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ROWDY: LINK

The frosting was fake. Plastic-sweet and thick like it was afraid of being edible, like it came out of a tub labeled WARNING: FOR DECORATION ONLY. Brick didn’t care. He took another bite, chewed it like drywall, swallowed.

Perfect.

The banner drooped sideways over the GDA conference room, half-taped to a ventilation grate, dusty like nobody wanted to admit how long it’d been since they last needed a “MISSION SUCCESS” sign. The room smelled like stale coffee and off-brand sanitizer. Someone’d brought punch. It tasted like melted battery acid. Boomer drank four cups.

Boomer had also somehow managed to get frosting on his ear, cheeks smeared in chocolate, one whole slice of cake clenched in both hands like it was going to escape if he didn’t inhale it as soon as possible. “This is the best cake ever,” he said through a full mouth.

Crumbs everywhere.

Butch had claimed the pizza table like it owed him money. A stack of slices wobbling in one arm, other hand already mid-shove into his face, chewing like someone dared him to beat time. Brick glanced once, saw sauce on Butch’s bicep, and looked away before it got worse.

The room was full of agents pretending they weren’t flinching every time one of the Boys moved too fast. Their smiles stuck, plastic and wide, cups trembling slightly in practiced hands. They’d seen the casualty report. They’d seen the portal. They knew what it should’ve been.

Should’ve been a crater.It was the eyes that gave them away though—too bright, too alert for people who were supposedly relaxing. These were government agents who’d just saw an alien invasion. Their guard wouldn’t be down for weeks. That was fine. 

Brick’s guard was never down.

A young analyst shuffled over, probably drew the short straw. “Sir—I mean, uh… Mr…. uh, Brimstone, sir… that thing when you had the aliens… take each other out like that. That was—really impressive. Tactical genius, honestly.”

Brick shook his hand just firm enough to remind him who he was. Who they were. “I do what I do.”

The guy nodded way, way, way too fast, almost fast enough that Brick was worried for the safety of his neck. And the way his heart was beating as he tried to look Brick in the eyes, the guy might as well have had a gun to his ribs. There was always something in the eyes. HIM had once told him it was because humans could sense when something wasn’t quite human, even if they couldn’t understand or explain why.

The sixty-million dollar man chose that exact moment to show up with a tablet like he was bringing birthday presents, at least judging from the smile on his face. Whatever it was, Agent Ferguson  looked weirdly upbeat, the guy’s smile too soft at the edges. “Director Stedman sends you boys his highest commendation for excellent work against the invaders,” was what he chose to open with as he came to a stop. “You boys ran textbook containment. Couldn’t have asked for a cleaner op.”

Butch let out a burp that shook his table.. “Where’s old man scarface?”

Donald blinked, just onceas he took in Butch’s nickname for the director, then quickly recovered as if Butch had been normal about who Brick had come to understand was effectively the unelected king of Earth’s politics and defense infrastructure. “Still handling priority matters elsewhere. The world doesn’t pause for one invasion, I’m afraid.”

Brick made a note. He didn’t say anything else, just pivoted. “Casualties?”

Donald’s fingers tensed around the tablet. “We’ve got them confirmed so far at an official one hundred nine, civilian. First responder numbers place the total slightly higher. Granted, that’s mostly from initial shockwave and breach fallout. Nothing else thanks to you boys.” The cyborg shook his head. “Frankly? It’s a miracle.”

Boomer looked up from plate number… actually, Brick had stopped keeping count a while ago, honestly. “That’s… good, right? I mean, we stopped the aliens, so it’s over?.”

Donald smiled again. Professional, this time. Like the gears had clicked back in. “Yes. You most certainly did.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The hum wasn’t loud. That made it worse. It crawled under your skin instead of pushing against your ears, made the whole room feel like it was pretending to breathe. Brick didn’t move. Not because he couldn’t. Because he was listening.

The pod they had him in was probably worth more than a stealth jet. Smooth pressure around his limbs, pulse synced to the slow inhale of reinforced gel lining. The lid was see-through, like a coffin with a window.

Somewhere near his right boot, Rosenthal was whispering again.

“Recovery metrics are well past expectation,” the doctor muttered, paper-thin voice cut with reverence. “Baseline exceeded across all primary indexes.”

Another voice answered—Chen, maybe. Brick didn’t care. “You mean they’re stronger than when they walked in?”

“Markedly.”

Brick didn’t blink. He tracked the click of styluses tapping through digital projections. The displays over their pods hadn’t shut up since they got dragged back from the invasion site. Still flashing color-coded percentages. Still crawling with numbers.

Strength: +47%Durability: +52%Energy Output: +38%Speed: +23%

Unbalanced. He’d felt it. Strength climbing faster than coordination. His own fists hitting harder than expected, follow-through lagging behind. Boomer was sparking before he thought. Butch was breaking things by accident.

Next pod over, Butch cracked his knuckles loud enough for someone to flinch. “See? Told you losers I was getting jacked. Must be the push-ups.”

“Push-ups don’t count if you’re floating,” Boomer mumbled from his side, peeling a patch off his chest and examining it like it owed him an answer. “Wait—do mine say that too? I wanna see my stats.”

Brick sat up. Deliberate, slow. Not tired. Calculating. He wiped a smear of frost from the inside of the pod cover with two fingers and studied the projection again. Cross-referenced numbers against last week’s sim logs, recalibrated for stress factors. Still didn’t like it.

Rosenthal noticed he was awake. Brick could tell by the way his tone changed mid-sentence, like a tightrope walker realizing there’s no net. The man stepped into view a second later, fake calm wrapped in an expensive lab coat.

“Ah. Good.” Rosenthal cleared his throat, then brought up a new hologram. “We think we understand what’s happening.”

“Do you.”

“It appears your bodies are adapting.”

No kidding.

The image twisted into a scan overlay. Old cellular samples next to new ones. The old stuff was dimmer, fuzzier. The new stuff sparkled. Tighter clusters. Brighter energy traces.

“Think of it like… high-altitude conditioning. Your physiology’s reacting to the new physics baseline of this dimension.”

Butch flexed both arms like a cartoon boxer. “So we’re getting extra powers? Cool.”

“It’s not a guaranteed outcome,” Rosenthal said, way too fast.

“But it is happening,” Brick pressed.

The hesitation confirmed it.

Rosenthal shifted. “As of now, yes. Your power curves are trending upward. Unpredictably so.”

Boomer’s voice cracked as he sat up too fast. “Wait, unpredictably like… dangerous?”

“No signs of harm,” Rosenthal lied, visibly. “Minor irregularities during REM cycles. Nothing outside of tolerance.”

Brick didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. He’d already made the connection.

Boomer’s dreams. The ones he didn’t like talking about. Waking up yelling names he swore he forgot. That one time he almost lit the ceiling tiles up in his sleep.

Nothing outside of tolerance.

Brick slid out of the pod and stood barefoot on the floor. Cold. Not uncomfortable. Just real.

The scans still glowed behind him. He let them.

His brothers were arguing about muscle mass now. Boomer was holding his own stats up to Butch’s and insisting they must’ve been switched. Butch was laughing too loud.

Rosenthal said something else. Brick didn’t register it. He was already thinking ahead.

If the universe was changing them to match it, then the question wasn’t whether they could still go back.

It was what would be left if they did.

And what would happen if they found a way back?

The training bay stank like ozone and sweat and whatever compound the GDA used to mop up after kids who could crater walls without trying. Brick stepped through the blast doors without announcing himself. He really didn’t have to, honestly. The room was loud enough already—Butch was trying to kill the punching bag again.

Not metaphorically.

Each and every single punch cracked air like a sonic boom, and sent the whole setup rattling like bones in a box. “When’s big scary dad-face gettin’ back?” he shouted mid-swing. “I wanna see if I can suplex him into the Earth’s core.”

Boomer was hovering nearby, arms loose, fingers twitching with baby jolts—just enough spark to be annoying, not enough to matter. “You? Against Omni-Man?” He let out a loud snort, baby jolts sparking off his fingers brighter as the sound left him. “What, you gonna blind him with your BO?”

Butch’s laugh came out sharp, teeth behind it. “Nah, I’ll knock him out cold. C’mon, you saw the readouts. I’m, like, double my old numbers. Easy.”

Boomer hovered maybe six feet off the ground, lazy arcs of static popping from finger to finger like he was trying to tase the air into submission. “Dude, I’m tellin’ you, you try that on Omni-Man and he’s gonna feed you your own teeth.”

Butch’s reply was a grunt and a crack like drywall folding in on itself. “He’s not untouchable. You punched him.”

Brick frowned at that. He had punched Omni-Man and it did fuck-all. “Yeah, I did punch him. Doing it almost broke my hand.”

“Yeah, I saw it,” Boomer said, voice going up a full octave and a half, “he didn’t even blink!”

Brick didn’t say anything again until he was close enough to drop the container. It thunked against the bench hard enough to make both his brothers look.

“Omni-Man’s stronger,” Brick said, calm and flat like a slap in slow motion. “Smarter. Meaner. He’d ragdoll you.”

Butch turned, mouth already half open. Brick didn’t let him get it out.

“And experience matters. He’s got at least as much combined practice as all our years alive combined.”

Butch’s scowl was sharp enough to draw blood, but he didn’t swing again. Just flexed, jaw tight. His right knuckle was already cracked open, blood trailing halfway to his wrist. Brick clocked it. Didn’t comment.

Boomer buzzed over, hair doing that thing again where it spiked out on one side more than the other. Static clung to his eyelashes. “We’re still getting stronger though, right? Like, that whole acclimating thing—”

“Yeah,” Brick said, flipping the latch on the container, “we’re getting stronger.”

He didn’t open it right away. Let the pause stretch. Let them feel the weight of the box before they saw what was in it.

Butch narrowed his eyes. “That from the portal fight?”

“Salvage,” Brick corrected. “Not theft.”

Boomer landed with a stumble, already leaning in. “Wait wait wait—what is that? That glowy part looks like—”

Brick opened it. Soft, dull pulse. Orange-red. Crystal core cracked down the center like a lightning bolt frozen in time.

They both went quiet.

“That’s from the gate,” Butch said, voice lower now. Less bark, more… something else. Like awe in a headlock.

Brick didn’t nod. Didn’t smile. Just watched the way their eyes tracked it. “Residual energy signature. Still active. Barely.”

Boomer’s fingers hovered an inch too close. Brick grabbed his wrist without looking. “Don’t touch it.”

“I wasn’t gonna—!”

“You were.”

Butch’s arms crossed. “So what, we gonna build a new portal?”

“No.” Brick didn’t look up. “Not yet.”

“So what’s it for then?”

“Research,” Brick said, quiet, eyes sharp on the readout flickering across the crystal’s fractured plane. “Backup plan.”

Boomer squinted. “For what?”

Brick didn’t answer. He just closed the lid again. “For research purposes.” He said it like a maybe. He meant it like a plan.

Boomer’s voice quieted. “I kinda… miss them sometimes. The Girls.”

Brick didn’t look at him. Just closed the box again.

Butch laughed. “I don’t. Go back just to get our asses kicked again?”

“We’re stronger now.”

Boomer perked. “You think we’re stronger than them yet?”

“No.”

That shut it up. Truth was cleaner than comfort. It always was.

He slid the container behind him, out of their reach. Just in case. “But we’re getting there. Faster every day.”

Boomer nudged the tablet. “What’s this one?”

“Dimensional wave resonance. Fracture modeling. Gateway recalibration.”

Boomer blinked. “…So nerd stuff.”

Butch smirked. “Told you. Nerd stuff.”

“Yeah?” Brick said, deadpan. “Tell that to the guy who builds the parachute before you hit the drop.”

They shut up for a second. Butch punched the bag again. The chain held this time.

Brick didn’t flinch. Just adjusted the screen angle and got back to work.

“Knowledge is power,” he muttered, quiet enough it might’ve been just to himself.

Or maybe not. He didn’t look up.

“Especially when you’re planning for all contingencies.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Three hours and two skipped meals later, Brick had commandeered one of the deep-lab rooms four levels under the primary GDA research wing—soundproofed, shielded, secured. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. Cecil had already flagged the request as approved before Brick sent it.

The room felt colder than it was, like something permanent had been stripped from the air. Not that it mattered. The bench was cluttered, diagnostics running hot from looping input errors, none of the equipment calibrated for what he was trying to map. The alien tech—torn open like a cadaver—sat in half-sorted components across half the table. Most of it was junk. The crystal core wasn’t. That part still pulsed. Faint. Irregular. But alive.

Every few seconds, the oscillation drifted out of range and set off another soft alarm. He muted it.

Data streamed across the tablet at his elbow. Still garbage. He was trying to reconcile seven different dimensional models at once and none of them were cooperating. Not fully. Not yet. But the math was stabilizing. That meant something.

The door hissed open. Didn’t creak. Didn’t clunk. Just hissed like a lung giving up. Brick didn’t flinch. He already knew who it was.

Cecil moved like a guy who already knew what the room looked like. Hands in his coat pockets, boots scuffing the tile a little too soft to be casual. He stopped just short of the workbench.

“Late hour for diagnostics,” he said, low and dry, like it was a joke too old to bother finishing. “Figure I’d find you pokin’ the bear eventually.”

Brick didn’t look up. “It’s not a bear. It’s a key.”

“Hm.” Cecil glanced down at the crystal, the pulse lighting up the underlines of his face. “That thing got a name?”

“Not yet.”

“You planning to give it one, or build it one?”

Brick adjusted the angle of the spectrometer. “Depends on what it does when I finish.”

Cecil hummed. No judgment in it, but the weight was there anyway. “And what’s your hypothesis?”

Brick paused. Then: “Gate anchor. That’s my best bet right now. Portal stabilization module, maybe half-corrupted.”

“And you know that because…?”

“Because I recognize the structural resonance pattern. It’s fractal-based. Mirrors the original signature from the jump.”

“Same jump that dropped you and yours into my backyard.”

Brick didn’t respond. He already knew a long time ago that Cecil had figured out that much. The guy would have to be an idiot not to, and Cecil Stedman may have had fake skin but his brain cells were all in functioning order.

Cecil reached into his coat, pulled out a tablet, tapped once. Cecil set the tablet face-down on the bench. “You trying to go home, Brick?”

Brick’s fingers stilled over the console. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not a no.”

“I’m gathering data.”

“Mm.” He folded his arms. “And what’s your data say so far?”

“That this universe runs hot. Higher energy density, increased material resilience, inconsistent temporal geometry. And we’re adapting to it.”

Cecil nodded like he already knew. He probably did. “You boys are outgrowing your own footprints. You know that, right?”

Brick looked at him then. Really looked. “Was that your goal?”

“Goal?” Cecil chuckled without smiling. “Son, I’ve seen what happens when people get obsessed with outcomes. I don’t set goals. I manage fires. Right now, you’re burnin’ hotter than anything else on my board.”

Brick said nothing.

Cecil let that linger, then tapped the console once. The display jumped—data spike. Dimensional fluctuation. Not the same pattern as the aliens.

“Got ourselves another tear,” Cecil said. “Out near Salt Lake.”

Brick leaned in. “Not them?”

“Different flavor. Stronger. You’ll feel it when you get there.”

“We deploying?”

Cecil met his eyes. “You’re already dressed.”

Brick nodded once, grabbed the containment kit, and powered the bench down.

“Bring your brothers,” Cecil added, already halfway to the door. “If it’s another invasion, I want my biggest guns up front.”

“And if it’s not?”

Cecil paused, the old man giving him a look like cracked stone. “Then I still want my biggest guns up front.”

The door hissed shut behind him.

Brick stared at the darkened bench for half a second longer. Then followed.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The woods looked carved out by a fist. Trees twisted in the same direction, blown outward like something had dropped dead center and rewrote gravity on the way down. Splinters hung from the trunks like wet scabs. The ground stank like ozone and burning copper. And the numbers Brick was getting from the handheld weren’t numbers anymore—they were errors. Spiked, scrambled, resetting too fast to stabilize. Something had cracked reality open and forgot to shut the door.

They touched down in a wide V-formation, standard perimeter spread, Brick in front. Butch hit the ground loud, Boomer didn’t land at all. Brick hovered just above the dirtline, enough to keep visibility, enough to keep mobile. Air was humming. His skin itched.

“No gate,” he muttered, eye on the thermals, but there wasn’t even heat to track. “No breach residue. No exit arc.”

Boomer fidgeted beside him, lightning twitching across his fingertips like his body didn’t know what to do with calm. “This feels off. Like, real off. Like maybe-we-shouldn’t-be-here off.”

“We’re always not supposed to be here,” Butch grunted, cracking his knuckles loud enough to echo. “That never stopped us before.”

Brick opened his mouth to cut him off—but then the air above them bent.

No warning. No flare. Just a ripple—like the world shrugged—and the sky split down its spine. A soundless implosion, light without heat, color without logic. Space tore, and something fell.

“Move!”

He yanked Boomer mid-air by the wrist, kicked off hard, Butch already throwing himself backward. They cleared just before the shockwave hit—ground caving, sound chasing light like it was late. The impact hit like a freight train made of planets. Trees flattened. Rock cratered.

And in the center of it, crater cracked open like an egg, dust boiling up in a choking wave, something was breathing.

Boomer coughed. “Did we—did we just get nuked?”

“No heat signature,” Brick said, blinking the flash out of his vision. “Not a bomb. That was re-entry.”

Butch dropped to a knee at the rim of the crater, eyes squinting through the dust, grin spreading as he clenched his fists tight. “Tell me that’s a challenger.”

Brick floated down slow. Readouts stabilizing now—barely. Pulse was huge, but not exact;y expanding. Not spreading. If anything, it was concentrating. He blinked twice, focused past the dust, past the noise.

Cape.

Red.

Holy shit. Brick froze. “Wait.”

The dust peeled back, revealing a body face-down, uniform shredded, cape torn. He wore a thick scraggly beard and his chest was half-moving.

Boomer’s breath hitched. “No way.”

“Omni-Dad.”Butch let out a long low whistle, kicking some dirt casually forward like he wanted to bury the crashed superhero. “Dude got wrecked.”

Nolan Grayson lay at the center like someone had ripped the power out of him and stapled what was left to the dirt. Bleeding and bruised all over, with his eyes closed and his body half-buried in the dirt of the crater.

Brick didn’t speak. He was already running diagnostics. Pulse steady, vitals erratic. Cell damage—regenerating. Fast.

Butch poked him in the ribs with a boot. “Is he dead?”

Brick slapped his hand away, crouched down. “No. Just broken.”

Boomer hovered behind him, quieter now. “Who could even do that?”

Brick didn’t answer as Nolan’s eyes cracked open, his eyes unfocused, and breathing unsteady as he whispered something. “Omnipotent… idiot.”

Then he was out again.

Brick activated his comms. “Trinity to base. We found him.”

Cecil’s voice came in low and sharp like it’d been waiting behind his teeth. “What’s his status.” It was barely a question.

Brick raised an eyebrow, glancing down at the man unconscious on the floor. “Alive. Unconscious. Injuries extensive.”

“Visuals?”

“Severe physical trauma. Suit damage. Timeline inconsistent—beard growth, cellular repair rates… he’s been gone longer than we thought.”

Cecil was quiet again, for a second. “Did he say anything?”

Brick hesitated. “He said the word ‘Omnipotent.’ Called him an idiot.”

The line was silent for a good three seconds.

Then Cecil spoke up again, colder now. “Full containment. Medical evac already in motion. Don’t let anything near him—not even civilians.”

Boomer looked at Brick. “What’s it mean?”

Brick didn’t look back. “We stand guard.”

Cecil again, voice hard as usual. “Until arrival.”

ROWDY: LINK