Steve was in a surprisingly good mood for someone whose negotiations had stalled.
Beside him, his son studied a photo with deep focus. The inscription—To Mason — Strive for the Top—and the signature below it held the boy's attention in a way Steve rarely saw. Steve watched him for a moment and smiled.
The talks with Stillwell hadn't completely fallen apart. That was the reason for his good mood. About thirty minutes before boarding the plane—roughly twenty minutes after leaving Stillwell's office empty-handed—his phone had rung.
It was Stillwell.
"Stillwell." He had allowed a trace of surprise into his voice. "I didn't expect to hear from you again tonight."
"Two hundred and thirty million. Per year. All other conditions remain as discussed."
Steve's expression hadn't changed. He had spent enough time at negotiating tables to know surprise was a weapon better kept sheathed.
"That's a reasonable number," he had replied. "Thank you."
"One more thing, Steve." Her pause was deliberate, precise. "Any rumors you may have heard regarding a substance called Compound V—they are exactly that. Slander. The kind of thing competitors invent to damage a company's public standing. Rumors spread, but they rarely survive the goodwill of those who understand their origin."
"Of course." Steve had nodded slowly. "I know how damaging that kind of thing can be to an organization's reputation. Like I said—Vought is a friend, and I am not in the habit of causing trouble for friends."
They had ended the call with the pleasant, hollow formalities of two people who had just reached an acceptable compromise.
Steve leaned back against the seat cushions and watched the city lights blur beneath the plane. Honestly, he had been prepared for the deal to collapse. Mentioning Compound V had been a calculated risk. He knew it existed, and he knew credible sources treated it as real, but he hadn't had the time or resources to find out exactly what it was before using it as leverage.
Her call confirmed his gamble had paid off. Stillwell was hosting half the Senate Appropriations Committee at a Vought dinner tomorrow night; two independent sources had told him as much last month. If that dinner went well, Vought's supes would be integrated into the US military. The contracts and authority would dwarf their current operations. With those stakes, silencing a public scandal about their core product was easily worth a thirty-million-dollar concession.
He had pressed the right button at the perfect time. The gamble worked.
He closed his eyes.
The plane shuddered.
"Just turbulence," Steve said, keeping his eyes shut. He reached over and squeezed his son's shoulder. "Nothing to worry about."
"Dad."
His son's voice was strained.
"Why is Homelander outside the window?"
Steve opened his eyes. He turned his head.
Through the reinforced glass, a silhouette moved against the dark clouds. It was tracking the plane at cruising altitude, staying just out of clear focus but close enough to reveal an unmistakable human outline. A body moving through thin air at hundreds of miles an hour.
Steve looked back at his son.
The boy was completely still. Steve felt his own face freeze. The realization hit him, rewriting everything he thought he knew about the last hour.
Homelander is here to kill me.
The thought was cold and absolute. A minute ago, Steve hadn't known what Compound V was—only that it was real, important, and gave him leverage. Now, looking at the shape outside the window, he understood he had reached into a dark room without checking what was inside.
Whatever Compound V was, it was important enough for Vought to send Homelander after a private jet in the middle of the night.
He should have investigated it before using it as a threat.
The faint red in the shape's eyes began to glow.
A hand settled on the shape's shoulder.
"It's getting late." The voice cut through the reinforced glass as if the speaker were sitting in the cabin. "We should head back before Madelyn realizes we're both gone."
The red light faded.
The shape turned, and Steve finally saw the two figures floating in the moonlight above the plane. One wore the suit Steve had seen on every billboard and broadcast for fifteen years. The other wore blue and red.
Superman.
Steve exhaled.
"Why are you here?"
Homelander's voice was tight, the anger barely contained. He hated Clark in this moment, and the fact that he couldn't act on that hatred only made it worse.
"I saw you leave the building and follow the plane," Clark said. "I thought I should see what was happening."
The two of them hovered in the clouds. Far below, the city glowed; to the south, the plane's navigation lights faded into the distance.
"Luckily, I did. You were about to make a significant mistake."
"A mistake." Homelander's anger sharpened. "Do you know what he did? Do you know what's at stake? I was handling a problem for Vought."
"There were children on that plane," Clark said. "Women. People who had nothing to do with whatever happened in Stillwell's office. What you were about to do was not heroic."
"Heroic." Homelander repeated the word slowly, as if dissecting it. "What are you talking about? Are you telling me you believe all of it? The packaging? The brand?"
Clark didn't answer.
"Superhero?" Homelander chuckled, the sound hollow against the empty sky. "God, I hate that word. It's a marketing term, a little buzzword for the shareholders. We aren't heroes, you idiot. We're better. We are gods walking among ants. We can tear down their little skyscrapers, fly through the clouds, and do whatever the hell we want—and you honestly think we should live by their rules? Live inside their pathetic, fragile little cages?"
He floated a fraction of an inch closer, his eyes widening with a terrifying, unblinking intensity.
"Look at you. You want to be a saint. You want to play the big, benevolent savior to a bunch of useless, crying mudpeople who couldn't stop you if they tried. But then? Then you turn right around and play the obedient, muzzle-wearing dog for a bunch of suits in a boardroom. A handsome, righteous little puppet dancing on Vought's strings for a crowd of thousands."
His voice abruptly dropped to a harsh, skin-crawling whisper, the faint whine of his eyes charging with heat vision barely audible.
"Does that actually make you feel special? Because from where I'm standing... it just looks pathetic."
Clark turned away and flew back toward the city.
He didn't speed up. He drifted at the pace of a slow walk, his cape rippling gently in the high-altitude wind.
"Superheroes aren't saints," Clark said, speaking to the empty air ahead. "They aren't gods. They aren't performances of virtue for the cameras. They're people. People who just happen to be better at certain things than most."
He didn't look back to see if Homelander was following.
"I have known people, Homelander, who were stronger than me in ways that had nothing to do with lifting weight or flying fast. An ordinary man—no powers, nothing special about his biology—who decided a city full of criminals needed someone to fight back. And he did it. Night after night, alone, for over a decade. Against impossible odds. He never stopped."
The city lights grew brighter below them.
"I have known a detective who looked at the most dangerous city in the country and chose to move there. He stayed. He took the bullets. He nearly died—more than a dozen times. And he kept going."
"I have known a man who left his life behind, spent every dollar he had, and drove across the country for a dying wife, simply because leaving her wasn't an option."
He flew in silence for a few seconds.
"Before I came to Vought, I was a superhero. Before I was a superhero, I was a man. The difference never mattered to me." He paused. "I have thought about it many times—whether I could do what they did, in their position, with their limitations. Whether I would have the same courage. The same endurance."
"The answer is always no."
He leveled out, heading straight for the illuminated Vought tower in the distance.
"Human courage impresses me far more than superhero strength."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~