Frenchie, on the other hand, didn't hear any of that.
He sat in the next room with a cigarette in hand, smoking away his frustration while trying very hard not to think about the situation he had somehow ended up in.
"Putain..."
He really wanted to curse Butcher. Somehow, every terrible idea eventually became his problem. Now he was stuck with an invisible supe locked in a cage and no reliable way to kill him.
His skin was practically indestructible, bullets were useless, knives were useless, and every idea hit the same wall.
Frenchie rubbed his forehead. "I hate this job."
Then a sudden gust of wind swept through the room.
He frowned. That shouldn't have been possible. They were underground. No open windows. No vents strong enough to create a draft like that.
He immediately looked around. Nothing. No movement. No people.
Then he noticed a piece of paper drifting onto the table in front of him.
Frenchie stared at it. Slowly. Suspiciously.
"...Non."
The paper remained where it was. After a moment he picked it up and unfolded it.
Written across the top were four words.
Instructions To Kill Thick-Skin Fellows
Frenchie blinked. Then kept reading.
You are overthinking it. Hard skin does not automatically mean invincible. Stop focusing on the outside and start thinking about the inside. Just plug a bomb in his ass and detonate it.
His eyebrows slowly rose.
Also, filling a sealed room with lethal gas can do the job. Less bloody.
Frenchie stared at the paper for several seconds, then flipped it over.
P.S. No need to thank me. I'm your friend. Well... unfriendly friend.
He looked around the room again. Nothing. The sender was gone.
A grin slowly spread across his face.
"Whoever you are," he muttered, folding the note, "I think I like you."
As soon as Translucent stopped responding, Homelander started looking for him.
The tracker still showed a signal somewhere in New Jersey, and Homelander had no intention of waiting for Vought's analysts to figure it out.
If a member of the Seven had gone missing, he would handle it himself.
He flew over the city at high speed, eyes scanning the streets below.
Then something caught his attention.
A rooftop.
Homelander slowed and turned.
Written across the roof in enormous red letters was a message visible from the air.
HOMELANDER IS A DADDY'S BOY
He stopped mid-flight.
For several seconds he simply stared. The smile he normally wore in public wasn't there. Neither was the calm confidence. Just a flat expression. A dangerous one.
Slowly, he descended onto the rooftop. His eyes moved across every letter. Once. Twice. Then his jaw tightened.
"...Really?"
The words came out quiet.
Whoever did this wasn't trying to threaten him. That almost made it worse. It was mockery — childish, petty, deliberate.
Homelander looked around the surrounding buildings. Nothing. No witnesses. No culprit waiting to reveal themselves.
His eyes began glowing red.
"Funny."
The single word carried no amusement whatsoever.
Twin beams of heat vision tore across the rooftop. Concrete exploded. Steel warped. The entire section vanished beneath the blast.
Ethan was recording everything with an HD camera.
As a completely genuine and absolutely trustworthy fan of Homelander, he naturally felt obligated to show the world the hero's true side. It was his duty. A responsibility. A public service, really.
The footage of Homelander stopping mid-air to stare at a rooftop insult was already proving to be excellent material.
"Hehehehe..."
Ethan laughed creepily while reviewing the recording.
This was going to be amazing. Not just a video. A masterpiece. A complete cinematic experience dedicated to Homelander.
"Blockbuster material," Ethan declared confidently.
His grin widened as more ideas came to him. "Written and directed by Ethan Corvin." He pointed at the screen where Homelander was currently vaporizing part of a rooftop in anger. "And starring John."
A thoughtful look appeared on his face. "Actually, maybe I should call it The Real Homelander."
Ethan nodded to himself. Yes. That sounded perfect.
He already knew what the screenplay needed to be — a honest portrait of exactly how delusional Homelander was.
Expose it all, and then let the world decide what to do with that information. Death wasn't even the point. Humiliation was far more effective. Make it undeniable. Make it pathetic.
He almost felt sorry for him, if he was being fair about it. Vought had gotten their hands on Homelander as a child and shaped him into whatever was most useful. That wasn't nothing.
But then Ethan thought about the people Homelander had killed, and the pity quietly showed itself out.
"Homelander, be sure to appreciate the gift I left you," said Ethan as he tossed the camera onto the rooftop.
The moment it hit the ground, blood spread beneath it. Crimson liquid flowed across the concrete as the camera slowly sank until it disappeared from sight.
On the next building, Homelander caught the movement. His eyes locked onto the rooftop immediately.
Without hesitation, he changed direction and shot through the sky toward the location.
As he approached, he spotted a figure waiting on the rooftop. A blood-red figure. Standing there smiling. Waiting. As if they knew he was coming.
Homelander landed hard enough to crack the concrete beneath his feet.
"Daddy's boy."
Homelander's expression instantly darkened. His eyes glowed red.
Heat vision erupted forward and tore through the figure. It dissolved into mist immediately.
The rooftop fell silent.
Homelander stood there staring at the empty space. His jaw tightened.
***
A/N: And on Patreon, The Boys arc started.
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