The mechanical door slid open with a low hiss. Mark and Nolan walked through it, and Mark blinked in surprise. This was the first time he had seen a futuristic device in 2003, even though he knew he would eventually see things like this and far more.
They descended the stairs into the basement and found an elderly man working alone on a suit. Arthur Rosenbaum. The sound of the door drew his attention, and he turned around with a warm smile when he saw Nolan and Mark.
"Art, sorry for the late visit," Nolan said.
"It's fine." Art wiped his hands on a small towel and looked at Mark, who was standing frozen, staring at the suits being crafted and the suit chamber nearby. "This must be Mark, right?"
"Yes, I'm Mark. Nice to meet you, sir. Art," Mark said, offering a handshake with a small smile.
Art accepted it, his grip firm and friendly. "You know, your dad talks about you a lot."
Mark's smile widened at that. He glanced over at Nolan, who was smiling back at him.
"So," Art said, clapping his hands together, "do you want to test out some of my suits?"
"Sure," Mark agreed.
Mark began trying on suits Art had already made, unused prototypes meant to test fit and function. He tugged at the fabric and stretched his arms and legs, getting a feel for each one.
"So, how do you feel?" Art asked.
"I kind of hate spandex now that I've been wearing it," Mark admitted, shifting his legs uncomfortably. "It's way too tight." He looked over at his dad. "How do you wear this all the time?"
"It gets better once you're used to it," Nolan said.
"I can loosen it if you want," Art offered.
"Really?" Mark considered it. "I think I would prefer a looser suit. Also, question. Can I design my own?"
"Sure." Art's eyes lit up. "I would be more than pleased if you already have an idea in mind. Makes my job easier than starting from scratch."
Art handed Mark a pen and a piece of paper. Mark stood there, motionless, his mind completely blank. He had no idea what to draw. Art and Nolan exchanged amused smiles as they watched the boy stare at the empty page, thinking far too deeply.
"I'm glad you designed my suit," Mark finally said, glancing at his dad.
"It still took me a few days to come up with it," Nolan replied.
Art waved a hand. "You can send me the design later, once you have something in mind."
"Alright," Mark agreed, relieved.
"We should get going," Nolan said. "You still have work to do. See you later, Art."
Mark nodded to Art, and Art nodded back. Father and son left the shop and flew home through the night sky.
Back in his room, Mark began planning his suit in earnest. For once, he was putting his drawing skills to good use. He sketched one design after another, discarding each one and starting fresh. He even forgot about training that day. The suit mattered. It was his lifeline. If it was ugly, that reputation would stick with him forever. At the same time, he kept turning over names in his head.
Then something clicked. A slow grin spread across his face, and he let out a small chuckle. He had the name. Now he just had to draw the design to match it..
When he finished drawing, it had taken a lot of time. Mark wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed, but he knew he had to keep training. Pulling on a hoodie like usual, he flew out of his home and headed toward his training spot. As soon as he arrived, he dropped down into the deepest part of it.
At the narrow bottom of the Mariana Trench, just wide enough for him to move, Mark began shadow fighting alone in the dark. He launched punches and kicks into the empty water, his movements sharp and precise.
After a while, he threw a right hook and stopped mid swing. 'I need a new training ground.' His body had already adapted to the crushing pressure of the deep sea. The difficulty was gone. It barely challenged him anymore.
Mark looked up and shot toward the surface. It took him only a few seconds to break through the water and hover in the sky above the open ocean. He already had a general idea of where to go next. He flew toward his next location, and as he traveled, the sky shifted from night back into daylight. He was now above Hawaii.
He kept flying, searching for the mountain he had in mind. But when he arrived, he noticed a crowd of tourists gathered on the far side, watching the volcano from a safe viewing platform. That same volcano was where he had planned to train.
"Tsk." Mark clicked his tongue in annoyance. 'What now?' He hovered in place, unwilling to waste any more time searching. Then he looked up at the bright, endless sky.
'I planned all of this just to prepare for my future fights. Well, not every plan goes according to plan. Let's just skip it.'
Before he could leave Earth's atmosphere, he remembered something crucial. He would be naked when he exited and reentered the planet. And the heat from the sun would burn his regular clothes to ashes long before he got anywhere near it.
"Shit." Mark grimaced. "I should have asked my dad about this earlier." He had been so focused on training that he had forgotten something so simple.
Left with no other immediate option, he flew back to the mainland and bought a spare bag. He stashed it somewhere close to the volcano, far enough to be safe but near enough to retrieve later. As he waited for the sky to darken and the tourists to leave, he resumed shadow fighting on a secluded ridge, throwing punches and kicks into the humid air.
When night finally fell, he made his move. He descended slowly toward the mouth of the volcano. The heat radiating off the molten rock was intense, but it didn't bother him much. Not until he submerged himself into the lava.
Instantly, he felt it. His skin was burning. It was like billions of needles stabbing into every inch of his body all at once. His eyes burned and stung, forcing him to squeeze them shut. His skin turned an angry red. But the worst part was the restriction. The thick, viscous liquid pressed against every movement, demanding more effort for every simple gesture.
Overwhelmed by the sudden and unfamiliar pain, Mark made a mistake. He opened his mouth to scream.
The lava flooded in. The burning sensation tore through the inside of his throat and lungs, a white hot agony far worse than anything on his skin. Mark launched himself out of the volcano and up into the sky, coughing and sputtering, trying to expel the molten rock from his airway.
There was no serious injury. His Viltrumite body was already healing. But the coughing was violent and loud. Mark forced himself to take a deep, ragged breath and pounded his chest with a fist to clear the last of the obstruction.
He looked down at his body. Red, irritated, but intact. No real damage. He took one more breath, then dove straight back down into the lava to continue his training.
It was masochistic. But Viltrumites were built for exactly this kind of conditioning.