Project ROWDY 3

Flying. Not just flying, but flying with nowhere to be, nowhere to fight, no one chasing them. Just speed, sky, and a whole goddamn country stretched out beneath them.

They didn’t zoom, boom, or bring doom.

Yet.

Brick was out front, as always, but this time he wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t screaming at them to keep up, to go faster, to hit harder. They weren’t losing. For the first time in forever, they weren’t running toward or away from anything.

Boomer twisted mid-air, arms out, letting himself coast. The blue in his striped shirt caught the sunlight as he spun, his blond hair whipping around his face like he’d stuck his finger in an electrical socket. He grinned, teeth flashing white against the endless blue backdrop. “We should go to Disney World.”

Butch snorted, the sound lost in the rush of wind. His black cargo shorts flapped against his legs, one of the pockets hanging by a single thread. “Why?”

Boomer blinked those big stupid blue eyes like Butch had just asked why water was wet. “Uh. Because it’s Disney World?”

Brick adjusted his trajectory—slightly, subtly. The red bomber jacket fluttered around his torso, the patch on the side catching sunlight every time he banked. His face stayed set in that halfway-to-a-scowl expression he’d perfected since they were six. “Fine. We’ll start with Disney.”

Boomer fist-pumped, almost smacking himself in the face. Butch rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

“Then what?” Butch asked, stretching his arms like he was already bored. Stretching was the wrong word, being honest. If anything, he was just shadowboxing the air out in front of him, just slower. His fingerless gloves had mostly dried, but there were still patches of damp clinging to the knuckles after he had tried to punch a cloud that pissed him off.

How it pissed him off? Brick didn’t bother questioning it.

Brick shrugged, thinking. His red eyes narrowed against the sun, scanning the landscape below like he was planning an invasion. “We’ll hit all of them. Every single play park. Disney, Universal, Six Flags—hell, even that one in Ohio.”

Butch squinted, forehead crinkling. “Ohio has amusement parks?”

Boomer gasped so hard he almost inhaled a bug. “Cedar Point.”

“What the hell is a Cedar Point?”

Boomer looked personally offended, like Butch had just insulted his mom. If they’d had a mom. Which they didn’t. But still.

Brick sighed, the sound almost lost in the wind rushing past. His red and black high-tops kicked a little harder against nothing, pushing him a few feet higher. “Point is, we do what we want. Go where we want. No rules, no Girls showing up to knock us into next week, no Mojo whining at us to take over the world, no HIM—”

Butch made a face, nose scrunching. “Yeah, our dads sucked.”

Boomer tilted his head, brow furrowing like thinking physically hurt him. “Yeah, but, like… every time we did what we wanted, we always got bored after a while.”

Silence.

Brick’s eyes stayed on the horizon. His lips pressed together, then—a slow nod. “Yeah.”

But then, with a shrug—”We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”

They kept flying.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The park sprawled out beneath them like a mess of bright colors and moving parts, loud and sugar-smelling and packed so tight with people it looked like someone had poured a bucket of tourists over the pavement. Rides twisted up into the sky, metal monsters spread out and sprawling with their loops and dips, roller coaster cars packed with kids screaming their heads off. Music piped through the speakers, all cheery and fake, clashing hard against the distant, real terror of people plummeting down coasters way faster than they probably should.

Butch grinned, sharp and twitchy. “New plan,” he announced, green eyes practically glowing. 

Practically was better than literally; literally was bad news. “We’re skipping the lines.”

Brick held back a sigh. New plan. Like that was ever not gonna be the plan, Butch. Brick barely glanced at him, arms folded over his chest, red gaze scanning the park like he was looking for the best angle of attack. “Obviously.”

Boomer hesitated, sneakers scuffing midair as he hovered, eyes darting between the orderly lines snaking through the entrance and his brothers. His fingers twitched at his belt, reaching for his blue pouch—except it was gone, left drifting somewhere in another world. He clenched his hands instead. “I dunno, guys. Maybe we should—”

Butch was already dive-bombing toward the front gates, his green and black boots leaving a dust trail in his wake that was downright cartoonish. Boomer yelped and followed his brother as he zoomed forward. Said zoom almost had him crashing into a park maintenance guy on a cherry picker, said guy screaming as he clung to his safety harness.

Brick shut his eyes and sighed, opening them again as he pointed a red gaze in his dumb brothers’ direction and floated on in.

They landed in front of the turnstiles, right in the middle of a family trying to get their tickets scanned. A second of stunned silence followed. Then—

A kid gasped, finger shooting up to point at them. “Mommy, they can fly!”

A security guard visibly aged five years on the spot, hand going to his radio before freezing halfway there.

Brick ignored all of it, eyes already scanning for the best rides. His pale face could have been carved from stone for all the emotion it showed. “C’mon.”

They lifted off again—just enough to clear the gates entirely, leaving a confused mass of tourists pointing and shouting below.

Behind them, alarms started wailing, shrill enough to make Boomer wince.

Boomer groaned, running a hand through his blond hair. “We coulda just bought tickets—”

“Not our problem,” Butch said, already making a beeline for the nearest coaster, a massive red monstrosity with two loops and a corkscrew. 

They buzzed past security guards, over teacup rides, under monorails. People pointed. Some screamed. A few took pictures, phones aimed skyward while their kids tugged on their sleeves.

The first roller coaster lasted exactly five seconds before all three of them were collectively underwhelmed.

“This is slow as shit,” Butch grumbled, slouching in the seat with his arms crossed. His knees were jammed up almost to his chest in the cramped car.

Boomer grinned, that little I-know-something-you-don’t smile that usually meant someone was about to get punched. “We could fix that.”

Brick gave him a warning look, red eyes flashing dangerously. The wind from their movement whipped his red cap against his head.

Boomer ignored it, lifting one hand as blue flickers of electricity charged up in it as he aimed at the track ahead. Blue lightning burst from his palm and struck the metal with pinpoint precision.

A section of the coaster rail shifted just slightly, just enough to make the next drop twice as steep. Metal groaned and twisted, people in line screaming in confusion.

The coaster rocketed down with its cargo of confused passengers, accelerating far beyond what the designers intended.

Screams filled the air, high and panicked enough that even Butch looked slightly worried.

Boomer looked proud of himself, puffing out his skinny chest like he’d just saved the day instead of potentially derailing a ride.

Brick pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. “Let’s try another one.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

They were mid-churro when Boomer finally asked, “Uh. How are we paying for all this?” Crumbs stuck to his chin, sugar dusting the front of his blue-striped shirt.

They looked at the snack cart. At the confused vendor, still waiting for them to hand over cash, glancing nervously at where they hovered just off the ground.

They looked at each other.

“We could just take it.” Butch’s grin was all teeth and trouble, fingers already flexing.

“We could also not commit theft five minutes after getting here.” Boomer’s eyebrows rose toward his hairline, a glob of churro filling threatening to fall from the pastry in his hand.

Brick shrugged. “We’re not in Townsville anymore.” His words came slow, measured, red eyes calculating as they swept over the park layout spread beneath them.

Boomer hesitated, looking down at the half-eaten churro in his hand like it had personally betrayed him.

Butch grinned even wider, knuckles cracking as he balled his meaty hands into fists.

Boomer sighed, shoulders slumping in resigned acceptance.

They robbed a bank.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

It wasn’t a candy store, but it might as well have been.

The bank doors burst open and slammed into the aligning walls, glass shattering on the floor like teeth from an idiot who made the mistake of running into Butch’s fist. 

Brick floated in first, leading as usual, hands folded behind his back in his usual stance, head cocked just enough that the cap shadowed his eyes. Butch swaggered right behind, his boots tracking dirt all over the shiny tile, hands folded over his chest and that manic grin plastered on his face like always. Boomer brought up the rear, trailing after them like the world’s worst caboose, blue eyes wide and wandering, his attention pinging from the vaulted ceilings down to the polished marble floors and then ricocheting around at every shiny, expensive-looking thing in between.

The security guard standing near the entrance opened his mouth, shut it, and then opened it again. His lips moved in this weird little circle, like he’d forgotten how words worked for a second.

“You l-lost, kids?” the guard managed, finally, after what had to be a good six-seven seconds.

Butch snorted, practically blowing snot all over his boots. Brick just stared right through the man, eyes half-lidded. Not even worth an answer. Boomer gave a half-hearted wave, which somehow felt worse than being ignored completely.

The guard stepped forward, hand drifting toward the radio clipped to his hip, but Butch caught his gaze, emerald eyes glowing like he was daring him to try it. He froze in place, mouth open, jaw twitching slightly as if he was caught between doing his job and his brain’s survival instinct kicking in too late.

Brick moved past him, not fast, just steady. The guard’s fingers brushed the grip of his gun, hesitated, and then fell away entirely.

“Smart choice,” Brick muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Butch gave the guard an exaggerated, mocking salute, straight up daring the guy to make the wrong move. He didn’t, which was a shame, really, because Brick was already running out of ideas to keep Butch occupied.

Inside, the bank was way bigger in the way expensive banks always were. 

Y’know, all echo-y and overblown, like whoever built this place had too much money and too little imagination. The employees behind the counters looked up from their desks with identical wide-eyed, confused expressions, like rabbits that had just noticed the neon-colored wolves strolling in.

Brick didn’t say a word, just tilted his chin up and gestured once at the teller counters, a short, sharp motion with his head. Butch took the hint instantly, cracking his knuckles in a deliberate sequence, a twisted, eager little grin curling up his lips, eyes glinting like he’d been waiting his whole short life for a chance to mess with people just like this.

Boomer was already drifting around the place, distracted, poking at things like some kind of lost tourist. His fingers brushed against pamphlets about loans and credit scores, face scrunched up as he mouthed the words silently to himself.

“Hey,” Butch barked, jolting him out of his little trance, “Quit daydreaming and get your ass over here.”

Boomer startled, almost tripping over himself in mid-air as he zipped to Butch’s side, expression guilty. “Sorry, sorry, just lookin’ around—y’know, just in case we need… um, a loan?”

Butch’s face twisted into the kind of disgusted disbelief that only his youngest brother could ever really provoke. “A loan? For what, stupid?”

“I dunno,” Boomer said weakly, picking at his sleeve, the material pulling thin from where it had snagged on something earlier. “Like, you know, a house or—”

“Shut. Up,” Brick said sharply, voice so controlled it made both his brothers instantly quiet. Butch rolled his eyes dramatically, but even he didn’t push it further. Brick’s attention had shifted already, eyeing the teller who was edging closer and closer to a silent alarm button under the counter.

He didn’t even have to give a signal; Boomer was suddenly there, leaning against the desk casually, his hand just happening to cover the little red button. “Nice nails,” he said cheerfully to the teller, who yelped and jumped back as if she’d seen a ghost instead of a friendly pre-teen.

Another guard rounded the corner, pistol already drawn. Brick sighed. It didn’t even register as a threat, just another tiny, insignificant irritation. Boomer didn’t even notice the bullets bouncing harmlessly off his chest, still chatting amiably with the teller as her eyes rolled back and she slumped sideways.

“Aw, I think I broke her,” Boomer pouted, poking at her unconscious body, genuinely disappointed.

Butch laughed like he’d heard the funniest thing in the world, leaning on the counter as he wheezed, and Brick just rolled his eyes, turning toward the vault with a single-minded intent that cut through the chaos around him like a scalpel through skin.

Butch cracked his knuckles, more energy sparking between them than was probably safe. “Let’s see how strong they built this baby.”

Brick sighed, quietly exasperated. “Just open it, Butch. Don’t get creative.”

“You’re no fun,” Butch grumbled, but complied, ripping the metal door aside with a sound like peeling back an enormous tin lid.

The police arrived way after the fact, pulling up in front, all noise and lights, officers rushing from their cars looking serious and determined, weapons drawn. The empty bank stared back at them silently, money gone, the kids vanished.

By the time the first bewildered cops stepped cautiously through the door, the boys were miles away, duffels stuffed to bursting, not a single hair out of place, because, of course, Brick had made sure the sprinklers stayed silent. Wouldn’t do to get his jacket wet again.

The police arrived twelve minutes too late, sirens wailing, cars screeching to a halt outside the bank’s glass doors.

Boomer waved, friendly and cheery, oblivious to Brick rolling his eyes. Butch threw a soda can at a cop car, outright cackling with his head thrown back when it pinged off the hood and left a deep dent.

With a sound like cannon fire and a shockwave behind them, three streaks of color burst up and out through the Florida sky, leaving both confusion and at least half a dozen insurance claims in their wake.

All in all, a peaceful afternoon for the Rowdyruffs.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Universal Studios. Six Flags. Cedar Point. Disneyland in California.

They did all of them. Expensive hotels. Stupid amounts of food. More souvenirs than they could carry, most of which ended up abandoned in hotel rooms or dropped from high altitude when Butch got bored of carrying them.

Boomer tried every roller coaster, his face stuck in a permanent grin even when Butch tried to “improve” the rides by twisting tracks or adding loops. His blue eyes shined whenever he spotted a new attraction, running toward it like it might vanish if he didn’t get there fast enough.

Butch got kicked out of three different arcades for breaking machines when he lost. His green eyes narrowed to slits when the manager at one tried to call security, the poor guy backing up until he hit a wall.

Brick barely spoke, just watched everything with that sharp, unreadable look. He stayed in the background, scanning crowds, studying security layouts, tracking everything like he was memorizing it for later. His red eyes missed nothing, especially not the phones constantly pointed their way.

Somewhere along the way, people started noticing.

Videos. TikToks. Headlines.

“FLYING CHILDREN SPOTTED AT SIX FLAGS” 

“ORLANDO BANK ROBBERY CONNECTED TO SUPERPOWERED MINORS?” 

“THREE KIDS STREAK ACROSS SKY, IGNORE PARKING FEES”

Boomer thought it was hilarious, posing for pictures when people asked, showing off by hovering upside down for selfies.

Brick thought it was a problem, glowering whenever a phone pointed their way, melting one particularly persistent YouTuber’s camera with laser vision.

The pattern continued. Three days. Four. A week.

Amusement parks. Banks. Hotels. Restaurants.

Nobody could stop them. Nobody really tried, except for a few overzealous security guards who learned their lesson quickly. Boomer apologized for the broken bones, so it was all fair and good.

It was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Cecil Stedman was watching six different screens at once, the blue light washing over his face in the dimly lit room. His tie hung perfectly and neatly around his neck, as usual, coffee long gone cold beside his keyboard.

On one, a roller coaster cam showed a blurry blue streak speeding through a loop-the-loop, arms raised in victory while passengers around him screamed in terror.

On another, security footage of three kids cracking open a vault door like it was a soda can, not even straining as metal designed to withstand bombs peeled back like tinfoil.

On a third, smartphone video showed a green little spiky-haired hellion headbutting a cop car into the ground while laughing maniacally as a boy of similar height with long red hair down to his back floated above the ground behind him.

Donald cleared his throat. “Uh, sir?” His number two’s posture was perfect, hands clasped behind his back, but sweat beaded on his forehead.

Cecil didn’t look away from the screens, fingers steepled in front of his face. “Donald, remind me why I don’t like children again.”

Donald hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Because they don’t listen, sir.”

Cecil blinked once and nodded, the movement so slight it almost didn’t happen. “And remind me what I’m looking at.”

The man in the mirrored sunglasses had very little to say, mouth moving silently for a moment, before simply saying, “Children, sir.”

“Children who can fly,” Cecil slapped a hand on the desk, “Children who can break through reinforced vault doors,” his hand clenched into a fist, “Children who are treating America like it’s their goddamn personal summer camp.”

Donald nodded, adjusting his glasses nervously. “Accurate, sir.”

Cecil sighed, the sound of a man who has seen too much and slept too little.

“Find out where the hell they’re going. And prep me a teleport to wherever it is once they touch down. We need to put some kind of leash on them.” His scarred mouth shifted into flat line, “Before they get bored.”