Project ROWDY 20

The black SUV coasted forward as aggressively as you would expect from a government car but, at the same time, far too calm. The engine was too quiet, tires too smooth, every bump on the winding drive smothered and perfectly quiet.

Four different checkpoints, Brick counted one-by-one as they passed each one, each gate opening for them after Donald stopped at each one. No threats, no resistance, just delay dressed up in security theater. And now this—crawling past curated hedges and statue fountains like they were invading a museum.

Grissom Academy waited at the tippity-top of the hill, tucked behind iron gates and ivy-stained brick. Gothic windows, high arches, banners draped in gold and navy. A place that wanted to look ancient on purpose. Kinda pretentious, honestly. Clearly for rich kids and it needed to look fantasy to support that.

Brick had already mapped five exit routes by the time the car started decelerating. One behind the admissions wing, two near the faculty garages, a blind spot between the pool and gym—

“This is a complete waste of time.” He didn’t raise his voice. Really, he didn’t need to as Donald flinched like he’d been hit anyway.

The GDA handler’s knuckles were ghost-white on the wheel, tension bleeding off him in waves thick enough that even Boomer probably noticed. Brick realized quietly that the cyborg had never been alone with them before, not in an enclosed environment that wasn’t GDA property. Huh.

“Director Stedman believes this will assist in your social integration and present a more acceptable public profile,” Donald recited. Again. His tone had lost the will to live three repetitions ago. “Other GDA agents within your age demographic are also in school.”

“Public profile,” Butch snorted from the back. “We saved their asses. What’s not acceptable?”

Brick didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. This wasn’t about profiles. This was about control.

The car halted in front of twin oak doors big enough to look regal. Students were already turning—some slow, some elbowing friends. Whispers rising. Fingers pointing. Brick cataloged faces without looking like he was doing it.

“Stick to parameters,” he muttered, just low enough for the car to hear. “Blend in. No powers. No fights. No—”

“No fun,” Butch cut in. He wore a frown with more comfort than his uniform, the green Rowdyruff already shoving the door open hard enough to make the car shudder. “Copy that, Colonel Buzzkill.”

Boomer exploded out after him. He was already glowing—not literally, but close. Uniform pristine, tie straight, blazer smoothed for the hundredth time.

“I look smart!” he announced, twirling on his heel. “Like—like Science Dog during that one arc where he was in an all-dog universe and infiltrated DogTech Prep—remember that one?”

Loud laughter came from the girls near the steps. Brick looked their way and narrowed his eyes until each and every one of the girls quieted down and looked away.

Even still, Boomer flushed scarlet and smiled back as sincerely as he always did anyway, the blond Rowdyruff not breaking stride.

Butch trudged out last, tie already unraveled like it had tried to strangle him and failed. His shirt was half-untucked, jaccket bunched under one shoulder like he didn’t care.

“This uniform sucks.” He yanked at the fabric again. “Who thought this was a good idea?”

Brick exited clean. No slamming. No announcement. Just one more variable in motion. His own uniform had been reinforced—stitched to endure Mach speeds, energy bursts, and being slammed through concrete with whatever super meta-material the GDA got their hands on. Tactile, functional.

He still hated it.

“It’s armor,” he said. “Try not to look like a nuke with sleeves.”

Boomer pulled a face. “But we are nukes with sleeves.”

Butch frowned. “I’m gonna tear mine off.”

Donald followed after, the deputy director pulling a face off his own even as he tried to sound upbeat. His hads clutched a tablet to his chest like it held the secret to the meaning of life. “Headmaster Phillips has been informed of your special circumstances. He’s waiting… just inside. Please—best behavior.”

“No guarantees,” Butch muttered under his breath. “Might snap an elbow if people get handsy.”

Brick elbowed him mid-ribs, the hit calibrated to sting without bruising. Butch made a sound like he might bite someone.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

The walk to the doors felt… irritating. Other eyes followed them as conversations dropped, then picked up again, louder, more urgent. Brick’s hearing filtered for content.

“—the Trinity kids—” “—those freaks from the alien fight—” “—red eyes, I swear—” “—bet it’s a publicity stunt—”

Boomer’s grin slipped—just a little, but enough. He glanced over at Brick like the answer might be written on his face, like Brick would give him some kind of signal that meant no, it’s not just you, this is weird, this sucks, we shouldn’t be here.

Didn’t happen.

This’d been a mistake since the pitch. Drop three twelve-year-old posthuman hydrogen bombs into a high school and hope they blend in with the rest? Brick had known it. Boomer probably felt it now. Butch never pretended to care.

Cecil pushed anyway. And Brick let it happen. Because maybe… maybe he needed to know how they’d handle this kind of thing. Or maybe he just wanted to see what would break first.

The hallway stretched out in front of them, trophy cases full of names nobody outside this world cared about with sports plaques, polished brass and Latin phrases Boomer was already mouthing to himself. Glassy-eyed portraits watched them with as many brain cells behind them as the glassy-eyed students. Not one face there looked like it’d ever been punched through a building.

Boomer’s voice came out too small. “I wonder how many friends we can make today.”

“Lame,” Butch muttered, already looking like he’d body-check the first kid who made eye contact.

The headmaster’s office looked like someone’s idea of what power should smell like—wood polish, old paper, too much space. Wall-to-wall prestige props. Heavy desk, heavier silence. Brick clocked the guy before he even stood.

The headmaster was a tall guy, the look on his face one that said he was clearly used to telling people what to do. Shoulders military-square and hair exactly what you’d expect from a guy who used to be former GDA himself, Brick had read his file all the way to the last period. The guy wasn’t enhanced but he was built enough that most regular people probably thought he could be.

“Welcome to Grissom Academy.” Phillips smiled like he practiced it. “Glad we could finally meet.”

Donald cleared his throat like he was swallowing a whole speech and didn’t trust himself to say any of it. “Headmaster Phillips, these are—”

“Brick.”

“Boomer.”

“Butch.”

Their names came quick and fast. Brick didn’t wait for permission. Boomer introduced himself on instinct. Butch’s came with a twitch like he was daring someone to forget it.

Phillips extended his hand, firm grip, testing pressure. Brick gave him back exactly the right amount—no more, no less. Boomer overshot and shook it hard enough to make Philips arm blur. Butch didn’t let go right away.

“I understand you’ve had… unique experiences,” Phillips said, gaze lingering just long enough to be invasive as he held his already sore-hand.

“You could say that,” Brick answered blankly. Their experiences involved destruction up and down the East Coast, multiple fights with superheroes, and being killed by the positive flood of energy from girl-germs so…

Unique didn’t cut it.

“Please, have a seat.”

Three chairs. Butch flopped into his like it was a dare, legs out and one boot hooked around the chair leg like he might flip it if he got bored. Boomer hovered on the edge, knees bouncing, eyes everywhere. Brick sat clean, his spine straight and hands folded on his lap

Phillips took his time sitting before staring at all three of them over his desk. “Director Stedman has briefed me on your situation.”

Situation. Not powers. Not history. Situation. Brick tilted his head a degree. Watching.

“We’ve worked with exceptional students before,” Phillips added.

“Powered?” Brick asked, tone flat as usual.

Phillips’ mouth tugged sideways. “Let’s say you won’t be the only ones with talent.”

Butch’s slouch lessened and Brick didn’t fail to notice that. He sniffed like maybe this wouldn’t be the worst gig.

“So we get to use ‘em?”

Phillips’ smile vanished. “No.”

That was fast.

“Abilities stay dormant on school grounds,” Philips continued. “No exceptions. Our first priority is maintaining normalcy.”

Butch’s look twisted into something between of course and watch me.

“You’ll be placed in appropriate classes after some baseline assessments.”

A tablet slid across the desk with three tabs already open. Even from six feet away, Brick was already reading the screen.

Boomer blurted, “Wait—like tests? Like with pencils and grades?”

Phillips gave a smaller smile this time. “Just to see where you land. Nothing to worry about.”

Brick nodded once. “We’re ready.”

He’d crammed the last two nights like it was a mission brief on every GDA-linked curriculum between sixth and twelfth grade. Not just compared them, he’d done his best to internalize most.

Donald glanced at the clock like it might let him leave early. “I’ll be back at three. I have an appointment in Baltimore. Try not to kill anyone.”

Phillips nodded. “They’re in good hands.”

Donald nodded before disappearing and the door shut behind him.

Phillips’ smile stayed where it was. “So. Let’s find out what you know.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The testing room smelled like eraser dust and nervous kid-sweat. You would think it was just sweat, but no, kid sweat smelled different. Especially when it was nervous.

Fluorescent lights hummed too loud, almost like the ceiling wanted them to fail. Twenty-six desks, three of them currently in use. The admin had spaced them far apart in a triangle pattern, like they were contagious.

Like even the idea of teamwork might spread if they sat too close.

Brick didn’t look up and it wouldn’t have mattered if he had. Boomer wouldn’t help him. Butch couldn’t. And he wasn’t about to help either of them.

The questions adjusted mid-sentence. Every time he got one right, the next twisted sideways—harder, more abstract. Algorithms warped into scenario theory. Then ethical frameworks. Then situational command prompts with overlapping variables and degraded intel. Whoever wrote this had tried to design something adaptive.

He made it through the first two sheets before he started correcting the instructions in the margins.

Across the room, Butch was already vibrating with how much he didn’t care. Shakespeare glared up from his test like it had insulted him personally. The pencil was halfway to splintering in his grip. His foot bounced hard enough to scoot the whole desk forward an inch at a time.

Brick almost missed the shift. Lit section ended. Butch’s expression didn’t. The next prompt involved mechanical assembly—hands-on, raw components.

And Butch got quiet.

His brother stopped snarling and didn’t look like he was about to snap the pieces. Instead, Brick just started building, focused and careful, tongue outside of his mouth.

Boomer was… different.

He’d turned the language section into a personal scrapbook—different scripts, different columns, notes in ink that didn’t look like English. His tongue was outside of his mouth too, eyes wide, blinking less than normal.

Despite looking oddly anxious, the admin was trying not to hover. Her smile kept folding weird at the corners every time she glanced at a screen. By the time Phillips walked in, she looked like a science fair judge on a sugar high, tablet shaking in her hands like it was radioactive.

“Well then,” Headmaster Phillips said, eyes skimming the first page, then the second, then the third. Soon, he was flipping through every single page back and forth. “This has been… illuminating.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Back in the office, Phillips didn’t sit right away.

“Your results are… not standard.”

Brick had already skimmed the mirrored version of the data on the admin’s screen. He knew what stood out. He also knew this school’s software wasn’t built for people like them.

“How not standard?”

Phillips turned the tablet around like they hadn’t already seen it. Rows of graphs, colors, percentile spikes stacked into visual noise.

“Brick, you’re testing at postgraduate levels in mathematics, physics, and abstract tactical reasoning.”

No reaction. Just a nod. Recognition was expected. Not applause. Still—somewhere in the chest—something eased.

“I like knowing how stuff works.”

“Butch…” Phillips didn’t flinch, even when Butch leaned back like he might start chewing on the chair. “Academics… less promising.”

Butch didn’t blink. Just shrugged. “Not news.”

“But your mechanical and spatial reasoning scores are…” He paused. “I’ve seen grad students who couldn’t do what you did in thirty minutes.”

Butch squinted. “So I’m not dumb.”

“You’re brilliant with your hands,” Phillips said, honest for once.

Boomer snorted and leaned forward, chin propped on both fists. “Told you. I said it.”

Brick clocked the look on Butch’s face. That split-second twitch. Not annoyance. Something else. Not processed.

“And Boomer,” Phillips said, almost gingerly, “some of your results defy classification.”

“Yeah?” Boomer tilted his head. “Good defy or bad defy?”

“You wrote in five languages. Three of them dead. Accurately.”

Boomer blinked. “Wait—like dead dead?”

“Yes, Sanskrit being the most notable.”

Brick’s eyes flicked to him, already forming an internal recalibration. There were gaps in the way he’d tracked Boomer’s development. That was one of them. What else hadn’t he noticed?

“We’ll need to build customized schedules,” Phillips continued, back in administrator mode. “Core classes shared. Specialties separated.”

Brick’s stomach shifted. Not hard. Just… wrong.

The door clicked.

Three new bodies. Students, but not peers. All taller, all older, all calm in a way that didn’t make sense.

“Libby Adams,” Phillips said, gesturing to the pretty blue-eyed blonde near Brick. For a girl that was no older than fifteen, she was pretty damn tall at a good eleven inches taller than any of the boys at 5’10.

“I’m AP for math and sciences,” she said, voice straightforward and tone firm, with gymnast calluses and perfectly balanced gait as he leaned forward towards him. Brick took the handshake without hesitation, already scanning for threat profile. No overt powers, but potential subtle ones, the girl not seeming to flinch at the odd density of his hand.

“Damien Farell for Butch.”

He was a big guy, muscular, looked at least seventeen. Once again, too relaxed, with a soft grin on his face and caramel-skin that looked untouched.

“Engineering Club,” he said. “We do a lot of explosions. Controlled ones.”

Butch didn’t smile, but his foot stopped tapping.

“And Hannah Washington for Boomer.”

Boomer straightened like he’d been tased. The thirteen-year old grinned at him like it was a normal day, her small, colorful hair clips shining in the light, somehow accentuating her bright eyes. Everything about her posture said friendly and bubbly. Too bubbly.

“I’m in language and arts,” she said, bouncing slightly on her heels. “We’ll have fun.”

From the look on his face, Brick could tell Boomer’s brain went static.

“Your mentors will guide you through the rest of the day,” Phillips said, sitting down finally. “Classes begin tomorrow. 0800 sharp.”

And just like that, they weren’t a unit anymore.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Wow… almost like they grafted Metropolis S.T.A.R. Labs on a school physics department. Brick doubted anything else could describe it honestly—the clean lines, actual equipment, floors polished enough to throw reflections you could fall into. Instead, he just adjusted his mental model of this place’s budget as Libby walked ahead of him, his student advisor’s pace clipped but measured.

“Our physics lab got a full upgrade last year,” she said to him without turning around. The blonde girl tapped her tablet and, in front of her, the door slid open with a soft chime. “Bleeding-edge tech, industry donations, some prototype grants from a few defense contractors.”

The equipment inside wasn’t just impressive—it was functional. Brick could smell the metallic hum of machines that’d been used recently, oscilloscopes still warm even. A low thrum came from the corner where what looked like a compact particle accelerator sat behind layered glass.

He stopped scanning for threats for half a second.

“The robotics team meets in here after school,” Libby added.

Of course they do. Brick nodded to himself, only to pause as his attention snagged on the far end of the hallway. Huh. A matte-gray door with no signage stood out to him, keypad lock, and shielding thick enough to suggest something was meant to be kept out, or in. “What’s through there?”

She followed his eyes and her heartbeat kicked a little bit.

“Special projects lab,” she said. “Faculty access only. Senior recommendation. It’s restricted.”

Brick nodded like he didn’t already have three ideas for bypassing the keypad.

Across campus—two buildings east, if the map in his head was accurate—Butch was probably halfway through disassembling a drill press, from what he could hear. Boomer was singing or dancing, or getting roped into both at once. The separation still felt wrong. He didn’t like it. Amelia noticed. “They’re fine.”

Brick didn’t look at her. “It’s not them I’m worried about.”

“Then maybe take a break from worrying.” Her voice wasn’t soft. Just direct.

“What’s next on the tour?”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The cafeteria was too much.

Not in size—it was big, sure, but that wasn’t the problem. It was the volume. The movement. The density. Dozens of overlapping conversations at slightly different tones. Plastic trays clattering. Forks scraping. The occasional shout layered over constant hum. And all of it hitting his brain at once.

It took effort to isolate signal from noise.

Social patterns unfolded like combat simulations. Athletes near the windows. Academic circles up front. Theater kids near the side doors—posture too relaxed, expression too practiced. Lunch wasn’t a break. It was a soft war.

He spotted Boomer first.

The blond Rowdyruff was bouncing on the table, voice animated as a group sat clustered around him like he’d been rehearsed into their lunch rotation. Hannah sat just left of center, staring up at him with a smile on her face.

Butch was easier—arms waving, explaining something with momentum. Damien kept laughing and the guy was actually listening.

They looked… fine. Like, better than fine, almost.

That didn’t sit right.

Libby led him to a table near the center—kids with tablets, not phones. One girl with long dark hair was sat scribbling equations across her screen. No one looked up when they sat.

“Welcome to the AP cluster,” she said. “We’re a bit more focused here. No cafeteria drama. Minimal noise, we’re just like that.”

Brick picked the seat with the best sightline—back to the wall, both exits and most windows in view, Boomer at five o’clock, Butch at two.

“Alright,” he muttered.

Lunch tasted… pretty good. He didn’t speak and no one expected him to.

Butch crashed in first. He didn’t walk. Just dropped. Half-sat, half-sprawled across the bench like he was claiming it for demolition.

“They got a room just for wrecking stuff!” he blurted. “Stress testing. Bunch of heavy equipment, no one stopping me.” He grinned like he’d found church.

“They’ve got potential,” Brick said, stabbing his food with a fork that didn’t deserve it. “Physics department is viable.”

Boomer slammed into the other seat beside Brick, tray barely balanced.

“They’ve got everything!” he said, already gesturing too fast. “Drama rooms, costume racks, people write stories as, like, a job—they had a guy doing sound effects with his mouth and everyone just nodded like that was normal!”

Sofia settled in like she’d always belonged there.

“He’s already being considered for a lead role,” she said, brushing her curls out of her face. “Some of the teachers want him to audition.”

Brick blinked. “Audition?”

“For a play,” Boomer nodded rapidly. 

Before he could respond, the air in the cafeteria shifted.

Conversations tilted, heads turned and a bunch of voices realigned. Brick felt it first—not in sound, but in pressure and attention.

“Eyes on us,” he said, low.

A group near the window broke formation. Athletes. Big. Loud. Letterman jackets and jawlines.

Butch turned and cracked his neck. “They keep staring.”

His voice dropped half an octave. “Wanna make them stop?”

Brick didn’t blink. “No. Stay down.”

Butch’s smile was sharp. “Boring.”

Brick didn’t move. “Maintain profile.”

Unfortunately, tthe space around their table tightened like someone had pulled the air back on a slingshot.

The group reached their table like it was choreographed—slow, loud, timed just enough to draw silence from the surrounding noise. The cafeteria didn’t go dead, but it shifted. Even the clatter of trays seemed to stall.

“So you’re the Trinity brats?” The leader opened with a smirk, voice tuned just above casual, just below actionable. “From the alien thing? Big news, huh.”

Brick didn’t blink. “We’re new students. That’s it.”

He was already scanning. Six total.

The one in front of them and in their faces, with a big football build and dark hair. Two of them behind him mirrored his posture, clear followers. One more was off to the left fidgeting, clearly nervous. Another was half-hiding behind the tallest one. All of them normals.

“Weird,” the front one said, arms crossed. “Didn’t know new students got personal tours and GDA security clearances. Sounds real normal to me.”

Butch’s shoulder twitched as his tray creaked under his grip. “Got something you wanna say?”

Tyler leaned forward, smile widening like a dare. “Just wondering if you’re actually tough or if the whole thing was just… publicity. Y’know. Smoke and mirrors.”

Damien shifted next to Butch, clearly calm but coiled anyway. “Drop it, Tyler.”

Tyler ignored it. “Hey, no need to get pissed, D-Man. I’m just asking questions.” He lowered his voice—barely. “Not impressed.”

Butch started to rise.

Tyler grinned, looking as eager as ever even as a pair of red eyes traced the nervous sweat beginning to pool on his forehead. Not enhanced.

Brick’s hand clamped his shoulder with force disguised as stillness. Don’t.

“You don’t wanna go there,” Brick said, voice low.

Tyler heard cowardice. Because that’s what he wanted to hear. He smirked harder as the pace of his heart calmed down.

“Guess I thought heroes would have thicker skin.”

He turned, already retelling the moment like he’d won something.

Butch’s fists flexed beneath the table as one leg bounced so hard the bench vibrated.

“Give me a half-second,” he muttered. “That’s all I’d need. Half a second.”

Brick didn’t look at him. “Not worth it.”

“Not here. Not now,” Butch corrected bitterly.

Boomer’s voice was quieter than normal. “Is school always like this?”

Hannah’s hand landed lightly on his arm. “Ignore Tyler. His dad pays for the grass.”

“Textbook dominance display,” Libby added, still not looking up from her tablet. “Insecure males compensate through territorial performance.”

Damien slid his untouched pudding across to Butch, the corner of his mouth twitching. “He’ll forget you by next week. Maybe tomorrow.”

Brick let the noise level rise again. Let the cafeteria move on without them. First encounter logged. First social friction point. Useful.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The specialized assessments didn’t ask the same questions. Didn’t matter. The results were the same.

Butch finished the hands-on mechanics section in half the expected time, then asked for a sledgehammer just to test tolerances. Boomer rewrote a mythology prompt into a spoken-word monologue that made two instructors cry.

Brick got silence.

He was dropped into the computer lab and left alone with a stack of problems. Code. Logic trees. Debugging corrupt strings. Cracked through each one like they were locks on doors that led to peace. Every keystroke shaved tension off his spine.

The instructor hovered, silent until the end. “Where’d you learn this?”

Brick didn’t look up. “Internet.”

“Quantum architecture’s not exactly on Khan Academy.”

Brick shrugged. “It made sense.”

He finished the last line of code and stood.

Seven vulnerabilities in the school’s network. Three buried databases. One dead admin account with hidden clearance.

He hadn’t touched them. Yet.

But they were there.

Not a wasted day after all.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Donald’s sedan idled at the curb like it was part of the infrastructure. The deputy director’s face did something complicated when all three of them walked out in one piece. Not just relief. Something closer to disbelief at the idea the building was still in one piece and they weren’t at all covered in blood or something.

Brick scanned first. No external threat signatures. No pursuit. Just normal civilian foot traffic, mostly students, a few parents. Nothing worth reacting to.

Butch was already mid-rant, hands moving like he was conducting his own punchline. “They had a tensile rig that bent rebar just for fun. I swear, one of the instructors let me stress-test a pressure joint using—what was it—sonic compression? That’s a thing, right?”

Donald blinked. “That’s… wow.”

Boomer held a folded pamphlet to his chest like it might dissolve if he let go. Drama club logo on the front, paper slightly crumpled. He hadn’t spoken yet, but his mouth kept twitching like he wanted to.

Brick didn’t slow.

Butch bumped him. “You gonna say anything or just keep plotting world domination in your head?”

“This place has resources,” Brick said, low. “Tech. Infrastructure. Research-grade systems.”

Butch dropped his voice instantly. “For the project?”

“Maybe.”

Boomer’s expression pinched. “You said we were staying. That this was—”

“We are,” Brick cut in, fast and smooth.

Donald’s window slid down halfway. “Hey, uh. Everything go… alright?”

“Define alright,” Butch grinned.

Donald paled fast. “Oh god.”

“Nothing exploded,” Brick said flatly. “He’s joking. Joking.”

Donald slumped. “Okay. That’s… excellent. So, uh… back tomorrow?”

They didn’t answer immediately. Then—

“Yeah!” Boomer said, sudden and bright. “I wanna see if I can learn ancient bird or something!”

Butch smirked. “I might build a wrecking ball.”

Brick kept his tone neutral. “We’ll continue.”

For now.