"The Clock That Turns Backward"
(Why are there so many people spamming one-star reviews these days? It's honestly sickening. They haven't even read for half an hour before slapping on one star.)
Brooklyn, an abandoned subway station.
Wind pouring in from the end of the tracks carried the smell of diesel and dust, smacking Frenchie in the face.
Crouched beside the workbench, he slammed the half-disassembled detonator back onto it, scattering metal parts all over the floor.
"Fuck, he can't come through that door."
Frenchie gritted his teeth, his face contorted.
"That animal Lamplighter could even bring himself to kill six-year-old kids, and you're letting scum like him into the base?"
Mother's Milk was leaning against a concrete pillar, cleaning his gun. He raised his eyes at that:
"You can't interfere with John's plans. Lamplighter is in contact with Storm right now, and he's the only one who can get firsthand data."
"Data? Tell me about data after he sells our location to Vought!"
Frenchie shot to his feet and kicked over an empty oil drum beside him. The deafening clang echoed far into the distance.
"He's a dog raised by Vought! A dog never stops eating shit!"
Back in the laboratory, Frenchie had exploded on the spot when he heard John wanted to take Lamplighter in.
But intimidated by John, he hadn't dared act out.
He could only squat there until now, his belly full of fire.
Just then, chains suddenly rattled at the gate.
Frenchie instantly shut his mouth and looked over, his gaze especially vicious.
The curtain lifted, and John walked in first, followed by a tall, thin figure with a slight stoop.
He wore an old Seven uniform jacket washed almost white, with bits of unmelted ice still clinging to his right cuff.
It was Lamplighter.
The moment Lamplighter stepped inside, he felt a hostile gaze pin him in place.
But he merely tightened his grip on the silver Zippo with its worn-off paint, keeping his head down as he followed John inside.
"Stop."
Frenchie took a large step forward, spreading his arms to block the way.
"John, this animal absolutely can't be trusted!"
John stopped at that.
He looked up at Frenchie, somewhat amused.
"Are you saying I don't even have the ability to subdue him?"
John turned sideways, revealing Lamplighter behind him.
"He can't even light a thin sheet of paper right now. Burning this place down is beyond him."
Lamplighter kept his eyes lowered and didn't argue.
When John froze his arm, a chill had also traveled along his blood vessels into his body.
He was so weak now that, never mind controlling fire, even walking was difficult.
"Fine, you're the boss."
Frenchie shrugged helplessly and tossed his wrench aside.
"I'm staying out of this. But Lamplighter, you'd better watch yourself. Don't let me catch you."
As he spoke, Frenchie gave Lamplighter another fierce glare, then headed toward a room farther inside.
Mother's Milk sighed, holstered his cleaned gun, and straightened up.
"What happened back then left too big a shadow over him. I'll keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn't get drunk and start smashing things."
John nodded without saying anything.
Mother's Milk glanced at Lamplighter again without greeting him, then left, shaking his head.
The station concourse suddenly felt empty, with only the generator's low hum and the distant dripping of a water pipe.
Lamplighter rolled the lighter between his fingertips and tugged his lips into a self-mocking smile:
"Looks like you guys... really don't like me."
John didn't respond, simply setting off farther inside.
"Follow me."
The room was in the deepest part of the subway station. It had once been a ticket office, but Frenchie had converted it into a makeshift infirmary.
The door wasn't fully closed, revealing the cold white light inside.
When John pushed it open, Black Noir was sitting on a chair beside the bed, cleaning a dagger.
His black hood was firmly in place, and the brown suede cloth rubbing the silver blade made faint, soothing scraping sounds.
At the noise, his hands immediately stopped.
Lamplighter stood in the doorway, his feet rooted in place.
He stared at the black figure, his pupils abruptly contracting.
"Is that... Black Noir?"
Black Noir raised his head.
"How did you end up here too?"
It was already the tenth year.
Ever since the day Lamplighter was expelled from The Seven and walked out of Vought headquarters dragging his suitcase, they hadn't seen each other.
But apparently, Lamplighter had been out in the wilderness too long and forgotten that Black Noir was actually mute.
Black Noir gestured away for ages, but nobody knew what he was trying to express.
Leaning against the doorframe, John suddenly curled his lips.
"Our little Black Noir, haven't you forgotten something?"
John reached over and grabbed a spiral notebook from a nearby shelf, then found a thick-tipped marker.
With a flick of his fingers, the notebook spun through the air and slapped onto the little wooden table in front of Black Noir.
"Stop gesturing."
"Here, write. Save yourselves from trading riddles. It's fucking exhausting to watch."
Black Noir looked at him, picked up the marker, and twisted off the cap.
They captured me.
"Uh... how has The Seven been doing all these years?"
All right. A-Train replaced Mister Marathon, and The Deep filled your spot.
Black Noir wrote slowly. The tip paused before he added another sentence:
You chose to betray Vought?
This time, Lamplighter fell silent. After a while, he didn't answer, instead continuing with another question:
"That row of bronze statues in the headquarters lobby-is mine still there?"
He asked carefully, with a little fanciful hope of getting lucky.
When he joined The Seven, Vought had erected a life-size bronze statue in the headquarters lobby.
His statue had looked so damn handsome, holding a torch with its head high and chest out.
He still remembered the unveiling ceremony, reporters packed three rows deep around him as he stood beside the statue.
At that moment, he had truly felt his life had been worth it.
Black Noir's marker suddenly stopped.
All that remained in the room was the silence of its tip suspended above the paper, so light it was suffocating.
Watching his reaction, Lamplighter's heart sank little by little.
"They took it down?"
Black Noir didn't raise his head.
Only after a long time did the tip touch down.
Three years ago. They took it all down.
The lobby only has statues of the other members of The Seven now.
Lamplighter stared at that line for a long time without speaking.
Motherfuckers...
He opened his mouth, wanting to laugh, but his throat felt stuffed with cotton, leaving him unable to speak.
He had thought he could at least leave a statue behind, that even after he left, some trace of him would remain there.
In the end, nothing was left.
"Then... what about the wall of honor?"
Lamplighter still clung to one last thread of hope, his voice already catching.
"The wall of honor on the seventh floor. Is my nameplate still there?"
Black Noir looked up at him, then his marker moved across the paper, adding another line.
Cleared out five years ago. All the old files in the archives were destroyed. None of the newcomers now know The Seven ever had a Lamplighter.
"Heh..."
Lamplighter laughed quietly, the laughter growing louder and increasingly hoarse until he finally bent over and covered his face.
So that was it.
He had fought for half his life, braving life and death for Vought, only to end up without even his fucking name left behind.
His bronze statue was gone, his nameplate removed, his files destroyed, as though he had never existed.
He had originally thought he was at least a "retired hero," but now he was nothing more than a clown who had worked for Vought for free.
Even the underground cage he had lived in for eight years had never made him feel this stifled.
And now, that lingering shred of longing, that little self-deceiving notion, was utterly shattered before reality at this very moment.
Only after a long time did Lamplighter straighten up, his face expressionless.
"Fine."
He expelled the single word heavily.
The next second, he turned toward John, who was leaning against the doorframe, a trace of resolve flashing through his eyes.
"I'm working with you."
"Oh, a wise choice."
John raised his eyebrows, as though he had expected this outcome all along.
Then he straightened, walked into the room, and turned his gaze to Black Noir.
"And you?"
His tone was flat.
"What are you planning to do? Go back to Vought and keep being their mute cleaner?"
Black Noir closed the notebook and pushed it aside, sitting motionless like a black sculpture.
The answer spoke for itself.
"You really do have a one-track mind."
John scoffed, without much surprise in his voice.
"Fine, I won't stop you. You can go back and keep being a member of The Seven, keep putting your life on the line for Vought. But there's something I need to make clear."
He took two steps forward and stood before Black Noir, looking down on him somewhat.
"Everything you've seen and heard here, about the base, about us, about Lamplighter.
You can't say a single word of it, or write a single word of it."
Black Noir remained motionless, but his taut posture had already betrayed what was going on inside.
"Don't be nervous, buddy."
John smiled.
"I'm just adding a little insurance. It'll be quick, like minimally invasive surgery."
Then he turned and called out.
"Cate."
The next second, the door opened, and Cate walked in, chewing on a lollipop. She surveyed the scene in the room and raised her eyebrows.
"Do you want me to keep washing out his memories?"
"No..."
John lifted his chin.
"Put a cognitive lock on him. Make him unable to say or write any information related to us, without affecting his normal speech or writing."
John vaguely remembered netizens discussing possible ways to develop Cate's powers in his memories of the fourth wall.
Mental modifications like this kind of cognitive impairment ought to be basic operations every psychic possessed.
"I don't think I've tried that before... but..."
Cate held the lollipop in her hand, walked up to Black Noir, and took off her gloves.
Then she raised her hands and pressed them against his temples on either side of his hood.
"I can try. Don't move... otherwise, I'm afraid I might damage your brain."
At that, Black Noir tensed all over and froze obediently in place.
The next second, a gentle force slipped into his brain.
Like warm water washing over his nerves.
The images concerning the base and John instantly seemed separated by a pane of frosted glass, visible but beyond reach.
A few seconds later, Cate withdrew her hands.
"That should do it... John, who taught you this skill...? From now on, whenever he tries to reveal anything about you, he'll either suffer selective amnesia or his hand will shake."
Black Noir tried picking up the marker to write the base's specific "location," but his wrist suddenly went numb, and the marker dropped straight onto the table.
He looked up at John.
John could see through the mask that Black Noir was looking at him with a complicated expression in his eyes.
"Don't look at me like that."
John leaned against the table and waved a hand.
"Go back to your life. We'll do our thing, and we won't interfere with each other. You can look forward to seeing how Vought treats you."
Black Noir remained silent.
At the same time, in Krasnoyarsk Krai, Siberia.
The blizzard had raged for three days and nights. The abandoned military base deep in the mountains lay buried beneath two meters of snow, like an enormous tomb.
But the cryogenic chamber a hundred and twenty meters underground was as hot as a steamer.
More than a dozen high-powered heaters blasted hot air at the enormous cryogenic pod in the center.
The ice coating the pod's walls melted in streams, collecting in murky puddles on the floor.
A group of technicians crowded around the control console, their fingers flying across keyboards as they stared fixedly at the vital-sign graphs on their screens.
Cole, the man in charge, stood behind them with a cigarette between his fingers, his expression grave.
Just two days earlier, Mr. Edgar had personally ordered them to begin the thawing procedure.
So he had led their most elite squad and a research team into Russia, making their way to this base that had been abandoned for decades.
Only when he saw the cryogenic pod bearing a red star did he dare believe it...
Soldier Boy, the first-generation hero officially declared killed in action thirty-eight years ago, really had been frozen in this godforsaken place.
"The temperature has risen to minus three degrees Celsius. The ice is almost eighty-nine percent melted!"
"His vitals are surging! Heart rate one hundred and ten, brain waves exceptionally active... he's about to wake up!"
"Get the sedatives ready."
Hearing this, Cole immediately crushed his cigarette and tossed it onto the floor.
"Inject him immediately if he shows any sign of losing control."
"But, but... Mr. Cole, the density of his skin... ordinary needles can't penetrate it!"
"Then..."
Cole had just been about to speak when a muffled thud from inside the pod cut him off.
Thump!
It was the sound of a fist striking the pod's wall.
Then came a second blow, and a third.
Each dull impact hammered at everyone's hearts.
Soon, broad stretches of ice on the observation window began to crack, the fractures rapidly spreading like a spiderweb.
The muscular figure inside suddenly opened his eyes. Confusion, struggle, and primal savagery flashed through his brown eyes.
"Ugh-ah!"
First came a low groan, then a roar of pain.
The figure's chest gradually began to heat up.
Golden-red light shone through his skin, growing brighter and brighter as it grew searingly hot, like a red-hot branding iron.
Creeeak-
Beyond the thick tempered glass, the pod's metal shell began to heat up and warp under the rapidly rising temperature, groaning beneath the strain.
"Energy readings are off the charts! They're already twice the critical threshold!"
The technicians screamed.
"Quick, get out of the way!!"
Before the words had finished leaving their mouths, a deafening explosion erupted.
Boom-!!!
A golden-red shock wave focused at a single point, then suddenly bloomed into a dazzling cross-shaped flare.
The tempered glass shattered outright. The immense force hurled the control console and instruments away, sweeping through the entire chamber like an invisible giant palm.
Then the heavy metal walls caved inward from the impact. Chunks of concrete rained down from overhead, and the light tubes snapped into several pieces, spraying sparks everywhere.
The two nearest technicians were flung away by the blast, slammed into the wall, and knocked unconscious on the spot.
Smoke and dust filled the air.
Cole sheltered behind a steel pillar with his arms over his head. His ears rang, and a sweet, metallic taste suddenly flooded his mouth.
He forced his eyes open and peered through the billowing dust toward the center.
A muscular, naked figure emerged through the haze, walking out of the wrecked cryogenic pod one step at a time.
Tap.
Ice crystals still clung to his long brown hair and full beard. The lines of his taut, solid muscles shifted with his movements, outlining their highly developed contours.
"Hah..."
He kept his head lowered, panting heavily.
He had been frozen for too long and clearly had yet to adjust to this body. Intense dizziness still churned his brain into mush.
"S-Soldier Boy?"
Cole worked up the courage to call out.
Soldier Boy snapped his head up, his gaze sweeping over like a wolf's. His eyes were so vicious that Cole instinctively stepped half a pace back in fright.
"Are you speaking fucking Russian?"
When he spoke, his voice was as raspy as sandpaper scraping sheet metal, stiff from long disuse.
"No! We're from Vought International!"
Cole hurriedly waved his hands.
"Mr. Edgar sent us to rescue you! We're on your side!"
"Vought?"
Soldier Boy's mind, only just restored to normal, turned that word over, suddenly unable to make sense of it.
Rescue me?
Had Vought been fed shit, or had America gotten its ass licked by the red mining rig next door?
Did they think I'd forgotten who handed me over to the Soviets back then?
Trust you? Do you think I'm some fucking pig you raised?
He paid Cole no further attention, instead turning toward the load-bearing concrete wall behind him.
Without hesitation, he raised his fist.
Bang!
One punch caved in the half-meter-thick concrete wall, cracks bursting across it like a spiderweb.
The second punch sent rubble flying, exposing twisted reinforcing bars inside.
The third punch.
Boom!
The entire wall collapsed with a crash, revealing a passage outside where wind and snow howled. Cold air and icy mist poured violently through the opening, blasting everyone so hard they could barely open their eyes.
"Stop him! Hurry, stop him!"
Cole shouted frantically.
Several guards armed with assault rifles rushed forward and pulled their triggers, pouring bullets into Soldier Boy's back.
But the bullets struck his back with a metallic clatter, leaving only faint white marks without even breaking his skin.
Soldier Boy neither stopped nor looked back. He merely bent down and climbed through the opening, disappearing into the blizzard shortly afterward and leaving behind nothing but wreckage and a group of people staring at one another.
"Fuck..."
Cole stared at the enormous hole, his face ashen.
Then he took out his satellite phone and dialed Edgar's encrypted number.
The call connected after two rings.
"He's awake?"
Edgar's voice came through.
"He's awake, but he's out of control."
Cole swallowed.
"His physique is absurd. He punched straight through a load-bearing wall and ran south. We couldn't stop him."
"Don't stop him."
Even upon hearing of this unexpected development, Edgar's tone remained steady.
"Just follow him. Keep your distance and don't reveal yourselves. He'll definitely return to the United States sooner or later."
"But... what if he comes after us for revenge?"
"He won't."
Edgar chuckled softly.
"His real enemies were never us...
"Let him make trouble. The bigger the better. Once he's had his fill and wants to settle accounts, we'll make our appearance."
"And then we draw in the net."