In Times Square, every massive screen that usually peddled sodas and streaming services was now a window into hell. The live Vought+ feed, broadcast by embedded media drones, was raw, uncensored, and utterly hypnotic. Below, on the crowded streets, a festival atmosphere had taken hold.
The crowd roared with approval as Queen Maeve nonchalantly tore a man in half. They cheered when Stormfront's dark lightning turned a bunker to ash. This wasn't a tragedy; it was the season finale of the world's greatest action movie, and they had front-row seats.
"No way, dude, did you see that?" a teenager shouted to his friend, pointing a hotdog at a 100-foot screen. "Homelander's laser just went through a building! A WHOLE BUILDING!"
"Yeah, but A-Train is way cooler!" his friend shot back, eyes wide with manic excitement. "He ran right through that guy! He just went splat! It was like a blood tornado!"
They didn't see terrorists being massacred. They saw spectacular special effects. The gouts of blood, the screams cut short, the sheer, unrestrained brutality—it was all just part of the show, a visceral thrill that sent waves of adrenaline through the cheering masses. Their guardians were winning, and that was all that mattered.
In the stark, oppressive silence of Billy Butcher's secret base, the scene played out on a single flickering television, the cheers of the distant crowd a sickening counterpoint to the carnage. The four of them watched, frozen in a state of horrified disbelief.
"My God…" Hughie whispered, his face pale. "They're not even fighting them anymore. They're… they're just tearing them apart."
MM leaned forward, his analytical mind struggling to process the data. "Their power output is off the charts. That's not a normal enhancement. Look at the armor—it's fused to them. It's… alive."
"Mon Dieu," Frenchie breathed, his gaze fixed on the screen. "Look at his face. Homelander. The fake, plastic smile is gone. This is not the hero. This is the monster beneath."
"The monster was always there," Billy growled, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of a table. "The leash just finally snapped."
He'd dreamed of this, of the world seeing Homelander for what he was. But the reality was far more terrifying than he could have imagined. Their strength had grown tenfold. The raw, unrestrained violence was something new, something feral.
"It's their minds," MM stated, pointing a thick finger at the screen where A-Train was vibrating with manic energy. "They're broken. Completely unhinged."
"But it's not all of them," Hughie said, his brow furrowed in confusion. He rewound the footage, pointing to a specific moment. "Look. Homelander, Maeve, A-Train, Noir, even Stormfront—they're all completely feral. But look at Starlight."
On the screen, Starlight stood with a chilling calm, her hands glowing with violet light. She wasn't rampaging. She wasn't roaring. She was methodically and efficiently using her powers to trap fleeing targets, serving them up for the others. Her expression wasn't one of madness, but of serene, absolute focus. It was, in its own way, even more terrifying than Homelander's rabid fury.
"What the hell happened to them?" Billy muttered, trying to piece it together.
"That fight," Hughie said suddenly, a spark of recognition in his eyes. "When they went after Vought's old boss, Stan Edgar. They were strange then, too. Uncoordinated, angry. But this… this is a hundred times worse."
Billy nodded slowly, a dark theory forming in his mind. "Maybe getting their asses kicked over and over by that Void bastard finally broke them. Constant failure, humiliation… it'd be enough to drive anyone mad."
For a moment, it made sense. The repeated, effortless defeats at the hands of Marcus must have shattered their god-complexes. But Hughie quickly found the hole in the theory.
"Then what about Starlight?" he asked, the question hanging in the air. "She was there for every single one of those beatdowns. She probably got hit the hardest. If repeated trauma was the trigger, she should be the craziest of the lot. So why is she the only one who looks like she's still… thinking?"
Silence fell over the room again. The puzzle was maddening, but a new, dangerous realization began to dawn on Billy. His eyes, fixed on Homelander vaporizing another victim, began to gleam with a grim light.
"Let them watch," he whispered, a humorless smirk twisting his lips. "Let the whole bloody world get a good long look at what their precious heroes really are when they're off the leash."
"And when the world sees, Billy?" MM asked, his voice low and heavy with concern. "When everyone realizes they've been cheering for a pack of rabid dogs? Who puts them down then? Us?"
The implication was clear. This was their chance, the opportunity they had been waiting for. But the force they would have to confront was no longer just a corrupt corporation's prize asset. It was a force of nature, a walking apocalypse.
High above the inferno, cloaked in a shimmering distortion of light and shadow, Marcus floated. He had teleported to the scene moments after unleashing their potential, eager to witness his art firsthand. He breathed in the air, thick with the smell of burnt ozone and iron, and smiled. The screams were a symphony, the explosions a thunderous percussion.
The performance was even more spectacular than he had anticipated. They were tireless killing machines, their corrupted minds now incapable of restraint or exhaustion. They were pure expressions of power.
"Beautiful," he thought, savoring the brutal ballet below. He decided to add a final touch to his masterpiece.
He didn't speak a word, but instead sent a wave of pure, refined Void energy washing over them—a telepathic injection of emotion.
To Homelander, it was a feeling of ultimate validation, the roar of a billion souls screaming his name in worship, confirming his absolute godhood.
To A-Train, it was a hit of pure, uncut adrenaline, the feeling of reality itself bending to his speed.
To Queen Maeve, it was the blissful release of all weariness and doubt, leaving only the purity of unstoppable strength.
And to Starlight, it was a cold, clear whisper of absolute certainty, reinforcing the righteous, logical necessity of every action she took.
A collective, inhuman roar erupted from the Seven on the battlefield. The violence, already at a fever pitch, escalated into a crescendo of utter annihilation. The hunt intensified, their movements becoming even faster, their attacks even more devastating.
Marcus watched, his work complete. The world was watching in awe. The Boys were watching in horror. And he, the conductor, was simply enjoying the music.
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