"Human Nature"
When John pushed open the repair shop's metal roller door, the afternoon sunlight shone straight onto his face.
New York afternoons were rarely this bright, bright enough to make him squint.
He instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes, then lowered it, letting the sunlight cover his face again.
His blond hair took on a faint platinum halo in the light, making the few almost invisible freckles on the bridge of his nose stand out more than usual.
He simply stood in the repair shop doorway, feeling the warmth of the afternoon sun.
Taking in the leathery smell of his old leather jacket as it warmed slightly in the sun, listening to car horns from distant blocks, sliced into fragments by the wind.
Outside, it was warm and welcoming, but the chill that had just sprung up on his tongue was no illusion.
The cold current came from the back of the roof of his mouth, where the soft and hard palates met.
John licked it, and this time his tongue detected a more distinct temperature difference.
That area was at least five or six degrees colder than the rest of his mouth, as though an intensely compressed source of cold were slowly releasing itself.
Interesting... a new ability?
John gently breathed out.
The next second, a few ice crystals drifted through the gaps between his teeth.
Like water vapor breathed out of the lungs, condensing into mist when it met cold air.
But under John's extraordinarily powerful microscopic vision, they were clearly minuscule ice crystals.
They had delicate, classic hexagonal structures, glimmering with a faint white fluorescence in the afternoon sunlight as they drifted from his lips and spiraled downward.
A few landed on the cuff of his leather jacket, remaining on its surface for about two seconds before melting and leaving a small, dark water stain.
Simple enough to use. What about its limitations?
John stood there thinking for a moment, then drew the cold breath he had swallowed earlier back into his mouth, using his tongue to feel the temperature changes behind his soft palate.
Meanwhile, the temperature inside his mouth was slowly rising again.
John checked. The source of cold was clearly still there, and even when he breathed repeatedly in quick succession, it remained constant.
Like an inexhaustible icy spring buried beneath the mucous membrane of his palate.
Whenever he wished, he could scoop out another ladleful.
Now I know how stable it is. How effective is it?
He continued forward, his boots making soft scraping sounds against the gravel, and soon reached a trash can.
He was looking for prey.
Before long, John spotted a dark brown, fingernail-sized beetle clinging to a white wall.
It was crawling unhurriedly along a seam between the bricks toward the trash can, its antennae probing, probably searching for lunch.
I choose you.
John tilted his head and watched it for two seconds, then tried blowing gently at it.
His lips pressed together, narrowing the airflow and squeezing it into a thin stream. The breath turned into dense white frost the instant it left his mouth.
The white frost gathered into a cloud, striking the beetle squarely on its back.
The beetle stopped moving immediately, all six legs frozen in midair, its front legs still reaching forward and its hind legs braced against the edge of the brick seam.
Soon, a thin layer of ice began spreading outward from the center of its carapace.
The insect's bodily fluids crystallized first. Shards of ice pushed outward from inside its body cavity, packing the seam between its upper and lower shells solid.
The last things to freeze were its two antennae, their tips giving one final tremble in the air.
Then they went still, coated in fine white frost that glowed the faintest blue in the sunlight.
Seems pretty effective.
John reached out with his index finger and touched the insect's back.
The ice shell was thin, only about as thick as a fingernail, but extremely hard.
His fingertip produced a faint ding against it, as crisp as flicking a glass marble.
Through the translucent ice, John could even see that the spiracles on the insect's abdomen had frozen, every hair around them frozen perfectly straight as well.
(So that's where Kabuto's time stop came from.)
John's new ability had appeared very suddenly.
If his guess was correct, besides interfering with timelines, the Power of the World could probably strengthen a plunderer's abilities.
But John had yet to figure out the exact mechanism behind that enhancement.
Perhaps it added an ability he had "never" possessed, or perhaps it awakened his body's potential.
John clearly believed the latter more than the former.
Because he was John.
As John speculated, another stream of information flooded into his mind without warning.
But this information did not come from the clamor beyond the world, watched by countless screens.
Instead, it was warm, as soothing as soaking in a hot spring.
As though he were standing waist-deep in still water, water and body mingling.
Then that warm current began seeping slowly into his pores, climbing along his nerve endings.
His mind gained numerous accounts of timelines that existed only within this world, details and scenes he seemed never to have been involved in.
They did not unfold from his perspective, but from Hughie's, Frenchie's, Mother's Milk's...
He saw Hughie and Starlight's wild passion.
A silk scarf hung over the bedside lamp. Hughie leaned against the headboard, his fingers sliding down Starlight's spine as she sat on top of him, faint blue-white electricity slowly swimming through her eyes.
(John was utterly stunned.)
He saw The Deep on a coastal highway, dressed in paramedic clothes acquired from who knew where, driving a battered ambulance.
The blue light on its roof spun like mad, making the entire highway flash.
An enormous plastic water tank sat in the passenger seat, with a female dolphin submerged inside.
He saw Butcher sitting alone in a warehouse late at night, Becca's photograph spread before him, a half-empty bottle of bourbon clenched in his hand.
Then the scene cut to Godolkin University.
He saw Sam, whose great strength had its limits, the mind-controlling Cate, the blood-controlling "Odyssey," Marie Moreau, and the intersex Jordan fighting the university president, "The Emissary," together.
What the fuck is this political correctness?
Seeing the village-tier "Odyssey's" pathetic performance, John could not help snarking. An ability with so much potential, used like that-honestly, even a pig could have worked wonders with it.
And Cate had excellent potential. Put her in The Seven, and both her image and her ability would have put her in a league of her own.
Then the memories petered out in fits and starts.
Like a videotape suddenly pulled out of the player halfway through.
John stood at the edge of the parking lot, closed his eyes, and rearranged all the information that had just flooded in.
Rather than complete fragments, these timelines were more like a jigsaw puzzle with several corners missing.
He knew how The Boys Squad operated, knew how Hughie and Starlight secretly held hands right under Vought's nose.
These were all the surface textures of this world: its skin, its hair, the parts visible to the naked eye.
But the deeper secrets had not appeared.
The entire process by which Vought International had inherited the original V1 formula from Nazi laboratories during World War II.
The truth behind the deal involving Soldier Boy and his old teammates in Nicaragua.
The actual roles that older-generation superhumans like Black Noir, Mindstorm, and Gunpowder had played during the Cold War.
All of it remained locked in the fog.
John did not even know whether Soldier Boy had willingly accepted the V1 injection back then or had been used by Vought as a living test subject.
With the World Consciousness's gift, he possessed most of the intelligence, but this world's foundations still lay hidden in the dark.
To dig them out, he would have to wait until he had dug away its World Weight.
John remembered Lucifer saying that, stripped bare, the Power of the World was simply the universe's favoritism toward its protagonist.
Every world had a script, with certain names stamped in gold.
Distortion Degree measured how deeply he had rewritten that script.
After breaking past fifty percent, he had gained more than access to information.
Those perspectives from outside the world, those gazes crossing the fourth wall-he had even received feedback from the world itself.
Details belonging to this world, things he had never participated in, began automatically filling his memories.
The greater his weight, the more he could see.
Then what would happen if I pushed Distortion Degree to one hundred percent?
All information would open to him, all rules would be his to rewrite, and every secret still locked in darkness would be laid before him.
At that point, he would no longer need anyone's intelligence, anyone's authorization, or anyone's deals.
He himself would be this world's highest authority.
In other words, what he had always wanted to become in his previous life: a "god" in the truest sense.
That would be wonderful...
Recalling the many online discussions and memes in his mind, John suddenly thought of something interesting.
Now that the first batch of stable Compound V and Temp V had been produced, it was time to find "volunteers" to contribute to this project.
Before that, however, he needed to use his advantage in new information to seize some initiative firmly for himself.
John returned to the repair shop.
He walked slowly toward A-Train, who was eating a boxed meal, and sat beside him.
When A-Train saw John approach, his body shuddered involuntarily. He stopped eating and asked somewhat nervously:
"Sir, is something wrong?"
"You saw the new Compound V we just produced, right? Higher purity, none of the neurotoxicity from the old process.
"Frenchie said anyone who's been injected with Compound V can take it, with zero rejection. Want to try it first?"
As he spoke, John took out the test tube containing the new Compound V.
A-Train looked down at the dark red liquid and fell silent for a moment. His fingers rubbed his knee twice before he shook his head.
"No, not yet. The Compound V in my system hasn't fully metabolized.
"After you beat me up at the safe house last time, my leg was broken. Medical gave me two shots of serum to speed up healing.
"That serum might cross-react with the new version. Frenchie said it'll take at least two weeks to clear completely.
"And if I inject the new version now, the remnants of the old version and the new ingredients could collide in my bloodstream. Nobody knows what would happen.
"Frenchie hasn't done any live testing either."
He pushed the test tube back.
"Besides, Homelander's already run out of stock."
A-Train slumped somewhat listlessly against the metal rack, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Homelander's looking everywhere for alternative supplies. He's come to me twice, asking if I could source any on the black market.
"I told him my leg was injured and I couldn't run for now. Turned him down.
"But he definitely won't wait long. Next time he comes to me, I'll need an answer for him.
"So all I can do now is keep a low profile and wait for Frenchie to produce a batch of the original Compound V. I'll use that to deal with Homelander."
"As for the new version, I'd like to wait and see."
The reason behind his excuses was actually simple: A-Train did not want to be the first bird to stick its head out.
Sometimes that meant taking the lead, but most of the time, the first one out was also the one in danger.
He could understand that.
John watched him, remained silent for a few seconds, then placed the test tube of dark red liquid back on the lab bench.
"Fine. We'll talk once the old version has cleared your system. The compound's right here. Whenever you want to try it, come see Frenchie yourself."
Since nobody was willing to be the first test subject, he would have to find someone else.
After sifting through the memories in his mind, an ideal candidate soon emerged.
"One more thing. While sourcing supplies for Homelander, have you ever seen an Asian girl?
"Black hair, can't speak. Her ability should be spontaneous enhancement of her close-combat capabilities. Vought's codename for her is KM-17. Her real name is Kimiko."
John said nothing about her bodily regeneration.
"I've never heard that name."
A-Train frowned and thought for a long time, silently mouthing several names before shaking his head.
"Doesn't sound like anyone I know. She's not on the reserve list either."
But he narrowed his eyes, tapped his temple lightly, and suddenly paused.
"Wait... you said she can't speak? I think I've seen her."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting from hesitation to certainty.
"A few weeks ago, I passed through Atlantic Ocean City on my way home after training and wanted to grab a late-night bite.
"There's a Chinese restaurant in Brooklyn. The owner's an old guy from Hong Kong. Makes great beef chow fun.
"The restaurant was almost closed that night. I sat in a corner near the kitchen.
"But through the gap in the kitchen door, I could see a sink in the back. A black-haired girl was crouching beside it, her hands covered in suds.
"They used sign language to communicate.
"I thought something seemed off at the time, but I didn't think much of it.
"If you want to find her, that Chinese restaurant's at Eighth Avenue and 53rd Street in Brooklyn. Its name's in Chinese, so I can't spell it, but there are red lanterns hanging outside."
"Is that Chinese restaurant open today?"
"No. When I passed by the day before yesterday, there was a notice on the door saying they were closed for a few days to get things in order. They reopen tomorrow."
Tomorrow...
John worked out the timing, then nodded and turned away.
Then he took his phone from his pocket and sent The Deep a message:
Come by the repair shop when you have time. I've already sent you the location. There's a surprise waiting for you.
John did not turn off his phone. Instead, he opened the navigation app and entered Godolkin University's address.
As he had just said, he wanted to seize some initiative.
Right now, he was not "Homelander," so he would minimize flying to avoid unnecessary trouble.
He had lent the stolen gray Ford to The Boys Squad for transportation, and Godolkin University was not far from here anyway. He could get there quickly on foot.