"So after all that, he took you to Russia?"
"Him?" A sound caught in Frenchie's throat, stopping short of a laugh. "He didn't have the spine for that. He was an ordinary alcoholic with no actual occupation. He would not have survived a week in a foreign country."
He breathed smoke out through the window. The thin gray trail drifted into the wind, the only movement in the quiet cabin.
"He took me away from Marseille. Away from my mother. We moved constantly. Hotels, apartments, whatever he could find. I never knew where the money came from. Probably better that I didn't." He paused. "Every few nights, he would take me outside. A walk, a cigarette. He would tell me that he loved me very much."
Frenchie stared at the burning cigarette between his fingers, fixated on the red cherry at the tip. His jaw tightened.
He reached over and stubbed the cherry out on his sleeve. He wore a coat taken from the basement guard. He left the ash smeared on the fabric and reached down, pulling up his trouser leg.
Dense, circular scars ran in deliberate, methodical rows along his calf. The skin had healed over the burns countless times, leaving thick, raised tissue.
"Every time he said he loved me, he burned me with the cigarette afterward," Frenchie said. "So I would know he meant it, I suppose."
The car fell silent.
"Reproductive capacity and parental capacity are different skills," Jude said. "Some people have only the first." He looked out the window. "If you had grown up in Gotham with that history, I could tell you exactly how it ends. There is a template. A child with an absent or abusive parent, constant flight and recapture, no stable identity. The city practically manufactures a particular type from that material. It is a good thing you are not from there. Gotham has more than enough of them already."
Frenchie stared at his leg. He rolled the fabric back down.
"I tried to escape constantly. I can't tell you how many times. Buses, trains. I would jump on whatever was moving and try to get back to Marseille. He always caught me. Every single time. I don't know how."
He tossed the dead cigarette out the window.
"Eventually, I stopped trying. And then one day, I was bigger than him."
He kept his eyes on the passing streetlights.
"He couldn't catch me anymore. I didn't go back to Marseille. I knew he would be there waiting, and I was tired. So I went east instead. Russia. Then New York. The rest you know. Underground work with Sherry and Jay."
Butcher kept his eyes on the road. M.M. sat motionless in the passenger seat. Jude watched Frenchie. Nobody spoke.
Frenchie turned his head toward the woman lying beside him in the back seat.
She was unconscious, her face turned slightly to the side. Her hair hung in matted clumps. Dirt caked her long nails. The muscles in her jaw and shoulders remained entirely rigid, her body locked in a state of permanent combat readiness. Even sedated and healing, her posture rejected safety.
Loneliness, Jude noted. Pain. A long, sustained fear.
"The moment I saw her," Frenchie said, his eyes tracing the line of her shoulder, "I recognized it. She and I are the same type. Both people who wanted to go home."
His voice dropped, the edges smoothing out.
"We don't know how long she was in that room. We don't know how many times they injected her, how many tests they ran. But when we found her, she was under that table watching television. Japanese programming. Her language. Her voice." He rubbed his thumb against his forefinger. "I realized I hadn't heard a single French word in a long time. I stopped noticing that I stopped hearing it."
He leaned back against the seat.
"So I want to help her. And if it is possible, when this is over, I want to get her home."
The tight set of the woman's jaw loosened. The rigid line across her shoulders dropped, sinking into the upholstery by slow, involuntary degrees. Her eyelids stopped trembling.
Jude kept his mouth shut. He had been composing a brief phrase in Japanese in his head, something to serve the exact function Frenchie had just fulfilled.
"Frenchie," Jude said, keeping his tone level. "You said everything that needed to be said. That saved me a significant amount of effort." He looked at the woman. "You can stop pretending to be asleep now."
She didn't move.
Jude listened. The rhythm of her breathing shifted, deepening into the steady, unregulated draw of actual sleep. The performance had ended minutes ago. She had drifted off while Frenchie spoke.
"Hm." Jude looked from her to Frenchie. "One more thing."
"What?"
"Do you want a wife?"
Frenchie blinked. "What are you talking about?"
"I am talking about your current situation. You have a woman who is fond of you and has known you for some time. You also have this woman here, who possesses near-immortal regenerative capacity and enough physical strength to leave a dent in concrete." Jude tilted his head. "A person with those properties, experiencing romantic disappointment, could divide another person into five approximately equal portions. I want you to be aware of the situation before you make any decisions."
"That's—"
"I'm not judging. I'm doing math."
They pulled up to the workshop thirty minutes later. Frenchie's trading space served as the team's base of operations, an arrangement he had accepted the moment the Golden Pumpkin settled the issue.
Frenchie stayed in the back seat. He reached over and gently shook the woman's shoulder.
She opened her eyes.
She sat up slowly, scanning the car interior, then looking at Frenchie. She showed no alarm. After a sedated capture, a bullet through the skull, and a ride in a stolen Chevrolet, her threshold for disruption was remarkably high.
When Frenchie stepped out, she followed.
Sherry met them at the door.
"Frenchie—" She stopped, her eyes tracking past him. "Who is this?"
"Experimental subject. We don't know her name yet." Frenchie stepped into the hall. "She doesn't seem to speak, but she understands English. She needs a bath and clean clothes. Could you help her?"
Sherry stared at the woman, then at Frenchie. She took a slow, deliberate breath.
"Of course."
Frenchie motioned toward Sherry. The woman looked at Sherry, reached out, and lightly pinched the edge of her sleeve. She followed her down the hall.
"She's a supe," Frenchie called out. "She's considerably stronger than she looks. Just be aware."
"Wonderful," Sherry called back. Her flat tone left no room for interpretation.
Ten minutes later, the team regrouped in the main room. Fresh clothes, washed hands.
"What's the next move?" M.M. asked. He dropped into a chair, steering the focus back to the center of the room. "We have physical evidence, a batch of Compound V, and witness testimony from tonight's operation. That's more than we had yesterday. But it's not enough to take anywhere serious. We need documentary records. Paper files, video recordings, something that holds up in front of someone who matters."
Butcher leaned against the workbench. "I know people. Don't worry about that side. I have contacts who can handle evidence."
"If you're thinking about the CIA—"
"Colonel Mallory retired," Butcher cut in. "I'm not going through the CIA. I have my own approach."
"So we're looking at two threads," Jude said from across the room. "Go back to Sage Grove and find the Lamplighter, or go after Samaritan's Embrace."
He held Lamplighter's notebook. He had been turning it over in his hands since they sat down. He tossed it onto the table.
"Let me frame this properly. The Lamplighter is the shadow of your past. He is the reason you are each carrying something you have carried for years. Going after him is personal. It is the resolution of something unfinished." He looked at the men around the table. "Samaritan's Embrace connects to the Compound V transport chain. Specifically, the origin of that chain. Based on what we took from that facility, that means the infants and children dosed to become superhumans."
He tapped the notebook's cover.
"Choose. Revenge first, or children first?"
The workshop went silent.
Butcher stared at the notebook. He usually had an answer ready before a question finished. Half a minute passed. He crossed his arms and kept staring.
"Are you going to let us choose?" Butcher asked.
Jude smiled.
"No," he said. "Whatever you're thinking, you're coming with me to deal with the children first."
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