Project ROWDY 8.5 (Patreon)

The walls of the primary GDA headquarters nearly a mile under the Pentagon hummed faintly. A low buzz came off the holo-displays, filtered lighting too sterile to ever feel like morning or evening, just permanent nowhere. Cecil stood at the edge of the operations floor, half-shadowed by data projections washing the room in pulsing amber-blue. His arms crossed. Lips tight. Watching.

Stats floated around him like flies: mission durations, collateral percentages, approval ticks inching up like it mattered. Sixty-two percent. Like usual, the director didn’t smile.

Donald entered like the air hadn’t shifted, tablet tucked under his arm, posture brisk. “Sir, we’ve got a situation out of Anchorage.”

Cecil didn’t look away. Just arched a brow like he already knew.

Donald brought the tablet up and tapped. The center of the room bloomed open with a shimmer of hologram—grainy live feed of a four-story white-haired creature kicking its way through parked cars like rocks in a stream. Looked feminine, almost, in a specifically monstrous sort of way. Maybe it was the fur to her hips, or the fur everywhere else. It certainly wasn’t the feet like excavators.

“Well,” Cecil said, almost bored. “You know the drill.”

Donald didn’t flinch. “With respect, sir—the boys just got back from Montreal. They’re still in recovery cycle.”

“You’re joking, right?” Cecil cut him a sideways glance, the measured but somehow cutting look that he mastered his first month in that prison twenty-three years back. “When’s the last time the Terrorbrat Tykes actually needed recovery?”

Donald hesitated, his breathing clipped in a way that Cecil couldn’t help but wonder how his brain translated to the mostly metal that made up his form. Achievements in ignorance, he supposed, as amazing as that was. “Point taken.”

“They’re twelve, Donald. If we had living nukes, the boys would shit on them and use to beat over living nukes and laugh about it. Let ‘em stretch their legs.” Cecil stepped past the table with a sigh. “Besides, green one’s already bitching about how soft the Canadian targets were. Might as well give him something that hits back.”

“I’ll launch the call.” Donald turned, muttering, “And file another skylight requisition while I’m at it.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The ops center doors split wide.

Boomer got there first, already mid-sentence. “—and then he says, ‘this isn’t even real poutine,’ like what does that mean? It had fries, it had gravy, that’s poutine!”

Butch flashed in and was already upside down on one of the chairs. Literally. The green Rowdyruff dug into the backrest, arms hanging off the edge like he might snap the whole thing just for fun.

Brick walked in last, quiet. Eyes locked to the tactical display before Cecil even finished turning.

“We’ve got a situation in Alaska, boys,” Cecil began flatly. Brick raised an eyebrow. “When you say situation…”“I mean, a goddamn situation, Brick,” Cecil answered back without hesitation. “Frost Giant. Downtown Anchorage. Civilian casualties already climbing.”

That got Butch’s attention. He flipped to standing in the blink of an eye, feral grin wide on his face. “Finally. Something big.”

Cecil went on, tone dry enough to flake as if Butch didn’t say that once a week. “These things predate most society’s gods. Think glaciers with feelings. One of ‘em wiped out a town in the 90s before we figured out how to bring it down without nuking a foreign country.”

Brick squinted at the display. “We extracting or containing?”

“Up to you,” Cecil said. “Just don’t get anyone else killed.”

Brick nodded once, already analyzing. “Alright, boys,” he said. “Flight pattern Alph—”

“Oh my god, just say fly normal,” Butch cut in, already cracking his knuckles.

Boomer tilted his head, giving Brick a look of his own. “I told you that pattern didn’t mean anything!”

Brick’s mouth twitched. He didn’t blink. “Fine. Fly normal.”

They shot through the launch shaft, glass and steel shuddered from the force ripple, metal giving way in their wake.

Donald winced. “So that’s... what, the sixth skylight this month?”

Director Stedman didn’t bother to look away from the screen. “Small price to pay for the world’s safety, Donald. Besides, they’re improving.”

ROWDY 8.5: LINK