Madelyn sat in her office, holding a glass of freshly poured whiskey. The amber liquid swayed slightly in the glass, the ice cubes clinking against the sides with tiny, brittle sounds.
Outside the window lay Washington, D.C.'s nightscape, the Washington Monument glowing white in the darkness. She hadn't turned on the lights; only a desk lamp on her office table was lit.
The orange light fell across her face, picking out the fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.
"I'm old."
She was a little worried.
Just then, the door was pushed open without a knock.
Homelander walked in. His figure paused in the doorway for a moment, then he strode to the desk, planted both hands on its surface, and leaned forward. Under the desk lamp, his blond hair turned a dull gold, and in his blue eyes was something that had been suppressed for a very long time, something ready to erupt at any moment.
"Why not just kill everyone at Stark Industries? Something this simple—why take so many detours?" His voice wasn't loud.
But every word sounded as if it had been squeezed through his teeth, burning with irritation and a repressed, explosive violence.
Madelyn looked at him without moving or speaking. She lifted the whiskey and took a sip, letting the liquor rest on her tongue for a second before swallowing.
"There's a reason for that."
She had just started to explain.
"I don't want a lecture." Homelander tapped a finger on the desktop. It wasn't a hard tap, but a fine crack appeared in the solid wood.
"I just want to know why we can't act directly."
Madelyn set down her glass and leaned back slightly against the chair. She looked into Homelander's blue eyes. There was a fire burning in them, and that