Stillwell's eyes were fixed on the massive wall-mounted monitors. Eight different feeds were playing the same footage: the "rogue Supe" flying above the sea before taking a Vought asset down into the water to God knows where.
She turned her chair slowly to Ashley "Can you imagine? While we were struggling to convince the Department of Defense that they needed us... this happens. It's just... perfect."
"Perfect?" Ashley stood frozen, wondering if she was hearing right or if her brain had finally snapped. Was this a "normal" perfect, or a "Madelyn-is-about-to-kill-someone" perfect?
"What do you see, Ashley?" Stillwell asked, her eyes never leaving the screen where the golden kid was flying above the sea now.
"A... a rogue Supe, ma'am. Killing people. A total disaster."
"No, Ashley," Stillwell said, a cold, sharp smile playing on her lips. "This is an arms race."
"Arms race, ma'am?"
"Yes. The United States of America is under attack by Russian Supes," Stillwell said, her voice filled with a calm, terrifying authority. "First, an unknown female supe executes Great Wide Wonder draining him of all his blood and bone marrow, and now this rogue monster is slaughtering American citizens on American soil. Ashley. This is an invasion."
Ashley was so stunned she couldn't speak, but her eyes sparked as she realized the genius of it. In one sentence, Madelyn had turned a massacre into a patriotic necessity.
The "rouge supe" had given them a golden opportunity, but it was a double-edged sword. On one hand, the illusion of control was broken. Vought's entire pitch to the Department of Defense and Senator Calhoun was that Supes were "precision-guided weapons.
Now, the world was watching a child effortlessly dismantle a police precinct and kidnap a top-tier Vought asset.
The military's biggest fear was "collateral damage." If a homeless-looking kid could go rogue on a Tuesday morning, the Pentagon would argue that putting Supes in the army was like giving a toddler a nuclear suitcase. It made Supes look like liabilities, not assets.
But the "Arms Race" was the pivot. This Supe wasn't American; Vought had no record of him. He was a foreign threat. While the immediate aftermath would be a stock market crash and public fear, Stillwell was already looking past it.
She would manufacture a threat so terrifying that the government would have no choice but to increase Supe funding. They wouldn't distance themselves from Vought; they would beg Vought for protection, where is Homelander now?.
"He's coming back with Queen Maeve," Ashley replied.
"Good. Go," Stillwell instructed. "Prepare a conference. We aren't apologizing for a rogue. We're declaring a state of emergency."
Once Ashley left, the mask dropped. Stillwell slumped into her chair, her hands shaking. "Perfect," her old ass. This was a catastrophe. The arms race lie would buy them time, but only if they could kill this little shit.
Stillwell knew the truth: Homelander couldn't follow him into the sea. This boy was proving that Vought assets were now free for the taking. If she sent Kevin out there, she might as well be serving him on a silver platter.
Pull back the Supes? Hide them all in a bunker, throw away the key, and hope for the best? Stillwell knew the math, and the math was ugly.
The second Vought pulled back their "protectors," she would be committing the ultimate blasphemy in the history of the company.
Vought's entire religion was built on the idea that their heroes were everywhere, always watching, always ready. To recall them now would be an admission of absolute, shivering terror.
She couldn't hide them under her skirt, and she couldn't send them. She was stuck in the middle of a burning house, trying to convince the neighbors that the smoke was just part of a new marketing campaign.
The only illogical, and yet very logical, thing she could do was to set a trap. Her first thought was Queen Maeve. Whoever "they" are, they obviously won't confront Homelander; if Vought suddenly isolates Queen Maeve, if that isn't an obvious trap, she doesn't know what is.
But what if the "stretching thin" narrative actually worked?
If they played into the "State of Emergency" and placed a single member of the Seven in every major city to "reassure the public," it would look like Vought was panicking. It would look like they were desperate. And a predator always strikes when the shepherd looks weak.
It was a suicide play. By isolating the Seven, she was offering them up as individual courses on a tasting menu. The risk was astronomical. The next time she checked the news, she might see the second-most powerful woman on Earth floating hollowed-out in a harbor.
"Fucking diabolical. Would you look at that? The runt's still kicking after all." Butcher's grin was jagged, a dark, triumphant thing as he leaned closer to the screen.
MM, Frenchie, and Hughie stood gathered around the flickering screen, the glow reflecting a mix of awe and pure dread. They had to admit it, it was diabolical.
"That's him?" MM asked, his eyes glued to the screen, tracing the outline of the "terminal patient" he'd been briefed on.
"You bet your bloody ass that's him, Marvin!" Butcher barked a laugh. "What did I fucking tell you, eh? You and Hughie over there, weeping into your tea about 'decoy missions' and 'morals.' Look at the screen, son! I told you these Supes are all the same, didn't I?"
He tapped a heavy finger against the monitor, right on the boy's calm, serene face as he held Supersonic by his broken, blue hands.
"I told you the runt was fucked in the head, didn't I? I told you he was a right weirdo!" Butcher's grin widened, dripping with "I-told-you-so" venom. "You thought he was a victim. I knew he was a ticking time bomb. And look at that... the fuse just ran out. This time it's different, boys. We're finally winning."
Butcher turned his gaze toward the corner where Hughie stood. "Hughie, be a good lad and call your little runt. Tell him the 'family' wants him back in the fold."
"WHAT?"