Project Rowdy II – Interlude III

Big Ben stood in the distance, proud, dumb, and oblivious as it’d been since the day it was completed. 

Then something struck it, stone and steel coughing outward in a massive explosion. 

Faces turned toward the sound, not the blast—nobody reacts to the source first, they react to the first scream. A banker’s knees gave out mid-run as the shockwave rolled him into the air, coat fanning open like a parachute with no purpose. His phone was still in his hand when gravity took him and the man hurtled into the Thames.

His death was a mercy.

In DC, the air was heavier, not because of heat, but the weight of the ships overhead making daylight feel like bad theatre lighting. The Capitol dome cracked mid-shot, metal ribs showing before the top gave way. Civilians in the plaza moved like panicked ants—half bolting for cover, half skidding back toward fallen relatives, a few frozen between impulses like the wrong animation frame in a loop.

Black shapes blotted the skyline all across America. Round ships, classic ufos, but nothing so simple as the images in the general unconsciousness. No, these ugly bulbous things, flesh-metal hybrids dripping coolant like saliva, that floated above them all were nothing so neat. 

Drones peeled off the undersides like wasps abandoning a nest.

A corner store window in the heart of Paris trembled under the concussion of a nearby blastwave that tore apart a street. The glass fractured slow, like time was respecting the viewer’s need to register the incoming shape—a small fighter banking, laser wash coloring the cracks before they spidered apart. A woman’s duck came late; her scarf caught in the edge of the shattering pane.

Laser lances stitched the streets like a drunk tailor, smoke rising from cities around the world.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The world was under attack. 

Invaded by an army of God-knows-how-many aliens, and his main job was simple: get his family out of the combat zone before they got caught in a battlefield.

Donald dropped from cloud cover in a controlled descent, thruster bloom licking the perimeter fence as his boots reformed into legs again. Metal quickly folded back into flesh with that sound of coins hitting ceramic tile that he’d never gotten used to. Donny clung to his back, arms tight enough to compress a normal man’s ribcage; Beatrice’s grip on his arm was steadier, trusting the tech as much as the man operating it.

The GDA compound had been stripped down to triage efficiency. No ornamental anything, just hard angles and reinforced concrete. The kind of architecture built to withstand exactly this scenario, though the contingency planners probably hadn’t figured on having to protect his ex-wife and kid while doing it.

His chest still hummed from the plasma graze he’d taken mid-flight. Right flank, glancing hit. The nanostructures had sealed over before Beatrice could see the damage, molten silver smoothing into synthetic skin that felt real enough. His diagnostics said everything was green. His nerves weren’t entirely convinced.

“Jesus, this is worse than I thought.” The assessment slipped out, carried back on the wind to his son’s ears.

“I’m scared, Dad,” his voice came tight against his neck, only the slightest shudder in it.

Donald’s legs hit concrete at high speed, as he burst into flight again. Tank treads and burned-out Humvees littered the approach to the main compound. He adjusted his grip on Beatrice, forearm already beginning its transformation sequence. The plating around his forearm split open, the entire thing folding outward, components sliding into configuration with hydraulic precision.

“Don’t worry, son,” he said, cannon arm locking into firing position with a satisfying click. “I’ll protect you.”

The strafing run came barely seconds later. 

Two alien interceptors cut across the main quad, energy cannons etching molten lines through reinforced concrete. The parade ground erupted in sequential bursts. Goom. Choom. Shockwaves hit their legs before the sound reached their ears.

“Stay close. You’ll be safe in a minute.”

A drone banked low over the motor pool, belly turret swiveling to track their movement. Donald caught the targeting flicker in his peripheral vision, turned into the weapon’s path as his shoulder plate expanded outward. Steel curved over his collarbone in a pressurized hiss, deflection angle optimized for energy weapons.

“Keep running!” He yelled it like an order as they wove between husks of shattered tanks, gored armor plating superheated enough to stink up the air. 

Vzoosh. The alien round scalded past, missing by maybe a few feet and no more than five. The street ahead turned into a smoking crater, asphalt bubbling like molten cheese.

TH-DUN!

The impact rang through his reinforced skeletal structure, servos compensating automatically as debris rained down around them. His targeting system was already acquiring the next threat, cannon arm pivoting to track the drone as it circled back for another pass.

Donald’s targeting system locked on before conscious thought engaged; cannon barrel extending and whining as it charged up with power. Skroom. Plasma discharge punched through armor plating, turning the vehicle inside-out in a burst of molten steel and flame.

The bunker entrance was visible now—the ugly concrete mouth at the base of the admin building, a half dozen GDA soldiers directing civilian traffic as the crowd pressed forward, bodies compressed by panic and hope in equal measure. A woman with a clipboard waved them closer, voice cutting through the rising noise. “Quickly! Inside! You’ll be safe inside the bunker!”

His threat assessment swept past her to the perimeter. Still holding, but alien silhouettes were multiplying against the western sky. Time was becoming a finite resource.

“Wh-what about you, dad?” Donny’s voice sounded out, his enhanced auditory systems catching what would have been drowned out by cannon fire. “You’re coming too, right?”

Donald’s jaw tightened, cannon arm already beginning its next reconfiguration. Plating split along new seams, barrel lengthening, muzzle reshaping into something designed for aerial targets. Nano-structures pulled mass from his torso, thighs, anywhere they could redistribute without compromising structural integrity. The process felt natural now, purposeful in a way that would have disturbed him a month ago.

“I’m sorry, son. The world needs me.”

Two seconds later, he was airborne. Thrusters bloomed where his ankles had been, feet reconfiguring into emission nozzles that threw gravel against the bunker wall. The climb felt efficient, economical. His body knew what it was doing.

Beatrice’s face tilted up from the bunker entrance, tracking his ascent against the sun. Donald registered the visual, filed it under personal priorities, and let tactical imperatives take precedence. The crowd’s pressure carried them inside; safety protocols engaged.

His HUD mapped the fighter’s attack vector, projecting strafing patterns across the compound. Nano-lattice crawled up his neck, plating jaw and temple with armor that felt less foreign every day. His left hand split into a cluster of targeting barrels, heat building in the arm until sensation crossed into discomfort.

The alien fired first. Donald’s return volley turned its starboard wing into expanding plasma before the pilot could adjust course. Physics and momentum did the rest.

Gravity reclaimed him fast, boots already morphing back to standard configuration before ground contact. Behind him, the bunker door sealed with the solid thunk of emergency protocols engaging.

Donald didn’t check the lock status. His family was secure; operational parameters were clear. Another wave of contacts appeared on his tactical display, incoming from multiple vectors.

His cannon arm cycled through ammunition types, settling on armor-piercing. The weight felt good in his hands. Natural, even. Whatever questions he’d had about authenticity and humanity could wait until the shooting stopped.

Right now, the world needed exactly what he was.