Project ROWDY 2-4

The technicolor trio that was the Trinity dropped out of the sky, each one of them taking in the defeated sigh of a ruined vista; a previously picture-perfect postcard picked to pieces.

A single inhale told the oldest the air tasted wrong, thick with a heavy scent that he and all the Boys knew well enough to pick out in a second. Brick didn’t need to take another sniff for the coppery scent of blood to hit him, traces of it all over the place and in no small amount.

A slaughterhouse.

Honestly, looking down at the mess below, that might have been putting it mildly. Rich people knew how to build big, and he’d seen plenty of rich people buildings. The multi-million-dollar ski lodge was no different and, at its peak, it would probably have been a real sight to see.

Granted, it was certainly still that but probably not the way the designers had intended.

“Whoa-ho-ho-hooooooo,” Butch’s cackle came in loud as they descended slower, head on a swivel as he took in the carnage, “I know I get bored, but using a whole ski lodge as a chew toy? Cra~aaaazy work?”

Brick shot his little brother a look, eyebrow raised as he wasn’t sure whether Butch realized he was comparing himself to a dog, but… Yeah, not like he would care. 

To make matters worse, Butch wasn’t even wrong the way he’d described it. It did look like a giant dog had used the place as a chew toy, splinters of timber bearing massive claw marks torn into both the lumber of the lodge and toppled-over trees. The glittering shards of glass across the snow-dusted evergreens didn’t help either, a whole wing just collapsed inside with a tree sticking out of it. 

Something had turned this place into a pile of expensive rubble. And it’s my job to figure out what.

Red-black boots sank into the blood-stained snow with barely a sound as Brick landed first. His brothers weren’t as kind to the crime scene. Boomer slid in, skidding across the white as he kicked up a spray-trail, one gloved palm down on the ground as he pulled off what Brick knew was h-

“Akira Slide!” The baby of the Ruffs bounced up into the air, hands above his head.

One red eye twitched a bit, but Brick didn’t say a word. That didn’t stop him from thinking a whole host of things, namely, It’s a lot less cool if you announce it… no taste.

Boomer might have been lacking taste, but Butch…

BOOM!

“Whoooo!!!!”

Butch just slammed straight down, cratering the ground beneath him in a single landed stomp. 

Nice, Brick didn’t even bother to sigh this time, too used to Butch-level bullshit to even voice his disappointment. Least he didn’t go any higher than a Category 3.

Mentally shaking his head, Brick turned back to face wreckage spread out before him, a puzzle he gave his mind full permission to piece together from all the disparate pieces.

His head tilted to the side as keen red eyes scanned the environs one more time, slowing down a bit at the sight of limousines, overturned and leaking gas like pinata candy, one of them wrapped like a Christmas bow around a thick pine.

All of this just seemed… sloppy. 

Yeah, sloppy. That was a good a word as any. 

Too random for a professional hit. No, definitely not professional. 

More brute force than finesse, more animal than assassin; even if the claw marks didn’t make it clear enough, he’d be able to pick out that much. “Stay sharp, whoever did this is… not all there.”

Boomer tilted in closer. “Not all where?”

“I mean… they’re not smart,” Brick shifted his phrasing for his brother’s benefit.

“Like Boomer level not-smart or like…” Butch pulled a face as his own over-worked brain tried to find something else to compare to, “squirrel level not-smart?”

“Hey!” Boomer shot back. “Squirells are plenty s-”

His brother’s head snapped to the side, ears quirking up as the words vanished to nothing. His attention had immediately shifted already and Brick doubted he would even remember the last conversation even if you brought it up. “Got em!”

In a split-second, the blue boy became a blue blur that zipped past Brick’s line of sight and became a streak of cobalt over the trees against the white landscape.

“Survivors! Over heee~eeere!” Boomer sing-songed, high and way too cheerful for the circumstances. “I can hear ‘em underground!” 

Butch frowned and tilted his head back, arms crossed and eyes closed, nostrils flaring wide like flower petals. “...yeah. Smells like grapes and scared people! Some of them peed.” 

Of course he could smell that. But that description… combined with the fact that Boomer said underground, it could only mean…. “Wine cellar,” Brick’s words came out followed by a low hum as his thoughts flickered from realization to strategy in a micro-second. “We’ll call in the GDA to do recovery. Our job’s not rescue right now. We’re hunting.” 

He shook his head as Boomer returned to their side, the leader of the Trinity pushing aside all other thoughts behind as he focused on the immediate job in front of them. “Breakneck, sniff.”

At the very least, he didn’t need to tell his brother twice this time as the greenest of them was already on it. Head tilted, Butch sniffed the air multiple times, looking for all the world like some kind of predator.

Not inaccurate.

“Got a scent,” his voice was more of a growl than usual, toxic green eyes narrowed on the distance. “I’m talking fur and blood. Big heavy on the blood.” He jerked his head toward the dense forest bordering the lodge. “This way.”

Butch’s nose was almost unnecessary (not that he was going to start a fight by saying that), the path of trampled snow, snapped branches and general destruction doing enough to lead them away from the lodge and into the heart of the forest heading North. The trees crowded in fast, heavy foliage doing a great job when it came to muffling the distant wail of sirens that were just now catching up.

The only sounds even worth noting were the crunch of their boots—his silent, Butch’s heavy, Boomer’s annoyingly scuffy—and the shuddering of the rotors of the GDA VTOL just now catching up to their landing.

The sight of white made all three of them stop and stare, no words but three different reactions taking place in complete silence.

It stood in a small clearing, the full moon angled down atop it like an over-bright spotlight on a sound stage. Seven feet tall, eyes a bright yellow, and covered with thick white fur that barely hid its hugely over-built muscles, the massive bipedal wolf looked like any monster worth slaying.

Especially the way it stood over the mangled remains of something that might have been a deer, or possibly one of the rich guys from the lodge. As torn apart as it was, you’d be better off flipping a coin to guess.

Brick wasn’t worried about that, though. Not as his eyes took in the large gauntlets armored chest plate tight on its frame complete with a stylized wolf’s head on its chest as yellow as its eyes. Huh…

If the suit didn't make it clear enough, Brick could tell from the way it stood; the tension in shoulders, even down to the way its head snapped up at their approach, recognition clear in it’s glowing eyes. It can think.

This was definitely a person. Werewolf, lycanthrope, loup-garou… Whatever it’s specific kind of curse, this was one-hundred percent a person underneath all that fur and teeth and glowing eyes.

A distinction his brothers, naturally, missed completely.

"Dibs on the head," Butch snarled, and that was all the warning anyone got before he launched forward; a green-and-black missile of bad impulse control and worse decision-making.

The creature barely had time to register the presence of either of his brothers, lupine maw a mask of shocked confusion.

Said maw opened up for a split-second, a split-second before Butch's green glowing fist snapped its jaw open. The wolf-man staggered back two or three dozen feet, the thing scrambling against the ground before it finally came to a stop, fang falling from its loose-hanging mouth and skittering on the frozen ground.

Before it could even think about recovering, Boomer was on it with a blue whirlwind of kicks and punches. Each one landed with meaty thuds, every simple impact wet like the sound of someone dropping frozen steaks on concrete. 

"Werewolf pinball!" 

Boomer’s giggled-out description was perfect, the way they used the wolf-man as a living projectile, a furry seven-foot-tall target rocketing between trees and cliff faces. Butch sent it flying with a brutal uppercut that sounded like a car crash; Boomer intercepted mid-air with a lightning-fast heel kick, sending it careening another direction entirely. 

Brick just watched, arms crossed, hovering a few feet off the ground, blood-red eyes tracking the way it tried to block, even down to how it instinctively pulled its punches even while getting pummeled into paste. 

It wasn't fighting back. 

Not really. Not that it could, against them. 

But it wasn't even trying to land a hit. Just enduring.

Interesting.

And annoying. This was taking too long.

A pine exploded into a shower of splinters as the wolf-man crashed through its trunk, massive wood bursting apart like it hadn’t been growing since before this country was a country. Butch was just a blur of motion, grin all teeth and malice, toxic green aura flaring bright enough to bring boats to shore.

The "fight" (if you could even call it that) lasted maybe ten seconds, and that was only because his brothers liked to play with their food. By the end of it, they floated above the werewolf, the monster-man in a crumpled heap at the base of a massive pine; white fur matted with blood and dirt as it twitched in small spasms, whimpering like an animal a tenth its size.

"That was awesome!" 

A glob of spit flew from Butch’s mouth, saliva hitting hard enough to thud against tree bark like a hurled rock. "Tch. He went down too easy." The middle brother rolled his shoulders, stretching a little in his GDA-given uniform as he worked himself up to finish the job. "I barely got warmed up."

“And that’s all the warm up you’re getting.” Brick dropped to the ground, boots crunching in snow as he strode forward with all the authority he had in his body before Butch could get started on round two. His over-eager shot a confused look his way as Brick knelt beside the brutalized werewolf, almost stepping forward again before a red-eyed glare froze him right where he stood.

"Stop."

“What?” Green eyes glowed bright and bold like a traffic light, ready to go-go-go and god help anything that couldn’t survive him. “He’s not dead yet.” Gloved knuckles cracked as fists glowed a dangerous radioactive green; each digit popping off like a gunshot, heavy caliber. “I can fix that.”

"I said, stop," He repeated the word, single syllable hard and cold enough to make Butch stop in his tracks. "Look, idiots," his hand pointed right at the werewolf’s chest, the armored costume beat to hell but still clearly in one piece. That logo was entirely unmistakable, big fat yellow wolf's-head almost looking like it was reflecting the moonlight. "He's wearing a uniform, dumbasses."

Butch squinted, brain clearly struggling to catch up. "So? Maybe he's a furry."

That’s not how that… Brick let out a long low breath of air, too annoyed to be a sigh as he continued with what he actually wanted to say. "He was pulling his punches too. Even when he had a clean shot, like to your open eyes, he didn’t take it..." 

Red eyes flicked to the direction of the lodge, the smell of carnage still thick in the air. "Bodies back there were torn apart, like… mindless, crazy. This guy’s a werewolf but he’s not any of those."

Before he could say anything else, explain anymore to his brothers, the werewolf let out a low groan, body beginning to shudder and shift. Fur receded in waves as the monster’s snout shortened, bones audibly grinding and popping loud enough that Brick heard every crack like fireworks. In a matter of seconds, a red-haired man lay there in a ridiculously oversized and torn set of armor lay in the snow, body a canvas of bruises and cuts that were already starting to heal as steam rose off his skin.

The forty-something year old pushed himself up, legs like a newborn deer as he wore a tight look of pain. "H-hey... thank... thank you," he stammered, voice hoarse and raw. "I'm Gary."

Brick stared at him, nothing to say. Like, I’m gonna let these idiots kill you when you aren’t even the target. Still, he might not have been the target but he was suspicious enough. "I don't care what your name is, dog-man." The redheaded boy took a step closer, red eyes boring into the untransformed werewolf. "Start talking. What's your deal?"

Before answering anything, the man fully staggered to his feet and then, with a groan low enough that it shifted into an out-and-out growl, his body began to shift and swell, muscles bulging.

Steam poured out of the guy as he thrashed where he stood, white fur bursting to life from a million pores, veins twisting and thickening in place. All of it was a sight to see, all three boys locked in and watching, as three seconds of transformation passed and…

The wolf was back.

Huh… Brick blinked slow. He can control it.

Gary, now fully healed and looking more tired than anything else, let out a weary sigh that ruffled the fur on his chest. "I'm the Wolf-Man."

"Wooooow,” Butch snorted loud, “put a lot of thought into that one, did ya?"

Gary just sighed one more time, the sound deeper and rougher than any human voice could reach. "...not really, no."

"Get to talking, wolfy," Brick said, patience wearing thin. We don't have all night.

"I've been a werewolf for a few months now. Well, since last year at this point," Gary explained, voice low rumble that vibrated in his chest. "I've been using my curse to be a hero, though."

Boomer's eyes went wide, cobalt blue catching light. "...cool."

Of course Boomer thinks it's cool.

"And... and I'm not the monster you're looking for. I'm hunting them." Gary gestured deeper into the forest with clawed hand, pointing at darkness between trees. "A pack of them. Werewolves."

"Like you?" 

"No, not like me," Gary said, answering Brick’s threat of a question with a single strong shake of his massive head. "Feral. Real messed up and monstrous. They're the ones who attacked the lodge."

Brick exchanged a look with his brothers. Butch just shrugged, a silent 'fine, whatever, more stuff to punch' clear in toxic green eyes. Boomer was vibrating with excitement, already bouncing on his heels.

Whatever. "Lead the way."

They followed him through the trees, three of them flying silently above as Gary loped through the snow below. As dumb as his name was, the Wolf-Man’s movements were surprisingly graceful for something so large, powerful but controlled. Behind them somewhere, GDA agents were probably shouting questions and orders into their comms.

Not our problem.

"So, like, being a werewolf… and a superhero," Boomer’s voice carried clear and bright in the cold air, "... you fight vampires or is it just other werewoves? Follow-up, does that make you a racist?"

Gary glanced up, yellow eyes surprisingly expressive for a wolf face. "No... but I do know one. He's not a bad guy. Also… also no, I’m not… not racist."

"Nice vampire, doubt it," Butch scoffed, arms crossed as he flew. "Probably waiting for the right moment to drink you, wolf-guy."

"Butch," Brick warned, the single word with enough weight to make his brother fall silent. Not now. He looked down at Gary, red eyes tracking movement through trees. "You got a boss?"

Gary was quiet for a moment, paws crunching in snow. "Sort of. It's... complicated."

I bet.

It didn’t take long to find them; the entire mindless pack that Gary had told them about. Miles deeper into the woods, just outside a cave entrance half-buried by snow. Eight of them, fur matted and blood-stained brown, eyes mindless and feral and all white where Gary’s glowed a pale yellow. 

Blood and gore flew into the air, red staining the snow as the monsters tore into the bodies of what were definitely not deer. There was nothing but snarls and the wet tearing of flesh, bone cracking under superhuman jaws.

The savage roar that spilled out of the Wolf-Man was part rage, part challenge, as the lycanthrope tore across the snow in a whirlwind of white fur and righteous fury.

The pack swarmed him in an instant, a frenzy of claws and teeth. As strong and fast as he was, he was also outnumbered and nowhere as brutal in a fight. 

Still, he didn’t need to be exceptionally brutal as he took down one of them quick, a sickening crunch of bone and wet gurgle; the others were on him half a second later, claws tearing through tattered remains of his armored pants, teeth sinking into shoulders and back.

Brick watched from the mouth of the cave, arms crossed. Let's see what you're really made of, dog-man. Butch and Boomer, on the other hand, were not the patient types.

Of course not.

"Alright, my turn!" Butch yelled, wild grin splitting his face, and shot into the cave like a cannonball. Green streak of barely-restrained violence.

"Wait for me!" Boomer chirped right behind him, blue blur already moving before the words finished.

The cave erupted into chaos. Butch a green blur of fists and feet, laughing as he sent one of the feral werewolves flying into the wall with enough force to crack it, stone spider-webbing out from impact. Boomer was a whirlwind of blue, zipping between creatures, high-pitched whoops echoing off cave walls.

They weren't trying to be efficient. They're having fun. 

Treating it like a game, like always.

They were sloppy, unfocused, but they were forces of fucking nature. My forces of nature. He'd never say it out loud, though. They'd get too cocky.

Gary fought with desperate cornered-animal ferocity, but he was taking too much damage. A deep claw mark opened up his side, red streaming down white fur; he staggered back, a pained roar ripping from his throat. His healing, so impressive earlier, was clearly struggling to keep up. 

The last wolf, a massive brute with scarred snout, lunged as Gary scrambled back.

Brick rolled his eyes. This is taking too long.

A single precise beam of red heat vision lanced out, the brown werewolf letting out an odd sound before both it and Gary looked down to see a single clean hole burned clean through its chest.

A look of surprise froze on its feral face and then it dropped, the monster hitting the ground with heavy thud.

Gary looked up, chest heaving, and blood dripping from dozen wounds, the wolf-man giving them a nod that was weak but also grateful. "Thanks. I... I owe you one." He looked them over, yellow eyes still bright. "You seem like good boys."

Good boys. Brick let himself have a small cold smirk, expression not quite reaching his red eyes. Sure.

"The best."