I stared at the kid. My ears were still ringing with that final whisper. You're far below it.
It felt like he'd reached into my chest with his little hands and gently, ruthlessly plucked my self-respect out. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to shout that I was the one who fed him. I gave him all those sandwiches. I gave him seventy-five dollars.
But when I looked at his eyes, I couldn't. I look at them and I see no hate. No malice. No contempt. It was just how he'd always been, being weird just for the sake of being weird.
Was he right?
I looked at my hands. They were shaking. I'm the one who knocked Translucent out. I'm the one who went to Vought Tower and planted the bug. I'd done the impossible. And yet, standing in front of a child with a terminal tumor, I felt like the smaller man.
"Hughie."
Butcher was standing in the doorway. He was looking at me with a look I didn't know he could make, familiarity and understanding.
"Don't let the runt get in your head," Butcher said, his voice low. "Supes don't have hearts, mate. Even the small ones. But the kid's got more sense than you, and he's half your size and twice as dead."
Butcher didn't wait for a reply. He jerked his head toward the stairs.
"Frenchie's found a way to open the oyster. Get down there. Now."
The three of us walked down into the humid air of the basement. Frenchie was hunched over a monitor, his face illuminated in the blue light. He didn't look up when we entered. He just pointed a finger at a live camera feed.
"There." Above the city, there was a flying figure that was circling our location as it kept appearing on different camera feeds.
"That's Homelander. He is looking for us. We're dead." Hughie placed his hands behind his head, his eyes darting to Butcher, the man who had put him in this mess in the first place.
"Don't worry, I've got a plan," Butcher said, his voice flat and dangerous. He turned to me and placed his hands on my shoulders. "Right, champ? This is your moment to shine. You're going to go out there and start flying. Lure the cunt away while we finish the job here."
The room went silent. Hughie's mouth hung open. Even Frenchie stopped tinkering with the computer to stare at Butcher and me.
"What the fuck? This is your plan? Sending him out to die?" Hughie shouted, his voice cracking with a mix of horror and disbelief.
"Non, Butcher... c'est trop," Frenchie stammered, He looked at me, his eyes full of that vibrating, high-intensity pity I loved so much. "He is sick. To send him to Him? It is not a plan, it is suicide."
"The runt is dying anyway," Butcher said, his voice flat, not even looking away from the monitor. "He'll at least be of some use for all the food we've been shoveling down his throat. Consider it a late payment for the sandwiches, Hughie."
I looked at Frenchie, then back at Butcher. "I'm dying?"
Butcher let out a long, heavy sigh. He finally turned to look at me, his eyes as cold as a shark's. "Yeah, kid. You picked the short end of the stick in this life. Your parents dumped you. You're a freak. And now, you've got stage-four cancer eating your chest out. You can go 'wee, wee, wee' like a little baby about it, or you can actually do something with the time you've got left."
"And doing something about it involves me luring him away?"
"Bingo," Butcher grinned, and for the first time, I saw the true depth of the void inside him. "You're a 'Hidden Gem,' right? Well, gems are meant to shine before they're crushed. Go up there and give the cunt a show. Lead him toward the water. If you're going to die, kid, die making the big man look like a twat."
"Fine," I said finally. "It was getting boring here anyway."
"That's the spirit, pup," Butcher growled, his grin widening. "Don't worry about the sandwiches. Consider 'em an investment in the most expensive fireworks show in New York history. Now get movin' before I decide to kick you up there myself."
High above the city, the air was thin and freezing, but Homelander didn't feel the cold. He flew through the sky, his cape snapping like a whip in the low-altitude winds.
His jaw was set, his blue eyes scanning the city below. Translucent was missing. A member of the Seven had been snatched off the street. He paused, hovering motionless as he tilted his head. His ears, capable of hearing a heartbeat through a bunker wall, picked up something.
"Homelander!"
It was small. High-pitched. A child's voice nearby.
A kid. Ragged, filthy, and looking like a stiff breeze would snap him in half. The boy was standing on the roof of a crumbling restaurant, waving his arms with a frantic energy.
"Homelander! Over here!"
I slowed my descent, boots hovering inches above the gravel of the roof. I looked down at the pathetic creature with a mix of boredom and annoyance, but on the outside, I let out my best smile. Let it be told: even with no cameras or PR, I was a benevolent god.
"Hey buddy. What are you doing up here?" I asked, voice smooth and warm, the perfect pitch for a Vought Christmas special. Even with no cameras, he couldn't help himself. He was a god, after all, and gods had to look the part.
"Gaining your attention," the kid said.
The answer was... unexpected, my smile widening. "Well, you certainly got it. You need help getting down? It's a long way for a little guy like you."
"Can you teach me how to fly?"
I could feel my face twitching. I was asked the same question a thousand times by a thousand different kids, but coming from this ragged, skeletal creature, it was just… awkward. It made me want to laser something just to break the tension.
"I know what you're thinking," the kid said. "But I'm a Supe. I have the ability to fly; I just... never learned how."
I froze. "You're... you're a Supe? If you're a Supe, why are you like this? And why are you here?"
"Like what?"
I gestured vaguely at the kid's entire existence, the rags, the dirt. "This. All of this."
"Oh. I'm homeless," the kid said, as if he were describing the weather. "During a divorce, my father tore me away from my mother and dumped me here seven years ago. As for your second question... I was told to stall you for time."