The air in the meadow didn't just move; it shrieked.
The moment Nolan's command left his lips, the quiet morning was annihilated. Mark didn't wait. He didn't calculate. He simply exploded forward, his feet digging deep furrows into the emerald grass as he launched himself like a heat-seeking missile. To a normal human, he would have been a blur of motion, a kinetic force capable of leveling a skyscraper.
To Dick, he was a telegraph.
Dick didn't move until the very last millisecond. He saw the tension in Mark's shoulders, the way his weight shifted too far onto his leading foot, and the wide, sweeping arc of a right hook that carried enough momentum to crack a tectonic plate. It was a classic amateur's mistake—putting everything into the first blow.
Dick stepped inside the arc, his movement minimal and efficient. He caught Mark's wrist with his left hand, redirected the momentum with a sharp, downward tug, and drove a palm strike directly into Mark's solar plexus.
The sound was like a sledgehammer hitting a massive drum.
THOOM.
Mark's breath left him in a ragged gasp. His eyes bulged as the air was forcefully evacuated from his lungs, his forward momentum stalling as if he'd run into a reinforced concrete wall. Before he could recover, Dick's right leg whipped around in a low, punishing kick that swept Mark's legs out from under him. Mark hit the turf hard enough to make the nearby trees shudder.
"Footwork, Mark," Dick said, his voice level, almost clinical. He didn't drop his guard, his knees slightly bent, hands held in a tight, disciplined Krav Maga-inspired stance. "You're lunging. I could see that coming from the next county."
Mark rolled away, coughing and clutching his chest. He scrambled to his feet, his face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and rising heat. "I was… I was just warming up!"
"Warm up faster," Nolan's voice drifted from the sidelines. He stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable, though his eyes followed every twitch of their muscles.
Mark roared, a sound of pure frustration, and charged again. This time, he tried to be smarter. He threw a flurry of punches—left, right, left—each one faster than the last. But they were still "slogger" punches. They were wide, relying on the sheer Viltrumite power behind them rather than any semblance of form.
Dick moved like a ghost. He parried a jab, slipped under a cross, and caught a wild haymaker on his forearm, the impact sending a jolt of dull pain through his bone—a reminder that despite Mark's lack of skill, he still hit with the force of a freight train.
Dick countered with a lightning-fast three-punch combination: a jab to the nose, a hook to the ribs, and a punishing uppercut that snapped Mark's head back.
Crack. Crack. CRACK.
Mark stumbled back, blood trickling from his lip. The red of Viltrumite blood was startlingly bright against the green grass. He looked at his brother with a new kind of intensity. This wasn't the brother he played video games with; this was a combatant.
"You've been practicing," Mark spat, wiping the blood away.
"Since I was six, Mark," Dick replied. He hadn't broken a sweat yet. "Dad taught us to be strong, but I spent my weekends at the dojo learning how to actually use it. You can have all the engine in the world, but if you don't know how to steer, you're just a crash waiting to happen."
Mark gritted his teeth. He felt the sting of the words more than the punches. He felt the inherent unfairness of it—Dick was grounded, literally unable to fly, yet he was dismantling Mark as if he were a toddler. The frustration boiled over into something primal.
Mark didn't charge this time. He crouched low, and then, with a sudden surge of power, he didn't run. He flew.
He hovered three feet off the ground, then ten, then twenty. The dynamic of the fight shifted instantly. On the ground, Dick was the master. In the air, Mark held the high ground.
"Come and get me, then!" Mark challenged, a cocky grin returning to his face.
He dove.
This wasn't a run; it was a vertical assault. Mark used gravity and his flight propulsion to multiply his speed. He struck from the air like a hawk, diving in for a heavy blow and pulling back before Dick could counter.
BOOM.
Mark's fist slammed into the ground where Dick had been a fraction of a second prior, creating a crater five feet wide. Dick rolled away, but Mark was already back in the air, circling him like a predator.
"Can't reach me down there, can you?" Mark shouted. He dove again, this time coming in at a shallow angle.
Dick braced himself. He couldn't fly, but his reaction times were beyond human. As Mark neared, Dick didn't dodge. He waited. At the last second, he dropped to one knee and threw a handful of loosened dirt and sod directly into Mark's face.
It was a dirty trick, unrefined and effective. Mark flinched, his eyes instinctively closing for a split second as the grit hit them. That second was all Dick needed.
Dick leaped—not a flight, but a massive, powered jump that propelled him fifteen feet into the air. He caught Mark by the collar of his shirt and slammed his forehead into Mark's nose. The sickening crunch echoed across the meadow.
The two of them tumbled to the earth, a chaotic mess of limbs and impact. They hit the ground and rolled, tearing up the landscape.
Mark scrambled back into the air, his nose bleeding profusely now, his eyes watering. "That was cheap!"
"This isn't a tournament, Mark!" Dick yelled back, his own shirt torn and his chest heaving. "In a real fight, no one's going to wait for you to wipe your eyes!"
The spar intensified. It became a grueling test of endurance. Mark continued to use his flight to his advantage, staying just out of reach and launching kinetic strikes. He was learning, albeit slowly. He started to time his dives better, using his momentum to knock Dick off balance.
Dick, however, was a tactical nightmare. Every time Mark got close, Dick found a way to punish him. He used Mark's own speed against him, catching him in mid-air and using grappling techniques to slam him into the ground. At one point, Dick caught Mark in a mid-air armbar as they fell, the weight of their descent adding a terrifying amount of pressure to Mark's joint.
"Give up?" Dick grunted, his muscles bulging as he held the lock.
"Never!" Mark yelled. He fired his flight thrusters in reverse, dragging Dick across the meadow at eighty miles per hour. The friction burned through Dick's pants, but he didn't let go until they slammed into a massive oak tree.
The tree shattered into splinters.
Both brothers lay in the wreckage for a moment, gasping for air. Their durability was the only thing keeping them from being a pile of broken bones.
Mark was the first to rise, hovering unsteadily. He was exhausted, his face a map of bruises and cuts. Dick stood up more slowly, his movements labored. One of his eyes was starting to swell shut, and his knuckles were raw.
The air around them was thick with the scent of ozone and upturned earth. The once-pristine meadow looked like a battlefield.
"You're… you're good," Mark panted, hovering just out of reach. "But you're still stuck on the ground. I can do this all day. I can just wait for you to get tired."
Dick looked up at his brother, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. "You think flight is your biggest advantage? It's your biggest crutch. You rely on it because you're scared to stay on the ground with me."
"I'm not scared!" Mark roared. He lost his temper. He flew straight at Dick, not for a hit-and-run, but for a full-contact tackle. He put every ounce of his will into the flight, becoming a human cannonball.
Dick didn't move. He stood his ground, his feet planted firmly. He exhaled, a long, controlled breath.
As Mark reached him, Dick didn't try to stop the momentum. He leaned back, caught Mark's shoulders, and used the "tomoe-nage" circle throw. He fell back, placing his foot in Mark's stomach and using Mark's own incredible speed to launch him over his head.
But Dick didn't let go.
He held on to Mark's wrists, and as Mark was launched into the air behind him, Dick's weight acted as an anchor. Mark's momentum, combined with Dick's strength pulling him down, resulted in a thunderous impact. Mark didn't just hit the ground; he was slammed into it with the force of a falling star.
The shockwave blew the grass flat for fifty yards in every direction.
Dick stood over the crater, his chest heaving, his body trembling with the sheer effort of the move. Mark lay at the bottom, dazed, the wind completely knocked out of him.
Dick jumped into the crater, pinning Mark down, his fist cocked back for a final, finishing blow. Mark looked up, his eyes wide, too exhausted to even raise his hands to defend himself.
Dick's fist shook. The raw power hummed in his veins, a dark, intoxicating urge to just hit.
"Enough."
The word wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of a mountain.
Nolan was suddenly there, standing at the edge of the crater. He didn't look impressed, nor did he look disappointed. He looked clinical.
"The spar is over," Nolan said.
Dick took a deep breath and slowly lowered his fist. He stood up, offering a hand to his brother. Mark took it, his grip weak, and Dick pulled him to his feet.
"You both did… adequately," Nolan said, walking down into the crater. He looked at the devastation around them—the shattered trees, the massive furrows in the earth, the blood. "Richard, your technique is superior. You understand the mechanics of combat. But you are limited by your lack of flight. You cannot rely on your brother's mistakes forever."
He turned to Mark, who was still wobbling. "Mark, you have the gift of the sky, but you use it like a toy. You are sloppy, impulsive, and predictable. If Richard were a true enemy, you would be dead three times over by now."
Mark looked down at his feet, his shoulders slumped. "Sorry, Dad."
"Don't apologize," Nolan said, his voice softening just a fraction. "Learn. You are Viltrumites. You are meant to be the apex. This was a lesson in humility for both of you."
Nolan looked at the horizon, where the sun was now fully up, bathing the ruined meadow in golden light. "Clean yourselves up. We're going home. Your mother expects you for breakfast, and I'd prefer it if you didn't look like you've been through a meat grinder."
Dick looked at Mark, seeing the bruised and battered version of his brother. He felt a surge of something—not just pride, but a deep, underlying fear. If they were this dangerous to each other during a spar, what would happen when they actually had to fight for their lives?
"Hey," Dick said, nudging Mark's shoulder as they began the long walk (and flight) back. "Not bad for a wobbly flyer."
Mark managed a weak, painful grin. "Shut up. I almost had you with that tree."
"In your dreams, Mark," Dick chuckled, though his ribs throbbed with every step. "In your dreams."
As they left the meadow behind, the silence returned, leaving only the deep, jagged scars in the earth as a testament to the power that had been unleashed.