"One Last Kiss"
The Legend's home was in the western suburbs, a luxurious European-style villa.
A framed photograph of the entire Payback team hung in the center of the wall.
Knock, knock, knock!
Knocking came from the courtyard.
The Legend was by the window, sunk into a sofa watching an old movie, a Scottish wool blanket over his knees and a glass of whiskey in his hand.
"Who is it? It's unlocked! Let yourself in!"
The sound at the entrance stopped for a moment, then the front door was shoved open with brute force.
"Fucking... what dead dog opens a door like that?"
The Legend turned to look, somewhat annoyed, still muttering until he saw the person standing in the doorway.
At first glance, he couldn't make out the face, only long brown hair hanging in a tangled mess over the shoulders.
And a thick beard that covered almost half the face.
But those hazel eyes beneath the shadow of the brow stared straight at him.
This... this was impossible!
The whiskey glass in The Legend's hand hit the carpet with a clatter, spilling amber liquor.
It soaked into the Persian carpet, quickly spreading into a dark wet stain.
The Legend recognized him at once.
"Ben?"
"My God, weren't you dead? The official story said you died in Nicaragua.
"I even went to your memorial service. I laid flowers for you myself..."
Soldier Boy walked in heavily and pulled the door shut behind him, the frame slamming into its groove.
He looked around, his gaze slowly sweeping across the walls.
When it passed the prominently displayed photograph of the entire Payback team, a trace of contempt suddenly entered his eyes.
"Surprised I'm not dead?"
"Surprised I crawled out of Hell to see you?"
The Legend's legs weakened and his whole body sagged. One hand groped behind him until it found the sofa's backrest, only then giving him a little reassurance.
In all honesty.
Betrayed by his own teammates, handed to the Russians as a test subject, fed Gatling fire and poison gas every day, imprisoned for thirty-eight years.
There really wasn't much difference between that and crawling back from Hell.
"Your address was pretty hard to find. Several newspapers, and every fucking one gave fake information."
Soldier Boy walked straight to the bar and picked up an unopened bottle of The Macallan whiskey. He gripped the metal seal around its mouth with his teeth and tilted his head.
The next second, he bit the cap off with a crunch, then spat it carelessly onto the floor.
Then he tipped his head back and took a long swig from the bottle. The liquor burned down his throat, making him narrow his eyes in pleasure and exhale at length.
"Fuck... thirty-eight years. I missed this. Feels even fucking better than pumping. Anyway, got any beauties in this estate of yours?"
"Beauties?"
The Legend gave a bitter smile, the loose flesh of his face bunching into an expression uglier than crying.
"They're all about my age now. Old and faded. Let's not force it, shall we?"
"Old and faded? What the fuck do you know, you hick? Women are like fine wine. The older they get, the richer the flavor."
"Only one drawback. A little dry down there."
"Uh... I'll do my best."
The Legend's mouth twitched, and he shakily stood.
"But it's... good that you're back. I thought I'd never see you again."
"You cock-mouthed bastard, cut that fucking crap."
Soldier Boy set down the bottle, knocking its base against the marble bar, then stared at The Legend.
"Tell me. That business in Nicaragua, the whole team was involved... what actually happened? Was Vought behind it?"
Hearing his words, The Legend lowered his head and said nothing for a long time.
At that reaction, Soldier Boy sneered inwardly. He already had his answer.
"Figures. I knew it, you pack of dog-fucked pussies... how could Nicaraguan guerrillas have pinpointed my camp?
"They even knew the fucking patrol changes."
"So it was my own people stabbing me in the back."
"It wasn't me. I was only a manager then. I never interfered in your business."
"I know. Otherwise, I'd already have shoved your head up some three-hundred-pound Down syndrome nigger's asshole."
"It was Edgar, actually."
The Legend finally spoke.
"He was still head of Legal back then. The higher-ups said you were too difficult to control, too ambitious. Keeping you around would become a liability sooner or later.
"The company happened to need a completely new face, needed to make room for someone new... so he was the one who made the proposal."
Soldier Boy's expression suddenly darkened.
"The whole team agreed?"
The Legend nodded.
"Crimson Countess was the first to agree. She'd resented you for a long time. Gunpowder, Mindstorm...
"They all signed nondisclosure agreements and took a hefty sum."
Crack!
Soldier Boy crushed the glass in his hand.
Amber liquor seeped through the cracks, ran down the back of his hand, and dripped onto the bar.
"Good... then I suppose they've all been living the high life these past few years?"
"Where are they now?"
He raised his eyes and looked straight at The Legend.
"Actually, it's not what you think..."
"Crimson Countess made a few movies before, but she's washed up now. All she can do is sell some smut on scam livestreams."
"Livestreams? Which dick-licking dumbass came up with that name? What does it mean?"
"Uh, you can think of it as a form of live, interactive television?"
"What the fuck's the point of that? Better to get down to some real action."
"...Gunpowder and those two in TNT Gemini have been running the annual Herogasm."
"Mindstorm lives in seclusion on a farm in Montana, raising a few hundred head of cattle. He rarely shows his face."
"As for Black Noir... Black Noir's still in The Seven. He's Homelander's right-hand man now, handling the dirty work and heavy lifting."
Soldier Boy listened, engraving each name and location in his mind.
Just wait. Not a fucking one of you is getting away.
(So says the Great Sage of Balancing the Books.)
"Right, where's my stuff?"
After a moment's silence, Soldier Boy suddenly asked.
"Huh?"
The Legend didn't react at first, raising his head to look at him blankly.
"My suit, and my shield."
Soldier Boy looked at him.
"You said you'd keep them for me. The last time I saw you, you promised me yourself. They're still here, right?"
The Legend froze, then hurriedly said:
"Yes! Yes, they are! I've kept them for you all this time! In the storeroom. I've maintained them regularly all these years."
He got up and headed inside. Soldier Boy followed him through the hallway into the storeroom at the very back.
In the innermost corner stood a metal case over a meter tall, its dark green paint scuffed away.
The case clicked open with a faint hiss of pressure, and its lid slowly rose.
Inside lay a neatly folded uniform in its classic palm-green color scheme.
A metal shield stood along one side, with a full box of Cuban cigars beside it.
Soldier Boy pinched open a gap, and the next second, a rich tobacco aroma spilled out.
The Legend really had taken care of them. Fine, he could keep his wretched life for now. He didn't have long left anyway.
Then he picked up the uniform, turned, and entered the bedroom next door.
Ten minutes later, he emerged.
The uniform fit well, its palm-green fabric wrapped tightly around his sturdy torso, the leather panels at the shoulders hugging his deltoids.
He combed his long hair back with his fingers, the strands slipping between them to reveal his entire face.
Then he took a cigar from the box between his lips and tilted his head slightly toward The Legend.
The Legend obligingly stepped forward, took out a lighter, and lit it for him.
"Phew..."
He inhaled deeply, his cheeks hollowing slightly, then exhaled smoke.
Just then, however, the doorbell suddenly rang.
The electronic doorbell's synthesized notes echoed twice through the empty apartment.
"This song fucking sucks. What's that mean?"
"S-someone's here. But I didn't call anyone."
The Legend's expression changed.
"There was an explosion over in Brooklyn just now. They've sealed off the whole street..."
"Oh, that. I did it."
The Legend wanted to die.
"I'm afraid it's Vought. They'll come after you."
Soldier Boy rested his hand on the shield's rim, slowly tracing the metal curve with his fingertips, a hint of amusement on his face.
"Then let them come..."
Just then, a steady male voice came through the door:
"Mr. Legend, sorry to disturb you. We're from External Relations. Mr. Edgar sent us."
"Fucking... Ben, how about leaving through the terrace? There's still time. There's a fire escape out back."
But Soldier Boy smiled.
Edgar?
Speak of the bastard, and here he fucking came.
Well informed, wasn't he? Like he had a dog's nose.
"No need to hide."
He leisurely moved the shield away from his side and laid it flat on the bar, then slowly blew a smoke ring.
"Open the door. Let's see what this Edgar wants to say to me after thirty-eight years."
Three days had passed since that fight ended.
The private quarters atop Vought Tower had an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, made of one-way bulletproof glass, overlooking the whole Manhattan skyline.
But now every curtain in the room was drawn tightly shut, without so much as a crack.
Even the lights were off.
Homelander sat stark naked on the floor, his back against the edge of the bed, his feet bare, his head tilted back as he stared at the ceiling.
All around him was wreckage.
Smashed ornaments, shattered picture frames, chunks of plasterboard from a wall punched through by a fist.
The twin burn holes in the wall remained, fine plaster dust occasionally crumbling from their edges.
He had sat in the darkness for three days, neither going out nor seeing anyone.
He had canceled every speech, photo shoot, and other commercial promotion the corporation arranged.
In those three days, he had done only one thing.
Smash everything in the room that could be smashed, then sit amid the ruins, glaring at the opposite wall.
There was a mirror on that wall, already smashed by him. Cracks burst outward from its center, cutting his face into a dozen-odd fragments of different sizes.
His reflection looked a wreck.
The bridge of his nose was slightly crooked. The bruising around his left eye had faded a little but hadn't completely disappeared. There were scabs at the corner of his mouth, and some patches of skin on his face had turned pink.
He stared at the mirror. A dozen-odd pairs of eyes in the mirror stared back at him.
Just three days ago, another "him" had gripped his throat and pinned him against a rock on the seabed. A little more, and Heat Vision would have burned through his head.
How many people had he killed in his life?
He couldn't remember.
But he still clearly remembered the final expression of every person who had died at his hands.
That fear and pleading that gave him satisfaction.
Or they turned to ashes before they could even react, their heads bursting like fireworks.
Why...
Why was there someone so strong? Why did that person have his younger face?
I was clearly the strongest, the strongest superhuman in the world.
But why...
What exactly was he, Vought's tool...?
That's it. It had to be that black bastard Edgar, secretly taking my blood and my old experiment reports to create another "me."
Only "I" could have abilities like that.
Was it because I was too strong? They needed a copy to keep me in check, wanted to turn me into Vought's product.
Heat Vision, a body like iron-they hadn't even changed those.
Heh, just a little stronger, that's all. An inferior imitation was still a fake.
Disgusting... false god. I'll only get stronger than him. Just wait.
Edgar... just you wait.
"Do, do, do-"
Just then, the door lock clicked.
Homelander's drooping eyelids twitched, but he did not turn around.
The door opened a crack. Light from the hallway gradually spilled through the gap and fell across his back.
But he did not move, and clearly had no intention of covering himself.
Ashley stood in the doorway with a folder in her hands. Before pushing the door open, she had arranged her expression.
Homelander did not like subordinates with gloomy faces.
She walked in.
With a standard professional smile and a respectful, slightly bowed posture, she had barely parted her lips when her prepared words reached them:
"Boss, there are a few figures I need you to look over..."
Her gaze swept the room, taking in the scraps of cloth and glass shards strewn across the floor, the smashed bedside lamp, and the grandfather clock tipped over in the corner.
She also saw the hole punched into the wall.
Then she saw Homelander sitting stark naked on the floor at the far end of the room, without any clothes on, his back to the door.
"Ah!"
She quickly raised a hand to shield her eyes, nearly dropping the folder.
"I'm sorry, Boss, I didn't mean to. I'll leave right now..."
Her heels clattered as she hastily backed up two steps, her shoulder hitting the doorframe, her hand clamped tightly over her eyes.
"Stay there. Don't come closer."
Homelander's voice came from the far end of the room, flat and very hoarse.
He picked a bottle of milk out of the mess on the floor, unscrewed the cap, and took a swig straight from the bottle. Then he turned his head and stared at Ashley.
Those blue eyes looked a little cloudy in the dim light, but the hairs on Ashley's back still involuntarily stood on end.
"Go on. What figures?"
"Uh, well... Starlight's approval rating has gone up again."
She opened the folder, her fingertips trembling slightly.
"She's already polling three percentage points ahead of you on the East Coast, and her favorability among teenage girls is twice yours.
"Um, marketing suggests that if you'd be willing to appear publicly alongside her once next week, they could launch a joint 'Starlander' promotional campaign."
"Promotional campaign?"
"Yes... please don't be angry when I say this, but it means pushing you two as a ship."
The room fell silent for several seconds. Homelander leaned against the bar, picked up the milk, and took another swig.
A little liquid trickled from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.
"Pushing us as a ship?"
"Boss, it's just cooperation on the publicity front. Starlight would post a photo of you together on social media.
"You'd stand beside her and smile, and marketing would handle the rest. This would actually help boost your approval rating..."
"So what am I, some ridiculous clown?"
Homelander cut Ashley off.
She raised her head and saw his eyes.
An extremely faint ring of red light around their edges was gradually growing brighter.
Ashley was certain she had not blinked just now. That was definitely no fucking illusion.
I'm done for...
She instinctively took a step back, her heel landing on a shard of mirror.
"No, no, no, that's absolutely not what I meant."
She suddenly began speaking faster, so fast that her words became a little garbled.
"You're still ahead in overall approval. There have only been some fluctuations in a few individual demographics, and Starlight's only getting that exposure because she's been touring more lately.
"As soon as your next operation makes the news, the buzz will come right back. Shipping is just a standard proposal, just flowers added to brocade, I swear..."
"Ashley, do you think I need these things too?"
"No, Boss, absolutely not... you're our most important core asset, Vought's cornerstone, the pillar of the entire brand. No one..."
"On your knees."
"Huh?"
Ashley froze for a moment.
Homelander did not repeat himself.
He turned to look at her, stepping on the broken glass as he gradually emerged from the shadows.
Ashley chose to follow her heart and give in.
Glass shards pierced through her stockings into the skin of her lower legs. The pain brought heat to her eyes, but she did not dare look down.
She dropped the folder on the floor beside her, then clasped her hands in front of her knees.
Homelander wrapped a bath towel around himself, then came to a stop before her.
"You know, I'm in a very bad mood right now, and you happen to be here."
He bent down, gripped her chin hard with his hand, and tilted her face up.
Without her noticing, her eye makeup had already smeared. Droplets clung to her false eyelashes, and more kept forming.
"Tell those ungrateful maggots in marketing that I, Homelander, don't need any of that garbage."
"As for that Starlight, tell her to fuck off and dance at some children's nightclub in Manhattan. I think that sounds pretty good."
"Ashley, if I hear another idea like that... I wouldn't mind smearing them all over a breeding-pig farm in Siberia. Understand?"
"...Yes, I, I understand, Boss."
"Anything else?"
"No, nothing."
All she wanted now was to pee.
"Oh, right. Find me all the superhuman files Vought has on record-the intelligence types. Get them to me before tonight."
"Get out."
As though granted a pardon, Ashley hurriedly clutched her lower belly, grabbed the folder, and ran off.