"Mr. Edgar, I was hoping we could discuss a transfer. Or maybe… a departure. I can't keep doing this."
The heavyset man slipped into the office and shut the door behind him with exaggerated care, as if noise alone might doom him. His voice wavered despite his attempt at professionalism. On paper, he was one of Vought's most versatile assets—a shapeshifting Supe capable of duplicating anyone down to the smallest physical detail. In reality, he was a corporate patch kit, thrown over every public relations disaster the company couldn't afford to acknowledge.
His ability came with limits. Extended transformations triggered waves of nerve-searing agony that felt perversely euphoric at first—like his body couldn't decide whether it was dying or climaxing. If he pushed past the threshold, the pain escalated into something primal and unbearable, as though his cells were tearing themselves apart for daring to imitate someone else too long.
After the death of Translucent, Vought had quietly deployed him to maintain appearances. He would shift into the invisible hero's likeness, stage a few carefully orchestrated sightings, attend select events. One identity at a time was manageable. Then A-Train's death doubled the load. Now he was maintaining multiple personas, darting between disguises like a frantic understudy in a collapsing theater production.
But the real breaking point had been Homelander.
The demand had come casually, almost playfully. Transform into Madelyn. Be her. For him. Again and again.
Several times, the pain had overwhelmed him mid-act. His body would flicker, features distorting back toward his original form. On those occasions, Homelander's heat vision had flared inches from his face, the air around them crackling with lethal promise. He had genuinely believed he would die there—reduced to ash because he couldn't hold the illusion long enough.
The psychological pressure was worse than the physical strain. He wasn't just overworked. He was disposable.
"If you don't want the job," Stan Edgar said calmly, not looking up from the document in front of him, "you're free to leave."
He flipped a page with precise deliberation and tapped his pen against the margin. His tone carried no emotion, which made it far more threatening.
Edgar understood Homelander better than most. The world's greatest hero was a laboratory success and a human failure—an experiment starved of affection and inflated with power. Containing him required calculated concessions. Compared to Homelander's strategic value, the shapeshifter was expendable.
He could leave, certainly. And before he did, Vought would kindly provide an urn with his name etched on it.
"Mr. Edgar, couldn't you just assign someone to wear a helmet? Like Black Noir does? I helped Walter during the military appropriations vote. Those senators—"
Edgar's eyes lifted.
The look alone erased the rest of the sentence. Sweat beaded instantly along the man's hairline. His throat tightened. Whatever argument he'd been forming died there.
"If I hear you finish that thought," Edgar said evenly, placing the document down, "you won't see another sunrise."
The message was unmistakable. Yes, the shapeshifter had played a role in smoothing the legislative path that allowed Supes into the Department of Defense. That did not grant him leverage. Gratitude did not exist at this level.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Edgar."
The man bowed slightly, retreating step by careful step. He reached the door, opened it without sound, and slipped out. The latch clicked softly behind him.
Silence reclaimed the office.
Edgar leaned back, eyes narrowing as he considered the broader picture. Three members of the Seven gone in rapid succession. It was unprecedented. Public confidence in Vought's flagship team was wavering. If the narrative fractured, the brand fractured.
His gaze dropped to the proposal resting on his desk.
Several major shareholders had submitted it jointly. The solution was bold and strategically sound: reintroduce Liberty under a new identity—Stormfront—and install her as the newest member of the Seven.
He had read the document multiple times. The rollout plan was airtight. Timing, media framing, social media strategy—every detail had been optimized. If he signed, implementation would begin immediately. It would stabilize investor confidence and reignite public interest.
Stormfront's credentials were formidable. Widow of Vought's founder. One of the earliest recipients of Compound V. Her electrical abilities were spectacular and photogenic—perfect for modern branding.
But there was rot beneath the surface. She was a relic of darker ideologies, carrying forward Frederick Vought's supremacist worldview with uncomfortable enthusiasm. Integration into the Seven would not reform her. It would simply place a volatile ideology inside the most powerful team on Earth.
Still, there was another consideration.
Homelander.
Stormfront possessed the strength and charisma to stand beside him without shrinking. Possibly even challenge him. Perhaps that tension could be useful.
Edgar exhaled softly and signed his name.
Moments later, he picked up the phone.
"Did you receive the material, Bob?"
A pause. Then a wary voice replied. "Mr. Edgar, I'm retired. I don't handle projects like that anymore. I thought your focus was pharmaceuticals now."
"I prefer redundancy," Edgar said.
"I won't help you build another one. Homelander nearly killed me over Becca. I'm not responsible for creating another monster."
The line went dead.
Edgar set the receiver down without visible irritation. Backup options remained.
He dialed another number.
"Dr. Carlton."
"Mr. Edgar, the genetic sample you provided—it's extraordinary. The integrity alone—"
"I need acceleration," Edgar interrupted calmly.
His eyes drifted to the framed photograph of the Seven mounted on the office wall. The black uniform—Homelander's image—dominated the composition.
"That uniform still lacks a true master," Edgar said quietly.
…..
"Our combat strength still isn't enough."
Ethan Pierce stood by the narrow window of his new hideout, staring out at a stretch of overgrown grass behind the building. The FBI black site operation had been effective, but it had exposed limitations. A-Train was dead. Several agents eliminated. Even the massive purple brute who had intervened hadn't survived.
On paper, it was a decisive victory.
In practice, it had been messy.
He summoned the interface in his mind.
[Multiverse Role-Playing System]
[Template Unlock Progress: 22.1%]
[Next Stage Unlock: 30.0%]
[Abilities:]
[Destruction Ray – LV2 (13.4%)]
[Superhuman Physique – LV2 (15.2%)]
[Super Evolution – LV2 (6.5%)]
[Role Points: 1862]
The numbers glowed faintly against the darkness of his thoughts. The last battle had yielded over a thousand points. It made his previous passive gains—earned from something as absurd as standing in sunlight—feel insignificant.
Still, none of his abilities were close to leveling again.
What he needed now wasn't raw firepower.
It was mobility.
Homelander could fly. A-Train had possessed blistering speed. Ethan, for all his durability and destructive capacity, still moved like a grounded tank. Entering combat was easy. Leaving it was a problem.
During the FBI raid, reinforcements had poured in relentlessly. He would clear one squad, only to hear sirens announcing another. Individually, they were nothing. Collectively, they were exhausting—like mosquitoes that couldn't kill you but refused to stop biting.
He stretched his arms slowly, joints popping.
The sound of a key turning broke the quiet. The door opened, and Harris stepped inside carrying a plastic bag heavy with takeout containers.
"Boss," Harris said, setting the food down, his expression serious. "I think the CIA's got eyes on this area."
Ethan turned.
The FBI's involvement had already escalated matters. If the CIA was circling too, then someone higher up was paying attention. It wasn't surprising. It was overdue.
"They're moving slow," Ethan muttered.
Slow meant cautious. Cautious meant they knew something but not enough.
"Did you secure the boat?" he asked.
Harris nodded uncertainly. "Through a contact. There's a middleman, though. I can't guarantee reliability."
Ethan opened the bag and pulled out a roast chicken, tearing off a leg with casual strength. Grease ran down his fingers as he took a bite. Harris grabbed one as well, chewing thoughtfully despite clearly not being used to the seasoning.
"If they're unreliable," Ethan said calmly, "we'll make them reliable."
Harris studied him carefully. Anyone else might assume this was preparation for escape.
Ethan wasn't running.
....
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