They didn't let us finish.
As Homelander descended for what I knew would be a truly apocalyptic round two, the Vought damage control machine kicked into overdrive. A squadron of Vought-branded VTOL jets swooped in, their loudspeakers blaring about a "rogue Supe incident" and ordering an immediate evacuation. Tear gas canisters were launched into the stands, creating a smokescreen of chaos. The live feeds were abruptly cut, replaced by a stern-faced news anchor talking about "technical difficulties."
It was a full-scale retreat. They were pulling Homelander back from the brink, and me along with him. A public execution was one thing; a protracted battle that leveled a city block was a PR nightmare even Vought couldn't spin.
Homelander hovered, glaring at the VTOLs as they positioned themselves between us. I could see the war in his eyes—the desire to swat them out of the sky and finish me warring with the ingrained, corporate-conditioned need to protect the brand.
He pointed a finger at me, his voice a low, venomous promise that carried through the rotor wash. "This isn't over. We're just moving to a private venue."
He turned and shot skyward, a red and blue streak vanishing into the clouds. The moment he was gone, the pressure in the air vanished. I let my power subside, the black lightning flickering out. The sudden silence was as shocking as the battle had been.
I stood alone in the wrecked parking lot, surrounded by the evidence of our brief, violent dance. My body ached in a dozen new places. The broken collar hung loose around my neck, a symbol of a freedom that felt more like a death sentence.
I was escorted back to Vought Tower not by security, but by a full contingent of Black Noir's personal squad. There were no words. The message was clear: I was too dangerous for my apartment. I was taken to a sub-basement level, to a cell that was no longer gilded. The walls were a featureless, energy-absorbent alloy. The door was a slab of solid tungsten. This was the real prison.
Hours passed. There was no debrief from Mallory. No visit from Edgar. Only the hum of the null-field generators and the cold certainty of my situation. I had played my hand, and while I had survived, I had also confirmed every one of Homelander's suspicions. I was a threat. And he would now deal with me as such.
The door hissed open. It wasn't a guard. It was Queen Maeve.
She looked as tired as I felt, but there was a new, fierce light in her eyes. She tossed me a clean set of clothes and a bottle of water.
"Nice mess," she said, her voice echoing in the sterile room.
"He was going to drop a stadium wall on a thousand people," I replied, my voice hoarse.
"I know. I saw." She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "A-Train's a selfish prick, but he's not stupid. He knows there's no franchise if there's no audience."
"What's the damage?" I asked, pulling on the shirt.
"Contained. Officially, it was a 'training accident with a unstable Supe'—that's you—that Homelander heroically contained. A few dozen injuries, no fatalities. A miracle, they're calling it." She gave a bitter smirk. "The stock price dipped, then rebounded. Nothing says 'strong leadership' like putting down a rebellion."
"And him?"
"Fuming. Edgar's got him on a short leash for now. The 'Swiss incident' followed by a live televised brawl is making even the board nervous. But it won't last." She looked at me, her gaze intense. "You proved you can hurt him. That changes everything. He can't tolerate that. He'll come for you, and soon. It won't be a fight. It will be an execution."
"I know."
"So?" she prompted. "The collar's off. You've got the world's attention. What's the next move, 'Mr. Chairman'?"
I finished the water, the cool liquid a blessing on my raw throat. The battle, for all its terror, had been clarifying. The voices in my head were no longer a chaotic council. They were instruments, and I was the musician. I had faced a god and lived. The fear was still there, but it was a tool now, a sharpening stone.
"The next move," I said, meeting her gaze, "is to stop reacting and start acting. Homelander thinks the penthouse is his sanctuary. He thinks the Sibyl Code is a forgotten ghost."
I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a whisper.
"While he's planning my execution, we're going to break into his home and steal the sound of his own heartbeat. We're going to find the record."
A slow, grim smile spread across Maeve's face. It was the first real smile I'd ever seen from her. It was a terrifying and beautiful thing.
"Now you're talking," she said. "Let's go rob a god."