Project ROWDY 2-11

“This is not heroism!” The man screamed, his red face taking up the entirety of the screen as it contrasted harshly with his cream suit. “You can’t call this anything like that!”

Robert Merrick, sixty-two years old this July and not a year younger, held his face in a mask of perfect and practiced outrage, jowls shuddering with every single syllable. “Un-checked destruction!” The twitch in the man’s eye was almost believable, almost indistinguishable from real, especially as one trembling finger pointed at a still image of the ruined CyberFace Tower. “These are children, children I tell you, leveling city blocks in Downtown Chicago with no oversight, no accountability, nothin’ but their own ego at play!”

The politician-turned-pundit had made it a habit of his to voice his opinions to all that would hear even before he was handed a television show to do just that, and years as a senator only bolstered his confidence that his voice mattered. “This is a catastrophic failure of… of everything!”

The screen split in half, a poll opposite the man’s face in a bright white; numbers undeniable for all to see. As it had been since the months before the Independence Day Invasion, Team Trinity was still the nation’s most beloved heroes.

At least, in terms of approval rating.

Ninety-nine percent numbers were hard to deny, of course, for anyone with sense or eyes.

The senator might have lacked the former but the latter still worked well enough as the man’s face faltered, prepared speech crumbling in the face of a public that had seen alien invasions and Viltrumite betrayals and decided it was done with nuanced debate.

“Look, nobody wants to see kids in a warzone. Especially looking at boys no older than my own grandsons.” It didn’t take long for him to adjust his words, as quickly and awkwardly as he adjusted his tie. “But after Omni-Man… after Atlanta, can you blame a proud American for being suspicious of some odd heroes coming out of nowhere with all… all this power? I’m simply saying what needs to be said h-.”

That’s enough. The screen froze with a single raised hand, Cecil Stedman standing in front of a hundred different screens like a conductor. Enough of that.

The heart of the GDA was spread out in front of him, the command center a dark, quiet space miles beneath the Pentagon. The wall of holographic screens flickered, shifting from the pundit and poll to paint his face in the myriad violent colors of global catastrophe. Each screen a different fire, a different monster, a different city potentially on the edge, and Director Stedman did his duty as he tracked them all.

Hands clasped behind his back, he monitored the situation with the weary, practiced gaze of a man who had been putting out the world’s fires for twenty years. He knew some of the agents on staff claimed that the stress was what made him lose his hair. 

As if he couldn’t handle stress.

Cecil let out a sigh, barely holding back a hand from running through his barely-there head of hair, as he looked up at the shifting screens.

A hierarchy of threat, that’s what these screens were properly used for; each one a visual representation of his strategic calculus. “Let’s get to it.”

The very center of it all, was a single section, the largest section; a black void of a screen that showed nothing and no one.

Yet.

What once belonged to a certain mustached traitor now existed solely for his Boys, an area that lit up properly when a problem was too big, too ugly, or too damn dangerous for him to use anyone else. When that screen was on, the apocalypse was on schedule and he had three pre-teen hydrogen bombs on-call to delay it. 

Radiating outward from that central void, the next layer of screens were slightly smaller but no less critical for the size. Each and every one of these was for a mission he would assign to the son of said traitor; a kaiju in the Philippines, a rogue geneticist in the Andes unleashing monsters in the mountains, and a minor alien incursion over the North Pole, the ship a dying star against the arctic white. 

They were all problems that required a superpowered sledgehammer, but not necessarily a trio of continent-crackers.

Another chaotic mosaic of smaller, less urgent displays hovered around those that showcased Invincible’s interceptions. These were the territory of the new Guardians of the Globe and all the other teams that served under the GDA’s umbrella, whether they liked it or not. 

Whether he liked it or not.

And recently, he was finding the ‘or not’ happening more often than anything else.

“VILLAINS!” Cecil almost felt his teeth ache, rewatching a foiling of a supercartel-led bank robbery in Maine, the entire thing handled with an inefficiency that was as clumsy as it was brute-force.

The GDA Director bit back a sigh, one hand rubbing the bridge of his nose. …goddamnit, Cormac. As much as Cecil had respect for the nation’s first and oldest living superhero, it was obvious to anyone that paid any sort of attention that the Immortal had been more than sloppy since his revival. You’re better than this.

Unfortunately, the former president didn’t seem to think the same.

Some sewer monsters in New York were being handled rather quickly at least, Rex Splode and Shrinking Rae doing their best, even with the morphing new addition holding them back somewhat. That was the only bit of good news, unfortunately, Cecil’s lip curling as he watched the rest of the team struggle against a Beta-Class villain holding a city hostage with an army of robots and a weather machine. 

Pathetic. The Guardians used to be at least one layer deeper; the old team, even without Omni-Man, could have handled half of Invincible’s caseload.

“We need… more.” The mutter slid out of his throat, the sound piercing the quiet of the command center. They did; that much was undeniable. Even with the unexpected addition of Shapesmith — the oh-so-obvious Martian refugee thinking he could fool them, the team right now was just another punchline in a joke that had worn out its welcome. 

Necessary as it was for public morale, it was a joke nonetheless. A stopgap, a collection of second-stringers and C-listers trying to fill the shoes of demigods. Immortal being back at the helm meant little, as even with Bulletproof providing some much-needed muscle, they were still… failing.

His eyes slid back to the screen that bore the most explosive member of the Guardians, as the last of the sewer monsters collapsed into filthy muck with one final explosion. “Rex of all people is somehow more in the game…” He wasn’t sure what lit a fire under the kid’s ass—maybe the near-death experience, maybe the chaos of Atlanta—but Rex had been… impressive lately. 

The return to form to his Black Ops days was unexpected, but not unappreciated, especially as Rex had requested upgrades to his bionics, along with another booster of the GDA’s proprietary super-soldier serum. 

All of which had been approved, of course.

The boy was pushing himself, and Cecil, if nothing else, respected ambition.

But ambition doesn’t replace manpower. The director turned on his heel and started walking, the air around him shimmering as he tapped his earpiece with a location in mind. In a soundless yellow flash, space folded in on itself and the GDA command center vanished to nothing.

Cecil didn’t even blink as the polished metal walls were replaced by the neon-drenched night of the Las Vegas strip, the old man atop the roof of a casino at night. Desert wind whipped at his suit, his red tie flapping over his neck as he stared with narrowed eyes at the fight blocking traffic on the strip.

A roar filled the air, loud enough to ripple glass and shake the ground, as a reptilian kaiju, the monster no bigger than a city bus wrangled with a much smaller opponent. It would have been impressive, more than it already was, if the opponent didn’t look at least half-kaiju himself. Orange-skinned and blond-haired, the teenager roared back, wide-spread draconic wings battering the ebony-scaled kaiju with enough power to crater concrete. 

The boy fought with a fury that was clearly untrained, fists hammering against the kaiju’s tough hide with enough force to send shockwaves through asphalt. Strong, but sloppy. Cecil watched for a  half-minute more, mind a quiet whirlwind as he took in everything; strengths, weaknesses, and predictable attack patterns. 

He tapped his earpiece again and the world dissolved in another yellow surge.

The director rematerialized with narrowed eyes already searching, feet firmly atop the gray structure that was the FBI Headquarters. He didn’t bother with a blink as rain fell on him, the water slicking the streets of Washington D.C. 

He only had to turn his head to find who he was looking for; a female figure in a skintight crimson exo-skeleton leaping from rooftop to rooftop. Each step was made with insectile efficiency, every movement a blur of red against the dark, wet stone until she skittered up the side of a building and disappeared into the night. 

Cecil allowed himself a blink, water trailing down his face. Another piece on the board.

Hell’s Kitchen stared back at him before a second blink could pass him by, the New York borough thick with the smell of blood and something… else.

Cecil’s hands went to his pockets as he watched his second fight of the night up-close and personal; a teenage girl in a knockoff Invincible t-shirt throwing heavy fists and elbows with her face pulled back in a snarl. The darkened alley rang loud with the sound of metal on thick flesh, the brutal close-quarters brawl against what was undeniably a hulking horned and red-skinned demon.

Arms encased in two ornate, jewel-encrusted silver gauntlets that seemed to move with each breath, the girl tore into demon flesh with razor-sharp claws that jutted out from the fingers of the gauntlet. Thick hide proved less than enough against her desperation and intensity both, Cecil nodding along slowly as the thing screamed through a throatful of blood. Another wild card.

The world folded for a fourth and final time, Cecil back in the sterile, familiar corridors of the GDA, the scent of recycled air a welcome and bland comfort. The Guardians and existing teams had made it clear the old way couldn’t persist; volunteers and eager appointees were far from enough for this new world.

We need something new. The director adjusted his tie, dusting off desert sand from his shoulders. The Boys were already a foundation, the core of this new strategy; Invincible an older second layer. They were his alpha predators, his world-breakers, and ultimately blunt instruments.

Effective, but blunt.

Despite that, they proved the point he needed to see. The world needed new blood.

Young heroes that could be molded into something better.

The world needed more… Rex Splodes.

He nodded at the final thought as Cecil finally reached the main throughput of the GDA, door hissing open to reveal Donald by the window looking out at the heliport as VTOLs took off.

“Sir,” Donald turned, eyes wide behind those thick and unnecessary glases. “Your trip was… productive?”

“Illuminating is what it was, Donald.” The director stared back at his most deputy, the most loyal agent the GDA had to offer, the very same man who had died and been rebuilt over thirty-eight times. 

A father, a husband, a loyal soldier, and the perfect GDA asset.

“Donald,” his hands folded behind his back, “when are you planning on telling Donny you know about his powers?”

His number two froze; just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Cecil to watch the professional mask slip in place of the protective father. “…soon, sir.”

Cecil just nodded back. All the pieces on the table. 

Only thing left was to play them.