The initial panic had subsided, replaced by a cold resolve and a clinical curiosity. The powers of Homelander... it was an overwhelming reality, but also a tool of terrifying precision. Marcus walked over to the desk, where a laptop sat open. As his fingers hovered over the keyboard, a flood of memories that were not his own erupted in his mind—passwords, habits, fragments of a life.
He had this man's entire memory.
His name was—or had been—Jean Moreau. Aged 28. Marcus scoured the files, the browsing history, the photos, the bank statements. The story that unfolded was one of banal, pathetic sadness.
Jean hopped from one menial job to another: waiter, courier, call center agent. He lived in this luxurious apartment not because he was wealthy, but because he was "kept" by an older, married woman, whose name appeared on the automatic bank transfers. And she wasn't the only one. Thanks to his handsome face—this all-American hero's face—he moonlighted as a gigolo, selling companionship and fabricated intimacy to a few rich, lonely women and men. His life was a carefully constructed lie, a fragile edifice built on vanity and necessity.
Good lord, Marcus thought, disgust and an involuntary pity mixing within him.
He stood and walked to the bathroom, staring once more at his reflection in the mirror. The features of "Jean Moreau" stared back with his own eyes, but now imbued with a gravity that belonged solely to him. This face was a mask, a tool the former occupant had used for survival. A miserable survival.
I have powers now, he told himself, his fists clenching. And I know how my service can facilitate things. I'm not trapped in this life.
A flash of understanding crossed his mind. The "service" he was thinking of wasn't a job. It was his new mission, his duty. The Captain America code pulsing within him rejected this existence of compromise and superficiality. He had the strength to break these chains, not just for himself, but for those who couldn't.
Now, let's see the life of this man, he had thought. And he had seen it. It was over.
Jean Moreau had vanished in the green flash. Marcus was here in his place, an involuntary host in the shell of a life he had not chosen.
The choice was now his. Continue this charade? Use this identity as a cover? Or cast it aside entirely and forge something new, stronger, truer?
He returned to the computer and opened a browser. His fingers hovered for a moment before typing with superhuman speed a single search query:
"Superman Justice League"
The page loaded instantly, dumping a torrent of information, news, conspiracy theories, and blurry photos. A world of heroes and threats. A world that needed protection. A world where a man with the face of a hero and the powers of a god could make a difference.
Marcus closed the laptop. The pathetic chapter of Jean Moreau was closed. The next one, his own, was about to begin. And he would write the story himself.