"Nocturne"
The snow in Siberia tasted fucking-ptui-salty.
The wind whipped ice shards into his face with reckless abandon. Soldier Boy narrowed his eyes irritably and strode forward, his upper body bare and his back ramrod straight.
"Fuck, what kind of godforsaken shithole is this Soviet Union? Even the snow fucking reeks of some old man's uric acid."
Soldier Boy spat, memories flashing through his mind.
The bullets in Nicaragua's rainforest, the smell of blood-it was like they were fucking carved into his brain. All he had to do was close his eyes.
"A bunch of brain-dead fucks raised on slop with their brains tethered to a pig's tits."
He cursed and slammed a fist into a nearby tree trunk. The next second, the bowl-thick larch snapped in two with a crack and crashed to the ground.
Thirty-eight years.
Those white sons of bitches had rinsed his mouth with machine-gun fire, served him electric chairs and poison gas like fucking meals...
That debt had to be settled.
And paid back in blood.
Soldier Boy walked like that for two days and two nights before finally stumbling across a small border town in the early morning.
"What fucking era is this... the Wild West?"
Soldier Boy pushed open a general store's wooden door. Inside, the potbellied owner was working on his accounts behind the counter.
At the jingle of the bell, the owner looked up, about to shout something in Russian.
But when he met Soldier Boy's wolfish brown eyes and took in his outrageously half-naked "performance art," the curses he had been about to spit stuck in his throat.
After all, it was thirty-something below zero outside...
Soldier Boy wasted no words either. He pulled a thick felt coat off a shelf and wrapped it around himself, then grabbed black bread, cured meat, and two bottles of vodka before turning to leave.
Seeing Soldier Boy making himself so thoroughly at home, the owner, his warrior blood awakened, decided to abandon his fear and teach him a lesson.
So he let out a howling "Ura!" and lunged at him, charging with a raised rolling pin.
"Fuck off. Ura your fucking mother. I fucking hate white-furred breeding bears like you."
Soldier Boy shot him a sidelong glance, indulged him not at all, and swung a great big slap at him.
"Urgh-"
That courtesy basic attack from Soldier Boy slapped the old man straight back behind the counter.
The bottles and jars on the counter shattered all over the floor.
"Old Russkie, I'm doing you an honor taking your stuff. Back in the day, everything I ate and drank was fucking free."
As he spoke, he stepped onto the threshold and looked back, his mouth twisting into a roguish grin.
"Got a problem? Take the bill to Vought. Tell them Soldier Boy owes you."
With that, he slammed the door and left, leaving a roomful of wreckage behind.
That night, he found a random abandoned warehouse and ravenously gnawed on cured meat with ice crystals, guzzling vodka straight from the bottle.
The liquor burned down his throat, its scorching heat rolling along his esophagus into his stomach and driving away most of the chill in his body.
He still remembered.
That bum Reagan had just taken office when he left, and disco had been playing nonstop in the streets.
Posters of him in uniform had covered every main street in the United States. Wherever he went, girls had screamed and thrown themselves at him, asking him to sign their chests and thighs.
And now?
He had escaped the laboratory knowing nothing, unable even to read the writing here, all curled up like pubes.
Hmph, whatever it had become.
Soldier Boy sneered and tipped back his head for a deep swig.
He decided to check out his hometown first.
And so, with the money he had politely robbed people of, Soldier Boy hitched rides on freight trucks heading south.
After a full seven days of bouncing around, he finally reached Manhattan, New York.
Standing on the traffic-choked street in a cheap tracksuit, Soldier Boy frowned and suddenly cursed.
"Fuck."
The skyscrapers here were packed as tightly as coffin boards, their glass curtain walls dazzlingly bright.
Everyone on the street clutched a palm-sized rectangle, muttering down at its screen, even their walking limp and flaccid.
The men wore long hair and earrings, the women's skirts were so short their asses were nearly showing, and every last one had their face painted like a ghost.
"Fucking bunch of pussies."
He snorted, his face full of contempt.
In his day, men had to shoulder guns, fight wars, and bleed. They had to stand like mountains, and women had to look like women too.
Now, every last one looked boneless, liable to snap in a gust of wind.
Then he slowly turned his neck, his gaze passing over a giant electronic screen.
A promotional video for the Seven played on repeat.
But he wasn't in it.
He narrowed his eyes and scanned the area again.
From one end of the street to the other, there were more than a dozen enormous advertising screens, bus-stop signs along the sidewalk, and convenience store display windows.
Even the paper cups in passersby's hands were printed with those fucking idiots' faces.
There was no Falcon battle suit here, no Thompson Submachine Gun, and no name reading "Soldier Boy."
It was as though he had never existed.
"Fucking ungrateful bastards."
Holding in a breath, he moved a couple of steps toward the side of the street and leaned against a lamppost, trying to steady his wildly pounding heart.
His gaze drifted aimlessly over the corner convenience store and the people lining up for coffee, finally settling beneath a streetlight on the opposite sidewalk.
Two young men stood there.
One was a white kid in a loose floral shirt, his hair dyed light blond.
The other was a somewhat taller black man with a gleaming shaved head that reflected the sunlight like a shelled braised egg.
They stood very close together, talking, when the white kid suddenly raised a hand to cradle the back of the other's head, leaned down, and kissed him.
Soldier Boy's brows instantly knotted together.
Since when had prime bargain plantation labor hooked up with the plantation owner?
Son of a bitch, it had only been forty years, hadn't it... he seemed unable to understand this world anymore.
He had woken up to a United States he didn't recognize, a New York he didn't recognize, and even fucking sexual orientations were all screwed up.
He wanted to leave now, find somewhere to get a drink, then ask those bastards at Vought what the hell they were doing. But-
But just as he lifted his foot, an extremely faint, extremely familiar melody drifted lazily out through the open door of a record store beside the street.
A Russian song.
Soldier Boy's feet abruptly rooted to the spot.
It was that song.
Back in the underground laboratory in Siberia, he had been fastened to a cold metal operating table, his limbs strapped down with specially made restraints.
As needles pierced his arteries and green drugs were injected little by little, that song had played on repeat over the laboratory's speakers.
Twenty-four hours a day, without interruption.
Now, the noise around him suddenly grew distant.
Car horns, passersby's laughter and conversation, advertisements on electronic screens-all blurred together.
Only the singing grew clearer and clearer, burrowing through his ear canals and seizing his heart.
His breathing stopped abruptly.
The PTSD struck without warning, surging as violently as a tsunami.
"..."
He doubled over, every muscle in his body tightening. His skin began to burn, and a searing red glow rose from his chest, as though a mass of magma were churning beneath his skin.
He could no longer control himself.
The red light grew brighter and brighter, shining through his chest.
"BOOM-!!!"
A deafening explosion erupted.
A blazing golden beam of energy instantly gushed from his chest, blasting straight toward the opposite street with the force to crush rotten wood and sweep away dead timber.
Wherever the beam passed, asphalt instantly melted, roadside lampposts were severed at the waist like paper constructions, and storefront windows exploded in an instant.
In an instant, explosions, collapsing structures, the crowd's screams, and blaring car alarms all tangled together.
A cabin in the woods.
(Not the one you're thinking of.)
A warm yellow pendant lamp hung above the dining table.
A whole chicken roasted golden brown, steaming macaroni, and a lovely bowl of vegetable salad sat on the table.
Wearing a checked apron, Becca brought the last bowl of soup to the table.
Her hair had grown a little longer and was casually pinned behind her head, and her face was a little fuller than before.
"Ryan, wash your hands. Time to eat."
She called toward the inner room.
"Coming, Mom!"
The little boy's voice came from inside, and his eager footsteps drew closer.
When Ryan ran out, he was still holding a Demons and Angels comic book.
"Eat first. You can read after dinner."
Becca took the comic book and set it aside.
"Okay."
Ryan obediently answered, climbed onto his chair, picked up his fork, and ate his macaroni in small bites.
Becca sat opposite him, watching her son with eyes so tender they could have dripped water.
"Mom."
Ryan suddenly looked up, his mouth stuffed full.
"When's Uncle Butcher coming back?"
"Soon."
Becca stroked his head.
"He went into town to buy a few things. He'll be back soon."
After gathering information for John, Butcher had hurried straight to his former employer and found CIA Director Mallory to take care of some personal business.
Becca had always been his obsession. Now that she was back by his side, although he wore a somewhat green cuckold's hat, he was already very satisfied.
Not to mention that he had gained a ready-made son.
So, to avoid the strife here and give mother and son a better life, he was preparing to obtain a new identity and planned to move Becca and Ryan to Canada in a few days.
Butcher knew all too well how dangerous working for John was. Vought could take countermeasures at any time, and he dared not stake all their safety on John.
So the sooner they left the United States, the safer they would be.
This trip into town was to buy mother and son some supplies for their move abroad.
Once they had settled there, he intended to finish this Compound V job for John, wash his hands of the business, and immigrate to Canada with them.
"Will Uncle Butcher bring chocolate back?"
Ryan asked, blinking his blue eyes.
"He will."
Becca smiled.
"If he promised you, he'll definitely bring it."
Ryan nodded happily and lowered his head to continue eating.
Becca watched him, but her heart felt heavy.
She knew Butcher hated Homelander and Vought, and even toward her, he harbored hidden resentment, disappointment, or other, more complicated feelings.
But Butcher was genuinely good to Ryan.
Sometimes she even thought how wonderful it would be if Ryan's father were someone like Butcher.
Ordinary, quick-witted, and, although somewhat foul-tempered, at least a normal person.
Not that... lunatic.
As she was thinking, a sudden muffled whoosh came from the yard outside.
It sounded like something heavy landing on the ground.
Immediately afterward, the dog in the yard started barking wildly, but its voice cut off after barely two barks.
Becca's heart clenched.
Her face instantly turned white.
Could it be... had he come?
The thought struck her mind like a bolt of lightning.
After all, John had already made it clear that he would no longer contact them, and he had kept his distance for a long time.
So it couldn't be John.
That left only one possibility: either another supe from the Seven had come to their door.
Or it was...
Homelander.