Frenchie gripped his hair. "Why would this happen? How does this happen?" He stared at the back of her skull, his eyes wide and unblinking. "Is she—am I responsible for this? Did I get her killed?"
"She's dead," Jude said, "but only slightly."
He pressed two fingers to her throat, waited, and leaned in to check her breath. "Her vitals are suppressed but present. She's recovering."
Inside the bullet hole at the back of the woman's head, pink, dense tissue knitted together from the margins. It built inward, slow enough to track but far faster than natural healing.
"The heart wound was severe," Jude said. "The skull wound was worse. She's healing from both. Based on this rate, her skull will have full structural integrity in thirty minutes." He tilted his head. "Her regeneration is pushing the threshold of immortal healing. She might be one of the most significant experimental results we've found."
Frenchie watched the tissue mend and finally exhaled.
Jude looked over at him. "Why do you care about her so much?"
Frenchie didn't answer.
"You don't know each other. It wasn't about her appearance, from what I can tell." Jude kept his voice even. "Is there something you aren't saying?"
Frenchie looked out the window.
"We'll leave it, then." Jude leaned back against the seat. "Head to the workshop first. Clean up the blood, change clothes. We made a large enough scene that Vought will realize someone is hitting them."
"We're covered," M.M. said from the passenger seat, taking off his sunglasses. "Hoodies, masks, and we're wearing the same coats as the basement crew. The best they can pull from the footage is rough height and build."
"There is no footage," Jude said. "I cut the feeds from the street cameras and the shop networks before we went in."
Butcher kept his eyes on the road. "Shame you didn't shoot them in the head. Dead witnesses are tidier than sleeping ones."
"We couldn't kill everyone who saw us in the street. Chinatown doesn't clear out that fast." Jude paused. "But the guards—you're right about the outcome, just not the mechanism. They'll face Vought's cleanup process once this traces back. Vought losing eight vials of Compound V and a research subject from a secure site means someone is taking the fall, and the people on duty are the most available targets." He looked out the window. "Waking up in that supply basement might be the most comfortable part of their week."
M.M. turned around in his seat. He looked at the back of the car, then locked eyes with Jude.
"One man suppressing over a dozen armed shooters with two pistols. The kung fu that works on supes. The stealth. The gourd. The cat." M.M. ticked them off on his fingers. "You said you're an ordinary East Asian guy who made friends with Superman and moved to New York. None of that explains what I've been watching all day."
"Speaking of which," Butcher said, checking the rearview mirror. "I don't see the blood on your leg or side anymore. Are you actually healed already?"
"Our recovery compound has an immediate effect." Jude reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, round object. It was jade-green and trembling slightly in his palm, organic and unsettled. "I was saving this. Now is the right moment."
He looked at the woman and tossed it at her.
It struck her face and burst.
A fine green mist expanded outward. It smelled of fresh herbs and something sweet, filling the back of the car in seconds before spilling into the front. The healing effect was instantaneous. Jude's bullet wounds had already sealed from the gourd, but his lingering inflammation vanished. The woman's visible injuries closed over. The minor cuts and grazes Frenchie, Butcher, and M.M. had picked up during the gunfight disappeared as the mist touched their skin.
The cabin smelled strongly of crushed herbs.
"Right," M.M. said. "Eastern wizard. That settles it."
"No."
"Some kind of Japanese government research program? Tokyo University investigators specializing in superhuman activity?" Butcher rubbed his jaw. "Makes a certain amount of sense. Superhumans that powerful—if Homelander ever ended up in a foreign military, he'd be a massive threat to any country."
"What you're describing isn't the threat," Jude said. "If Homelander enters the US military structure, the first thing at risk is the United States itself. You've investigated Vought for years. Do you actually believe Homelander would be a cooperative soldier who takes orders and attends briefings?" He looked at the back of Butcher's head. "Would the military command him, or would he command the military?"
Butcher's grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel. He stayed quiet.
"My point," Jude continued, "is that this team exists because we share a goal. That's the foundation, not our origins. Even if I were exactly what you're speculating—a foreign intelligence asset—would you stop going after Vought?"
"That's not the only concern," Butcher said. "What if you're here to acquire the Compound V formula? The production methodology? If someone were trying to steal that for their own program—"
"I wouldn't be doing it this way." Jude cut across him, keeping his tone light. "Clark is already inside Vought. He has access to internal systems, personnel, and research records—things that would take me months to approach from the outside. If acquiring the formula were the objective, a technical role inside Vought was the obvious move. It would have also been significantly safer than getting shot twice this afternoon."
The car fell silent again.
"Anyway," Jude said, shifting against the door. "Let's talk about Frenchie."
Butcher seized the subject change. "Why were you so concerned about that woman?"
"We need to be sure," M.M. added. "Whether a meta's power is affecting you, or it's a personal connection we should know about."
Frenchie dragged a thumb across his knuckles, staring down at his lap. The silence stretched out.
Jude's eyes flicked downward. Just a fraction, a micro-shift in focus.
Frenchie looked down at his hands. "It is not difficult to explain," he said quietly. "It is simply the past. Things I do not usually wish to bring up. But I have been thinking about it. At some point, I will have to face it anyway."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigarette. He didn't seem to notice the faint smear of dried blood on the paper.
"You all know I am French. That I went from France to Russia, and then here." He clicked his lighter and inhaled. "But I have never explained why I left France in the first place. Neither of you has ever asked."
Butcher met M.M.'s eyes in the rearview mirror. M.M. gave a slight nod. It was true. In all the years they had worked together, Frenchie had never mentioned France as anything more than a point of origin.
"My parents divorced when I was young. I was living with my mother in Marseille." He took a long drag on the cigarette and exhaled a thin stream of smoke. "My father was not satisfied with the arrangement. So one night, he came to Marseille. After midnight, he came into our house and took me."