The wind at thirty thousand feet was a freezing torrent, but Homelander didn't feel it. To him, the atmosphere was as insubstantial as a cobweb.
He hung suspended in the black void between the city lights below and the stars above, his cape snapping violently in the slipstream.
His chest heaved from a rage so pure and hot it felt like he had swallowed a star.
Stan Edgar.
The name was a poison in his mind. The old man sat in his office, adjusting his glasses, speaking in that condescending baritone, treating the most powerful being on the planet like a misbehaving child. You are the image, Edgar had said.
Homelander's hands curled into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking under the strain. He wanted to laser the tower in half. He wanted to hear Edgar scream, just once. Just to prove that the old man was made of meat and bone like everyone else.
But he couldn't.
Edgar was right. The polls. The adoration. The love of the crowd. It was the only thing that filled the hollow ache inside him, the only thing that made the silence bearable.
He couldn't touch General Raddock. Not yet.
But the rage needed an outlet. It was a physical pressure building behind his eyes, demanding release.
He looked down at the sprawling grid of New York City, millions of tiny lights representing millions of tiny lives.
He reached into his belt and pulled out the crumpled piece of paper note. The wind threatened to tear it from his grip, but he held it fast. He smoothed it out against his palm, his eyes scanning the list of names again.
General Raddock. Untouchable.
But there were others.
Senator Mitchell – Chairman of the Defense Appropriations Committee.
Congressman Halloway – Armed Services Subcommittee.
Edgar had said not to touch the General. He hadn't said a word about the politicians.
Homelander's lips curled into a cruel smile. The heat behind his eyes began to simmer, a red warning light.
He banked left, diving toward the city. The sonic boom trailed behind him, a thunderclap that would wake half the boroughs, a reminder to the insects below that a god was passing overhead.
The Crime Analytics Division on the 40th floor of Vought Tower was usually a quiet place at night.
A skeleton crew of three analysts sat in the semi darkness, monitoring police scanners and social media feeds, drinking stale coffee.
The locking mechanism glowed cherry red, then liquefied, dripping onto the carpet. The doors swung inward with a groan of heated metal.
Homelander stepped through the ruin. His eyes were glowing faintly, casting long shadows across the room.
The three analysts froze. One dropped his coffee mug. It shattered on the floor, the sound like a gunshot in the terrifying silence.
"You," Homelander said, pointing a gloved finger at the senior analyst, a balding man named Stevens who looked like he was about to have a coronary event.
"Y-yes, sir?" Stevens stammered, scrambling to stand up, knocking his chair over in the process.
"I need locations," Homelander said, his voice deceptively soft. He walked closer, the heat radiating from him making the air shimmer. "Senator Mitchell and Congressman Halloway. Current whereabouts."
"Sir, we... we aren't authorized to track government officials without a warrant or a direct order from Mr. Edgar," Stevens whispered, his voice trembling.
Homelander tilted his head, looking at Stevens with a mixture of curiosity and disgust.
"Authorized?" Homelander repeated the word as if it were in a foreign language. He stepped into Stevens' personal space. He could hear the man's heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Thump thump. Thump thump.
"I am the authorization," Homelander whispered. He leaned down, his face inches from the analyst's. "Do you know what I can do, Stevens? I can see the blood pumping through your veins. I can burn this entire floor to ash before you can blink."
His eyes flared brighter, the red light bathing Stevens' sweating face.
"Now. Do you really want to talk to me about paperwork?"
"No, sir," Stevens squeaked. He spun around to his console, his fingers shaking so badly he mistyped the password twice. "Searching... searching now."
The other two analysts were frozen in their seats, staring at their screens, terrified to even breathe too loudly.
"Got it," Stevens said, his voice cracking. "Senator Mitchell. His primary residence in the city. The Tribeca Spire. Penthouse B. His security detail signed off shift at 2300 hours."
"And Halloway?"
"He's... he's at his estate in Greenwich. The Manor on North Street."
Homelander smiled. It was a terrifying expression that didn't reach his eyes. He reached out and patted Stevens on the cheek. The leather glove felt cold.
"See?" Homelander said. "That wasn't so hard. You're a true patriot, Stevens."
He walked to the shattered doors, stepped onto the balcony and launched himself into the night sky.
The Tribeca Spire was a needle of glass rising above the fashionable district. Senator Mitchell lived well.
Homelander hovered outside the building, fifty stories up. The wind whipped his hair, but he remained perfectly still, a statue suspended in gravity.
He scanned the building. He found the penthouse. He focused his vision. The walls of the building faded away, becoming transparent layers of steel and concrete.
He scanned the interior. No security guards inside the unit. No cameras pointing at the balcony. Just a sleeping man in a silk sheeted bed.
Senator Mitchell was fat. Even in sleep, his breathing was a rattling snore. His heart was encased in layers of visceral fat, pumping sluggishly.
Homelander drifted closer. He hovered outside the bedroom window. The window was cracked open a few inches to let in the cool night air.
He focused on the man's chest.
He narrowed his eyes. He aimed his laser with surgical precision, bypassing the skin, the muscle, the ribcage.
He aimed directly at the heart.
Inside Senator Mitchell's chest, the blood inside the ventricles began to heat up.
The pressure inside the heart began to spike. The steady thump thump of the Senator's pulse became erratic.
Thump... thump thump... thump...