"Suzume feat. Toaka (Suzume)"
That night.
The Deep traded his usual sleazy grin for a serious expression as he crouched on the breakwater rocks, his bare feet submerged in the water.
The evening tide had just risen half a foot, wrapping up around his ankles like velvet soaked in ice.
He closed his eyes, sensing everything in the sea.
After the enhancement from New Compound V, The Deep was no longer the man he had been.
First came his first new ability: controlling water with his mind.
He could freely control any volume of water under five tons, without expending anything.
Anything over five tons left him dizzy and lightheaded, and he had to sleep an entire day to recover.
His second ability was a kind of "listening."
He could listen to "information about the ocean," whether from any creature in the sea or from plants.
And distance made no difference.
As long as he touched the ocean, he could reach the "information" he wanted and control the medium carrying that "information."
(For the specific mechanics, refer to a downgraded ocean version of Roger's Hearing the Voice of All Things from One Piece.)
And seawater had memories too.
The current swept bits of plastic and rotting sargassum past the rocks, where crabs blew bubbles.
Three nautical miles away, a school of mackerel raced east, their scales flashing faintly in the dark.
This "information" gradually formed images in The Deep's mind.
Schools of fish were gathering over there.
Bass, herring, a young bluefin tuna that had lost its way-even the groupers that spent all year scavenging on the harbor floor had left their haunts, drifting along the undercurrent in the same direction.
The Deep's dangling fingertips twitched.
Before long, he opened his eyes.
It was completely dark now, and the old streetlights on the dock glowed in the distance.
Frenchie was leaning against the passenger door, smoking. Seeing him approach, he waved the cigarette pack between his fingers, and the smell of menthol smoke drifted over on the wind.
"No, thanks..."
The Deep shook his head.
He had smoked with A-Train for a while before, but his dolphin friend hated the smell, so he had quit.
"Found him?"
Frenchie put the cigarette back between his lips, his voice muffled.
"In a wooden cabin by the sea, less than two hundred meters from the shoreline. No other buildings around it."
The Deep opened the door and climbed in, his wet pants leaving a dark patch on the seat.
He bent down to pull on his boots, his wet socks clinging uncomfortably to the soles of his feet.
"If I'm not mistaken, he should be hiding... and it looks like he's got a kid with him."
"But are you sure you really want to do this?"
The Deep's expression grew even more serious, to the point of looking a little comical.
If John and the others really made that decision.
And he was someone who had benefited from The Boys Squad.
Then the good days he had only just started enjoying would soon be gone again.
God, why are you doing this to me?
"So... won't you reconsider?"
Frenchie raised an eyebrow and flicked his cigarette butt into the sea. The ember traced an arc through the darkness before sinking into the water with a faint hiss.
Then he jerked his chin in that direction.
His face dark and vicious, Butcher was gripping his signature crowbar and staring straight at The Deep, sending a chill down his spine.
"What do you think?"
"All right."
The Deep very obediently followed his survival instincts and shrugged, then spoke with a smile uglier than crying.
"What's the situation over there, exactly?"
"He has a kid with him."
The Deep looked up, his gaze settling on the dark sea beyond the window.
"Yeah, the kid cried for almost an hour, then stopped. After that there were sounds from a game console. That's all I know."
Frenchie stared at him for two seconds, chuckled, and reached out to pat the doorframe.
"Not bad, Deep. One shot of New Compound V and you're practically human sonar?"
The Deep remained aloof and said nothing.
In truth, he really wanted to cry.
But...
He looked down at his hands.
Vought's people used to call him useless, saying he was good for nothing except talking to fish. Sometimes he had thought so too.
But now, he could feel the heartbeat of a bluefin tuna several nautical miles away, and smell the burnt bread in the cabin carried over on the wind.
New Compound V really had changed him.
"Let's go."
Frenchie patted The Deep's neck and zipped his jacket all the way up, covering half his face.
"Time to get moving."
The next day, just as dawn broke.
Mother's Milk parked the van in an abandoned parking lot two kilometers away, a layer of dust coating the windshield.
Butcher sat guard in the driver's seat like a vicious wolf, his feet propped on the dashboard, stubbing his cigarette directly into the vehicle's ashtray.
He did not bother with the ash scattered all over his trouser leg.
"When do we move?"
He tucked the crowbar into his waistband, his voice hoarse.
"Around eight."
The voice came from a corner of the van.
John sat on a folding chair, his back against the van wall, his leather jacket zipped to his chin and his face buried in shadow.
He was not trying to look brooding.
He had simply enjoyed three solid hours of sleep.
"He's hiding from Vought, which means he doesn't trust Edgar. If he doesn't trust Edgar, he won't take Ryan back to Vought Tower.
"So something must have happened between him and Edgar."
In truth, even John, the actual Homelander himself, did not know what had happened.
After all, with him involved now, everything had changed.
He could only weigh the pros and cons using "spoilers" from beyond the fourth wall.
"How do you know?"
Butcher asked out of nowhere.
John did not answer.
He had not wanted to get involved in anything concerning Ryan, but he had never expected that fucker Butcher to agree to his condition of helping him find V1.
For John, the sole focus was saving Jonathan.
And so the deal had been struck.
At the other end of the van, Frenchie crouched behind a workbench, goggles pushed up onto his forehead and a soldering gun in his hand.
A pile of circuit boards and wires lay scattered across the work surface. Mother's Milk sat beside him, taping a black block onto a plastic dummy's wrist.
"Mother's Milk and I made something."
Frenchie lifted his chin, indicating the dummy.
"A sonar emitter. It can mimic Compound V's biological frequency.
"If Homelander hears it, he'll definitely think another supe is wandering around nearby, and he'll chase after it."
"And then?"
Butcher asked.
"Then you drive south with this thing. He chases you, John sneaks in from the north and gets the kid."
Frenchie paused, then added something.
"The sonar will last five minutes at most. You'll have to hold out."
Butcher glanced at the sleazy-looking dummy.
It wore a scavenged Vought security uniform, and its face had been drawn on in crooked lines. Frenchie had even deliberately posed it with its middle finger raised.
Its taunting power was maxed out.
The coastline.
The cabin stood among a pile of rocks at the end of the tidal flats, its sheet-metal roof already rusted and old planks nailed over its windows.
Warm yellow light spilled through the gaps, stretching into a long, thin reflection across the sea.
Inside.
Several unopened cans were piled in a corner. A bread bag sat open, with half a bottle of mineral water beside it.
Homelander sat on the floor against the wall, his back pressed to the cold boards, watching Ryan's tear-streaked face.
Ryan was sitting on a couch cushion, a handheld console in front of him.
Homelander had bought it at the town's general store that afternoon, paying cash.
Yes, Homelander did not actually receive a salary at Vought.
Whatever he wanted, he got. Money was just a number to him.
And this was the first time in his nearly forty years of life that he had used cash.
The bills were crumpled. He had deliberately avoided surveillance cameras and taken them from a wallet he had robbed from a mobster.
His expression had even been a little unnatural when he handed them over.
The shopkeeper was a balding fat man. He had squinted at him for a long time before asking how old the child he was buying for was.
"Around ten."
Homelander did not actually know how old Ryan was, so he had simply given a random number.
"Here."
The fat man casually fished a handheld console out from beneath a shelf and shoved it at him:
"This one. Kids all love it."
Ryan did not actually want to play with the handheld console.
He was already past the crying and tantrum stage. No matter how he resisted, this man still refused to let him go.
What could he do, then?
He could only swallow his hurt and fiddle aimlessly with the handheld to relieve his boredom.
"I'll take you into town tomorrow."
Homelander thought for a while, then spoke.
"I'll buy you, what's it called... right, ice cream."
Ryan said nothing.
"Chocolate? Or strawberry?"
Homelander asked again. He remembered that the little brats in Vought's commercials all loved those two foods made of pure fat.
"I just want to go home."
Homelander's fingers abruptly tightened, his expression shifting from feigned affection to something a little hysterical.
"You're here with me. This is home."
He said it forcefully, with a sense that brooked no doubt.
"No. My home is in the woods. Mom makes dinner for me in the evening. There's mashed potatoes, and Uncle Butcher brings chocolate home."
Fuck... what is this bullshit? Why can't he understand plain words?
Homelander suddenly felt unable to breathe.
He could punch through the head of the Führer next door, or blow apart an entire helicopter with a blast of Heat Vision.
But he had never imagined that he would be unable to persuade a half-grown little brat.
"...You'll get used to it."
With his back to Ryan, his hands resting together and his neck stiff, he spoke a little impatiently.
But just then, his head suddenly stopped moving.
There was a sound.
It was not the wind and waves, nor was it Ryan's breathing. It clearly came from inland, an extremely low-frequency vibration that made him feel sick.
A supe?
His pupils abruptly contracted.
Could it be Vought's people? Had Edgar found him?
He whipped around, his gaze landing on Ryan.
He absolutely could not let Vought's people take him away!
The instant that thought sprang up, he was already moving.
"Stay here. Don't move."
He tossed out the words and pushed open the window before Ryan could react.
"Whoosh-"
The next second, the air burst beneath his feet with a muffled boom.
Then, like a red-and-blue arrow, he shot into the night.
"Come on, you son of a bitch, Daddy's coming-"
Grinning viciously, Butcher floored the accelerator, and the van's engine roared.
The needle bounced wildly at the edge of the red zone, and the plastic dummy in the passenger seat swayed along with it.
The sonar emitter strapped to the back of the van hummed rhythmically, its sound spreading outward as the vehicle moved.
Frenchie had said it would last five minutes at most.
Butcher closed his eyes and began counting the seconds.
It would take Homelander forty seconds to fly here from the cabin.
He needed to stall another thirty seconds. Yes, just thirty seconds, and John could reach the cabin and get Ryan out.
Sure enough, before long, a tiny red-and-blue dot appeared in the rearview mirror.
"Oh, finally here~"
A roguish grin tugged at Butcher's lips, his teeth clenched tight.
The dot grew bigger and flew faster, descending like a meteor crashing out of the sky, accompanied by a piercing shriek that tore through the air.
Whoosh-
"Fuck... come on, you son of a bitch."
He slammed his foot down, pushing the accelerator all the way to the floor.
One hundred meters.
Fifty meters.
The glass behind the back seat suddenly lit up red.
Sensing danger, Butcher ducked almost instinctively.
The next second, two scorching red beams skimmed past the back of his neck, shattering the rear windshield with a crash.
Szzzt-
The Heat Vision struck the dummy's chest.
Butcher nearly lost his grip on the steering wheel. He wrenched it hard, and the van skidded along the roadside wire fence.
But just then, the roof suddenly sank with a heavy jolt.
Butcher looked up and saw a shallow dent stamped into the sheet-metal roof, the tread of a boot sole pressing through the steel plate with unmistakable clarity.
Fuck, that animal Homelander had landed on the roof.
"Heh... right on time!"
Butcher did not slow down at all. Instead, he pressed the accelerator down even harder.
Then came a ripping sound.
It was the sound of sheet metal being forcibly torn apart, piercing and grating.
His eyes crimson, Homelander knelt on one knee on the roof, bent down, and tore open the steel roof panel with his gloved right hand.
Driving one-handed, Butcher swung up the crowbar beside him with his other hand, then met Homelander's eyes in the rearview mirror.
Homelander had his head lowered, his blond hair whipping wildly in the wind, his face largely expressionless.
His gaze swept over the back of Butcher's head first, then landed on the passenger seat.
The dummy had been burned beyond recognition, half its face melted into a mass of plastic.
But that arm was still raised, its middle finger pointing straight at him, paired with that graffiti more disgusting than a fly.
"William...!"
He realized he had actually been played.
Then he abruptly raised his head, his gaze pinning Butcher in place.
"Hahahahaha... you weak little runt of a bitch..."
Butcher watched him in the rearview mirror, baring a mouthful of yellow teeth as he grinned and laughed.
"Didn't see that coming, did you, you son of a bitch?"
The instant the words left his mouth, Butcher slammed on the brakes.
The next second, the tires screeched against the dirt road, black smoke enveloping the van as it swung sideways.
The tremendous inertia hurled Homelander right off the roof.
But Homelander was no ordinary person.
He merely flipped once in the air, his cape sweeping around, then hovered steadily in midair, hands behind his back as he looked down from above.
The van, however, was not so lucky. It slid straight sideways for a dozen meters before crashing into the wire fence with a clang.
Before long, Butcher puffed the black smoke out of his mouth, pushed open the door, and jumped out.
He staggered, raised his head, and slowly gave Homelander another middle finger as he hovered in midair.
Then he turned and ran.
Fucking hell...
Hovering in midair, Homelander watched that retreating figure, limping yet still refusing to forgo his taunts, and pressed his lips into a thin line in fury.
Heat Vision kept flickering in his eyes, ready to blast this clown who did not know his own limits into pulp.
But just then, he suddenly froze.
Something's wrong...
The cabin.
Right, Ryan's still in the cabin!
Butcher lured me away to draw the tiger out of its mountain.
The thought poured over his head like a bucket of ice water, extinguishing all his fury and leaving only panic.
He did not even spare Butcher another glance.
He turned and accelerated sharply.
A muffled sonic boom burst through the air around him, a trough plowed through the sea's surface, and the red-and-blue figure shot straight back toward the city, wrapped in surging waves.
You... how dare you!
My Ryan!
That's my fucking son!
(One more tease for you all. The fight starts tomorrow.)