Project ROWDY 5

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Helicopters sucked.

Nobody told Brick that before they got in one, but after half an hour of being crammed between Butch’s bony elbow and some sweaty government goon’s leg after an already-too-long plane ride, he was ready to punch through the roof and just fly himself wherever the hell this Stedman guy was dragging them.

The noise was the worst part. A constant, teeth-rattling buzz drilling into his skull, reverberating through every bone in his body. His molars felt loose. His ribs felt like they were vibrating independently from his skin. It was just annoying in the worst way, when you had super senses. Cars were bad enough but helicopters were just disgusting that way.

The seat sucked too. Some weird plastic material that stuck to his skin when he shifted, but somehow still managed to feel rock-hard under his tailbone.

Butch wasn’t helping. He’d sprawled across the seat like he owned it, knees everywhere, arms draped like he was some kind of king lounging on a throne. His green shirt smelled like he hadn’t changed it in a week (because he hadn’t, even before they got sucked into this weird world), the already-ripped sleeve even more torn from how he couldn’t keep his hands still for five minutes without wrecking something. His leg kept bouncing, heel thudding rhythmically against the floor. Brick wanted to shove him just to make him stop, but he knew it wouldn’t work. Butch never stopped. Not unless he was unconscious, and even then, it was a fifty-fifty chance.

Across from them, Boomer had his face pressed against the window, blue eyes darting everywhere as if he could see through the clouds if he squinted hard enough. His breath fogged up the glass.

“Are we there yet?” Butch groaned, dragging the words out, head flopping back against the seat with the kind of dramatic suffering only he could pull off.

“Not yet”, Brick answered, more out of habit than knowledge.

Butch let out another groan, the sound somehow overpowering the chopper’s blades for a good second or two. “I coulda flown us there faster blindfolded with both my legs cut off.”

The government agent across from them — some forgettable guy with a standard-issue haircut Cecil had left with them for the trip when he went off to do whatever big boss spooks did — sat in a suit, with a badge clipped to his jacket pocket as he forced a smile that none of the Rowdyruffs bought for a second, the man almost sweating out of his suit. “We’re nearly there, son.”

Butch’s head snapped up so fast it nearly smacked into Brick’s. His green eyes sharpened, flashing dangerously. “I ain’t your son.”

The guy barely flinched — though that was more because he clearly froze in place — but his smile definitely thinned just a little more. “Of course.”

Brick, who had spent the entire ride staring straight forward, eyes distant and half-focused, snapped back to life as he shot Butch a look. Not the hard warning kind, just a quiet one, enough to say not now. 

Butch caught it, clearly, judging by the way the Green Rowdyruff huffed and rolled his eyes, but he knew well enough not to push it. For now.

Boomer, oblivious to all of it, pressed his forehead harder against the window, looking one stray thought away from wiping the glass down with his tongue. Brick held back a sigh, Wouldn’t be the first time.

Lucky for his sanity, Brick didn’t feel like doing a spit clean today. “I don’t see a super secret base,” he mumbled. “All I see is trees. And some deer. And, oh look, more trees.”

The agent barely had time to open his mouth before the pilot’s voice crackled through the intercom. “Beginning descent.”

Boomer squinted his big blue eyes, the youngest clearly trying to focus his enhanced senses to see what he was missing out on. “Descent to where? There’s nothing dow—”

And then the ground split open.

Boomer practically slammed his face against the glass, only instinct and years of practice keeping him from actually making a hole in the helicopter with his forehead. “OH MY GOD, THE GROUND OPENED UP. LIKE A SECRET LAIR. SO COOL. ARE WE GOING UNDERGROUND? IS THERE A HIDDEN CITY? DO YOU HAVE DINOS? T-REXES? STEGOSAURUSES…ES? TELL ME!”

“It’s James Bond. Not Jurassic Park,” Brick muttered, but his eyes hadn’t stopped scanning every detail.

“That’s what they WANT you to think,” Boomer whispered, eyes wide, breath fogging up the window again.

Butch clicked his tongue, unable to hide his appreciation as the massive metal doors slid apart, a vertical shaft in front of them glowing with cold blue light. “Okay. That’s kinda sick.”

The helicopter continued to descend, completely swallowed over by the enormous opening, Brick immediately noticing the walls lined with security checkpoints. He already counted at least five, and was currently trying to read the numbers and words painted along the sides as they passed. He would have had an easier job at it if Boomer wasn’t yelling in his ear the whole time like they each couldn’t hear a mosquito fart from the other room. “This is SO COOL. Brick, do you see this? Butch, look at this! This is like a supervillain lair! Wait, are we gonna be supervillains?”

“We already are, dumbass,” Butch snorted. “This just means we’re gettin’ PAID for it.”

The GDA agent across from him visibly flinched now, face paling several shades as he looked at each one of the boys in turn, before landing on Brick finally.

“Major lockdown vibes,” he muttered under his breath without realizing it. His hands rose up to his hat, instinctively adjusting it on his head as his eyes locked everything in the hyper-efficient computer that was his mind. “Reinforced doors every couple hundred feet. Pretty serious security.”

The GDA agent’s eyebrows raised slightly, obviously surprised by Brick’s assessment.

It took another good minute for the helicopter to finally level out. Brick raised a single eyebrow as the landing pad stretched out below, massive and sterile, buried in the guts of an entirel underground complex at least a mile underground.

The rotors whined down, letting Brick hear his own thoughts finally.

Boomer barely waited for clearance before jumping out, landing harder than necessary, grinning at the way the impact sent a strong shudder through the floor. Butch followed right after, arms stretching over his head, back cracking loud enough to make the agent standing nearby flinch. Brick moved last, slow and deliberate, eyes already sweeping the hangar, mapping out exits, guard positions, blind spots.

Huge space full of cold industrial lighting you only ever saw in high-tech bases like this; Brick was pretty sure Mojo had a discount on the stuff the way he bought it in bulk after the Powerpuffs wrecked his lair every other week. Aircraft lined up in neat rows—helicopters, jets, something weirdly shaped Boomer had never seen before. A few GDA personnel loitered near the perimeter, some in tactical gear, some in lab coats, all of them doing a bad job of pretending they weren’t staring.

Boomer spun in a slow circle, arms out. “Okay, so, where’s all the cool superhero stuff? No giant statues? No holograms? Not even a big screen with a world map full of blinking red dots?” He sounded personally offended. “This is just an airport parking lot.”

The agent looked mildly insulted but kept it professional. Before he could respond, Cecil Stedman emerged from the far side of the hangar, moving like a guy who expected the world to adjust around him instead of the other way around. Suit still perfect. Expression unreadable.

“That’s precisely the point,” Cecil said, coming to a stop in front of them. “Subtlety is an asset in our line of work.”

“Subtlety is boring,” Butch muttered, kicking at nothing.

Cecil ignored him, nodding slightly to the agent. “Thank you, Jennings. I’ll take it from here.”

Jennings. Not Johnson. Not that it mattered.

He turned, already walking toward the heavy doors across the hangar. “Follow me.”

Boomer fell in first, Butch prowling next to him, Brick trailing behind, watching their backs, tracking exits, cameras, the way the guards were still pretending not to watch.

The farther in they went, the tighter things got. Not physically. Structurally. Like the space itself was slotting into place around them. Guard placement. Reinforced doors. Cameras shifting between them and the access points like the system couldn’t decide which was the bigger problem.

Security ramped up fast. First checkpoint: ID scan. Second: two guards, two scanners, too much attention. Third: full-body scan.

Boomer stepped in. The machine hummed. Crackled. Made a weird choking sound before beeping like it was dying. Then shut off completely.

Boomer blinked. “Uh. Was that supposed to happen?”

Cecil didn’t turn. “Ignore it.”

Butch grinned, cracking his knuckles. “Wow. Super advanced.”

Personnel passed them, trying too hard not to stare. Lab coats. Tactical gear. Some of them looking at the Boys like they were something dangerous. Some like they were something new.

They stepped into the elevator. Cecil pressed his palm to the scanner, hit a button with no numbers. That sat wrong.

“How far down does this place go?” Boomer asked, shifting, rocking on his heels.

“Far enough,” Cecil answered, which wasn’t an answer.

The doors slid open to another corridor, identical to the ones above, except the stripe along the wall was blue instead of green. Brick didn’t like it. The deeper they went, the more it felt like something was slotting into place around them, walls closing in piece by piece.

Cecil led them into an office labeled OPERATIONS DIRECTOR. Bigger than Boomer expected. Walls lined with monitors, surveillance feeds ticking away in real time, a man at the center manipulating holographic displays like he was conducting an orchestra. He turned when they entered.

Average-looking guy. Plain features. Brown hair going thin at the temples. Suit just a little too loose, like he hadn’t quite grown into it and a pair of mirrored sunglasses hiding his eyes.

Cecil barely slowed. “Boys, this is Donald Ferguson, Deputy Director of the GDA and your primary liaison.”

Donald smiled stiffly, expression not quite making it to his eyes. “These are the subjects?” His voice was higher than Boomer expected. “They’re… smaller than I expected.”

Butch tensed up fast, that sharp, animal gleam sliding into his eyes as he stepped forward, all teeth and bad intentions. “Who you callin’ small, pencil pusher?”

Donald took a step back—barely—but Brick caught it. 

A sound that his ears recognized as a mechanical whirr, faint, too clean.His red eyes narrowed, locking on, because now the guy was interesting. The way he moved—too precise. His blinking—too timed. Normal people had natural tics; they twitched, hesitated, breathed wrong when they got nervous. 

Donald didn’t. Not the way he should.

Cecil cut in smooth, placing a hand on Donald’s shoulder like he was redirecting a loaded gun that was also a family heirloom. “Donald is my number two and is uniquely suited to processing the data you’ll generate. He’ll be coordinating your missions and handling your integration into GDA operations.”

Brick’s hearing picked up another sound—the faintest click of servos as Donald’s fingers curled, uncurled. Not just human, then. Something built into him, definitely. Probably expensive but nowhere near advanced as what Brick had seen before, otherwise he’d never have noticed. 

Six Million Dollar Man? More like a jumped up RoboCop.

Donald cleared his throat, awkward, and blurted out: “So… do you boys like video games?”

Oh brother, this guy stinks. 

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

Brick barely moved, just exhaled, slow and long, like the patience was physically leaving his body. They actually did like video games, Boomer especially. He was about to say so, too, but Butch snorted first, loud, completely dismissive. Boomer caught his brothers’ reactions, hunched slightly, and deflated. Right. They were supposed to be tough right now.

“Let’s get a move on already,” Cecil suggested, the old man already walking away. “We need to prep and debrief you before we discuss your first assignment.”

They moved through the whole massive facility like tourists in the world’s most boring museum. Cecil pointed things out—communications, research and development, personnel quarters—while Donald trailed behind, occasionally spitting out details so dry even Brick stopped listening.

The communications center was pretty big as it was already but nothing compared to the massive hangar and atrium they’d already been through. This place had line after line of analysts hunched over their screens, monitoring what looked like pretty much everything on the planet. Brick’s gaze skimmed the screens, red eyes reading too much, too fast. 

The detention area made Boomer’s skin itch, though he tried not to show it. Dozens of long halls lined with cells. Some empty. Some not. Cecil was clearly showing them this for a reason, and Brick could see why, even if the old man wasn’t bringing attention to it.

One cell to Boomer’s side had a guy pacing back and forth in it, the dude made of pure white crackling energy, the weird electricity around him making it hard to tell what he actually looked like. A second cell held a big dude with a super weird skull, like if a rhino and a bulldozer had a baby, who kept slamming his massive head against the reinforced glass, while a third had one who the boys couldn’t stop staring at. It was this freaky guy whose body kept changing – one second he had T-Rex arms, then shark teeth, then these huge bat wings – and Boomer honestly had to admit he’d give up Animal Planet to have powers that cool.

Butch’s eyes flicked toward the empty high-security cells near the end, a smirk playing at his mouth. “So, this your plan? Get us down here and shove us into three empty cells?”

Boomer gasped and Brick rolled his eyes, well aware his brothers were just playing.

Cecil’s expression didn’t change. “Of course not. But we prepare for all contingencies.”

Brick’s eyes landed on one door near the back. No viewing window. Just solid metal, more locks than any of the others. His head tilted slightly to the right. Hm.

The research and development sections of the GDA facility were even deeper, another elevator taking them down to a space full of white coats.

Scientists moved through sealed labs, glancing up when the Boys passed. Most of them went right back to work, but some didn’t. Some kept looking. Whispering.

“…power scaling off the charts…”

“…energy signatures unlike anything—”

“…metabolic rate suggests—”

Boomer wasn’t listening, not really. Too distracted. There was a glowing blue thing in one of the labs, pulsing behind thick glass. He drifted toward it, fingers reaching out—

Donald’s arm shot out, blocking his path. “Don’t touch that.”

Boomer flinched back. 

Donald’s face stayed stiff, serious. “It’s highly unstable.”

Boomer shoved his hands in his pockets. “I wasn’t gonna touch it,” he lied, stepping back toward his brothers. “Just looking.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“Alright, enough of that,” Cecil’s voice cut through after he let Butch have a break for a moment.

Brick could only guess that the old man was already regretting that choice.

The room was still settling from the wreckage of Butch’s ego trip when they moved on. The table was cracked in half, the guard was still rubbing his wrist, and Butch was still looking for another challenger. No one was stupid enough. Probably for the best.

Cecil didn’t slow. He was already leading them down the next corridor, already talking like that hadn’t just happened. Brick had to wonder how much experience the old guy had with superhuman antics to not even blink at it. He’s like sixty… so maybe forty years? Brick raised an eyebrow. Still a lot.

The testing range was big, loud, scorched to hell. Reinforced walls, blast marks, floor still grooved from whatever had been tested last.

“This is where we calibrate containment tools,” Donald said, gesturing to an entire wall of weapons. “Each one designed for specific superhuman suppression.”

Brick’s eyes flicked over the display. He didn’t react nor did he need to. Butch didn’t look either, because he already didn’t care. Boomer was staring at a cannon bigger than he was, tilting his head, probably thinking about what would happen if he pulled the trigger.

Then the particle cannon fired.

The air went sharp. The whine built fast, cutting through bone. The beam hit the target, ripped a crater straight through the back wall, and kept going.

Boomer blinked. “…Okay. That was actually kinda cool.”

Brick’s mouth twitched. Barely. “Not bad… for humans.”

Donald exhaled. Something in his face clicked, literal. “Don’t worry. These are only for threats.”

That landed wrong.

Brick’s expression stayed neutral, not even blinking. Butch stopped breathing for half a second. Boomer felt something weird in his stomach, but it was gone before he could pin it down.

“You don’t think we’re threats?” Brick said, before he could stop himself, eyes narrowed.

Cecil didn’t miss a beat. “We think you’re assets. But it’s important you understand our capabilities.”

That ended that. Cecil was already moving. They had to keep up.

They were handed earpieces next. Sleek, black, expensive-looking. Some technician—young, purple streaks in her hair, not as scared as the others—handed one to Boomer. “Just put it in your ear. It’s biometric-calibrated.”

Boomer did.

And the lights immediately flickered.

Sparks ran up his fingers. The earpiece let out one last pitiful shriek before dying completely. Crap.

“Sorry,” Boomer winced, pulling it out. “That happens sometimes.”

The technician forced a smile. Her hands shook when she handed him another. “This one’s… reinforced.”

Brick was already dissecting his earpiece. Turning it in his fingers, too focused. His eyes landed on the tiny tracking component inside. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. Boomer saw the way his mouth tightened.

The briefing room was too clean, too smooth. Glass walls, glowing screens, data flashing too fast to read. Cecil gestured at the seats. No one sat.

“Before we discuss your first assignment,” Cecil said, activating the display, “you need to understand the landscape.”

The main screen lit up. Faces. Names. Heroes.

Boomer leaned in, eyes going wide.

“The Guardians of the Globe are this world’s premier hero team,” Donald said, swiping through profiles. “Immortal. War Woman. Red Rush. Darkwing. Green Ghost. Aquarus. Martian Man.”

Brick was already cataloging threats, taking in the fake Justice League this dimension had as major heroes. Boomer was already losing interest. Butch, on the other hand, stared at War Woman a little too long.

Something about her; the battle stance, set jaw, the way she carried herself, or maybe the way she knew her way around a hammer.

It reminded him of Buttercup.

And not in a bad way.

Butch suddenly shoved off the wall, shaking his head to push all sappy thoughts aside. “So when do we see if we’re stronger?” He jerked a thumb toward the screen. “That Immortal guy looks tough, but I bet I could take him.”

Cecil’s expression didn’t shift. “That won’t be necessary. Our goal is cooperation, not competition.”

The last profile loaded on the screen and Butch narrowed his forest-green eyes at the image of a big ol’ guy with a chest the size of a muscle car grill with a square jaw, thick mustache, and a white-and-red suit with a blood-red cape. Square in the center of his chest was the exact same symbol Brick had spotted all over the country, plastered on billboards, merch, and graffiti.

“This here is Omni-Man,” Cecil announced, gravelly smooth voice even as he stood to the side of the screen. “The Global Defense Agency’s most powerful asset.”

Boomer blinked at the stats listed under the picture, blue eyes wide as he realized everything was maxed out on the screen, no ceiling in sight. Strength, speed, durability, endurance, all off the charts. The words ‘asteroid the size of Texas’ on the screen made all three boys actually blink.

Brick stood still, expression unreadable but eyes flicking across data points, tracking inconsistencies like he was trying to solve a puzzle no one else could see.

“He looks like Superman!” Boomer finally blurted out, the youngest jumping to his feet with one finger pointed at the screen. Brick and Butch blinked again at their brother’s words, opened their mouths as if to argue, and then stared back at the screen for a second, nodding after a moment, because, honestly, yeah… if Big Blue decided to grow a mustache… the guy really did.

Donald frowned, the name clearly not ringing a bell for him. “I’m sorry, Super… who?”

Brick barely moved, but something in his posture tightened—so small, Boomer wouldn’t have caught it if he wasn’t looking, and the Blue Rowdyruff flinched as he realized he once again said too much.

Cecil didn’t blink at the seemingly odd choice of words from Boomer, something that Brick didn’t fail to notice. “Moving on,” the old man continued as if he hadn’t heard any of that, dress shoes already click-click-clicking down one of the GDA’s massive hallways. “Time to assess your capabilities.”

Butch’s ears perked up immediately, the earlier tension already forgotten. Finally, something fun.

The “assessment” turned out to be an underground chamber that either Mojo or Professor Utonium would have come up with and in the same colors too—all white reinforced walls, and huge observation windows probably made out of extremely bulletproof super-thick glass where a bunch of lab coats huddled behind control panels, whispering in nervous tones. The air smelled like ozone, like burnt metal and something chemical he couldn’t name.

Donald stood near the entrance, expression fixed in its usual unreadable place. “We’re testing for speed, strength, durability, energy projection,” he listed, one finger tapping against a screen in front of him as the boys moved into the assessment room. “Do your best.”

Speed came first. 

Brick moved first, a red blur tearing across the chamber with his red trail behind him, stopping and starting so fast that shockwaves cracked through the walls. Butch tore past him a second later, fists clenched as he painted the room green with his lighttrail. Boomer took off flying just to keep up, blue trail darting through the space he left behind. The room’s sensors flickered violently, half of them blinking out with error messages.

Strength was barely a challenge. They went from crushing reinforced plates to breaking the whole damn mechanism in under two minutes. Boomer at least tried to make it look like he was trying, but Butch still smirked like he had something to prove, cracking his knuckles as he shattered a testing plate by tapping it hard with the back of his knuckles.

Durability testing was just another Tuesday. They started with rubber bullets. Brick simply sighed. Then normal lead rounds. Then armor-piercing. Boomer only got interested when they cranked up to particle cannons—because those he could actually feel.

Then came the energy projection tests. Boomer grinned as he lifted his hands, electricity jumping between his fingers before lashing outward in chaotic, flickering arcs, blasting straight into a reinforced panel. The metal hissed, groaned, and finally slagged under the onslaught. Butch’s blasts were raw force, green light crackling as he fired them in controlled bursts that seared deep into the panels. Brick’s turn came last, and his heat vision carved a line through one of the thickest walls like a blade through butter, molten metal dripping down like wax.

Somewhere behind the glass, a scientist muttered, “Sir, their power levels exceed our standard classification system.”

Cecil turned to him, expression flat and half-eyes lidded as he simply told the whitecoat three simple words, “Revise the system.”

Brick was the only one of the three paying attention, so he was the only one that heard it, the only one whose mouth quirked up in a smirk at the thought of how they were still on top, no matter what this Cecil guy had planned.

The tests wrapped, and they were led back to Cecil’s office, standing in a loose, instinctive formation once they finally got inside the man’s space; Brick straight-backed, sharp-eyed; Butch leaning against the wall, arms crossed, barely feigning disinterest; Boomer still bouncing on his toes, buzzing with leftover energy.

Cecil glanced at a tablet, flipping through data with an unreadable expression. Then he said, “Based on your capabilities, we’re designating you as Team Trinity.”

Brick’s nose scrunched up immediately. “That’s lazy and boring and dumb. We’re the Rowdyruff Boys.”

Cecil’s face didn’t change. “That name doesn’t exactly inspire public confidence.”

“What about ‘The Destroyers’?” Butch threw out, fistpumping the air with a grin on his face like he was already imagining the name in flashing lights.

“Or ‘Lightning Force’!” Boomer tossed his idea in with a wide eager grin.

Cecil let out a little breath of air, so tiny it could barely be called an exhale, before he looked the three of them in the eyes. “Rowdyruff makes you sound too much like children. And those other two names are… generally taken.”

Boomer blinked. “But… we are children?”

Butch frowned. “Who cares? We’ll beat them up and take their names.

Brick raised an eyebrow. “Generally?”

Now, Cecil actually bothered with an annoyed sigh, the man actually managing to seem like just a regular man as old as he looked for at least a full second. That second vanished quickly however and Brick watched as he became the cold calm GDA head the man claimed he was.. “For now, it’s going to be Trinity. It’s already in the system. Just try it out for a month or two. See how it fits.”

Brick’s jaw tensed, his hands curling slightly before he forced them flat. “Whatever. But we’re still calling ourselves the Rowdyruff Boys.”

Cecil’s mouth quirked—just barely, like he wasn’t supposed to be amused but was anyway. “Off camera, off the record, I don’t care. You can go ahead and call yourselves the Banana Bunch for all you want.”

Boomer narrowed his eyes, a proper frown on the blond Rowdyruff’s face. “…I hate bananas.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Their final stop was their assigned quarters – a reinforced living space located near an evacuation shaft for what Cecil called “quick deployment.” The room was huge, easily at least half the size of Mojo’s main lab, and also modern but deliberately minimial, with three separate beds, reinforced furniture, and barely any decorations. 

Brick rarely missed much. 

It was kind of his job as the Rowdyruff that used his braincells by choice. It was that exact same reason he was the leader and why he was the oldest of the triplets. He especially didn’t miss the fact that their little living area  looked more like some kind of containment space redesigned as a room last minute but… could he really blame them? Nominal determinism or not, they were called the Rowdyruffs for a reason. 

Long story short, reinforced walls, reinforced doors, reinforced furniture—everything was built like they were expected to break it. Because they probably were. The whole space was massive, bigger than Mojo’s lab but weirdly empty, all clean lines and cold efficiency. Being honest, they could have tried to make the place look nicer but Brick knew they probably didn’t have the time, given they just agreed to give this whole thing a try a few hours ago. Three identical beds, three desks, one table, one couch. No posters, no color, nothing fun. Even the screen on the far wall was showing some fake-ass mountain range, like that was supposed to make it feel welcoming.  

Donald stood awkwardly near the door, hands folded in front of his waist. “Well, here it is—home sweet home,” the man said, with an attempt at cheer in his tone that felt about as useful as Cecil would find a barber.   

Brick just stared at the cyborg man flatly. No glare, not even a frown, he simply stared at him with as flat an expression as he could manage. 

And he was real good at those.

Donald shifted, the man actually grimacing a little after barely even a couple seconds. “Yeah, okay,” he muttered, stepping aside like he hadn’t just embarrassed himself.  

Boomer, completely unaffected, immediately took off for the bed closest to the fake window, flopping down and bouncing lightly on the mattress. “Dibs! Hey, does the screen change? Can we put up the ocean? Or, like, space? Or—oooh, can we do dinosaurs fighting robots?”  

Butch had already kicked off his boots and was standing on his bed, testing the bounce like a wild animal scoping out new territory. One good jump, then another, and then—CRACK. The whole frame gave way beneath him. He landed ass-first in the wreckage, looking vaguely pleased with himself.  

Donald actually winced, blinking at the broken bed. “…I’ll put in a requisition for something more durable.”  

Brick ignored all of them. He was scanning the room, slow, methodical, noting every vent, every corner, every weirdly specific structural reinforcement. His gaze flicked over the ceiling, then the far wall, pausing just long enough to let whoever was watching know that he knew. Without a word, he adjusted the panel near his bed, a small pulse of heat vision slipping out so quickly it barely left an afterglow. One of the hidden cameras sparked and died.  

Nobody said anything about it.  

Cecil showed up not long after, holding a tablet with their so-called “first mission brief.” The screen lit up, throwing a holographic projection of a facility onto the air between them—a squat industrial complex surrounded by nothing but trees.  

“Your first assignment,” Cecil began, sounding like he was giving some big speech, like they hadn’t already been punching people through buildings for years, “is nothing too complicated for your first outing. This,” he pointed at the hologram in front of them, “is a now-abandoned lab belonging to a group of twin scientists known only as the Maulers. We don’t know why they abandoned it, but they’re not one to waste equipment and property so there must be a damn good reason. Your mission — if you choose to accept it — is to engage in surveillance only.”

Brick’s eyes narrowed.  

Boomer tilted his head as he studied the hologram  with narrowed eyes. If you didn’t know him, you might actually think he actually cared about the information and didn’t just wanna poke at the pretty lights.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Brick dropped the question sitting on his mind.

Cecil met his gaze with that same unreadable expression, before that scarred moutb opened again. “Anything you think might be dangerous. Anything that might need punching.”  

“Yeah, okay,” Butch muttered, sounding bored already despite slightly perking up when the P word was mentioned.  

Cecil didn’t stick around long. He and Donald left them to “prepare,” whatever that meant, because as soon as they were gone, the Boys just looked at each other. 

In the deep levels of the GDA, Cecil and Donald watched the Boys through multiple monitors. Cameras caught them from every angle, tracking their movements, their expressions, the way they settled into the space they’d been provided.  

Donald frowned slightly, the man clearly concerned by how his superior had left the facility this morning and returned with three pint-sized hydrogen bombs. “Sir, are you sure about this? They’re… unpredictable.”  

Cecil didn’t look away from the screen. “They’re pre-teens, Donald. Of course they’re unpredictable. Are you kidding? It’d be downright suspicious if they weren’t.” Director Stedman tilted his head as he finally chose to look at his number two. “But they are powerful. And right now, they’re cooperating. I’d rather have them with us than against us.”  

Donald’s gaze flicked to another monitor, one showing lockdown protocols and containment measures, wondering how it could possibly hold against three preteens that could individually survive an impact upwards of Mach 100 and be unbothered by it. “And if they’d rather be against?”  

Cecil’s expression didn’t shift, but something in his tone did. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”  

Back in their room, the three of them huddled close, each of their faces barely  a foot from each other.

“Here’s what we’re actually doing,” Brick whispered, his sub-vocalizations too low to be caught by any but the most sensitive of microphones but easily picked up by his brothers as they focused their ears. “They’re testing us. They want to see if we’ll follow orders. They don’t know anything about us, and they don’t trust us. But they’re scared too.”  

Butch’s grin widened, practically humming with excitement. “So what’s the plan?”  

“We do what we do best,” Brick said, clenching a fist and thrusting it out with a smirk on his face. “The only way we can. The Rowdyruff way.”  

Boomer smiled and Butch grinned, the other two meeting Brick’s fists in the middle. “The Rowdyruff way.”

Across the room, their Global Defense Agency assigned communicators blinked quietly, the things still on.