“I’m in,” he says. “But we do this my way. No unnecessary deaths.”
If you want to kill the son, Butcher thinks, swirling the bourbon, you find the father.
“ Mon cœur ,” he announces, “I have secured us a new lead. A distributor of black-market Temp V. The kind that gives normies powers for twenty-four hours. Very illegal. Very expensive. Very likely to turn your insides into jelly.”
It was Homelander. But... smaller? No, just younger. A version of him from years ago, his hair cut differently, his smile too wide.
He downs the bourbon, stands up, and walks into the rain. Somewhere out there, a retired Supe is brushing alpacas and thinking she’s safe. She’s not.
The bigger bastard, as it happens, is walking through the halls of Vought Tower at that exact moment. Homelander. He’s not flying. He’s walking. Because when you can level a city block with your heat vision, walking is a power move. It makes people wait.
“Hughie! My favorite senior analyst,” she coos, clasping his hands. Her palms are warm. He wants to scrub his own skin off.
He closes the door behind him.
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“This is what?” Homelander asks. His voice is soft. Dangerously soft.