Mitchell groaned in his sleep. He shifted, his hand clutching at his chest. His subconscious mind was registering the distress, the sudden heat blooming in his core.
Homelander pushed a little harder. He increased the intensity by a fraction.
He just heated it enough to denature the proteins, to send the electrical signals of the pacemaker nodes into chaos.
The heart seized.
Mitchell's eyes flew open. He gasped, a choking sound. He tried to sit up, but his body wouldn't obey. His hands clawed at his chest, tearing the silk pajamas. His face turned a deep purple.
He stared out the window. For a second, his dying eyes focused on the figure hovering in the darkness outside. The figure with the glowing red eyes and the cape.
Mitchell tried to scream, but his lungs were paralyzed by cardiac failure. He convulsed once, twice, a violent arching of his back as his heart gave one final flutter.
Then, he collapsed back onto the pillows. His eyes glazed over, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
Homelander lowered his gaze. He scanned the body. No burns. No entry wound. And no sign of external trauma. Just a fat old man who had a massive heart attack in his sleep.
"Rest in peace, Senator," Homelander whispered.
He pushed off from the air, shooting upwards into the clouds before anyone on the street below could look up.
The flight to Greenwich took less than two minutes.
Congressman Halloway's estate was a fortress of old money. High stone walls, wrought iron gates and a long driveway lined with ancient oaks.
Homelander slowed, dropping out of the sky like a falling star. He hovered above the slate roof of the mansion.
He activated his X-ray vision.
Servants in the east wing, asleep. A security guard in a booth at the front gate, watching a movie on his phone.
And Halloway.
The Congressman was in his study on the ground floor. He was sitting in a leather armchair, a glass of scotch in his hand, reading a file. The file was stamped with the Department of Defense seal.
He descended. He landed softly on the manicured lawn outside the study.
He moved with a speed that defied the laws of inertia. He moved so fast the doors didn't even have time to rattle.
Halloway saw a blur of blue and red and then Homelander was standing over him.
"Congressman," Homelander said pleasantly.
Halloway's mouth opened. He dropped the glass. It hit the thick Persian rug with a dull thud, not breaking, the amber liquid staining the wool.
"H Homelander?" Halloway stammered. "What... how..."
"I was in the neighborhood," Homelander said. He looked down at the file in Halloway's lap. "Working late? Defending the nation?"
"I... yes," Halloway said, his face draining of color. "Yes, of course. Always."
"Good," Homelander said. "We appreciate it. We really do."
He stepped closer. Halloway shrank back into his chair, the smell of fear radiating off him.
"But you know," Homelander said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Stress is a killer. You work too hard, Congressman. It takes a toll on the heart."
Halloway's eyes widened. He realized that this was not a social call.
"Please," Halloway whispered. "I have... I can help you. Anything you want."
"I have everything I want," Homelander said. "I'm Homelander."
His eyes began to glow.
Halloway tried to scramble out of the chair.
Homelander placed a hand on Halloway's shoulder. He held him there. The weight of the hand was immovable, like a mountain resting on his collarbone.
"Shh," Homelander soothed. "It'll be quick."
He focused. The invisible tunnel of heat bridged the gap between his eyes and Halloway's chest.
He bypassed the shirt, the skin, the ribs. He found the heart.
He turned up the heat.
Halloway screamed. It was a high sound that was cut short as his heart convulsed. The blood inside his chest reached a critical temperature. The pressure spiked. A valve blew.
Halloway clutched at his chest, his fingernails digging into his shirt. His face turned red, then purple. His eyes bulged. He looked at Homelander, begging, pleading.
Homelander just watched. He watched the life fade. He watched the panic turn to nothing.
Halloway slumped sideways in the chair. His head lolled. He was gone.
Homelander lifted his hand from the corpse's shoulder. He stepped back.
"Clean," he murmured.
He walked to the French doors. He unlocked them, stepped out into the night and closed them gently behind him.
He looked up at the stars.
He crouched and launched himself into the sky, the force of his takeoff leaving a small crater in the perfect lawn.
The top of Vought Tower was the highest point in the city. Above the gargoyles, above the antenna arrays, there was a flat platform where the eagle statues stood watch over Manhattan.
It was Homelander's sanctuary. The only place where he could look down on everything.
He landed on the ledge, his boots crunching on the stone. The wind up here was fierce, a howling gale that would have knocked a normal man off his feet. Homelander stood in it like a statue, letting it whip his cape around him.
He looked out at the city. The lights stretched out to the horizon, a grid of electricity and life. Millions of people. Millions of ants.
They slept in their beds because he let them. They lived their lives because he allowed it.
"They think they can replace me," he whispered to the wind.
He thought of Senator Mitchell, clutching his chest. He thought of Halloway, the fear in his eyes.
He felt a surge of power coiling in his gut.
"I can do whatever I want," he said, his voice rising over the wind.
He unzipped his pants.
He gripped himself, his eyes fixed on the city below. He imagined the people down there, sleeping, ignorant. He imagined burning them all. He imagined saving them all. It didn't matter. They were his.
"I can do whatever the fuck I want," he shouted, the words torn from his throat.
He stroked himself, the friction and the cold air heightening the sensation. He thought about his power. He thought about the fear he had seen in Halloway's eyes. It was better than love. It was purer.
He threw his head back, looking up at the full moon. He released, his body shuddering with the force of his climax.
He panted, his breath misting in the cold air. He zipped up his pants and smoothed his suit.
He walked to the edge of the gargoyle and looked down.
"I am the only one," he whispered. "I am the real god."
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