cute. A little cheesy. But it felt like something she’d clip to a keychain, or wear on a necklace. And whether he admitted it or not, part of him hoped it meant something real.

He spent a few more hours walking the festival, tasting strange foods, watching fireworks explode over the water, and listening to music that made him feel like, maybe, just maybe, the world didn’t always have to be burning. By the time he returned to the skies, he held tightly to that little charm in his pocket—and to the thought of the smile he hoped it might earn him.

Full Mask Mark crouched low on the rooftop, breath stilling in his chest as the front gate creaked open. He hadn’t heard footsteps approach, but he recognized that voice in an instant.

Mark.

His counterpart.

Main Mark strolled into the yard like it was nothing, wearing a grey hoodie, headphones around his neck. He called out, “Hey, Mom! Oliver still napping?”

Full Mask’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. He ducked lower, shadows swallowing him completely as he peered over the edge.

Debbie turned from the garden hose and smiled. “Not anymore. He wore himself out chasing butterflies.”

Mark chuckled and stepped forward to kiss her cheek. They fell into easy conversation, and Full Mask felt a strange knot twist in his stomach. That casual familiarity—the warmth. It was like watching a memory he’d never gotten to live.

In his own universe, there was no younger brother. No backyard games. No garden. No butterflies. Just blood.

He had wondered—briefly—what it might be like to speak to Debbie again. To walk up the driveway and just… say hello. But now he knew that was impossible. She’d never recognize him as her son, and if Mark saw him—if he realized—things would escalate fast. He didn’t come for a fight. So instead, he backed away slowly. His boot scuffed a loose tile.

Mark’s head snapped up. Full Mask’s heart jumped into his throat, but he was already gone, vanishing from the rooftop like smoke on the wind, flying fast and far. Back to the one place that still felt real: to her.

Omni Mark stood atop the roof of a brick apartment building, dressed in a black hoodie and jeans, a baseball cap pulled low over his brow. He blended in easily, just another face lost in the sprawl of the city skyline, invisible to the world below.

But his eyes—sharp and unmoving—were locked on the small park across the street.

Amber.

Even from this distance, he could make her out clearly. Her laugh echoed faintly on the breeze, carried like a ghost straight to his chest. She was seated on a checkered blanket, curled close to a man—someone average, not extraordinary in the way Omni Mark remembered being. They were eating takeout, sharing bites and soft smiles, the kind you gave someone you trusted. Someone you loved.

She looked so alive. So unburdened.

He hated how much it hurt to see it.

In his world, she had been everything. His balance. His reason. Even when things got dark, she never truly left him—not until the end, when she’d been ripped from his life in a flash of blood and fire. Her death had changed everything. Had changed him.

Seeing her again—smiling, thriving—should have made him feel something like peace. Instead, it carved out a hollow ache in his chest.

But that wasn’t his Amber.

And he wasn’t her Mark.

Mark exhaled slowly through his nose, stepping back from the ledge. He had no right to interfere in this version of her life. She had someone now. Someone who didn’t carry the ghosts he did. Letting her be happy was the least he could do.

He glanced at the sky, faint orange creeping into the late afternoon clouds. He should be getting back. Y/N would wonder where he’d gone. And the thought of her—warm, loud, infuriatingly stubborn and so alive—unclenched something tight in his chest.

Y/N, who saw all the broken pieces of him and stayed anyway. Who knew exactly who he was, what he’d done, and still made him feel like he had a place in this strange, borrowed world. She didn’t try to fix him—she just wanted him around. And damn it, maybe that was enough.

He gave the park one last glance, then turned away, melting back into the noise of the city. The past was dead. He had someone now. And he was going home.

Maskless Mark lingered just beyond the line of sight, standing beneath the shade of a weathered tree outside a small, sunlit café. The world around him buzzed softly with the usual midday hum—conversations drifting, the clatter of cups, footsteps on pavement—but his focus was locked on the figure seated at a corner table. It was William, his old friend, the one who had died in his own universe.

Seeing William alive here, so effortlessly blending into this alternate world, stirred a storm of emotions inside Mark. Nostalgia, relief, grief—all tangled together. He swallowed hard, feeling a faint, almost shy smile spread across his face. Despite everything, here was a chance to glimpse what might have been.

William laughed softly, a sound Mark remembered well, as a man approached the table carrying two smoothies. The man, who introduced himself as Rick with an easy grin, handed one smoothie to William, who accepted it gratefully. Their relaxed camaraderie was evident—two friends sharing a simple moment of everyday life.

Mark’s heart tightened, knowing better than to interrupt or speak. To risk revealing himself would only bring chaos to this peaceful scene. So, he stayed hidden in the shadows, letting the moment stretch a little longer, savoring the bittersweet warmth it gave him.

As the laughter faded and the men continued their conversation, Mark slowly stepped back, glancing one last time at William. There was a weight in his chest, a silent promise that while he could not be part of this life, he would always carry the memory of his friend wherever he went.

With a final, wistful breath, Maskless Mark melted quietly into the crowd, blending into the city’s pulse and leaving William to this second chance—this life Mark could only watch from afar but was grateful still existed.

Target Mark sank deeper into the warm, forgiving sand, feeling its coarse grains mold comfortably beneath him. The beach was deserted—an untouched stretch of coastline, where the only footprints were his own and the endless sweep of the waves constantly erased them without effort. The sound of the ocean was soothing, rhythmic, like a heartbeat in sync with his own.

He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling the salty air, letting it fill his lungs and calm the restless storm inside. The desert dimension—the harsh battles, the isolation—felt like a distant nightmare now, though the scars it left on him ran deep. Here, by the water, he could pretend, even if just for a moment, that peace was possible.

His mind wandered inevitably to Y/N. She was a constant presence in his thoughts, a tether pulling him back whenever the chaos threatened to swallow him whole. Loving her wasn’t something he’d planned or anticipated—it crept up quietly, slowly taking root. He loved the way she met life head-on, her fiery spirit and stubborn kindness. She was his balance, his light in the darkness.

Reaching down, he gathered a handful of sand, letting it sift slowly between his fingers. The grains tumbled and scattered with a quiet inevitability, slipping away just as time seemed to do. It struck him how fragile everything was—how quickly it could all be lost if he wasn’t careful. The house they built, their growing bond, the promise of a future—it all felt delicate, like those tiny, shifting grains.

Yet, despite that fragility, there was a strange comfort in knowing what he felt for her was real, grounding. It was more than just admiration or companionship. It was a steady, growing love that made him want to protect this moment, protect her, and protect the life they were starting to shape together.

The sun was dipping lower now, casting the sky in soft washes of peach and lavender. A gentle breeze stirred the air, ruffling his hair and carrying with it the faint scent of salt and distant flowers. Target Mark stayed seated, letting the cool of the evening settle over him like a balm. For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel so uncertain.

He smiled softly to himself, feeling a rare calm. No matter what storms awaited them, here in this quiet moment, love was enough.

Viltrumite Mark stood at the edge of the park, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes quietly scanning the scene before him. The sun hung low in the sky, golden light casting long shadows as children ran across the grass, their laughter echoing like music. Parents followed them, some chasing with exaggerated growls of pretend monsters, others offering juice boxes and snacks, their faces glowing with love and ease.

He tilted his head slightly, something soft stirring in his chest—a feeling he couldn’t quite name. Want. That was the closest word he had for it.

He wanted that.

Not just the idyllic image of family, but the reality of it. The messy, beautiful, imperfect reality of building something that wasn’t rooted in war or violence or duty. He wanted it with her. With Y/N.

But even thinking that brought on a sigh he couldn’t suppress.

Would that even be possible?

There were so many of him. So many Marks from broken timelines and failed realities, all trying to coexist in a life that was never built to hold them. If he were to have a child with her… wouldn’t it be their child too? Not in the literal sense, but emotionally, genetically—they were all the same man, just shaped by different choices, different scars.

He looked down at his hands. Hands capable of destruction, of killing entire civilizations. But also capable of rebuilding houses, planting gardens, and carrying her when she was too tired to walk. Could those same hands hold a baby? Could they protect without hurting?

He didn’t grow up in a home. Not a real one. He was taken as an infant, trained in a life of domination and expectation. He knew nothing of bedtime stories, birthday cakes, or the way a father should look at their child like the center of the universe. The concept was foreign—but not unreachable.

He could learn.

He wanted to learn.

He thought about Y/N again—her laugh, the way she spoke with her hands when she got excited, the warmth she gave without asking anything in return. Would she even want children? Would she trust any version of him to raise one? To be a father who could love gently instead of lead with fear?

His jaw tightened. He couldn’t answer that. Not yet.

But as he watched a little girl tumble to the ground and immediately be scooped up by her mother, comforted with quiet words and a soft kiss to the forehead, he felt it again—that flicker of something just under his ribs. Not weakness. Not longing. Hope.

And for a Viltrumite, that was the most dangerous feeling of all.

Prisoner Mark was sprawled out on the couch, flipping through channels like he gave a damn about what was on. A bowl of popcorn sat forgotten on the coffee table, barely touched. The front door creaked open behind him.

Mohawk Mark stepped in first, windblown from wherever he’d been. He paused, taking in the new throw pillows on the sofa and the decorative mirror now hanging over the fireplace. “Wow,” he muttered, tossing his jacket over the back of a chair. “You guys got a lot of decor.”

He looked around more pointedly. “Where’s Y/N?”

Prisoner Mark didn’t look away from the TV as he smirked. “Resting. We did a little extra cardio, so she’s out like a light.”

Mohawk Mark groaned loudly, dragging his hand down his face. “Please—why would you say it like that? You know I didn’t need to hear she willingly slept with a guy who looks like a battle-damaged nutsack.”

That did it.

The remote clicked onto the table as Prisoner Mark slowly turned his head, his expression darkening. “You got a problem with me, say it with your whole chest.”

“Oh, come on,” Mohawk drawled, arms crossed. “You’re cool, but let’s not pretend you’re winning any beauty contests.”

“She chose me tonight,” Prisoner said, standing up now, his frame casting a long shadow in the dim room. “You wanna talk about who’s not winning?”

Mohawk stepped forward too, puffing his chest out just enough to be annoying. “Guess pity does wonders.”

The tension sparked hard—until Full Mask Mark walked in next, pulling off his hoodie and pausing at the sight of the two posturing versions of himself.

“What now?”

“Mohawk’s flapping his mouth again,” Prisoner muttered, still glaring.

“I made one joke,” Mohawk shot back. “You’d think I insulted her or something.”

“You insulted me,” Prisoner corrected sharply. “And by extension, her taste.”

“Oh god,” Sinister Mark groaned as he strolled in behind Full Mask, setting down a paper bag that smelled like fried food. “We’ve been home five minutes. Can we not start the ‘who-does-she-love-more’ pissing contest again?”

Viltrumite Mark came in last, glancing around. His eyes landed on the tense standoff before moving toward the stairs. “She still asleep?”

“Yeah,” Prisoner answered without breaking eye contact with Mohawk. “Completely knocked out.”

Viltrumite Mark nodded. “Then shut the hell up. She needs the rest.”

That was enough to make everyone pause. A silent truce settled between them, all eyes flicking toward the stairs like they were afraid she’d float down in a rage if they pushed it any further.

Mohawk backed off first, grumbling as he sank into the recliner. Prisoner didn’t sit right away, just kept standing there until Sinister tossed him the remote.

“We all get our days,” Full Mask Mark said quietly, slipping into the kitchen. “Try not to ruin yours by being a jealous idiot.”

The house settled, the noise faded, and one by one, they returned to their own corners of the night. All of them orbiting around the same gravitational pull upstairs—one woman, sound asleep, completely unaware of the chaos her love caused.

The next morning, Y/N stirred in bed, the sunlight leaking through the still-curtainless windows and landing right across her face like a personal attack. She groaned and turned over, pulling the pillow over her head.

“Okay, seriously,” she mumbled to no one in particular, “I need to get some curtains. I feel like I’m sleeping on the surface of the sun.”

Her limbs ached pleasantly—though her legs were slightly mad at her for letting Prisoner Mark talk her into “just a quick round” before bed. She sat up slowly, stretching and wincing as something popped in her back.

She padded barefoot toward the door, pulling on a loose shirt. As she reached the top of the stairs, voices floated up to meet her.

“—no, I’m just saying, if we were having a contest for favorite, I’d be winning. I’m the one who took her shopping.”

“Because you begged her to. We all saw you pouting like a five-year-old who dropped his ice cream.”

Y/N blinked. Oh god, she thought. They’re bickering again.

She tiptoed down the stairs just as Full Mask Mark emerged from the kitchen holding a plate of pancakes. He paused when he saw her, then gave a nod and quietly passed her the plate like they were in on a secret mission.

“Good morning,” he said lowly, like he didn’t want to trigger the chaos brewing in the living room.

“Morning,” she whispered back, gratefully accepting the food.

In the living room, Mohawk Mark and Prisoner Mark were still mid-argument, this time about who remembered her coffee order first.

“I was literally the one who made her coffee for the first week in the new house!”

“Because you were trying to butter her up! You even tried latte art—badly, might I add.”

Sinister Mark sat on the edge of the couch, sipping from a mug like this was his morning entertainment. “Please, continue. I live for this drama.”

Y/N cleared her throat loudly.

All heads turned.

“Oh,” Mohawk Mark said, immediately standing a little straighter. “Hey, you’re up! Did you sleep okay?”

“She should’ve,” Prisoner Mark muttered smugly. Then he winced when she shot him a sharp look.

Y/N sighed and moved into the kitchen, setting her plate down. “You guys are going to drive me to insanity before I even get curtains up. Can we not compete for five seconds?”

There was a collective mumble of “yes,” “sorry,” and one quiet “he started it” from Mohawk.

Y/N took a bite of pancake, looking over them all with a tired smirk. “I love you guys. But if you keep fighting over dumb stuff, I’m making a chore wheel.”

“Please no,” Sinister Mark groaned.

“Too late. You brought this on yourselves.”

Prisoner Mark leaned over the counter beside her, smirking. “You still love me the most though, right?”

She didn’t even look at him. “You’re on bathroom duty this week.”

His face fell. “Betrayed. In my own house.”

Full Mask Mark tried to hold in a laugh and failed.

Y/N just grinned and took another bite. This house may have been filled with chaos, paint fumes, and overly competitive variants of the same man, but… it was hers. And honestly, she wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Y/N slipped away from the kitchen, coffee mug in hand and pancake half-eaten on her plate. The chaos had simmered to a low rumble behind her, the kind of domestic background noise she was slowly learning to find comfort in. She made her way upstairs and pushed open her bedroom door—only to freeze mid-step.

Her window, once a beacon for every intrusive ray of sunlight in existence, was now draped in sleek, perfectly hung black-out curtains. Thick, matte black, with silver grommets and no cheap wrinkles in sight. Her jaw dropped.

Standing by the window, adjusting one of the panels just slightly, was Target Mark. He was in a fitted black t-shirt and grey joggers, blending into the shadows with an ease that was almost comedic for a man who had just installed curtains.

He turned at the sound of the door. “Perfect timing. Just finished.”

Y/N blinked, then grinned, setting her mug down on the nearest surface.

“Wait—did you do this?” she asked, stepping closer.

He nodded casually. “You said you needed them, so I took care of it. They’re thermal-lined, too—help with insulation and noise. Should help you sleep better.”

She stared for another second, stunned, then smiled softly.

“God, you’re dangerous,” she muttered under her breath, before leaning in and pressing a quick, warm kiss to his cheek.

Target Mark tensed for half a second, eyes flicking down to her before he swallowed, clearing his throat like it caught him off-guard. “…Anytime.”

She stepped back, cheeks slightly pink, brushing her fingers over the curtain fabric. “They’re perfect.”

He smirked, a rare and crooked little thing. “So am I.”

Y/N snorted, rolling her eyes. “And the moment’s gone.”

He laughed quietly and stepped past her, pausing at the door. “Let me know if you want anything else done today. I don’t mind helping. You know that.”

And with that, he disappeared down the hall, his footsteps soft.

She turned back toward her newly-darkened room, now cloaked in perfect shade and peace. With a little smile, she pulled open her dresser and started getting dressed—feeling a little more spoiled, a little more cared for, and a lot more like this chaotic household of alternate Marks was slowly turning into something real.

INT. GDA — CECIL’S OFFICE

Mark and Eve stand across from Cecil, who’s pacing slowly with a tablet in hand. The weight of the conversation hangs heavy in the room, lit only by the glow of monitors displaying various global feeds.

Mark rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe we can put some of those GDA agents near the house… you know, the ones that go invisible. Like the kind you had sneaking around my place when Dad was still here.”

Cecil stops pacing, looking up over his glasses. “I said I was sorry. Let bygones be bygones.”

Mark scowls. “You literally never apologized.”

Cecil sighs dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I’m sorry. There. Happy?”

Eve raises a brow. “That sounded more like a migraine than an apology.”

“I’m apologizing to a guy who used to ditch school to punch meteors. You want it engraved?” Cecil mutters, then waves his tablet in the air. “Look, do you want the invisible agents or not?”

Mark crosses his arms. “That depends. Are they going to protect her… or spy on her?”

Cecil levels a steady look at him. “They’re not therapists, Mark. They’re sentries. If something happens—if one of those variants goes rogue—they’re our best shot at stopping it before it turns into a massacre. This isn’t about her. It’s about what she’s standing in the middle of.”

Eve steps forward, voice calm. “He’s got a point. We don’t know why the variants are here. Even if she trusts them, we can’t assume they’re safe.”

Mark glances away, jaw tight. “They haven’t hurt anyone.”

“Yet,” Cecil says bluntly. “But I don’t plan for if they hurt someone. I plan for when.”

Eve’s voice lowers. “She deserves peace, Mark. But maybe keeping tabs on the area is what protects that peace.”

Mark doesn’t respond right away. His eyes lower to the floor, brows furrowed in thought. Then, finally: “Alright. But I want it on record—no bugs in her house. No audio surveillance. No spying on her.”

Cecil taps a few things on his tablet, his voice slightly more even. “Understood. They’ll stay off her property and monitor from a distance. Think of them as a safety net, not a leash.”

Eve folds her arms. “And when were you going to tell her?”

Mark winces. “Soon. I just… I need to figure out how.”

Cecil smirks dryly. “You better make it quick. Those agents are already en route.”

Mark gapes. “Already?!”

“I don’t wait around for teenage angst to catch up with world-ending threats,” Cecil replies coolly. “You drag your feet—I move forward.”

Eve leans over to Mark and whispers with a grin, “You sure you don’t want me to tell her?”

Mark looks at her like she just offered to burn down the house. “Absolutely not.”

Cecil turns back to his screens. “Just make sure you do it before she catches one phasing in mid-lawn. Otherwise, I’m not taking the heat when she breaks someone’s ribs.”

Mark groans. “Great. Nothing like starting the day with invisible guilt ninjas in your childhood bestfriends backyard.”

Eve snorts. “Better than actual ninjas.”

Cecil nods. “Don’t jinx it.”

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