Days bled into weeks. From his quiet hotel suite, Marcus watched the world burn, a patient spectator at a show he had produced. Vought Corporation, as he had predicted, was now bogged down in a grinding, ugly war of attrition. The fear of the Tenno Council, once a paralyzing terror, had faded into a background hum, replaced by the immediate and relentless pressure of the Supe Liberation Front.
The terrorists were good. They used guerrilla tactics, striking at Vought's infrastructure and PR events before melting back into the populace. Their top-tier supes were strong enough to engage Homelander directly, not to win, but to survive, to retreat and fight another day. This stalemate was a public relations nightmare for Vought. The question began to echo on news channels and social media: if Homelander was a god, why couldn't he crush these insects?
Vought's answer—the enhancement serum—was a devil's bargain. The supes knew it. Each injection was a mortgage on their future. It brought a temporary surge of power, but the cost was cumulative and terrifying. Minor side effects like nosebleeds and heart palpitations gave way to the very real risk of permanent power loss, or worse, a fatal aneurysm in the heat of battle. They became hesitant to use it, and their performance on the battlefield suffered, fueling even more public doubt.
The pressure mounted until it became unbearable. In a tense boardroom meeting, with Homelander seething on his throne, the puppet president, Miller, made the call Marcus had been waiting for.
"The markets are in freefall, Homelander! The shareholders are demanding a definitive solution!" Miller squeaked. "We are officially greenlighting Project Chimera. I'm recalling every Compound V research specialist from our global facilities. They will be brought here, to the tower, and they will not leave until they have developed a permanent, side-effect-free enhancement drug."
Black jets began arriving from secret labs around the world. Stern-faced men and women, the scattered keepers of Vought's original sin, were escorted into the tower under heavy guard. Marcus watched their arrival on security feeds, a quiet smile on his face. The pieces of his puzzle were being delivered directly to his doorstep.
While Vought was consolidating its assets, The Boys were preparing to deploy theirs. Using a network of dark web channels and leak sites, they unleashed everything they had gathered. The internet was flooded with irrefutable proof of Vought's evil. Grainy, horrific footage from inside Sage Grove showed screaming test subjects being dissected alive. Encrypted files detailed the Compound V program from its Nazi origins. And most damningly, there was the video from the baby lab—infants in pods, their eyes glowing as they fired miniature laser beams.
The world reacted with shock and horror. For twenty-four hours.
Then, the conversation began to shift. The initial outrage was slowly but surely replaced by something else: envy. The question changed from "How could Vought do this?" to "Wait... you mean anyone can get powers?"
#LegalizeV began to trend. Online movements sprang up overnight, demanding access. No one wanted to be a helpless sheep in a world of wolves; they wanted to become wolves themselves.
Vought, masters of spinning disaster into opportunity, leaned into it. Miller, prompted by a smirking Homelander, held a press conference.
"For too long, superhuman abilities have been seen as a gift bestowed upon a chosen few," he announced to a sea of cameras. "Vought now believes in a new era of empowerment. That is why we are proud to announce the 'V-for-All' initiative. Soon, the American dream will include the dream of flight, of strength, of power... for every patriotic citizen who desires it."
They had turned a cataclysmic scandal into the single greatest product launch in human history.
The mood in the Boys' van was funereal.
"Did we... fail?" Hughie asked, his voice cracking as he scrolled through comments celebrating Vought's announcement. He thought they were doing the right thing, and it had made everything infinitely worse.
"It is not a total failure," Frenchie offered, trying to find a silver lining. "Their lie is broken. The 'gift from God' is shattered. Now, the world knows it comes from a needle. Vought's monopoly on the truth is gone forever."
"He's right," Butcher growled, stubbing out his cigarette. "But it doesn't change the mission." He looked at the faces of his team, his own expression one of chilling conviction. "More supes, less supes, it's all the same. The mission is to wipe the slate clean." He slammed his fist on the table. "I will not stop until every last one of them is gone."
He was a man possessed by his crusade, and this setback had only hardened his resolve.
"Right," he said, shifting into commander mode. "New plan. If they're gonna mass-produce this shite, their supply chain is their new weak spot. They're gonna need chemicals, labs, transport. Hughie, Frenchie, you two are gonna become the world's foremost experts on Vought's toilet paper supply chain. Every truck, every delivery, every purchase order—I want to know about it."
He then looked at MM. "You and me, Marvin, we go inside. They're gathering all their big brains in one place to cook up some new poison. We need to find out exactly what it is."
The team nodded, their despair replaced by a grim new sense of purpose. In a different van across town, Hughie and Frenchie set up a new command center, laptops and whiteboards filling up with shipping manifests and corporate shell companies. In a grimy motel room, Butcher and MM began assembling their disguises.
They had lost the battle for public opinion. Now, the real war would begin in the shadows.