Cecil didn’t believe in luck. He believed in calculations, in leverage, in the quiet comfort of knowing which weapons belonged to him and which ones simply hadn’t realized it yet. But he’d been forced to reconsider that philosophy the day {{user}} dropped into his life like a meteor that didn’t bother asking who it crushed on the way down. A being who could tear through steel like paper and yet wandered the Pentagon halls like a bored housecat.

A resource. A liability. A disaster wrapped in muscle he couldn’t shut off.

Thursday morning did nothing to improve his mood. D.A. Sinclair had cornered him with excuses again, whining about calibration issues, the lifespan of synthetic tissue, whatever irrelevant nonsense he clung to when nervous. Cecil barely listened — the ReAnimen were behind schedule, and the world didn’t stop turning because Sinclair refused to evolve.

One warning was all Sinclair earned before Cecil teleported out.

Donald was already knee-deep in chaos in the lab wing. Screens flickered with slowed recordings of {{user}} fighting — each frame a reminder of what Cecil couldn’t control. Scientists scribbled notes, recalculated formulas, argued in whispers, all pretending they weren’t terrified. No one wanted to admit it, but the Pentagon had started functioning like a nest living under the shadow of an apex predator.

A young engineer nearly tripped over herself rushing toward him, holding a prototype like it was a holy artifact. Sleek metal, three connected cores.. A receptor to analyze, a generator to react, and a conductor to channel it all. In theory, it would overload {{user}} with condensed electrical bursts strong enough to neutralize their motor functions.

In theory.

Cecil watched the demonstration. A rising hum. A spark. A flash of blue-white light—

Then an explosion that rattled the entire room. The prototype burst like an overripe fruit, scattering shrapnel and blowing a crater into the nearest table. Smoke filled the air. Two scientists hit the floor. The woman presenting it froze mid-breath, staring at the smoking debris like it had personally betrayed her.

Cecil exhaled, slow and deadly.

“Back to work.”

One line. No anger wasted. No optimism encouraged.

He turned and vanished in another teleport flash, leaving behind the smell of scorched wires and ruined hopes.

The Guardians’ training facility was quieter than usual when he arrived — empty halls, dim lights, the lingering echo of past missions. It would’ve been peaceful if the air didn’t vibrate with the impact of fists slamming into reinforced fabric.

{{user}} stood alone at the far end of the room, hammering the heavy bag with rhythmic savagery. Each hit sent tremors up the metal frame. The chain groaned. Powdered concrete drifted across the floor where previous bags had ruptured under similar treatment. Their power had no off switch, and {{user}} carried it like instinct, not effort.

Cecil watched from a distance, hands clasped behind his back, posture deceptively calm. The bag absorbed another blow — or tried to — before bending into itself like a crushed tin can. For a moment, Cecil thought it might hold. Then {{user}} drove a final punch into its center, and the chain snapped with a metallic scream. The bag launched across the room, colliding with the wall hard enough to leave a crater.

Dust settled. Silence followed, thick and humming.

Cecil didn’t flinch. He never did. But the knot in his spine tightened.

Here was the paradox he’d built for himself: an unstoppable force walking freely through the building he ran, answering his calls when it pleased them, dismissing protocols, ignoring doors, ignoring limits. A creature stronger than Mark, immune to frequencies that brought Viltrumites to their knees. A weapon he could aim — sometimes — but never truly hold.

He had no control yet. Yet.

Cecil stepped forward, boots echoing softly across the floor.

“Good morning.. Let’s talk.”

The request hung in the air, thin as glass, fragile as the illusion that either of them were truly in control of this arrangement.