Nebula walked up to the desk and stopped, standing as straight as a soldier.
She skipped the pleasantries and got straight to the point.
"Homelander, I want to enter that gladiatorial tournament. Add my name to the roster."
Homelander did not mind her somewhat presumptuous tone. He merely smiled faintly and asked, "You know who the opponent in that tournament is, and you know the price of losing. Why do you want to join?"
Nebula turned her face away, avoiding Homelander's gaze.
"That is my business. Put me on the roster. If you will not, give me a spaceship. I will pay you for it."
Homelander did not answer directly. He rose to his feet and walked over to Nebula.
"Let's not rush into talking about fighting and killing, Nebula." Homelander looked at her with concern. "You have been at Vought for some time now..."
"Tell me, how has life been here? Have you adapted?"
Nebula froze for a moment, clearly unused to this change of pace.
"Very well," she answered stiffly. "There is delicious food here, quiet rooms. No one disassembles my organs when I fail."
"I have never felt this relaxed in my life."
"That is good." Homelander nodded slightly, a trace of perfectly timed guilt showing in his eyes. "Ever since I returned to Earth, the trouble has never stopped. As a friend who once fought alongside you, I have neglected you. That was my failure. I am sorry, Nebula."
Nebula was left somewhat dazed by this sudden concern.
Killing, orders, punishment—those had been the routine of her life since childhood.
"You... you did nothing wrong." Nebula grew slightly nervous, unsure how to handle this kind of relationship. "People should only look after themselves. That is the law of survival. You do not need to apologize to