Project ROWDY 4

Light crawled across the hotel suite floor like some lazy beast, dragging fingers of yellow through the curtains Brick hadn’t fully closed last night. The room stank of sugar and grease and boy-sweat, the kind of smell that came from three kids with superpowers and zero supervision.

Wrappers everywhere. Candy bar foil twisted into little balls and flicked into corners. Half-eaten pizza crusts hardening on expensive mahogany end tables. Room service trays stacked four high by the door because Butch kept insisting they order more food just to see if the hotel would cut them off. They hadn’t. The money was too good, and the Boys had plenty after their little bank adventure.

Boomer sprawled across the king-sized bed like a starfish, limbs hanging off all sides, face buried in a stuffed shark he’d won by breaking a carnival game at Universal. His blue shirt had ridden up his skinny torso, exposing a belly still covered in faded marker from where Butch had drawn on him while he slept yesterday. His blond hair stuck up in twenty different directions, half-dried gel turning it into a disaster zone.

Butch had claimed the couch, shirtless body twisted at an angle that would’ve broken a normal human spine. One leg hooked over the back cushions, the other dangling to the floor, toes brushing the carpet. His chest rose and fell with each breath, the occasional twitch jolting through his body even in sleep.

Brick had managed to fall asleep in a chair by the window, body upright like he was guarding something, head tilted against the wall. His red cap sat crooked, partially covering one closed eye. His jacket was folded neatly on the table beside him, the only item in the entire suite that had been treated with care. His legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, red and black sneakers still tied tight.

A knock at the door.

Quiet at first, like whoever stood on the other side wasn’t sure if they should be knocking at all.

None of the Boys moved.

The knock came again, harder this time, more confident.

Boomer grunted, shifting. The stuffed shark slid from his grasp and flopped to the floor with a soft thud. One blue eye cracked open, immediately shutting again when sunlight hit it.

“Unnnngh,” he groaned, voice muffled by the pillow he’d crushed his face into. “What time is it?”

Brick didn’t stir. His chest kept rising and falling in that slow rhythm of deep sleep.

Butch made a sound like an angry cat, curling further into the couch cushions.

The knocking didn’t quit—it just kept going, louder and louder each time, drilling into Brick’s skull like someone with a personal vendetta against sleep. The self-titled oldest Rowdyruff rolled over and over, squirming his head deeper into the pillow as his mullet splayed all around him.

Maybe he was hoping it’d magically block the noise even though his hearing was so sensitive for something this close that it wouldn’t have done a damn thing no matter what he did. Butch was groaning somewhere to his left, voice muffled by the pile of couch cushions he’d buried himself in sometime around four AM. The whole room had the deeply familiar aroma of their benders, something like sugar, sweat and bad decisions, with a sour mix of flat soda and stale candy and something else the Powerpuffs would have gagged at, calling it “boystink”.

“Someone better make that stop,” Butch growled. His eyes were still closed as he squirmed deeper into the couch cushions, his ripped shirt off and tucked under his head like his own personal pillow. “Or I swear I’m gonna bring this whole place down.”

Brick just ignored him, trying to focus on anything else. Not his problem. Not yet.

Boomer groaned dramatically but he was the only one to actually sit up, blue eyes squinting against sunlight that felt ten times brighter than it did even when they flew out to space. “Is it waffles?”

Brick grunted something incoherent, because he really didn’t give a crap if it was waffles or not—sleep mattered more, and whatever idiot was pounding on the door at this ungodly hour wasn’t going to make him move one inch. Boomer made some vague whining noise, probably trying to guilt Brick into handling it, but Brick held firm.

Boomer shuffled reluctantly across the plush carpet, feet dragging like every step weighed as much as one of those annoying deep sea kaiju that were more trouble to fight than they were worth The tiny blond barely managed to open his eyes fully, blinking slowly as if processing the world was just too much work this early in the day. The knocking grew louder—sharper.

Clearly someone who didn’t know the meaning of the word patience.

“Ughhh, fiiiiiiiiine, okay, okay! I’m coming!” Boomer whined in a shrill voice that raised groans from both his brothers. His messy blond hair stuck up in odd angles, and his shirt was twisted around his body, halfway backwards like he’d tried and failed to change in his sleep.

The door swung open with a quiet click that didn’t match the fuss the guy had been making. Boomer stood there, still blinking sleep from his eyes, brain too fuzzy to register what exactly he was staring at. His head tilted slightly, confusion lining his brow, eyes narrowing, clearly hoping if he stared long enough the intruder might transform into a hotel worker with a stack of pancakes.

But it stayed a guy in a suit. No waffles in sight.

But definitely something weird with his face.

“You’re not room service,” Boomer stated slowly, voice cracking slightly. All four feet, ten inches of the youngest Rowdyruff glanced at the man up and down as he rubbed his eyes, trying to figure out why someone who wasn’t bringing waffles was bothering them this early. “So… uh, who’re you, Mister Scary Mouth?”

Brick, fully awake now against his will, lifted his head from the pillow, squinting as he realized Boomer had been gone a bit too long and he didn’t smell any bacon yet. As he floated around the corner, he came face to face with some weirdo in a suit that Boomer was talking to.

The suit didn’t move or say anything as his eyes flicked over to Brick, just stood there looking somehow wrong for a guy who wore a tie for a living.

“Brick…?” Butch floated over blearily with all the grace of a fat bumblebee drunk on honey, still shirtless.

A half second later, his eyes instantly shifted into dangerous slits, the middle Rowdyruff still only half-awake but already smelling trouble. He looked at the guy, then at Boomer, then at Brick again, impatient and clearly ready to snap. “Who’s the corpse?”

Brick didn’t answe yet, fire-truck red eyes still locked on to the old man in their doorway like he was some half-formed puzzle Brick hadn’t managed to solve.

The man in the black suit finally took his first few steps forward, entering the suite without waiting for permission, trained eyes flicking across the room. “Gentlemen,” he greeted calmly, a voice smooth enough to grate against Brick’s nerves just because of how unbothered it sounded. “Name’s Cecil Stedman. We have some things to talk about.”

“Talk about what?” Butch growled, a moment before mouthed “gentlemen” and gagged at the word.

Before the man could answer, the actual room service cart appeared behind him, pushed by a hotel employee whose eyes kept darting to Cecil like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be there. The smell of bacon and syrup hit Boomer’s nose, stomach responding with a growl that could’ve been mistaken for Butch on a bad day.

Priorities instantly reshuffled. Strange man in suit? Secondary concern. Waffles? Primary objective.

“Nevermind, we’re good,” Butch announced, already reaching for the nearest plate, fingers grabbing a strip of bacon before his brain had fully decided to take it. “You should’ve led with this, Mr. Suit Man.”

Cecil ignored him, eyes sliding briefly toward Brick, obviously pegging him as the leader, which was the only accurate thing this guy had figured out so far. He used the momentary distraction to step smoothly past Boomer and into the suite, moving with the confidence of someone who expected doors to open for them and never doubted it for a moment.

The room service guy looked relieved as Boomer grabbed the entire cart and dragged it inside, kicking the door shut with his heel, already shoving half a waffle into his mouth. 

The old man with the scarred-up mouth raised an eyebrow. “It’s been quite a week for you three boys, hasn’t it? Quite the vacation you’ve been on.” His eyes trailed over to the duffel bags full of money in the corner of the suite. “Expensive, too.”

“Yeah, we’re awesome,” Butch said, swinging upright, cracking his neck so loud it echoed through the suite. “Wanna fight about it?”

All Brick did was watch.

The Red Rowdyruff was doing what he did best right now; calculating, turning scenarios in his mind, sizing up the suit. He knew well enough he wouldn’t even have to breathe hard to end this conversation in a microsecond, but that was exactly why it was probably a bad idea. Someone as old and as human as this guy didn’t simply walk into a room full of three immature superhumans without major backup or a major plan. Damn it.

Cecil’s eyes were sharp, steady, knowing. This was a man used to dealing with people like him and his boys. Case in point, the guy hadn’t flinched once, even as Butch’s knuckles cracked ominously again, the potential violence clear on his brother’s face. Another sign. 

He just wasn’t scared enough.

Which meant there was reason for the Boys to be.

“Let’s just say I’m interested,” Stedman answered mildly, as if he wasn’t practically standing in a room full of loaded weapons. “I’d prefer cooperation, obviously.”

“Oh, ‘obviously,'” Brick echoed, sarcasm curling on the edge of his voice as he bobbed carefully in the air, not missing how Cecil’s eyes moved with him, but not his head. “And if we don’t cooperate?”

He knew what Cecil was going to say, or close enough. He wasn’t five years old anymore… or technically one, depending on how you count it… 

He had learned real quick there were fights he and the Boys couldn’t handle.

“Then things get complicated,” Stedman replied, tone unchanged, irritatingly neutral. “For you, mostly.”

“Complicated?” Boomer asked around a mouthful of waffles, syrup dripping down his chin. “Like algebra? Or like fighting cops complicated?”

“Complicated,” Stedman repeated patiently, not explaining any further. His eyes stayed on Brick, gaze dissecting every movement, every twitch, like Brick was some puzzle he’d already solved but still found interesting anyway. Brick didn’t like the way that felt. 

Didn’t like the guy, either.

Cecil glanced at the array of food on the cart. At the blond one inhaling carbs at a rate that would alarm most dietitians. At the black-haired one digging into the towering pile of bacon like a starving wolf. At the redhead, who hadn’t moved toward the food at all, still watching, analyzing, waiting.

“Eat first,” Cecil said, tone mild. “We’ll talk after.”

Butch didn’t need to be told twice.

Really, Brick doubted he needed to be told once.

The green Rowdyruff descended on the food cart like a locust, grabbing handfuls of bacon and a stack of pancakes. Brick hesitated, eyes still fixed on Cecil, suspicious. But eventually, hunger won out over caution, and he joined his brothers, though he kept his body angled to watch the intruder while he ate.

They demolished the food in record time. Boomer licked his fingers clean, going so far as to run them across his empty plate to collect every last drop of syrup. Butch ate like someone might take the food away at any moment, teeth tearing into bacon strips, eyes occasionally darting up to make sure Cecil hadn’t moved. Brick ate neatly, but with the same focus and intensity he brought to everything.

Cecil waited, the man entirely unruffled by the shark-like feeding frenzy happening in front of him. His eyes tracked their movements, noting how Brick kept himself between the stranger and his brothers, how Butch unconsciously mirrored Brick’s body language, how Boomer seemed oblivious to the tension but still positioned himself within the protective triangle the three naturally formed.

Finally, Brick was done.

At least, for now. 

Brick let the silence stretch, staring Cecil down but the old man didn’t flinch, not against that exact same red-eyed stare that had made giant monsters wet themselves. Literally.

He wasn’t surprised, though. Brick already figured this guy didn’t scare easy. “Alright,” Brick said finally. “Say your piece, old man.”

Cecil didn’t blink. “I work for an organization that specializes in managing individuals with… like you. The Global Defense Agency.”

Boomer, who had been tilting his chair back on two legs, let it drop down with a loud thud. “That sounds like superhero police.”

“More like resource management,” Cecil corrected smoothly, hands still clasped in that calm, calculated way that made Brick itch to punch him just for looking so unbothered.

“Never heard of it,” Brick said, voice flat, not giving the guy anything.

“That’s by design.”

Butch snorted, stretching his arms behind his head. “There ain’t people like us.” His grin turned sharp.

Cecil tilted his head slightly, like he was agreeing. “Not many of them, no. But enough that we like to keep track of them.”

Brick didn’t like that wording. Didn’t like any of this. “So what now?” His voice edged toward bored, but it was a cover, a test. “You found us. What’s next? You gonna try to lock us up?” He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “Good luck with that.”

Cecil shook his head. “No. I’m here to offer you a job.”

“You… you wanna give us a job? Like a real job?” Boomer chimed in, eyes wide. “With paychecks?” His face looked more confused than Brick had seen it in twenty-four hours, when he had turned on Animal Planet and was faced with the brainbending issue of how boy seahorses get pregnant.

Butch’s smirk widened. “Depends. We get to break stuff? People?”

Cecil’s face didn’t change. “More than likely.”

Brick exhaled slowly, waiting for the catch, because there was always a catch. “What kind of job?”

“The kind where you get to use your abilities,” Cecil said simply, measured, like he wasn’t talking to three half-feral kids who could turn a city block into rubble just for fun. “Ideally without causing upwards of billions in damages. The budget can handle anything under that.”

Butch made a noise low in his throat, flopping back against the couch, shirt still discarded somewhere on the floor. “Sounds boring.” He stretched his arms up with a yawn, sharp canines flashing in the dim hotel light. “Boring as hell.”

“It’s really not,” Cecil countered smoothly. “It involves highly dangerous missions, containing threats that ordinary forces can’t handle, and occasional acts of extreme violence.”

Butch straightened up. “I’m listening.”

Cecil continued, addressing all three but keeping his main focus on Brick, recognizing the real decision-maker. “You’ve got options. Either you keep doing what you’re doing—joy-riding across the country, robbing banks, terrorizing amusement parks—and eventually, someone decides you’re too dangerous to leave unchecked. And they’ll send people after you. People who make it their business to eliminate threats.”

Brick didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “And the other option?”

“You work with us. Controlled environment. Proper targets. Compensation. Housing. Support staff.”

“Like we need any of that,” Butch scoffed, but you didn’t need to have known him for the better part of a decade to know he was already into it now.

“Soooooo…” Boomer leaned forward, practically vibrating in the air as he floated up, gravity seeming to lose its hold on him the more excited he got. “D-do we get badges? Like, real ones? With our faces on them? And cool spy gear? Do we get grappling hooks? And, like, laser watches? Do we get our own secret base?” 

Cecil barely reacted, just the tiniest quirk of his lips. “Yes to all of those things.”

Boomer let out something that twinged between a gasp and a squeak, as he did what could only be described as a cartwheel in the air, before zooming over to Brick’s side in a burst of blue light to whisper in his ear. “Dude. We made it.”

“And we can still break stuff?” Butch added, looking more engaged by the second.

“Yes.” Cecil nodded, all calm, all smooth. “But only approved targets.”

Brick remained silent, eyes still fixed on Cecil, wheels turning behind that calculating gaze. “And if we decide we don’t feel like it anymore?”

Cecil met his gaze evenly. “You’re free to leave anytime. I’m not under the illusion we could stop you if you really wanted to go… go anywhere on the planet, really. But I think you’ll find the work… satisfying. Challenging, even.”

Brick considered it, expression unreadable. Then, surprising everyone: “We get code names?”

Cecil blinked, caught slightly off-guard by the request. “I… suppose that could be arranged.”

The Boys looked at each other. A pause thick enough that even Boomer, who usually wasn’t great at reading a room, picked up on it. Seven years of fighting side by side meant they didn’t need to speak to understand each other. 

They all knew what this was, what it could be. 

Boomer nodded, sharp, eager.

Butch grinned, slow and wild.

Brick exhaled, resigned to this idea as much as anything else that could keep his dumb brothers occupied.

“Fine,” Brick announced. “We’re in.”

Cecil gave the smallest nod of approval, standing as he slipped a sleek black phone from his jacket, already speaking into it. “Donald? They’ve agreed. Prepare transport to headquarters. And have the paperwork ready.”

Butch immediately turned on Boomer, shoving his shoulder hard enough to nearly knock him out of his chair. “I get first pick on code names.”

Boomer shoved back. “No, you don’t!”

“Yes, I do!”

“You don’t even know how to pick a good one!”

“I do too! I’m gonna be Destruction Master.”

Boomer made a face. “That is the dumbest—”

Butch punched his arm, not hard enough to be real, but enough to make Boomer yelp. “What’s yours then, genius?”

Boomer rubbed his arm, still scowling. “Blue Lightning.”

“That’s even stupider.”

“Your face is stupider!”

Brick, still watching Cecil, ignored them completely. The man had finished his call, slipping the phone away as his expression remained as carefully composed as before. But something shifted, just slightly—something in the way he looked at them. Like he understood them already.

Boomer bounced to his feet, energy fully restored. “Do we need to pack?”

Butch barked a laugh. “Pack what? We don’t own anything.”

Cecil gestured toward the door. “Transport will be here in ten minutes. We’ll provide everything you need at headquarters.”

Brick reached for his cap, adjusting it to sit properly on his head, as the Boys followed Cecil into the hallway, Boomer still chattering about code names, Butch shoving him every few steps, Brick bringing up the rear. As they reached the elevator, Brick cast one final glance back at the destroyed hotel suite. The mess of wrappers and pillows and shattered furniture from Butch’s nightmares. The remnants of their first taste of true freedom.

For the first time since they’d arrived in this strange world, Brick felt something settle in his chest. A path forward.

He stepped into the elevator, the doors sliding shut behind him, cutting off the view of their temporary kingdom.

His lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

This was going to be interesting.