The Boys slumped back into the underground hideout after wasting days chasing a needle in a haystack. The pressure was squeezing them harder from all sides now. Their faces were plastered on wanted posters and screens across the entire city.
Any scrap of hope they had left was scattering like dust. And to make it worse, Butcher had them hunting down Homelander's kids, dragging actual children into their war.
Hughie sat on the couch with Annie. She was completely terrified because her mom was still out there somewhere, and being stuck in this place was driving her crazy. Hughie, though, felt happier that his girlfriend was actually here with him.
It was the same kind of mess for Frenchie. He'd come such a long way with Kimiko, but ever since her brother showed up, she completely tuned Frenchie out. Now her brother was the only thing she thought about.
Meanwhile, Mother's Milk did what he did best. He cleaned up, organized the space, and meticulously worked on the wooden dollhouse for his daughter, trying to keep his head from exploding.
Ever since Butcher laid out the plan, MM's brain hadn't stopped spinning. He knew Butcher better than anyone. With Becca alive, there was a massive chance that the second they actually found one of those golden kids, Butcher would just pocket the child and run. He'd trade the child in a heartbeat, anything to secure a one-way ticket out of this death trap for him and Becca, leaving the rest of them to burn.
And honestly? MM didn't even blame him.
With their winning chances sitting deep in the negatives, MM knew he would do the exact same thing if he had the shot. It would hurt. It would make him lose sleep for the rest of his life from the sheer guilt of throwing the team under the bus. But at least he'd be losing sleep in a clean bed, after a hot shower, lying right next to Monique and his daughter.
The underground door opened, and the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs instantly cut through the heavy silence, snapping everyone out of their heads.
Everyone bolted upright from their seats. MM pulled his gun, holding it low at his side. Kimiko instinctively stepped in front of Frenchie, her whole body tensing up, while Annie moved right in front of Hughie.
They had been dreaming this exact moment for days. They were expecting Homelander's son, and if the kid turned out to be anything like Aldrich, and had a little episode here.
Then Butcher stepped into the room, a young boy trailing right behind him.
Butcher took one look at the defensive grid they'd formed, looking at the drawn gun and the terrified faces, and let out a massive grin.
"Relax," Butcher said, jerking his chin toward the kid. "The lad just opened the door for me. He works at the shop upstairs, just came down to grab some stuff."
MM let out a long breath, slowly lowering his gun. His knuckles were white. "Jesus Christ, Butcher," he muttered, rubbing his face with his free hand. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"
Annie stepped back, her hands dropping to her sides, though her heart was still hammering against her ribs. "You're a real piece of shit, you know that?" she snapped. "Walking in here like that."
The kid grabbed a couple of plastic crates from the corner and scrambled back up the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him, clearly terrified of the people hiding out down here
Butcher waited for the cursing to die down. He looked from MM to Hughie, then back at the heavy steel door, his brow knitting in confusion.
"What the fuck?" Butcher asked. "You all act like I just dragged bloody Homelander into the bunker."
"You walked down here with a kid behind you, Butcher," Hughie snapped. "You didn't say a damn word, you just stood there waiting for us to lose our shit."
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Butcher spat, throwing his hands up. "What do you mean, 'walked like that'? I walked down the stairs. I put one foot in front of the other. I didn't announce the bloody apocalypse. How else am I supposed to walk? Maybe I'll crawl on my hands and knees so you lot don't jump out of your skin like a bunch of startled deer. You lot are absolutely mental. No wonder we're losing."
"Alright." MM said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fair enough."
Hughie rubbed his eyes, leaning back against the couch, his shoulders dropping. "Sorry, Butcher. We're just... every time that door opens, we think it's Vanguard. Or another Aldrich. We're losing our minds down here."
"Too right you are," Butcher said, setting the bottle down. "Fucking jumpy as a bunch of schoolgirls. You keep twitching like that, you're gonna shoot each other before Homelander or Vanguard even gets a glance at us."
MM cleared his throat, leaning his hands on the workbench, bringing them back to the reality of the situation. "So. You didn't find one?"
Butcher looked at MM, then at Hughie, and that sharp, wolfish grin slowly crawled back onto his face. "Of course I found one, you think I spent the last three days scratching my balls?"
He turned back toward the stairs, cupped a hand around his mouth, and barked upward. "Oi! Sunshine! Drag your bloody arse down here!"
Slow, dragging footsteps echoed down the concrete steps. Then, Cerberus stepped into the dim light of the bunker with a smile.
"Bollocks to the golden child," Butcher said, gesturing proudly toward the kid like he'd just won a prize at a raffle. "Look what I found hiding out in a damp warehouse playing king of the bums. Meet runt 2.0."
"Hi everyone." Cerberus gave a casual wave at the stunned crowd. "Name is Cerberus. But you may call me Imperator."
For a long, agonizing three seconds, the only sound in the bunker was the hum of the old lights lights. Slowly, Cerberus's smile started to fade, his lips flattening into a disappointed line.
"H-Hi" Hughie stammered out, waving back with a shaky hand as he saw the smile drop. "Welcome. Welcome to the... place."
MM slowly lowered his gun another inch, his face a mask of disbelief. He looked at Butcher, then at the teenager, and rubbed his temples. "Great. Fantastic. Hi."
"Oh, marvelous," Frenchie chimed in, holding his hands up in a placating gesture, trying to smooth over the tension. "Welcome to our humble abode, Your Majesty. Can I interest you in a slightly damp chair?"
Cerberus's smile immediately drifted back into place.
Butcher just rolled his eyes, taking another swig from his bottle. "Fucking pathetic, the lot of you," he muttered under his breath.
"So... you're Homelander's son?" Hughie asked, his voice careful. "You're a supe? Like, you actually powers?"
"Yes," Cerberus answered simply.
Hughie blinked, waiting for more, but the kid just stared blankly back at him. "Right. Uh... 'yes' you're Homelander's son, or 'yes' you have powers?" Hughie asked again.
Cerberus didn't bother answering. Instead, he slowly turned his head to look at Butcher.
Butcher let out a dry chuckle. "Don't worry about him, mate," he said to Cerberus, flashing a smug grin. "He's new. Takes him a minute to get the engine running."
MM didn't laugh. He kept his guard up, his eyes locked onto the teenager's posture, watching for any telltale signs of a violent Aldrich-episodes. "Let's skip the comedy hour," MM said. "How strong are we talking here? Are you on their level? You as powerful as Homelander? Or Vanguard?"
"Oh, I'm much stronger than Homelander," Cerberus said smoothly. "Much weaker than Vanguard, though. Not even close to him. Couldn't hurt him even if I wanted to. But... I'm still here to help you defeat him."
Frenchie leaned forward, his eyes lighting up with a sudden, intense curiosity. He looked over at Butcher, who just stood in the corner with that wolfish grin plastered across his face.
Cerberus had already laid out the whole pitch to him on the walk over, and for the first time in weeks, the raw hunger and hope were blazing back to life in Butcher's eyes.
"And how exactly do you plan to do that, mon ami?" Frenchie asked, completely intrigued. "If he is a god compared to you, how do we touch him?"
"It's actually very simple," Cerberus said, leaning forward. "None of you even need to get near Vanguard to defeat him. I know exactly how to tear him down, but you are going to have to get your hands very, very dirty."
He held out a hand, casually wiggling his fingers. "Can someone get me a piece of paper and a pen, please?"
Meanwhile, in Vought Tower, Stan Edgar sat behind his desk in absolute, freezing silence. His hands were folded neatly over a sleek tablet, his posture perfect and unbothered.
But Vought had completely lost the narrative.
For the past month, managing the company had become a desperate game of whack-a-mole. One PR disaster or security leak got patched, and ten more immediately ruptured somewhere else.
A-train had vanished off the grid entirely. The primary monitoring room was compromised, and the staff slaughtered on the shift.
On paper, Vought had never been more untouchable. They had Vanguard, Homelander, and Stormfront all under one roof. It was a roster of literal gods. Yet, logistically, the company had never been weaker. Something had drastically shifted, and Vought was utterly blind to it.
Then there was the report on his screen.
When the first file hit his desk a week ago, security hadn't thought much of it. It was a standard low-priority brief tracking a few D-tier supes who had gone off the grid. A couple of C-list costumed idiots vanishing in far-off, flyover states usually just meant drug benders or contract disputes.
But the new updated data was much, much worse.
Edgar adjusted his glasses, looking at the spreadsheet. The number was sitting at thirty-four. Thirty-four missing supes in a matter of days. Someone was systematically liquidating Vought's inventory from the bottom up.
He just stared at the blinking cursor on his tablet, realizing that for the first time in his career, he had absolutely no idea what to do.