I left Vought Tower not through the grand, monitored lobby, but through a service entrance, cloaked in a simple illusion of invisibility. The moment I stepped onto the sidewalk, the sheer, overwhelming noise of the city was a shock to my heightened senses. It wasn't just the blare of horns and the rumble of engines; it was the psychic static of eight million lives—a chaotic symphony of hopes, fears, petty frustrations, and secret joys. It was a welcome distraction from the curated, sterile malevolence of the tower.
I walked, my hands shoved in the pockets of a nondescript jacket, the hood pulled up. I was just another face in the crowd. For the first time in weeks, I felt almost anonymous. Almost free.
Mallory's directive was to be seen doing something "human." But what did that even mean? Getting a coffee? I almost laughed. The absurdity of it was a stark reminder of how far removed I had become from the world I was trying to save.
My feet, almost of their own accord, carried me away from the gleaming spires of downtown and into a neighborhood where the streets were narrower, the buildings wore their age like a badge of honor, and the Vought billboards were faded and tagged with graffiti. This was a part of the city the Seven only visited when the cameras were rolling for a "community outreach" event.
I found myself outside a small, struggling community center. A hand-painted sign read "St. Agnes's Youth Outreach." Through the windows, I could see a handful of kids shooting hoops on a scuffed court, their laughter a bright, clean sound in the urban grime. It was real. Unscripted.
I stood there for a long time, watching. The Graviton part of my mind calculated the stress points in the aging building's structure. The Ember part felt a flicker of warmth at the simple, uncomplicated joy. The Hypnotist noted the body language of the tired-looking woman running the drill, seeing her dedication and her exhaustion.
Then, I felt it. A shift in the air. A familiar, predatory presence that made the hairs on my neck stand on end. The psychic static of the city didn't just part for it; it fled.
I turned slowly.
He was there, hovering ten feet off the ground at the end of the street, his cape barely stirring in the breeze. Homelander. He hadn't come in a fury of smashed concrete and heat vision. He had come silently, his presence alone a weapon of mass intimidation. The few people on the street froze, their faces a mixture of awe and terror. Cell phones were raised, recording. He had chosen his stage perfectly.
"Alex," he said, his voice carrying easily, smooth and conversational, yet dripping with condescension. "Taking a walk? I heard you were... stressed. Should you be out among the civilians? Given your... condition?"
Every word was a carefully placed needle. Stressed. Condition. He was painting the picture Mallory had warned me about: the unstable, unpredictable weapon.
I didn't respond. I just looked at him, keeping my posture relaxed, my hands visible. I could feel the eyes of the city upon us, a million invisible witnesses.
He landed softly on the pavement, a god deigning to walk among mortals. He started strolling toward me, a casual, confident pace. "You caused a lot of trouble, Alex. A lot of people are asking questions. Questions about your fitness. Your loyalty." He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could see the infinite, soulless blue of his eyes. "I'm here to get some answers."
This was the confrontation. He wanted me to lash out. To give him the "erratic behavior" he needed to justify putting me down.
The echoes in my head roared to life. Kill him! Ember shrieked. Strike first! Compound King bellowed. He is testing your dominance!
I took a slow, deliberate breath, pushing them down, channeling their energy not into violence, but into an immense, unshakeable calm. I was the chairman. I called the vote.
"John," I said, my voice low but carrying, a counterpoint to his amplified tone. "I'm sorry you feel the need to follow me on my day off. Is there something Vought needs? I believe my suspension paperwork is still being processed."
A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. He wasn't used to being met with bureaucratic pedantry. He was used to fear or fawning admiration.
"This isn't about paperwork," he sneered, taking a step closer, invading my personal space. The air crackled with his power. "This is about you. And the mess you made. I think you're a liability. I think you're broken. And broken things..." He reached out, as if to pat my cheek in a gesture of ultimate disdain.
It was the trigger. The final, calculated insult.
But I didn't move. I didn't flinch. I didn't summon my lightning or my shields.
I just looked at his approaching hand, and then back into his eyes.
And I smiled. It was a small, sad smile. The smile of a parent watching a child throw a tantrum.
His hand stopped an inch from my face. The condescending smirk on his face faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion, then raw, incandescent fury. My refusal to play my part—the part of the challenged beast—was an insult he had no script for.
The silence stretched, thick and unbearable. The entire street was holding its breath.
Then, from the community center, a child's voice piped up, clear and unafraid. "Leave him alone! He didn't do anything!"
Homelander's head snapped toward the sound. The fury in his eyes was so pure, so absolute, that for a heart-stopping second, I thought he would vaporize the entire building.
I acted without thinking. I didn't step forward. I didn't raise a hand. I simply pushed.
It wasn't a physical push. It was a telepathic one. A wave of pure, calming influence that washed over the street, a gentle but firm suggestion of everything is fine, there is nothing to see here. It was the most delicate, wide-scale use of my hypnosis I had ever attempted. I wasn't rewriting minds; I was applying a psychic balm.
The tension in the air dissolved. People blinked, shook their heads, and went back to their business, vaguely confused. The child who had spoken was now laughing with his friends again.
Homelander stared at me, his jaw clenched so tight I could hear the creak of his teeth. He had felt it. He knew what I had done. I hadn't fought him with strength. I had neutered him with subtlety. I had taken his grand, dramatic confrontation and turned it into a non-event.
"You..." he whispered, the word laced with a hatred so deep it had its own gravitational pull.
"The people look to us for safety, John," I said, my voice still calm. "Not for spectacles. Maybe you should remember that."
I turned my back on him. It was the ultimate act of defiance. I walked away, down the street, feeling his gaze burning a hole between my shoulder blades. I expected a heat ray to slice me in half at any second.
It didn't come.
He didn't kill me because he couldn't. Not here, not in front of a dozen cell phone cameras that had just witnessed him be made irrelevant. He had been outmaneuvered on his own terms.
I had won the first public battle. But as I turned the corner, my heart finally beginning to hammer, I knew the cost. The fragile truce was shattered. The gloves were off.
Homelander wouldn't try to discredit me again.
He would simply try to kill me.