Invincible: Sentry

The world around me was a haze of chaos and fire, the air thick with the acrid stench of smoke and burning wreckage. I watched the battlefield with wide, frantic eyes, my heart pounding in my chest. My mind raced, trying to make sense of the devastation. In front of me, the hero—the one we didn't know—was finished fighting, his body battered, torn, and covered in blood. But his resolve? His will to protect? That never faltered.

I saw him try to rise again. Leaning against Robot

I hovered above, the pink sphere around me shimmering in the dim smoke-filled air, my gaze never leaving the scene.

I didn't wait to see what happened next. I shot down to the battlefield, my pulse racing. Time slowed as I neared him, the ground littered with debris and bodies. 

I landed beside him, my heart stopping for a moment as I saw the extent of his injuries. He was barely breathing, his chest a mangled mess of flesh, burned and torn. Blood—the black, charred kind—spilled from his mouth, and I could hear the faintest, rattling breaths. My mind screamed at me to act, but I felt paralyzed for a moment, unsure of what to do.

"Please, hold on," I whispered, my voice trembling.

Robot, his mechanical voice cutting through the air as he assessed the situation. "Atom Eve, we need to get him out of here now."

I nodded quickly, swallowing the lump in my throat. This was beyond anything we'd ever seen before. His wounds were catastrophic, and yet, he had fought on. Why did he keep going? My heart broke for him. The strength he showed, the sheer will to protect—was this what heroes were supposed to be? Was this sacrifice his fate?

I reached out with my powers, forming a sphere around him. His body, limp and broken, was now encased in pink energy, a shield to carry him away from this hellish battleground. His blood—his shattered body—was too much to bear, but I couldn't let him die here. Not after everything he had done.

As I began to lift him into the air, Robot's voice echoed in my mind. "You need to get him to the hospital. Fast."

I nodded again, my heart heavy. There wasn't time to waste. The city's ruins blurred beneath us as I sped toward the G.D.A. headquarters. I felt him stir slightly, a broken groan escaping his lips. "Did we win?" he managed to rasp through the blood. His voice was hoarse, and I couldn't help but flinch at the raw pain in it.

I swallowed, my stomach tight. "Yes, you did," I whispered, though I wasn't sure if it was true. Did they win?

"Thank God," he muttered, before his body sagged again, as if the question was the last vestige of strength he had left. I glanced down at him, and for a brief moment, I saw a glimmer of vulnerability in the hero. Just a man, like any other. His chest rattled as he coughed, spitting blood into the sphere around him.

The G.D.A. building came into view. I shot through the entrance, the emergency alarms blaring as soldiers scrambled. I felt the tension in the air—the fear, the uncertainty. Everyone knew the stakes. But they couldn't possibly understand what it was like to witness a hero fall like this.

The doctors were ready, waiting for him. I lowered the sphere, and they quickly moved in, their faces grim. They took over, their hands working swiftly to assess and treat his wounds. I stepped back, feeling the weight of the moment settle on my shoulders.

"Don't let his mother see him like this," Cecil's voice was firm, cold, as he stepped into the room, his eyes meeting mine. "Good work, Eve. But there's still work to be done."

I nodded, but my mind was still reeling. I watched as the doctors moved with precision, trying to save him, to undo the devastation he had endured. The question that had been plaguing me since the battle, since the moment I first saw him—Who is he?—still lingered in the air.

"Who is he?" I found myself asking, my voice barely above a whisper, my heart heavy with uncertainty.

Cecil turned his gaze toward me, a small, almost imperceptible grin tugging at his lips. "He goes by Sentry," he said, his voice soft but filled with the weight of something far deeper.

Sentry. The name echoed in my mind as I stood there, watching him fight for his life. Who is he? What was it about him that made him endure all of this? And more importantly—what happens now?

But the one thing I knew for certain—he had saved us all.

Now, it was our turn to save him.

--- 

My breath caught in my throat.

"Dad!" I shouted, pushing my way through the debris, my heart in my throat.

Captain Atom Wilkins, my father, was right where I expected him to be—among the wreckage, directing survivors to shelter, his blood-stained uniform a grim reminder of the chaos we'd just survived. He was kneeling beside a group of civilians, giving orders with a calm, authoritative voice that cut through the panic. I could see the strain in his shoulders, the exhaustion in his eyes, but he didn't stop. Not for a second.

I pushed my way through the debris, my heart pounding in my chest, but I didn't need to scream for him. He heard me coming before I reached him, his head snapping up as his eyes searched the wreckage, instantly locking on mine.

"Samantha," he rasped, his voice low and rough from the smoke and the battle. His face softened for just a fraction of a second—something I hadn't seen in too long—before that familiar, stubborn resolve took over. "How's the kid? Is he gonna make it?"

I took a breath, steadying myself. I couldn't let the weight of everything crush me now, not when he needed answers. 

"He's alive," I said, my voice steady despite the gnawing worry in my chest. "It's gonna be a fight, but he'll make it. He's strong."

His gaze lingered on me, searching. For a moment, the chaos around us seemed to fade into the background. The distant sound of rubble collapsing, the screams of the wounded—they all fell away, leaving just the two of us. That father-daughter bond we always had, forged in both the quiet moments and the hellish ones like these.

He didn't say anything right away, just gave me a long, hard look. Then, as if shaking himself from the moment, he gestured toward the nearby shelter, giving orders without missing a beat. But I wasn't going to let him slip back into work mode without saying something.

"Dad," I said, my voice firmer this time. "You need to get to a hospital. You're bleeding."

He barely glanced at the blood soaking through his sleeve. "I'm fine," he muttered, brushing it off like it was nothing. "I've had worse."

I knew that tone. It was the same one he'd used a thousand times. The one that made me want to scream at him to stop being so damn stubborn.

I moved closer, my hands glowing faintly as I focused. With a wave of my fingers, I manipulated the pink energy that pulsed from my core, shaping it into a soft, yet firm fabric. In an instant, I fashioned a makeshift arm sling, the energy weaving itself seamlessly around his arm, forming a secure bandage. As I adjusted it, I could see the discomfort in his face, but he didn't flinch. He didn't stop working. He never did.

When I was done, I took a step back, eyes scanning him for any other obvious injuries. There were plenty, but it didn't matter. He'd just keep going, the same way he always did. Just like me.

"You're not invincible, Dad," I said softly, almost to myself, but loud enough for him to hear.

"Never said I was," he replied, his voice low but steady. "But you've gotta keep going, Sam. That's what we do. People rely on us."

His eyes met mine again, and this time, I saw it—a flicker of something softer, something more human, before it vanished behind that same wall of duty.

"I'll get to the hospital when I can," he said, and I knew better than to argue. "You know how this works."

I bit my lip, resisting the urge to pull him away from it all, from this damn fight. Instead, I kissed him on the cheek, quick but meaningful, just like we'd done a hundred times before.

"You better make it through this, Dad," I murmured, stepping back. "I'm not losing you."

He gave a small, crooked smile, the kind that barely touched his eyes but still managed to convey his strength.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said with quiet certainty. "You know that."

For a moment, I just stood there, watching him. I didn't want to leave him, but there was work to be done. There always was. The city was still burning, still broken, and I couldn't afford to waste any more time.

"I'll be back soon," I said, turning to leave. "Stay safe."

"You too, Sam," he called after me, his voice steady, unwavering.

I glanced over my shoulder, catching one last look at my father, at the man who never stopped, no matter what. Then I turned and pushed my way back toward the others, my thoughts already on the next task, the next life to save.

It had been like this for as long as I could remember. No matter how bad it got, no matter how much we lost, we always kept going. Because that's what we did. That's what we had to do.

I found Robot and Rex Splode working together, trying to coordinate the cleanup and rescue efforts. Rex was covered in grime, his usual smirk replaced with a serious frown. Robot was giving orders in that monotone voice of his, utterly unaffected by the carnage around him.

"About time you showed up," Rex teased, wiping sweat from his brow.

I couldn't help but smile back, though it was weak. "Yeah, I've been a little busy. How's the situation?"

Robot didn't break his focus. "We've cleared most of the debris, but there are still pockets of trapped civilians. We could use more hands."

I nodded, already feeling the adrenaline rush back through me. "I'm in. Let's get this done."

Rex shot me a grin, his usual cocky self. "You know it. Let's get to work." 

And with that, we were back at it, together, picking up the pieces of a city that refused to stay down.

--- 

Debbie Grayson's feet faltered as the stretcher was rolled into the room. Her eyes locked onto the figure beneath the blood-soaked sheets. It was too much to take in at once—the shape of him barely recognizable, the air thick with the scent of burning flesh. Her stomach churned, bile rising in her throat as she staggered forward. 

The stretcher stopped. She didn't see the nurses, didn't hear the murmurs of the doctors around her. All she saw was Mark, or what was left of him. 

The sheet was pulled back, revealing the wreckage of her son's body—his skin seared and melted in places, charred and raw, twisted in ways that shouldn't have been possible for a human. His chest rose and fell, but only faintly, like the last, fragile breath of a dying animal. 

"Mark!" She gasped, her voice barely a whisper, cracking with disbelief.

She reached out, trembling, her fingertips brushing against the jagged edges of his burns. His skin was hot to the touch, sticky with sweat and blood. She swallowed, unable to tear her eyes away from his ruined face, the broken pieces of her boy she'd raised, the boy who had once smiled and teased her with his childish humor.

She crouched beside the stretcher, not caring about the sterile floor beneath her, not caring about the doctors trying to pull her away. Her knees hit the ground with a soft thud, but she didn't flinch. She just kept her hands on his broken body, desperate to make contact, to feel him alive despite the damage, despite the terror.

"Mom…" His voice came out a rasp, barely more than a whisper. His lips barely moved, but the pain in his eyes—so much like his father's—was enough to pierce her heart.

Debbie didn't respond. She couldn't. She just sat there, staring at him, her chest tight with grief and fury. Her hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palms, until her nails began to turn white. She shook with rage, but she couldn't look away. She couldn't leave him.

Then she saw him—Cecil. Standing at the edge of the room, watching, his posture unreadable. Her blood boiled in an instant. She stood up, her legs weak but determined, and stormed toward him.

Without a word, her fist connected with his chest—hard. The sound of the punch reverberated in the room, and the force of it knocked the breath from him. He stumbled back, caught off guard, but didn't try to stop her. He didn't even try to hold his ground.

She hit him again, this time harder. And again, her fist found its mark, every punch releasing a wave of grief and fury she could no longer hold in. Her knuckles were raw, her breath shallow, but she didn't stop. Her eyes, wide with hurt, locked onto his as she pummeled his chest.

"Why?" she choked between hits, her voice trembling with rage. "Why didn't you stop him? He is just a boy!" The punches came faster, driven by the weight of a mother's love and anger, her chest heaving with every strike.

But then her body gave way. Her strength depleted, and her legs crumpled beneath her. Cecil caught her, pulling her close to him as she slumped against him, her breath ragged. She clung to him weakly, unable to keep herself upright anymore, her arms limp at her sides.

She felt his arms around her, steady and unyielding, but there was no comfort in his embrace. Only silence. Only the sound of Mark's labored breathing as it filled the room.

Her chest ached as the words finally came, barely a whisper. "Hasn't my family given enough?" The question was a raw wound, torn from the deepest part of her soul. She could barely stand to ask it. But she couldn't hold it in anymore.

Cecil said nothing. He just held her tighter, as the weight of the question lingered in the sterile air between them. The world outside continued, oblivious, but inside, everything was shattered.