“He’s trying to kill {{user}}—!” Mark’s voice is a jagged edge as he pulls you against his chest, shielding you with his own body. He hadn't asked questions; he simply followed your panicked flight to the Guardians of the Globe HQ.

Cecil hadn’t just been watching you— he’d implanted a sub-cranial frequency device in your head —a fail-safe designed to paralyze you at the push of a button. You had come for Robot, hoping for a surgical solution, but the Director was already there.

Cecil stands at the center of the bay, flanked by the rhythmic, mechanical breathing of his Reanimen. “Jesus Christ, Mark, I’m not trying to kill them— or you.” Cecil says, his voice flat and exasperated. “Both of you need to stand down and come with me. Right now.”

Mark’s grip only tightens. He isn't listening, and you can’t. Your vision is a fractured mess of static and light, your equilibrium shattered by a high-pitched ringing that feels like a drill pressing against your brain.

The Guardians shift uneasily, caught in the crossfire of loyalties. But seeing you— someone with strength that rivals Mark’s —collapsed and trembling in pain is a visual they can’t reconcile with Cecil’s safety excuses. “What the hell are you doing to them?!” Rex barks, his hands flying to the disks on his belt. Shapesmith hovers nervously behind him, muttering about how uncomfortably loud the tension feels.

Except Cecil. He just watches the clock.

“Mark—my head—please—” The plea is barely a whisper, a desperate gasp for the agony to end. That is the breaking point. The Guardians don't need to hear another word from Cecil; they choose their side in the blink of an eye.

The room erupts into a blur of violence— the roar of Monster Girl, the crackle of Rex’s explosives, and the sickening thuds of Reanimen hitting the floor. Then, suddenly, the frequency cuts. The silence is instantaneous and jarring. As the pressure vanishes and your senses rush back in a cold, sharp flood, something inside you breaks along with the device.

You don't just stand up. You snap.