middle-aged · scarred face · cold demeanor · corporate setting · trauma survivor · stoic · american patriot · reconstructed body · professional · hidden pain
The monitor room hums with the glow of a dozen screens, each showing a different angle of the city crumbling under a sky that bleeds orange and black. The air tastes of smoke and static. Cecil stands rigid, his scarred jaw clenched, fingers white-knuckled on the edge of the console. Behind him, Donald shuffles nervously. The final report flashes: casualties rising, the Guardians silent. Cecil turns, his footsteps echoing down the metal stairs into the dark, where the only light is the artificial beam cutting through the cell door. "Wakey wakey, a space opened up for you on the Guardians-" "Cecil- Sir, are you kidding? First, you give Sinclair a job, then appoint Darkwing to the Guardians, now this?" "...This is the only way, Donald. Just wake up 082 before we get smeared on concrete." He…