Project ROWDY 29B

High-noon sun bounced off the Potomac in rude little flashes that did its very best to blind him, but Boomer hardly noticed because being a Rowdyruff made all the stuff like that entirely pointless. “Woooo-hoooo-hoo-hooooooooooooooooo!”

The bluest member of Team Trinity cannon-balled down the east sky lane like it was the last water slide on Earth, blue light trail screaming behind him as it tore a cobalt ribbon that stood out technicolor bright against the sky. His comm crackled every few seconds with Cecil’s clipped updates, but the static kept eating words and he was pretty sure he’d figure it all out by the time he got there anyway. No worries. No worries. 

“Holy hamburgers!” He spat out one of his favorite character’s catchphrases as the highway came into view in front of him.

It was like someone had tipped over a toy chest of cars all over the infrastructure and then stomped on everything for fun. People, focus on the people. There were sedans upside-down, SUVs folded into steel origami, an eighteen-wheeler sprawled sideways across three lanes like it wanted a nap in the worst place possible, and everywhere—absolutely everywhere—people screamed the kind of scream that made his stomach flip. A minivan lay on its roof like a beetle, wheels still spinning sad circles while two sedans had accordion-kissed hard enough to fuse their bumpers, steam coughing from both engines. Off to the side, an eighteen-wheeler rested on its side like a fallen dinosaur, cargo door peeled open and spewing boxes of snack cakes across the asphalt. Twinkies, noooooooo!

Boomer shook his head hard and fast, focusing back on the situation.

Okay, okay, eyes on the road-monster, he reminded himself, and then he almost laughed at the pun because the road had literally turned into a monster. The villain Cecil had told him was named Gridlock hulked near the median, seven feet of walking asphalt with a thick fat yellow stripe down his torso like somebody had painted a crosswalk on sentient concrete. Every step from that rocky foot cracked fresh spiderwebs through what used to be Interstate 95. Boomer dipped low for a closer look, hair whipping across his eyes as he thumbed the comm.

“Holy hamburgers,” he repeated, “Cecil, that is a lot of cars and they look super broken and there are definitely people inside some of them and I do not like that, not one bit!”

Static slurred Cecil’s reply, but he caught the important slice: “…Brick…Butch…still at airport…solo op…you trained for it.”

Trained, maybe. 

Ready, absolutely maybe. 

He sucked a breath, felt his ribs quake, then fired a thumbs-up high at the sky only he could see. “Blitzkrieg engaging!” It sounded bright. It sounded brave. It sounded like Boomer.

He dropped faster than gravity, shoes skidding along busted asphalt with a squeal. Yes— no skidding into minivans today, please and thank you. Analyze before punching, Brick’s voice lectured inside his skull.

Right. Analysis mode. He pivoted in a rapid-fire half circle, cataloguing damage the way other kids micromanaged their Pokémon. One white sedan pancaked against the guardrail, driver door crumpled. A navy van listing on its side, little hands beating the window. The eighteen-wheeler bleeding diesel onto scorched pavement like a very slow dragon. People first, monster later. Except the monster kept stomping nearer, and if the monster stomped the people would go from hurt to not-there.

Gridlock’s stone face tilted and a concrete brow arched up. A second later, a voice like a cement mixer gurgling rocks rumbled out. “A brat hero? Capes crawling out the sewers. Small. Squishable.”

Boomer floated a meter above the asphalt so his sneakers wouldn’t melt on the hot spill, fists on hips in the classic power pose that Boomer had seen on Brick’s old Superman poster he thought he kept hidden. “I fly, I don’t crawl, and squishing is rude!” 

The asphalt fist swung fast, so suddenly it blurred gray and yellow as Gridlock’s arm morphed longer. The concrete shifted to tar, stretching like gross black gum as it became the size of a park bench swinging for Boomer’s everything.

Boomer yelped, blue eyes widening to the size they were when he was a little kid as he corkscrewed up on instinct. He felt the wind tear his hair back, body twisting into a cartwheel that left a neon blue afterimage. “Toooooooo slow, road dude.”  He tucked and spun, pulling a face as a shockwave brushed his sneakers, the concrete knuckles whiffing under him to cave a pickup roof like foil.

The fist blasted past and through the roof, ripping a Honda’s front bumper clean off as Gridlock laughed, sound thick and gritty as any pile of torn-up asphalt would be as he reversed direction mid-swing, arm snapping back on gooey tendons as the whole thing slapped together with a sticky whop. Boomer’s stomach flipped because wow that was faster than road rubble should move.

“Little blue bug, need to pave you flat.”

Boomer’s brain spun like a hamster on a sugar rush. “But why?”

He darted forward, slammed knuckles against Gridlock’s abdomen only to feel the impact go almost nowhere as the guy seemed to soften just enough that he nearly got pulled in. Okay, something else. He tried a triple-spin kick, heel slamming into the monster’s jaw. 

Last-minute melty-asphalt said nope. Boomer hissed in annoyance and shook all the gooey mess off his foot with a frown. “Brick makes that look so easy. Stupid genius brain.” He dodged another sweep, eyes flicking everywhere for ideas. One of Brick’s lessons hovered: environmental advantage beats raw force.

He needed the environment. The environment was basically one giant traffic nightmare. But wait— bright orange caution cones stacked near a construction zone. Beside them? A jackhammer resting against a mixer truck, power cord coiled like a lazy snake. His grin slammed back into place. “Environmental advantage, coming right up!”

Gridlock stomped after him, each step shedding pebbles. “Run, runner. I will catch.”

“Road-runner, hah, classic,” Boomer sang, zigzagging through crushed sedans while Gridlock’s fists smashed tail-lights behind him. Please do not explode any gas tanks, please please. He reached the construction patch, grabbed the jackhammer by its handles and squeezed the trigger. The drill bit spat dust and sang. “Oh yeahhhhhh, music to my ears!”

He rocketed back, jackhammer leading. Gridlock loomed, confused for half a tick. Boomer plunged the bit into the monster’s thigh with a battle cry that split registers. Asphalt chunks flew like black hail. Gridlock staggered. “Y-you bratty little— stop that, it tickles— it hurts, stop!”

Boomer laughed because fear felt lighter disguised as laughter. “Dental appointment, buddy, open wide!” He carved a spiral up the torso, gritty shards firing in arcs. A stray pebble pinged his cheek; he tasted iron and asphalt dust. Gross and metal all at once but he kept drilling. “This is for everyone stuck in traffic right now!”

The monster’s roar vibrated air as cracks rippled across his stone skin. But he flexed, reabsorbing rubble, patching wounds with fresh tar oozing from who-knew-where. Boomer’s eyes narrowed angrily. “Ew, he self-repairs. Not fair!”

Gridlock lashed an arm that stretched like heated toffee, hand flattening into a tarry net. Boomer back-flipped, but the sticky appendage grazed his sneaker, yanking him mid-flip. He screamed, pitched upward, boot half glued in black slime. “Let go let go let—” He kicked hard; shoe surrendered, foot popped free, sock flapping in the wind. He watched his favorite sneaker disappear into Gridlock’s mass. “Dude, rude!”

He landed barefoot, jackhammer tumbling from fingers. Gridlock advanced, gait uneven now but still menacing. Traffic noise dipped under the thrum of police sirens somewhere distant—help was coming slow through wreckage. No cavalry. Solo means solo. Boomer’s chest jittered. He remembered Brick’s lecture on resonance frequencies, the science that made glass shatter under the right pitch. Sound could break rock. Maybe it could break asphalt.

He inhaled until his lungs crackled. “Okay, science, be nice.” 

He exhaled a note that started low, a foghorn tremor that already began shaking highway signs nearest them. Gridlock paused, cocking his concrete head. Boomer slid the tone higher, voice stretching tight, resonance humming through his skull. He felt it buzz against teeth. The air rippled and asphalt skin trembled.

Gridlock snarled. “What the he-?”

Boomer’s throat burned. He thought of Brick muttering equations in his sleep, of Butch smashing punching bags to ragged fluff, of being the loud one, the fast one, sometimes the useless one. He pushed the pitch higher still, voice cracking into a squeal that hurt his own ears. Kids inside the van clapped hands over heads. Glass jittered in remaining windshields as the monster shuddered an webbed cracks raced across him. “Stop! Stop, you shrill little—”

“Not stopping!” Sweat streaked Boomer’s temple as the note wobbled; he corrected, focused on the memory of his brothers’ proud smiles the first time he broke the training dummy with sonic charge. He opened his mouth wider, imagining himself a human speaker turned to eleven.

Vibrations thickened the air like syrup, cracks widened, and segments of Gridlock’s torso crumbled, chunks raining in dull thuds.

Boomer gulped air between vibrations, managed words inside the scream. “This— is— for— ambulance— access!” Another pulse of sound. The monster’s left arm detonated into rubble. A shard zipped past Boomer’s cheek, slicing shallow. He barely felt it over the thrill spiking his chest. “And— for— my— shoe!”

One final breath.

One final, perfect frequency—just a shade lower, a hair steadier. The giant’s chest split like brittle chocolate. Mass scattered, yellow lane stripes breaking into lonely slivers across busted highway. After the last echo faded, only a hill of jagged asphalt chunks remained, steam curling from their edges.

Silence hit almost as hard as the noise had.

Then someone sobbed.

Another person cheered. Boomer’s legs buckled; he caught himself on a dented hood. Breath tore out in shaky bursts. I did it. Alone. Holy sparkles, I did it. He wiped dust from eyes, realized his sock was still flapping and kicked the ground in embarrassment.

He slapped the comm. “Boomer to GDA, hi hi hi, Gridlock is down, like super down, need a cleanup crew for, uh… really big gravel pile!”