"At this point, whether I can or not doesn't fucking matter," Homelander said, stepping out of the cockpit with a lazy grin plastered on his face. He spread his arms toward the panicked passengers. "Alright, folks, stay calm. Stay in your seats. Everything's under control."
Maeve followed him out. "You need to get out there and lift the plane."
"Lift it? With what, my dick? There's nothing to stand on, just air," Homelander shrugged, palms up.
"You can fly above it and straighten the damn thing out."
He shook his head. "At this speed? Either the plane flips or I punch straight through the fuselage like a goddamn missile."
The jet jolted again. Screams ripped through the cabin. Homelander actually let out an amused little "woo," then turned and flashed the passengers a thumbs-up. "Hey, relax, everybody! Just a little rough air. We'll be fine in a second."
"Okay, you can carry the passengers down one by one—" Maeve started.
Homelander cut her off with a sharp laugh. "You want me to make a hundred and twenty-three fucking trips? Maeve, please. I'm Homelander, not your goddamn babysitter." His expression went ice-cold. "Our mission ends here."
The passengers finally caught on. They were being ditched.
They started begging, voices cracking, pleading with both supes not to leave them to die.
Maeve looked torn as hell, but Homelander had already yanked open the cabin door, cold wind screaming in.
No way around it. Maeve tried to grab the two terrified kids clinging to her. "Take them with us. Please, just save them."
Homelander shut that shit down instantly.
"Save them? So they can run their mouths to the whole world about how we ditched everyone else?"
His eyes started glowing red. The kill itch was kicking in hard—he was even thinking about lasering Maeve right there to tie up loose ends. He roared at the crowd of passengers shoving forward, "Stay the fuck back! I swear to God I'll cut every last one of you in half!"
Maeve's shoulders slumped. She had no choice. She followed Homelander out the door.
The passengers watched their backs disappear into the howling sky, eyes dead with pure hopelessness.
...
Out in the New York suburbs, a small villa sat tucked away from the road.
Ivan Greevs stood shirtless in the basement training room, hard muscle gleaming under the lights—lean, sculpted, the kind of body that'll make any calvin clain model insecure.
He was testing just how much the reinforced healing fusion had cranked his power level.
A neat row of rubber training dummies waited like silent targets.
Ivan's arms melted and reformed into razor-sharp blades with a wet crack. His legs twisted and bulked into sleek, cheetah-like springs. Two meaty bulges swelled on his back, twisting and stretching as leathery wing structures tried to take shape.
"Nope. Body's still too weak. The split juvenile cells don't last for shit." The half-formed wings on his back shriveled up, turned gray, and crumbled away into dust.
"Thirty-seven percent fusion isn't enough to overhaul the physique yet… but it's definitely stronger than before."
The second the words left his mouth, Ivan exploded forward. His legs blurred. He tore through the dummy line like a goddamn ghost, leaving afterimages in the air. Cold steel flashed nonstop until the last dummy's head rolled across the floor with a heavy thunk.
Only then did his arms melt back into normal hands.
"Three seconds. Average speed thirteen meters per second." Ivan Greevs checked the readout on the machine and muttered to himself.
Back in the study, he locked the remaining vials of Compound V inside the safe. Right now the only supe he actually worried about was Homelander.
That laser-eyed cunt was the only one crazy enough to search his place on a whim. But as long as Madeline was alive, Homelander wouldn't touch him. Not openly. Ivan was a Vought executive now—untouchable on paper.
"Four vials just to crawl from two percent to thirty-seven. Figures. Same resistance buildup as every other fucking drug." He smirked. "God knows how many thousands of vials Vought pumped into Homelander to make him what he is."
He pulled a thick animal anatomy textbook off the shelf. Useful shit. He'd dropped serious cash—tens of thousands of dollars—to fill the entire bookcase with stuff like this.
Ivan dropped onto the living room couch, flicked on the TV, and switched to the news channel.
Half an hour later, the segment he'd been waiting for came on.
"We interrupt with breaking news on Flight 37. North American Air Defense has just confirmed the hijacked plane has lost all contact. Radar and satellite imagery have gone dark. The situation is rapidly deteriorating. Search aircraft have begun sweeping the Atlantic flight path…"
The anchor's voice stayed professionally grim. "We will continue to follow this story. Our thoughts and prayers are with everyone on board."
"He's Homelander. There is no 'something goes wrong.' Okay?" Ivan mimicked Madeline's words, then shook his head. "Wonder how Madeline's handling this right now."
Setting the book aside. He picked up his phone and dialed The Deep.
"It's me. Ivan."
"Mr. Greevs, sir. What can I do for you?" The Deep sounded winded. In the background, dolphin clicks and squeaks filled the line.
"Where the hell are you?" Ivan asked.
"I'm out at the Oceanic Park, filming with the dolphins—hey, easy there, beautiful ladies! I'm on important business right now."
The sound of The Deep frantically shoving away pushy female dolphins came through loud and clear.
"Know about the hijacked Flight 37?" Ivan asked.
"Heard something about it. Why?" The Deep still had no clue the plane had gone dark.
"It's lost contact. I need you to get your ass out over the Atlantic right now. Have your fish friends locate the wreckage and bring me the black box. This stays between us. Nobody else hears about it—not Vought, not Homelander, nobody."
The Deep went quiet, clearly wrestling with it. Finding the wreck would be child's play for him. The problem was the rest of the order. What the fuck did Ivan want with it? And if Homelander ever found out he'd kept something this big hidden…
"I'll approve double the funding for that dolphin rescue and migration program."
That was the final straw.
The Deep clenched his jaw. "Fine. I'm heading out now. You'd better keep your word."
"Smart choice, Deep. Pleasure doing business."
Inside the villa, Ivan hung up. His eyes drifted to the Homelander-branded cola bottle sitting on the coffee table. A slow, nasty little smile crept across his face.
___
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Read 12 Advance Chapters—P@t- Captain69