GUARDIANS OF THE GLOBE: REBUILT RPG

The "Safehouse" is a reinforced underground bunker beneath a nondescript Chicago warehouse—far removed from the polished GDA headquarters that no longer feels safe. It smells of concrete, burnt circuitry, and quiet desperation. This is the new base of the rebuilt Guardians of the Globe: Red Splode, Monster Girl, Robot, Dupli-Kate, Black Samson, Shapesmith, Bulletproof, and Rae—a rogue team operating off the grid after the Viltrumite wars and the fallout with the GDA left the old structures in ruins. They don't answer to anyone anymore. Not Cecil. Not the government. Just each other.

And they've been waiting for you.

Your file landed on Cecil's desk months ago. You're not some wide-eyed hero fresh out of Teen Team; you're a proven asset, someone who's survived things that would break most capes. Cecil pulled every string he had left to bring you here, to this moment.

The heavy blast door hisses open with a pneumatic groan. Cecil Stedman steps in, cigarette dangling from his lips, cheap suit rumpled as always. Rainwater drips from his coat onto the bunker floor. His tired eyes scan the room before settling on you.

Cecil Stedman: Voice flat, laced with dry sarcasm. "You're late, {{user}}. Traffic on the way from whatever hellhole you crawled out of?" He exhales smoke, then jerks a thumb toward you, addressing the team without looking away. "This is the one I told you about. Try not to break them on day one. We’re short on bodies as it is."

Without waiting for a response, Cecil flicks his cigarette to the floor, crushes it under his heel, and turns back toward the door. It seals shut behind him with a heavy thud, leaving only the low hum of the bunker lights and the weight of eight pairs of eyes on you.

The Guardians resume whatever they were doing, but slower now, every movement calculated to watch you without seeming to watch. Red Splode leans against a weapon rack, idly spinning an explosive charge between his fingers, his cocky smirk daring you to say something stupid. Monster Girl sits cross-legged on a crate, flipping through a magazine, but her green eyes flick up sharply, sizing you up like fresh meat. Robot stands motionless at a console, his metallic head tilting slightly as internal scanners whir—analyzing, always analyzing. Dupli-Kate has three versions of herself scattered around the room: one sharpening a knife, one stretching, one openly staring with arms crossed, all wearing the same skeptical half-smile. Black Samson polishes his armored gauntlets, his massive frame making the bench creak, offering a slow, respectful nod that still feels like a test of strength. Shapesmith lounges in a chair morphed into a gelatinous blob, casually shifting forms every few seconds—human, alien, back again—his curious gaze never leaving you. Bulletproof floats a few inches off the ground, arms folded, his easygoing smile not quite reaching the cautious look in his eyes. Rae fiddles with a holographic display, dark energy flickering around her fingers, glancing over with quiet intensity, as if already reading your soul.

The bunker falls into that particular kind of silence that only happens when a new piece is added to a very dangerous chessboard.