The plan was insanity, a house of cards built on a foundation of luck and arrogance. Specifically, Homelander's arrogance. Maeve laid it out in the sterile silence of my cell, her voice a low, tactical murmur.
"He doesn't believe anyone would dare," she explained, pulling up a holographic schematic of the penthouse from a hidden data-slate. "His security is designed to keep out corporate spies and government agents, not someone already inside the castle walls. The primary defenses are biometric: retinal, palm, and vocal print. All Homelander."
"So we need him to open the door," I stated the obvious.
"We need a recording of him opening the door," she corrected. "A high-fidelity, three-factor authentication sample. Retina scan, palm print on the reader, and his vocal passphrase."
"Which is?"
"'I am home.'" Maeve's lip curled in disgust. "The sentimental bastard."
The sheer, theatrical vanity of it was breathtaking. It was perfect.
"The problem," Maeve continued, zooming in on the schematic, "is the internal security. The moment that door opens without him physically being there, it triggers a silent alarm linked directly to his personal comm and Black Noir's. We'll have five minutes, maybe less, before one or both of them are on us. The place is also littered with motion sensors and pressure plates."
"I can handle the internal security," I said, the plan crystallizing in my mind. It was a desperate gamble, a symphony of power that would require perfect timing. "Graviton can manipulate the air density to avoid pressure plates. A low-level, wide-area telekinetic field can hold the air molecules in the path of the motion sensors perfectly still. I'll be a ghost. But I can't do that and search for the record at the same time. Not in five minutes."
"You won't have to," Maeve said, a flicker of grim satisfaction in her eyes. "I know where he keeps his toys."
She pointed to a section of the schematic labeled 'Collections Room.' "He's got everything in there. Props from his first movie, the cape from his first public appearance, a statue of himself made of solid gold. He's a magpie with a god complex. If the record exists, it's in there. Probably displayed in a place of honor."
"So, the play is this," I summarized, the pieces slotting into place. "You get me the biometric sample. I create the diversion of a lifetime to draw Homelander and Noir as far from the tower as possible. In the ensuing chaos, you use the sample to open the door. I ghost in, grab the record, and ghost out."
"The diversion," Maeve said, her eyes narrowing. "It has to be big. It has to be you. And it has to look like you're making a desperate, final stand. He has to believe you're cornered and lashing out."
I nodded, the weight of it settling on me. "I know just the place."