Project ROWDY 33

Twenty-six hours. 

Debbie Grayson had been wearing a hole in the waiting room linoleum of the GDA medical wing for the last twenty-six hours, and Director Cecil Stedman could feel that particular headache building behind his eyes, the kind that usually followed after alien invasions or mass superhuman casualities. 

Sometimes both on the same Tuesday.

Four pods hummed below his feet in the medical bay, each one containing roughly eight-hundred billion dollars' worth of strategic assets in various states of what the docs were calling "structural compromise." A polite way of saying Omni-Man had beaten them within an inch of their lives and they were still breathing out of spite more than medical science.

Mark was stable; that much was something he didn’t have to waste time worrying about.

Viltrumite DNA had pieced together broken bones like papercuts, which was either reassuring or terrifying. Depends on how you feel about your place in the world. More than anything, they were looking at a recovery estimate of about three weeks for him, assuming his daddy didn't come back to finish the job.

Cecil’s hands flexed behind his back, worries of an army of Viltrumites dropping down on their unprepared blue dot. Nothing he had could stand up to one of Nolan.

And who knows how many of his kind are flying around.

Pushing aside any and all thoughts of the living world-enders he knew very little of as Nolan’s people, Cecil focused his gaze on three of the most important people he’d ever had the privilege of working with.

His boys.

All three were in recovery pods like Mark, technology built with the same Smart Atom tech Nolan had granted them twenty years back. As much as he hated the man now, the principles of his people’s tech had skyrocketed the US government’s own meta-tech base a solid hundred years ahead in a fifth the time. 

It had saved almost as many lives as Omni-Man had done singlehandedly and more than anything else, it was pulling its weight even here. Nolan, you bastard.

Brick's skull had looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to a concrete mixer, bio-foam holding pieces together against all odds. Butch was basically a broken doll held together with medical tape and stubbornness, sternum cracked to all hell just like the rest of him. Boomer kept lighting up like a Christmas tree every few minutes, electrical discharges painting the containment field in patterns that reminded Cecil of thunderstorms he'd watched from bunkers back when the world was simpler and the monsters wore uniforms.

"Latest medical assessment, sir." Donald's voice carried that particular brand of half-upbeat efficiency that made discussing catastrophic injuries sound like quarterly reports. Nobody can do it quite like you, Donald.

Cecil didn't turn from the observation window. Numbers were easier to keep in mind when you looked at the faces behind them. "This isn’t a battlefield, Donald. Just tell me already."

“O-of course sir,,” the deputy director nodded, Cecil catching the reflection in the glass. "Mark currently has fourteen fractured bones, with clean breaks in both femurs, three ribs and his left clavicle. Not to mention a shattered jaw, severe internal hemorrhaging, grade three concussion, and a partially lacerated liver. Recovery estimate… thirteen days."

"Trinity?" Cecil watched electrical patterns arc across Boomer's containment field with a frown.

"Unprecedented in our medical database." Donald's voice carried that slight hitch that meant his emotional subroutines were bumping up against classified file parameters. "Brick sustained four shattered vertebrae, twelve broken bones, complete femur fractures, depressed skull fracture that would be fatal in baseline humans."

Cecil absorbed the numbers, running threat assessments through scenarios that started bad and got worse. "Butch?"

"Eight broken ribs, twenty-six broken bones, punctured lung, ruptured spleen, compound fractures in right arm and left leg."

"And Boomer?" 

"Complete ribcage shattering, twenty-four additional broken bones, massive internal hemorrhaging, traumatic brain injury. We’re draining him of as much electrical energy as our systems can handle and … well, you can see, sir," Donald's voice softened.

"Recovery timeline?" 

"Unsure… but technicians predict sometime within the next three weeks. Brain activity suggests a hibernation state and cell regeneration exceeding the highest recorded metrics we’ve seen for them." Donald continued as he scrolled through data that would've made DARPA weep with envy. "There's more. Satellite footage shows a ninety-eight second gap where they appeared unconscious after initial confrontation."

"And then they weren't." Cecil had reviewed that footage seventeen times, watching power readings spike in ways that violated several laws of physics and most principles of common sense.

"Energy output increased fifty-seven percent despite catastrophic damage. Baseline levels haven't decreased since engagement. We're projecting strength, speed, durability increases by at least equivalent degrees."

Cecil turned to face Donald, the kind of attention that nobody in any government across the planet wanted on them. "Did you know they could heal like that?"

"No, sir. Accelerated recovery rates, yes, but never pushed to these parameters. More than a second wind. Temporary cellular reconfiguration." Donald blinked, confusion crossing features that were getting disturbingly good at mimicking human uncertainty.

More than temporary, Cecil suspected. From what they told him, it was definitely nothing quite so short-term.

A medical tech approached, hesitating at the threshold like Cecil might order him shot if he delivered news that he didn’t like. .

"Yes?" Cecil sensed approach without turning, awareness honed by twenty years of surviving rooms where people got shot for moving too quietly.

"Sir, unusual brainwave synchronization between the Boys. Almost as if they're communicating while unconscious." Tech's voice carried nervous energy that meant either breakthrough or containment breach.

"Increase monitoring sensitivity. I want to know the moment anything changes." 

The tech retreated quickly as Donald stepped forward. "Sir, about Mrs. Grayson..." 

"I know, I know…" Cecil's expression hardened into a professional mask perfected through decades of delivering news that made people's lives immeasurably worse. “Still in the waiting room,”

He let out a sigh. "I'll speak with her."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

This is going to be fun. The headache behind his eyes was building to be one for the ages, as footsteps echoed down the GDA corridor on the way to the waiting room of the medical wing.

Donald kept pace beside him, his deputy’s tablet full of updates that painted the entire globe of the last twenty-six hours in varying shades of catastrophic red and critical orange. A fucking nightmare and I can’t even wake up.

"Status on Atlanta recovery and rescue?" The numbers were already three moves ahead in his head, but confirmation never hurt. “What are we looking at, Donald?”

"Proceeding according to schedule, sir. FEMA coordinating with new Guardians," Donald's voice carried that midwest-clean efficiency that made mass casualties sound like quarterly reports.

New Guardians. He hated that term, especially when he had younger, stronger and outright better already doing jobs the Guardians never could without Omni-Man. Still, there was no renaming the second-stringers at this point. "How are they holding up?"

"Uh, w-well... adapting to increased responsibilities, sir."

We both know what that means. He closed his eyes and sighed. "You’re a generous man, Donald."

The corridor opened into the waiting area where Debbie Grayson had been conducting a one-woman vigil in furniture that probably violated several Geneva Convention articles about cruel and unusual punishment. Red-rimmed eyes, the kind of exhausted grief that came from having your worldview shattered by someone you'd been married to for twenty years.

She looked up when footsteps approached, and her expression shifted into the kind of maternal fury that made seasoned operatives suddenly remember urgent business elsewhere.

"So, I can see my own son now?" Her voice was raw from tears and at least seven servings of GDA coffee. “Wherever you’re keeping him

"Debbie. I understand your frustration-"

"Frustration?" She cut him off with the precision of a missile strike. "Cecil, frustrated is when you break a glass in the kitchen. I am livid. My husband destroys a city, my son is half-dead, and you people won't tell me anything!"

Cecil kept his voice calm and his hands at his sides, knowing very well Debbie needed to burn herself out a bit before he could drop a fire break. "Officially, all I can tell you is that your son engaged a hostile entity alongside government operatives. The situation remains classified."

"Wha—!" She stepped closer, maternal instinct overriding any rational assessment of who she was dealing with.

"Unofficially," the interruption came with timing he’d planned before Debbie had finished her third cup, "Mark fought Nolan. Confronted him for reasons I don't quite know yet."

She gasped, hands covering her mouth as eyes watered again.

"You can see him now." 

Her anger deflated like a punctured balloon, replaced by desperate relief that Cecil could see on her face.

"I'll prepare the visitor's authorization, sir." Donald retreated with tactical efficiency, giving them privacy while maintaining plausible surveillance protocols.

The gesture toward the consultation room came with the weight of conversations that needed to stay buried. "Please."

She hesitated. "This... this is my fault."

Cecil’s eyes narrowed, weighing what he wanted to know against what he wanted to say.  "What makes you say that?"

"I-I…I told Mark what I suspected about his dad's behavior. I did this. I... I caused all this." Her voice carried the kind of guilt that usually preceded either suicide attempts or media leaks, both of which required immediate containment.

Silence was often the best response when civilians started taking responsibility for classified disasters. Neither confirmation nor denial, just let them fill the void with their own assumptions and see which direction the damage control needed to flow.

"And the boys, your boys. They were fighting too, weren't they? Against Nolan?" Debbie swallowed, more tears filling her eyes.

"They tried to help Mark,” Cecil allowed her that much information.

"And they got hurt... didn't they?" 

"Debbie, you know these boys,” he said with a long, low sigh, that was less calculated than he’d like. “They don’t quit. Even if it’s smashing their heads into a brick wall."

Her gaze dropped to the floor, her voice quiet and less shaky than before. "Where is my husband, Cecil?"

The question had been coming since she'd walked into the waiting room, the one right behind Mark. "We don't know. He left Earth's atmosphere after the encounter. Current whereabouts unknown."

She absorbed the information with surprising calm, almost relief, her shoulders shaking for a second and finally slumping as she breathed out. "He's not coming back, is he?"

"...we don't know."

A single tear tracked down her cheek, quickly wiped away with the efficiency of someone who'd been crying for days and was running low on reserves. "When Mark wakes up, I want to be here."

"Of course." Simple agreement, the kind that cost nothing and bought considerable goodwill that might be useful later.

"What about the boys? Do they have anybody waiting?" The question came out of nowhere, catching him off-guard in ways that usually required alien invasions or budget committee hearings.

"No. They don't." The words came out softer than he meant.

"Then I'll wait for them too." 

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Satellite feeds painted the control center screens in real-time disaster management, data streams updating faster than human comprehension. Atlanta looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to civilization and forgotten to clean up afterward.

The new Guardians worked the debris as best they could, in some ways doing better than the old. In many others, not so much. 

Rex Splode's controlled detonations cleared dangerous rubble with precision that would've impressed demolition experts. Damn you, Radcliffe, Cecil couldn’t help the anger he felt in his gut at his former superior for costing them a loyal and well-groomed meta-operative. 

Monster Girl's eight-foot form lifted support beams that weighed enough to give most heavy-duty cranes trouble, while Dupli-Kate's copies formed human chains, efficiency multiplied by desperation. Black Samson coordinated police perimeters with borrowed authority all the while Rudolph Connors analyzed structural integrity with detached precision that almost made him nostalgic for competent asset management.

Other screens showed global unrest rippling outward from Atlanta like shockwaves through water. Capes Inc. handling looting outbreaks in hotspots of the East Coast where civilization had taken a coffee break, all the while the Actioneers containing fires that threatened downtown New York, heroics measured in property damage prevented. 

Youngblood… Youngblood was Youngblood, immature but effective.

News coverage flashed across screens like digital vultures: "GLOBAL PANIC AS OMNI-MAN DISAPPEARS" 

"ATLANTA DEVASTATION: DEATH TOLL RISING" 

"WHERE ARE THE ATLANTA 4?"

"TRINITY: HEROES OR CHILD SOLDIERS?"

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Another half-mile down past the more open areas people like Debbie or the President of the United States would have access to, Cecil folded his arms in an elevator ride that was not quick enough for his liking.

The door slid open — finally — and the director stepped out into one of the GDA’s Black Labs and walked further into the room as every scientist turned his way.

He paid them no attention, his gaze locked on the three objects in large vials at the very center of the room.

Crimson fluid glowed faintly under light, green tissue samples floated in solution, and bone chips sparked with blue electricity every few seconds, because apparently his kids couldn’t even bleed normal.

"Director Stedman." Rodgers straightened up with that nervous energy that meant he'd been caught doing exactly what he'd been ordered to do but wasn't sure if he was supposed to be doing it.

Displays painted pictures in microscopic detail, cellular structures that looked like someone had taken human biology and fed it through a blender with alien technology. Not the strangest thing he'd seen this week, but definitely top five.

"Status report."

"I… I can’t define the status of this, sir, now matter how much I’d like to,” Rodgers answered back with an uncharacteristic smile on his face, one that looked far more at home on Dr. Wun’s face than Rodgers. “It’s quite… quite unlike anything I’ve ever encountered." The man fired up his holographic display, as excited as a kid in a candy store.

Cecil stared at energy patterns dancing wildly across the screen, unsure what the scientist in front of him expected him to be seeing. Finally, he asked the important question, "Synthesis possibilities?"

Rodgers got that look that usually preceded either "yes but expensive" or "yes but we might accidentally level Nebraska." "Theoretically possible, but dangerous, very dangerous.”

Translation: it might work, or it might turn half the Eastern Seaboard into a glowing crater. "But not impossible."

"No, sir. Not impossible."

"Sir, about the samples... the Boys didn't exactly consent—" Donald's voice carried that particular flavor of moral concern that usually preceded lectures about constitutional rights and human dignity.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. We need to figure out whatever the hell this Chemical X is. We're gonna need it." Cut him off before the conversation wandered into territories requiring legal counsel and plausible deniability protocols.

Donald went quiet, probably running moral complexity calculations through whatever passed for a conscience in artificial intelligence development these days.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Night outside reinforced windows designed to withstand everything up to and including nuclear disappointment, multiple screens painting ongoing global crises in real-time catastrophe management.

"Sir, there's something else,” Donald spoke up. “Atmospheric monitoring detected an unusual energy signature over the Atlantic approximately twenty minutes ago."

That particular tone meant the news was about to get more interesting in ways he probably wouldn’t like. "Details."

"Brief but intense. Similar spectral pattern to the original breach that brought the Boys here."

Director Stedman sighed, the man asking a question he was pretty sure he knew the answer to already. "Location?"

"Mid-Atlantic, almost exactly where the Boys first appeared."

Same coordinates, same energy signature, same potential for complications. "Increase monitoring. I want to know if it happens again."

"Sir, if I may... the Boys have proven themselves beyond question. Perhaps we should reconsider the Chemical X research, at least until they've consented." Donald paused, clearly unsure if he had misspoken. 

Sometimes the right path and the necessary path split like railroad tracks heading toward different kinds of hell, and somebody had to choose which train to catch. "Donald, you can either be the good guy or the guy who saves the world."

With a professional nod, Donald withdrew, his footsteps echoing until Cecil’s door slid shut with a quiet hiss.

Cecil sat in front of his private terminal, multiple screens opening up with passwords changing daily and retinal scans activating automatically, "CODE BLACK PROTOCOLS" fllickered across the screen, this folder requiring clearances no one on the planet but him possesed. Cecil scrolled down, opening up "VILTRUMITE COUNTERMEASURES," until he finally stared at what he’d been looking for.

Project ROWDY: Chemical X Synthesis & Application – STATUS: PENDING.

Arc 1 End.