Butcher and the others remained in the basement, their eyes fixed on the television screen—Stan Edgar stood frozen, unable to speak for a long time.
Events were unfolding exactly as Locke had predicted. Neumann had turned against Vought, backhanding their captain out of the core of power.
Everyone knew deep down: for Vought, the sky was about to change.
Still, in the current situation, Stan's fall might not be a bad thing.
"Good man! Locke actually called it!" Hughie was the first to break the silence, his voice tinged with undisguised excitement. "We don't have to stay holed up in this basement anymore, right? Vought won't be coming after us now, will they?"
"Unless they want to compound all the bad press from the 'Hope' project with charges of illegal detention and violations of international humanitarian law—they're not that stupid."
Butcher grabbed a beer can, took a long swig, the alcohol dripping down his chin onto his stained shirt. He wiped his mouth roughly, then doused Hughie's optimism with cold water.
"But you forgot the last thing Locke said."
He looked up, his gaze sweeping over everyone present, his eyes as heavy as the bottom of a frozen pot. After a few seconds, he spoke, each word tightening around their hearts:
"The next person to take the helm at Vought will be Homelander."
Then he pointed with his beer can at the cryo-chamber in the corner and said:
"And as for us—there's no hiding our connection to him. We even brought his father back from Russia. If he finds out, what do you think he'll do?"
"Probably forgive everything and try to make up for lost time."
Just then, Locke appeared in the basement with a dog tied up in a gift ribbon like a private courier delivery. Mother's Milk and Frenchie stood up, watching him warily, while Kimiko shifted into a combat stance.
She sensed a strong feeling of danger from the man before her.
Butcher pointed at the "gift" Locke had brought back and asked:
"What's that?"
"A little present. I'm going to give it to someone tonight." Locke walked over to Mother's Milk very naturally and shook his hand firmly. "Hey, nice to meet you. The name's Locke. You can call me Garou if you want. How about doing me a favor?"
Slightly taken aback by Locke's enthusiasm, Mother's Milk glanced at Butcher, their team leader, who pretended not to see anything, so he agreed.
"What is it?"
"Help me give this gift a sedative. His physiology is pretty average—about four times the normal human dose."
With that, Locke didn't wait for Mother's Milk's response. He turned and walked straight to the cryo-chamber, looking at Soldier Boy with some surprise.
"You actually brought him back?"
"What do you mean? You're the one who reminded us to bring him back, aren't you?"
Locke was momentarily confused by Butcher's question, but quickly realized that the note he'd left earlier must have been found.
He'd just gotten into the habit of jotting things down when thinking, but he hadn't expected them to take it as a literal instruction.
Still, Locke wasn't about to explain. Better to let them think what they wanted. After all, Butcher was a bastard full of lies and selfishness—he was bound to try something eventually.
Might as well let him believe Locke could predict the future. That way, it would be harder for Butcher to play him.
"I didn't actually think you'd bring him back. I figured Mother's Milk would kill him on the spot."
"Of course I wanted to kill him." The mention of Soldier Boy made Mother's Milk's voice drop. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. "But I can't kill that bastard myself, but... they say you can?"
Locke turned to look at Mother's Milk.
When their eyes met, the air between them seemed to freeze. They both saw the same thing in each other's gaze—hatred, rooted deep in bone and blood, gleaming with a cold, sharp edge.
"Of course I can. And I promise you, I will kill him. Because right now, our goals are aligned."
As he spoke, Locke turned his head toward Butcher. He knew the man had always been wary of him, using him only for his hatred of Vought.
But he also knew that while Butcher was using Locke, Locke was using him too.
And now, Locke's words were telling him one thing clearly:
Their goals were the same.
Understanding this, Butcher thought of his late wife, of Homelander's humiliation, of his own rage, his unwillingness, his pain.
In the end, he just flashed his trademark crooked smile, shook his head, and asked:
"So, Mr. Hope, what's your plan? How do you intend to take down the Vought group that locked you up for a year?"
Locke smiled.
"First, we make a delivery."
——————————————————————————————————————
Less than an hour after the press conference began, the board of directors convened an emergency session to hold Stan accountable.
In the end, Stan was forced to take a leave of absence by an overwhelming vote—120 to 20.
A vote count that would have been nearly impossible before. No matter what he did in the past, he could always count on nearly ninety votes.
But the failure of the Hope project, the PR crisis sparked by Homelander, his relentless pursuit of 0165 at any cost, and the Department of Defense's investigation into Elmira's illegal detention facility had all culminated in this humiliating defeat.
In other words, the work of a lifetime had been nearly wiped out by this impeachment.
Stan, full of melancholy, rode the elevator alone to the top floor of Vought Tower—the floor belonging to the Seven.
He stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out at the night. New York's neon lights blurred into hazy phantoms on the glass. In his hand, he held a glass of amber whiskey, its walls beaded with condensation. He drank slowly, using the wine to ease the sorrow of his fall from the pinnacle of power.
The elevator chimed. Stan didn't turn around. In his mind, only one person would come here to mock him.
Homelander.
"If you ask me, the only reason you failed is because you trusted Neumann too much. She's more like you than you think."
An unfamiliar voice sounded in his ears. Stan's heart rang with alarm. He turned in disbelief—but the figure before him was not Homelander.
Locke. "What, surprised to see me?"
Tossing the packaged dog onto the table, Locke sat unceremoniously in Homelander's special seat, looking at Stan before him.
"What, you don't recognize me? You never came to visit me? Did you trust Cyfer that much?"
The name "Cyfer" rang in his ears. Stan's fingers around the glass tensed slightly. The cool condensation seeped into his palm. His eyes lowered almost imperceptibly, and in an instant, he understood what Locke meant.
Without any unnecessary movement, he slowly set the crystal whiskey glass on the marble table with a crisp click, then sat down on the leather seat opposite Locke.
His gaze moved heavily over the man before him—from the corners of his lips to the corners of his cold eyes, inch by inch, as if confirming something.
After a long silence, he finally spoke. His voice was low and deep, wrapped in dust and quiet sighs, concealing an indescribable complexity:
"So we finally meet."