"Step On Up"
That night.
Ambrosius lay on The Deep's chest, her eight tentacles loosely wrapped around his waist and calves like eight lengths of soft, warm red silk.
Her skin had flushed the deep red that only appeared when she was completely relaxed, like a glass of bourbon swirling against warm light, with a translucent amber sheen.
(I can't do this. Any more and it's going to get a little too hardcore. Every time I write this, I feel like The Deep has possessed me.)
Just then, the phone on the coffee table suddenly lit up.
Then came the notification tone The Deep had specially set for John.
At the sound, The Deep practically launched himself up. He moved so abruptly that the tentacles wrapped around him instantly slipped to the floor.
What followed was too beautiful a sight, so I won't describe it.
(We have to bravely say no to bad things.)
"Fuck, this moment's finally here! It has to be news about the second-in-command position..."
"Quick, I've gotta go!"
The Deep grinned sleazily, the perfect scene of himself becoming The Seven's second-in-command already playing out in his head.
"My blessings have arrived! Hahaha!"
He scooped up Ambrosius's face and planted a hard kiss on it, grabbed his jacket, and rushed out.
He even tripped over his own shoelaces twice while getting his arms into the sleeves, then vanished down the hallway, stumbling and scrambling.
Soon, having just reached the street downstairs, The Deep flagged down a taxi.
But just as he was about to climb through the door, he caught something moving out of the corner of his eye, roughly thirty meters behind him.
Although The Deep usually acted like a dumbass, he still maintained some vigilance at a crucial moment like this.
He stopped and looked back.
There was only a streetlight over there, with nothing beneath it and a swarm of bugs circling the bulb.
Nothing there...
The Deep shrugged, figured he was probably being oversensitive, and bent down to climb into the car.
A second later, the sign on the taxi's roof switched to "Occupied," and it sped away.
In fact, this humanoid vertebrate's instincts had been right.
There was a soft click.
A figure in a tight black combat outfit slipped silently out of the streetlight's shadow.
It was Black Noir.
He had been crouching in the streetlight's shadow for a long time.
He was waiting, waiting for a moment that was bound to come.
Ever since discovering a clue at The Deep's apartment last time, Black Noir had been tailing him.
By now, he could have mapped out The Deep's movements over the past few days with his eyes closed.
Vought Tower, the archives, his apartment. The same route every time, at the same times of day.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, The Deep had actually changed out of his favorite shit-green combat suit before leaving.
Even while waiting for a cab on the street, he kept bouncing on his toes, his whole body twitching as though he were on stimulants.
Something was very wrong.
The last time Black Noir had seen The Deep this excited was when Madelyn had approved some green ocean project.
Black Noir knew what this meant.
The big fish had taken the bait.
So who had hooked this fish?
Was it the person who had left Heat Vision marks on The Deep's apartment doorframe?
Or the person who had told him to search for information on Soldier Boy, that "second person" whose background Black Noir still hadn't uncovered after tracking him for so long?
Or were the two actually the same person?
The taxi was moving fast, but Black Noir's modified black motorcycle was like a silent ghost in the night.
Following the car's route, Black Noir soon pinpointed The Deep's destination.
An abandoned auto repair shop.
To stay concealed, he deliberately parked his motorcycle in an alley three blocks away. Keeping the headlight off, he killed the engine and used the kickstand to prop the bike beside a dumpster.
Then he followed on foot.
Thanks to specialized training, Black Noir's combat boots made no sound as they stepped over the gravel.
(A tribute here to the training system that lets ninjas walk without making a sound.)
His years as a cleaner had taught him how to move through the darkness.
Quiet, lying in wait, then lashing out with his stinger like a scorpion, killing in a single strike.
He maintained a precise trailing distance the whole time, just far enough not to attract The Deep's attention.
Soon, The Deep reached the repair shop's entrance.
This was his first visit, and he wasn't familiar with the surroundings. It took him some searching to find the entrance, but once he did, he slipped straight inside without hesitation.
The sheet-metal roller door closed behind him, squeezing the escaping white light into a narrow line before it disappeared.
Black Noir didn't follow him inside. If the space was open, his entire silhouette might be exposed. The risk was too great.
He surveyed the surroundings and chose to circle around to the side of the shop, running his fingers over the brick joints in the outer wall until he found an aging window.
The window lock was still broken. No one had repaired it.
He pushed the window open with his fingertips and slipped silently inside.
The corridor was dark. Only the white light spilling from the garage at the far end cast a long, thin strip across the concrete floor.
Inside the repair shop.
Frenchie stuffed the last piece of chicken breast into his mouth, his cheek bulging as though he were holding a walnut in it.
The meat was as dry and woody as a wooden fish from Mexico, squeaking as he chewed. Without beer, it was practically impossible to swallow.
Hughie had just finished eating and was leaning against the workbench, grumbling.
"The centrifuge's third setting is thirty-two hundred rpm, Frenchie. Didn't you get it wrong just now?"
"Fuck..."
Frenchie grunted indistinctly, nearly spraying bits of meat from his mouth.
"Last time, your parameters were off by zero point zero two points, little Hughie. You turned almost ten vials of raw material into waste."
"That was an accident."
"Anyway... do you think anyone's coming tonight?"
Hughie turned the computer screen to one side and checked the time.
"John's been out for a while. No idea when he'll be back. Butcher's still with Becca."
"That son of a bitch Butcher said he'd be back yesterday. Now it's today, and there's still no sign of him."
Frenchie stabbed his fork into his food container as he complained.
"So nobody said anyone was coming tonight."
Mother's Milk set his magazine on his knees and slowly reached into his tool bag.
"Nobody."
Then, just at that moment, there was a knock at the door.
Knock, knock, knock.
All three stopped moving at once.
"What the hell?"
Frenchie's fork hung in midair, the chicken still unswallowed in his mouth. He glanced at Mother's Milk, whose hand had already closed around the switchblade in his tool bag.
He glanced at Hughie next. Hughie shook his head-it wasn't Butcher. That bastard never knocked with his fingers. He wasn't that polite.
He just pried the door open with a crowbar.
John?
Even less likely. He could fly straight in through the window. Why would he need to knock?
Then who the fuck was it?
"Guys, hang back and keep watch. I'll take a look."
Frenchie pulled a handgun from beneath the lab bench, tucked it into his waistband, and covered the grip with his shirt hem.
He walked to the door, swallowed the mouthful of meat, slid back the bolt, and pushed the door halfway open, his muzzle pressed to the gap.
The door opened, revealing someone they had never expected.
The Deep.
At the sight of that sleazy face, all three of their brains involuntarily crashed for several seconds before they reacted.
Why the fuck was The Deep here?
Was Vought that efficient? They'd already tracked them down?
"Fuck."
Frenchie reacted first, reaching behind his waist for his Glock and pulling the trigger as he raised it.
Bang!
The bullet skimmed The Deep's scalp and struck a sheet-metal cabinet behind him, sending up a spray of sparks.
The Deep yelped and immediately squatted on the floor with his hands over his head and his ass sticking high in the air.
A lock of his hair had been singed and was giving off wisps of white smoke. His jacket was on backward, its zipper caught at his neck, and he was still clutching a crumpled convenience store plastic bag.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I'm on your side!"
Faced with this reception, The Deep had no idea what was happening, but seeing such fierce firepower, he very willingly followed his heart, raised both hands, and crouched halfway to the floor.
At that moment, Mother's Milk snatched up the shotgun beside him, racked it with a clack, walked forward, and pressed the muzzle hard against the back of The Deep's head.
"On our side? A member of Vought's Seven is on our side?"
"How the fuck did you find this place? Did Homelander send you? Or someone else?"
Frenchie circled to the side, pointing his handgun at The Deep's temple, his fingertips ice-cold.
"You've got three seconds to explain what you're doing here. Otherwise, the next shot goes in your mouth."
The Deep's cheeks twitched violently. His hands rose uncontrollably above his head, all ten fingers clawing wildly at the air.
"Have you misunderstood something... this repair shop, John told me to come here. The guy who looks exactly like Homelander..."
The Deep spoke so fast that some words ran straight into each other, tiny flecks of white foam gathering at the corners of his mouth.
Some might say, "You're a supe, for God's sake. Why are you so afraid of dying?"
Sure, he was a supe, but it depended on the situation!
His superpowers let him communicate with sea creatures, travel at high speeds through water, and dive to the ocean floor.
What? You're saying that if his body could withstand the immense pressure at the bottom of the ocean, why would he fear bullets?
Please. The ocean was the condition for withstanding pressure. His powers only worked when there was water, but where the fuck was this?
This was fucking dry land!
(There really aren't any scenes in the original where The Deep tanks bullets, or much fighting from him at all, so I gave him a restriction. For the specifics, I used King of The Deep from One-Punch Man as a reference.)
Compared with ordinary people, he certainly counted as a supe, and his physical abilities were somewhat better too.
But he wasn't the kind who was impervious to blades and bullets. A bullet in his flesh would hurt, and a dagger through his chest would kill him.
He didn't want to die yet.
"If John said so, it should be fine. But do you have proof? How did he tell you to come?"
Hughie asked.
"Yes! I was the one who gave him the Compound V molecular formula information before... he texted me to come here."
As The Deep frantically searched himself for his phone, Frenchie and Mother's Milk remained vigilant, their shotgun and handgun still raised.
They had never heard of John working with The Deep, so they didn't dare let their guard down.
Whoosh-
But just then, a black dagger flew through the window without warning and abruptly embedded itself in the wall beside Frenchie's lab bench.
The force behind the thrown blade was terrifying.
It sank several centimeters into the wall, its hilt still vibrating rapidly. The buzzing was especially clear in the quiet garage.
Frenchie looked down at the gun in his hand, then up at the dagger still quivering in the wall.
Fear after the fact, and anger.
Had that knife been angled just a little differently, he would have been dead.
He abruptly glared at The Deep.
"Black Noir! That's fucking Black Noir's knife! Just as I thought-we almost believed you... you bastard!
"One wasn't enough for Vought, so they sent a second! Can't fucking play fair, huh? Guys, run!"
The instant Frenchie finished speaking.
The other members of The Boys Squad also realized how serious the situation was and took to their heels, leaving only The Deep standing there in disarray.
"Hey... no, if two of us really came together, what do you think I'm doing right now? I..."
The Deep held up his hands, looking as aggrieved as someone suffering from constipation.
Before he could finish, he was cut off by the tremendous crash of the roller door being smashed open.
The sheet-metal door tore off its hinges, the entire thing flying sideways into the room and slamming into the floor, sending up a cloud of dust and rubble.
As the smoke and dust cleared, a figure clad entirely in black combat gear emerged, two katanas strapped to his back.
His fully enclosed mask gleamed darkly in the dim light, and his tactical gloves still bore metal shavings picked up when he had thrown the dagger.
The sense of pressure shot straight to maximum.
(I feel like I made Black Noir so damn cool, hahaha. The second Black Noir was awful. The first was still the badass.)
Beneath his mask, his cold eyes passed over everyone and locked straight onto the row of metal shelves at the very back of the garage.
Neatly arranged on them were the bottles of Compound V raw materials A-Train had hauled back from Vought's abandoned warehouse.
Hundreds of blue glass vials reflected a cold gleam beneath the fluorescent lights.
Sure enough, tailing them had unearthed a bombshell.
Now that he had evidence, naturally, he had to dig out the details of the deal.
The next second, Black Noir turned his gaze on the members of the Boys Squad.
Frenchie was the closest to him.
Black Noir darted over in a single step and drove his knee viciously into Frenchie's chest and abdomen.
The next second, his ribs gave a creak so faint it was almost inaudible, and every last breath of air was instantly squeezed out of Frenchie's chest.
His whole body flew like a kicked sack, his feet leaving the floor before his back slammed into the metal edge of the lab bench.
The centrifuge rocked violently with a clang, and half a row of test tubes rolled down the slanted surface, smashing to pieces on the floor tiles.
Pale blue Compound V Stock Solution splashed across the floor, hissing and frothing with tiny bubbles on the concrete.
Bang-
The back of Frenchie's head struck the centrifuge's cold, hard casing squarely, and a burst of gold and red sparks exploded before his eyes.
The Glock he had been clutching flew far out of his hand, skidding through the broken glass strewn across the floor before hitting the corner with a sharp clack.
"Frenchie!"
Mother's Milk sprang up from the corner, swinging a discarded iron plate at the back of Black Noir's head with a rush of wind.
The strike was precisely angled and packed with force.
If it connected, it would at least get this mute son of a bitch to take his attention off Frenchie.
But Black Noir never looked back. As though he had eyes in the back of his head, he reached behind him, clamped down on Mother's Milk's wrist, and twisted it inward.
"Aaargh-"
Mother's Milk felt as though his wrist had been caught in hydraulic pincers, and the iron plate instantly slipped from his fingers and flew away.
"Over here!"
Hughie jumped up from the computer, grabbed the keyboard off the desk, and brought it down on the back of Black Noir's head.
The keyboard shattered against his mask, a dozen or so keys flying off and scattering across the floor like Lego bricks crushed underfoot.
Black Noir did not even sway.
He turned around, his movements unhurried, and looked down at Hughie, who was more than a head shorter than him.
Hughie's hand froze in midair, still clutching the remains of the keyboard. His lips moved, probably trying to get out some tough talk to bolster his courage.
But before he could speak, Black Noir had already swept a kick into his knee.
Hughie toppled sideways to the floor, clutched his knee, and sprawled backward. Fighting through the pain, he looked toward The Deep, who was hiding nearby with his head in the sand.
Fuck, this bastard clearly wasn't on the same side as Black Noir.
At that thought, Hughie mustered every ounce of strength to squeeze out a few words.
"The Deep!"
"Aren't you on our side... fucking help us..."
The Deep huddled between two iron racks, poking half his face through the gap. His face flushed red as he shouted in aggrieved frustration:
"Do you fuckers not know what my powers are... this is dry land!"
Frenchie lay on the floor, his face already turning deep purple from the pain of his broken bones.
Hearing The Deep's words, he forced a few words through his compressed windpipe:
"You're fucking useless..."
As he was being cursed out, The Deep desperately searched his memories for a way to deal with Black Noir.
That pink dolphin looked so damn sexy... no, nothing beat the way an octopus wrapped around you... ah, not that!
Right!
I remembered!
The Deep abruptly poked his head out from behind the iron racks and called out in a hushed voice that only Hughie could hear:
"Nuts! He's allergic to nuts! Last time A-Train offered him peanuts, he nearly went into shock...
"Right, find some nuts! I saw a jar of walnuts on that lab bench..."