Invincible: Blood of Two

"As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another" Proverbs 27:17

Four months later, Marcus had already settled into his strange new reality: genius kid by day, self-defense student by night, big brother always. His days blurred together in routines of homework he found too easy, fights he found too slow, and family moments he cherished more than he'd ever thought possible. It wasn't just a routine, though; it was a delicate balance, a constant dance between the adult mind trapped in a teen's body and the genuine affection he was growing for his unexpected family. Every morning, the scent of Debbie's coffee grounding him, every evening, the comforting weight of Mark leaning against him on the sofa, reminded him that this wasn't just a mission – it was life.

At least Mark was catching up. Debbie had noticed his progress too, the way his shoulders seemed a little less slumped, his eyes a little brighter. After a few months of nose-to-the-grindstone effort and a miraculous grade report that genuinely stunned her, she finally allowed Mark to join Marcus in his self-defense classes. Marcus welcomed it — not just because it gave him more time with his little brother, seeing the quiet determination in Mark's eyes as he practiced a new block, but because he knew Mark needed the confidence, not just the strength. He needed to feel capable, to stand a little taller, to understand that power wasn't just something you were born with, but something you built, piece by painful piece.

But here, at school, Marcus wasn't a big brother. He wasn't an ex-adult with decades of life experience. He was just another smart kid, albeit one with an unusual stillness about him, thrown into a nest of other smart kids who thought they ruled the world with their IQ alone. The hallways hummed with a different kind of energy, a competitive undercurrent that was almost palpable. It was a place where minds clashed, not fists.

That's when he met Julian Sinclair.

Not DA Sinclair. Not yet. But Marcus recognized the look — the sharp, almost predatory glint in his eyes, the subtle tilt of his head that suggested he was constantly evaluating, dissecting. Brilliant, arrogant, competitive to a fault. A kid who couldn't help but measure others by his own towering intellect, perpetually seeking to prove himself the apex. Marcus knew this type, had faced down their adult equivalents in boardrooms and courtrooms a lifetime ago. The only difference was, this time, Julian was wearing a high school uniform.

They met during second period Chemistry. The classroom felt sterile, filled with the faint tang of old chemicals and the restless shuffling of teenagers. Julian sat in the back, perfectly pressed uniform, a crisp white shirt beneath a dark blazer that seemed too formal for a public school. Black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, catching the fluorescent light as he scribbled notes in perfect shorthand, his pen flying across the page while ignoring Mr. Valdez's lecture entirely. When Marcus was introduced to the class by the kindly, slightly overwhelmed Mr. Valdez, Julian's eyes had flicked up briefly, a quick, assessing glance. It was dismissive, almost imperceptible. As if he'd already sized Marcus up, cataloged him, and written him off as irrelevant. Marcus felt a flicker of something he hadn't felt in a long time: a challenge.

It wasn't until their teacher, Mr. Valdez, announced the dreaded debate assignment that things truly began. "For your next major grade," Mr. Valdez declared, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet room, "you'll be working in pairs. And I've already assigned the partners to ensure a... balanced distribution of talent." He adjusted his glasses, a mischievous glint in his eye as he read off the pairings. When he called their names – "Marcus Grayson and Julian Sinclair" – a ripple went through the class. Even Julian, for a split second, looked surprised.

The Science Room – Debate Preparation Day

The lab smelled like ammonia and old books, a comforting, familiar scent to Marcus. Overhead lights buzzed faintly, a constant, low hum that seemed to amplify the tension in the air. Marcus set his notebook down across from Julian at their shared table, watching the other boy. Julian didn't look up from the meticulously organized notes he was already reviewing, his posture stiff and precise.

"I thought you were supposed to be brilliant," Julian said, his voice smooth, almost bored, without looking up. He adjusted his glasses, a subtle, deliberate movement. "Yet you've somehow ended up partnered with me. How tragic. For you, I mean." A faint, almost imperceptible smirk played on his lips.

Marcus arched a brow, sliding into his seat. The cold plastic of the chair felt unyielding beneath him. He leaned back, crossing his arms, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You talk a lot of trash for someone still in high school."

Julian finally met his gaze, his eyes a startling shade of intelligent blue behind the lenses, cool and appraising. "High school is a system, Grayson. A preliminary one. I've already mastered it. Now I'm just biding my time until I can apply for early university. Unlike some, I don't intend to waste my potential on rudimentary exercises."

"That's funny," Marcus countered, his smile widening. "I could've sworn people who were truly brilliant didn't need to announce it. Their work usually speaks for itself."

Julian's smile was thin. Calculating. It didn't reach his eyes. "I suppose we'll find out when the grades come back, won't we? Only one of us can be at the top, after all."

Their project? A structured debate on the ethics of artificial intelligence. Ironic, Marcus thought, watching the future District Attorney glare at him over a stack of textbooks. Considering who Julian would eventually become, the irony was almost palatable. He wondered if Julian would remember this moment, this small, insignificant clash in a high school science lab, years later when their paths crossed again.

Library, Day 2 of Prep

Fluorescent lights in the library cast everything in a pale, sickly blue, making the already quiet space feel even more clinical. Books formed towering walls around them, the scent of ink and old glue thick in the air. Julian's pen tapped against his notebook like a metronome, a relentless rhythm that grated on Marcus's nerves. They had been at it for hours, the air between them thick with unspoken competition and the rustle of turning pages.

"Your argument hinges on an outdated philosophy of sentience," Julian stated, his voice sharp, cutting through the silence. He didn't look up; his gaze fixed on a particularly dense paragraph in a philosophy text. "If you're going to play devil's advocate, at least update your references, Grayson. This particular text was debunked in the late nineties."

"If you're this annoying in college debates, you're going to get punched," Marcus said flatly, flipping through a different textbook, barely stifling a sigh. He highlighted a sentence with a frustrated flick of his wrist.

Julian finally looked up, a flicker of something akin to amusement, or perhaps just cold analysis, in his eyes. "I'm here to win, Grayson. Not to make friends. Friendship is a distraction. A weakness."

Marcus leaned back in his chair, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "Relax, Vegeta."

Julian blinked, his expression utterly blank. "What?"

Marcus chuckled, the sound low and dry. "Nothing. Just an inside joke. You wouldn't get it." He saw a muscle tic in Julian's jaw, a tiny crack in the other boy's composure. Good.

Despite the biting exchanges, the work got done. Efficiently. Cleanly. Both of them pushed harder because the other wouldn't let them coast, neither willing to be outmaneuvered or out-researched. By the time presentation day rolled around, their teacher, Mr. Valdez, couldn't hide his satisfaction, practically beaming.

"Excellent work from both of you, Sinclair, Grayson. Thorough, articulate, and passionate. A true masterclass in debate. I'd expect no less from the top students in the room."

Julian inclined his head slightly, a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture of acknowledgment towards Marcus, without warmth but with a glimmer of something that might have been grudging respect. Marcus met his gaze, a silent understanding passing between them.

After Class, Hallway

Lockers slammed shut with metallic clangs. Conversations buzzed, a chaotic symphony of teenage chatter. The faint smell of sweat and disinfectants filled the air, mingling with the aroma of pizza from the cafeteria. Julian lingered near the door, a solitary figure amidst the throng, his eyes sharp behind his glasses, watching the flow of students.

Marcus approached him slowly; his backpack slung casually over one shoulder. "Good job today, Sinclair."

Julian's lips quirked — not quite a smile, more like a controlled twitch. "You're not bad, Grayson. For someone so... unassuming."

"You're not bad either, Sinclair," Marcus replied, a genuine warmth in his tone. "For someone so... aggressively brilliant."

Julian's lips quirked again, a little more pronounced this time. "Consider this... round one."

Marcus met his gaze, his own eyes holding a calm assurance. "Sure. I've got time. Lots of it." He gave a short, decisive nod.

They parted ways like boxers after a bell, moving in opposite directions down the crowded hallway. Mutual understanding. Mutual challenge. A rivalry born not from hatred, but from the simple, undeniable fact that they both wanted to be the best — and neither was willing to concede an inch. It was exhilarating, a mental sparring match that felt strangely familiar, like returning to a forgotten skill.

Home – That Evening

"How was school?" Debbie asked, her voice warm, instantly dissolving the competitive edge Marcus had carried home. She set plates down on the dining table, the comforting smell of roast chicken filling the house, chasing away the lingering tang of ammonia and ambition.

Marcus sank into his chair, a sigh escaping him. "Made a rival today."

"Already?" Nolan chuckled, looking up from his phone, a playful glint in his eye as he sipped his beer. "Proud of you, son. That's the spirit."

Mark, who had been meticulously arranging his green beans into a tiny forest, perked up, his eyes wide with a child's innocent curiosity. "Like... supervillain rival? Does he have a secret lair?"

Marcus smiled, shaking his head. "No. Academic rival. He just thinks he's smarter than everyone else."

Mark deflated, a visible slump of his shoulders. "Oh. That's less cool. So, he doesn't have, like, a laser gun?"

Marcus chuckled, reaching over to ruffle Mark's hair, the soft strands a familiar comfort beneath his fingers. "Give it time, buddy. You never know. Maybe he'll invent one."

Dinner was laughter and warmth, a stark contrast to the intellectual battlefield of school. Afterward, Mark, buzzing with newfound energy from self-defense class, dragged Marcus outside into the cool evening air to practice their drills. The streetlights hummed, casting long, distorted shadows as they moved through the familiar stances. Debbie watched from the porch swing, arms crossed but a soft, proud smile on her face. Nolan eventually joined, his presence a solid, grounding force, correcting their stances with gentle nudges, praising their progress with hearty slaps on the back. "Good, good! Keep that elbow up, Mark! Marcus, sharper, quicker!"

Marcus felt the weight of it settle over him again: this life, this family, this chance to do it all right. The quiet hum of domesticity, the unconditional affection, the simple joy of teaching his little brother how to stand his ground. It was a foundation, solid and real, that made the competitive world outside feel less daunting, more like a game to be played rather than a battle to be fought.

Late Night, Marcus's Room

The moon cast long shadows through the blinds, painting stripes of light and dark across the floor of Marcus's room. He sat at his desk, the soft glow of his reading lamp illuminating old science journals and a notebook filled with his own scribbled theories and equations. His mind, however, kept circling back to Julian.

He didn't hate him. Not even close.

He respected him. A deep, almost involuntary respect for a mind that could keep pace with his own, even if it was encased in such a prickly exterior.

Maybe he even needed him. A rival, a peer, someone who could push him, challenge him, force him to be sharper, more incisive. Iron sharpens iron, after all. He traced a complex diagram in his notebook, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"Alright, Sinclair," Marcus muttered under his breath, the sound barely audible in the quiet room. "Let's see how far we can push each other."

He turned back to his work, the pen scratching softly against the paper. The scientific theories, the complex algorithms, they felt more alive now, more relevant. Because tomorrow? Tomorrow was round two. And Marcus found himself, unexpectedly, looking forward to it.