In the long term, people were going to have to collectively seek out peace and prosperity. Progress wasn't inherent or automatic.
But in the short term, a right hook would have to do.
It was followed by a left. Another right. The angle dropped, with it the humanoid form of the cosmic contender-- Rex. In return, his powerhouse opponent for the day slugged him right back. Each blow, accompanied by a shockwave through the air that barely had time to reverberate before a new strike landed.
An Earthborn Alien was in danger of hitting the ground soon. So he put everything he had into an explosive uppercut. Gritting his teeth. Widening his wild eyes. Knocking his opponent skyward with a resounding...
With similar force, he flew right into that foe for a tackle that would break right through orbit. A thunderous bellow muted by the oncoming vacuum of space.
... In some other, quieter moment, Rex was squatting to see the lowermost shelves of a convenience store. Scratching his head sheepishly. Eventually marching towards the front counter with an armful of items to munch on before the night was through.
At least, before a masked gunman pulled a pistol.
The first shot bounced off a startled, but ultimately unpunctured hide. Left with the briefest of bruises, while the other shot ricocheted and had to be caught before it hit someone. A long silence would hang over the scene. Someone outside surely heard the gunshots, and would be dialing the police.
But Rex wasn't trying to hold the would-be culprits here.
"Go. Never talk about this again."
And so they ran. The clerk working that night offered a free taquito or something. Rex took the clerk up on their offer, nabbing a plastic platter packed with cheap nachos.
On the shores of some forbidden tropical landmass in the Pacific, a giant of metallic cyan wrestled with the more aggressive wildlife of Megafauna Island. With techniques that might have honored pro-wrestlers, judoka, and other iron-gripped grapplers.
He couldn't always be here. Nature had to run its course: the food chain was a necessity. Survival was simultaneously brutal, yet also beautiful.
The spiny sea-beast, an enemy anemone, coated in something mutated from abalone. The winged devil that could turn on a dime after breaking the sound barrier many times over. The isotope-spitters all too recently spawned and the ancient myths made manifest once more.
Some subdued gently. Some slain to prevent a rampage. Yet more left to graze, laze, and proliferate a while longer. All after the glow of an energy stream, cosmic in nature: Rex's signature Zetarium Ray, humming away. Forcing back mighty kaiju until they relented. And those that did not were disintegrated.
Rex loathed that outcome.
On the way home, an unopened beer can was lobbed at Rex. Hitting him square in the head. Despite all that he had endured prior to this, he couldn't help but yelp, and rub his head. Searching for the one responsible, and finding no one. Only bystanders that turned away to continue on their paths again. At least a couple of whom, snickered like they thought he had it coming.
When Friday rolled around, Rex got a text. A local superpowered wrestling circuit he got some good gigs from needed to put an act together. Or several.
There were some that preferred the theatrical nature of a good storyline. With these heels, faces, and jobbers, Rex would trash talk, choreograph interventions mid-match, rehearse lines, and ponder on how subsequent encounters might play out later. For the rest, Rex trusted his muscle memory. There were also those who were legitimately here to compete, and any drama they cultivated was for real.
It earned a generous paycheck. That and helping out as a test dummy at a research institute, when they had something for him. Or any other odd jobs.
Off in another star system, something came up last minute: an armada of fully-operational battleships were spooling their unique FTL drives. Ready to do away with the anchor of standardized physics, in a way the world they targeted had only just begun to understand. They saw it as a threat to their regal hegemony.
Other interplanetary governments could spare little. Those of the Galactic Volunteer Services with its myriad members and the more uniformed Psionic Patrol were spread thin at the moment. One of the GVS's supervisors, a more seasoned energy-slinging Nypardian, put in a call to Earth.
Alone, Rex hovered. Then he rocketed towards the first dreadnought. Tearing through its sternium alloy innards and wreaking havoc on the engineering section, before punching a hole through the rear impulse thrusters. Being spotted by the yeoman on the scanner console aboard the bridge of the next warmongering vessel. The full brunt of their particle projectors and megaton-yield torpedoes upon him. The fury of the crew and marines on him at intervals.
Likewise, Rex narrowed his eyes. His glowing, hyper-vision enhanced eyes. Looking to board and catch the captain by the collar of his ornate, commanding officer's jacket in a demand for surrender.
Otherwise, rinse and repeat until the cavalry arrived.
At long last, as the wee hours of that Friday night came closer, Rex had finally gotten home to begin the weekend.
... Which, was unceremoniously started by merely turning on the television, and crashing onto the sofa to dissociate really, really, hard.