Omni-Blood (SI Ben 10 x Invincible)

[Arsenal597]

Big Chill, Four Arms, ghost freak.,Swampvire,Alien X ,Chroma Stone, Humgosaur,Sneak on ,Blitzer wolfer Franken strike ,Eye guy wild mutt
Way big ,Rath Brain Storm, Jury Rigg, Upgrade, Heat blast ,Echo echo, Jet Ray
He's still not SI right Arsenal but getting thrown into the hero business when Omnitrix throw his life even more sideways than before.
Continue on
Cheers!

Click to shrink...

Yes, this is a true Ben Tennyson. Not an SI. That route simply wasn't working! Thank you for the suggestions!

 

[Arsenal597]

Chapter 4: The Conqueror

---

Slipping through the ever-expanding, dark void of space was the ship controlled by Vilgax the Conqueror. The ship was extremely quiet by this time, as he sat alone on the command dais, one massive arm resting against the edge of the console. Holographic images hovered in the air before him, rotating slowly on a loop.

He growled under his breath, looking at the devastation that was Galvan Prime. The news had come across his board only in the last few cycles. The projections were pulled from long-range scans. Vilgax had surveillance drones watching the planet for some time, mostly due to the inventor Azmuth residing there. Someone with a mind like his was a formidable foe to keep an eye on.

The holograms painted a picture Vilgax knew all too well: cities torn open from above, landmasses gouged and broken. Entire regions were simply gone, reduced to ash, debris, or nothing at all.

Vilgax's red eye narrowed slightly as the image shifted, zooming in on a ruined metropolis. Galvan architecture, which even he had admitted was a sight to behold, now twisted into jagged skeletons that left him feeling uneasy. He could understand the violence, the brute force of it, but that was only when applied to the right area. If there was one single thing the Viltrum Empire was lousy at, it was damage mitigation.

They did not operate as a scalpel. In their desire to be the reigning species, replenishing their numbers, the Viltrum Empire was more likely to scorch a planet than leave innocent bystanders aside. No, they liked making a spectacle of their prey. Vilgax could commend them for the act, but devastation for the sake of devastation was not something he could abide by. Especially when it came to some of the galaxy's brightest minds.

Galvans were small creatures, but their brains far made up for it. Some of the greatest creations Vilgax had ever come across in his travels were in part due to them. It was for this reason alone that Vilgax felt the slightest sense of sympathy and compassion for the species.

He knew the singular being responsible for this, even without the reports. Thragg's greatest weapon:

Conquest.

Just the name alone was enough to send a chill through Vilgax's body. He had faced Viltrumites before, though it was never by choice. He knew better than to underestimate those fiendish brutes. When compared to other species, Vilgax found it hard to find one as prone to violence as the Viltrumites. A single member of that race could raze a world without support. There was no greater weapon of mass destruction than a Viltrumite with a mission. Their strength was unmatched; their speed made targeting systems obsolete. Even their weakest members had endurance that turned prolonged conflict into a losing proposition by default.

He had nearly died learning that lesson.

The unfortunate memory surfaced unbidden—the bone-crushing force, the sensation of being hurled through atmosphere and stone alike, systems screaming as armor failed piece by piece. It had taken everything to survive that encounter, and even then, survival had felt less like victory and more like mercy.

And if there was one thing Vilgax despised more than anything, was being treated like a lesser being. He would much rather have died in battle than be left alive to crawl away and lick his wounds. His pride had never recovered from that battle, and it was for that reason his right eye had been lost.

It was for this reason that Vilgax had kept to the edges of the Milky Way. He wanted to be the one to conquer the Viltrumites, to watch them burn and writhe in their inevitable demise. He wanted Thragg to lay beneath him, bloodied and broken… as he once had. But even Vilgax needed to admit where his weaknesses lay. Direct conflict with Thragg's minions would only end in his demise. So, for far too long he was forced to watch the Empire's expansion carefully, charting borders and influence, making certain his operations never drifted too close to their reach. Their interest had not yet settled here, to his knowledge. As long as that remained true, Vilgax could prepare for the future conflict.

The hologram shifted again, cycling through orbital debris, broken platforms, and scattered escape pods — most left cold and lifeless. Azmuth's battle with Conquest had given enough time to evacuate the majority of the population. Those who were caught in the crossfire were not so lucky.

Briefly, a trace signature pulsed across the display. Vilgax leaned forward, tentacles hanging in the air as excitement spread through his body. He knew that signature…

The Omnitrix.

It was only a mere echo of it, but it was enough to bring him to attention. The energy trail was faint, fragmented, and distorted by the violence that had torn Galvan Prime apart. Whatever Azmuth had done to mask it, whatever safeguards he had put in place, they had been disrupted. Not destroyed—but shaken loose, like a footprint left behind in scorched earth.

Vilgax's mandibles twitched, something close to satisfaction curling through his chest. Azmuth was gone. There was no confirmed body, no final transmission, no signature trace that could be reliably identified as the Galvan's. In Vilgax's experience, absence was often more telling than death.

If Azmuth by some miracle had survived, the Omnitrix would likely have company as it drifted through the void. But, even so… he suspected that regardless of the outcome of the battle, the Omnitrix wouldn't be left unattended.

What mattered the most to him was the one consolation he scraped away from the images; the one thing Vilgax allowed himself to savor as the images continued to scroll.

Thragg had not claimed the Omnitrix.

The Viltrumite Empire, for all its brutality, was efficient. If the Omnitrix had fallen into Thragg's hands, there would be no mystery.

The universe would already feel the consequences. A weapon like the Omnitrix, capable of rewriting biology, of turning adaptability itself into a tool of war… in Viltrumite hands, it would have been catastrophic.

Even one Viltrumite enhanced by its power would have been unstoppable. DNA splicing would be difficult for them in the long run. As Vilgax had learned, Viltrumite DNA was effectively an invasive species. If they were to procreate with another species, the Viltrumite DNA would eventually overtake it. At least, that was what Vilgax had come to understand.

Vilgax exhaled slowly, the sound low and controlled.

No. If the Omnitrix was to be claimed, it was better that it be claimed by him.

He understood it. Not completely—no one ever truly did—but enough to recognize its potential beyond raw destruction. Azmuth had been arrogant enough to believe the device could be trusted to morality, to judgment, to chance. Vilgax knew better. Power did not need conscience. It needed direction.

The image zoomed out, pulling back from Galvan Prime as it now existed: a wounded world, still smoldering, still bleeding debris into space. Somewhere beyond it, the trail continued—faint, erratic, but unmistakable. A line drawn away from the ruins, stretching toward a smaller, quieter system.

His system…

The Milky Way was his domain, regardless whether the Plumbers had anything to say about it. He'd stayed out of their way, and for that reason they'd left him alone. He'd spent too long licking his own wounds, trying to gather up what little bit of pride he had left. The Omnitrix was his one chance to get back on his feet, and to stick it to Thragg.

He was concerned that Conquest might have followed the Omnitrix's trail, but that was immediately squashed. The planet's security defenses had done sufficient damage to Conquest that the Viltrumite would be down for some time, even with his victory. Had Vilgax known about the battle sooner, he might have been able to put that wretch down once and for all.

But he'd take a small victory where he could take it right now. Following the trail, he was able to pinpoint where the Omnitrix was heading.

Earth.

It was a primitive planet by most measures. Fractured politics, underdeveloped defenses, but resilient in ways that were inconvenient. Some of their population had developed extraordinary abilities, giving them an edge in combat. That wasn't something Vilgax was worried about, no. It was the thought of engaging with the Plumbers that concerned him. He was still recovering, his resources were scarce, and engaging with a planetary defense force was something Vilgax wasn't sure he could afford to do.

If he were to acquire the Omnitrix, he'd need to capture it before it ever breached the planet's atmosphere. He could intercept the device. Yes, that was feasible.

Vilgax rose from his seat, towering as the holograms adjusted to his movement. His ship responded instantly, systems humming to life as new coordinates populated across the display.

Conquest's rampage had been careless. Typical. He destroyed, moved on, and left consequences for others to clean up. But in that wake of annihilation, something far more valuable had slipped free.

Vilgax intended to retrieve it.

This was the moment he was waiting for. It didn't matter who stood in his way, the Omnitrix would be his.

---

Meanwhile…

---

The campsite had come together in pieces as the sun dipped low, the sky bleeding from orange to bruised purple in slow, reluctant gradients. Max had parked the Rust Bucket just off the road, tucked into a clearing that felt intentional without being crowded, the kind of place you only found if you already knew where to look. The fire pit was old, stones blackened and cracked from use long before them, and Max had taken to it with an enthusiasm that bordered on ceremonial. By the time night settled in fully, the fire was crackling steady, throwing sparks into the dark and bathing the clearing in warm, flickering light.

"Bon appétit." Max smiled as he set a bowl down in front of the two as they set up camp for the evening.

Ben raised an eyebrow, trying to keep his stomach steady as the apparent meal writhed in the bowl, its slimy pale flesh glinting in the moonlight. The smell hit a second later—earthy, sharp, not rotten exactly, but not anything his brain wanted to associate with food either. His appetite, which had been hanging on by a thread since they'd left Bellwood, made a quiet, offended noise and promptly backed away.

"Okay, I give up…" Ben groaned, leaning back on his hands. "What is this supposed to be?"

"Marinated mealworms." Max beamed in reply, rubbing his hands together. "It's hard to find them fresh in the states. Did you know they're considered a delicacy in some countries?"

Gwen's lip curled in disgust as she watched one of the worms crawl out of the bowl and inch across the picnic table, leaving a faint, glistening trail behind it.

"It's totally gross in this one," she grumbled.

Max smirked, clearly enjoying this far too much.

"If these don't sound good, I've got some smoked sheep's tongue in the fridge."

Ben gagged, the sound halfway between reflex and protest. "Ugh, couldn't we just have a burger or something? Not exactly something I'm in the mood for, Grandpa."

"We're on a budget, kiddo. And I'd rather get my own food than pay for it, didn't I tell you that before?"

"Did I mention that I prefer to pay for mine?"

"I can always charge you for these," Max smirked. "This summer is going to be an adventure for your taste buds. It'll do you some good, trust me."

Ben and Gwen looked at one another, trying to decide whether this road trip was worth it after all.

The fire popped loudly, a log shifting as it settled, and Ben glanced away from the bowl just long enough to breathe through his nose and remind himself that this was, apparently, happening. Max had already helped himself, of course. He skewered a few of the worms with a fork like he was spearing marshmallows and popped them into his mouth without hesitation, chewing thoughtfully, eyes half-lidded in something dangerously close to bliss.

"Nutty," Max said after a moment, nodding to himself. "Good texture, too. Not mushy if you do it right."

Ben stared at him. "You are way too excited about this."

Max chuckled, unfazed. "You spend enough time out in the field, you learn not to be picky. Food's food."

That was… probably true. Ben knew that, logically. Grandpa Max had stories. Lots of them. Stories about places Ben couldn't pronounce, situations that sounded impossible, and meals that had absolutely not involved drive-thrus or delivery apps. Still, knowing that didn't make the worms any less alive-looking in the bowl between them.

He could never remember if Max had been affiliated with the GDA, or some faction of the military. All he knew was that Max was always down for extended camping trips where electronics were minimally used.

Gwen poked at one with the tip of her fork, face twisted like she was defusing a bomb.

"I don't think it's the idea of bugs that bothers me," she said slowly. "It's the fact that they're… moving."

"They won't be for long," Max offered helpfully.

"That does not help."

Ben leaned back against the bench, letting his gaze drift past the firelight and into the trees beyond the clearing. It was strange, he thought, how quickly the day had stretched and folded into this. Just this morning he'd been at home, in comfortable surroundings… and now here he was miles away, sitting under a sky full of stars with a bowl of worms in front of him.

Part of him almost laughed at that, and then he saw the color drain from Gwen's face as she tried to push herself to take a bite. Then, he realized that he was in the same exact boat as her.

Gwen finally sighed and took a small bite, chewing carefully, like she expected it to fight back. She swallowed, paused, then reluctantly nodded.

"Okay," she admitted. "That's… not as bad as I thought."

Ben eyed her like she'd betrayed him.

"You're kidding."

She shrugged.

"I didn't say I liked it."

Max grinned, victorious.

Ben hesitated, then reached forward and speared one himself. He didn't think about it. Thinking about it would ruin everything. He popped it into his mouth, chewed once, twice—

…and froze.

It wasn't good. He wasn't going to lie to himself about that. But it wasn't terrible, either. Salty. A little crunchy. Weirdly smoky.

"Well?" Max prompted.

Ben swallowed and sighed.

"I hate that you're right."

Max laughed, loud and pleased, the sound carrying into the trees. "Told you. This summer's gonna broaden your horizons."

I really wish I had brought some snacks… Ben thought quietly to himself, not looking forward to the countless meals of grub that were likely to follow.

---

Oh my god, I am so sorry for the wait on this chapter. I know it's been an entire month since the last chapter, and I apologize for that. February going into March was a really bad month for me in terms of writing. I had a bit of writer's block coupled with seasonal illnesses. It's not fair to make excuses, which is why I'm trying to do my best to get some new chapters out. My plan is going forward is to have 2-3 chapters a month posted minimum for all stories. It's a work in progress, so bear with me!

As always, thank you everyone for reading the story. It means a lot to me. I appreciate the comments more than you'd ever know. It really does motivate me to keep writing. So, if you ever have any thoughts, I'm always happy to hear them!

As it stands, there are some difficulties with me writing consistently, primarily my job. I can work a little bit on my stories there, but not much without getting in trouble obviously. So, I may or may not be able to live up to my own standards. However, if you guys are interested in joining my discord server, or supporting my writing I will leave a link below where you can access those.

Those who are sufficient rank on my discord server were able to read this chapter a few weeks ago, and will continue to have 1 chapter in advance going forward. Those who support my writing are able to get anywhere from 1-10 chapters in advance before public release. As of this moment, Omni-Blood has 2 chapters in advance. So, if you're interested... the link is below.

Links

Regardless though whether you choose to join the community or support my writing, I do appreciate all of you. Thank you for the support. They make me happy to know that you guys are enjoying the story. It motivates me to keep writing, seriously. It's my life-blood at times haha. A comment will always improve my day and motivate me to keep going.

Anyway, until the next chapter everyone, I shall see you later!

---

Council Members:

---

Benediktus

---

Wayne Foundation Member:

---

Seren

 

[Lillie Jones]

Thanks for the chapter

 

[Jason Wu]

He had nearly died learning that lesson.

Click to shrink...

Look at the bright side, Vilgax. At least they weren't Saiyans. They would have turned you into calamari after killing your squid ass

 

[Arsenal597]

Look at the bright side, Vilgax. At least they weren't Saiyans. They would have turned you into calamari after killing your squid ass

Click to shrink...

I just choked on my drink while reading this. Thank you for that haha

 

[Arsenal597]

For the Tennysons, the rest of the evening consisted of them sitting by the campfire and roasting marshmallows. Max told them stories from his youth, such as how he had first met their grandmother, Verdona. Notably, Gwen's face had softened during this part of the night. Ben had noticed it from the corner of his eye, and smiled unconsciously. They never got to see much of their grandmother. She had died shortly before they were born. At least, that was what the cousins had figured due to how their families only referred to Verdona as "gone." Ben surmised it was cancer or something of the like, just because it was the most likely scenario.

Max's voice carried easily over the crackle of the fire, steady and warm in a way that surprised Ben. He expected his tone to be more withdrawn, uncertain of himself. For as long as he remembered, Max never spoke of Verdona, so hearing him talk about her like it was nothing out of the ordinary was strange. Though, admittedly he did seem to brush past details that felt like they probably mattered more than he wanted to let on.

"...and that's when she decided I wasn't worth talking to," Max chuckled, turning his marshmallow slowly over the flame. "Didn't see her again for three months."

Gwen huffed her breath softly, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

"Oh, yeah? You're leaving something out."

"Am I?" Max raised a brow, feigning innocence.

"Yes," she said, more certain now. "There's no way Grandma of all people just ignored you for three months without a reason."

"Okay, you've got me." Max's grin widened, but there was something quieter laced behind it. "Well… I might've said something I shouldn't have."

Ben snorted.

"What? Like what?"

Max glanced between them, weighing it for a second before shaking his head

"How about we just say that I was a lot less charming back then."

"That's hard to believe," Gwen muttered under her breath, though there wasn't much bite to it.

Max laughed.

"Hey now, I cleaned up eventually. After all, I did get her to marry me."

Ben leaned back slightly in his seat, watching the two of them as the firelight danced across their faces. Gwen looked… different. Not in a way he could fully explain, just—lighter, like something in her had relaxed without her realizing it. She wasn't correcting Max, wasn't rolling her eyes every other sentence. She was just… listening. But he assumed it mostly had to do with the rare occurrence unfolding before them.

He didn't think he'd seen that much.

Max nudged another marshmallow toward the center of the flames, the stick steady in his hand.

"She was something else, your grandmother," he said, quieter now. "Smart. Strong. Didn't take nonsense from anyone—especially me."

"Must have been if she could get you to settle down," Ben smirked faintly.

"What are you trying to say, kiddo?"

"Nothing." the teen chuckled, throwing his hands up in defense. "I mean, you always seemed like the type to never settle down. From all the stories you've told us, you seemed to enjoy the freedom."

"I did…" Max nodded, adjusting in his seat. "Your grandmother was special, though. I knew it from the moment we met. A person like her only comes once in a lifetime. She had this way of seeing right through you. Didn't matter what you said or how you said it. She knew what you meant."

Gwen's gaze drifted down to her own marshmallow, now golden and just on the edge of burning.

"Sounds like someone I know."

Ben glanced at her.

"Yeah? Who?"

She didn't look up.

"Me."

Ben blinked, then let out a short laugh.

"Okay, yeah, that's fair."

Max smiled at that, something proud slipping through before he could hide it.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, you've got a bit of her in you. But Ben inherited her sense of humor."

Gwen didn't respond right away, but the way her shoulders shifted—just slightly—said enough.

Ben looked back at the fire, turning his own marshmallow without really paying attention to it. Verdona. It still felt weird putting a name to someone who had always just been… absent. Not gone in a way that people talked about. Just not there. Like a missing piece no one really wanted to bring up.

He tried to picture her, but couldn't.

All he had was Max's version of her—sharp, stubborn, impossible to ignore. It didn't feel real. More like a character from one of Grandpa's stories than an actual person who had existed in their family. He couldn't even remember if there were any photos of Verdona now that he thought about it.

"Did she… like this kind of stuff?" Ben asked after a moment, gesturing vaguely at the campfire, the open space around them

Max followed his gaze, his expression softening again.

"Sometimes," he said. "She liked being outside. Not always for the same reasons I did, but… yeah. She would've liked this."

Ben nodded slowly.

The fire popped, a small burst of sparks rising into the night before fading into nothing. The air had cooled a bit since they'd set up camp, the kind of chill that crept in gradually until you noticed it all at once. Ben rubbed his hands together absently, more out of habit than anything.

Gwen finished her marshmallow, sliding it off the stick and onto a graham cracker with practiced ease.

"You could've told us more about her," she said, quieter now

Max didn't answer right away. He stared into the fire for a second, like he was looking at something beyond it. Then he sighed, lowering his head.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I probably should have."

"Then why didn't you?" Ben asked before he could stop himself.

"Ben," Gwen's eyes widened in shock.

"I'm sorry. I didn't-"

"It's fine," Max cut him off gently. "I loved your grandmother. More than I could ever attempt to put to words, but a lot of the time it feels like an old wound being reopened. It's just hard for me to talk about her most days, especially when your parents were around."

None of them said much after that. Ben kept his head lowered in shame, chastising himself for blurting the question out. Eventually, though… the conversation drifted into lighter territory. There were random stories, small arguments over whose marshmallow was cooked "right." Once that happened, Ben found himself laughing more than he expected, even if half the time it was just at how seriously Max took something as stupid as roasting marshmallows.

The flames settled into glowing embers, the bright orange fading into softer reds as the night stretched on. Crickets filled the silence where conversation had been, a steady rhythm that made everything feel just a little more still.

Max stood first, brushing his hands off against his pants.

"Alright," he said in a yawn, stretching slightly. "I think that's about enough for tonight."

Gwen nodded, already gathering up what little they had left out.

"Yeah… I'm tired."

Ben glanced between them, then up at the sky.

"Already?"

"You'll survive turning in early for one night," Gwen shot back, though there wasn't much energy behind it.

Max chuckled, moving towards the Rust Bucket.

"We've got a long day tomorrow. Best get some rest while we can."

Gwen lingered for a second before heading inside, pausing just long enough to glance back at the fire. Something unreadable crossed her face before she shook it off and followed Max in.

Ben stayed where he was.

The quiet settled around him almost immediately, heavier now without their voices cutting through it. He shifted slightly, then stood, stretching his arms over his head before walking over to the nearby picnic table.

The wood creaked faintly as he climbed up, laying back against it with a soft exhale. It wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, but it didn't really matter.

Above him, the sky stretched out in a way he didn't get to see back in Bellwood.

No city lights. No distractions. Just stars.

A lot of them.

Ben stared up at them, his head resting against the rough surface of the table as he let his eyes wander. They didn't look real. Not completely. Too many of them, too bright, scattered across the sky like someone had just… thrown them up there without thinking about it.

He raised his hand slightly, squinting as he tried to line one of them up between his fingers.

They were too far away for that.

Too far away for anything, really.

He let his hand drop back down, resting it against his chest as he exhaled slowly. The night air filled his lungs, cool and steady, carrying the faint smell of smoke from the dying fire.

"Grandma, huh?" he muttered to himself, the words barely audible. It was so weird to hear Max talk about her tonight. The cadence in his voice reminded him of how soft-spoken Ken was whenever he brought up his and Gwen's parents. Only then did it dawn on him why Max never brought her up before — for the same reason Gwen and Ken rarely spoke about their parents. It would hurt too much to do so most days. "I'm an idiot."

He sat there for another moment, then swung his legs over the side of the picnic table and dropped down onto the dirt. His shoes crunched lightly against the gravel as he landed, the sound a little too loud for his own liking. Ben turned toward the Rust Bucket, half-expecting to see the door swing open or Max poke his head out.

Ben shoved his hands into his pockets and started off without much of a plan, following the faint outline of a trail that cut through the trees just beyond their campsite.

---

Elsewhere…

---

Slipping through the void with a steady, deliberate glide, Vilgax's ship followed the fractured trail left behind in Galvan Prime's wake. The Omnitrix's signature was faint—barely more than a ghost smeared across the fabric of space—but it was there. It pulsed intermittently across his display, flickering in and out as if daring him to lose it.

Vilgax stood at the center of the command dais, his single red eye fixed on the shifting data as it updated in real time. The trail had grown weaker the farther it stretched from Galvan Prime, distorted by debris fields, radiation bursts, and the sheer violence of what had taken place there.

The signature spiked slightly across the display—subtle, but enough to draw Vilgax's full attention. His mandibles twitched as he leaned forward, one clawed hand resting against the console.

The data refreshed again, lines of projected trajectory overlapping one another as the system recalibrated. What had once been a scattered, erratic trail began to narrow, tightening into something far more defined. The inconsistencies smoothed out. The path straightened.

His gaze sharpened, the low hum of the ship's systems the only sound in the chamber as the realization settled into place. The Omnitrix wasn't drifting anymore.

It had been grabbed by someone...

Vilgax straightened slowly, his posture shifting as the information locked in. The trail ahead was no longer a question of where the Omnitrix had gone—but how it was getting there.

A second display flickered to life at his command, scanning the surrounding space with a broader sweep. Long-range sensors pushed outward, cutting through the darkness, filtering through interference and residual energy until—

There.

Insignificant by most standards. A transport-class vessel, its silhouette barely visible against the void as it pushed forward at a pace that would've been impressive for lesser species. Its engines burned unevenly, output fluctuating just enough to suggest strain. Damage, perhaps. Or overextension.

Either way, it wasn't built for what it was trying to do.

Vilgax studied it in silence, his eye narrowing slightly as the system fed him more data. The Omnitrix's signature aligned with it almost perfectly now, no longer scattered across open space but centered—contained.

His mandibles curled faintly.

Of course.

Azmuth hadn't left it to chance.

Even in death… or whatever passed for it in the Galvan's case… he had ensured the device wouldn't simply drift into the hands of the first opportunist that came across it. A transport. Likely automated safeguards. Perhaps even survivors.

It didn't matter.

They had taken something that did not belong to them.

Vilgax's ship adjusted its heading without a word, angling toward the distant vessel as the gap between them began to close. There was no urgency in the movement. No sudden burst of speed. Just a steady increase, controlled and inevitable.

The transport hadn't noticed him yet.

Its sensors were either damaged… or insufficient.

Vilgax watched as it continued along its path, unaware of what now followed in its wake. There was a certain… predictability to it. A straight line drawn through space toward a destination it likely believed it would reach.

Earth.

Primitive. Fractured. Defended, but not enough to matter.

If the vessel made it there, the situation would become… inconvenient. Plumber interference. Native resistance. Variables that would require time and resources he had no interest in expending.

No.

This would end here.

A faint signal pulsed outward from the transport, weak but persistent. Vilgax's display caught it instantly, translating the frequency as it repeated itself in a steady loop. Distress.

His gaze lingered on it for a moment.

Plumber channels.

So they were still active.

A low, almost thoughtful sound rumbled in his chest as he considered that. The Plumbers had always been… persistent. Irritatingly so.

And now they would be listening. This could prove to be more complicated than he had originally accounted on.

Vilgax did not move to stop the signal, though.

If anything, his focus shifted past it, already calculating the next step. The transport's systems were strained. Its engines were operating beyond their intended limits. Its hull integrity showed signs of stress along multiple points. It was holding together—but barely.

It would not take much.

His hand moved across the console, and the ship responded instantly. Targeting systems came online in silence, locking onto the transport with a precision that left no room for error. Power routed where it was needed, weapons charging without fanfare, without excess.

The transport still hadn't reacted.

It continued forward, broadcasting its plea into the void, unaware that its fate had already been decided.

Vilgax watched it for a second longer.

Then he acted.

A single, focused shot lanced out from his ship, cutting through the darkness with brutal efficiency. It struck the transport along its rear thruster assembly, not with enough force to destroy—but enough to cripple. The engine sputtered violently, its output spiking before collapsing into an uneven burn.

The ship lurched.

Its trajectory faltered, systems scrambling to compensate as warning signals no doubt flooded whatever crew remained aboard. The distress signal intensified, its frequency wavering as power fluctuations rippled through the vessel.

Vilgax didn't fire again immediately.

He let it struggle and attempt to correct itself, to stabilize, to fight against the inevitable for just a moment longer. The transport veered off its path, rotation kicking in slightly as its damaged thruster failed to maintain balance. Secondary systems tried to engage—smaller bursts of propulsion firing unevenly, doing little more than delaying the outcome.

Predictable.

Vilgax adjusted his aim.

The second shot came a heartbeat later, carving into the ship's side with surgical precision. Hull plating ruptured along the impact point, atmosphere venting out into space in a violent plume as the structure gave way. Internal systems sparked and died in rapid succession, the vessel's already fragile state pushed past its limit.

The distress signal spiked once more—louder, more frantic.

Then it began to falter.

Vilgax's ship closed the distance, steady and unhurried as it approached the crippled transport. The Omnitrix's signature burned brighter on his display now, no longer obscured by distance or interference.

---

Meanwhile…

---

Cecil Stedman didn't like having his evening disrupted by work. While, as the acting director of the Global Defense Agency, he was always on call, that didn't mean he enjoyed being reminded of it. The job already had a way of bleeding into every corner of his life without needing an invitation. However, with the seldom few hours he chose to spend for himself—hours carved out with the same stubborn precision he applied to global security—he didn't like to be disturbed.

Unfortunately, the universe rarely cared about his preferences.

The phone call had come just after he'd poured himself a drink and settled into the quiet of his living room. The city lights stretched beyond the window in neat grids of white and amber, the distant hum of traffic barely reaching his floor. It had been shaping up to be one of those rare evenings where nothing exploded, nobody invaded, and he could almost pretend the world didn't constantly teeter on the edge of catastrophe.

Then the call came.

Cecil stepped through the sliding doors of the GDA command floor with the same tired irritation still lingering behind his eyes. The facility beneath the Pentagon hummed with its usual sterile life—banks of monitors casting pale blue light across rows of analysts, technicians whispering between consoles, the air thick with the low electric drone of machines that never truly powered down. The moment he entered, a few heads turned instinctively. Not out of fear, exactly, but something adjacent to it. Respect mixed with the quiet understanding that if Cecil had been called in this late, something had already gone wrong.

Donald was waiting for him near the central console, shoulders drawn tight, a tablet clutched in both hands like it might try to escape.

"Donald, this better be important."

"It is, sir." The timid man in glasses nodded as Cecil arrived, pushing the tablet forward as if it were evidence in a trial. "We've received a distress signal."

Cecil stopped a few feet short of the console. The words alone weren't enough to earn his attention yet. Earth received strange signals all the time. Half of them turned out to be dead satellites, corrupted transmissions, or enthusiastic amateurs with equipment they didn't understand. The other half tended to involve something with too many limbs crashing into rural farmland.

"Where?"

Donald hesitated just long enough to confirm this wasn't going to be one of the easy ones.

"Near the moon."

"Excuse me?" Cecil asked, narrowing his brows. "You've gotta be shitting me. It's not one of ours, is it?"

"Doesn't appear to be," Donald said, shaking his head quickly. "We picked it up on the Plumber channels."

That got Cecil moving again.

He stepped closer to the console, eyes scanning the monitors now lighting up with spectral readouts and signal traces. A rotating orbital projection filled the main display, Earth hovering in the center while the moon drifted along its familiar path. A blinking marker pulsed just outside the lunar orbit, accompanied by a steady, repeating waveform.

The signal itself looked old.

Not in the sense that it had been traveling long distances—if that were the case, the distortion would have been far worse. No, this signal looked old in design. The frequency architecture, the encryption patterns, even the base modulation carried a fingerprint Cecil recognized immediately.

Plumber technology.

Or what was left of it.

The Plumbers had once operated openly on Earth, decades before Cecil ever inherited the director's chair. Back in the seventies and early eighties, they'd maintained a network of alien tech installations, listening posts, and diplomatic channels scattered across the planet. Most of the world had never known they existed. Those who did rarely lived long enough to talk about it.

Then came the incident.

Cecil hadn't been in charge at the time—hell, he'd barely been a junior analyst—but he'd read the files often enough to know the highlights. An extraterrestrial conflict spilling into Earth's orbit. Plumber forces caught in the middle. A battle that had burned through most of their infrastructure in the span of a single night.

By the time the dust settled, the Plumbers on Earth were effectively gone.

What remained of their technology had been seized quietly, folded into GDA custody under a web of international agreements and classified amendments. Half of it still sat in storage facilities, humming with systems nobody fully understood. The other half had been repurposed into early warning networks and long-range sensors.

Like the one currently blinking on Cecil's screen.

"Play it," Cecil said.

Donald tapped a command into the console. A moment later, the room filled with the faint crackle of a broken transmission.

Static washed across the speakers first, sharp and uneven, before a burst of alien syllables cut through the noise. The language wasn't human.

Even distorted, the voice sounded small—high-pitched, frantic, the words tumbling over each other like whoever had recorded it had been running out of time.

The analysts around the room leaned closer to their screens, software attempting to parse the signal in real time. Lines of rough translation began appearing beneath the waveform, incomplete phrases struggling to form meaning.

Attack — containment failure — transit trajectory —

The audio cut abruptly, dissolving back into static.

Silence settled across the command floor for a moment.

Cecil folded his arms.

"Well," he muttered under his breath. "That doesn't sound promising."

Donald cleared his throat.

"We're still decrypting the rest of it, sir. The signal repeats every thirty-two seconds. Whoever sent it wanted to make sure it got picked up."

"Or they wanted to make sure someone knew what happened after they were gone."

Cecil watched the blinking marker near the moon for another second before glancing toward the analysts.

"Origin point?"

"Not lunar," one of the technicians replied quickly. "It looks like the signal is being relayed from a drifting vessel. Small craft, maybe escape-class. It entered the system a few hours ago and started broadcasting immediately."

Cecil's eyes narrowed slightly.

Something small enough to slip into Earth's orbit without triggering the usual alarms. Something equipped with Plumber-grade transmission systems. And something desperate enough to fire off a distress signal the moment it arrived.

None of that added up to anything good.

"Track it," Cecil said calmly. "I want every telescope, satellite, and deep-space sensor pointed at that thing."

Donald hesitated.

"Sir… if this is Plumber tech—"

"Then it's already our problem," Cecil finished flatly.

His gaze drifted back to the rotating projection of Earth and the tiny blinking signal just beyond the moon.

Whatever was floating out there had crossed half the solar system to reach them, and something told him it hadn't come alone.

"Where's Omni-Man?"

"Sir?"

"He's the only one who'll be able to reach it in time…"

---

Meanwhile...

---

The television droned on in the background, some late-night sitcom rerun cycling through the same laugh track it had probably used for the last twenty years. Nolan Grayson sat comfortably at one end of the couch, one arm stretched along the backrest, the other resting loosely in his lap as he watched the screen with a quiet, patient sort of interest. It wasn't the kind of thing he would've chosen on his own—not really—but that had never been the point.

His wife, Debbie, laughed beside him, the sound warm and easy, her head tilting slightly as she leaned into the moment rather than the joke itself. Their son, Mark, sat on the floor a few feet away, legs stretched out, controller in hand, half-invested in both the show and whatever game he'd been playing. The glow from the TV painted the room in soft blues and whites, flickering across familiar walls, family photos, the quiet evidence of a life that felt normal.

Nolan let his gaze drift from the screen for just a second, watching them instead.

It still surprised him sometimes—how natural it all felt.

There had been a time when this kind of evening would've seemed… inefficient. Pointless, even. Sitting still, doing nothing of consequence, letting time pass without purpose. Back then, every moment had been measured against something larger. Progress. Expansion. Duty.

Now?

Now he found himself memorizing things like this.

The way Debbie's laugh came a second too late, like she was catching up to the joke instead of reacting to it. The way Mark would glance up from his game just in time for the punchline, pretending he'd been paying attention the whole time. The faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the distant sound of a car passing outside.

Small things.

Human things.

"Okay, that one was actually funny," Mark said, pausing his game and looking back at the TV. "I don't even care if that was a rerun."

Debbie smirked.

"You say that every time."

"Yeah, but this time I mean it."

Nolan chuckled quietly, the sound low and genuine.

"You've been saying that for the last three episodes."

Mark shrugged, unapologetic.

"Maybe they're just getting better."

"They're not," Debbie said flatly, though the smile on her face softened the edge of it.

Nolan shifted slightly on the couch, leaning forward just enough to rest his elbows on his knees. There was something… comforting about the simplicity of it. No stakes. No consequences. Just people talking, laughing, existing in a world where the biggest problem was whatever misunderstanding needed to be wrapped up before the episode ended.

A world that reset itself every thirty minutes.

Must be nice.

Mark unpaused his game, the rapid clicking of buttons filling the space between lines of dialogue from the TV.

"You ever think about how weird it is?" he said suddenly.

Debbie raised an eyebrow.

"That could mean a lot of things coming from you."

"This," Mark gestured vaguely toward the screen, the room, everything. "We've got Dad flying around stopping disasters, superheroes all over the place, and we're just sitting here watching some guy trip over his coffee table for the tenth time."

Debbie sighed. "Mark—"

"I'm just saying," he continued, sitting up a little straighter. "The world's crazy. Aliens, supervillains, all that—and this is what we do with our downtime."

Nolan huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, something softer behind it this time.

"You'd be surprised."

Mark glanced back at him.

"Yeah?"

Nolan nodded slightly, eyes drifting back to the TV.

"Doesn't matter how powerful you are. You still end up wanting something simple at the end of the day."

Debbie smiled faintly at that, though there was something thoughtful behind it, like she'd heard him say versions of that before and was still turning it over.

"Good to know saving the world doesn't ruin your taste in bad television."

"It might improve it," Nolan said dryly.

Mark snorted, shaking his head as he went back to his game.

"Man, if I ever get my powers, I'm not wasting my time like this."

Debbie gave him a look.

"Oh, you absolutely would."

"No way."

"You say that now."

Nolan glanced at him, the corner of his mouth tugging upward just slightly.

"You'd last about a week."

Mark looked back at him, mock offended.

"Wow. Okay. That's messed up."

"You'd get bored," Nolan added simply. "Everyone does."

Mark opened his mouth to argue, then hesitated, like he wasn't entirely sure how to prove that wrong.

"Still," he muttered, quieter now, "I'd at least try to do something bigger with it."

Nolan held his gaze for a second, something unreadable passing through his expression before it softened again.

"Yeah," he said. "You would."

The room settled again after that, the conversation fading back into the background noise of the television and the steady rhythm of Mark's controller. Debbie shifted slightly, resting her head more comfortably against the couch as the next scene rolled on.

Mark didn't even look up this time.

"You're not gonna get called out tonight, right?"

Debbie shot him a look.

"Mark."

"What? I'm just asking."

"It's fine, dear." Nolan held his hand up, though it didn't change the way his chest slightly tightened at the question. He knew how hard it was for Mark and Debbie when he had to leave at a moment's notice, especially in the middle of something important. "I think they can handle it for one evening."

"I hope so," Mark smiled softly. "Kinda nice having you here."

Nolan didn't respond right away. He just let the moment sit, the weight of it settling somewhere deeper than he cared to acknowledge out loud.

For all the noise in the universe, all the conflict, all the things he knew were out there beyond this planet… this was the part that stayed with him. Not the battles. Not the victories. This.

The episode rolled into a commercial break, the volume dipping slightly as the tone shifted. Debbie stretched, letting out a soft sigh as she leaned back against the couch.

"I should probably head to bed soon."

"Yeah, same," Mark said, though he made no move to get up.

Nolan glanced between them, something quiet settling behind his expression.

"You don't have to rush."

Debbie smiled at him.

"I know."

For a moment, none of them moved.

Then—

Nolan's phone began to ring.

The sound cut cleanly through the room, sharp against the low hum of the television.

Mark glanced over immediately. Debbie didn't say anything, but the shift in her posture said enough.

Nolan already knew who it was before he even reached for it.

"So much for them handling it," Mark grumbled under his breath. As Nolan answered the call, he was already making his way towards the bedroom.

"Cecil, what's the situation?"

"Sorry to interrupt your evening, Nolan." Cecil's voice came through the speaker. "I figured a call would be more appropriate than an unexpected visit."

"I appreciate it. Debbie wasn't too pleased about last time."

"Hence why I called." the GDA director cleared his throat. "You're not the only one that's had their plans disrupted. We received a distress signal not too far from the moon. It came through on one of the old Plumber channels."

"Plumber?" Nolan raised an eyebrow. "Haven't heard about them in a while."

"Precisely. So whatever it is, it has to be from outside our galaxy. I'd call in someone else, but frankly we don't know what the situation is and you're the only one I trust to get there in time."

"Do we know what the signal belongs to?"

"From what we can make out, it appears to be a small vessel, potentially a transport of some kind. The transmission that we received isn't fully translated yet, but they came under attack just as they entered the sector."

"So expect a fight?"

"I wouldn't rule it out. Think you can handle it?"

Nolan smiled, opening his closet to grab his costume.

"Please, it's me. Shouldn't take too long to deal with." Despite the smile and the chipperness to his voice, Nolan wasn't happy about the situation. As much as he enjoyed what he did, their reliance on him was only proof that his true mission would be far too easy once it came time. "Send me the coordinates. I'm on my way now."

Nolan disappeared in a blur through the open window, flying towards the upper atmosphere. Debbie stood by the doorway, frowning softly.

---

The air gave way easier than most people would've expected. Nolan didn't slow as he cut through the upper atmosphere; didn't even think about it beyond the faint shift in resistance against his skin. One moment there was wind clawing at him, the rush of it loud and constant in his ears — the next, it thinned into almost nothing. The world below fell quiet in a way that always felt just a little unnatural if he let himself focus on it for too long.

He didn't.

The Earth curved beneath him, vast and alive, painted in deep blues and scattered clouds that stretched like brushstrokes across its surface. City lights shimmered along the darkened side, faint clusters of gold and white that marked where people lived, where they laughed, argued, worried—where they waited for someone like him to show up when things went wrong.

For a moment, he thought about the house.

About the couch, the low hum of the television, the way Debbie had lingered in the doorway without saying anything. The way Mark had tried to play it off like it didn't bother him.

His jaw tightened, just slightly.

Then he pushed forward.

The last traces of atmosphere slipped past him, and space opened up in full—silent, endless, and cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. There was no wind here, no sound, no resistance. Just motion. Pure, uninterrupted motion.

Nolan adjusted without thinking, his body angling forward as his speed picked up, the planet shrinking behind him with every passing second. There was no strain in it, no burn in his muscles, no limit he could feel pressing back against him. Flight wasn't effort. Not really.

It was… intention.

It was similar to tensing a muscle. For Viltrumites, flight came to them as easy as breathing. He'd thought about how he would explain this to Mark if he ever got his powers. The keyword being if.

Nolan knew that Mark wanted powers more than anything else in the world, but he'd be lying if part of him wished that Mark would never inherit them. The idea that Mark could live a full life away from the Viltrumite Empire and everything that entailed was something Nolan held onto tightly.

Eventually, Nolan would be forced to resume his duties. When that happened, he didn't want Mark or Debbie to be caught in the middle of it. Even now, after all this time on Earth, there were moments where that realization still lingered in the back of his mind, reminding him of who he really was.

The stars stretched out ahead of him, distant and unmoving no matter how fast he went, scattered across the black like pinpricks of light that refused to grow any closer. He'd crossed distances that would've taken human technology years in a matter of minutes, and still, space had a way of making everything feel far away.

Insignificant, even.

Nolan didn't feel insignificant.

But he understood the scale.

He'd seen what existed beyond this system. Empires that spanned galaxies. Civilizations that rose and fell without ever brushing against one another. Wars that consumed entire worlds and left nothing behind but drifting debris and fading signals no one would ever answer.

Earth was small.

Fragile.

Unremarkable in the grand scheme of things.

And yet—

His gaze flickered back, just for a second.

The planet was already distant, its details blurred by space and speed, but it was still there. Still… his.

Not in the way it used to be. Not in the way he'd been taught to see things.

But in a way that mattered more than he'd ever expected.

The coordinates Cecil had sent sat in the back of his mind, precise and unchanging. He didn't need a display, didn't need a navigation system. Once he had a direction, his body handled the rest, adjusting in ways that felt as natural as breathing had once been.

He'd made that trip more times than he could count. Whether it was patrols, inspections, the occasional intervention when something got too close for comfort. It wasn't far, not for him anyway. It might as well have been routine.

That word sat oddly with him now.

Routine.

There had been a time when nothing about this would've felt routine. Every mission, every deployment, every encounter—it had all carried weight. Purpose. A clear, defined role in something larger than himself.

Now?

Now he answered calls about distress signals and intercepted threats before they could reach a planet that, by all accounts, shouldn't have mattered to him at all.

And yet, he went anyway.

Every time.

Nolan's eyes narrowed slightly as he cut through the darkness, his speed increasing just a fraction more. The stars didn't blur—not the way they would've for a human eye—but there was a subtle shift in perspective, distances closing in ways that were difficult to measure without something solid to compare against.

The moon came into view ahead, pale and unmoving, its surface marked by craters and shadows that stretched across it like old scars. It hung there, silent and indifferent, just another body caught in orbit around something larger than itself.

He'd always found it… unimpressive.

Not because it lacked significance, but because it lacked resistance. It was just there. No defenses. No life. No challenge.

A stepping stone.

Nolan angled slightly to the side, adjusting his trajectory as he closed the distance. The distress signal was beyond it, somewhere in the empty stretch of space that most people would've dismissed as nothing.

Empty.

He knew better.

There was no such thing as empty space. Not really. There was always something—debris, radiation, the faint echoes of things that had passed through long before anyone thought to look. And sometimes…

Sometimes there were things that didn't belong.

Such as the large warship floating through the void, firing upon a smaller vessel that appeared to be on the verge of annihilation…

---

Hey everyone. Not much to say today. Hope you enjoyed! Next chapter will be up in the next week or two.

Links to my discord and Patreon will be down below. Those of sufficient rank in my discord get one chapter in advance while those who support my writing get anywhere from 1 to 10 chapters for each of my stories. Omni-Blood currently has 4. There will be more in the future, just please be patient with me!

-Arsenal

---

Links

 

[Jason Wu]

Thanks for the chapter
Here's to hoping the Viltrumite transformation of the Omnitrix be called Viltrumight

 

[Zetakille]

...well then. I guess Xylene is going to take the distraction of Omniman attacking Vilgax's ship to launch the Omnitrix to Earth. And he won't notice, as otherwise he could intercept the pod before it impacts the ground.

 

[Arsenal597]

...well then. I guess Xylene is going to take the distraction of Omniman attacking Vilgax's ship to launch the Omnitrix to Earth. And he won't notice, as otherwise he could intercept the pod before it impacts the ground.

Click to shrink...

Honestly, out of everyone that read the chapters early, you are the only one I think that's properly suggested this route.

 

[Zetakille]

Honestly, out of everyone that read the chapters early, you are the only one I think that's properly suggested this route.

Click to shrink...

I think what I'm most curious about is how you're going to fold the rest of Ben's rogues gallery into events. Like Animo, off of what he accomplishes in his introductory episode, would be someone the GDA would take interest in, probably for recruitment.

 

[Arsenal597]

I think what I'm most curious about is how you're going to fold the rest of Ben's rogues gallery into events. Like Animo, off of what he accomplishes in his introductory episode, would be someone the GDA would take interest in, probably for recruitment.

Click to shrink...

You know, that is actually something I've been debating on hard. There is one idea that I keep coming back to, but it'd be one of those situations far down the road. Reanimo. If you get my drift there.